I am not normally a risk taker, so I am a little embarrassed to admit what I did last month. First, I had a headache and took a Tylenol, then operated some heavy machinery. A few days later, I bought a new DVD player and installed it without first reading all of the safety instructions. Then last week, for the first time since September 1971, I didn’t balance my checkbook.
My bank reconciliation rebellion didn’t happen overnight. There have been signs of an internal struggle for several months now.
For example, you know how when you write out the amount of the check (“thirty-six and 35/100”) you draw a squiggly line to the end of the blank space? That prevents the person you write the check to from writing in “and one million dollars” in the empty space. Last month I stopped drawing that squiggly line. It suddenly seemed pointless. Besides, I don’t have a million dollars in my checking account.
I also stopped using ATMs. This angers my bank because fees are a major profit source. But I decided to boycott cash machines after getting frustrated once when I went to use my card at a different bank’s ATM. A little message came on the screen saying that my card wouldn’t work at that machine. Then the next month I saw that my bank charged me $5 for trying to use my card. Great - it costs me money to find out they won’t give me any money. I was going to call and complain but I’m sure there is a fee for that too.
Then I became disillusioned with our interest-earning checking account. Currently, the interest rate I get is .0000013%, compounded monthly. We earned $1.27 in interest last year. For this privilege, I pay $2 per month.
I made the actual decision to renounce reconciling last week. I was concerned about our spending and decided to look at our monthly budget for 2007. I use Quicken to track our finances and reconcile our bank statement. When I enter a check into the computer, I specify what kind of expense it is out of over 100 categories. Unfortunately, I have gotten lazy because the only budget categories that showed in the 2007 budget were House Payments and Miscellaneous Expenses. I printed a copy of the report to discuss with my wife.
“Look, honey,” I said. “We need to be careful. Let’s see if we can stay within our budget this month.”
“Sure,” she replied. “What have we been spending too much money on?”
With great solemnity I announced “We need to cut back on Miscellaneous Expenses!”
So I no longer will use Quicken to do my budget or to reconcile my monthly bank statement. I know that the only way to be sure you don’t bounce a check is to always reconcile your account and record all of the checks you write. But I am going to try a new approach. I won’t reconcile my checking account, but I will keep a higher balance to make bouncing checks less likely. And most importantly, I will never write a check for more than $1,000,000.
David LeSueur lives with his wife in Littleton.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
My wife has been in 3 or 4 book clubs over the last 25 years and she has always enjoyed them. They are especially fun when the members have diverse backgrounds and opinions. Her clubs have had representatives from a wide variety of religions, political parties, ethnicities, and lifestyles. But there is one group that has been conspicuously absent from her clubs – men. So when we had the opportunity to be in a book club with four other married couples, we jumped at the chance.
The club has been going for almost a year and I now realize why men don’t join book clubs. When you are in a book club, you have to read books! To accommodate the men in our club we try to pick books that have come out on tape or have a good movie version. Our last book was 550 pages long and two hours before our meeting I had only read 53 pages. I came up with a great solution that I call the Gallup Reading Method. Gallup Polls tell us what 100 million Americans are thinking by talking to 1000 carefully selected people. Why not read just enough pages of the book to have an idea of what is going on? I decided to skip from page 53 to 60. Then I read all of the pages ending in zero. I was finished in an hour and a half.
I think I understood the book pretty well. The name of the book is The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. The main character’s name is Liesel and she is a book thief. I am not sure if she really stole books or if that was symbolic of something. The narrator of the book was Death, which probably was very meaningful. Rudy was in the book too and he was either Liesel’s brother or a boy friend. It is also possible he was her father, I am not sure. But they talked a lot. They lived in Germany and it talked about Hitler so it must have been in the 1930s or 1940s. So the novel was set in a real place and time, but the characters were fictional. Actually, it is possible it was a true story. Liesel was either Jewish or a Communist and that caused a lot of conflict for the book’s characters. Death made some profound statements about humanity on the last page. It sounded like Liesel was grown up and most of the other characters were dead. Or maybe they had just moved to New Jersey. The author didn’t make it very clear.
There were five men at book club. Two had read the book the old fashioned way. One listened to it on tape. One read the first 38 pages. People seemed to be impressed with my knowledge of the book so I felt comfortable confessing that I had only read the first 53 pages and all of the others ending in zero.
The discussion was lively and at the end the 38-pages-guy pointed out that he had made the highest number of comments per page read of anyone in the group. I said that it seemed like a very good book. One of the women suggested I should go back and read all of the pages that ended in 1. Everyone laughed. Ha ha. Very funny. I make an effort to read some of the book and all I get is ridicule.
Besides, I don’t have time to go back and read The Book Thief because I have to get started on the next book. It is 336 pages long, and I only have 3 months to read it. So 38-pages-guy and I made a secret pact. He is going to read the odd-numbered pages and I will read the even ones. Then we will get together for lunch on the day of our next book club and try to put it all together. It will be a little extra work, but at least I don’t have to read the whole book.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton and is currently reading the even-numbered pages of Arabian Jazz by Diana Abu Jaber.
The club has been going for almost a year and I now realize why men don’t join book clubs. When you are in a book club, you have to read books! To accommodate the men in our club we try to pick books that have come out on tape or have a good movie version. Our last book was 550 pages long and two hours before our meeting I had only read 53 pages. I came up with a great solution that I call the Gallup Reading Method. Gallup Polls tell us what 100 million Americans are thinking by talking to 1000 carefully selected people. Why not read just enough pages of the book to have an idea of what is going on? I decided to skip from page 53 to 60. Then I read all of the pages ending in zero. I was finished in an hour and a half.
I think I understood the book pretty well. The name of the book is The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. The main character’s name is Liesel and she is a book thief. I am not sure if she really stole books or if that was symbolic of something. The narrator of the book was Death, which probably was very meaningful. Rudy was in the book too and he was either Liesel’s brother or a boy friend. It is also possible he was her father, I am not sure. But they talked a lot. They lived in Germany and it talked about Hitler so it must have been in the 1930s or 1940s. So the novel was set in a real place and time, but the characters were fictional. Actually, it is possible it was a true story. Liesel was either Jewish or a Communist and that caused a lot of conflict for the book’s characters. Death made some profound statements about humanity on the last page. It sounded like Liesel was grown up and most of the other characters were dead. Or maybe they had just moved to New Jersey. The author didn’t make it very clear.
There were five men at book club. Two had read the book the old fashioned way. One listened to it on tape. One read the first 38 pages. People seemed to be impressed with my knowledge of the book so I felt comfortable confessing that I had only read the first 53 pages and all of the others ending in zero.
The discussion was lively and at the end the 38-pages-guy pointed out that he had made the highest number of comments per page read of anyone in the group. I said that it seemed like a very good book. One of the women suggested I should go back and read all of the pages that ended in 1. Everyone laughed. Ha ha. Very funny. I make an effort to read some of the book and all I get is ridicule.
Besides, I don’t have time to go back and read The Book Thief because I have to get started on the next book. It is 336 pages long, and I only have 3 months to read it. So 38-pages-guy and I made a secret pact. He is going to read the odd-numbered pages and I will read the even ones. Then we will get together for lunch on the day of our next book club and try to put it all together. It will be a little extra work, but at least I don’t have to read the whole book.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton and is currently reading the even-numbered pages of Arabian Jazz by Diana Abu Jaber.
I have fond memories of Camp Whitsett, the placw I went every summer as a Boy Scout. As an adult, I have an appreciation for how hard it must have been for the leaders to keep all of us boys out of trouble. They always organized classes to keep us occupied. The subjects were carefully chosen to teach us skills that would be useful to us as adults, like Knot-Tying, Archery and Morse Code. I actually did learn an important lesson from my Morse Code class, though I am sure it was not one they intended to teach me.
We took one hour classes on Morse Code Monday through Thursday. On Friday there was a test and a contest to see which Patrol could send a specified message the fastest. One scout from each patrol went to the top of a hill carrying a signal flag and a piece of paper with a message. He was supposed to wave the flag on his left side for “dit” and his right side for “dah.” The patrol members at the bottom of the hill also had a flag and would wave it once if they understood the letter sent and twice if they hadn’t understood.
We were not very optimistic about our chances because every time we were scheduled to study the Morse Code on our own, we looked for frogs instead. Craig Smith was our guy at the top. The Scout Official yelled “Go!” and the contest was underway. We all watched Craig as if we could actually understand Morse Code. In reality, we weren’t really sure which direction was “dit” and which direction was “dah,” not that it would have mattered anyway. The other Scouts at the top oft he hill were waving their flags to the right or left, but Craig was waving his wildly all over the place. We waved our flag twice, indicating to him that he needed to try again. He waved his flag around again. We waved our flag twice. The third time Craig tried to communicate with us, one of our guys yelled, “He’s drawing a “Y”!”
Since sending Morse Code was hopeless, Craig was drawing the letters in the sky. We gave Craig the signal that we understood. Next he made a circle with the flag – obviously an “O.” Then he drew a “U.” In no time we had decoded the message, way ahead of the other patrols. We claimed victory, but the other Scouts objected that we had cheated. Fortunately, the official judge was somewhat of an entrepreneur himself and admired our ingenuity. We won the Morse Code contest without using any Morse Code!
I am reminded of this experience every time I see kids sending text messages. They are using a cell phone, so they could just talk, but for some reason they prefer typing in messages. It is so time-consuming that they have invented an elaborate code for phrases they use often. Now I understand the advantage of texting over talking. You can send a message to a friend while he is in class or at a movie without disturbing anyone. You can text the same message to a group of people, but you can only talk to one person at a time. And you can text someone when you don’t really want to have a full conversation. Still, I would not be surprised if 100 years from now, Camp Whitsett offers courses in Knot-tying, Archery and Text Messaging. After 4 one-hour classes in texting, the patrols will have a contest to determine who can send a message the fastest. One Scout will think texting is stupid and he will just pick up the phone, dial his patrol, tell them the message verbally and win the contest. LOL.
David LeSueur lives with his wife in Littleton, Colorado.
We took one hour classes on Morse Code Monday through Thursday. On Friday there was a test and a contest to see which Patrol could send a specified message the fastest. One scout from each patrol went to the top of a hill carrying a signal flag and a piece of paper with a message. He was supposed to wave the flag on his left side for “dit” and his right side for “dah.” The patrol members at the bottom of the hill also had a flag and would wave it once if they understood the letter sent and twice if they hadn’t understood.
We were not very optimistic about our chances because every time we were scheduled to study the Morse Code on our own, we looked for frogs instead. Craig Smith was our guy at the top. The Scout Official yelled “Go!” and the contest was underway. We all watched Craig as if we could actually understand Morse Code. In reality, we weren’t really sure which direction was “dit” and which direction was “dah,” not that it would have mattered anyway. The other Scouts at the top oft he hill were waving their flags to the right or left, but Craig was waving his wildly all over the place. We waved our flag twice, indicating to him that he needed to try again. He waved his flag around again. We waved our flag twice. The third time Craig tried to communicate with us, one of our guys yelled, “He’s drawing a “Y”!”
Since sending Morse Code was hopeless, Craig was drawing the letters in the sky. We gave Craig the signal that we understood. Next he made a circle with the flag – obviously an “O.” Then he drew a “U.” In no time we had decoded the message, way ahead of the other patrols. We claimed victory, but the other Scouts objected that we had cheated. Fortunately, the official judge was somewhat of an entrepreneur himself and admired our ingenuity. We won the Morse Code contest without using any Morse Code!
I am reminded of this experience every time I see kids sending text messages. They are using a cell phone, so they could just talk, but for some reason they prefer typing in messages. It is so time-consuming that they have invented an elaborate code for phrases they use often. Now I understand the advantage of texting over talking. You can send a message to a friend while he is in class or at a movie without disturbing anyone. You can text the same message to a group of people, but you can only talk to one person at a time. And you can text someone when you don’t really want to have a full conversation. Still, I would not be surprised if 100 years from now, Camp Whitsett offers courses in Knot-tying, Archery and Text Messaging. After 4 one-hour classes in texting, the patrols will have a contest to determine who can send a message the fastest. One Scout will think texting is stupid and he will just pick up the phone, dial his patrol, tell them the message verbally and win the contest. LOL.
David LeSueur lives with his wife in Littleton, Colorado.
My wife Mary’s book club always has a party to watch the Oscars together. Everyone brings drinks or hors d’oeuvres and they have a pool to see who can pick the most Oscar winners. Some of the women try to see all of the Best Picture nominees each year. It probably says something about Hollywood that we usually haven’t gone to see any of those movies on our own during the year. It takes an Oscar nomination to make us go see them. I thought this year’s Best Picture Nominations were weaker than usual.
Last weekend, Mary’s friend Michelle asked her to go see Brokeback Mountain, or as she called it, the “Gay Cowboy Movie.” They invited me to go but I told Mary that if I had to watch two cowboys touching each other, I preferred they be doing something proper, like hitting each other in a barroom brawl. Michelle’s husband Greg was also leaning toward staying home. But during the week I began feeling guilty about not going and Mary pointed out I could just close my eyes during the yucky parts. So both Greg and I ended up going too.
Last summer my daughter talked me into buying a pink shirt. She said it takes a man who is confident of his masculinity to wear a pink shirt. So what kind of man does it take to wear a pink shirt to Brokeback Mountain? A man like me, that’s what kind! I decided this movie would be a perfect occasion to wear pink. Mary also wore pink, but I think it was a little darker shade. I’m not sure because I kept my jacket buttoned up so no one could see my shirt. We waltzed into the theater (or maybe a better word is sashayed) and looked for four seats together. Has anyone else thought about the seating pattern when two couples go to a show together? Mary prefers having the two women together in the middle so they can talk. The men just have to sit quietly on the outside because we can’t hear too much. But that is usually fine because the men aren’t there to talk. We are there to see a movie and eat popcorn. For women, activities are an excuse to get together and talk. For men, talking is an unfortunate requirement for doing stuff. I tried a few times having the men sit together so we could hear the conversation better. But it is not as easy for the women to talk across two men who are focused on the popcorn. The boy-girl-boy-girl pattern is a compromise, and seemed more appropriate with one couple dressed all in pink, so that is what we did.
So how was the movie? It was probably well-made, and I liked it better than I expected. I only had to close my eyes twice. But I still would have preferred watching reruns of Starsky and Hutch. In the movie, the two cowboys would tell their wives they were going away together to go fishing when they wanted to have a rendezvous. It will be interesting to see if this helps or hurts the fishing industry.
As I said, women get together to talk, men get together to do things. The weekend after the Oscars, women will be finding excuses to talk by having lunch together, working out, and going on walks. Men will talk only long enough to plan tennis matches, bike rides or ski trips. A few may even go fishing. . . not that there is anything wrong with that.
Last weekend, Mary’s friend Michelle asked her to go see Brokeback Mountain, or as she called it, the “Gay Cowboy Movie.” They invited me to go but I told Mary that if I had to watch two cowboys touching each other, I preferred they be doing something proper, like hitting each other in a barroom brawl. Michelle’s husband Greg was also leaning toward staying home. But during the week I began feeling guilty about not going and Mary pointed out I could just close my eyes during the yucky parts. So both Greg and I ended up going too.
Last summer my daughter talked me into buying a pink shirt. She said it takes a man who is confident of his masculinity to wear a pink shirt. So what kind of man does it take to wear a pink shirt to Brokeback Mountain? A man like me, that’s what kind! I decided this movie would be a perfect occasion to wear pink. Mary also wore pink, but I think it was a little darker shade. I’m not sure because I kept my jacket buttoned up so no one could see my shirt. We waltzed into the theater (or maybe a better word is sashayed) and looked for four seats together. Has anyone else thought about the seating pattern when two couples go to a show together? Mary prefers having the two women together in the middle so they can talk. The men just have to sit quietly on the outside because we can’t hear too much. But that is usually fine because the men aren’t there to talk. We are there to see a movie and eat popcorn. For women, activities are an excuse to get together and talk. For men, talking is an unfortunate requirement for doing stuff. I tried a few times having the men sit together so we could hear the conversation better. But it is not as easy for the women to talk across two men who are focused on the popcorn. The boy-girl-boy-girl pattern is a compromise, and seemed more appropriate with one couple dressed all in pink, so that is what we did.
