How to Teach Your Children About Government Bureaucracy

I think I may have solved the tantrum problem.  The idea is to make them fill out forms.

The way I got the idea was this:

Sena always makes me give her shoulder rides all the time.  Shoulder rides are a big pain in the butt and I don’t always feel like doing them.  So I told her she needs to fill out a “Shoulder Ride Request Form.”

What’s nice about this is how I get to sit down, write something quietly, and not give a shoulder ride for an additional 2 or 3 minutes while we fill out the form.  I write I [blank] hereby request [blank] number of shoulder rides.  She fills in the blanks and signs.

With this method, she not only practices her numbers and name, she learns all about how government bureaucracy works.  I told her that every time she makes a change to the form, she has to scratch out the old entry, write in the new one, and initial.

I told her that she is only eligible for 3 shoulder rides at a time, and they can be denied for any reason.

You’d think that would infuriate a four year old, but no — she loves it!

“How many shoulder rides do I have remaining?”  She asks after each shoulder ride.

Well, anyway, this idea made everybody so happy, when, later, they were drawing pictures on their easel and started yelling at each other, I just ignored them and then yelled into the room, “if anyone would like to register a complaint, file into the living room and speak to me privately!”

Sena very happily came in and sat down at the couch, and very calmly articulated her complaint about her little brother — he’s not giving me any chalk, and she wanted to draw a picture of her family.

I told her she needed to fill out a Complaint Form, which she happily did.

Once it was filled out in tripplicat (just kidding, that would be unduly burdensome), I took immediate action — I asked them to share the chalk board.

Ah, government.  Is there any problem it can’t solve?

Blog Entries in Sytle’s of Badly Writen School Paper’s

Rachel is a school teacher of course.  She teaches high school English.    Sometimes I read some of the students papers.  I really enjoy this activity immensely.  I liek the big words wrongly used.  The clear and undeniably clear fact of that no proofreading whatsoever of any type was clearly not done.  The incredible run on sentences I also enjoy the incredibly poor structure of both the paper as a whole, they switched verb tenses constantly throughout, are always uses terrible sentence structure, such as a series of failed parallellisms I came, I saw, then home was arrived at by me . The passive voice is truly odorous.  The spelling mistakes plus everything is pretty much a wild cliche to avoid like the plauge.  The horrible poetic licenses everywhere. writing so bad my heart pounds in my chest a wild squirel hungry for the open meadow filled with vague and terrible dreams about death strange that I am trapped in the body of a high school student instead of free in my squirelish attire out on the open road squirling about.

also the constant use of possisive noun’s is nicely.  you’d think this is the terrible papers it is not it is the average paper is like this.  oh also they use opinins constantly and inappororiately, such as, That’s not the sort of fool I would want driving my ship to the new world.  Also a good thing to pick up, if you are a high school student, is the not use of obvious plagerism.

Plagiarism, as defined in the 1995 Random House Compact Unabridged Dictionary, is the “use or close imitation of the language and thoughts of another author and the representation of them as one’s own original work.” Within academia, plagiarism by students, professors, or researchers is considered academic dishonesty or academic fraud and offenders are subject to academic censure, up to and including expulsion. In journalism, plagiarism is considered a breach of journalistic ethics, and reporters caught plagiarizing typically face disciplinary measures ranging from suspension to termination of employment. Some individuals caught plagiarizing in academic or journalistic contexts claim that they plagiarized unintentionally, by failing to include quotations or give the appropriate citation. While plagiarism in scholarship and journalism has a centuries-old history, the development of the Internet, where articles appear as electronic text, has made the physical act of copying the work of others much easier.

Plagerism is definitely something to obviously avoid like the plauge since it is against the rules, you might get caught, you are definitely an asshole if you plagerize, just don’t do it.

A New Yorker

“The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living elsewhere have to be, in some sense, kidding.” — John Updike

Strange for me, a non-New Yorker, to feel this way, but I do, and always have.  In my heart of hearts I have always believed that I am just waiting around for my chance to go live in New York.

New York!

