Sunday, June 20, 2010
Father's Day
Recently, we have been inundated with a spate of commercials advertising the staple gifts for Father’s Day: ties, tools, colognes, razors, electronics, fishing gear, car care products, etc. Most traditional Father’s Day gifts are practical by nature, especially the überpractical 10-piece ratchet set, GPS, cologne-dispensing tie (sold only in the finest stores in Europe). But Father’s Day isn’t about being practical; it’s about being personal. The day is about recognizing Fathers in personal ways that show love and appreciation for who dad is and what dad does.
21 years ago, I celebrated my first Father’s Day. I was all of 19 years old. For Father’s Day that year, I received my first ulcer. Needless to say, I enjoyed the card more than the gift.
I have two wonderful daughters, Samantha and Dani. They are two of the joys of my life (and I didn’t just put that in because I know they’ll be reading this), along with my dried slug collection and my love of Scandinavian-Asian-Cajun-Russian cuisine.
Over the years, I have received numerous gifts commemorating my role as dad. My earliest Father’s Day gifts and cards were, of course, purchased by my wonderful wife, Liz. Understanding that my daughters, at their very young age, had neither the motor skills needed to sign a charge slip nor the ability to fully appreciate the nuances of the rhyme and cadence of Father’s Day card prose, Liz did all the shopping for my special day. I am ever grateful for this, as when Samantha and Dani were very young, the only experience they had with giving had to be followed up by rigorous cleanings (did I mention that they were very generous?).
As Samantha and Dani got older, and could prove that their messier gift-giving days were over, they assumed responsibility over the whole what-shall-we-do/get-for-dad-this-Father's-Day gift selection process. They have cooked me breakfasts, made me cards, purchased me numerous gifts, and taken me out to movies and meals. They have given me puppets, movies, a harmonica, an MP3 player, and a DVD player. Of all the gifts I have received, some of my favorites were home-made gift certificates. These promissory notes were usually for chores they should have been doing all along but had neglected, for chores they knew I would never ask them to do, or for chores they had no intention of doing (such as assisting me with my slug-collecting or slug-drying endeavors). They say it’s the thought that counts, but if that were so, I’m thinking that the gift certificates would have had dollar amounts and store names on them.
I very much appreciate my daughters. They make me enjoy fatherhood even more than I enjoy writing humorous essays. And I believe that the best gifts they have ever given me are forgiveness for my shortcomings as a father and unconditional love. Practical? Yes. Personal? You bet. And far better than any gift certificate or electronic device or day of collecting slugs for drying.
Here’s looking at you, Samantha and Dani. You two make me very glad to be a dad.
21 years ago, I celebrated my first Father’s Day. I was all of 19 years old. For Father’s Day that year, I received my first ulcer. Needless to say, I enjoyed the card more than the gift.
I have two wonderful daughters, Samantha and Dani. They are two of the joys of my life (and I didn’t just put that in because I know they’ll be reading this), along with my dried slug collection and my love of Scandinavian-Asian-Cajun-Russian cuisine.
Over the years, I have received numerous gifts commemorating my role as dad. My earliest Father’s Day gifts and cards were, of course, purchased by my wonderful wife, Liz. Understanding that my daughters, at their very young age, had neither the motor skills needed to sign a charge slip nor the ability to fully appreciate the nuances of the rhyme and cadence of Father’s Day card prose, Liz did all the shopping for my special day. I am ever grateful for this, as when Samantha and Dani were very young, the only experience they had with giving had to be followed up by rigorous cleanings (did I mention that they were very generous?).
As Samantha and Dani got older, and could prove that their messier gift-giving days were over, they assumed responsibility over the whole what-shall-we-do/get-for-dad-this-Father's-Day gift selection process. They have cooked me breakfasts, made me cards, purchased me numerous gifts, and taken me out to movies and meals. They have given me puppets, movies, a harmonica, an MP3 player, and a DVD player. Of all the gifts I have received, some of my favorites were home-made gift certificates. These promissory notes were usually for chores they should have been doing all along but had neglected, for chores they knew I would never ask them to do, or for chores they had no intention of doing (such as assisting me with my slug-collecting or slug-drying endeavors). They say it’s the thought that counts, but if that were so, I’m thinking that the gift certificates would have had dollar amounts and store names on them.
