There's a black cloud hovering over me that drizzles on my head wherever I go.
I'm not sure how I came to acquire it. It just started following me around a few weeks ago, dishing out a steady stream of moderate misfortune.
It could be worse. I could have gotten a storm cloud assigned to me, the kind where everyday a new tragedy unfolds. My little hovering cloud is more humble, trickling out a steady-but-constant stream of mild melancholy.
I'm flattered that the Cosmos considers me important enough to assign me my own personal weather pattern. Of course, I would have preferred my own personal rainbow or wish-granting leprechaun, but I suppose beggars can't be choosers.
I still don't think I'm important enough for this kind of personal attention, though. I could understand the universe assigning a personal black cloud to Dick Cheney, or Nancy Pelosi, but I'm just a guy with a blog, typing away in relative anonymity.
In fact, I keep telling the cloud above me that it can do better, but it argues with me and tells me that I'm all it ever wanted. Frankly, it seems a little desperate. Although I guess it sounds about like the kind of dark cloud I'd get.
As with Pig-Pen from the Peanuts, my little cloud follows me everywhere I go. And I'm not just talking about today, when it was warm sunny when I left home (without an umbrella), only for a downpour to start on my 10-minute uphill walk to my office. Although that did actually happen.
And the situation repeated itself when I was halfway to Starbucks for my mid-morning coffee.
But it isn't just the literal weather that's getting me down. I've had the opposite of the Midas touch lately: instead of everything I touch turning to gold, it turns to camel dung.
Two weeks ago my job vanished in a sudden office reorganization. I got shifted to a lateral position where I do mostly the same thing, but the change meant a new boss, and a whole bunch of bureaucratic headaches to endure while the changes take place.
For the last year or so, I've used running as my escape from the burdens of life. I've spent the last two months training for my first half-marathon, which I had circled on the calendar for next Saturday. Inspired by my brother's fight against cancer, I was doing it to symbolize my ability to overcome, through hard work and perseverance, any obstacle that I too might face in life.
But I when I tried to sign up yesterday, fresh after finishing the 10-mile run that was the last step of my preparation, the race was already full. I apparently missed being able to register by about 30 minutes.
In other words, I not only failed to finish the race I'd spent two months training for, I couldn't even manage to get started.
In other developments, my sink started leaking and my toilet broke. Two sets of close friends are moving away. My favorite shows have inexplicably failed to tape all week. I somehow screwed up my favorite recipe, and I made an extra-large batch.
My neighbors keep having loud parties late at night that keep me awake. My favorite basketball teams stink, and the 10-day forecast that once was full of sun, now looks cold and rainy, especially in the area directly over my head.
Last week, my Spanish teacher gave out CDs for everyone to listen for homework. Mine didn't work. I suppose that's just as well, because I've already lost it anyway. I would ask for another one, but without having the benefit of the CD, I'm not quite sure how to formulate the question with the proper grammar.
To cap it all off, my new boss yelled at me today, for something that wasn't my fault.
I just can't catch a break, and I'm even infecting people around me.
One of my friends lost his cell phone and the guy who found it started using it for the purpose of sexting his whole phonebook with graphic pictures. (Apparently the guy who found the phone was white, and rather, um, insignificant).
Another one of my friends had a pipe burst while on vacation and came home to a completely flooded house. Even my wife texted me just seconds ago to say she left her lights on and her car won't start.
We know one couple who lost a pet and a parent last week, and a million others in the midst of medical drama, relational crisis, or toxic jobs. Basically, almost everyone I know is starring in their own Shakespearean tragedy.
I know my problems are small compared to those of many of my friends.
It's not that any one development has been overwhelming, it's just that living in a pool of non-stop drizzle gets depressing after awhile.
Still, I'm hoping that my recent little cloud of never-ending petty annoyances means the big storms of life will go elsewhere this year, kind of like how a cold front can push away a hurricane.
I'll take my misfortune in moderate, bite-sized doses, if it means I can get all of out of the way in time for those lab results to come back favorably, and if exchange for living with perpetual annoyances, nothing debilitating happens.
I know in a theoretical sense I'll never have that little, personal rainbow (much less the wish-granting leprechaun) that I wished for at the start of this column, unless I endure the rain first.
But right now, I'd just settle for a sunny day.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Disappointment Strikes
"You've made the mistake," the book publisher said, "of thinking everything that happens to you is interesting."
Ok, so that publisher didn't actually say that to me. He said it to Anne Lamott (before she hit it big). But it hardly matters. I can relate.
I always pause for a second (which in this case, was actually three days) before I publish something that might seem better suited for a diary. There's enough people posting their personal baggage on facebook already; you don't need to hear mine.
But Lamott has sold a lot more books (many) than I have (none) talking about what she learned from life's petty struggles. If people will read about her funny stories and spiritual lessons from the unfortunate messes in her life, well then, maybe, just maybe, you'll be interested in taking 10 minutes to hear about mine.
You see, I had this illusion that I had some control over one aspect of my life. Things had been going well in my professional life, and I had sort of had the whole future mapped out in my head. There was a clear path to even bigger things ahead. But all of it vanished with one sudden announcement last week.