I’ve only been to New York once, and it was a weird trip.  An ex-girlfriend, the best friend of a different and unrelated ex-girlfriend, and me.  I can’t remember how that happened, exactly.  I think I was waxing nostalgic or poetic or one of those -icks and managed to convince two saps into going with me, as if to follow that sort of spontaneous enthusiasm was to break with reality and veer off into the tangent where dreams and movies and great novels take place.  If such a thing is possible, surely it is possible in New York?

We took the train in at five in the morning, no definite idea of the city or what was where, just hoping New York would lead us somewhere unexpected and wonderful.  Beatniks invite us to a poetry reading? We end up at (or in) a Broadway play?  We have dinner with a homeless man?  We see music, a stand-up comedian, executives in expensive suits, the diamond district, a jewish deli, a mafioso, an italian pizzeria — what did I want? I’m not sure. Probably, all of that and more. At 18, it wasn’t so much what I hoped to see, it was what I hoped to become.  An artist, a writer, or something better, something I couldn’t name, I wanted to unearth some primal part of myself, discover a bit of what destiny might have in store for me.

Well, we saw the executives, the pizzerias, a deli or two (couldn’t tell if they were jewish), and it was great: the buildings were tall, the people were startling in number and variety, the city felt as wild and as I’d been made to expect. As gigantic and crowded as it was, the mix of order and disorder felt somehow more natural than manmade, like watching birds migrate over the grand canyon. Times Square, as promised, felt like the center of the earth.  New York awakens the possibilities in a person.

But where to go? What to do? The ex-girlfriend had vintage clothing shops on St. Mark’s street, and the (different) ex-girlfriend’s best friend had record shops.  But there was no shop for me.

Jews

Maybe what I wanted, what I’ve always secretly wanted, is for a long-lost relative to appear at my door on, say, a dreary, raining November midnight, and tell me I’m Jewish.  It’s not such an incredible idea; I’m already a mix of a bunch of maligned people groups: Russian, Irish, Cajun, Nerd — Jew would just kind of sum it all up.

It turns out you’re Jewish, this relative would say, so it’s time to write the great American novel.

The New Yorker

I get the New Yorker magazine, and I’m a proud reader.  It makes me feel adult. I grew up surrounded by New Yorkers; my mom read them religiously.  As a kid, those slick, modern cartoon covers ushered me in and then snubbed me, like a modern art museum.

After my mom died, I didn’t see a New Yorker for a long time.  Generally, you don’t see them in bookstores or newsstands, and only the houses of certain types of people have them (but when they have one, they have five million, spilled all over the place, usually all unread). I never saw them in dorm rooms in college.   The first time I remember seeing one again, I was in a therapist’s office seeking treatment for my depression (perfect). In the waiting room, I flipped open the magazine a little timidly: it felt as though I was putting on airs, trying to fool myself and the other nut-jobs around me.

Who does this guy think he is? I imagined the crew-cutted, leather jacketed, wiry looking 30 year old next to me thinking, automatically distrustful of intellectual commi-elitists like myself.

The article I read while waiting to by psychoanalyzed was about Vladamir Putin, a fellow Russian. Boy was it long, I thought. Pages and pages and pages. At first, my eyes wandered over the same few sentences again and again until my brain started picking up the rhythm of the writing — full of big thoughts and strange images tucked into asides and tiny, tidy clauses strung together densely and then pulled open like paper dolls.

I learned the Russians both fear and love Putin.  He’s harsh, emotionless, efficient, and almost certainly a murderer, no wonder they fear him. But they love him too — he organized Russia. They call him “Our German.” So what made me fall in love with the New Yorker, made it seem like mine, was a bit about Bush, how he had gone on Russian television and spoken of a powerful connection between himself and Putin, one based on personal friendship and understanding between them.  He told the Russians, “I have looked into Putin’s eyes and I have seen something of his soul.”  It was a line the Russian’s found riotously funny.  It was that word riotously that got me. Bush’s saying that was just one more desperate, violently tragic joke. A joke about as funny as burning your own house down.  A Russian joke.

Smart for the sake of smart, I thought.  The guy next to me would hate smart, especially for its own sake. Right?  And shouldn’t I? I was still at an age where I believed that when you walked into a room people scrupulously investigated you out of the side of their eye to  make sure your basic idea of life was just the same as theirs, otherwise, given enough time to come to full self-awareness of the threat you posed to their normality and given an opportunity, they would murder you to uphold the status quo.  I’m not sure I’ve exactly shaken this idea, but I remember where I got it: high school.

