So, it’s been a few months since I last wrote here and it's been kind of busy actually.
The one thing that hasn’t happened though is that I’m still writing here as the unintentional bachelor because after my retirement from the Air Force I landed a job not back home with the Shadow but in Virginia (which is where we really wanted to end up anyway). So, it’s possibly yet another year before we’re all living under the same roof again on a permanent basis. Because of the big changes though, I’m going to rename this blog "UB: Life 2 Point Oh!" Because, well, that really just kind of sums it up to my way of thinking.
Also, I suppose it’s worth noting that the Shadow has finally entered the 21st century and actually has a Facebook site of her own, but I’m going to keep calling her the Shadow here anyway – just for continuity sake.
As I sit typing this in my third apartment – this one larger than the two previous BOBs and as yet unnamed, I’m eating off a microwave box because my gear from Texas hasn’t arrived yet. And tomorrow, I start work … it’s been nearly two months since I’ve gone into an office – probably longer than that since I’ve had any meaningful work to do during normal business hours and it’s also been about 7 weeks since I’ve worn long pants, so I’ve got some decisions to make after I publish this post.
Not the least of those decisions is what I want to wear for work – I’ve never really had to choose before and I’m faced with a closet full of clothes I’ve purchased with the help of the not taste-deficient Shadow – but because she’s 800 miles away, I’m left to try to figure out what goes with what. Fortunately, I’ve already warned my female co-workers that should they see me dressed in something suitable for a Goodwill advertisement, they should have no bad feelings about telling me. I have a disease, I told them, it’s like color blindness but for style.
Still, I think my dear Shadow has helped me choose clothing that I can’t do too much damage with – no horizontal stripes or garish colors – pretty much anything I choose should be ok. We’ll have to wait and see.
Now, I’ve been to my new office already and was more than a little thrilled to find a welcome bag full of Virginia Tech College of Science swag – which was very nice. My new boss called and said he also had some stuff for me and that they wanted to take me to lunch. This was impressive to me, for while I’ve had a going-away lunch at every single place I’ve been in the Air Force, I’ve never had a welcome lunch or been given a welcome basket. Although, in all fairness, I did go to a place in Europe once where they had stocked my fridge with beer –which is a seriously nice welcome after a long flight and customs - but sadly, it's not institutional policy. So, as of day 1, I have to say that I’m pretty much liking civilian life.
The flip side of it all is that I’ve been used to living in a Nanny State and not two days after my official retirement date I had to use medical services – and it was interesting to have someone from Tricare tell me to just go and do what I wanted to do so long as the provider took Tricare. This will take a little getting used to – but I shouldn’t think too much, truth be told.
And one final thought about Big Blue before I end this and go stare at my clothes for half an hour before making a wrong choice … leaving the Air Force, which I generally feel very good and happy about , was in itself a very surreal kind of event and I have to take a few minutes to explain the very lengthy and detailed event that is “out-processing.”
I arrived at the orderly room at the appointed hour on my final day of active duty back in June. I handed the staff sergeant a packet of papers and she ran through a short checklist. I had all the documents save one – which she dutifully printed for me and had me sign saying I’d seen it and then I handed it right back to her. I want to use both the terms “self-licking ice cream cone” and “jackassery” for this, but all in all it summed up very nicely the military experience.
Then she said, “That’s it, you’re done. Have a nice retirement.”
It took six minutes. And then only because I had to wait for the document to be printed.
“That’s it?” I asked, somewhat disappointed that it wasn’t more…I don’t know…officious or somehow ponderous. Joining was akin to taking out a mortgage whereas leaving was like a drive-by.
“That’s it.” She confirmed.
Hmm. And I walked away. It was, and again I have to use this word for no other is quite appropriate, very surreal. I supposed I had always known it, but at that point one realizes that the big machine just keeps chugging along quite happily with one or without one. While you are no longer grist for the mill, you can’t help but having a very tiny portion of you disappointed that the mill didn’t, at the very least, stutter for a moment before continuing on.
It does not.
More to the point, it cannot and it should not.
I think all my military friends are very aware of that ‘feed the machine’ existence they are involved in. But I also know they will all feel a little of what I felt when they have their own multi-minute out-processing moment of clarity.
So, with Big Blue in the rear view mirror I turn to the orange and maroon of life at a university. I expect there will be future posts where I make some comparisons between Va. Tech and my last stop at academia, as an ROTC instructor at Norwich University. Both schools have a Corps of Cadets … and that’s pretty much where the similarities stop.
Until next time, I’ve got to go match socks and pants or something and I’ve got to get on with Life 2 Point Oh!
I do hope you continue to stick around and see how it comes out.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Kids take after their parents...sometimes
So, in the course of about two weeks, my progeny each underwent their own medical procedures and at the end of all of it, I have to say I’m quite impressed by what these kids appear to be made of.
It started with my youngest – my baby girl who has, rather unfortunately, inherited all of those habits of mine which the Shadow has so ruthlessly tried to ferret out over the last two decades – with minimal success I hasten to add. She’s impulsive, headstrong and, if I may paraphrase Blackadder, has a pigheaded stubbornness and refusal to look facts in the face that will see her through. What she does have which will serve her in good stead, however, is her mothers’ lovely features. I genuinely feel bad for her future boyfriends.
Anyway, she took a tumble at school which required stitches just at the bottom and slightly underneath her chin – a place that if it leaves a little scar will endow her with just enough of a scar to be endearing and mysterious – easily visible, but not blatantly obvious – all in all an excellent scar as scars go. When getting stitched she didn’t cry or whimper or anything that I would do and when having them removed she described the process and ‘prickling’ – which is not anything like I would describe it but that could just be because I know swear words.