I very much appreciate my daughters. They make me enjoy fatherhood even more than I enjoy writing humorous essays. And I believe that the best gifts they have ever given me are forgiveness for my shortcomings as a father and unconditional love. Practical? Yes. Personal? You bet. And far better than any gift certificate or electronic device or day of collecting slugs for drying.
Here’s looking at you, Samantha and Dani. You two make me very glad to be a dad.
Labels: dad, daryl, daughters, Day, Father's, gifts, Trowbridge
Monday, January 19, 2009
Inequality of the Sexes Justified
Everyone pretends there’s no disparity when it comes to the sexes. We say that women can do the same work men do and that they should receive equal pay for equal work. They claim that, other than anatomy, there’s really no difference between guys and gals. To that, I say, “Bull!”
Significant differences exist between males and females—and they should exist. I’m a dad, the father of two grown daughters. I raised my girls to believe the above sentiments. Heck, I actually thought I believed them myself. But then my daughters changed.
My daughters discovered “woman’s” undergarments. Now, I had discovered these in my early teen years (as a spectator only, of course), and I was quite impressed. I am not so impressed now that my daughters wear these items, themselves.
I remember shopping with my wife for my daughters’ “big girl panties” when we were potty training the girls. These undergarments had teddy bears, cartoon characters, kittens, flowers, polka-dots, butterflies—decidedly un-grownup decorations. They came in innocent colors like white and pink or, perhaps, a combination of the two.
Later, we moved on to the training bras (I never was quite sure what event their chests were training for, but my wife assured me that the training tops were necessary). This was not a fun time for me. No dad thinks his little girls are ready for upper torso support. But at least there was a modicum of comfort in knowing that these “bras” were still innocent even when my daughters wanted us to purchase the “bras” and panties in sets. These articles of clothing were still child-like enough, so I could deal with them.
As my daughters got into their middle teen years, I was no longer part of the USC, the Underwear Selection Committee. My checkbook was still involved, but my presence was no longer required. It was about this time that a different type of undergarment began to appear in my home. Gone were the pastels. Gone were the cartoons. Gone was the “cuteness.” Gone was half the material!
My daughters went from full-coverage to “cheekies” (one even occasionally wears—shudder—thongs). They wear crimson red, jet black, and leopard print panties with push-up Wonder—as in, it’s a wonder those things stay in—Bras. Some are lacey, some have “cutsie” cartoon characters, and some come with provocative words written in strategic (and inappropriate) locations. These are not panties that any father’s daughters should be wearing (or, in some cases, hardly wearing).
Here’s the difference between boys and girls in this regard: if I had had sons instead of daughters and they decided to progress from Bob the Builder or Spiderman underwear to “tidy whities” to boxers, I wouldn’t have any problem. For this reason alone, it’s okay for boys to grow up, but not for girls. I know it’s sexist, but it’s the way it should be. Ask any father with daughters. They’ll tell you.
Significant differences exist between males and females—and they should exist. I’m a dad, the father of two grown daughters. I raised my girls to believe the above sentiments. Heck, I actually thought I believed them myself. But then my daughters changed.
My daughters discovered “woman’s” undergarments. Now, I had discovered these in my early teen years (as a spectator only, of course), and I was quite impressed. I am not so impressed now that my daughters wear these items, themselves.
I remember shopping with my wife for my daughters’ “big girl panties” when we were potty training the girls. These undergarments had teddy bears, cartoon characters, kittens, flowers, polka-dots, butterflies—decidedly un-grownup decorations. They came in innocent colors like white and pink or, perhaps, a combination of the two.
Later, we moved on to the training bras (I never was quite sure what event their chests were training for, but my wife assured me that the training tops were necessary). This was not a fun time for me. No dad thinks his little girls are ready for upper torso support. But at least there was a modicum of comfort in knowing that these “bras” were still innocent even when my daughters wanted us to purchase the “bras” and panties in sets. These articles of clothing were still child-like enough, so I could deal with them.
As my daughters got into their middle teen years, I was no longer part of the USC, the Underwear Selection Committee. My checkbook was still involved, but my presence was no longer required. It was about this time that a different type of undergarment began to appear in my home. Gone were the pastels. Gone were the cartoons. Gone was the “cuteness.” Gone was half the material!