Of course, he didn’t care what I was reading.  He took out his cell phone and called his girlfriend. You could tell he had been in therapy a long time. You could hear the therapy working as he talked; he had internalized it. He would say something like, “I’m gonna see what I can do about Terry at work.  Cause, it doesn’t need to piss me off. I’m the one who decides whether to get pissed off. And I’m just gonna decide that’s not something I need to do.  I don’t need to be pissed off about this.  I can take ownership of my own emotions here.  I can just release that anger.” Stuff like that, not very convincing, but you could tell he was putting in extra effort since he was in his therapist’s office.

Woody Allen

Probably, the whole idea of going to therapy — and for that matter, living in New York — was inspired by movies and books about neurotic, Jewish New York intellectuals and comedians — something about masochism, I guess.   I foolishly thought that actually wanting to be one of these people was unique.  It looked so miserable, I must be the only guy in the world to actually identify.  Now I realize there are jerks like me by the shipload.

It’s like that scene from Annie Hall where Woody tells his analyst about his reoccurring dream, he’s been crucified and monks are carrying him through the streets of New York.   The monks stop at a spot between two cars and are starting to park when another guy on a crucifix cuts him off and takes his spot.

Masochism is never as romantic or lonely as you’d think.

Good Mood = Good Parenting

When I’m in a bad mood I notice I’m always telling my kids what not to do.

They respond the same way a lawyer does — they look for exceptions to the rule.  As we all know, this kind of cleverness isn’t cute. Well, it’s slightly cuter in kids than lawyers (with the possible exception of My Cousin Vinny).

But saying yes to kids not only feels great, they listen to you too — if you do it right.

An example of how this works:

SENA: “Daddy, Gus just shoved me.”
GUS: “Sena shoved me first.”
DADDY:  “Hey, do you guys want to make imaginary waffles out of play dough and put imaginary ice cream on them?”

Problem instantly solved.

Unfortunately you have to have the psychological energy to create distractions.  This requires paying attention to them.  Paying attention to kids is a little like living by the beach — you never go as often as you think you will, but every time you do you wonder why you don’t do it more.

In fact, I took Sena and Gus for a walk to the beach today since I was at home studying for finals.  It was raining a bit. I noticed I was saying a lot of nos.  I felt bad. I’ve been stressed out: too much mean daddy, not enough nice daddy.   I decided to switch to yeses.

A little jumpin’ in puddles won’t hurt nothin’, I thought.  A little rain, a little jumpin’, and why not?

I realize I can sound pretty mediocre as a father sometimes, what with my mothers-are-amazing and daddies-are-always-tired-from-law-school attitudes that reek of not-well-hidden sexism and laziness. I know. I’m sorry.  If you’re the judgmental type you’ll be even madder at me when I tell you I let S & G jump in puddles for like, a good ten minutes on a rainy day, Gus coughing a little (still a bit sick).

It felt great. When I switched to yeses, they stopped looking for ways to disobey me, to push the limits, and they started looking for ways to make me happy.   Kids punish and reward their parents — they know what they’re doing. You’re supposed to outsmart them, but this is essentially hopeless. You just try not to get abused by them or let them get crazy with power. Kids are good at making their parents happy.  How they laugh and look at you, show off for you.

Sometimes happiness seems so easy.

A Certain Gentleman Who Shall Remain Nameless

There is a member of Rachel’s circle of friends I would like to discuss. I have known this person for about 3 years. Several times, Rachel, myself, and various other members of our group of friends have been involved in small social events lasting 4 hours or more. For instance, seeing a band in a group of 4 people, attending a barbeque, hanging out by the pool. I would say, roughly, that Rachel and I have “met” him between one and two dozen times. We have a lot of mutual friends. In fact, Rachel and him sometimes share the sort of friends who see each other every single day. He has met my children at least half a dozen times.