My son at the tender age of 10 was involved in dental surgery. You see, as a British born youth of a British mother, he is culturally predisposed to needing dental surgery – it’s like Americans are predisposed toward being, for the most part, culturally ignorant of every other country on the planet except their own. We must just accept these things and move on.
When I asked him about his surgery he said the following: “It was really cool, I think they must have hypnotized me or something because when I opened my eyes the doctor was standing over me snapping his fingers in front of my face…”
Uh….yeah….hypnotized. I’m going to file this away for reference because in about 6 or 7 years I expect him to use it as a code word when he calls me at 2 in the morning from a friend’s house in an addled state of mind from Drambui or some other heinous act of beverage selection saying, “dad, sorry I can’t make it home, Bob is hypnotizing us.”
Shadow then told me that when he was coming around he was trying to say something that was pretty much unintelligible due to the four wads of gauze shoved in the spaces where his teeth used to be. Turns out what he was saying was this: “Mom, I’ve got four feet!”
I’ve only been under the influence of medical sedatives once in my life and the reaction it gave me was to make me never want to be under the influence of medical sedatives again. That fact that he used the words, “cool,” “hypnotized,” and the phrase “I’ve got four feet” and sounded excited about the possibilities that could mean for track season, give me some cause for concern as you might imagine.
It is, however, quite comforting in many ways to know my kids, although made up of DNA from Shadow and myself are really becoming their own people – and are made of stronger stuff than the gelatinous mass either of their parents would become if confronted with the same circumstances.
It started with my youngest – my baby girl who has, rather unfortunately, inherited all of those habits of mine which the Shadow has so ruthlessly tried to ferret out over the last two decades – with minimal success I hasten to add. She’s impulsive, headstrong and, if I may paraphrase Blackadder, has a pigheaded stubbornness and refusal to look facts in the face that will see her through. What she does have which will serve her in good stead, however, is her mothers’ lovely features. I genuinely feel bad for her future boyfriends.
Anyway, she took a tumble at school which required stitches just at the bottom and slightly underneath her chin – a place that if it leaves a little scar will endow her with just enough of a scar to be endearing and mysterious – easily visible, but not blatantly obvious – all in all an excellent scar as scars go. When getting stitched she didn’t cry or whimper or anything that I would do and when having them removed she described the process and ‘prickling’ – which is not anything like I would describe it but that could just be because I know swear words.
My son at the tender age of 10 was involved in dental surgery. You see, as a British born youth of a British mother, he is culturally predisposed to needing dental surgery – it’s like Americans are predisposed toward being, for the most part, culturally ignorant of every other country on the planet except their own. We must just accept these things and move on.
When I asked him about his surgery he said the following: “It was really cool, I think they must have hypnotized me or something because when I opened my eyes the doctor was standing over me snapping his fingers in front of my face…”
Uh….yeah….hypnotized. I’m going to file this away for reference because in about 6 or 7 years I expect him to use it as a code word when he calls me at 2 in the morning from a friend’s house in an addled state of mind from Drambui or some other heinous act of beverage selection saying, “dad, sorry I can’t make it home, Bob is hypnotizing us.”
Shadow then told me that when he was coming around he was trying to say something that was pretty much unintelligible due to the four wads of gauze shoved in the spaces where his teeth used to be. Turns out what he was saying was this: “Mom, I’ve got four feet!”
I’ve only been under the influence of medical sedatives once in my life and the reaction it gave me was to make me never want to be under the influence of medical sedatives again. That fact that he used the words, “cool,” “hypnotized,” and the phrase “I’ve got four feet” and sounded excited about the possibilities that could mean for track season, give me some cause for concern as you might imagine.
It is, however, quite comforting in many ways to know my kids, although made up of DNA from Shadow and myself are really becoming their own people – and are made of stronger stuff than the gelatinous mass either of their parents would become if confronted with the same circumstances.
Friday, March 30, 2012
It's still a dumb word
This week I actually got to play an away-game. Well, it was an interview with a company that actually spent money to fly me from San Antonio to DC to take part in a 2-hour interview. I have no idea how that turned out, but I did learn a little something along the way – specifically, I like saying the word “manicure,” but not “pedicure” so much, and I think “mani-pedi” sounds ridiculous and is probably one of the last things in the world I would engage myself in.
I came this revelation, as has happened so often during my Texas exile, because Shadow suggested that before I go to the interview I get my nails done. If you’ve been paying the slightest bit of attention here for the last 20 months you should have registered by now that Shadow is often correct about these things and so I’ve grown to grudgingly accept that I should just try whatever it is and hope for the best.
As Shadow is acting as my job-search consultant these days and doing a tremendous job I might add, I found myself sitting awkwardly in front of an elderly Asian woman who spoke almost no words of English that I could understand. And while she made disgusted-sounding gurgling noises like she wanted to be ill at the site of my hands that have been untouched by trained professionals for more than 4 decades, I was left to smile that strange little “I-don’t-know-what-you’re-saying-but-I’ll-keep-smiling-anyway” smile and looking around the mostly vacant establishment.
My worst fear was realized when she brought out what looked like an orange juicer filled with sudsy water and made gestures toward it that indicated I should put my hand in. I recited in my head the following litany, “Please, God, don’t let this water be warm…”
As I did this she grabbed my other hand with roughly the patience you have with a four-year old who has repeatedly grabbed and used things at the same time that they are not supposed to grab and use at the same time – like honey, syrup and glitter.
So, with my arm twisted at precisely the angle that doctors use to purposely dislocate joints, she proceeded and I discovered that the nice thing about a manicure is that where you are likely not ambidextrous with those tiny little scissors, someone else does not have to be. And so for the first time ever, my nails were clean, trimmed, filed and buffed without the slightest trace of blood or the need for adhesive bandages or peroxide.