The details aren't that important. I worked hard for something, and it didn't work out for me, for reasons I don't entirely understand. And I'm not talking about my divorce from Bleacher Report. This is something that actually matters.
It isn't a tragedy. The sun will come up tomorrow, and my health and family are just fine. But it still sucks.
The world looked one way last week; it looks different now, and the change isn't for the better.
Disappointment comes from the crashing realization that life is going to be something different than what we had planned or from that to which we felt entitled. It is the downside of having dreams.
I'm a big dreamer, so I've been disappointed often. And it never stops to hurt.
Still, my complaints are minor compared to most everyone else I know. Almost everyone in my circle is dealing with some major negative life drama. For some, it's the loss of a friend, for others, it's a poisonous work environment, a troubled marriage or the health of a relative. Almost everyone has obstacles they didn't sign up for.
If you can relate, I'm sorry.
But there's something oddly therapeutic about big disappointments. The refocus our attention on what matters. They provide a reason to retreat to a quiet place (or in my case, a Mexican restaurant) and have a conversation with our souls. In my case, the conversation is occurring over a margarita, which is an added bonus.
Disappointments are a chance to learn from our mistakes (perceived or actual) and use our spiritual side to put the pieces back together.
For my situation, I went through the requisite stages of grief: anger, depression, bargaining. I haven't reached acceptance yet, but I have reached the point of asking myself, "what's next?"
I haven't figured that out yet.
What I have figured out is that things feel five percent better when a friend offers to take me out for drinks or calls to ask how I'm doing. Until things get better, sometimes the only thing that helps is to find someone who is willing to listen. And when the tide passes and you feel like yourself again, it's twice as sweet to celebrate good times with someone who has seen the other side.
One thing I've learned is that most of the good things we get in life come either without our feeling worthy of them, or or only long after we feel like we deserve them, but usually not in between.
So until your ship comes in, or your problems settle down, the best thing you can do is abide in the company of those who love you. Or have a margarita.
Or maybe both, at the same time. If you don't have such a friend, well, I'll be down at Las Maracas this weekend. And I could use the company.
Ok, so that publisher didn't actually say that to me. He said it to Anne Lamott (before she hit it big). But it hardly matters. I can relate.
I always pause for a second (which in this case, was actually three days) before I publish something that might seem better suited for a diary. There's enough people posting their personal baggage on facebook already; you don't need to hear mine.
But Lamott has sold a lot more books (many) than I have (none) talking about what she learned from life's petty struggles. If people will read about her funny stories and spiritual lessons from the unfortunate messes in her life, well then, maybe, just maybe, you'll be interested in taking 10 minutes to hear about mine.
You see, I had this illusion that I had some control over one aspect of my life. Things had been going well in my professional life, and I had sort of had the whole future mapped out in my head. There was a clear path to even bigger things ahead. But all of it vanished with one sudden announcement last week.
The details aren't that important. I worked hard for something, and it didn't work out for me, for reasons I don't entirely understand. And I'm not talking about my divorce from Bleacher Report. This is something that actually matters.
It isn't a tragedy. The sun will come up tomorrow, and my health and family are just fine. But it still sucks.
The world looked one way last week; it looks different now, and the change isn't for the better.
Disappointment comes from the crashing realization that life is going to be something different than what we had planned or from that to which we felt entitled. It is the downside of having dreams.
I'm a big dreamer, so I've been disappointed often. And it never stops to hurt.
Still, my complaints are minor compared to most everyone else I know. Almost everyone in my circle is dealing with some major negative life drama. For some, it's the loss of a friend, for others, it's a poisonous work environment, a troubled marriage or the health of a relative. Almost everyone has obstacles they didn't sign up for.
If you can relate, I'm sorry.
But there's something oddly therapeutic about big disappointments. The refocus our attention on what matters. They provide a reason to retreat to a quiet place (or in my case, a Mexican restaurant) and have a conversation with our souls. In my case, the conversation is occurring over a margarita, which is an added bonus.
Disappointments are a chance to learn from our mistakes (perceived or actual) and use our spiritual side to put the pieces back together.
For my situation, I went through the requisite stages of grief: anger, depression, bargaining. I haven't reached acceptance yet, but I have reached the point of asking myself, "what's next?"
I haven't figured that out yet.
What I have figured out is that things feel five percent better when a friend offers to take me out for drinks or calls to ask how I'm doing. Until things get better, sometimes the only thing that helps is to find someone who is willing to listen. And when the tide passes and you feel like yourself again, it's twice as sweet to celebrate good times with someone who has seen the other side.
One thing I've learned is that most of the good things we get in life come either without our feeling worthy of them, or or only long after we feel like we deserve them, but usually not in between.
So until your ship comes in, or your problems settle down, the best thing you can do is abide in the company of those who love you. Or have a margarita.
Or maybe both, at the same time. If you don't have such a friend, well, I'll be down at Las Maracas this weekend. And I could use the company.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
I Hate Valentine's Day
When I was growing up, I hated Valentine's Day because I often found myself alone. Now that I'm grown and married, I just hate Valentine's Day because it's dumb.