This guy has never, ever, ever remembered either my name or my wife’s name or the fact that he has ever seen us or heard about us before. Every time he asks both of us what our names are, how we know each other, how we know Rachel’s best friend, what our children’s names are, etc., then we re-explain to him how many times we have met him before and under what conditions. Each time there is a mixture of mild (very mild) surprise and boredom on his face. You can tell it’s not sinking in. Once he felt so bad he promised to buy Rachel drinks for the entire night (at end of the night, it turned out had forgotten his wallet, or something). Now, when I “meet” him I just make up a name. Last time it was “Todd Henderson.” Doesn’t matter. There is zero chance he will say, “Hi, Todd!” next time he sees me.

So what is this guy’s deal? I don’t know. Something about Rachel and me must be so incredibly boring to the guy that we don’t even dent his neurons enough to form a memory. It shifts variously between insulting, funny, and absolutely amazing.

Part of me — like Homer Simpson with Mr. Burns — wants to murder him.

CHAPTER II: XENA THE WARRIOR PRINCESS

My daughter Asenath was named after my mother.

My mom had one friend she knew for 20+ years who still called her Xena every single time he saw her instead of Sena (pronounce it SEEN-a, like, “I just SEEN-A something shiny.”)

I know my daughter Sena will have to deal with the same thing. Likely from some of her best friends. I know it’s an unusual name, guys, but is it that hard? I mean, it rhymes with “Tina.”

I guess no matter how well you know somebody and how good of friends you get to be with someone, there’s certain things you just can’t influence. It seems pronunciation is one of those things.

“Hi, I’m Sena,” Sena will say to a child. “Hi, Sena,” any given child will respond, no problem. (The same child who will say things like “I’m four,” and hold up five fingers.) Then, when play time is over, the child’s mother will say, “Bye-bye Xena.”

It’s an impossible / easy name. To the children, it’s just sounds.  It’s a simple name to them, as simple as John, Tom, Timmy, or Gus (About 50% of the time Gus is informed that his new friend has either a cat or a hamster also named Gus.)

Now despite the futile diatribe above (there are people who will read this and still call her Xena until they drop dead from old age, even if they talk to her every day of their life), I myself am pretty horrible at names and faces. And yet, pretty insulted when people don’t remember my name or face.

There’s people I have known years who I avoid talking to solely because I don’t want to reveal I don’t know their name. (I figure each time I see them and can’t remember their name they are one step closer to figuring this out.) I can be told their name over and over and over by Rachel, but it just won’t click. In fact, I know probably 10 people’s names in law school. I proudly utilize these names to their maximum potential given even the slightest chance. (Sometimes, if one of the lucky 10 raises his or her hand in a class, I’ll raise my hand right after and say, “I completely agree with _____.”)

CONCLUSION: TYING IT BACK IN TO THE DICKHEAD GUY

I mean, I have trouble remembering names. A lot of trouble. But I doubt I have ever met somebody, their wife, and their kids 15 times without their faces at least seeming mildly familiar to me at least enough so I can fake it.

Rachel was hanging out with this guy again last night.  He didn’t even bother. He swore up and down he had never seen or heard of her before. For the dozenth time she explained how they knew each other.  “You must be thinking of somebody else,” he said.

So Rachel stabbed him.

The Value of Life

Just like me to choose such a nebulous paper topic:  the attempt to find a monetary value for human life.

Although it seems impossible and, frankly, stupid, society is often forced to value human life:

Q. If a proposed government regulation (such as mandating airbags in all vehicles) is statistically likely to save 100 lives but cost society $100 million, i.e. $1 million per life,  should the regulation be adopted?

A. With this particular question, no matter which government agency you ask, the answer is yes: the FDA will pay up to $1.2 million to “save” a life, the Department of Transportation will pay $3 million, and the EPA will pay close to $7 million. Why the different numbers? Because every government agency uses a different method to calculate the value of a life.

Q. Should a blue collar worker accept a new position with no additional work, but a pay raise of $500 and an additional 1 in 10,000 chance of death?

Yes, if the worker values life at $5,000,000 or less. (This is the primary method by which statisticians extrapolate the value of a statistical life — it’s how they extrapolate the number that makes the difference. It all seems a little suspect to me.)

Q. Why did the 9/11 Victims Compensation Fund chose to award the families of over 2,000 victims non-economic compensation of exactly $250,000 for single people and $500,000 for people who were married or with dependents?