So how was the movie? It was probably well-made, and I liked it better than I expected. I only had to close my eyes twice. But I still would have preferred watching reruns of Starsky and Hutch. In the movie, the two cowboys would tell their wives they were going away together to go fishing when they wanted to have a rendezvous. It will be interesting to see if this helps or hurts the fishing industry.
As I said, women get together to talk, men get together to do things. The weekend after the Oscars, women will be finding excuses to talk by having lunch together, working out, and going on walks. Men will talk only long enough to plan tennis matches, bike rides or ski trips. A few may even go fishing. . . not that there is anything wrong with that.
Most of the national media has focused on Jake Plummer’s turnovers or the prolific Pittsburgh offense in the painful AFC championship game. But I am the real reason they lost. You see, on Saturday, the day before the game, I sat in my office, crumpled up an orange piece of paper, and eyed the trash can 10 feet away in the corner of the room. “If I can make a basket from here,” I told myself, “then the Broncos will win tomorrow.” I took aim, and without any warm-up, threw the paper toward the basket. I was short by 5 feet! I knew the Broncos were in trouble.
During the game, we tried to help in our own way. I moved to a different part of the floor. Nick changed chairs. Michelle left to walk her dog. Nothing worked for long. It was an awful day.
When I was a kid, I lived in Los Angeles and rooted for the Dodgers. If they were playing an important game, I would go into me backyard and stand 15 feet away from the basket attached to the top of the roof of my garage. If I made the shot, then the Dodgers were going to win. Why do we do things like that? We know that wearing orange socks, or not shaving for 2 weeks, or making a basket with a piece of paper don’t really have an impact on anything. We feel powerless (because we are) so we pretend that an unrelated act might make a difference. It is important to know the difference between things we can control and things we can’t. Want to ace Miss Smiley’s Algebra test? Study. Want to learn to play Clair de Lune on the piano? Practice. Want the Dodgers to win Game 2 of the 1965 World Series? Shoot a 15 foot jump shot in your back yard.
I am asking myself why I let a “meaningless” football game make me so upset. The problem is that if I don’t let losing make me unhappy, then winning will not make me happy either. To experience happiness, we have to be willing to risk unhappiness.
When I was playing in YMCA or high school, there were some big games I lost. My father used to try to console me by telling me there were 2 billion Chinese people who didn’t even know I had played and didn’t care that I lost. Let’s just say that compassion was not one of his strengths.
On February 5, the Steelers will play the Seahawks in the Super Bowl. Right now, I am so upset that I am not sure I will watch. I still wish I had taken a few warm-up throws at my trash can before taking the one that counted. That was dumb. And I will console myself by remembering that 2 billion people in China don’t care who won.
During the game, we tried to help in our own way. I moved to a different part of the floor. Nick changed chairs. Michelle left to walk her dog. Nothing worked for long. It was an awful day.
When I was a kid, I lived in Los Angeles and rooted for the Dodgers. If they were playing an important game, I would go into me backyard and stand 15 feet away from the basket attached to the top of the roof of my garage. If I made the shot, then the Dodgers were going to win. Why do we do things like that? We know that wearing orange socks, or not shaving for 2 weeks, or making a basket with a piece of paper don’t really have an impact on anything. We feel powerless (because we are) so we pretend that an unrelated act might make a difference. It is important to know the difference between things we can control and things we can’t. Want to ace Miss Smiley’s Algebra test? Study. Want to learn to play Clair de Lune on the piano? Practice. Want the Dodgers to win Game 2 of the 1965 World Series? Shoot a 15 foot jump shot in your back yard.
I am asking myself why I let a “meaningless” football game make me so upset. The problem is that if I don’t let losing make me unhappy, then winning will not make me happy either. To experience happiness, we have to be willing to risk unhappiness.
When I was playing in YMCA or high school, there were some big games I lost. My father used to try to console me by telling me there were 2 billion Chinese people who didn’t even know I had played and didn’t care that I lost. Let’s just say that compassion was not one of his strengths.
On February 5, the Steelers will play the Seahawks in the Super Bowl. Right now, I am so upset that I am not sure I will watch. I still wish I had taken a few warm-up throws at my trash can before taking the one that counted. That was dumb. And I will console myself by remembering that 2 billion people in China don’t care who won.
A few years ago our daughter’s school was having career day for all of the third grade classes. She brought home a note asking for parents to volunteer to come in and talk about their jobs to three classes. I am an actuary with a degree in mathematics and knew my profession and college major were likely to be underrepresented, so I volunteered to come in.
On the appointed day I was introduced to two other dads who had been assigned to make their presentations with me. We each were given 5 minutes to speak to the kids. The children were then going to ask questions for a maximum of ten minutes. One dad was a fireman and he had come dressed in his fire fighting uniform. I was impressed. The other presenter was also in his uniform, although I wasn’t sure what he did for a living until I read his cap which said “Orkin.” I suppose I was also in uniform – a blue suit with a white shirt and red tie.
I was first, and tried to impress the kids with a mathematical trick I learned as a teenager. The class chose three six digit numbers which I wrote on the blackboard. I immediately wrote down three other 6 digit numbers followed by the sum of all six numbers. I turned around slowly to the class, trying unsuccessfully to hide my pride at how quickly I had added all of those numbers. One boy had his hand raised. In my mind, I imagined him saying, “Mr. LeSueur that is certainly the most amazing trick I have ever seen. I know it is unlikely that I will be smart enough, but maybe you can explain how to do this so I can show my parents tonight right after we watch Book TV on CSPAN2. Before today I wanted to be an NBA basketball player, but now I want to be a mathematician.”
“Jason, do you have a question?” the teacher asked.
“My tooth fell out yesterday.” Jason announced.
The classroom erupted as everyone announced when they lost their last tooth and where they were when it happened. By the time the teacher restored order, I only had one minute left. I showed them my calculator, punched in the number “07734” and turned it upside down to show them it spelled “hello.” I wrote the word “actuary” on the board and sat down.
The fireman was next. He talked about putting out fires, saving people's lives, sliding down a fire pole and driving a big fire truck. He introduced the fire station mascot, a Dalmatian puppy named “Hose A.” The kids loved it.
Orkin guy was last. He brought a tray containing random dead bugs, hairy spiders and giant cockroaches. He lectured the kids about the danger of poisons. He kept his presentation to 5 minutes.
By now we only had time for five minutes of questions. All of the questions were for the fireman. "Have you ever almost died in a fire?" "What is the biggest fire you ever saw?" “Do you get scared?” “Can I pet the puppy?” “What is the puppy’s name? How old is he?”
The teacher told the students there was time for one final question, and maybe it should be for me or the Orkin guy. A boy in front raised his hand. “What is the biggest cockroach you ever saw?”
I looked at the Orkin guy. “Do you want to answer that or shall I?”
I'm a quick learner. I knew the first presentation had not gone well. Fortunately, I had a backup presentation. In the next class I ditched my arithmetic trick. This time, I went with my bicycle theft insurance talk. How many of you have a bicycle? Everyone raised his hand. Ever had a bicycle stolen? No one. Okay, I asked, how many of you know someone who's had a bicycle stolen? Still no one. It was going to be hard to sell this audience on the need for bicycle theft insurance. I was ready to show them how to calculate the probability of having your bike stolen and how an actuary uses that to calculate a premium that spreads the risk over a large pool of insured’s. I even was planning to discuss how the premium was impacted by administrative expenses, taxes and profit margin. I decided I had overestimated the intellectual curiosity of my audience. I just did the six digit math trick.
I had plenty of time to prepare for my last presentation while the fireman and Orkin guy talked to the kids and answered their questions. I had to fight the tendency to forget who my audience was and talk over their heads. I thought I could borrow the Dalmatian puppy and ask the kids to estimate how many spots he had based on looking at one side of him. Then we could actually count them. Not a bad start. Then I could discuss the reasons for the difference in life expectancy between dogs and humans and explain why seven dog years equal one human year. The kids would love that!
Or what about taking a dead spider from Orkin guy? We could count his legs. Then I could discuss how our number system would have developed if people had eight fingers instead of ten. And that could lead to translating numbers from base ten to base eight! I could hardly contain my excitement.
Our time was up and we were being led to the last classroom. The kids started giggling when they saw the puppy. They were obviously not in the mood for a discussion of puppy longevity or imagining math with two of their fingers cut off. I just did my math trick and finished in 3 minutes.
I have recovered from that career day disaster and am no longer bitter. But my advice to parents everywhere is if you go to your child’s school for career day, bring a puppy or a cockroach with you.
On the appointed day I was introduced to two other dads who had been assigned to make their presentations with me. We each were given 5 minutes to speak to the kids. The children were then going to ask questions for a maximum of ten minutes. One dad was a fireman and he had come dressed in his fire fighting uniform. I was impressed. The other presenter was also in his uniform, although I wasn’t sure what he did for a living until I read his cap which said “Orkin.” I suppose I was also in uniform – a blue suit with a white shirt and red tie.
I was first, and tried to impress the kids with a mathematical trick I learned as a teenager. The class chose three six digit numbers which I wrote on the blackboard. I immediately wrote down three other 6 digit numbers followed by the sum of all six numbers. I turned around slowly to the class, trying unsuccessfully to hide my pride at how quickly I had added all of those numbers. One boy had his hand raised. In my mind, I imagined him saying, “Mr. LeSueur that is certainly the most amazing trick I have ever seen. I know it is unlikely that I will be smart enough, but maybe you can explain how to do this so I can show my parents tonight right after we watch Book TV on CSPAN2. Before today I wanted to be an NBA basketball player, but now I want to be a mathematician.”
“Jason, do you have a question?” the teacher asked.
“My tooth fell out yesterday.” Jason announced.
The classroom erupted as everyone announced when they lost their last tooth and where they were when it happened. By the time the teacher restored order, I only had one minute left. I showed them my calculator, punched in the number “07734” and turned it upside down to show them it spelled “hello.” I wrote the word “actuary” on the board and sat down.
The fireman was next. He talked about putting out fires, saving people's lives, sliding down a fire pole and driving a big fire truck. He introduced the fire station mascot, a Dalmatian puppy named “Hose A.” The kids loved it.
Orkin guy was last. He brought a tray containing random dead bugs, hairy spiders and giant cockroaches. He lectured the kids about the danger of poisons. He kept his presentation to 5 minutes.
By now we only had time for five minutes of questions. All of the questions were for the fireman. "Have you ever almost died in a fire?" "What is the biggest fire you ever saw?" “Do you get scared?” “Can I pet the puppy?” “What is the puppy’s name? How old is he?”
The teacher told the students there was time for one final question, and maybe it should be for me or the Orkin guy. A boy in front raised his hand. “What is the biggest cockroach you ever saw?”
I looked at the Orkin guy. “Do you want to answer that or shall I?”
I'm a quick learner. I knew the first presentation had not gone well. Fortunately, I had a backup presentation. In the next class I ditched my arithmetic trick. This time, I went with my bicycle theft insurance talk. How many of you have a bicycle? Everyone raised his hand. Ever had a bicycle stolen? No one. Okay, I asked, how many of you know someone who's had a bicycle stolen? Still no one. It was going to be hard to sell this audience on the need for bicycle theft insurance. I was ready to show them how to calculate the probability of having your bike stolen and how an actuary uses that to calculate a premium that spreads the risk over a large pool of insured’s. I even was planning to discuss how the premium was impacted by administrative expenses, taxes and profit margin. I decided I had overestimated the intellectual curiosity of my audience. I just did the six digit math trick.
I had plenty of time to prepare for my last presentation while the fireman and Orkin guy talked to the kids and answered their questions. I had to fight the tendency to forget who my audience was and talk over their heads. I thought I could borrow the Dalmatian puppy and ask the kids to estimate how many spots he had based on looking at one side of him. Then we could actually count them. Not a bad start. Then I could discuss the reasons for the difference in life expectancy between dogs and humans and explain why seven dog years equal one human year. The kids would love that!
Or what about taking a dead spider from Orkin guy? We could count his legs. Then I could discuss how our number system would have developed if people had eight fingers instead of ten. And that could lead to translating numbers from base ten to base eight! I could hardly contain my excitement.
Our time was up and we were being led to the last classroom. The kids started giggling when they saw the puppy. They were obviously not in the mood for a discussion of puppy longevity or imagining math with two of their fingers cut off. I just did my math trick and finished in 3 minutes.
I have recovered from that career day disaster and am no longer bitter. But my advice to parents everywhere is if you go to your child’s school for career day, bring a puppy or a cockroach with you.
I don’t watch Larry King often, but when I do he is always interviewing an aging celebrity with a checkered past. At the end of the interview he inevitably asks something like “Well, Mr. Celebrity, people have criticized you for some of the things you have done in your life. You had eight wives and were famous for your womanizing. You were arrested for drunk driving four times and stole money from your manager. As a teenager you paid someone to break your mom’s kneecaps when she grounded you. Do you have any regrets?” You and I would be ashamed to have done 10% of what he has done. But the aging celebrity always replies, “If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing!”
Being a celebrity means never having to say you’re sorry.
This caused me to think about my own life. Do I have any regrets? The first thing that came to mind was an evening in September 2006. I definitely would change what I did that night. But to understand why I am sorry, I need to relate a joke that my family has had fun with over the years.
Two sisters, Louise and Elizabeth, lived with their elderly mother and their beloved cat, Fluffy. Louise decided to go on a trip, and she called home the first night to make sure everyone was doing well. Elizabeth answered the phone and was crying. “What’s the matter?” asked Louise, “has something happened to Fluffy?”
Elizabeth took a few moments to gain her composure, and then announced “Fluffy died.”
Upon hearing the news, Louise began crying uncontrollably. She had been with Fluffy for 12 years. Finally, she said to her sister, “You shouldn’t break bad news to me so suddenly. You should have said Fluffy is up on the roof and can’t get down! Then when I called tomorrow, you could tell me that she fell getting down and was in the hospital. Then on the third day you could tell me she had died and I would be better prepared for the news. . . So how is mom?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Finally, Elizabeth said, “Mom is up on the roof and she can’t get down.”
I’m not sure how funny that joke really is but we always had fun with it.
“Dad, my Algebra grade is up on the roof and it can’t get down!”
“Hey mom, we were playing catch in the house and somehow that living room lamp got up on the roof and it can’t get down!”
“Sorry but your dinner and it is up on the roof and it can’t get down!”
We had a cute Maltese dog named Nikki for about ten years but he died in the summer of 2006. My wife’s brother Bob and his wife Carol came to visit us from out of town a few weeks after Nikki’s death. My wife and I and my son Carl were sitting on the sofa visiting with Bob and Carol. Suddenly Carol said, “Where’s Nikki? I haven’t seen him yet.”
I was about to tell her Nikki had died when I realized that Carol had given me a unique opportunity to deliver a punch line. Time slowed down and my life passed before my eyes. I saw the other times in my life when someone had given me a classic straight line. I had always risen to the occasion. There was the time my wife and I ran into a friend and he said hello to me and asked, “So who is this beautiful lady with you?” I answered without hesitation, “That’s no lady, that’s my wife!” Then I remembered the time we were sightseeing in New York and I was looking at a map and my wife asked ”So how do we get to Carnegie Hall?” and I said “Lot’s of practice!” But those were easy. This was going to be hard. I finished watching my life and I looked at Carl. He was smiling and mouthed the words, “Dad, tell her he’s on the roof and can’t get down!” I turned to Carol, ready to deliver the punch line of my life.
I choked. “Nikki died” was all I said.
Then Mary, Carl and I began laughing.
I had to explain to Bob and Carol that we really weren’t laughing that our dog had died, but that Carol’s question had reminded us of this joke. It was an awkward moment.
So, if I am ever on Larry King, and he asks me if I have any regrets, I will have to tell him I would like to have a do-over for that one evening with Bob and Carol. I should have said Nikki was on the roof. Or at least I shouldn’t have laughed.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife. He is happy to report that neither of them is up on the roof.