I hate Valentine's Day because it is a day where you do something special for your loved one because society tells you its expected, which defeats the whole point. I dislike it because it's a day where men express their unique connection with their wives by buying either jewelry, flowers or chocolate, just like everyone else.
I despise it because it's a day of overcrowded restaurants, overpriced flowers, and overhyped obligations.
It's even worse if you're single, and you spend the day hearing society telling you that it's a day when you don't matter at all.
I don't think Valentine's Day is even necessary. If you are in a good relationship, the other half of it probably regularly expresses their love for you. If you aren't, then one night of empty gestures doesn't fix the problem. If anything, it just makes it worse by providing a temporary false sense of hope that ultimately just prolongs the misery.
The best argument for Valentine's Day is that even happy couples sometimes get overburdened with their respective life obligations and don't make time to do romantic things together. Valentine's Day provides a day to do that.
That perspective makes sense to a degree, but the few times I've actually gone out on Valentine's Day I've been struck by how unremarkably romantic the scene actually is.
Restaurants are overcrowded, service is slow, and the table next to you is pushed uncomfortably close. Hurried waiters provide poor service, and the restaurant might not even be serving its full menu.
If you're like me, then amidst the chaos, it inevitably occurs that you ask yourself why you came out to fight all this madness in the first place. It occurs that if you had just used Valentine's Day as a reminder to make reservations for sometime in March, you'd be having an exponentially better time for a fraction of the price.
"But it's Valentine's Day," you think, "so we felt like we should go out."
And then, as I think that same thought, I'm reminded why I hate Valentine's Day.
I hate Valentine's Day because it is a day where you do something special for your loved one because society tells you its expected, which defeats the whole point. I dislike it because it's a day where men express their unique connection with their wives by buying either jewelry, flowers or chocolate, just like everyone else.
I despise it because it's a day of overcrowded restaurants, overpriced flowers, and overhyped obligations.
It's even worse if you're single, and you spend the day hearing society telling you that it's a day when you don't matter at all.
I don't think Valentine's Day is even necessary. If you are in a good relationship, the other half of it probably regularly expresses their love for you. If you aren't, then one night of empty gestures doesn't fix the problem. If anything, it just makes it worse by providing a temporary false sense of hope that ultimately just prolongs the misery.
The best argument for Valentine's Day is that even happy couples sometimes get overburdened with their respective life obligations and don't make time to do romantic things together. Valentine's Day provides a day to do that.
That perspective makes sense to a degree, but the few times I've actually gone out on Valentine's Day I've been struck by how unremarkably romantic the scene actually is.
Restaurants are overcrowded, service is slow, and the table next to you is pushed uncomfortably close. Hurried waiters provide poor service, and the restaurant might not even be serving its full menu.
If you're like me, then amidst the chaos, it inevitably occurs that you ask yourself why you came out to fight all this madness in the first place. It occurs that if you had just used Valentine's Day as a reminder to make reservations for sometime in March, you'd be having an exponentially better time for a fraction of the price.
"But it's Valentine's Day," you think, "so we felt like we should go out."
And then, as I think that same thought, I'm reminded why I hate Valentine's Day.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Fighting the February "Blahs"
The worst month of the year is here once again.
It's cold outside. The days are short and grey. No holiday is in sight, and the flu is spreading like warm butter.
Even the Super Bowl has come and gone, leaving in its wake power outages, disappointing commercials and one unanswered question:
How will we survive until March comes?
The obvious answer is to buy a pet. It provides a new distraction and some fun in your life during an otherwise dull period. But you might regret this later. When the novelty has worn off, you might be left with a cat named Trouble who tears up your furniture, drools everywhere and insists on being entertained 24 hours a day.
This situation is where I've found myself ever since I got a cat in February of 2004. You should definitely try something else.
You could take a vacation to some tropical destination where life doesn't feel so gloomy, but that's hard to plan on short notice and you probably blew all your money and vacation time at Christmas anyway. Besides, when you got back the February cold would hit you in the face even harder.
You should probably form a different plan.
You could start drinking heavily so as to float through this dismal month in a mental fog, but that might get you fired. And doing so would leave you vulnerable to catching one of the 16 types of airborne illness floating around, which would leave you even more miserable.
You might want to consider a better alternative.
You could pack up and move to the Gulf Coast, where you would get an extra 3-day vacation for Mardi Gras built into every February. But that's probably not a realistic option for this year. Mardi Gras is next week.
Besides, your children might eventually get mad at you for raising them in a place where it never snows, and you'd have to evacuate in fear of your life every hurricane season, which, trust me, isn't much fun.
So you aren't going to be able to rely on that plan either.
Instead, you and I just have to bundle up and make peace with the worst month of the year. But how?
I'm trying hard to find a silver lining this year's winter gloom. I'm reading more. I'm volunteering. I'm training for a half-marathon, taking Spanish classes, and trying to fill my weekends with cultural outings and plans with people I like. My wife and I found a new church that's shaking us out of our spiritual ruts.
In short, I'm using the bad weather and the lack of distractions winter brings to force myself into doing positive things that I might have otherwise neglected.
It's working so far. While I still hate the cold and the darkness, the coping strategy of self-renewal and social bonding has made this February (and the back end of January, which can be just as bad) more interesting--and more fun--than any winter I can recall.
