A REALLY Close Shave

Last weekend we were too busy to give B his haircut. Although he is no longer drilling and therefore no longer required to follow the military short hair rule (which he complied with by sporting a buzz cut for the last eight years), his new-found freedom has not prompted him to change his hairstyle. Not that I care; I certainly have no ideas for hairstyle changes for him OR for myself. Plus, I’m his hairstylist, so any changes he might dream up would be my responsibility to make a reality. So, we just keep on doing what we’ve been doing. Yesterday, about an hour before we needed to leave for the airport, B starts his haircut. The process goes like this: he buzzes his hair like crazy (just runs the clippers all over his head, totally zig-zaggy, providing brief glimpses of what he would look like with a Mohawk, with bangs, with patches of hair shorter than the rest. Only, he’s done this so much that he doesn’t really notice what he’s doing. Just runs the clippers all over his head as fast as he can—all crazy-like.) Then I come in and finish the job by doing it all over again, only I can actually see what I’m doing and I go a lot slower. Then I trim the edges and he takes a shower. The whole thing takes 30 minutes.
So, with an hour till his departure, we had plenty of time last night for the buzz. He went into the bathroom to begin the routine while I cleaned the kitchen. But when he started up the clippers, they were 10 times louder than normal. The two clipping plates weren’t lining up right. B called for a screwdriver. He proceeded to take the thing apart, clean it, realign the blades, and screw it back together. I was in the other room. I’d hear it turn on—no better. Then he’d work on it more, try it again for a few seconds…fix it again, try it out again…etc. But imagine my shock when I walked into the bathroom to rhetorically ask how it was coming and to provide sympathy, only to find that with each “repair” he had actually tried out the clippers ON HIS HAIR! It was like a freeze-frame of his normal, crazy, buzz-everywhere haircutting technique, which is usually over so fast you don’t get to take in exactly how ridiculous it looks as it’s happening. Now you could actually study his half-finished haircut—totally jagged-y, two-thirds of his hair two-thirds longer than the rest. I mentioned that this seemed a risky undertaking and that since he had begun the haircut and must certainly finish it now, perhaps he should just keep going when the clippers worked instead of risking turning them off, tinkering with them, and being left with half a haircut, should they cease clipping all together. When I asked, “If they stopped now, what would you do? Fly to Orlando and get it fixed tomorrow?” [Certainly the looks he would have gotten in the airport with this haircut would have been interesting, and I can't even imagine the humiliation...] he answered: “I’d shave it bald with a razor before I’d do that.” [silence] The seriousness of the situation had finally set in. The haircut underway, nothing could be done to prevent this possible crisis, so I had to simply leave the room and hope for the best. A bit later, he called out, “You prophesied correctly, they stopped cutting!” Time for damage control. As he tinkered with the clippers a bit more, I went for my phone to call the two people who live within a mile of us who MIGHT have clippers, in hopes of preventing any use of a razor (or rather, "in hopes of preventing crisis escalation"). At this point we are running out of time for this sort of emergency. In the end we did manage to get our clippers to operate on some level, although they are awfully loud and shaky and they pull the hair. The naked eye can see that they are terribly misaligned. Time for new clippers? Yes, I think so. Mr. Fix-It, however, does not. That’s fine. He picks his haircut and his hairstylist and his hairstylist’s equipment. As far as beauty is concerned, confidence is key! I applaud individuals who select beautifying measures that make them feel confident!

Happy, and I know it.