Being a celebrity means never having to say you’re sorry.
This caused me to think about my own life. Do I have any regrets? The first thing that came to mind was an evening in September 2006. I definitely would change what I did that night. But to understand why I am sorry, I need to relate a joke that my family has had fun with over the years.
Two sisters, Louise and Elizabeth, lived with their elderly mother and their beloved cat, Fluffy. Louise decided to go on a trip, and she called home the first night to make sure everyone was doing well. Elizabeth answered the phone and was crying. “What’s the matter?” asked Louise, “has something happened to Fluffy?”
Elizabeth took a few moments to gain her composure, and then announced “Fluffy died.”
Upon hearing the news, Louise began crying uncontrollably. She had been with Fluffy for 12 years. Finally, she said to her sister, “You shouldn’t break bad news to me so suddenly. You should have said Fluffy is up on the roof and can’t get down! Then when I called tomorrow, you could tell me that she fell getting down and was in the hospital. Then on the third day you could tell me she had died and I would be better prepared for the news. . . So how is mom?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. Finally, Elizabeth said, “Mom is up on the roof and she can’t get down.”
I’m not sure how funny that joke really is but we always had fun with it.
“Dad, my Algebra grade is up on the roof and it can’t get down!”
“Hey mom, we were playing catch in the house and somehow that living room lamp got up on the roof and it can’t get down!”
“Sorry but your dinner and it is up on the roof and it can’t get down!”
We had a cute Maltese dog named Nikki for about ten years but he died in the summer of 2006. My wife’s brother Bob and his wife Carol came to visit us from out of town a few weeks after Nikki’s death. My wife and I and my son Carl were sitting on the sofa visiting with Bob and Carol. Suddenly Carol said, “Where’s Nikki? I haven’t seen him yet.”
I was about to tell her Nikki had died when I realized that Carol had given me a unique opportunity to deliver a punch line. Time slowed down and my life passed before my eyes. I saw the other times in my life when someone had given me a classic straight line. I had always risen to the occasion. There was the time my wife and I ran into a friend and he said hello to me and asked, “So who is this beautiful lady with you?” I answered without hesitation, “That’s no lady, that’s my wife!” Then I remembered the time we were sightseeing in New York and I was looking at a map and my wife asked ”So how do we get to Carnegie Hall?” and I said “Lot’s of practice!” But those were easy. This was going to be hard. I finished watching my life and I looked at Carl. He was smiling and mouthed the words, “Dad, tell her he’s on the roof and can’t get down!” I turned to Carol, ready to deliver the punch line of my life.
I choked. “Nikki died” was all I said.
Then Mary, Carl and I began laughing.
I had to explain to Bob and Carol that we really weren’t laughing that our dog had died, but that Carol’s question had reminded us of this joke. It was an awkward moment.
So, if I am ever on Larry King, and he asks me if I have any regrets, I will have to tell him I would like to have a do-over for that one evening with Bob and Carol. I should have said Nikki was on the roof. Or at least I shouldn’t have laughed.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife. He is happy to report that neither of them is up on the roof.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
by David LeSueur
This month, as you probably know, we celebrate an important event in Church history. A little over 150 years ago, a visionary man invented something which improved reverence at Sacrament Meetings, made Church more enjoyable for little children and provided teaching opportunities for parents. What I am referring to, of course, is the invention of the Cheerio.
We take Cheerios for granted today, but can you imagine how difficult it would be to sit through Sacrament Meetings with small children without having any Cheerios to give them? One has to admire the pioneer men and women who brought their youngsters to Church and tried to listen to the talks and keep their children entertained without the convenience of Cheerios. In fact, early Church leaders were so concerned with the lack of reverence in meetings that Brigham Young asked a young military convert come up with a solution to the problem.
The man, General Mills, found a solution. His invention was a wholesome finger food which was not messy or noisy and yet satisfied most children enough so that they could sit through church meetings without much trouble. But the brilliance of his idea is that it also teaches children religious principles.
Children learn humility because they have to beg a little before they are allowed to eat any Cheerios. They learn that being greedy does not pay when they grab a big handful of Cheerios but can only manage to get a few of them into their mouth before dropping the rest to the floor. And they learn to share as demonstrated by the Church-wide custom of leaving some Cheerios between the pew cushions for the people in the next meeting.
There is a dark side to this history too. Several splinter groups left the Church because of their "Cheerio-worship." The best known of these apostate groups were the Holy Rollers, famous for their bizarre practice of rolling Cheerios down the aisles during Church. The most notorious group was started by a few return missionaries. They formed a successful multi-level marketing company (GaryK International) in 1973. However, they were sent to prison when people found out that their most popular product - bagel seeds - were actually just ordinary Cheerios.
In spite of some abuses, Cheerios are still an important part of Church culture. Recently some people have even been including Cheerios in their year's supply of food because of a study published in 2005. The research compared fresh Cheerios to Cheerios that were 30 years old. There was no difference in nutritional value and taste tests showed that most people can't tell the difference between fresh and 30 year-old Cheerios.
In conclusion, here is part of a letter sent out to all Bishops: "It has come to our attention that some parents have been bringing Trix, Cocoa Puffs, Sugar Crisp or other sugar-coated breakfast cereals into meetings to feed their children. Cheerios continues to be the only Church-authorized breakfast cereal and members should be gently reminded of this position. Parents should also be reminded to refrain from sneaking Cheerios on Fast Sunday."
by David LeSueur
This month, as you probably know, we celebrate an important event in Church history. A little over 150 years ago, a visionary man invented something which improved reverence at Sacrament Meetings, made Church more enjoyable for little children and provided teaching opportunities for parents. What I am referring to, of course, is the invention of the Cheerio.
We take Cheerios for granted today, but can you imagine how difficult it would be to sit through Sacrament Meetings with small children without having any Cheerios to give them? One has to admire the pioneer men and women who brought their youngsters to Church and tried to listen to the talks and keep their children entertained without the convenience of Cheerios. In fact, early Church leaders were so concerned with the lack of reverence in meetings that Brigham Young asked a young military convert come up with a solution to the problem.
The man, General Mills, found a solution. His invention was a wholesome finger food which was not messy or noisy and yet satisfied most children enough so that they could sit through church meetings without much trouble. But the brilliance of his idea is that it also teaches children religious principles.
Children learn humility because they have to beg a little before they are allowed to eat any Cheerios. They learn that being greedy does not pay when they grab a big handful of Cheerios but can only manage to get a few of them into their mouth before dropping the rest to the floor. And they learn to share as demonstrated by the Church-wide custom of leaving some Cheerios between the pew cushions for the people in the next meeting.
There is a dark side to this history too. Several splinter groups left the Church because of their "Cheerio-worship." The best known of these apostate groups were the Holy Rollers, famous for their bizarre practice of rolling Cheerios down the aisles during Church. The most notorious group was started by a few return missionaries. They formed a successful multi-level marketing company (GaryK International) in 1973. However, they were sent to prison when people found out that their most popular product - bagel seeds - were actually just ordinary Cheerios.
In spite of some abuses, Cheerios are still an important part of Church culture. Recently some people have even been including Cheerios in their year's supply of food because of a study published in 2005. The research compared fresh Cheerios to Cheerios that were 30 years old. There was no difference in nutritional value and taste tests showed that most people can't tell the difference between fresh and 30 year-old Cheerios.
In conclusion, here is part of a letter sent out to all Bishops: "It has come to our attention that some parents have been bringing Trix, Cocoa Puffs, Sugar Crisp or other sugar-coated breakfast cereals into meetings to feed their children. Cheerios continues to be the only Church-authorized breakfast cereal and members should be gently reminded of this position. Parents should also be reminded to refrain from sneaking Cheerios on Fast Sunday."
I recently had the privilege of interviewing legendary coach of the Los Angeles Lakers, Phil Jackson. The Lakers are in the NBA Finals this year playing against the Boston Celtics. The Lakers are known as a finesse team while the Celtics play a rougher, more physical style of basketball. In 2008, the two teams also met in the NBA Finals and the Celtics won by pushing the Lakers around. Phil wanted to avoid a similar fate in 2010 and so he turned to Mormon Church basketball players for help. Here is the transcript of my interview, which was done just before the finals started.
Me: Phil thank you for speaking with me.
Phil: My pleasure.
Me: I understand that you filmed some LDS Church basketball games and used them as an inspiration for your team. Can you explain what you did and why?
Phil: Sure. I wanted our team to be a little more physical this time against the Celtics. I have some Mormon friends who are always telling me how rough your Church basketball games are, so I sent someone to film some games here in Los Angeles. I was shocked at what I saw.
Me: How so?
Phil: Well, here are nice guys playing against friends just for fun, and I have never seen so much pushing and shoving in my life.
Me: Were you also surprised at how skilled the players were?
Phil: Actually, I was surprised at how bad they were. And the fewer skills they had, the dirtier they played. I think our guys could learn something from that. I mean, no one dared drive to the basket more than once because the risk of getting hurt was too high.
Me: What else did you learn?
Phil: Well, our team's personality is probably a lot like your Mormon teams. I imagine the kids playing in your Church leagues are basically good, honest, gentle people. But put them on the court and they turn into monsters. The Lakers players are good guys too. Sure, they have been involved with their share of assaults, drugs and shootings, but what group of young men hasn't been? My guys are nice guys just like the ones in your church leagues, but my guys need to be dirtier.
Me: Unfortunately that is true.
Phil: My favorite part in the film is where one guy is so dirty that the guy he is guarding finally says, "What is your name? I am going to report you to your bishop?" And the other guy looks at him and says "I AM the bishop!!" Classic.
Me: Did you learn anything else?
Phil: I am always worried that our guys will lose their cool and get technical fouls at inopportune times. So I showed them film of your games so they could see how to complain to the refs without getting a "T". I mean, your refs are volunteers and friends of the players. And yet they have to endure more complaining than I have ever heard. There isn't any swearing but I heard words I have never heard before. By the way, what is a "Son of Perdition?"
Me: There are some rumors going around about your connection to the LDS Church I Can I ask you about them?
Phil: I was afraid this was coming.
Me: Is it true that you are the High Priests Group Leader in the Westwood Ward?
Phil: No.
Me: Or that you are taking the missionary discussions?
Phil: No.
Me: Did you ever say the Book of Mormon was your favorite book?
Phil: No. My only connection to your church is seeing the film of some of your games. I will say, however, that if we win the NBA championship it will be in large part due to watching Church Ball.
Me: So as a show of appreciation, can we send the missionaries to see you?
Phil: Uh, no. How about I go see one of those Twilight movies instead?
Me: Sure. Thanks for talking to me.
Phil: You're welcome.
Me: Phil thank you for speaking with me.
Phil: My pleasure.
Me: I understand that you filmed some LDS Church basketball games and used them as an inspiration for your team. Can you explain what you did and why?
Phil: Sure. I wanted our team to be a little more physical this time against the Celtics. I have some Mormon friends who are always telling me how rough your Church basketball games are, so I sent someone to film some games here in Los Angeles. I was shocked at what I saw.
Me: How so?
Phil: Well, here are nice guys playing against friends just for fun, and I have never seen so much pushing and shoving in my life.
Me: Were you also surprised at how skilled the players were?
Phil: Actually, I was surprised at how bad they were. And the fewer skills they had, the dirtier they played. I think our guys could learn something from that. I mean, no one dared drive to the basket more than once because the risk of getting hurt was too high.
Me: What else did you learn?
Phil: Well, our team's personality is probably a lot like your Mormon teams. I imagine the kids playing in your Church leagues are basically good, honest, gentle people. But put them on the court and they turn into monsters. The Lakers players are good guys too. Sure, they have been involved with their share of assaults, drugs and shootings, but what group of young men hasn't been? My guys are nice guys just like the ones in your church leagues, but my guys need to be dirtier.
Me: Unfortunately that is true.
Phil: My favorite part in the film is where one guy is so dirty that the guy he is guarding finally says, "What is your name? I am going to report you to your bishop?" And the other guy looks at him and says "I AM the bishop!!" Classic.
Me: Did you learn anything else?
Phil: I am always worried that our guys will lose their cool and get technical fouls at inopportune times. So I showed them film of your games so they could see how to complain to the refs without getting a "T". I mean, your refs are volunteers and friends of the players. And yet they have to endure more complaining than I have ever heard. There isn't any swearing but I heard words I have never heard before. By the way, what is a "Son of Perdition?"
Me: There are some rumors going around about your connection to the LDS Church I Can I ask you about them?
Phil: I was afraid this was coming.
Me: Is it true that you are the High Priests Group Leader in the Westwood Ward?
Phil: No.
Me: Or that you are taking the missionary discussions?
Phil: No.
Me: Did you ever say the Book of Mormon was your favorite book?
Phil: No. My only connection to your church is seeing the film of some of your games. I will say, however, that if we win the NBA championship it will be in large part due to watching Church Ball.
Me: So as a show of appreciation, can we send the missionaries to see you?
Phil: Uh, no. How about I go see one of those Twilight movies instead?
Me: Sure. Thanks for talking to me.
Phil: You're welcome.
My life last week was dominated by a bout with a kidney stone. When I told people about it, I got three reactions. Men would wince and say “Ouch! I feel for you, man!” Women who have not had babies would put their arm on my shoulder and say “I’m so sorry. . . I hear that they are very painful.” Women who have had babies would punch me in the arm and say “Multiply this by ten and you’ll know what childbirth feels like!”
This last reaction is disturbing on a number of levels. I mean, what good is having a lot of pain if you can’t get some sympathy for it? And once again I play what I think is a winning card – the pain of a kidney stone – and I am trumped by childbirth. The worst thing is that I know women are right. There is nothing I can say.
When I was first married, I believed in the Childbirth-Isn’t-So-Bad Theory. I postulated that childbirth was actually not painful and in fact felt good, but every woman from the beginning of time was part of a Vast Female Conspiracy and agreed to tell men it hurt like crazy so they could have this Thing to hold over us. So far, no woman had ever betrayed The Code, but I was certain it was only a matter of time before someone spilled the beans. If Jack Bauer were real, he could torture someone until she confessed.
Now that I am older, I have concluded that the Childbirth-Really-Hurts Theory does a better job of explaining experimental data. Unfortunately, this new theory leads to three corollaries:
Corollary #1: Childbirth trumps everything.
In bridge, the order of card suits from lowest to highest is clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades and then childbirth. No matter what the situation is, women can play the childbirth card and win. There is no limit to the number of trump cards they can have, nor is there an expiration date on any of the cards.
Woman: Honey, the baby is crying. Will you bring him in for me?
Man: It is 3 o’clock in the morning and I have to get up for work in two hours.
Woman: I know, but it has only been a few weeks since he was born and I am still kind of sore from Childbirth.
Woman: Sweetie, can you fix your own dinner tonight?
Man: But I have strep throat and my broken leg is in a cast!
Woman: But it has only been a year since Childbirth and I am not feeling too well!
Woman: Hey! I am mad at you today!
Man: Why? What did I do?
Woman: Childbirth!
Corollary #2: All conversations can be turned into a discussion of childbirth.
In a recent study, conversations between women turned to childbirth on average within 5 minutes and 23 seconds. If there were men present, it took slightly longer, an average of 8 minutes and 43 seconds. Some examples:
Woman #1: Did you hear Susan had her baby after only one hour of labor?
Woman #2: That’s not fair, my labor lasted six days and . . .
Man: I had a terrible headache yesterday.
Woman: I’ll bet it was nothing like childbirth. Just imagine a giant vise. . . .
Man: How about them Broncos?
Woman: I wonder how horses can stand having babies without drugs? With my last baby they didn’t give me an epidural until. . .
Corollary #3: You can talk about anything in mixed company as long as it involves childbirth.
Man: So how are you feeling?
Woman #1: I’d rather not talk about it – female stuff you know.
Woman #2: I know what you mean. Since I had my baby 3 weeks ago, you wouldn’t believe what has been happening to me. My hormones are so messed up that . . . “
Man: Let’s watch a movie! I see you have “Sound of Music” on your shelf.