I'm sure by the time a sunny spring weekend comes, my brain will be fried, my body will be tired, and I'll yearn to sit in the sun with a refreshing beverage and watch mindless tv on the porch of my favorite sports bar. That's exactly what I plan to do, when the time gets here.
But until then, I'm stuck with February. It's cold and it's dark, but, as I've learned this year, at least it can still be interesting.
It's cold outside. The days are short and grey. No holiday is in sight, and the flu is spreading like warm butter.
Even the Super Bowl has come and gone, leaving in its wake power outages, disappointing commercials and one unanswered question:
How will we survive until March comes?
The obvious answer is to buy a pet. It provides a new distraction and some fun in your life during an otherwise dull period. But you might regret this later. When the novelty has worn off, you might be left with a cat named Trouble who tears up your furniture, drools everywhere and insists on being entertained 24 hours a day.
This situation is where I've found myself ever since I got a cat in February of 2004. You should definitely try something else.
You could take a vacation to some tropical destination where life doesn't feel so gloomy, but that's hard to plan on short notice and you probably blew all your money and vacation time at Christmas anyway. Besides, when you got back the February cold would hit you in the face even harder.
You should probably form a different plan.
You could start drinking heavily so as to float through this dismal month in a mental fog, but that might get you fired. And doing so would leave you vulnerable to catching one of the 16 types of airborne illness floating around, which would leave you even more miserable.
You might want to consider a better alternative.
You could pack up and move to the Gulf Coast, where you would get an extra 3-day vacation for Mardi Gras built into every February. But that's probably not a realistic option for this year. Mardi Gras is next week.
Besides, your children might eventually get mad at you for raising them in a place where it never snows, and you'd have to evacuate in fear of your life every hurricane season, which, trust me, isn't much fun.
So you aren't going to be able to rely on that plan either.
Instead, you and I just have to bundle up and make peace with the worst month of the year. But how?
I'm trying hard to find a silver lining this year's winter gloom. I'm reading more. I'm volunteering. I'm training for a half-marathon, taking Spanish classes, and trying to fill my weekends with cultural outings and plans with people I like. My wife and I found a new church that's shaking us out of our spiritual ruts.
In short, I'm using the bad weather and the lack of distractions winter brings to force myself into doing positive things that I might have otherwise neglected.
It's working so far. While I still hate the cold and the darkness, the coping strategy of self-renewal and social bonding has made this February (and the back end of January, which can be just as bad) more interesting--and more fun--than any winter I can recall.
I'm sure by the time a sunny spring weekend comes, my brain will be fried, my body will be tired, and I'll yearn to sit in the sun with a refreshing beverage and watch mindless tv on the porch of my favorite sports bar. That's exactly what I plan to do, when the time gets here.
But until then, I'm stuck with February. It's cold and it's dark, but, as I've learned this year, at least it can still be interesting.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Screaming Children Don't Belong at Nice Restaurants
Three things you should never do at a nice restaurant:
(1) use your hands to consume your meal;
(2) put your elbows on the table;
(3) bring your screaming, ill-behaved small child along with you.
I actually don't care about the first two. You can lick your fingers all you want, as long as I'm not sitting at your table. And I've never understood the point of the elbows thing. But I draw the line at number three.
No one should ever bring an emotionally unstable small child to a non-private room in what is otherwise a quiet, upscale restaurant. Your two-year-old's presence at your upscale meal isn't going to enhance your dining experience. And there's a better than average chance it will ruin everyone else's. Even if your kid isn't screaming when you get there, it was just a matter of time.
Here's a tip: if you have an emotionally volatile child, you are probably used to his or her epic meltdowns by this point. Everyone else in the restaurant, however, is not.
Proceed accordingly.
Before I offend everyone in cyberspace who has ever been the parent of a small child, let me clarify. I'm not complaining about parents who take a small child to Outback, Red Lobster, or some other casual, family-style restaurant. I'm not even talking about the parents who take their small child to a Sunday brunch buffet at a fancy restaurant.
Nor am I complaining about the family who reserves a private room or large table for a family event at a really nice place, where the noise of the gathering is likely already high, and having the whole family together is the purpose of the occasion.
I'm talking about the people who take their rambunctious munchkin with them on a Friday or Saturday night to a restaurant where practically everyone else there is either on a special-occasion date or important business venture.
These are, without fail, the same people who, once there, ignore both their children's cries and the dirty looks of those around them. These are the families who haven't taught their children the difference between appropriate behavior in a restaurant with tableclothes and McDonald's Playland.
I'm talking about people who just don't care. If you have enough self-awareness to wonder if any of the above applies to you, then by definition, it probably doesn't.
So who am I talking about? The family I encountered last weekend, for one.
It was then that Liz and I had our long-overdue celebratory dinner for selling our former house last month. We went to the semi-famous Sunset Grill--one of the nicest places in town. It's a Nashville institution, the preferred destination of music industry power lunches and an occasional hangout of the stars.
We only go out to a nice dinner about once every three months, so we were thrilled at the opportunity.