I was able to sit there and engage with the TV which was conveniently on a sports station. As the … I’m not sure what to call this woman, a nailer, I guess - had no direct communication link to me other than jerking my arm one way or another, I didn’t feel obligated to carry on the conversations that normally happen at barbers. She didn’t ask me how I’d like my nails (pointy like a talon); or if I wanted block or taper (like I give a damn what the back of my head looks like – I can’t see it!). She did her thing and I did mine.
And the lady sitting behind us, she did hers. Namely, she started to giggle.
My grand-matronly Asian friend looked up from my nails and I looked down from my TV and we both wordlessly said to each other with our eyes, “what the fu…” and we turned as one to the woman in the chair. She was getting a pedicure, which seemed mostly to involve her grimacing in an oddly blue-film kind of way at the young man giving her feet the kind of attention normally reserved for adolescent boys their first time out with a double clasp bra strap. And she just kept giggling. It was a far cry from the “When Harry Met Sally” scene in the restaurant, but she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely when she noticed us staring, and simply said, “it tickles.”
And so I sat, 10 minutes later, with my feet in a small pool of water getting the barnacles scrubbed off my heels and thinking, “mani-pedi” is still the stupidest word ever.
I came this revelation, as has happened so often during my Texas exile, because Shadow suggested that before I go to the interview I get my nails done. If you’ve been paying the slightest bit of attention here for the last 20 months you should have registered by now that Shadow is often correct about these things and so I’ve grown to grudgingly accept that I should just try whatever it is and hope for the best.
As Shadow is acting as my job-search consultant these days and doing a tremendous job I might add, I found myself sitting awkwardly in front of an elderly Asian woman who spoke almost no words of English that I could understand. And while she made disgusted-sounding gurgling noises like she wanted to be ill at the site of my hands that have been untouched by trained professionals for more than 4 decades, I was left to smile that strange little “I-don’t-know-what-you’re-saying-but-I’ll-keep-smiling-anyway” smile and looking around the mostly vacant establishment.
My worst fear was realized when she brought out what looked like an orange juicer filled with sudsy water and made gestures toward it that indicated I should put my hand in. I recited in my head the following litany, “Please, God, don’t let this water be warm…”
As I did this she grabbed my other hand with roughly the patience you have with a four-year old who has repeatedly grabbed and used things at the same time that they are not supposed to grab and use at the same time – like honey, syrup and glitter.
So, with my arm twisted at precisely the angle that doctors use to purposely dislocate joints, she proceeded and I discovered that the nice thing about a manicure is that where you are likely not ambidextrous with those tiny little scissors, someone else does not have to be. And so for the first time ever, my nails were clean, trimmed, filed and buffed without the slightest trace of blood or the need for adhesive bandages or peroxide.
I was able to sit there and engage with the TV which was conveniently on a sports station. As the … I’m not sure what to call this woman, a nailer, I guess - had no direct communication link to me other than jerking my arm one way or another, I didn’t feel obligated to carry on the conversations that normally happen at barbers. She didn’t ask me how I’d like my nails (pointy like a talon); or if I wanted block or taper (like I give a damn what the back of my head looks like – I can’t see it!). She did her thing and I did mine.
And the lady sitting behind us, she did hers. Namely, she started to giggle.
My grand-matronly Asian friend looked up from my nails and I looked down from my TV and we both wordlessly said to each other with our eyes, “what the fu…” and we turned as one to the woman in the chair. She was getting a pedicure, which seemed mostly to involve her grimacing in an oddly blue-film kind of way at the young man giving her feet the kind of attention normally reserved for adolescent boys their first time out with a double clasp bra strap. And she just kept giggling. It was a far cry from the “When Harry Met Sally” scene in the restaurant, but she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely when she noticed us staring, and simply said, “it tickles.”
And so I sat, 10 minutes later, with my feet in a small pool of water getting the barnacles scrubbed off my heels and thinking, “mani-pedi” is still the stupidest word ever.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Homemakers Earn How Much?
Today, on Facebook, a friend of mine (whom I’ve actually met) posted a story where someone did a survey and figured out that a stay-at-home parent (homemaker) is worth about $96,000 a year.
I bring this up because I was sharing this with Shadow on Skype when the background noise (the children) markedly increased and was of the sort that starts as a playful laugh, followed by tussling and almost always ends up in a fit of tears.
So, how did Shadow handle this? Simply put, she didn’t.
You see, Shadow is a highly paid executive who ‘makes’ $96,000 a year. People who make that much money don’t worry about petty squabbling amongst the worker drones. They worry about big-issue things – like when vomit or bleeding is involved or the audible snapping of bones can be heard. Tears before bedtime, especially the type that are self-induced, she feels, just makes the peasants go to sleep faster.
“The 96 thousand,” she said, “is a good number because we need that money to pay for the therapy we will need in the not too distant future.”
The she took a small sip from her second (half) beer and contemplated for a minute, and said, “and our alcohol rehabilitation.”
And this is why technology is wonderful. Ten years ago I would have had to deal with the odd phone call where the noise in the background just would have been annoying. Thanks to Skype – which is by nature, hands free – we as a couple, can both share in the mayhem that our offspring are producing – while hanging on to a beer in such a fashion as to ensure it will not be spilled by a clumsy act of pre-pubescence.
There have been times on Skype that I have even been able to witness acts of juvenile terrorism that one will perpetrate against the other – all while thinking that no one is watching.
You’d think this would lead to children who learn rather more rapidly that cameras are everywhere. You’d be wrong. Even from 2,000 miles away I’ve had the parental privilege of this conversation, “Dad, can I do (fill in whatever word you want that would elicit and immediate ‘hells, no’)?”
“What did your mother say?”
“She said no.”
...Heavy sigh….
Despite this I wouldn’t even want to imagine living in an age when unintentional bachelors would be able to correspond only by mail with the occasional very expensive long distance phone call (remember those – when you had to use an operator and you often called collect?).