Woman: Oh, that is a little risqué for me. Hey, I have a video of me giving birth! Let’s watch it!
Man: Uh. . . I think the Women’s Figure Skating Championships are on. I’d really hate to miss them. Or we could see if there is a good movie on the Lifetime Channel.
There is one way that childbirth is better than having a kidney stone. After all of the work and effort and pain of childbirth, at least you get a cute baby. All I have to show for my kidney stone pain is a little pebble in a bottle on the shelf in my office. I wanted to name it, but I am not sure how to tell if it is a boy or a girl.
This last reaction is disturbing on a number of levels. I mean, what good is having a lot of pain if you can’t get some sympathy for it? And once again I play what I think is a winning card – the pain of a kidney stone – and I am trumped by childbirth. The worst thing is that I know women are right. There is nothing I can say.
When I was first married, I believed in the Childbirth-Isn’t-So-Bad Theory. I postulated that childbirth was actually not painful and in fact felt good, but every woman from the beginning of time was part of a Vast Female Conspiracy and agreed to tell men it hurt like crazy so they could have this Thing to hold over us. So far, no woman had ever betrayed The Code, but I was certain it was only a matter of time before someone spilled the beans. If Jack Bauer were real, he could torture someone until she confessed.
Now that I am older, I have concluded that the Childbirth-Really-Hurts Theory does a better job of explaining experimental data. Unfortunately, this new theory leads to three corollaries:
Corollary #1: Childbirth trumps everything.
In bridge, the order of card suits from lowest to highest is clubs, diamonds, hearts, spades and then childbirth. No matter what the situation is, women can play the childbirth card and win. There is no limit to the number of trump cards they can have, nor is there an expiration date on any of the cards.
Woman: Honey, the baby is crying. Will you bring him in for me?
Man: It is 3 o’clock in the morning and I have to get up for work in two hours.
Woman: I know, but it has only been a few weeks since he was born and I am still kind of sore from Childbirth.
Woman: Sweetie, can you fix your own dinner tonight?
Man: But I have strep throat and my broken leg is in a cast!
Woman: But it has only been a year since Childbirth and I am not feeling too well!
Woman: Hey! I am mad at you today!
Man: Why? What did I do?
Woman: Childbirth!
Corollary #2: All conversations can be turned into a discussion of childbirth.
In a recent study, conversations between women turned to childbirth on average within 5 minutes and 23 seconds. If there were men present, it took slightly longer, an average of 8 minutes and 43 seconds. Some examples:
Woman #1: Did you hear Susan had her baby after only one hour of labor?
Woman #2: That’s not fair, my labor lasted six days and . . .
Man: I had a terrible headache yesterday.
Woman: I’ll bet it was nothing like childbirth. Just imagine a giant vise. . . .
Man: How about them Broncos?
Woman: I wonder how horses can stand having babies without drugs? With my last baby they didn’t give me an epidural until. . .
Corollary #3: You can talk about anything in mixed company as long as it involves childbirth.
Man: So how are you feeling?
Woman #1: I’d rather not talk about it – female stuff you know.
Woman #2: I know what you mean. Since I had my baby 3 weeks ago, you wouldn’t believe what has been happening to me. My hormones are so messed up that . . . “
Man: Let’s watch a movie! I see you have “Sound of Music” on your shelf.
Woman: Oh, that is a little risqué for me. Hey, I have a video of me giving birth! Let’s watch it!
Man: Uh. . . I think the Women’s Figure Skating Championships are on. I’d really hate to miss them. Or we could see if there is a good movie on the Lifetime Channel.
There is one way that childbirth is better than having a kidney stone. After all of the work and effort and pain of childbirth, at least you get a cute baby. All I have to show for my kidney stone pain is a little pebble in a bottle on the shelf in my office. I wanted to name it, but I am not sure how to tell if it is a boy or a girl.
This month I attended a party caucus for Colorado’s Presidential Primary for the first time in my life. I thought I knew what it was going to be like because I had watched the Iowa caucuses on TV. We would probably meet in someone’s home and each of the candidates would come to see us. After they asked us our opinion on important issues, they would leave and Katie Couric would be outside and would interview each of us.
The candidates would speak about national issues important to each of us. Republicans would explain their plan to provide health coverage to the uninsured at Walmart. Democrats would explain their plan to make health care affordable by cutting doctor salaries in half.
Then the candidates would try to win our vote by promising to solve a local issue. In our area, the Recreation District relies on property taxes for its revenue. Recently a proposition to raise property taxes failed. The District was surprised and in a move that some interpreted as punitive, the District closed a community pool in North Ranch, an area full of exclusive homes. When asked why the first service they cut was a swimming pool, a Board Member replied, “Because the lawyers wouldn’t let us turn off your gas and electricity.” To solve the Community revenue problem, Republicans would promise to reduce our property taxes and eliminate all user fees. The magic of supply side economics would solve the revenue problem. Democrats would solve the problem by raising property taxes on North Ranch homes high enough that property taxes could be eliminated on homes outside of North Ranch. Since more people live outside of North Ranch, the proposition would be sure to pass. Then they would promise to bus in kids from outside North Ranch to use the pool.
But our caucus was nothing like that. It was held at a local elementary school. We sat at student desks in little chairs. No candidates came to see us though the president of the 6th grade chess club spoke to us about his experience with student government. We spent the first 2 ½ hours discussing party organization planning issues. For example, we passed a resolution selecting the hors d’oeuvres for the National Convention, but we couldn’t agree on the color of balloons which would drop from the ceiling when the Presidential nominee was introduced. Finally someone asked when we were going to do the straw poll for Presidential candidates. The person in charge asked each of us to write our selection on a piece of paper and pass it to the front of the room. I didn’t bring any paper, so I started looking for paper in the desk I was sitting at. I discovered the student’s name was Lee and he had no blank pieces of paper anywhere I could see. I finally found a crumpled up paper. I opened it hoping it was blank so I could use it, but it had a wad of gum in it. I closed the paper back up and I was going to throw it away, but then thought maybe he wasn’t finished with it so I put it back in his desk. I wasn’t the only person having trouble finding a piece of paper, so a school teacher in the group suggested we put our heads down on our desks and raise our hands when our candidate’s name was called. It was getting late, so no one objected.
Later on I learned that our straw vote for President had no binding power on our delegate. I am not that concerned, but I will be really upset if he doesn’t vote for our hors d’oeuvre selection.
David LeSueur and his wife live in Littleton . . . outside of North Ranch.
The candidates would speak about national issues important to each of us. Republicans would explain their plan to provide health coverage to the uninsured at Walmart. Democrats would explain their plan to make health care affordable by cutting doctor salaries in half.
Then the candidates would try to win our vote by promising to solve a local issue. In our area, the Recreation District relies on property taxes for its revenue. Recently a proposition to raise property taxes failed. The District was surprised and in a move that some interpreted as punitive, the District closed a community pool in North Ranch, an area full of exclusive homes. When asked why the first service they cut was a swimming pool, a Board Member replied, “Because the lawyers wouldn’t let us turn off your gas and electricity.” To solve the Community revenue problem, Republicans would promise to reduce our property taxes and eliminate all user fees. The magic of supply side economics would solve the revenue problem. Democrats would solve the problem by raising property taxes on North Ranch homes high enough that property taxes could be eliminated on homes outside of North Ranch. Since more people live outside of North Ranch, the proposition would be sure to pass. Then they would promise to bus in kids from outside North Ranch to use the pool.
But our caucus was nothing like that. It was held at a local elementary school. We sat at student desks in little chairs. No candidates came to see us though the president of the 6th grade chess club spoke to us about his experience with student government. We spent the first 2 ½ hours discussing party organization planning issues. For example, we passed a resolution selecting the hors d’oeuvres for the National Convention, but we couldn’t agree on the color of balloons which would drop from the ceiling when the Presidential nominee was introduced. Finally someone asked when we were going to do the straw poll for Presidential candidates. The person in charge asked each of us to write our selection on a piece of paper and pass it to the front of the room. I didn’t bring any paper, so I started looking for paper in the desk I was sitting at. I discovered the student’s name was Lee and he had no blank pieces of paper anywhere I could see. I finally found a crumpled up paper. I opened it hoping it was blank so I could use it, but it had a wad of gum in it. I closed the paper back up and I was going to throw it away, but then thought maybe he wasn’t finished with it so I put it back in his desk. I wasn’t the only person having trouble finding a piece of paper, so a school teacher in the group suggested we put our heads down on our desks and raise our hands when our candidate’s name was called. It was getting late, so no one objected.
Later on I learned that our straw vote for President had no binding power on our delegate. I am not that concerned, but I will be really upset if he doesn’t vote for our hors d’oeuvre selection.
David LeSueur and his wife live in Littleton . . . outside of North Ranch.
We have a new saying in our family: “You can never be too thin, or too rich, or have too many cordless telephones.” If our kids can’t think of anything to give us for Christmas, they give us some more cordless phones. We never get rid of the old ones, so I calculated today that we have one cordless phone for each 10 square feet of living space.
With so many phones, you would think we would always be able to find one when somebody calls. But the biggest advantage of a cordless phone – that you can talk on it and carry it all over the house – is also its biggest disadvantage. It is embarrassing how often we don’t find a phone before the answering machine picks up.
Cordless phone manufacturers anticipated this problem so most of them have a “find headset” button. The problem is that when you press it, all of the phones will beep, not just the ones which are missing. But it is better than nothing. This week I have been trying something new. Each morning I try to locate all of the missing phones and put them where they belong. Today was a good day. I found all but one phone, and also found 2 socks, a pair of glasses, a television remote and a set of car keys.
Losing the television remote is a serious problem. Why don’t they make a button on the TV that you can push that will make the remote beep or something? I couldn’t find the remote to our basement TV last night and I had to try to figure out how to use the TV set manually. I was able to turn the power on, but I couldn’t find any other buttons. I have an Instruction Manual but who knows where it is? After 30 minutes I gave up and read a book. It was a tough night.
One of the Holiday Season catalogues advertised a Whistle Remote Control Finder and Locator. If you can’t find your remote, you blow this whistle that comes with the set and your remote beeps so you can find it. I was going to buy one but I was afraid that I would just lose the whistle. Then I would have to buy another whistle to find the Whistle Remote Control Finder and Locator. My brothers and I used to watch reruns of “The Three Stooges” late at night and we always laughed at the commercials for “The Clapper” (Clap on! Clap off!). It showed an elderly couple walking into their dark bedroom. They clap and the lights turn on. Then after they climb into bed they clap again and the lights turn off. The technology is crude, but there is no whistle to lose. I almost always know where my hands are.
Ten or fifteen years from now, I expect we will have voice-activated technology to find things around the house. Missing your keys? Say “Car keys!” A robotic voice will say “Your keys are on the sofa under the red and blue pillow!” They could even make it a game for the kids. Your son could say “Where is the numbchuck for my Wii?” The voice would say, “It’s in your room. . . you are getting warmer. . . no, now you’re colder. . . now you are burning up!”
But until then, I will just have to hope the remote shows up. I did decide to get the Whistle Remote Control Finder and Locator after all. But I have no idea where I put the catalogue. In desperation I clapped my hands. It was worth a try. A robotic voice said “You threw me away before Christmas but another catalogue should arrive next week. You can find the Remote Control Finder on page 43.” I am definitely going to buy one of them.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife and 74 cordless phones.
With so many phones, you would think we would always be able to find one when somebody calls. But the biggest advantage of a cordless phone – that you can talk on it and carry it all over the house – is also its biggest disadvantage. It is embarrassing how often we don’t find a phone before the answering machine picks up.
Cordless phone manufacturers anticipated this problem so most of them have a “find headset” button. The problem is that when you press it, all of the phones will beep, not just the ones which are missing. But it is better than nothing. This week I have been trying something new. Each morning I try to locate all of the missing phones and put them where they belong. Today was a good day. I found all but one phone, and also found 2 socks, a pair of glasses, a television remote and a set of car keys.
Losing the television remote is a serious problem. Why don’t they make a button on the TV that you can push that will make the remote beep or something? I couldn’t find the remote to our basement TV last night and I had to try to figure out how to use the TV set manually. I was able to turn the power on, but I couldn’t find any other buttons. I have an Instruction Manual but who knows where it is? After 30 minutes I gave up and read a book. It was a tough night.
One of the Holiday Season catalogues advertised a Whistle Remote Control Finder and Locator. If you can’t find your remote, you blow this whistle that comes with the set and your remote beeps so you can find it. I was going to buy one but I was afraid that I would just lose the whistle. Then I would have to buy another whistle to find the Whistle Remote Control Finder and Locator. My brothers and I used to watch reruns of “The Three Stooges” late at night and we always laughed at the commercials for “The Clapper” (Clap on! Clap off!). It showed an elderly couple walking into their dark bedroom. They clap and the lights turn on. Then after they climb into bed they clap again and the lights turn off. The technology is crude, but there is no whistle to lose. I almost always know where my hands are.
Ten or fifteen years from now, I expect we will have voice-activated technology to find things around the house. Missing your keys? Say “Car keys!” A robotic voice will say “Your keys are on the sofa under the red and blue pillow!” They could even make it a game for the kids. Your son could say “Where is the numbchuck for my Wii?” The voice would say, “It’s in your room. . . you are getting warmer. . . no, now you’re colder. . . now you are burning up!”
But until then, I will just have to hope the remote shows up. I did decide to get the Whistle Remote Control Finder and Locator after all. But I have no idea where I put the catalogue. In desperation I clapped my hands. It was worth a try. A robotic voice said “You threw me away before Christmas but another catalogue should arrive next week. You can find the Remote Control Finder on page 43.” I am definitely going to buy one of them.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife and 74 cordless phones.
My favorite television show is “24.” Each episode is one hour (less commercial time) and documents one hour of “real time” in the lives of its characters. The show’s hero, Jack Bauer, is a super-agent who works for the Counter-Terrorism Unit (CTU) in Los Angeles. A tormented soul, Jack has many talents and a determination that allow him to save the world in 24 hours.
The time is periodically flashed on the screen during each episode to help you follow Jack’s day. This week’s episode took place between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. Here is what happened in the first half hour:
4:01:23 Jack is tortured by terrorists and they break both of his arms.
4:05:36 Jack’s arms heal, and he manages to escape after killing 3 terrorists.
4:09:12 Jack uploads the information from one of the terrorist’s cell phones to CTU headquarters, then calls his sister in Brazil on their cell phone. Since she is not part of their Family and Friends plan, he hopes to run up a huge bill that will cripple the terror financial network.
4:15:46 CTU finds information on the captured cell phone that reveals where other terrorists are. Jack goes there, captures the bad guys, then cracks the encryption code on their computer which reveals the location of a “nucular” device.
4:22:03 On his way to find the bomb, Jack passes a piano store. He goes in, and plays Chopin’s Minute Waltz in 30 seconds. He and the beautiful female store owner fall in love instantly. He tells her he has to leave, but he will come back. “I promise,” he says.
4:27:28 CTU calls and says that Jack is two miles from the bomb, and the bomb is set to go off in 5 minutes. Jack hops on the freeway, drives the 2 miles, finds the bomb, and dismantles it, just in time.
It was at this point that I stood up from the sofa and yelled to no one in particular, “That could never happen!” My wife came in the room to see what was wrong. “This week is just too hard to believe!” I screamed. “I used to live in LA. There is no way he could drive 2 miles on the freeway at 4 o’clock in the afternoon in 5 minutes!” You can only suspend disbelief so much.
I also like to watch CSI. It has been so successful that they keep creating new ones in different cities each year. I think there are 34 of them on this year. I feel sorry for the writers because they are running out of cities to host the program. I know this because I saw that next year they are adding CSI Idaho Falls. So as a public service, I have come up with some new shows they might consider:
CSI Boulder – Detectives from New York are brought into Boulder. Each episode, they try to sniff out criminals who are violating the city’s “No Smoking Anytime Anywhere” ordinance. To make it more challenging, they must ride around on bicycles, become vegetarians, attend a class from Ward Churchill and use 18th century crime solving techniques like the other Boulder detectives.