But when we got there, what happened "down at the Sunset Grill," would have shocked even Don Henley.
A family, dressed as though they were attending a baseball game, was seated at the far end of the restaurant with a 6ish-year-old child, who was too old to be screaming his lungs out in public, but too young for his family to expect him to appreciate dining at one of the nicest restaurants in a major metropolitan city.
How a frumpily dressed family wearing jeans and baseball ended up at one of the nicest restaurants in town, small child in tow, is a mystery. Sunset Grill is in a neighborhood full of casual eateries befitting a family-style meal, so it's not like they were a group of hungry tourists desperate for whatever dining option they could find. Instead, this family just chose to go to one of the nicest restaurants in town but to neither dress up, find a babysitter, nor attempt to control a screaming child while there.
Perhaps the group got lost on their way to Wal-Mart and decided to stop in the first place they saw.
Anyway, the fun began a few minutes after we were seated, when we heard the child yelling from across the restaurant, for no reason in particular. Sometimes he yelled specific requests, sometimes he yelled inaudible noises just for the sake of doing so. His parents and grandparents mostly just ignored him, occasionally responding casually to his demonic whining.
Our attempts to ignore him failed when we found ourselves unable to complete a sentence without hearing a cross-restaurant demand for a cheeseburger. Or a coloring book. Or to simply be the focus of attention. Of the entire restaurant. Meanwhile, his parents chirped away pleasantly, making no attempt to quiet the hellboy down.
A few minutes later, hellboy was rolling around the floor, as the words "I want chocolate" rang out. His party seemed to think the spectacle was cute.
And soon thereafter, much to the chagrin of everyone else in the restaurant, they ordered dessert.
The parents must have known their child did not have the maturity to endure a long dinner. The rest of the restaurant seemed to figure it out pretty quickly.
Our waitress shrugged at us apologetically, but the boy's parents just didn't care.
We had our quarterly fancy meal, and all I really remember from it is the child from the underworld who wouldn't shut up.
This wasn't the first time we've had a nice dinner ruined by parents who thought their lack of a babysitter outweighed the dining pleasure of the rest of the restaurant. We once had another meal where a newborn at a $30 a plate eatery commandeered the attention of the entire upstairs of the restaurant, while the parents (also dressed in jeans and baseball caps) obliviously chatted with their friends.
I guess some people just don't care.
If you are one of these people, I have news for you:
The married couple paying who actually hired a babysitter and is paying $100 on top of that to have a romantic meal out does not find their experience enhanced by a soundtrack of your child's shrieks.
While a couple on a first date might have a lull in their conversation, they don't want their silence filled by your four-year-old's deafening pleas for French fries.
The candidate on her job interview might need a moment to find the right answer to a tricky question, but it shouldn't be because she can't hear herself think due to the constant cacophony coming from your table.
I understand that all parents need a night out sometimes. I get that some people can't afford babysitters or don't have access to one who is reliable. It's predictable that parents become immune to the histrionics of their own children after awhile. But being a parent in one of those situations doesn't provide you the right to ruin other people's special occasions.
If you don't have access to a babysitter, but decide to go out, then go somewhere casual, at least until your child is old enough to behave appropriately. Use the money you save to hire a babysitter next time. If all else fails, and you simply must go somewhere nice, go out on a weeknight, when your child's tortured wailing is more likely to interrupt co-workers blowing off steam than couples celebrating important milestones.
If you somehow find yourself unavoidably in a nice restaurant with a small child, stay observant as to whether your child is behaving appropriately, and whether anyone else seems to be annoyed.
You might think your child's restaurant rampage is an adorable show, but no one else is amused.
And if you don't care about that, you should.
(1) use your hands to consume your meal;
(2) put your elbows on the table;
(3) bring your screaming, ill-behaved small child along with you.
I actually don't care about the first two. You can lick your fingers all you want, as long as I'm not sitting at your table. And I've never understood the point of the elbows thing. But I draw the line at number three.
No one should ever bring an emotionally unstable small child to a non-private room in what is otherwise a quiet, upscale restaurant. Your two-year-old's presence at your upscale meal isn't going to enhance your dining experience. And there's a better than average chance it will ruin everyone else's. Even if your kid isn't screaming when you get there, it was just a matter of time.
Here's a tip: if you have an emotionally volatile child, you are probably used to his or her epic meltdowns by this point. Everyone else in the restaurant, however, is not.
Proceed accordingly.
Before I offend everyone in cyberspace who has ever been the parent of a small child, let me clarify. I'm not complaining about parents who take a small child to Outback, Red Lobster, or some other casual, family-style restaurant. I'm not even talking about the parents who take their small child to a Sunday brunch buffet at a fancy restaurant.
Nor am I complaining about the family who reserves a private room or large table for a family event at a really nice place, where the noise of the gathering is likely already high, and having the whole family together is the purpose of the occasion.
I'm talking about the people who take their rambunctious munchkin with them on a Friday or Saturday night to a restaurant where practically everyone else there is either on a special-occasion date or important business venture.
These are, without fail, the same people who, once there, ignore both their children's cries and the dirty looks of those around them. These are the families who haven't taught their children the difference between appropriate behavior in a restaurant with tableclothes and McDonald's Playland.