Somehow waiting two weeks to read about how child-A whacked child-B with a spoon after child-B kicked child-A in the shin while at dinner…at a neighbor’s house…during a holiday of peace and joy, just doesn’t have the same realism or, what to call it…verve, I guess, that seeing it all live does.
Being able to witness a child’s wanton jackassery is really one of the things that make live video feeds special. And if by doing so you get to see something that makes you want to use the word ‘tussle,’ well then, that’s just the bonus Shadow will get on top of the 96 grand she’s already making.
I bring this up because I was sharing this with Shadow on Skype when the background noise (the children) markedly increased and was of the sort that starts as a playful laugh, followed by tussling and almost always ends up in a fit of tears.
So, how did Shadow handle this? Simply put, she didn’t.
You see, Shadow is a highly paid executive who ‘makes’ $96,000 a year. People who make that much money don’t worry about petty squabbling amongst the worker drones. They worry about big-issue things – like when vomit or bleeding is involved or the audible snapping of bones can be heard. Tears before bedtime, especially the type that are self-induced, she feels, just makes the peasants go to sleep faster.
“The 96 thousand,” she said, “is a good number because we need that money to pay for the therapy we will need in the not too distant future.”
The she took a small sip from her second (half) beer and contemplated for a minute, and said, “and our alcohol rehabilitation.”
And this is why technology is wonderful. Ten years ago I would have had to deal with the odd phone call where the noise in the background just would have been annoying. Thanks to Skype – which is by nature, hands free – we as a couple, can both share in the mayhem that our offspring are producing – while hanging on to a beer in such a fashion as to ensure it will not be spilled by a clumsy act of pre-pubescence.
There have been times on Skype that I have even been able to witness acts of juvenile terrorism that one will perpetrate against the other – all while thinking that no one is watching.
You’d think this would lead to children who learn rather more rapidly that cameras are everywhere. You’d be wrong. Even from 2,000 miles away I’ve had the parental privilege of this conversation, “Dad, can I do (fill in whatever word you want that would elicit and immediate ‘hells, no’)?”
“What did your mother say?”
“She said no.”
...Heavy sigh….
Despite this I wouldn’t even want to imagine living in an age when unintentional bachelors would be able to correspond only by mail with the occasional very expensive long distance phone call (remember those – when you had to use an operator and you often called collect?).
Somehow waiting two weeks to read about how child-A whacked child-B with a spoon after child-B kicked child-A in the shin while at dinner…at a neighbor’s house…during a holiday of peace and joy, just doesn’t have the same realism or, what to call it…verve, I guess, that seeing it all live does.
Being able to witness a child’s wanton jackassery is really one of the things that make live video feeds special. And if by doing so you get to see something that makes you want to use the word ‘tussle,’ well then, that’s just the bonus Shadow will get on top of the 96 grand she’s already making.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Love Your Spouse? Win Bacon!
2012 is shaping up to be a great year for sure. I was going to wait on this, but as there is only a week to enter as of this writing, I thought I’d better hurry up so any of you who wish can get your application form in for a chance to bring home the bacon.
Bacon, you say? Why, yes. Yes I did. For a side, or “Flitch” of bacon is the prize for the winners.
Winners, as in plural, you say? Why, yes. Yes I did again. For the prize is awarded to a married couple as part of a quaint little tradition from that quaintest of all places – England. It’s the Dunmow Flitch Prize and has been around for far longer than our nation. Much longer.
If you haven’t heard of it, I’m hardly surprised. To win the Dunmow Flitch, you must, and I’ll quote here from a reliable source – this then from the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary (not the stupid people dictionary mind you, but the Advanced learners, so you know it’s true…)
“a very large piece of bacon which is regularly given in the Essex village of Great Dunmow as a prize to a man and woman who can prove that, after being married for at least a year and a day, they have never once wished that they were not married.”
How awesome is that!? Write your love story and win bacon!
Now, the reason you’ve probably never heard of this is because it didn’t really travel across the Atlantic well. Seriously, raise your hand if you think any woman in her right mind wouldn’t have wanted to keel-haul her husband as she entered her sixth week of nausea from a sea voyage in what amounts to a life boat with no running water, proper bathrooms or soap. (Or much in the way of food or water for that matter). Most people who populated America were ineligible for the prize about 3 days after leaving port. Hell, they were probably still in sight of England when they threw their vows overboard.
Mindless of that, however, this tradition only rolls around once every four years – so 2012 is just packed full of stuff to do. We’ve got the Olympics, a leap year, an election, the Dunmow Flitch and the end of the world as we know it! Oh, yeah and bacon! What’s not to like?
Now the English know how to throw a tradition. None of this piddling decades-long stuff for them. This obscure little contest has been around since 1104. Read it aloud... eleven, oh-four. In 1104 even the Native Americans were still on their way to Virginia from the Bering strait.
So, the story goes, according to www.dunmowflitchtrials.co.uk/history that in 1104 Lord of the Manor Reginald Fitzwalter (really) and his good lady wife, dressed themselves up “as humble folk” (which I assume means peasants) and asked a blessing of the Prior after 1 year and 1 day of marriage. The Prior was charmed and gave them some bacon and Lord Fitzwalter gave up his estate to the church with the condition the priory keep giving away bacon to devoted couples. Which I think is an excellent deal for the priory and I also imagine that if Lady Fitzwalter didn’t want to kill him at that moment, Lord Fitzwalter Junior probably wanted a crack at the old man for giving away the farm for half a pig.
Now, in the interest of fair play, it should be said that the average life expectancy in 1104 was somewhere well south of 40 – probably much closer to 30 – so the ‘achievement’ of not wanting to be unmarried to your meal ticket probably isn’t such a big deal. But, again in the interest of fairness, also consider there were no feminine hygiene products or professional sports, so it’s probably an accomplishment in any age.