CSI Baseball – Forensic urologists examine the urine of famous baseball players to check for illegal substances. Time is of the essence because they are trying to catch Barry Bonds before he breaks Hank Aaron’ all time home run record.
CSI Washington D.C. – Meteorologists try to find the source of the mysterious pockets of hot air which continuously hover over the city. They try to determine how much global warming is caused by this phenomenon.
CSI Anna Nicole Smith – Most people are probably not aware that this American treasure passed away recently. The news coverage has been sparse, and I am sure everyone is anxious to learn more details about her life and death.
If any of the CSI television producers are reading this, please call me because I have even more ideas for you.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife and DVR.
The time is periodically flashed on the screen during each episode to help you follow Jack’s day. This week’s episode took place between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. Here is what happened in the first half hour:
4:01:23 Jack is tortured by terrorists and they break both of his arms.
4:05:36 Jack’s arms heal, and he manages to escape after killing 3 terrorists.
4:09:12 Jack uploads the information from one of the terrorist’s cell phones to CTU headquarters, then calls his sister in Brazil on their cell phone. Since she is not part of their Family and Friends plan, he hopes to run up a huge bill that will cripple the terror financial network.
4:15:46 CTU finds information on the captured cell phone that reveals where other terrorists are. Jack goes there, captures the bad guys, then cracks the encryption code on their computer which reveals the location of a “nucular” device.
4:22:03 On his way to find the bomb, Jack passes a piano store. He goes in, and plays Chopin’s Minute Waltz in 30 seconds. He and the beautiful female store owner fall in love instantly. He tells her he has to leave, but he will come back. “I promise,” he says.
4:27:28 CTU calls and says that Jack is two miles from the bomb, and the bomb is set to go off in 5 minutes. Jack hops on the freeway, drives the 2 miles, finds the bomb, and dismantles it, just in time.
It was at this point that I stood up from the sofa and yelled to no one in particular, “That could never happen!” My wife came in the room to see what was wrong. “This week is just too hard to believe!” I screamed. “I used to live in LA. There is no way he could drive 2 miles on the freeway at 4 o’clock in the afternoon in 5 minutes!” You can only suspend disbelief so much.
I also like to watch CSI. It has been so successful that they keep creating new ones in different cities each year. I think there are 34 of them on this year. I feel sorry for the writers because they are running out of cities to host the program. I know this because I saw that next year they are adding CSI Idaho Falls. So as a public service, I have come up with some new shows they might consider:
CSI Boulder – Detectives from New York are brought into Boulder. Each episode, they try to sniff out criminals who are violating the city’s “No Smoking Anytime Anywhere” ordinance. To make it more challenging, they must ride around on bicycles, become vegetarians, attend a class from Ward Churchill and use 18th century crime solving techniques like the other Boulder detectives.
CSI Baseball – Forensic urologists examine the urine of famous baseball players to check for illegal substances. Time is of the essence because they are trying to catch Barry Bonds before he breaks Hank Aaron’ all time home run record.
CSI Washington D.C. – Meteorologists try to find the source of the mysterious pockets of hot air which continuously hover over the city. They try to determine how much global warming is caused by this phenomenon.
CSI Anna Nicole Smith – Most people are probably not aware that this American treasure passed away recently. The news coverage has been sparse, and I am sure everyone is anxious to learn more details about her life and death.
If any of the CSI television producers are reading this, please call me because I have even more ideas for you.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife and DVR.
All of the major religions have pretty much the same advice for husbands relating to their wives. Those of us who believe in the Bible can find this commandment in Deuteronomy: “Thou shalt not speak poorly of thy wife’s horse, nor her cart, neither anything relating to navigating thy way around town, nor anything having to do with how she drives an automobile, lest thou be smitten with a curse.”
I learned this early in our marriage. My wife Mary called me at work one day to say she had run out of gas on the freeway. She had pulled over to the shoulder but cars were going past her at 65 miles per hour. After we returned home, I lectured her about the importance of always checking the gas gauge and other indicators on the dashboard. I thought she deserved the scolding.
The next morning – THE VERY NEXT MORNING – I ran out of gas in my car on the way to work! I know I always check my gas gauge so I am sure that this Eternal Law mentioned in Deuteronomy cursed my gas tank overnight. Since then I have been careful not to criticize Mary’s driving out loud.
Recently I learned the hard way that this commandment also applies to THINKING ill of her driving skills.
In March we drove to Las Vegas for a long weekend. Since I have MS, Mary does virtually all of the driving. That gives me lots of free time to critique her. On this trip we had to find our way around a strange city and she missed quite a few turns. I was careful not to say anything out loud, but I did think some critical things. Apparently the commandment doesn’t allow husbands to even THINK negative thoughts about their wives’ driving.
The Mapquest directions for driving home from Las Vegas to Denver are incredibly simple. Once you are on I-15 going north out of Las Vegas there is only one turn in the entire 1000 mile trip to Denver. You go North until you reach the exit for I-70. Then you take I-70 going East to Denver. That’s all there is to it. One turn. You can probably guess where this is going. On the drive home, I drove only one hour, and it was the hour that we came to the exit for I-70.
I missed it.
It wasn’t my fault of course. I blame it on the United States Congress.
You see, we left Las Vegas (which is in the Pacific Time Zone) the day after the clocks changed. We got a note from Hotel management the night before telling us that the clocks in our bedroom were controlled from the front disk and would be set forward one hour, but that the clock in the microwave would NOT be changed. As we were leaving the hotel, we checked the time. The bedroom clocks said 2 pm (PDT) while the microwave said 1 pm (PST). I decided to change my watch to Mountain Time since that is where we would be at the end of the day, so I changed my watch to 3 pm (MDT).
We got in the car and it said 2 pm (MST). We couldn’t change it because we couldn’t find a pencil or paper clip to press in the little button on the dashboard. I had calculated when we left that it would take us about 4 hours to reach the I-70 exit. Mary drove for 3 hours then I took over. I tried to try to figure out when we should be reaching I-70. The clock in the car said 6 pm. We left Las Vegas at 2 pm (or was it 1pm?). And that was Pacific Time. The car clock was Mountain Time but I hadn’t moved it ahead (or was I supposed to set it back an hour?). So how long had we been driving? My watch said 7 pm, the car said 6 pm. When we left Las Vegas, it was either 1 or 2 pm Pacific Time, so what time was it Mountain Time? I was so busy thinking about this that I didn’t notice I had missed the I-70 turnoff.
I felt like I was living in a story problem. (A husband and his wife leave Las Vegas traveling North at 70miles an hour. If it is 280 miles to the turnoff to I-70, how long will it take them to get there? If the husband doesn’t notice the exit and travels 35 miles before turning around, how much extra time did he add to their trip? When they stop at a gas station where a 17 year-old boy with pimples is working, should the husband ask him which way I-70 is, or should he make his wife do it? What reassuring things should the wife say to restore her husband’s self-esteem?)
But it is Congress’ fault that I missed the turn. If they hadn’t moved the change to Daylight Savings Time up to early March, I wouldn’t have been thinking about the time instead of watching the road signs.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton, Colorado with his wife Mary,
I learned this early in our marriage. My wife Mary called me at work one day to say she had run out of gas on the freeway. She had pulled over to the shoulder but cars were going past her at 65 miles per hour. After we returned home, I lectured her about the importance of always checking the gas gauge and other indicators on the dashboard. I thought she deserved the scolding.
The next morning – THE VERY NEXT MORNING – I ran out of gas in my car on the way to work! I know I always check my gas gauge so I am sure that this Eternal Law mentioned in Deuteronomy cursed my gas tank overnight. Since then I have been careful not to criticize Mary’s driving out loud.
Recently I learned the hard way that this commandment also applies to THINKING ill of her driving skills.
In March we drove to Las Vegas for a long weekend. Since I have MS, Mary does virtually all of the driving. That gives me lots of free time to critique her. On this trip we had to find our way around a strange city and she missed quite a few turns. I was careful not to say anything out loud, but I did think some critical things. Apparently the commandment doesn’t allow husbands to even THINK negative thoughts about their wives’ driving.
The Mapquest directions for driving home from Las Vegas to Denver are incredibly simple. Once you are on I-15 going north out of Las Vegas there is only one turn in the entire 1000 mile trip to Denver. You go North until you reach the exit for I-70. Then you take I-70 going East to Denver. That’s all there is to it. One turn. You can probably guess where this is going. On the drive home, I drove only one hour, and it was the hour that we came to the exit for I-70.
I missed it.
It wasn’t my fault of course. I blame it on the United States Congress.
You see, we left Las Vegas (which is in the Pacific Time Zone) the day after the clocks changed. We got a note from Hotel management the night before telling us that the clocks in our bedroom were controlled from the front disk and would be set forward one hour, but that the clock in the microwave would NOT be changed. As we were leaving the hotel, we checked the time. The bedroom clocks said 2 pm (PDT) while the microwave said 1 pm (PST). I decided to change my watch to Mountain Time since that is where we would be at the end of the day, so I changed my watch to 3 pm (MDT).
We got in the car and it said 2 pm (MST). We couldn’t change it because we couldn’t find a pencil or paper clip to press in the little button on the dashboard. I had calculated when we left that it would take us about 4 hours to reach the I-70 exit. Mary drove for 3 hours then I took over. I tried to try to figure out when we should be reaching I-70. The clock in the car said 6 pm. We left Las Vegas at 2 pm (or was it 1pm?). And that was Pacific Time. The car clock was Mountain Time but I hadn’t moved it ahead (or was I supposed to set it back an hour?). So how long had we been driving? My watch said 7 pm, the car said 6 pm. When we left Las Vegas, it was either 1 or 2 pm Pacific Time, so what time was it Mountain Time? I was so busy thinking about this that I didn’t notice I had missed the I-70 turnoff.
I felt like I was living in a story problem. (A husband and his wife leave Las Vegas traveling North at 70miles an hour. If it is 280 miles to the turnoff to I-70, how long will it take them to get there? If the husband doesn’t notice the exit and travels 35 miles before turning around, how much extra time did he add to their trip? When they stop at a gas station where a 17 year-old boy with pimples is working, should the husband ask him which way I-70 is, or should he make his wife do it? What reassuring things should the wife say to restore her husband’s self-esteem?)
But it is Congress’ fault that I missed the turn. If they hadn’t moved the change to Daylight Savings Time up to early March, I wouldn’t have been thinking about the time instead of watching the road signs.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton, Colorado with his wife Mary,
I had to go to the DMV recently and I had a very good time. No – I really did! The highlight was dealing with the woman behind the counter who was gathering personal information. After she had my name, address and telephone number, she looked at me and said:
“I will write down that your eyes are hazel. Is that OK?”
I have no idea what color hazel is, and the only time I have heard anyone describe something as hazel is when they refer to eyes. Everyone says my eyes are hazel, so I said OK.
“How tall are you?”
I hesitated a moment, then said “I used to be 6-3, but I always put 6-4 on my high school basketball program to intimidate the opponents.”
“So how tall are you now?”
“Probably 6-2”
“Let’s compromise and put down 6-3.”
I was really beginning to like this lady.
“How much do you weigh?”
I hesitated again. “I need to start working out. I have lost too much muscle. I probably only weigh 165 pounds.”
“That makes you sound too skinny. What do you think you will weigh if you get yourself into shape?”
“At least 175 or 180.”
“OK, how about if we put down 175?”
“Great, thanks for doing this.”
Then she looked at her form to see what the next question was. She looked at me and asked “What color did your hair used to be?”
This hurt my feelings a little bit. I have hair, but I guess it is mostly gray now. In my mind, I am still 30 years old with light brown hair. “It used to be brown,” I said.
She could tell these questions were hard on my self-image. “How about if I put down brown, but this will be the last time.”
If I get stopped by the police, the photo on my driver license will look like me, but my height, weight and hair color will mostly be what I wished they were.
We allow people to have Vanity License Plates for their cars. Why not let us have vanity driver licenses? For an extra $10 a year our license would list the height and weight we would like to be. And for an extra $25 per year our driver license picture would be what we wished we looked like. My wife would have me put a picture of Rob Lowe on my license. I would have her put a picture of Eva Longoria on hers. (Note to editor: Let’s make sure we get our stories straight. If my wife talks to you, please tell her that I wanted to write that my wife is the most beautiful person I know, so I preferred that she put her own picture on her license. But then you can say that you insisted I put some other name in here because it would be funnier. Thanks in advance.)
I realize that this could cause some problems. If only one person could have a particular picture and I put Rob Lowe on my license, whose picture would he put on his? And if my wife and I committed a crime and were running away from the authorities, what would the police say in their APB? “Be on the lookout for a man who wishes he were 6-3, weighed 175 pounds and looked like Rob Lowe. He is traveling with a woman who wishes she were 5-10 and weighed 120 pounds and looked like Eva Longoria.” We could probably avoid being caught except that our get-away car has vanity license plates that say “LESUEUR.”
David LeSueur lives in Littleton and looks nothing like Rob Lowe or Eva Longoria.
“I will write down that your eyes are hazel. Is that OK?”
I have no idea what color hazel is, and the only time I have heard anyone describe something as hazel is when they refer to eyes. Everyone says my eyes are hazel, so I said OK.
“How tall are you?”
I hesitated a moment, then said “I used to be 6-3, but I always put 6-4 on my high school basketball program to intimidate the opponents.”
“So how tall are you now?”
“Probably 6-2”
“Let’s compromise and put down 6-3.”
I was really beginning to like this lady.
“How much do you weigh?”
I hesitated again. “I need to start working out. I have lost too much muscle. I probably only weigh 165 pounds.”
“That makes you sound too skinny. What do you think you will weigh if you get yourself into shape?”
“At least 175 or 180.”
“OK, how about if we put down 175?”
“Great, thanks for doing this.”
Then she looked at her form to see what the next question was. She looked at me and asked “What color did your hair used to be?”
This hurt my feelings a little bit. I have hair, but I guess it is mostly gray now. In my mind, I am still 30 years old with light brown hair. “It used to be brown,” I said.
She could tell these questions were hard on my self-image. “How about if I put down brown, but this will be the last time.”
If I get stopped by the police, the photo on my driver license will look like me, but my height, weight and hair color will mostly be what I wished they were.
We allow people to have Vanity License Plates for their cars. Why not let us have vanity driver licenses? For an extra $10 a year our license would list the height and weight we would like to be. And for an extra $25 per year our driver license picture would be what we wished we looked like. My wife would have me put a picture of Rob Lowe on my license. I would have her put a picture of Eva Longoria on hers. (Note to editor: Let’s make sure we get our stories straight. If my wife talks to you, please tell her that I wanted to write that my wife is the most beautiful person I know, so I preferred that she put her own picture on her license. But then you can say that you insisted I put some other name in here because it would be funnier. Thanks in advance.)
I realize that this could cause some problems. If only one person could have a particular picture and I put Rob Lowe on my license, whose picture would he put on his? And if my wife and I committed a crime and were running away from the authorities, what would the police say in their APB? “Be on the lookout for a man who wishes he were 6-3, weighed 175 pounds and looked like Rob Lowe. He is traveling with a woman who wishes she were 5-10 and weighed 120 pounds and looked like Eva Longoria.” We could probably avoid being caught except that our get-away car has vanity license plates that say “LESUEUR.”
David LeSueur lives in Littleton and looks nothing like Rob Lowe or Eva Longoria.
The following essay was written by my son Carl.
DRIVING LESSONS WITH DAD
Recollections for Father’s Day
My Dad gave me my first driving lessons when I was five. In those days, we lived in a house situated on a flag lot behind the two neighboring houses, with a long driveway between the lots in front. As daylight seeped away and the air began to cool, my brother Bobby and I, anticipating Dad’s imminent return from work, would go out to play in the front yard. When we spotted the tan Plymouth Duster stopping at the mailbox at the end of the driveway, we would run down to meet Dad.