A.  Because it is the same arbitrary compensation NY firefighters got by statute when they were killed in the line of duty.  However, controversially, the 9/11 Fund did not provide extra compensation for people whose suffering was extreme, such as those with third degree burns who died weeks after the accident from wounds. Also, they provided different economic damages to people with more or less earning capacity, i.e., stock brokers got more, firefighters got less.  The firefighters were not happy about this.

Q. How do Juries decide what to award the family of someone wrongfully killed by a drunken motorist or what to award an innocent person who just spent the last 25 years of his life in jail due to fabricated evidence?

A. Nobody knows.

Where do these numbers come from?  Are they pretty much pulled out of society’s ass?

The short answer is yes, of course.

The long answer is that they represent a compromise between the infinite value of human life and the reality that society can not bear infinite cost.

For the paper, I guess I have to pretend I’m more interested in the long answer than the short one.

[tornados and snakes]

My son woke up at his usual time, 6:30 a.m. Rachel was still around — late arrival at school since the kids have off for Veterans day.  On the couch, Gus lay in her lap  as she scrolled through a blog. I sat by them mutely, head still full of snakes and tornados.

And it’s true.  My head’s right. The end of this law school semester feels like hiding from tornados in a cave full of snakes — a lot of furious running and careful stepping.

In the middle of the night, I was ejected from the grownup bed to make room for the kids — each night they wake and drift in begging sanctuary from fears and imagined sorrows.

So I slept in Gus’ bed.  But, for reasons of unexplainable dream logic, I woke up feeling triumphant — I guess at some unremembered point in dreaming I conquered the snakes and tornados.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that Gus in his over large shirt was lying across the heating vent, bare butt in the air.  Rachel was in the bathroom promising in her sweetest voice to bring him juice and cook him eggs.

Gus usually wakes up in a fine mood, but after Rachel is already gone.  So Rachel’s surprise and joy at Gus’ early morning pleasantness made me realize I take the kid for granted.

It’s hard to balance law with being a good person.  I can’t imagine that balance will get much easier once I become a lawyer instead of a student.

Now I’m watching Sponge Bob sing, “It’s the best day ever.”  It’s raining and windy outside. Our house’s oil heating on chill days like this feels warm as breath.

Busy as I am, it’s good to jot down a few words, remind myself of life’s texture and taste on a morning when I can’t get the brine of sweaty stress out of my mouth.

Rachel and I are trying to plan for the future — you know, jobs, money, trips (is this the tornado or the snakes?)

And what was the thought I had? The big one? It’s vanished.

Ah, probably just the usual sentiment, you know the one.

I read somewhere that on any given day we rethink 90% of the thoughts we had the day before.  How they know this I’m not sure.  Maybe from reading blogs?

My Complicated Relationship with Chairs

In my younger, wilder days I did a lot of chair breaking.  Actually that’s a misleading statement. Even in the last year I’ve broken numerous chairs.

When I was younger, though, that’s when I really broke a lot of chairs.

I think it has a lot to do with being oblivious.

I sort of blunder through life, concentrating as hard as I possibly can on concentrating as hard as I possibly can when people are talking. Yes, that’s right. It takes me two layers of concentrating as hard as I can. However, it helps that I know to concentrate extra hard when people’s faces are talking AND pointed in my direction AND a lot of the words they are saying are my name.

I’ve amassed a great number of little tips and tricks like this to help me get through life without seeming either a) insane or b) grossly inconsiderate.

Most of the time I can manage to seem both not insane and not grossly inconsiderate fairly successfully. However, I have to try  really, really hard.  The problem comes in when I start having a good time.

That’s when the chair breaking starts.

Ways I’ve broken chairs include the following:

1) Hitting relatives with chairs (brothers, mostly. All in a spirit of fun)
2) Breaking chairs by sitting on them
3) Breaking chairs by leaning backwards and falling
4) Standing on chairs that have mesh seats
5) Cutting up chairs with samurai swords
6) Picking up antique chairs in the “wrong way”

Also, I should note that I have a terrible memory.  This list, while extensive, is probably not all inclusive.

The interesting thing is that sometimes over-compensating for not paying attention has the side effect of making me seem like a “great listener.” Really, I don’t listen to the content of what people are saying; I just listen to the tone of their voice and the expressions they are making with their faces and maybe a couple of key words so I know what subject we’re on.  Usually, this works fine. Until I got married.