Anyway, once the good Vicar put bacon on the menu, everyone wanted in on the action and so a tradition was born – and it was so popular that no less a figure than Geoffrey Chaucer mentioned it in that book we’ve all heard about and adore quoting, but have probably never read – the Canterbury Tales. To which the Wife of Bath’s Tale and Prologue reads:
“But never for us the flitch of bacon though/ that some may win in Essex at Dunmow”
Interestingly, if Chaucer were to write that today, at only 80 characters that little couplet could be Tweeted world-wide and promptly ignored.
But it wasn’t Tweeted and it hasn’t been ignored and so here we sit on the fourth year with the deadline for entry fast approaching on Feb. 29! You'd better hurry. The entry form is three pages, but it’s simple enough although you’ll have to provide copies of passports, driver’s licenses and marriage certificates. Go to: http://www.dunmowflitchtrials.co.uk/files/pdf/dunmow-flitch-trials-application-2012.pdf
And if you’re reading this outside the Empire, don’t think for a moment that you can’t win if you’re not in England – or that only one couple wins. In 2008 there were four winning couples (which is really pretty sad considering there are tens of millions of married couples and only four could prove they didn’t once ever want to just hand over half their stuff and start their mid-life crisis in peace.)
Jeff Dotts and Erin Albers of Nashville, Tenn., were so enamored of each other they didn’t even share a last name – and yet they still won in 2008. In 2000 and 2004 combined only seven couples won and they were all English. But, the Dotts/Albers have created a precedent and I think you should all take advantage of it and enter the contest.
And if you win, I want some of your bacon.
Bacon, you say? Why, yes. Yes I did. For a side, or “Flitch” of bacon is the prize for the winners.
Winners, as in plural, you say? Why, yes. Yes I did again. For the prize is awarded to a married couple as part of a quaint little tradition from that quaintest of all places – England. It’s the Dunmow Flitch Prize and has been around for far longer than our nation. Much longer.
If you haven’t heard of it, I’m hardly surprised. To win the Dunmow Flitch, you must, and I’ll quote here from a reliable source – this then from the Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary (not the stupid people dictionary mind you, but the Advanced learners, so you know it’s true…)
“a very large piece of bacon which is regularly given in the Essex village of Great Dunmow as a prize to a man and woman who can prove that, after being married for at least a year and a day, they have never once wished that they were not married.”
How awesome is that!? Write your love story and win bacon!
Now, the reason you’ve probably never heard of this is because it didn’t really travel across the Atlantic well. Seriously, raise your hand if you think any woman in her right mind wouldn’t have wanted to keel-haul her husband as she entered her sixth week of nausea from a sea voyage in what amounts to a life boat with no running water, proper bathrooms or soap. (Or much in the way of food or water for that matter). Most people who populated America were ineligible for the prize about 3 days after leaving port. Hell, they were probably still in sight of England when they threw their vows overboard.
Mindless of that, however, this tradition only rolls around once every four years – so 2012 is just packed full of stuff to do. We’ve got the Olympics, a leap year, an election, the Dunmow Flitch and the end of the world as we know it! Oh, yeah and bacon! What’s not to like?
Now the English know how to throw a tradition. None of this piddling decades-long stuff for them. This obscure little contest has been around since 1104. Read it aloud... eleven, oh-four. In 1104 even the Native Americans were still on their way to Virginia from the Bering strait.
So, the story goes, according to www.dunmowflitchtrials.co.uk/history that in 1104 Lord of the Manor Reginald Fitzwalter (really) and his good lady wife, dressed themselves up “as humble folk” (which I assume means peasants) and asked a blessing of the Prior after 1 year and 1 day of marriage. The Prior was charmed and gave them some bacon and Lord Fitzwalter gave up his estate to the church with the condition the priory keep giving away bacon to devoted couples. Which I think is an excellent deal for the priory and I also imagine that if Lady Fitzwalter didn’t want to kill him at that moment, Lord Fitzwalter Junior probably wanted a crack at the old man for giving away the farm for half a pig.
Now, in the interest of fair play, it should be said that the average life expectancy in 1104 was somewhere well south of 40 – probably much closer to 30 – so the ‘achievement’ of not wanting to be unmarried to your meal ticket probably isn’t such a big deal. But, again in the interest of fairness, also consider there were no feminine hygiene products or professional sports, so it’s probably an accomplishment in any age.
Anyway, once the good Vicar put bacon on the menu, everyone wanted in on the action and so a tradition was born – and it was so popular that no less a figure than Geoffrey Chaucer mentioned it in that book we’ve all heard about and adore quoting, but have probably never read – the Canterbury Tales. To which the Wife of Bath’s Tale and Prologue reads:
“But never for us the flitch of bacon though/ that some may win in Essex at Dunmow”
Interestingly, if Chaucer were to write that today, at only 80 characters that little couplet could be Tweeted world-wide and promptly ignored.
But it wasn’t Tweeted and it hasn’t been ignored and so here we sit on the fourth year with the deadline for entry fast approaching on Feb. 29! You'd better hurry. The entry form is three pages, but it’s simple enough although you’ll have to provide copies of passports, driver’s licenses and marriage certificates. Go to: http://www.dunmowflitchtrials.co.uk/files/pdf/dunmow-flitch-trials-application-2012.pdf
And if you’re reading this outside the Empire, don’t think for a moment that you can’t win if you’re not in England – or that only one couple wins. In 2008 there were four winning couples (which is really pretty sad considering there are tens of millions of married couples and only four could prove they didn’t once ever want to just hand over half their stuff and start their mid-life crisis in peace.)
Jeff Dotts and Erin Albers of Nashville, Tenn., were so enamored of each other they didn’t even share a last name – and yet they still won in 2008. In 2000 and 2004 combined only seven couples won and they were all English. But, the Dotts/Albers have created a precedent and I think you should all take advantage of it and enter the contest.