My daughters went from full-coverage to “cheekies” (one even occasionally wears—shudder—thongs). They wear crimson red, jet black, and leopard print panties with push-up Wonder—as in, it’s a wonder those things stay in—Bras. Some are lacey, some have “cutsie” cartoon characters, and some come with provocative words written in strategic (and inappropriate) locations. These are not panties that any father’s daughters should be wearing (or, in some cases, hardly wearing).
Here’s the difference between boys and girls in this regard: if I had had sons instead of daughters and they decided to progress from Bob the Builder or Spiderman underwear to “tidy whities” to boxers, I wouldn’t have any problem. For this reason alone, it’s okay for boys to grow up, but not for girls. I know it’s sexist, but it’s the way it should be. Ask any father with daughters. They’ll tell you.
Labels: bras, daughters, panties, Underwear
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Ventriloquim Routine
Here's a link to my first Internet ventriloquism routine. Just copy the link and paste it into your address bar. Rusty and I told the story of Jonah and the big fish (whale) as a lesson about cooperating with God.
Enjoy!
http://www.godtube.com/view_video.php?viewkey=662fc7542f97cd6e62c4
Enjoy!
http://www.godtube.com/view_video.php?viewkey=662fc7542f97cd6e62c4
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Doesn't Make Scents to Me
When I was a kid, I was less than fond of bathing (I know this is more than you probably wanted to know, but I had to have an opening for my article, so deal with it). Being a boy, I delighted in getting dirty and smelly and gross – such was the essence of little boys in the days before video games, personal computers, and DVDs. When I was forced—and yes, I chose that word on purpose—to take a bath, I was further humiliated by having to deal with sweet-smelling soaps that my mother and sisters adored. Most of the soaps around our house just smelled “good,” but, on some occasions, flower-scented soaps would insinuate themselves. This was where I was first introduced to the “insult to injury” idiom.
That’s the way it was with soaps in years gone by: sweet-smelling and, occasionally, flowery, but in the past decade, soaps have undergone a transformation of evolutionary proportions. The word “soap” rarely appears on our personal cleansing products. And now we have products called “shower gels,” “beauty bars,” “moisturizing bath cakes,” etc. And the scents make no sense to me.
History records how scenting ourselves began. Way back in the Middle Ages, drawing baths and washing clothes were major undertakings. In order to bathe, one would have to draw gallons and gallons of water, heat it over a fire, pour it into a bath tub, and then scrub away a month’s-worth of grime. Once finished, an individual would have to struggle back into several layers of heavy clothing and make multiple trips from the bathtub to the yard to get rid of the bath water. He or she would work up a considerable sweat, effectively negating the effects of the recent bath. Washing one’s wardrobe tended to produce an incredible sweat also. But this all changed when a man by the name of Sir Richard Talc III discovered that by grinding corn into a fine powder and sprinkling it in his shorts he could control sweating and smell better too. Of course, this craze didn’t catch on overnight. It took quite some time, as you can imagine, to market such a product (Prospective customer: “You grind the corn into a fine powder and then you put it where?!”).
After Talc’s powder did catch on, other ingenious individuals began to suggest rubbing flowers on one’s skin to cover up one’s own natural fragrance. Royalty, exclusively, used rose petals, and the social classes beneath them used flowers of less expense. Peasants of this time looked jaundiced and smelled of dandelion. Thus began our history of scenting.
Scenting, or perfuming as it came to be called, all but died out, except for with the wealthy, with the introduction of indoor plumbing, which, as you well know, makes bathing relatively simple. But in recent years, scenting has returned and in a big way.
It began with floral scents: lavender, rose, cherry blossoms, etc. But in recent years, makers of bath and shower products began incorporating fruit fragrances into their “soaps.” Today, we have entire stores and catalogs devoted to bath products with every scent imaginable and some scent combinations unimaginable. There’s cucumber melon (who would ever think to put these two together?), strawberries or peaches and cream, mango tangerine, watermelon, passion fruit, etc. They even have seasonal products that smell like pumpkin pie, cinnamon buns, and candy canes (I’m waiting for one that smells like Thanksgiving dinner).