I attended a lecture at the Atlanta History Center a month ago—it’s a place I LOVE. They have many lectures there, but most cost something (even for us members (hee hee! Our membership is courtesy of our visit to the Center with Brett’s parents last Christmas, and we—or at least I—use it all the time! I’ve been five times in six months!)). This particular lecture, however, was free and sounded entertaining. The lecture series was set up to honor an old psychology professor from the area and the lecturer this time was an NPR correspondent plugging his new book, “The Geography of Bliss,” better described by its subtitle, “One Grump’s Search for the Happiest Places in the World.” The lecture itself was ok but thoroughly unnecessary if you have read the book, which I have (and I recommend it). The book is basically a log of the author's travel around the world to the statistically (and un-statistically) happy/least-happy countries on earth. He talks with the locals, cites studies, and quotes philosophers to determine the cause of each nation's abundance or lack of happiness. Although individuals differ in their respective happiness levels and their happiness predictors, there are certainly patterns or values that the members of a culture share. Happiness is not thinking, happiness is being somewhere else, happiness is failing in noble way are some of the interesing causes of happiness in different parts of the world. Happiness is probably an interesging topic to most people, certainly to me. (But on the topic of happiness, I must admit that the thing I’ve read which has made me most…happy…and which has reported on views that most resemble my own is an article in Newsweek entitled “Happiness: Enough Already” and I thoroughly recommend it, although it focuses on the merit of sadness and I'm not sure what that says about me...) I’m happy most of the time—a happy person, that’s me. I’m also discontent about something most of the time—usually nothing big or happiness-affecting. In fact, my level of happiness is something I am usually content with. I wonder whether people would guess on a scale of 1-10 that I fall well below the 8 where I’d rate myself. But who knows better than I do whether or not I’m happy? Solid 8. Have I ever been a 10? No. I don’t think I could be. And, perhaps significantly, I don’t even want to be. Almost no one is happy all the time and that's just fine. In fact, discontent fuels change, work, and eventually accomplishment.
It's interesting to think about how different everyone’s personalities are from each other and about what makes each of us happy. Here’s an example: Every afternoon, someone in our office goes downstairs to get the mail. Half of the time I volunteer; half of the time other people do it. We have two mail boxes, each with its own key. If by luck you match the correct key with the first box (which according to the laws of probability should occur half of the time) then you will know the correct key for the second box and the entire trip will require only two “tries”—both successful. If you guess wrong (which occurs the other half of the time) the entire trip will require three “tries.” I always wondered on the trip down the elevator whether I would get it right and was always disappointed when I didn’t. So, finally, one day I studied the nearly identical keys, and, when I tried to open the boxes, I memorized which key goes to which box! Now every time I check the mail I’m right! No more denied access! No wasted key turn! I am thrilled! Every day for the next week of mail checking I was happy as I rode the elevator. I couldn’t help but smile with my new confidence at selecting the correct key for the first mailbox! My joy from this new discovery was so great that I wanted to share it with others who were on their way to get the mail. “Guess what! I figured out which key goes with which box, so now you don’t have to guess anymore!” Imagine my su-preeze when one of my friends [coworkers] replied, “Don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. I like guessing and seeing if I’m right. It’s fun!” What in the world? I felt incredulous—a bit like Lars [Lars and the Real Girl] when he is told that hugs feel good; his response, “It does NOT feel good; It hurts!” Efficiency makes me happy. My happiness mantra: Efficiency, Resourcefulness, Creativity!

By Grabthar's Hammer...

At the end of last summer, B turned 30. Blessed with a summer birthday myself, I have no experience with—or expectation of—birthday parties on any scale and have always been quite content with a tasty dessert (usually rhubarb pie) and a small gift. However, I felt that a 30th birthday ought to receive a little more fanfare, and I knew the perfect thing: Six Flags Whitewater Atlanta!

Hang on tight, river rats. This runaway raft banks and swerves through 735 feet of tunnel, featuring "explosion curves" and 70-foot power dips…Ever saddle up a cyclone? That’s what it feels like riding Tornado, the six-story funnel of fear that thrills you as it spills you…Breakneck velocity is more fun in the dark. Keep saying that to yourself as you plunge through 400-foot shafts illuminated only by tiny pinholes…Every year is the Year of The Dragon at Six Flags White Water, as thrill-seekers brave Dragon Tail’s legendary 250-foot triple drop…Jump in a raft with five others and swerve down a chute the length of two football fields, before landing in the ultimate splashdown…Plummet nine nerve-numbing stories at harrowing high speed on The Cliffhanger, one of the tallest free-falls on earth...