And if you win, I want some of your bacon.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Seeing America at the Airport
Well, it’s been a month and it’s been a great month – back at home with the Shadow and the kids, but alas, I'm now back in Texas. On my way back I got to spend a good deal of time wandering around the airport in Washington DC while waiting for my flight and I wanted to post some observations - namely traveling allows you to see cool stuff.
If you’re one of those folks who doesn’t use public transportation much, think of this as my way of preparing you for when you do. Having said all that, I’m sure most of us have seen worse things in Wal-Mart than I can possibly describe here. Anyway…
I’ve had to spend a lot of time in airports over my life. I once spent several days sleeping in a terminal in Germany waiting for a flight to England. Despite that I was still a little surprised when I saw a guy sprawled across several seats with a newspaper over his head and his shoes AND socks off, curled up and snoozing away. I’ll forgive the shoes, but damn, man, put the socks back on. I didn’t wait to see him wake up, but I’d be willing to bet that when he did, he parked himself in front of one of the airport TVs (the ones with no sound) and put his hand in his underwear and slouched. Just a hunch.
I’m also still continually amazed that some people can look at themselves in the mirror in the morning and say to themselves, “Yes, this is a good look,” and walk out in public wearing a bright yellow jacket, tight pants and a white shirt tight enough for casual passers-by to realize the wearer has exactly three rolls of muffin top. Nobody needs that. Traveling is bad enough already.
I love our freedoms as Americans but just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. I think, in the vein of flash-mobs, we should institute flash justice. If I see something like the yellow coat lady, I should be able to put out a flash justice alert and 50 people should gather and just slap some common sense into the offender - or rub her down with loose fit denim or something. Or tackle the sleeping guy and wrap his feet in an airtight plastic bag.
What I’d really like to do while traveling though is kick people who have no volume control on their own voices. If you have to answer your phone in public, I get that, but use your movie theater voice for crying out loud. If you are going to have a volume-11 conversation, dammit I want to know what happened to Greg that meant your friend had to pick him up at 3 in the morning. You shouldn’t be allowed to leave the people around you hanging like that. Tell everyone the story or just shut the hell up. We don't care which.
The one semi-decent thing I did see, however was a woman losing her mind at the poor guy working the gate counter because some Army National Guard staff sergeant (in uniform) arrived late for his flight. She was practically screaming at the gate attendant because the plane was still parked there and the jetway was still attached to the plane, yet the cabin door was closed and by their airlines’ rules, once that happens, too bad.
Turns out the Sergeant was heading home after a couple months training in the mid-west somewhere so I don’t think it was quite the crisis the lady was making it out to be. She was just caught up in the fervor of trying to do something nice for a person in uniform – which is certainly commendable. But she was about a decibel shy of being carted away by security.
That would have been cool to see.
If you’re one of those folks who doesn’t use public transportation much, think of this as my way of preparing you for when you do. Having said all that, I’m sure most of us have seen worse things in Wal-Mart than I can possibly describe here. Anyway…
I’ve had to spend a lot of time in airports over my life. I once spent several days sleeping in a terminal in Germany waiting for a flight to England. Despite that I was still a little surprised when I saw a guy sprawled across several seats with a newspaper over his head and his shoes AND socks off, curled up and snoozing away. I’ll forgive the shoes, but damn, man, put the socks back on. I didn’t wait to see him wake up, but I’d be willing to bet that when he did, he parked himself in front of one of the airport TVs (the ones with no sound) and put his hand in his underwear and slouched. Just a hunch.
I’m also still continually amazed that some people can look at themselves in the mirror in the morning and say to themselves, “Yes, this is a good look,” and walk out in public wearing a bright yellow jacket, tight pants and a white shirt tight enough for casual passers-by to realize the wearer has exactly three rolls of muffin top. Nobody needs that. Traveling is bad enough already.
I love our freedoms as Americans but just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should. I think, in the vein of flash-mobs, we should institute flash justice. If I see something like the yellow coat lady, I should be able to put out a flash justice alert and 50 people should gather and just slap some common sense into the offender - or rub her down with loose fit denim or something. Or tackle the sleeping guy and wrap his feet in an airtight plastic bag.
What I’d really like to do while traveling though is kick people who have no volume control on their own voices. If you have to answer your phone in public, I get that, but use your movie theater voice for crying out loud. If you are going to have a volume-11 conversation, dammit I want to know what happened to Greg that meant your friend had to pick him up at 3 in the morning. You shouldn’t be allowed to leave the people around you hanging like that. Tell everyone the story or just shut the hell up. We don't care which.
The one semi-decent thing I did see, however was a woman losing her mind at the poor guy working the gate counter because some Army National Guard staff sergeant (in uniform) arrived late for his flight. She was practically screaming at the gate attendant because the plane was still parked there and the jetway was still attached to the plane, yet the cabin door was closed and by their airlines’ rules, once that happens, too bad.
Turns out the Sergeant was heading home after a couple months training in the mid-west somewhere so I don’t think it was quite the crisis the lady was making it out to be. She was just caught up in the fervor of trying to do something nice for a person in uniform – which is certainly commendable. But she was about a decibel shy of being carted away by security.
That would have been cool to see.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
A (sad little) item off the bucket list
Any day you can strike something from your bucket list is generally a pretty good day.
Unless, like me, you have an extra-ordinarily boring bucket list.
Still, it’s nice to have done something worth checking off and to be honest I wasn’t sure I would ever do it – after all I’m 43 years old and have ever come close to doing it before though I have on occasion given it a go. After completing this task, I believe it can only be achieved by someone living on their own. Or perhaps two men sharing a pantry – but I have a hard time believing it would be possible with a woman in the house and certainly not with children.