Dad’s Duster was a relic from Mom and Dad’s college days. The seats were upholstered with perforated black vinyl that burned your skin on hot days. The car had black sports stripes and a long, bulging hood, and its grill bared a wide, steely grin. Looking back, it must have struck our neighbors a little strange that my Dad -- a risk-averse math major -- drove this car that was clearly meant for Steve McQueen or some Tarantino film anti-hero. But there was a time when all cars were muscle cars.
Arriving at the end of the driveway, Dad would tell us whose turn it was to drive and tell us if we got anything in the mail, like a notice that we might have already won $1,000,000. We never understood why Dad didn’t think those notices was so exciting. Growing up and learning the true nature of the promise of Publisher’s Clearinghouse was, I think, more of a disappointment to me than learning the true nature of Santa Claus.
On days when it was my turn to drive, I would sit on his lap with my little hands grasping 5 and 7 o’clock on the leather-wrapped wheel, the hum of the engine tickling my hands as we coasted up the driveway. We would park the car just out of reach of the dropping berries from the mulberry tree, and rush into the house for dinner.
These laptop driving lessons ended, of course, when I got a little bigger and could no longer fit on Dad’s lap. But my driving lessons resumed when I was fifteen. One day, after work, Dad took me over to the parking lot of the neighborhood church. He told me to get behind the wheel. He told me to just guide the car on its automatic coast around the parking lot and to stop from time to time, in order to allow me to get used to the steering wheel and the brake pedal. As we meandered around the light posts in the parking lot, the vibrations from the idling engine that I could feel in my hands and the floor under my feet could have just as easily come from the excitement I felt to enter the gate to the exclusive club of drivers. This was no club for mere boys: it was time to cancel my subscription to Boys’ Life.
Soon thereafter, I got my learner’s permit, and Dad would let me drive home from my basketball games. Sometimes when I was frustrated as a result of my poor play, Dad would drive instead so we could talk about the game. On those nights, he would remind me that my shot was just as good -- if not a better -- than anyone else’s on the team and I shouldn’t get discouraged if I missed a couple. And he believed it. And because he believed it, I did too. Mom was reassuring as well, but I expected Mom to think I was good -- even if Mom could somehow surgically repair the peculiar cataract that causes a hallowed glow to surround her children and obscure their faults, she never played basketball, so she really couldn’t know the difference between When I was playing well and when I was playing poorly. But Dad, was a legitimate player. I had seen him play as the go-to guy on the city recreation league. In fact, once Grandma had pulled me aside and confided in me a fact that Dad would never have told me: Dad was the star basketball player on his high school team, was an academic All-American athlete, and turned down several offers to play in college. So Dad had serious basketball credibility. Besides, he would never tell us we were good at something we aren’t good at. Mom and Dad are really a complementary team in that way -- Mom gives us confidence that we can do anything and Dad gives us direction to something we are actually good at.
Aside from allowing me to drive on trips back from basketball games, Dad also would bring me along on Saturday errands to practice driving. These errands usually followed my early morning driver’s training sessions that the DMV requires you to take with a “certified” driver’s education instructor, who, in my case, turned out to be a disturbing old man who wanted to park the car more than drive it, and had a creepy habit of resting his hand on my knee or shoulder during long expositions on proper driving.
Once I had completed the required hours with the certified instructor (which couldn’t happen to soon), my father was my main driving instructor. One Saturday, driving the family’s big blue Chevy Astro minivan, I forgot to check my blindspot before changing lanes. I sideswiped a low-profile El Camino. There was no real damage: some paint rubbed off the Astro’s bumper onto the other man’s car. My Dad got out and offered the other driver a matter-of-fact apology. The victim of my recklessness shrugged off any damage, saying he would rub the paint off with a rag.
I’m sure with anyone else, the other driver would not have been so nonchalant, but like nearly everyone else, he proved susceptible to Dad’s contagious aura of reasonableness and good humor. In fact, the only person who seems able to resist Dad’s reasonableness is Mom. On occasion, Dad’s reasonableness sometimes caused Mom more grief than she would have felt if he had actually gotten angry. I remember one of their fiercest arguments they ever had was about parking too far away from some restaurant, and even in that discussion, Mom was responsible for the lion’s share of the arguing. In the end, it has probably been the combination of her tenacity and his temperance that has made their marriage -- and our family -- so happy. Without her tenacity we probably wouldn’t have accomplished much, and without his easy-going temperament we probably would not have enjoyed it.
* * *
Around the time I got my license, Dad leased an Acura Legend that was the nicest car we had ever had in our family. Dad commuted 45-minutes each way to his office at the time, and I think the leather seats, automatic temperature setting, CD-player (a novelty in those days) and sunroof made it mostly bearable. I attended seminary for church at 6 in the morning Monday through Friday. Mom would drop me off and Dad would pick me up at 6:45 to drive me to school. Sometimes he would let me drive the way to school. I don’t think school was exactly on the way to his office, but maybe he enjoyed the time together as much as I did. Or maybe it was because it allowed him to stop at Winchell’s donuts for apple-fritters under the pretense of rewarding me for attending seminary. We would listen to “Kevin and Bean in the Morning,” who would make crank calls and read stories from the Weekly World News about things like a psychic who said she could use her spiritual powers to return a woman’s virginity. Those kind of things were really beyond me at that time, but if I had any other father, I expect I would have received a lecture me about how the crass hijinks of Kevin and Bean was not really an appropriate entertainment to follow scripture study. But Dad has a generous sense of humor and a tolerant nature.
Sometimes, if my friend Sam missed the bus we would pick him up on the way to school too. Sam was a kid with quixotic fantasies that he was a hip-hop street-urchin and a baller: in fact, Sam came from a fairly well-to-do Persian family and was a terrible basketball player. I liked Sam because, despite his pretenses, he was pretty innocent and well-meaning. Sam liked to pretend to be annoyed that we didn’t listen to any hip-hop stations. But whenever Stings “Fields of Gold” was playing, he would comment on the “sweet” bass in the Acura Legend’s stereo system, and request that we turn up the volume.
One summer afternoon, I was driving the minivan home from working out with the basketball team. I stopped for fast food on my way home, and ordered one of those fountain drinks that contains enough drink to quench the thirst of a small African village, and secured it between my legs. As I began to pull out of the drive-thru, I noticed that my view to the left was obstructed by a large signpost, so the prospect of turning left was a bit daunting. Mustering all the logic my 16-year old mind could, I determined that my two options were either to just take the chance that there might be something I can’t see and go for it anyway, or spend the rest of my life languishing in a minivan at the end of a drive-thru. Just as I pulled out of the drive-thru and entered the street, I heard a screech of tires. I turned my head, but before I could process what I saw -- SLAM! My head ricocheted off the window and root beer sprayed all over the car and my skinny, shirtless torso.
My Mom’s first questions on the phone were whether I was okay, followed by whether everyone else was okay. She picked me up. A tow truck came to pick up the Astro. She said I would have to be more careful. My Dad, who carried the responsibility for overseeing our finances and auto insurance, really never mentioned anything about the accident.
I was honestly a bit surprised by Mom’s measured response. She later explained why she had been able to be so calm. Apparently Dad had picked her up from a few accidents before, and she was simply echoing his response on those occasions. Dad downplays his ability to keep his cool at these times, telling a story about once when he had sternly given Mom a lecture about filling up the gas tank after he had to take gas to her standing in the emergency lane of an Los Angeles freeway, only to run out of gas on the road himself the two days after. His implication is simply that he was forced to learn, when dealing with someone else’s mistakes the meaning of that phrase: “there, but for the grace of God, go I as well.”
* * *
For the most part my driving record in the years since that accident has been spotless. In fact, living in Manhattan the last four years, I seldom drive at all. But not a day goes by that I don’t use lessons I learned while driving with my Dad.
DRIVING LESSONS WITH DAD
Recollections for Father’s Day
My Dad gave me my first driving lessons when I was five. In those days, we lived in a house situated on a flag lot behind the two neighboring houses, with a long driveway between the lots in front. As daylight seeped away and the air began to cool, my brother Bobby and I, anticipating Dad’s imminent return from work, would go out to play in the front yard. When we spotted the tan Plymouth Duster stopping at the mailbox at the end of the driveway, we would run down to meet Dad.
Dad’s Duster was a relic from Mom and Dad’s college days. The seats were upholstered with perforated black vinyl that burned your skin on hot days. The car had black sports stripes and a long, bulging hood, and its grill bared a wide, steely grin. Looking back, it must have struck our neighbors a little strange that my Dad -- a risk-averse math major -- drove this car that was clearly meant for Steve McQueen or some Tarantino film anti-hero. But there was a time when all cars were muscle cars.
Arriving at the end of the driveway, Dad would tell us whose turn it was to drive and tell us if we got anything in the mail, like a notice that we might have already won $1,000,000. We never understood why Dad didn’t think those notices was so exciting. Growing up and learning the true nature of the promise of Publisher’s Clearinghouse was, I think, more of a disappointment to me than learning the true nature of Santa Claus.
On days when it was my turn to drive, I would sit on his lap with my little hands grasping 5 and 7 o’clock on the leather-wrapped wheel, the hum of the engine tickling my hands as we coasted up the driveway. We would park the car just out of reach of the dropping berries from the mulberry tree, and rush into the house for dinner.
These laptop driving lessons ended, of course, when I got a little bigger and could no longer fit on Dad’s lap. But my driving lessons resumed when I was fifteen. One day, after work, Dad took me over to the parking lot of the neighborhood church. He told me to get behind the wheel. He told me to just guide the car on its automatic coast around the parking lot and to stop from time to time, in order to allow me to get used to the steering wheel and the brake pedal. As we meandered around the light posts in the parking lot, the vibrations from the idling engine that I could feel in my hands and the floor under my feet could have just as easily come from the excitement I felt to enter the gate to the exclusive club of drivers. This was no club for mere boys: it was time to cancel my subscription to Boys’ Life.
Soon thereafter, I got my learner’s permit, and Dad would let me drive home from my basketball games. Sometimes when I was frustrated as a result of my poor play, Dad would drive instead so we could talk about the game. On those nights, he would remind me that my shot was just as good -- if not a better -- than anyone else’s on the team and I shouldn’t get discouraged if I missed a couple. And he believed it. And because he believed it, I did too. Mom was reassuring as well, but I expected Mom to think I was good -- even if Mom could somehow surgically repair the peculiar cataract that causes a hallowed glow to surround her children and obscure their faults, she never played basketball, so she really couldn’t know the difference between When I was playing well and when I was playing poorly. But Dad, was a legitimate player. I had seen him play as the go-to guy on the city recreation league. In fact, once Grandma had pulled me aside and confided in me a fact that Dad would never have told me: Dad was the star basketball player on his high school team, was an academic All-American athlete, and turned down several offers to play in college. So Dad had serious basketball credibility. Besides, he would never tell us we were good at something we aren’t good at. Mom and Dad are really a complementary team in that way -- Mom gives us confidence that we can do anything and Dad gives us direction to something we are actually good at.
Aside from allowing me to drive on trips back from basketball games, Dad also would bring me along on Saturday errands to practice driving. These errands usually followed my early morning driver’s training sessions that the DMV requires you to take with a “certified” driver’s education instructor, who, in my case, turned out to be a disturbing old man who wanted to park the car more than drive it, and had a creepy habit of resting his hand on my knee or shoulder during long expositions on proper driving.
Once I had completed the required hours with the certified instructor (which couldn’t happen to soon), my father was my main driving instructor. One Saturday, driving the family’s big blue Chevy Astro minivan, I forgot to check my blindspot before changing lanes. I sideswiped a low-profile El Camino. There was no real damage: some paint rubbed off the Astro’s bumper onto the other man’s car. My Dad got out and offered the other driver a matter-of-fact apology. The victim of my recklessness shrugged off any damage, saying he would rub the paint off with a rag.
I’m sure with anyone else, the other driver would not have been so nonchalant, but like nearly everyone else, he proved susceptible to Dad’s contagious aura of reasonableness and good humor. In fact, the only person who seems able to resist Dad’s reasonableness is Mom. On occasion, Dad’s reasonableness sometimes caused Mom more grief than she would have felt if he had actually gotten angry. I remember one of their fiercest arguments they ever had was about parking too far away from some restaurant, and even in that discussion, Mom was responsible for the lion’s share of the arguing. In the end, it has probably been the combination of her tenacity and his temperance that has made their marriage -- and our family -- so happy. Without her tenacity we probably wouldn’t have accomplished much, and without his easy-going temperament we probably would not have enjoyed it.
* * *
Around the time I got my license, Dad leased an Acura Legend that was the nicest car we had ever had in our family. Dad commuted 45-minutes each way to his office at the time, and I think the leather seats, automatic temperature setting, CD-player (a novelty in those days) and sunroof made it mostly bearable. I attended seminary for church at 6 in the morning Monday through Friday. Mom would drop me off and Dad would pick me up at 6:45 to drive me to school. Sometimes he would let me drive the way to school. I don’t think school was exactly on the way to his office, but maybe he enjoyed the time together as much as I did. Or maybe it was because it allowed him to stop at Winchell’s donuts for apple-fritters under the pretense of rewarding me for attending seminary. We would listen to “Kevin and Bean in the Morning,” who would make crank calls and read stories from the Weekly World News about things like a psychic who said she could use her spiritual powers to return a woman’s virginity. Those kind of things were really beyond me at that time, but if I had any other father, I expect I would have received a lecture me about how the crass hijinks of Kevin and Bean was not really an appropriate entertainment to follow scripture study. But Dad has a generous sense of humor and a tolerant nature.
Sometimes, if my friend Sam missed the bus we would pick him up on the way to school too. Sam was a kid with quixotic fantasies that he was a hip-hop street-urchin and a baller: in fact, Sam came from a fairly well-to-do Persian family and was a terrible basketball player. I liked Sam because, despite his pretenses, he was pretty innocent and well-meaning. Sam liked to pretend to be annoyed that we didn’t listen to any hip-hop stations. But whenever Stings “Fields of Gold” was playing, he would comment on the “sweet” bass in the Acura Legend’s stereo system, and request that we turn up the volume.
One summer afternoon, I was driving the minivan home from working out with the basketball team. I stopped for fast food on my way home, and ordered one of those fountain drinks that contains enough drink to quench the thirst of a small African village, and secured it between my legs. As I began to pull out of the drive-thru, I noticed that my view to the left was obstructed by a large signpost, so the prospect of turning left was a bit daunting. Mustering all the logic my 16-year old mind could, I determined that my two options were either to just take the chance that there might be something I can’t see and go for it anyway, or spend the rest of my life languishing in a minivan at the end of a drive-thru. Just as I pulled out of the drive-thru and entered the street, I heard a screech of tires. I turned my head, but before I could process what I saw -- SLAM! My head ricocheted off the window and root beer sprayed all over the car and my skinny, shirtless torso.
My Mom’s first questions on the phone were whether I was okay, followed by whether everyone else was okay. She picked me up. A tow truck came to pick up the Astro. She said I would have to be more careful. My Dad, who carried the responsibility for overseeing our finances and auto insurance, really never mentioned anything about the accident.
I was honestly a bit surprised by Mom’s measured response. She later explained why she had been able to be so calm. Apparently Dad had picked her up from a few accidents before, and she was simply echoing his response on those occasions. Dad downplays his ability to keep his cool at these times, telling a story about once when he had sternly given Mom a lecture about filling up the gas tank after he had to take gas to her standing in the emergency lane of an Los Angeles freeway, only to run out of gas on the road himself the two days after. His implication is simply that he was forced to learn, when dealing with someone else’s mistakes the meaning of that phrase: “there, but for the grace of God, go I as well.”
* * *
For the most part my driving record in the years since that accident has been spotless. In fact, living in Manhattan the last four years, I seldom drive at all. But not a day goes by that I don’t use lessons I learned while driving with my Dad.
Sometimes a Plastic Grocery Bag is Better Than an Easter Basket
Easter Services at my church were outstanding. The music was beautiful and inspiring. The sermons were uplifting. But the main lesson I learned had nothing to do with Easter. The religious leader Spencer W. Kimball once said, “God does notice us, and He watches over us. But, it is usually through another person that He meets our needs.” During church I witnessed a messy, yet simple example of that principle.