And on and on! Over 40 rides, pools, and rivers! Happy 30th Birthday, indeed! I kept the “party plan” secret for weeks and watched the weather as it got closer to the big day. It was all a success, including the tasty dessert (B consulted all the cookbooks we have and selected the picture of “orange Chantilly”-something, which required me to hollow an orange and refill it later) and small gift (boxed set of Pinky & The Brain cartoons). A great occasion. One likely to be unsurpassed until…well…we won’t mention THAT occasion. At least, that’s what I thought, but then, along came…SPACE CAMP!

Yes, I want to go to adult Space Camp. But, I mean, who doesn’t? (That is, who besides my mom and T who say it sounds “terrifying”.) I use my free time at work to do “research” for our family, and one of the things I research is vacations and fun things to do with the money I'm paid for doing this research. We’ve been trying to decide what to do with our vacation time(s) this year, throwing around ideas of domestic travel, international travel, and no travel. With the dollar being worth less in some places and with airfare costing more (and more) why not do something local…like SPACE CAMP! Wouldn’t THIS be the greatest surprise in the world? Just think: If I am interested in SPACE CAMP!, B is…well…I can’t even imagine how he is, that is, how he WOULD be, if he knew...

SPACE CAMP! for adults happens only three weeks out of the year, each week trains a mere dozen (up to 16) campers. The weeks occur at the end of August and beginning of September, right during our birthday season! So, I called the people in Huntsville, Alabama and chatted with a camp counselor for 45 minutes getting every one of my questions answered. This is definitely for us. We and a dozen other adults would train (and live) together while wearing blue jumpsuits! Training includes but is not limited to riding in several contraptions designed to make you vomit, scuba diving, and climbing 30-foot poles and jumping off (you are attached to ropes). My favorite machine is the one that simulates being shot into the stratosphere! True, you are only shot 150 feet in the air, but it does that in less than 2.5 seconds (4Gs), followed by a 1-second freefall! You and your team complete 4 missions, one of them being an extended duration mission! There are two “tracks” for training: pilot and mission specialist. Remembering my recent motion sickness experience [see entry “For the Birds”] I asked the counselor whether the activities could be optional should one feel…queasy. I quickly explained that I don’t get car sick or motion sick [generally]. She asked, “How do you do with roller coasters?” How do I do? I have no idea how I do. I avoid them at all costs! So, I said I didn’t know and she replied, “Maybe ‘Mission Specialist’ is a good fit for you.” Hah!

The trouble with my suprise SPACE CAMP! adventure is that it costs a lot of money. It costs more than our 11-day vacation to Mexcio last year (including airfare). Slightly more than the $50 free spending limit some people advocate. But it would be so perfect! So, I run it by B. “I have an idea for our vacation/your birthday... I need to run it by you because you would need to take a week off school...and it will cost about $2000. I can't tell you what it is. All I can say is that you will love it and you will not need your passport; in fact, we won't even get on an airplane. What do you think?” Of course, he was VERY intrigued, but in the end he couldn’t commit to something he didn’t know, which I understood and was afraid would happen, but it was worth a shot. I was just hoping that he would give me permission to surprise him with the best surprise of his life, which he later agreed it would have been. I figured that if I could get him to say yes, I could do anything, including working out some way to get him into the doctor’s office for a physical without the doctor telling him what the form was actually for.

Honey, you wait in the hall.
[whisper] Dr., he needs this form filled out so he can attend SPACE CAMP! But it’s a surprise…

So, he knows now. He wishes that I would have just done it (although we both know that is NOT allowed). He says SPACE CAMP! was a dream of his as a kid and he would have been thrilled and not cared what it cost if I really had gone through with the plans without ever telling him anything. Whatever. We considered it for a week but in the end decided NOT to do it. It’s fine, since there are so many other things I would like to do too. Also, had we done SPACE CAMP!, his 30th birthday would have seemed insignificant.

You're kidding, right?