What I want to know is how did it all begin? Was it with some woman, who had run out of soap and just happened to be showering with a basket of strawberries? Or was it with a couple, out for an intimate picnic. The young man starts to kiss the nape of his girlfriends neck, and, upon catching a whiff of the watermelon juice she had dribbled down her front, exclaimed, “you know what would be great? Watermelon scented soap!” I really don’t know. I can, however, imagine the ads placed for product testers: “WANTED: young ladies to test new scents. Those allergic to bees need not apply.”
Like I said, I don’t know how all the fruit-scented products came into being, but I do know where they should go from here. First of all, most of the “soap” manufacturers ignore a huge demographic: men. If they would just incorporate a few scents that men find appealing, imagine the revenue. What man wouldn’t like to step out of the shower smelling of New Car Smell: the Scent of Success? Or Major Engine Overhaul by Mennen? Or perhaps Essence of NFL? Okay, maybe not the last one, but you get my drift.
Another great idea would be to create bath and shower products that appeal to the opposite sex. Some companies are on the right track with their cinnamon bun fragrance, but fruit and flowers? Come on. Men, real meat-and-potato kind of guys, aren’t turned on by fruit. What would appeal men on a universal level? How about this: A man comes home after a hard day’s work. He opens the door and is greeted by the aroma of roast beef and by the sight of his wife, still glistening, in her terrycloth robe. Or for women: it’s late, she’s snuggled in bed reading her romance novel when in walks her husband, squeaky clean, smelling like new pumps or like a new department store credit card. I really think I’m on to something here. Think about it.
That’s the way it was with soaps in years gone by: sweet-smelling and, occasionally, flowery, but in the past decade, soaps have undergone a transformation of evolutionary proportions. The word “soap” rarely appears on our personal cleansing products. And now we have products called “shower gels,” “beauty bars,” “moisturizing bath cakes,” etc. And the scents make no sense to me.
History records how scenting ourselves began. Way back in the Middle Ages, drawing baths and washing clothes were major undertakings. In order to bathe, one would have to draw gallons and gallons of water, heat it over a fire, pour it into a bath tub, and then scrub away a month’s-worth of grime. Once finished, an individual would have to struggle back into several layers of heavy clothing and make multiple trips from the bathtub to the yard to get rid of the bath water. He or she would work up a considerable sweat, effectively negating the effects of the recent bath. Washing one’s wardrobe tended to produce an incredible sweat also. But this all changed when a man by the name of Sir Richard Talc III discovered that by grinding corn into a fine powder and sprinkling it in his shorts he could control sweating and smell better too. Of course, this craze didn’t catch on overnight. It took quite some time, as you can imagine, to market such a product (Prospective customer: “You grind the corn into a fine powder and then you put it where?!”).
After Talc’s powder did catch on, other ingenious individuals began to suggest rubbing flowers on one’s skin to cover up one’s own natural fragrance. Royalty, exclusively, used rose petals, and the social classes beneath them used flowers of less expense. Peasants of this time looked jaundiced and smelled of dandelion. Thus began our history of scenting.
Scenting, or perfuming as it came to be called, all but died out, except for with the wealthy, with the introduction of indoor plumbing, which, as you well know, makes bathing relatively simple. But in recent years, scenting has returned and in a big way.
It began with floral scents: lavender, rose, cherry blossoms, etc. But in recent years, makers of bath and shower products began incorporating fruit fragrances into their “soaps.” Today, we have entire stores and catalogs devoted to bath products with every scent imaginable and some scent combinations unimaginable. There’s cucumber melon (who would ever think to put these two together?), strawberries or peaches and cream, mango tangerine, watermelon, passion fruit, etc. They even have seasonal products that smell like pumpkin pie, cinnamon buns, and candy canes (I’m waiting for one that smells like Thanksgiving dinner).
What I want to know is how did it all begin? Was it with some woman, who had run out of soap and just happened to be showering with a basket of strawberries? Or was it with a couple, out for an intimate picnic. The young man starts to kiss the nape of his girlfriends neck, and, upon catching a whiff of the watermelon juice she had dribbled down her front, exclaimed, “you know what would be great? Watermelon scented soap!” I really don’t know. I can, however, imagine the ads placed for product testers: “WANTED: young ladies to test new scents. Those allergic to bees need not apply.”