I'm talking about people who just don't care. If you have enough self-awareness to wonder if any of the above applies to you, then by definition, it probably doesn't.
So who am I talking about? The family I encountered last weekend, for one.
It was then that Liz and I had our long-overdue celebratory dinner for selling our former house last month. We went to the semi-famous Sunset Grill--one of the nicest places in town. It's a Nashville institution, the preferred destination of music industry power lunches and an occasional hangout of the stars.
We only go out to a nice dinner about once every three months, so we were thrilled at the opportunity.
But when we got there, what happened "down at the Sunset Grill," would have shocked even Don Henley.
A family, dressed as though they were attending a baseball game, was seated at the far end of the restaurant with a 6ish-year-old child, who was too old to be screaming his lungs out in public, but too young for his family to expect him to appreciate dining at one of the nicest restaurants in a major metropolitan city.
How a frumpily dressed family wearing jeans and baseball ended up at one of the nicest restaurants in town, small child in tow, is a mystery. Sunset Grill is in a neighborhood full of casual eateries befitting a family-style meal, so it's not like they were a group of hungry tourists desperate for whatever dining option they could find. Instead, this family just chose to go to one of the nicest restaurants in town but to neither dress up, find a babysitter, nor attempt to control a screaming child while there.
Perhaps the group got lost on their way to Wal-Mart and decided to stop in the first place they saw.
Anyway, the fun began a few minutes after we were seated, when we heard the child yelling from across the restaurant, for no reason in particular. Sometimes he yelled specific requests, sometimes he yelled inaudible noises just for the sake of doing so. His parents and grandparents mostly just ignored him, occasionally responding casually to his demonic whining.
Our attempts to ignore him failed when we found ourselves unable to complete a sentence without hearing a cross-restaurant demand for a cheeseburger. Or a coloring book. Or to simply be the focus of attention. Of the entire restaurant. Meanwhile, his parents chirped away pleasantly, making no attempt to quiet the hellboy down.
A few minutes later, hellboy was rolling around the floor, as the words "I want chocolate" rang out. His party seemed to think the spectacle was cute.
And soon thereafter, much to the chagrin of everyone else in the restaurant, they ordered dessert.
The parents must have known their child did not have the maturity to endure a long dinner. The rest of the restaurant seemed to figure it out pretty quickly.
Our waitress shrugged at us apologetically, but the boy's parents just didn't care.
We had our quarterly fancy meal, and all I really remember from it is the child from the underworld who wouldn't shut up.
This wasn't the first time we've had a nice dinner ruined by parents who thought their lack of a babysitter outweighed the dining pleasure of the rest of the restaurant. We once had another meal where a newborn at a $30 a plate eatery commandeered the attention of the entire upstairs of the restaurant, while the parents (also dressed in jeans and baseball caps) obliviously chatted with their friends.
I guess some people just don't care.
If you are one of these people, I have news for you:
The married couple paying who actually hired a babysitter and is paying $100 on top of that to have a romantic meal out does not find their experience enhanced by a soundtrack of your child's shrieks.
While a couple on a first date might have a lull in their conversation, they don't want their silence filled by your four-year-old's deafening pleas for French fries.
The candidate on her job interview might need a moment to find the right answer to a tricky question, but it shouldn't be because she can't hear herself think due to the constant cacophony coming from your table.
I understand that all parents need a night out sometimes. I get that some people can't afford babysitters or don't have access to one who is reliable. It's predictable that parents become immune to the histrionics of their own children after awhile. But being a parent in one of those situations doesn't provide you the right to ruin other people's special occasions.
If you don't have access to a babysitter, but decide to go out, then go somewhere casual, at least until your child is old enough to behave appropriately. Use the money you save to hire a babysitter next time. If all else fails, and you simply must go somewhere nice, go out on a weeknight, when your child's tortured wailing is more likely to interrupt co-workers blowing off steam than couples celebrating important milestones.
If you somehow find yourself unavoidably in a nice restaurant with a small child, stay observant as to whether your child is behaving appropriately, and whether anyone else seems to be annoyed.
You might think your child's restaurant rampage is an adorable show, but no one else is amused.
And if you don't care about that, you should.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Tomorrow
I usually post new material on Tuesday, but it just isn't going to happen this week.
Two straight long days at work, combined with a night of fitful sleep last night have turned me into a walking zombie (except that I'm actually sitting on the couch rather than walking).
I function normally on 7-8 hours of sleep. I can power through if I get 4 or 5. But, for some reason, if I get 6, which is about what I got last night, the whole day is an uphill struggle.
I managed to write a rough draft of something earlier, but it needs some more TLC before it's ready to go. I don't have the energy to do it now. And I still might decide it sucks and ditch it entirely. I got a better idea for a column just a few minutes ago, but the idea of starting something from scratch right now makes me want to cry.
One way or the other, I'll have something new posted here tomorrow night.
I'll see you then.
Two straight long days at work, combined with a night of fitful sleep last night have turned me into a walking zombie (except that I'm actually sitting on the couch rather than walking).
I function normally on 7-8 hours of sleep. I can power through if I get 4 or 5. But, for some reason, if I get 6, which is about what I got last night, the whole day is an uphill struggle.