Living in Germany for a year under the guise of “nanny”, I experienced a good dose of immersion. Cultural immersion, language immersion, culinary immersion… After all, there were more of them (4, plus 90 million right outside the front door) than there were of me (1, plus…well, zero). I could probably write a daily entry even now (after forgetting almost everything) describing the experience of discovering differences between them and me and the unconscious process of getting used to these things to the degree that I eventually thought the people would fit right in at home—at least they would seem no odder than any other neighbor. Well, all right, they probably would…to…others.
One oddity was the bread and cheese phenomenon. We ate these every morning (except Sundays, when we had yogurt—the German equivalent of sugar cereals on Saturday mornings)—but that’s only half the story. We ate bread and cheese every night. 66.66% of all food I ate was bread and cheese. Try to picture that. Granted the bread and the cheese are very good, but it seems like eventually anyone would notice the frequency. Picture yourself sitting down to bread&cheese, bread&cheese, noodles, bread&cheese, bread&cheese, potatoes, bread&cheese, bread&cheese, fish sticks, bread&cheese, bread&cheese… Well, after a few months I distinctly remember sitting at dinner (although, aside from the time difference there’s no need to differentiate it from breakfast) watching everyone dig right in and start putting their cheese of choice on their bread of choice. Wait, haven’t I seen this before? Haven’t THEY? Oh yeah, this morning, and last night, and yesterday morning, and every morning and night before that. Once again, I’d like to praise the deliciousness of the bread and cheese available, but the entire scene was strikingly similar to Gary Larson’s “dog food, again!” cartoon. Is there a kid out there who ever says, “Aaaawwww! NOT bread and cheese AGAIN…” I bet there isn’t, which is amazing. This was “meal” and “meal” is only ever bread and cheese. As I looked from contented fact to contented face, I felt 66.66% like that non-existent kid; 33.33% puzzled and amused.
Amazingly, I had those same feelings recently at Macy’s. B’s wardrobe needed some work in preparation for his summer internship and I volunteered to help in the effort. All right, so I spearheaded the effort. What was needed? A couple pairs of shoes (black and brown), several pairs of pants, a TON of shirts, and a few ties. So, everything. We were quite successful in this endeavor and he will look great for a few years to come. The shopping got off to a slow start; in fact, it almost didn’t start at all. We met at our first store after I got off work. At my suggestion we agreed to meet in the shoe department. It’s an easy department to identify and a difficult one to hide in. He had already been looking for who knows how long by the time I arrived. I originally thought he hadn’t been looking long at all when I got there—after all, he had made no progress, no decisions. First, the black pair. Ok, that narrows the selection down to 70% of the department. Laces? Check, more narrowing. Degree of shine? Square/round toe? Little holes/big seams? And that’s it! We’re down to 6 identical pairs—all equally uncomfortable. And then, we wait. What were we waiting for? There were no differences. I amused myself looking around the store for about 2 minutes—that’s all the amusement the men’s shoe department offers—and I selected my favorite pair. I’m not joking either. They were slip ons, covered in some sort of animal skin, square toes rounded up like elves, with a big Spanish looking cross design on the top. Oh yeah, and they were red. Brett didn’t like them. Fine. We aren’t all the same type. But we had found Brett’s type, what was he looking at? It was while watching him consider the same shoes as if they were each different and interesting that I remembered the bread and cheese conundrum. Yes, I had seen this before. In hopes of speeding up the process and in an effort to promote sanity, I took B downstairs to the women’s shoe department. The reaction was one of disbelief. “It’s ten times as big!!!” It really was a pretty big one, and the shoes were as different as could be! I don’t think he preferred the women’s shoe section, which is probably a good thing, but we did make a purchase in the men’s shoe department after our return. The brown pair would have to wait.
There are those who believe that fewer choices make us happier, or rather, that after a certian point, additional choices do not increase our happiness and may even lower it. Was that the case for my family in German? It didn't work on me. And it was not a face of happiness I saw in Macy's among identical black shoes.