Like I said, I don’t know how all the fruit-scented products came into being, but I do know where they should go from here. First of all, most of the “soap” manufacturers ignore a huge demographic: men. If they would just incorporate a few scents that men find appealing, imagine the revenue. What man wouldn’t like to step out of the shower smelling of New Car Smell: the Scent of Success? Or Major Engine Overhaul by Mennen? Or perhaps Essence of NFL? Okay, maybe not the last one, but you get my drift.
Another great idea would be to create bath and shower products that appeal to the opposite sex. Some companies are on the right track with their cinnamon bun fragrance, but fruit and flowers? Come on. Men, real meat-and-potato kind of guys, aren’t turned on by fruit. What would appeal men on a universal level? How about this: A man comes home after a hard day’s work. He opens the door and is greeted by the aroma of roast beef and by the sight of his wife, still glistening, in her terrycloth robe. Or for women: it’s late, she’s snuggled in bed reading her romance novel when in walks her husband, squeaky clean, smelling like new pumps or like a new department store credit card. I really think I’m on to something here. Think about it.
Labels: fragrance, Scents, shower gel, soap
Thursday, January 03, 2008
No More Resolutions
Every year, disappointed by myriad personal failures of varying magnitudes, people the world over resolve to make changes for the better. These changes cover the entire scope of the personal improvement spectrum. They resolve to eat less, to eat better, to exercise more (or to finally begin an exercise program), to spend more time with family, to spend less money, to get that promotion, to finish a project, etc.
But this year, I’m not making any resolutions; and neither should you. Why? Because I have discovered a mind-blowing truth about character traits. And the truth has indeed set me free. The truth is that, in each person, character traits exist in a delicate balance. Like energy, which, according to the law of conservation of energy, can neither be created nor destroyed, character traits are also governed by a system of checks and balances. You see, people only possess a certain amount of positive traits at any one time. So, while individuals are capable of improving one or two aspects of their characters, other character traits must diminish to maintain the delicate balance.
This may have come as a shock to you, but I speak from experience.
Last year, one of my resolutions was to lose weight. I spent weeks researching dozens of diet and exercise plans that would fit my schedule and allow me to accomplish my goals. I stuck with the plan for six weeks. In this time, I lost ten pounds, seven friends, and my pleasant disposition. Sure, I looked great, but because of my attitude, I had no one to tell me I looked great. The scale stays balanced.
Need more proof? Consider my resolution from two years ago. Discouraged by my lack of career advancement prospects, I decided to turn things around by going back to school. I poured over my textbooks, used a forest’s worth of paper and pencils on my research projects and reports, and spent countless hours in study groups. And what did I get for all my efforts? A better job and a bigger paycheck? Nope. What I got was a reality check. True, I did become a hard worker, but all my effort was for naught. Did you know that you don’t actually get credit for effort in college (especially if your research is misguided and leads you to the wrong conclusion)? I didn’t know that either. As a result, my self-esteem bottomed out. Again, one improvement leads to one decline.
Anyone considering making a resolution to better ones self needs to weigh the potential improvements against the possible drawbacks. Say for example, you decide to you want to start getting up earlier to get more done. The problem then arises that you have to go to bed earlier. You may get more things done in the morning, but you cut back on your television viewing. This may not seem like a negative effect, but when you go to work and cannot participate in the water cooler conversation, you’ll feel left out. Balance is maintained.
Or, perhaps you decide to work toward that promotion at work. You cut back on your free time (which includes time with your family) and put in an additional 20 – 30 hours a week at work. You get the promotion which improves your self esteem and your bank account and allows you to finally put in the pool you’ve always wanted to give your family. Of course, your new position requires you to continue to spend the long hours at work and before long you find out that your wife has decided to improve her self esteem by being oiled up on a regular basis by the new pool boy, Ramon. So you decide to go to counseling to save your marriage. Your counselor’s advice? More quality time with your family (which means giving up your promotion, losing the extra money that came with it, and being in debt because you’re still paying on the pool you financed based on the big, fat raise your promotion granted you).
See? No matter what you try in the area of character improvement, things will stay balanced. That's why resolutions for personal improvement fail. Now you know!