My wife has now learned that I do not pay attention when people talk to me.  The process has been painful for her.  It took years of repeated requests for me to pick up my socks before I heard her even once.   (Once I did of course there has never been another mislaid sock since.)

Another thing, when people give directions, the emotional cues in their voice and on their face add nothing. It turns out that directions are practically all content, so pretending to listen intently does me no good.  (However, that’s when Zen Driving techniques come into play.)

But why do I break so many chairs?

Well, like Glass Holding While at a Party (not too much pressure, not too little pressure + socialize), not breaking chairs turns out to be a complicated and involved intellectual process. However, it’s not the actual mechanics of sitting and standing I’m talking about here:  That’s child’s play.  I’m talking about the wider contextual framework on which not breaking chairs sits (har har har).

Oh sure, it’s all well and good to judge me here and now, in the quiet of reading or writing a blog entry. Sometimes, however, out there in the real world, some of your conversational points have to be acted out physically.  Sometimes, especially when you are ten, there are people that need to get jump-kicked in the face (it comes up, trust me).  All of these things, while necessary to the ordinary enjoyment of life, involve a degree of risk.  And that risk, more often than not, is to chairs.

Maybe this is because when people are in a house they tend to be sitting in a chair.  Maybe this is because chairs are so numerous, so mobile, so personally invasive.  Whatever the reason, with me, chairs always seem to be the first casualty in my campaign to have a Real Good Time or Do Something Real Funny.

Not to get too sentimental here, but I would say that, in the end, what, really, are a few dozen broken chairs in return for a lifetime of great memories?

I forgive me completely.

Thanks, me.

Too Much Coffee

Today I had way too much coffee by accident by getting a large at Duncan Donuts. However, this is all I bought today from anywhere. In my efforts to eat for less, I made some Zatarans rice and dumped a can of beans into it.  I ate most of that on the way here (school). I do have some left for the drive home, but mysteriously, I didn’t bring any with me to eat for lunch. Now I am quite hungry.

This has left me in a most precarious mental state.  When people say hi, I feel like I am signaling them from some distant, shaking planet.

Walking in, I happened to be following a group of fussbudget oldsters in suits making brittle conversation and gesturing at bits of the city, probably a pack of law school administrators on an errand — Ha! I thought, and the image seemed significant, though I can’t figure out why.

I hope this caffeine wears off soon.

Father Fails to Provide Security, Comfort to Child

Gus woke me up at 6:30 this morning, screaming.  He wanted his mother. Rachel had left a half hour earlier for her job as a high school English teacher.

This was not an acceptable response to Gus.

Gus insisted that I bring him downstairs, sit him on the couch in front of the TV with a blanket, a cup of juice, and a slice of cheese. Then he insisted that I return upstairs and go back to sleep.   I was happy to oblige.

Usually, Gus and I are best friends.  Not this morning.

At night, too, we get along just fine, reading stories, singing songs, having a grand old time. That is, until it’s time to go to sleep for real.  Once his eyes close halfway he has no more need of Dad. He needs him a woman. I know how he feels.

Rachel was gone for four days to visit Austin, Texas, and it was no good.

Like Gus, I need women in my life. I love them. I love the reassuring way they hum about the house, cleaning and nagging and chattering about plans and people.  I find it forever fascinating and strange —  I’m addicted. Left to my own devices, I never think about the future, or, honestly, other people, or anything really, other than what I plan on eating next.

My mother died when I was 15 years old.  She left behind her husband and three sons.  We were a hopeless, doddering bunch.  We talked of movies and books but never anything else.  And we never cleaned anything. Ever.  (Eventually aunts or neighbors would come clean for us. I’m not kidding.)

Luckily, I married into a family full of women.  I’ll never again be short of women, for better or for worse.  Mostly though, I think it’s for the better.

So, waking at 6:30 to a screaming 2 year old boy, what do I say?  What comfort do I provide him?  I can administer apple juice and television and promises that his grandmother, just next door, will wake soon and come and take him away to a house full of women.  That’s enough to get us through the remaining hours of darkness and half sleep, the hours when absent women are most sorely missed. And for that I’m grateful.