I managed to write a rough draft of something earlier, but it needs some more TLC before it's ready to go. I don't have the energy to do it now. And I still might decide it sucks and ditch it entirely. I got a better idea for a column just a few minutes ago, but the idea of starting something from scratch right now makes me want to cry.
One way or the other, I'll have something new posted here tomorrow night.
I'll see you then.
Monday, January 21, 2013
The True Story of My Fake Online Girlfriend
Unless your head has been buried in the sand (which raises the question of how you are reading this blog), you've by now heard the story of Manti Te'o, the Notre Dame football player who spent all season talking about his car-crash surviving, cancer-fighting girlfriend who didn't actually exist.
The details continue to emerge, but apparently Te'o either fabricated the whole story, or he was the victim of a cruel online hoax. The hoax story seems far-fetched. Who would be dumb enough to correspond for months with an online love interest who didn't actually exist?
Funny that you ask. A similar thing once happened to me.
When I was in college at the University of Alabama, I got an email from someone who introduced herself as "Courtney." She claimed to be a high school senior and prospective student, and she said she found my email address from the online college email directory. I didn't know UA had an online directory (this was 1997), but the story seemed plausible, and her email address' prefix of "heartbreaker999" (exact details changed to prevent litigation) caught my attention.
I wrote her back. We talked about life at UA, and our respective biographies and pretty soon, our emails took on a flirty tone. I hadn't seen her, but she described herself as a 5'4'' blond tennis player cheerleader, and she was a good online conversationalist. After about a month, her emails were consistently the highlight of my day.
But soon, things started getting weird. I sent her a picture, but she wouldn't reciprocate. Her biography matched up strikingly well with the girl I had intermittently dated throughout high school. In fact, Courtney had been the name of that girl's sister. "Courtney's" alleged middle name was the same as the first name of my pseudo-ex's mom. And "Courtney's" last name was the same as that of our high school tennis coach. Like "Courtney," the recipient of my high school interest had been a cheerleader and tennis player and was a 5'4" blond.
I struck it all up to coincidence at first. But when "Courtney" started asking questions about my high school love life that seemed suspiciously well-tailored to past events, I began to smell something fishy. That suspicion was furthered when I confirmed that Alabama didn't actually have an online student email directory, which was how "Courtney" said she had found me.
While I sensed a hoax, I still wasn't sure who was behind it. I kept emailing "Courtney" in hopes of uncovering details without sucess. But "Courtney's" warmth began to recede when I suggested we talk on the phone. When she finally agreed to talk, she insisted on calling me, wouldn't give me her number, and sounded nervous (and much older than an 18-year-old high school student) on the phone.
The call made me even more sure I was being "catfished." But I didn't recognize the voice, and wasn't sure who was behind it, or why. My initial suspicion turned to the former love interest whose life "Courtney" had transplanted as her own.
But she seemed way too smart for such a transparent duplication of herself, and I couldn't imagine why she would think it necessary. I had generally been the pursuer in our tortured off-and-on dynamic, so she probably would have felt comfortable calling directly if she wanted to reconnect.
I called her just in case. While she seemed happy to hear from me, it was clear from her trademark emotionless and rational manner that she wasn't exactly missing me and had nothing to do with whoever was using her biography.
Whoever was behind the scam, though, was someone who at least had access to someone close to me. She somehow had my newly created email address (which in 1997, was no small detail), and the questions she asked about where things went wrong in my high school experiences betrayed someone with intricate knowledge of my life and relationship history.
I knew only one person weird enough to construct this kind of mirage, but for various reasons, the math didn't add up for her to be behind it. I had no other ideas, so I tried to trick "Courtney" into giving herself away.
I formulated a deliciously elaborate plan to trick Courtney into revealing herself, but it backfired and instead just gave away that I was onto the scam. "Courtney" then disappeared, with a sudden declaration that she had reversed course and decided to go to Southern Mississippi.
Confused and hopeless, I gave up the investigation and moved on with life.
Years later, with the benefit of a law school education, the whole mystery suddenly snapped into place on an idle Tuesday when I was at the gym.
I had dated a girl once or twice in high school. On paper, we seemed reasonably compatible, but the timing of our interaction doomed it from the start. I had lost touch with her after high school, but she had a reasonable path through which she could have gotten my email address. She had a means of knowing enough information about the girl she was impersonating to adopt her biography, and we had enough mutual connections that she might have heard some details over where things went wrong. She even had an older sister I didn't know who might have been the person I spoke to on the phone that night.
I had a suspect in mind who could have performed the scam. But why?
"Courtney's" alter ego was dating someone during the time she was writing me. She used the fake identity, for the sake of asking about the state of my feelings without risking her current relationship if I wasn't interested. She asked so many questions about my former love life in hopes that I might utter her alter ego's name.
It was a weird plan, that seems, in retrospect, highly unlikely to work. But anyone who would invest an online personna to correspond with someone they had dated once or twice years earlier probably wasn't capable of a plan that sounded rational.
And when I didn't appropriately respond, "Courtney" faded away, and eventually married the guy she had been dating.