There were about 250 people at church on Easter. We sit in pews that are arranged in rows in front of the pulpit. About 5 rows from the front on the right hand side, a little boy suddenly got sick. I looked up when I heard the commotion and saw Amy, the boy’s mother, pick him up to carry him to the back of the church. He was throwing up pretty violently and Amy was trying to catch as much as she could in one hand.
I was sitting about 10 rows behind her and I am embarrassed to say that my first thought was about a nickname my brothers and I had for this kind of event when we were kids – “upchucking.” There is a restaurant chain in Utah and Idaho with the unfortunate name of Chuck-A-Rama Buffet. It uses the western chuck wagon as its logo. We thought it was hilarious to refer to it as “Upchuck-A-Rama.” While I amused myself, others sprung into action.
Amy had only walked two rows up the aisle when Dixie, who was seated on the end of her row, held out a plastic King Soopers bag and handed it to Amy. Amy took the bag gratefully and held it up to her son’s mouth. A couple of women followed her to the restroom to help, while two men left the chapel as well. One of them returned with paper towels to clean up the mess, while the other brought back the baking soda from the church kitchen. Another mother soon took the rest of Amy’s children to join their brother and mother. Meanwhile, church continued as most people were unaware of the small drama that had just taken place.
I wondered afterwards why Dixie had a plastic grocery bag with her. She didn’t have small children. It’s unlikely she had done her grocery shopping before church and had brought the groceries in with her. Maybe all women carry a plastic bag with them just in case and men just don’t know about it. I called her a few days later to find out the story. It turns out that she was going to baby sit in the Church nursery after the Easter service and had candy for the kids in the bag.
It was a pretty miserable morning for Amy and her son. It might console her to know that I learned something from her experience. My personal philosophy on adversity can be summed up in two sentences: First, adversity is an inevitable part of life, so I might as well learn something from it. And second, I always prefer learning from someone else’s adversity rather than my own! Sorry Amy.
Life is often just like Amy’s morning. We plan to do something wonderful but something bad happens and gets in the way. The problem is all-consuming to us, but most people are unaware of our problem. Some see the crisis but aren’t sure what to do. Some see the crisis and have juvenile thoughts about a restaurant’s name. But some people act. They comfort us. They help us physically. They clean up after us. And if we are lucky, there will be someone on the aisle who has a spare plastic grocery bag when we need it the most.
Easter Services at my church were outstanding. The music was beautiful and inspiring. The sermons were uplifting. But the main lesson I learned had nothing to do with Easter. The religious leader Spencer W. Kimball once said, “God does notice us, and He watches over us. But, it is usually through another person that He meets our needs.” During church I witnessed a messy, yet simple example of that principle.
There were about 250 people at church on Easter. We sit in pews that are arranged in rows in front of the pulpit. About 5 rows from the front on the right hand side, a little boy suddenly got sick. I looked up when I heard the commotion and saw Amy, the boy’s mother, pick him up to carry him to the back of the church. He was throwing up pretty violently and Amy was trying to catch as much as she could in one hand.
I was sitting about 10 rows behind her and I am embarrassed to say that my first thought was about a nickname my brothers and I had for this kind of event when we were kids – “upchucking.” There is a restaurant chain in Utah and Idaho with the unfortunate name of Chuck-A-Rama Buffet. It uses the western chuck wagon as its logo. We thought it was hilarious to refer to it as “Upchuck-A-Rama.” While I amused myself, others sprung into action.
Amy had only walked two rows up the aisle when Dixie, who was seated on the end of her row, held out a plastic King Soopers bag and handed it to Amy. Amy took the bag gratefully and held it up to her son’s mouth. A couple of women followed her to the restroom to help, while two men left the chapel as well. One of them returned with paper towels to clean up the mess, while the other brought back the baking soda from the church kitchen. Another mother soon took the rest of Amy’s children to join their brother and mother. Meanwhile, church continued as most people were unaware of the small drama that had just taken place.
I wondered afterwards why Dixie had a plastic grocery bag with her. She didn’t have small children. It’s unlikely she had done her grocery shopping before church and had brought the groceries in with her. Maybe all women carry a plastic bag with them just in case and men just don’t know about it. I called her a few days later to find out the story. It turns out that she was going to baby sit in the Church nursery after the Easter service and had candy for the kids in the bag.
It was a pretty miserable morning for Amy and her son. It might console her to know that I learned something from her experience. My personal philosophy on adversity can be summed up in two sentences: First, adversity is an inevitable part of life, so I might as well learn something from it. And second, I always prefer learning from someone else’s adversity rather than my own! Sorry Amy.
Life is often just like Amy’s morning. We plan to do something wonderful but something bad happens and gets in the way. The problem is all-consuming to us, but most people are unaware of our problem. Some see the crisis but aren’t sure what to do. Some see the crisis and have juvenile thoughts about a restaurant’s name. But some people act. They comfort us. They help us physically. They clean up after us. And if we are lucky, there will be someone on the aisle who has a spare plastic grocery bag when we need it the most.
Like people all over Denver, we were stuck at home during a recent snowstorm. The main roads were pretty clear, but even if we had been able to get out of our driveway, we still could not have maneuvered our way through the cul-de-sac. My wife and I decided this would be a good opportunity to read our list of home projects on our “To-Do List.” We also decided we would rather read the list than do anything on the list. So my wife turned on the TV and watched “Trading Spaces” on the Home and Garden TV Network. That only lasted 1 ½ hours because she discovered that they only have filmed three episodes – they just show them over and over again on different cable stations. I preferred doing something more intellectually stimulating - I watched old episodes of “Deal or No Deal” that I had recorded.
Our boredom was interrupted by a phone call from our next-door neighbor. She was in the middle of preparing dinner and didn’t have enough spaghetti for the whole family and of course there was no way she could go to a store. We had several packages, so she came over to get one. It occurred to me that it might be useful to know what essentials all of our neighbors had so that in case of emergency, we would know which neighbor to go to for which item. There are 12 houses on our street, so if we each contributed just 4 items, there would be almost 50 items available on this emergency list. Here are the four I came up with from our house.
1. Mustard. We were asked to bring condiments for a hot dog dinner at Church a few years ago. We grossly overestimated how much mustard people would use on their hot dogs, so we barely made a dent in the 2 gallon jar we bought from Costco. Of course, that was the smallest container Costco had. I checked the expiration date on the bottle: it was Apr 96. But it is probably still OK. They are very conservative with those dates because they want you to have to buy a new bottle. I cleaned off the green moldy stuff from the top, so it should taste fine.
2. Christmas wrapping paper. We bought a lot of it for a school fundraiser six years ago, but we rarely use it anymore. It is much easier to place presents in those Christmas bags. No cutting, no tape, no fuss. If you save the bags, you can even use them the next year. Just cross out the “To” and “From” names and put in the new ones.
3. Old Spice After-shave Lotion. It is always hard to think of presents for your parents, but my kids must think I have some hygiene issues. How else can I explain the three bottles of Old Spice that I have received the last 3 years for Christmas? They did come up with another idea last year, but my wife had already given me nose and ear hair clippers in 2005 for Valentine’s Day.
4. #2 Pencils. Our daughter ran for some high school student body office 15 years ago, and she campaigned by giving out pencils that said “Vote for Stephanie” on them. She overestimated how many she would need, so we still have a lot of them in the house. If she had been named Pedro, those pencils would be very popular now.
Now if each of our neighbors is willing to share four items they have a surplus of, then our block will be prepared to survive almost any emergency. In case of a really prolonged disaster, I also have a two week supply of Pop Tarts.
Our boredom was interrupted by a phone call from our next-door neighbor. She was in the middle of preparing dinner and didn’t have enough spaghetti for the whole family and of course there was no way she could go to a store. We had several packages, so she came over to get one. It occurred to me that it might be useful to know what essentials all of our neighbors had so that in case of emergency, we would know which neighbor to go to for which item. There are 12 houses on our street, so if we each contributed just 4 items, there would be almost 50 items available on this emergency list. Here are the four I came up with from our house.
1. Mustard. We were asked to bring condiments for a hot dog dinner at Church a few years ago. We grossly overestimated how much mustard people would use on their hot dogs, so we barely made a dent in the 2 gallon jar we bought from Costco. Of course, that was the smallest container Costco had. I checked the expiration date on the bottle: it was Apr 96. But it is probably still OK. They are very conservative with those dates because they want you to have to buy a new bottle. I cleaned off the green moldy stuff from the top, so it should taste fine.
2. Christmas wrapping paper. We bought a lot of it for a school fundraiser six years ago, but we rarely use it anymore. It is much easier to place presents in those Christmas bags. No cutting, no tape, no fuss. If you save the bags, you can even use them the next year. Just cross out the “To” and “From” names and put in the new ones.
3. Old Spice After-shave Lotion. It is always hard to think of presents for your parents, but my kids must think I have some hygiene issues. How else can I explain the three bottles of Old Spice that I have received the last 3 years for Christmas? They did come up with another idea last year, but my wife had already given me nose and ear hair clippers in 2005 for Valentine’s Day.
4. #2 Pencils. Our daughter ran for some high school student body office 15 years ago, and she campaigned by giving out pencils that said “Vote for Stephanie” on them. She overestimated how many she would need, so we still have a lot of them in the house. If she had been named Pedro, those pencils would be very popular now.
Now if each of our neighbors is willing to share four items they have a surplus of, then our block will be prepared to survive almost any emergency. In case of a really prolonged disaster, I also have a two week supply of Pop Tarts.
I received an email recently from my friend Curtis inviting me to be his friend on Facebook. I was suspicious.
You see, we are both closer to the Social Security retirement age than we are to the legal drinking age. And though we are both computer and internet savvy, you wouldn’t normally associate us with something like Facebook. I wondered if this email was really from him. I have watched enough television news to know that you have to be wary of sexual predators on the internet. What if the email was from a 12 year-old girl pretending to be Curtis? Or what if the email was from a guy in Nigeria who wanted to steal my identity? Maybe if I clicked on the link he would steal my credit card numbers and my entire 401(k) account.
I decided to call Curtis, just to be safe. He confirmed to me that he had just joined Facebook and had invited me to be his friend, though he wasn’t sure yet what that meant. I opened his email and clicked on the link. A mere 2 ½ hours later I finished signing up as his friend. That was 3 weeks ago. We haven’t spoken since. I am not sure what is supposed to happen next. Will he send me a message to go look at his Facebook page? Or am I supposed to go there periodically to see if he has a message for me? I was going to call him about something but I was afraid he might be mad at me for not ever checking Facebook.
Then I had a brilliant idea - I would send him a text message! That way I could communicate with him without risking actually talking to him. I could just pretend he wasn’t angry with me. I decided to tell him in my text that my internet wasn’t working in case he was wondering why I hadn’t been to his Facebook page. Now I just needed to learn how to send a text message.
A few days ago I asked my niece Marissa to teach me. She can text 416 words per minute and has calluses on her thumbs. Yesterday I decided to send her a test text message, but I couldn’t find my cell phone. I don’t use it much. Last month my usage was 3 minutes. I only received two phone calls, both of them wrong numbers. I tried calling my cell phone, hoping I would hear it ring, but of course it’s battery was dead. Eventually I found it. It took me only 20 minutes to type the following message:
HI MARISsa how are lol you unCle daVID
I sent the text, then called Marissa to see if she had received it. She is 15, so naturally she had her cell phone with her and turned on. Yes, she said, she got my message. I quickly ended the phone call because it felt like cheating to actually talk out loud. I didn’t even find out how she was LOL.
I started to compose my message to Curtis when I realized I didn’t have his cell phone number! Maybe I could write him a letter instead. Unfortunately we don’t have stationery and writing on computer paper seemed impersonal. I checked in our folder where we keep greeting cards for a variety of occasions. I found two birthday cards, three thank you notes and an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party. None of them seemed appropriate. We also had some blank cards but they all had girly flowers on the front. So I won’t be sending him anything in the mail.
I am stumped as to my next step. Curtis, if you are reading this and aren’t too mad at me, instead of being friends on Facebook, can we be friends in real life?
David LeSueur lives in Littleton. If you would like to be his friend, please call him. No text messages accepted.
You see, we are both closer to the Social Security retirement age than we are to the legal drinking age. And though we are both computer and internet savvy, you wouldn’t normally associate us with something like Facebook. I wondered if this email was really from him. I have watched enough television news to know that you have to be wary of sexual predators on the internet. What if the email was from a 12 year-old girl pretending to be Curtis? Or what if the email was from a guy in Nigeria who wanted to steal my identity? Maybe if I clicked on the link he would steal my credit card numbers and my entire 401(k) account.
I decided to call Curtis, just to be safe. He confirmed to me that he had just joined Facebook and had invited me to be his friend, though he wasn’t sure yet what that meant. I opened his email and clicked on the link. A mere 2 ½ hours later I finished signing up as his friend. That was 3 weeks ago. We haven’t spoken since. I am not sure what is supposed to happen next. Will he send me a message to go look at his Facebook page? Or am I supposed to go there periodically to see if he has a message for me? I was going to call him about something but I was afraid he might be mad at me for not ever checking Facebook.
Then I had a brilliant idea - I would send him a text message! That way I could communicate with him without risking actually talking to him. I could just pretend he wasn’t angry with me. I decided to tell him in my text that my internet wasn’t working in case he was wondering why I hadn’t been to his Facebook page. Now I just needed to learn how to send a text message.
A few days ago I asked my niece Marissa to teach me. She can text 416 words per minute and has calluses on her thumbs. Yesterday I decided to send her a test text message, but I couldn’t find my cell phone. I don’t use it much. Last month my usage was 3 minutes. I only received two phone calls, both of them wrong numbers. I tried calling my cell phone, hoping I would hear it ring, but of course it’s battery was dead. Eventually I found it. It took me only 20 minutes to type the following message:
HI MARISsa how are lol you unCle daVID
I sent the text, then called Marissa to see if she had received it. She is 15, so naturally she had her cell phone with her and turned on. Yes, she said, she got my message. I quickly ended the phone call because it felt like cheating to actually talk out loud. I didn’t even find out how she was LOL.
I started to compose my message to Curtis when I realized I didn’t have his cell phone number! Maybe I could write him a letter instead. Unfortunately we don’t have stationery and writing on computer paper seemed impersonal. I checked in our folder where we keep greeting cards for a variety of occasions. I found two birthday cards, three thank you notes and an invitation to a New Year’s Eve party. None of them seemed appropriate. We also had some blank cards but they all had girly flowers on the front. So I won’t be sending him anything in the mail.
I am stumped as to my next step. Curtis, if you are reading this and aren’t too mad at me, instead of being friends on Facebook, can we be friends in real life?
David LeSueur lives in Littleton. If you would like to be his friend, please call him. No text messages accepted.
The Faith of a Sesame Seed Bun
My oldest son Carl was born one week after a performance appraisal at work, so when we brought him home from the hospital I was in a goal-setting frame of mind. If setting objectives could help at work, I reasoned they should also help me be a better father. I hoped that someday God would rate my fatherly performance as “Exceeding Expectations.” Since He didn’t have quarterly profit margins to meet, I expected He would be more merciful than my supervisor at work. To help God make His evaluation, I needed to have some specific, measurable goals. I decided I would like to teach Carl to:
1. Believe in God
2. Be nice to other people
3. Root for the Rockies
My first challenge with goal #1 came when Carl was four. He almost lost his faith over a McDonald’s hamburger.
We brought home some dinner from McDonalds and Carl was too full to finish his hamburger. He asked us to save it for later. We wrapped it up, and put it in the refrigerator. By the time I noticed the hamburger a few days later, it was stale so I threw it in the garbage. Unfortunately Carl caught me in the act.
“Dad,” he cried, “why are you throwing my hamburger away?”
He was pretty angry, but I saw this as an opportunity to teach him something and have a good father-son talk. I had seen it work many times in fast food commercials.
“Carl, you wouldn’t even want to eat this because it is stale. See?” I held out the hamburger and invited him to touch it. “When food gets left out, the air makes it hard like a rock.”
“But dad, why does the air make hamburgers turn into a rock?”