But this year, I’m not making any resolutions; and neither should you. Why? Because I have discovered a mind-blowing truth about character traits. And the truth has indeed set me free. The truth is that, in each person, character traits exist in a delicate balance. Like energy, which, according to the law of conservation of energy, can neither be created nor destroyed, character traits are also governed by a system of checks and balances. You see, people only possess a certain amount of positive traits at any one time. So, while individuals are capable of improving one or two aspects of their characters, other character traits must diminish to maintain the delicate balance.
This may have come as a shock to you, but I speak from experience.
Last year, one of my resolutions was to lose weight. I spent weeks researching dozens of diet and exercise plans that would fit my schedule and allow me to accomplish my goals. I stuck with the plan for six weeks. In this time, I lost ten pounds, seven friends, and my pleasant disposition. Sure, I looked great, but because of my attitude, I had no one to tell me I looked great. The scale stays balanced.
Need more proof? Consider my resolution from two years ago. Discouraged by my lack of career advancement prospects, I decided to turn things around by going back to school. I poured over my textbooks, used a forest’s worth of paper and pencils on my research projects and reports, and spent countless hours in study groups. And what did I get for all my efforts? A better job and a bigger paycheck? Nope. What I got was a reality check. True, I did become a hard worker, but all my effort was for naught. Did you know that you don’t actually get credit for effort in college (especially if your research is misguided and leads you to the wrong conclusion)? I didn’t know that either. As a result, my self-esteem bottomed out. Again, one improvement leads to one decline.
Anyone considering making a resolution to better ones self needs to weigh the potential improvements against the possible drawbacks. Say for example, you decide to you want to start getting up earlier to get more done. The problem then arises that you have to go to bed earlier. You may get more things done in the morning, but you cut back on your television viewing. This may not seem like a negative effect, but when you go to work and cannot participate in the water cooler conversation, you’ll feel left out. Balance is maintained.
Or, perhaps you decide to work toward that promotion at work. You cut back on your free time (which includes time with your family) and put in an additional 20 – 30 hours a week at work. You get the promotion which improves your self esteem and your bank account and allows you to finally put in the pool you’ve always wanted to give your family. Of course, your new position requires you to continue to spend the long hours at work and before long you find out that your wife has decided to improve her self esteem by being oiled up on a regular basis by the new pool boy, Ramon. So you decide to go to counseling to save your marriage. Your counselor’s advice? More quality time with your family (which means giving up your promotion, losing the extra money that came with it, and being in debt because you’re still paying on the pool you financed based on the big, fat raise your promotion granted you).
See? No matter what you try in the area of character improvement, things will stay balanced. That's why resolutions for personal improvement fail. Now you know!
Labels: New Years Resolutions, Resolutions
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
COUNTY FAIR
Each year my family and I attend the Clallam County Fair on the final day. Typically, we spend all Sunday touring the aromatic animal barns; dodging over-enthusiastic merchants peddling their wares or attempting to rid themselves of surplus key chains, pens, pamphlets, etc.; and eating over-priced, calorie-laden delights (who knew grease could be molded into so many food-like shapes). By the time we leave, we’re lighter on cash and on sanity. This year was no exception.
Early Sunday morning, my wife and I arrived bright and early so we could participate in probably one of the most-anticipated events of the fair—the demolition derby-ticket-purchase. After relieving ourselves of a small fortune, we headed home to get our daughters. Upon re-arriving at the fairgrounds, we took part in yet another fair ritual—the parking space hide-and-seek. It took only 20 minutes to find one and we only had to walk half a mile this time; we’re getting better every year.
As our custom is, we visit the animal barns first. We enjoy seeing all of the happy animals and delight in watching the children joyfully performing their barn duties after the animals have done theirs. We “ooh” and “ahh” over the babies and make all the typical animal noises at the corresponding critters, who simply roll their eyes and think, How original; no one’s ever done that to me before.
Later, we visit the exhibits where we wonder at the accomplishments of people who can sew; paint; grow fruits, vegetables, and plants; carve; take pictures; bake; and even change their motor oil better than we can. It’s very depressing. We don’t stay in these barns very long.
Next comes the rodeo. We love watching the skillful riding, roping, and wrangling abilities of the “cow folk,” but what we like most is seeing the animals ridding themselves of their riders, much like my bike used to rid itself of me. This year, the rodeo offered a couple of unexpected treats: a children’s “calf scramble” and a dance contest (it’s not easy getting the calves to dance either). And who can forget this year’s National Anthem? It’s a moving experience hearing hundreds of regular folks straining to hit that hernia-inducing note that so few can manage with a modicum of grace.