Children, while they might ‘want’ to do this, don’t have the dexterity to make it happen quite frankly, and that’s too bad because honestly, it’s probably only 6-year-old boys (and me) who would ever waste the time to try. And women, well, I’m sure women would agree this is the most pointless thing since cubic zirconia.
It took a few weeks but I successfully used half a jar of peanut butter.
Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “you always use half a jar of peanut butter.” But I don’t mean using halfway to the bottom, I mean I used a vertical half jar of peanut butter. I’ve included a picture here so that you can see the half of the top that remains is unblemished and smooth and it continues right down through to the bottom.
I like to think that this bit of work means that I have gained some measure of patience during the last 18 months. However, when you consider that I talk to myself regularly now, I think it only means I’ve got lots of discretionary time on my hands.
Still, it has shown me how life continues to be different away from the family whom I will board a plane to visit this week. At home, if I were to try to accomplish this, someone would no doubt scoff at the notion of what I was trying to achieve. And to be frank, I’m not sure it would be The Shadow – it very possibly might be my 5-year old daughter. For his part, I think my son would consider it worthy goal although I’m not sure even he would take the time.
No, it’s not a master painting or the great American novel or even the rare joy that I get on the rare occasion I select a decent movie, but it’s something and sometimes something keeps you going – at least until later tonight when I make sandwiches for dinner.
Unless, like me, you have an extra-ordinarily boring bucket list.
Still, it’s nice to have done something worth checking off and to be honest I wasn’t sure I would ever do it – after all I’m 43 years old and have ever come close to doing it before though I have on occasion given it a go. After completing this task, I believe it can only be achieved by someone living on their own. Or perhaps two men sharing a pantry – but I have a hard time believing it would be possible with a woman in the house and certainly not with children.
Children, while they might ‘want’ to do this, don’t have the dexterity to make it happen quite frankly, and that’s too bad because honestly, it’s probably only 6-year-old boys (and me) who would ever waste the time to try. And women, well, I’m sure women would agree this is the most pointless thing since cubic zirconia.
It took a few weeks but I successfully used half a jar of peanut butter.
 |
| This is what it's come to - this is the kind of thing that amuses me now. |
Oh, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “you always use half a jar of peanut butter.” But I don’t mean using halfway to the bottom, I mean I used a vertical half jar of peanut butter. I’ve included a picture here so that you can see the half of the top that remains is unblemished and smooth and it continues right down through to the bottom.
I like to think that this bit of work means that I have gained some measure of patience during the last 18 months. However, when you consider that I talk to myself regularly now, I think it only means I’ve got lots of discretionary time on my hands.
Still, it has shown me how life continues to be different away from the family whom I will board a plane to visit this week. At home, if I were to try to accomplish this, someone would no doubt scoff at the notion of what I was trying to achieve. And to be frank, I’m not sure it would be The Shadow – it very possibly might be my 5-year old daughter. For his part, I think my son would consider it worthy goal although I’m not sure even he would take the time.
No, it’s not a master painting or the great American novel or even the rare joy that I get on the rare occasion I select a decent movie, but it’s something and sometimes something keeps you going – at least until later tonight when I make sandwiches for dinner.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Resolutions and Ben & Jerry's
I don’t know what it is about resolutions - perhaps it’s the feeling of never really having to carry them out that makes them so attractive - kind of like a campaign promise to ourselves. You know, we’ll “try” to be better people but when that inevitably fails, none of us will be surprised. Or care. And then to make ourselves feel better, we’ll just go eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
We are so cynical as a society that even I get a little nauseated.
But I have hope this year for several reasons:
1. It’s a leap year which means we have an extra day to wait before we pay our income tax.
2. It’s an even year which means there is an Olympics of some sort which gives us a break from the glacial sports-cancer that is the Major League Baseball season.
3. It’s a presidential election year which means that as individuals we can all feel pretty good about ourselves again once the campaign advertising starts in earnest and we see the baser side of human nature.
Still, I suppose in the spirit of things, I should make at least an attempt at non-binding, arbitrary and inconsequential self-betterment. Therefore, during 2012:
• I will no longer write 2011 on my checks. Yes, I still write checks – although not at the grocery store because that would just be begging for an ass kicking.
• I will not pay any attention to anything with the word “Mayan” in it. Seriously, the Mayans ceased to exist as a real civilization somewhere about 900AD. There are still technically, Mayans, but there are still Greeks and Romans too. To put this all in some perspective, the Mayans last gasp was about the same time Alfred the Great was beating up the Danes (who were then still a legitimate power) in England. Don’t remember that? Well, exactly. So, if the Mayans couldn’t figure out when they were doomed, I don’t put a lot of stock in them figuring out when we are going to snuff it. Perhaps they just ran out of room on the calendar. Or maybe they got bored? I know I am. Moving on…
• I will really, really, really try to lose the 15 pounds I gained in 2011 while working on my resolution to lose 30 pounds.
• I will find meaningful employment after June. (Actually, that one is legitimate)
• I will probably end up writing Colin Powell’s name on a ballot (again).
• I will do another Soldier Ride somewhere in the United States and you can expect emails solicitations from me as I wish to raise at least a $1,000 this year.
• I will do a century ride on a bicycle.
• I will grow a beard. (Full disclosure, Shadow has already voted against this idea quite vociferously and my experiment in the last two weeks is showing signs that genetic weakness may also play a large part in ultimately dooming this idea.)
• After Aug. 1 I’m going to call the nearest Air Force base and ask them where they keep their nuclear vessels –but I’m going to do it like Chekov in Star Trek IV and say “Nuclear Wessels.”
• I’m going to invent a word that eventually gets included in the dictionary. In 2011 ‘bromance’ and ‘cougar’ were added as were ‘LOL’ and ‘OMG’, so how hard can it be, really?
• I will stop being surprised by anything I see in Wal-Mart.