I didn't put all the dots together until years after the events occurred, so I never got to confront "Courtney" with the revelation of my discovery.
So, "Courtney," if you are reading this (which I assume you are, given your tendency toward online stalking), consider yourself busted. I won't reveal your name here because I don't want to embarrass you (or get sued), but I hope you are happy in your current relationship.
And if you aren't, well, please write someone else this time.
The details continue to emerge, but apparently Te'o either fabricated the whole story, or he was the victim of a cruel online hoax. The hoax story seems far-fetched. Who would be dumb enough to correspond for months with an online love interest who didn't actually exist?
Funny that you ask. A similar thing once happened to me.
When I was in college at the University of Alabama, I got an email from someone who introduced herself as "Courtney." She claimed to be a high school senior and prospective student, and she said she found my email address from the online college email directory. I didn't know UA had an online directory (this was 1997), but the story seemed plausible, and her email address' prefix of "heartbreaker999" (exact details changed to prevent litigation) caught my attention.
I wrote her back. We talked about life at UA, and our respective biographies and pretty soon, our emails took on a flirty tone. I hadn't seen her, but she described herself as a 5'4'' blond tennis player cheerleader, and she was a good online conversationalist. After about a month, her emails were consistently the highlight of my day.
But soon, things started getting weird. I sent her a picture, but she wouldn't reciprocate. Her biography matched up strikingly well with the girl I had intermittently dated throughout high school. In fact, Courtney had been the name of that girl's sister. "Courtney's" alleged middle name was the same as the first name of my pseudo-ex's mom. And "Courtney's" last name was the same as that of our high school tennis coach. Like "Courtney," the recipient of my high school interest had been a cheerleader and tennis player and was a 5'4" blond.
I struck it all up to coincidence at first. But when "Courtney" started asking questions about my high school love life that seemed suspiciously well-tailored to past events, I began to smell something fishy. That suspicion was furthered when I confirmed that Alabama didn't actually have an online student email directory, which was how "Courtney" said she had found me.
While I sensed a hoax, I still wasn't sure who was behind it. I kept emailing "Courtney" in hopes of uncovering details without sucess. But "Courtney's" warmth began to recede when I suggested we talk on the phone. When she finally agreed to talk, she insisted on calling me, wouldn't give me her number, and sounded nervous (and much older than an 18-year-old high school student) on the phone.
The call made me even more sure I was being "catfished." But I didn't recognize the voice, and wasn't sure who was behind it, or why. My initial suspicion turned to the former love interest whose life "Courtney" had transplanted as her own.
But she seemed way too smart for such a transparent duplication of herself, and I couldn't imagine why she would think it necessary. I had generally been the pursuer in our tortured off-and-on dynamic, so she probably would have felt comfortable calling directly if she wanted to reconnect.
I called her just in case. While she seemed happy to hear from me, it was clear from her trademark emotionless and rational manner that she wasn't exactly missing me and had nothing to do with whoever was using her biography.
Whoever was behind the scam, though, was someone who at least had access to someone close to me. She somehow had my newly created email address (which in 1997, was no small detail), and the questions she asked about where things went wrong in my high school experiences betrayed someone with intricate knowledge of my life and relationship history.
I knew only one person weird enough to construct this kind of mirage, but for various reasons, the math didn't add up for her to be behind it. I had no other ideas, so I tried to trick "Courtney" into giving herself away.
I formulated a deliciously elaborate plan to trick Courtney into revealing herself, but it backfired and instead just gave away that I was onto the scam. "Courtney" then disappeared, with a sudden declaration that she had reversed course and decided to go to Southern Mississippi.
Confused and hopeless, I gave up the investigation and moved on with life.
Years later, with the benefit of a law school education, the whole mystery suddenly snapped into place on an idle Tuesday when I was at the gym.
I had dated a girl once or twice in high school. On paper, we seemed reasonably compatible, but the timing of our interaction doomed it from the start. I had lost touch with her after high school, but she had a reasonable path through which she could have gotten my email address. She had a means of knowing enough information about the girl she was impersonating to adopt her biography, and we had enough mutual connections that she might have heard some details over where things went wrong. She even had an older sister I didn't know who might have been the person I spoke to on the phone that night.
I had a suspect in mind who could have performed the scam. But why?
"Courtney's" alter ego was dating someone during the time she was writing me. She used the fake identity, for the sake of asking about the state of my feelings without risking her current relationship if I wasn't interested. She asked so many questions about my former love life in hopes that I might utter her alter ego's name.
It was a weird plan, that seems, in retrospect, highly unlikely to work. But anyone who would invest an online personna to correspond with someone they had dated once or twice years earlier probably wasn't capable of a plan that sounded rational.
And when I didn't appropriately respond, "Courtney" faded away, and eventually married the guy she had been dating.
I didn't put all the dots together until years after the events occurred, so I never got to confront "Courtney" with the revelation of my discovery.
So, "Courtney," if you are reading this (which I assume you are, given your tendency toward online stalking), consider yourself busted. I won't reveal your name here because I don't want to embarrass you (or get sued), but I hope you are happy in your current relationship.
And if you aren't, well, please write someone else this time.
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