Following the rodeo, it’s time to make ourselves sick, not by riding the rides, but by over-eating greasy foods. This is usually done in the vicinity of a concert or performance at one of the fairground stages. If we’re lucky, we get something the whole family enjoys. Most often, we are. Once we’ve stuffed ourselves sufficiently we head over to the rides (it’s a well-known fact that you always feel better after you throw up, isn’t it?). We leave the rides dizzy and paler (by the looks of us, you’d never guess we’d spent six hours in the blazing sun), but by the time we hit the demolition derby we’re back to normal.
Yes, the Clallam County Fair can be a noisy, expensive, tiring experience, but I wouldn’t miss is for anything. Well, maybe chocolate or the birth of one of my daughters, but that’s about it.
Early Sunday morning, my wife and I arrived bright and early so we could participate in probably one of the most-anticipated events of the fair—the demolition derby-ticket-purchase. After relieving ourselves of a small fortune, we headed home to get our daughters. Upon re-arriving at the fairgrounds, we took part in yet another fair ritual—the parking space hide-and-seek. It took only 20 minutes to find one and we only had to walk half a mile this time; we’re getting better every year.
As our custom is, we visit the animal barns first. We enjoy seeing all of the happy animals and delight in watching the children joyfully performing their barn duties after the animals have done theirs. We “ooh” and “ahh” over the babies and make all the typical animal noises at the corresponding critters, who simply roll their eyes and think, How original; no one’s ever done that to me before.
Later, we visit the exhibits where we wonder at the accomplishments of people who can sew; paint; grow fruits, vegetables, and plants; carve; take pictures; bake; and even change their motor oil better than we can. It’s very depressing. We don’t stay in these barns very long.
Next comes the rodeo. We love watching the skillful riding, roping, and wrangling abilities of the “cow folk,” but what we like most is seeing the animals ridding themselves of their riders, much like my bike used to rid itself of me. This year, the rodeo offered a couple of unexpected treats: a children’s “calf scramble” and a dance contest (it’s not easy getting the calves to dance either). And who can forget this year’s National Anthem? It’s a moving experience hearing hundreds of regular folks straining to hit that hernia-inducing note that so few can manage with a modicum of grace.
Following the rodeo, it’s time to make ourselves sick, not by riding the rides, but by over-eating greasy foods. This is usually done in the vicinity of a concert or performance at one of the fairground stages. If we’re lucky, we get something the whole family enjoys. Most often, we are. Once we’ve stuffed ourselves sufficiently we head over to the rides (it’s a well-known fact that you always feel better after you throw up, isn’t it?). We leave the rides dizzy and paler (by the looks of us, you’d never guess we’d spent six hours in the blazing sun), but by the time we hit the demolition derby we’re back to normal.
Yes, the Clallam County Fair can be a noisy, expensive, tiring experience, but I wouldn’t miss is for anything. Well, maybe chocolate or the birth of one of my daughters, but that’s about it.
Labels: clallam county, county fair, fair
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Jury Doody
Recently, I took part in the revered, time-honored civic responsibility we in America call jury duty. It was, I must say, everything I expected it would be. I knew I would witness emotional breakdowns, people squirming under questioning, and outright lies. What I didn’t expect was that I would see all this during the jury selection process.
It really was quite shameful how many of the individuals called for this privilege attempted to shirk their duty. In fact, if there hadn’t been so many people working so hard at weaseling out with their obviously, phony “excuses,” I wouldn’t have run out of mine so quickly. Apparently, he who hesitates is not only lost, but gets to sit through three days of testimony as well.
As it turns out, real trials are nothing like trials you see on sitcoms, television dramas, or movies. The lawyers in the case I was on were not hostile toward each other in a vain attempt to mask their true, romantic feelings for one another. They were, in fact, quite civil toward each other. Of course, both lawyers in this case were men, so I really didn’t expect (or want to see) that anyway. Another difference was that, during this trial, none of the bailiffs had to spring from their seats and physically subdue an out-of-control witness or defendant. The only things these bailiffs had to restrain were their own yawns. As for wrapping the case up neatly at the end of a short half-hour, one-hour, or, at most, two-hour time period, forget it.