• I’m going to try to go a month without buying anything made in China. So, as an addendum to the previous item, if I see something in Wal-Mart that was not made in China, I reserve the right to be surprised.
• Try to resist the urge to correct people’s spelling and punctuation on Facebook. I will, however, continue to point them to http://www.snopes.com/ in the sincere hope they’ll stop spreading the endlessly annoying spam emails. No one is ever going to pay you or any organization money for the amount of “likes” they receive. No one is getting a new heart or other major organ because of your email; God is not going to hate me (or like me) because I don’t pass on a message to everyone on my list; If you did not enter an online lottery in England, you did not win an online lottery in England; no one on the entire continent of Africa wants to give you any money for any reason; 45,000 postcards will not save anyone’s life, but it will ruin the day of a shit-ton of health care workers.
• I will try to not be annoyed by the masses of simple-minded troglodytes who pass on every electron of information as if it were truth without verifying (see paragraph above)…shit…disregard.
• I vow to continue my brain cell-directed boycott of all things Kardashian. I’m happy to say if you put a Kardashian in front of me, I wouldn’t recognize it.
• I may start the “Vote For Anyone Else” campaign to encourage Americans to vote for anyone else other than the person who currently holds an elected position. Perhaps I’ll start a Facebook Page. What do you think? If 10 of you say you’ll join, I’ll create the page. If you are of the creative bent, please copyright the slogan, and start making bumper stickers, t-shirts and coffee mugs – you can gift me a percentage.
And when all is said in done, I’ll probably be sitting here – like you – eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s by the summer solstice, which is when the Mayans say the giant meteor should be visible.
Happy 2012 everyone.
We are so cynical as a society that even I get a little nauseated.
But I have hope this year for several reasons:
1. It’s a leap year which means we have an extra day to wait before we pay our income tax.
2. It’s an even year which means there is an Olympics of some sort which gives us a break from the glacial sports-cancer that is the Major League Baseball season.
3. It’s a presidential election year which means that as individuals we can all feel pretty good about ourselves again once the campaign advertising starts in earnest and we see the baser side of human nature.
Still, I suppose in the spirit of things, I should make at least an attempt at non-binding, arbitrary and inconsequential self-betterment. Therefore, during 2012:
• I will no longer write 2011 on my checks. Yes, I still write checks – although not at the grocery store because that would just be begging for an ass kicking.
• I will not pay any attention to anything with the word “Mayan” in it. Seriously, the Mayans ceased to exist as a real civilization somewhere about 900AD. There are still technically, Mayans, but there are still Greeks and Romans too. To put this all in some perspective, the Mayans last gasp was about the same time Alfred the Great was beating up the Danes (who were then still a legitimate power) in England. Don’t remember that? Well, exactly. So, if the Mayans couldn’t figure out when they were doomed, I don’t put a lot of stock in them figuring out when we are going to snuff it. Perhaps they just ran out of room on the calendar. Or maybe they got bored? I know I am. Moving on…
• I will really, really, really try to lose the 15 pounds I gained in 2011 while working on my resolution to lose 30 pounds.
• I will find meaningful employment after June. (Actually, that one is legitimate)
• I will probably end up writing Colin Powell’s name on a ballot (again).
• I will do another Soldier Ride somewhere in the United States and you can expect emails solicitations from me as I wish to raise at least a $1,000 this year.
• I will do a century ride on a bicycle.
 |
| As much of a beard as I'll likely ever see. The Hairy Eyeball & Mumps pose courtesy of me waiting to hear the 'click' of my camera phone... |
• I will grow a beard. (Full disclosure, Shadow has already voted against this idea quite vociferously and my experiment in the last two weeks is showing signs that genetic weakness may also play a large part in ultimately dooming this idea.)
• After Aug. 1 I’m going to call the nearest Air Force base and ask them where they keep their nuclear vessels –but I’m going to do it like Chekov in Star Trek IV and say “Nuclear Wessels.”
• I’m going to invent a word that eventually gets included in the dictionary. In 2011 ‘bromance’ and ‘cougar’ were added as were ‘LOL’ and ‘OMG’, so how hard can it be, really?
• I will stop being surprised by anything I see in Wal-Mart.
• I’m going to try to go a month without buying anything made in China. So, as an addendum to the previous item, if I see something in Wal-Mart that was not made in China, I reserve the right to be surprised.
• Try to resist the urge to correct people’s spelling and punctuation on Facebook. I will, however, continue to point them to http://www.snopes.com/ in the sincere hope they’ll stop spreading the endlessly annoying spam emails. No one is ever going to pay you or any organization money for the amount of “likes” they receive. No one is getting a new heart or other major organ because of your email; God is not going to hate me (or like me) because I don’t pass on a message to everyone on my list; If you did not enter an online lottery in England, you did not win an online lottery in England; no one on the entire continent of Africa wants to give you any money for any reason; 45,000 postcards will not save anyone’s life, but it will ruin the day of a shit-ton of health care workers.
• I will try to not be annoyed by the masses of simple-minded troglodytes who pass on every electron of information as if it were truth without verifying (see paragraph above)…shit…disregard.
• I vow to continue my brain cell-directed boycott of all things Kardashian. I’m happy to say if you put a Kardashian in front of me, I wouldn’t recognize it.
• I may start the “Vote For Anyone Else” campaign to encourage Americans to vote for anyone else other than the person who currently holds an elected position. Perhaps I’ll start a Facebook Page. What do you think? If 10 of you say you’ll join, I’ll create the page. If you are of the creative bent, please copyright the slogan, and start making bumper stickers, t-shirts and coffee mugs – you can gift me a percentage.
And when all is said in done, I’ll probably be sitting here – like you – eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s by the summer solstice, which is when the Mayans say the giant meteor should be visible.
Happy 2012 everyone.
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