So we the jury sat for three days taking notes on the testimony being given, rebutted, and reaffirmed. At least we looked like we were taking notes. It’s quite fascinating how many synonyms for boring one can come up with in three days. It’s also interesting to see how many creative lettering styles one can use to write said synonyms. But wasting time in such an obviously juvenile way was not all I managed to do during this time. I also exceeded my personal best at hangman; I won 17 out of the twenty-one games I played with jurors 11 and 13.
Finally the time came for the judge’s instructions for the jury. The bailiffs handed out 13 fifteen-page packets containing the judge’s instructions, which he then proceeded to read as slowly as possible. Apparently, his Honor mistook us for foreigners who, as everyone knows, understand things perfectly when they are spoken to ever so slowly. When he was through, the lawyers began their closing arguments, where they put their spin on the testimony, each recounting the evidence that supported his claim. This is simply a more civil version of the “did not/did too” argument we used to have when we were kids: “Johnny did it.” “No he didn’t.” “Did too.” “Did not!” “You’re a doodyhead!” “No, you’re a doodyhead!” And so on and so forth. The latter argument would, of course, be much more entertaining.
Before the jury is herded into the tiny room where they’ll spend hours deciding whether the defendant did or didn’t do what he or she is accused of, one of the 13 must be dismissed. The title given to this individual is the “alternate.” People who really know the score call this person the “sucker;” what else would you call someone who wasted three days and didn’t get to have a say in the fate of the accused. As it turns out, I was the sucker…uh…the alternate. Any way, the judge was extremely gracious in dismissing me. At least I think he was. It’s hard to hear well when you’re whooping it up and cartwheeling to the nearest exit.
It really was quite shameful how many of the individuals called for this privilege attempted to shirk their duty. In fact, if there hadn’t been so many people working so hard at weaseling out with their obviously, phony “excuses,” I wouldn’t have run out of mine so quickly. Apparently, he who hesitates is not only lost, but gets to sit through three days of testimony as well.
As it turns out, real trials are nothing like trials you see on sitcoms, television dramas, or movies. The lawyers in the case I was on were not hostile toward each other in a vain attempt to mask their true, romantic feelings for one another. They were, in fact, quite civil toward each other. Of course, both lawyers in this case were men, so I really didn’t expect (or want to see) that anyway. Another difference was that, during this trial, none of the bailiffs had to spring from their seats and physically subdue an out-of-control witness or defendant. The only things these bailiffs had to restrain were their own yawns. As for wrapping the case up neatly at the end of a short half-hour, one-hour, or, at most, two-hour time period, forget it.
So we the jury sat for three days taking notes on the testimony being given, rebutted, and reaffirmed. At least we looked like we were taking notes. It’s quite fascinating how many synonyms for boring one can come up with in three days. It’s also interesting to see how many creative lettering styles one can use to write said synonyms. But wasting time in such an obviously juvenile way was not all I managed to do during this time. I also exceeded my personal best at hangman; I won 17 out of the twenty-one games I played with jurors 11 and 13.
Finally the time came for the judge’s instructions for the jury. The bailiffs handed out 13 fifteen-page packets containing the judge’s instructions, which he then proceeded to read as slowly as possible. Apparently, his Honor mistook us for foreigners who, as everyone knows, understand things perfectly when they are spoken to ever so slowly. When he was through, the lawyers began their closing arguments, where they put their spin on the testimony, each recounting the evidence that supported his claim. This is simply a more civil version of the “did not/did too” argument we used to have when we were kids: “Johnny did it.” “No he didn’t.” “Did too.” “Did not!” “You’re a doodyhead!” “No, you’re a doodyhead!” And so on and so forth. The latter argument would, of course, be much more entertaining.
Before the jury is herded into the tiny room where they’ll spend hours deciding whether the defendant did or didn’t do what he or she is accused of, one of the 13 must be dismissed. The title given to this individual is the “alternate.” People who really know the score call this person the “sucker;” what else would you call someone who wasted three days and didn’t get to have a say in the fate of the accused. As it turns out, I was the sucker…uh…the alternate. Any way, the judge was extremely gracious in dismissing me. At least I think he was. It’s hard to hear well when you’re whooping it up and cartwheeling to the nearest exit.
Labels: jury duty