I tried several explanations, but Carl always came back with “Why?” Finally, I said “Because that is how God made the world.” Carl began crying again.
“Now what’s the matter?” I asked.
“I’m mad at God because he turned my hamburger into a rock!”
Now I was in trouble. What had started as a science lesson had become a trial of faith.
I imagined going before St. Peter and being handed a piece of paper saying that my performance did not meet expectations. He would show me Carl telling his therapist, “All of my problems started when I was four. My dad tried to throw my hamburger away and blame it on God.”
Fortunately, little boys can be bribed. “Why don’t we go to McDonald’s and get a milkshake.” I offered. “Will that make you feel better?” He said it would. He stopped crying immediately and we got in the car.
Once in the car, I worked on his anger with God. “Carl?”
He looked at me.
“I want you to know that God gave me the money to buy this milkshake.” I paused to see if I needed to explain that God didn’t literally hand me the money, only that we owed Him thanks for everything in life. But Carl had already moved on to deciding which flavor milk shake he was going to get.
Carl is now an adult and believes in God, and is good to other people, though I am not sure how much credit I deserve for that outcome. But he doesn’t root for the Rockies. He doesn’t even like baseball. When I asked Carl why he wasn’t a Rockies fan, he said it was hard to root for the Rockies and still believe in God. It’s hard to argue with him.
My oldest son Carl was born one week after a performance appraisal at work, so when we brought him home from the hospital I was in a goal-setting frame of mind. If setting objectives could help at work, I reasoned they should also help me be a better father. I hoped that someday God would rate my fatherly performance as “Exceeding Expectations.” Since He didn’t have quarterly profit margins to meet, I expected He would be more merciful than my supervisor at work. To help God make His evaluation, I needed to have some specific, measurable goals. I decided I would like to teach Carl to:
1. Believe in God
2. Be nice to other people
3. Root for the Rockies
My first challenge with goal #1 came when Carl was four. He almost lost his faith over a McDonald’s hamburger.
We brought home some dinner from McDonalds and Carl was too full to finish his hamburger. He asked us to save it for later. We wrapped it up, and put it in the refrigerator. By the time I noticed the hamburger a few days later, it was stale so I threw it in the garbage. Unfortunately Carl caught me in the act.
“Dad,” he cried, “why are you throwing my hamburger away?”
He was pretty angry, but I saw this as an opportunity to teach him something and have a good father-son talk. I had seen it work many times in fast food commercials.
“Carl, you wouldn’t even want to eat this because it is stale. See?” I held out the hamburger and invited him to touch it. “When food gets left out, the air makes it hard like a rock.”
“But dad, why does the air make hamburgers turn into a rock?”
I tried several explanations, but Carl always came back with “Why?” Finally, I said “Because that is how God made the world.” Carl began crying again.
“Now what’s the matter?” I asked.
“I’m mad at God because he turned my hamburger into a rock!”
Now I was in trouble. What had started as a science lesson had become a trial of faith.
I imagined going before St. Peter and being handed a piece of paper saying that my performance did not meet expectations. He would show me Carl telling his therapist, “All of my problems started when I was four. My dad tried to throw my hamburger away and blame it on God.”
Fortunately, little boys can be bribed. “Why don’t we go to McDonald’s and get a milkshake.” I offered. “Will that make you feel better?” He said it would. He stopped crying immediately and we got in the car.
Once in the car, I worked on his anger with God. “Carl?”
He looked at me.
“I want you to know that God gave me the money to buy this milkshake.” I paused to see if I needed to explain that God didn’t literally hand me the money, only that we owed Him thanks for everything in life. But Carl had already moved on to deciding which flavor milk shake he was going to get.
Carl is now an adult and believes in God, and is good to other people, though I am not sure how much credit I deserve for that outcome. But he doesn’t root for the Rockies. He doesn’t even like baseball. When I asked Carl why he wasn’t a Rockies fan, he said it was hard to root for the Rockies and still believe in God. It’s hard to argue with him.
For Fathers Day this year, I received the ugliest tie I have ever seen. I am not even sure who gave it to me, but I love it, and I wore it all day.
The kids at church collected old ties from home and brought them to church two weeks ago. Then they picked from a motley collection of craft items and glued them to each tie. My tie had a miniature Indian Chief feather headband, two plastic horses, and some orange and white and tan fuzzballs. The fuzzballs were arranged neatly in the shape of a smile.
I was given the tie a week before Fathers Day with the following poem attached:
Here’s a gift for Fathers Day
To all men and dads.
It may look weird, it may be silly
But we hope you will be glad
It’s a special way to thank you all
And make a great big fuss.
Hip, hip, hooray, three cheers for you
For all you do for us!
We’re not done yet,
There’s one more thing that we just have to say,
On Sunday next, please wear this tie
For a Happy Fathers Day.
This is actually the first tie I have ever received for Fathers Day. When my kids were smaller I often received a picture they had drawn or some craft they had made at school. Carl came home once with a clay object and asked, “Guess what I made dad?” Unfortunately I had no idea what it was, other than it was painted turquoise and pink and had what could have been legs or ears on one side. (It was a dinosaur.) If I kept all of the small gifts my kids have given me we would need a much larger house, so I usually tried to discreetly throw the gifts away after a few weeks. I think my oldest daughter, Stephanie, knew when I threw away her gifts and it probably made her sad. But she never said anything. I doubt my two boys (Carl and John) ever noticed. Amanda, my youngest daughter is more assertive. She would search the trashes in the house, dig out her gift and put it back on my desk. After a few weeks, I would wait until trash day, hide it in the middle of the grass clippings and put it out on the street. That always worked.
I am not a very original gift giver. I usually end up sending things I would like. This year was no exception. I ordered Mrs. Fields cookies for my father and father-in-law. I wasn’t sure whether I was going to get any gifts, so I sent some to me too. Shipping costs more than the cookies (especially when you procrastinate and have to send them overnight for Saturday delivery). After taxes, shipping and handling fees (I hope they didn’t handle the cookies too much), it cost about $25 per cookie. But I was assured of receiving at least one gift for Fathers Day.
I didn’t need to worry about not getting any gifts. Stephanie, who lives in Highlands Ranch, made me dinner. Carl sent me three baseball books. One he sent me, The Physics of Baseball , is a book I have wanted to read ever since the humidor turned the Coors Field launching pad into a pitchers park. John is getting married next month and took time out from smooching with his fiancée to call me and talk. Neither of us like to talk on the phone a lot, so I appreciated the effort. Amanda, now 21, also called. When she was small, she used to say, “Daddy, will you play?” Now that she is in college, she still calls and says “Daddy, will you play?” except she leaves the “l” out of “play.” When she called, I just asked her to call me “Daddy” again and that was enough.
Since I received my first Fathers Day tie ever, you might wonder if anyone fixed me a gourmet breakfast in bed. My wife might read this, so I will just tell you that I did not have breakfast in bed. But understand that I get breakfast in bed the other 364 days, so we are just trying to make Fathers Day different.
I will probably keep the tie. There is room next to my Santa Claus tie that plays “Joy to the World” when you press the bottom. On the other hand, Wednesday is trash day and there are some grass clippings in the garbage can if I need them.
The kids at church collected old ties from home and brought them to church two weeks ago. Then they picked from a motley collection of craft items and glued them to each tie. My tie had a miniature Indian Chief feather headband, two plastic horses, and some orange and white and tan fuzzballs. The fuzzballs were arranged neatly in the shape of a smile.
I was given the tie a week before Fathers Day with the following poem attached:
Here’s a gift for Fathers Day
To all men and dads.
It may look weird, it may be silly
But we hope you will be glad
It’s a special way to thank you all
And make a great big fuss.
Hip, hip, hooray, three cheers for you
For all you do for us!
We’re not done yet,
There’s one more thing that we just have to say,
On Sunday next, please wear this tie
For a Happy Fathers Day.
This is actually the first tie I have ever received for Fathers Day. When my kids were smaller I often received a picture they had drawn or some craft they had made at school. Carl came home once with a clay object and asked, “Guess what I made dad?” Unfortunately I had no idea what it was, other than it was painted turquoise and pink and had what could have been legs or ears on one side. (It was a dinosaur.) If I kept all of the small gifts my kids have given me we would need a much larger house, so I usually tried to discreetly throw the gifts away after a few weeks. I think my oldest daughter, Stephanie, knew when I threw away her gifts and it probably made her sad. But she never said anything. I doubt my two boys (Carl and John) ever noticed. Amanda, my youngest daughter is more assertive. She would search the trashes in the house, dig out her gift and put it back on my desk. After a few weeks, I would wait until trash day, hide it in the middle of the grass clippings and put it out on the street. That always worked.
I am not a very original gift giver. I usually end up sending things I would like. This year was no exception. I ordered Mrs. Fields cookies for my father and father-in-law. I wasn’t sure whether I was going to get any gifts, so I sent some to me too. Shipping costs more than the cookies (especially when you procrastinate and have to send them overnight for Saturday delivery). After taxes, shipping and handling fees (I hope they didn’t handle the cookies too much), it cost about $25 per cookie. But I was assured of receiving at least one gift for Fathers Day.
I didn’t need to worry about not getting any gifts. Stephanie, who lives in Highlands Ranch, made me dinner. Carl sent me three baseball books. One he sent me, The Physics of Baseball , is a book I have wanted to read ever since the humidor turned the Coors Field launching pad into a pitchers park. John is getting married next month and took time out from smooching with his fiancée to call me and talk. Neither of us like to talk on the phone a lot, so I appreciated the effort. Amanda, now 21, also called. When she was small, she used to say, “Daddy, will you play?” Now that she is in college, she still calls and says “Daddy, will you play?” except she leaves the “l” out of “play.” When she called, I just asked her to call me “Daddy” again and that was enough.
Since I received my first Fathers Day tie ever, you might wonder if anyone fixed me a gourmet breakfast in bed. My wife might read this, so I will just tell you that I did not have breakfast in bed. But understand that I get breakfast in bed the other 364 days, so we are just trying to make Fathers Day different.
I will probably keep the tie. There is room next to my Santa Claus tie that plays “Joy to the World” when you press the bottom. On the other hand, Wednesday is trash day and there are some grass clippings in the garbage can if I need them.
I bought a new car and it has one of those GPS systems in it. I had seen them before but this was the first one I had tried to use. The map mode is easy. Your car is represented by a little triangle and you can watch yourself moving on the map. It also has a function where you input your destination and a soothing female voice (I call her Marilyn) tells you when to turn and how to get there. (Great – one more excuse for men to not ask for directions.) Why a female voice? The designers probably assume men are used to hearing a woman giving them directions. I will have to retrain myself because I have learned to tune out my wife telling me where to go.
My wife was going to drive to King Soopers to buy some eggs last week. I volunteered to go for her because I wanted to try to figure out how to use the GPS for directions. I got into the car, turned on the GPS and opened the instruction manual. You can input the destination address or choose from a big list of businesses and points of interest. After 10 minutes of reading the manual and playing with the GPS, I still had not found any listing for King Soopers, so I would have to find the address. I called home.
“Hi honey! Hey, what is the address for King Soopers?”
“Don’t you know how to get there?
“Of course, but I am trying to learn to use the GPS thing and I have to input the address.”
“OK. So where are you?”
“I’m in the car.”
“I know you’re in the car. I mean where are you?”
“Umm. . . I am still in the garage.”
I can’t remember exactly what she said but I think it was something like she was glad I didn’t risk great bodily harm by walking from the garage into the house and that she wasn’t doing anything very important anyway, and she would love to look up the address so I could spend my time playing with this useful GPS system. After she had the address of my destination, Marilyn calculated the quickest way to get there. She doesn’t actually say the names of streets, but will say “In 500 feet, turn right” and the map will show you the name of the street. If you miss a turn, Marilyn knows it and will usually say “Make U-Turn and proceed to route.” If you don’t get back on course in a given amount of time, she recalculates a route from where you are. She got me to King Soopers and I bought the eggs and returned to the car. I was about to enter our home address and ask Marilyn to give me directions when I remembered a warning from the owner’s manual: “WARNING – DO NOT PROGRAM SYSTEM WHILE IN A KING SOOPERS PARKING LOT. FINDING THE MOST DIRECT ROUTE TO LEAVE THE PARKING LOT IS BEYOND THE SOPHISTICATION OF THIS SYSTEM. WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE ON THE STREET TO BEGIN PROGRAM!” Once I was back on Ken Caryl Avenue heading west toward Ken Caryl Valley, I put our address in and started the program. I was so busy paying attention to the GPS that I forgot that the right hand lane was right turn only and I had to get on C-470 going North. It says C-470 West but I know better. Marilyn said “Make U-Turn, if possible.” She apparently didn’t know about the signs on C-470 that say “Keep Off the Median.” When I didn’t turn around, she recalculated directions to home. “Exit Freeway in 2 miles” she pleaded. That made sense. The next exit was Bowles Avenue, and I could turn around and go south on C-470 East. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper in the right lane, but no one was in the left lane, so I pulled out and began speeding past everyone. Then I saw the sign that said “Left lane closed 5 miles ahead. Merge right.” This was Colorado, so people merge as soon as they see the sign, no matter how many hundreds of miles ahead the lane closure is. I was going 65 in the left lane while everyone else was crawling along in the right lane. People were staring at me angrily so I tried not to look at anyone. I needed to get in the right lane, so I turned on my right turn signal. Cars just bunched closer together. They weren’t going to let me in. After all, I was a cheater! I passed the Bowles exit. “If possible, make u-turn” Marilyn asked. I wasn’t positive, but I sensed a bit of irritation in her voice.
Marilyn recalculated a new route home and announced, “Exit freeway 2 miles ahead.” That would be Quincy. I slowed down to make it easier to merge into the right lane. Finally, I saw an opening in front of a big truck and I darted in. Hurray! I exited on Quincy. For some reason, Marilyn wanted me to go home on Simms. I wanted to take the freeway. I made a U-Turn on Quincy and headed back to C-470. “If possible, make U-Turn” Marilyn said. I finally lost my temper. “I just made a U-turn!!” I yelled back at Marilyn. She came unhinged. “Where the %@#* do you think you’re going? Find a gas station and ask for directions!”
The trip home was tense. Neither of us said a word. Ten minutes later, I turned left onto my street and Marilyn announced, “Destination on left.” My house was actually on the right, but I didn’t want to start another argument, so I pulled into the driveway of our across-the-street neighbors and turned off the car. Sometimes the key to a successful relationship is compromising, even when you are right.
My wife was going to drive to King Soopers to buy some eggs last week. I volunteered to go for her because I wanted to try to figure out how to use the GPS for directions. I got into the car, turned on the GPS and opened the instruction manual. You can input the destination address or choose from a big list of businesses and points of interest. After 10 minutes of reading the manual and playing with the GPS, I still had not found any listing for King Soopers, so I would have to find the address. I called home.
“Hi honey! Hey, what is the address for King Soopers?”
“Don’t you know how to get there?
“Of course, but I am trying to learn to use the GPS thing and I have to input the address.”
“OK. So where are you?”
“I’m in the car.”
“I know you’re in the car. I mean where are you?”
“Umm. . . I am still in the garage.”
I can’t remember exactly what she said but I think it was something like she was glad I didn’t risk great bodily harm by walking from the garage into the house and that she wasn’t doing anything very important anyway, and she would love to look up the address so I could spend my time playing with this useful GPS system. After she had the address of my destination, Marilyn calculated the quickest way to get there. She doesn’t actually say the names of streets, but will say “In 500 feet, turn right” and the map will show you the name of the street. If you miss a turn, Marilyn knows it and will usually say “Make U-Turn and proceed to route.” If you don’t get back on course in a given amount of time, she recalculates a route from where you are. She got me to King Soopers and I bought the eggs and returned to the car. I was about to enter our home address and ask Marilyn to give me directions when I remembered a warning from the owner’s manual: “WARNING – DO NOT PROGRAM SYSTEM WHILE IN A KING SOOPERS PARKING LOT. FINDING THE MOST DIRECT ROUTE TO LEAVE THE PARKING LOT IS BEYOND THE SOPHISTICATION OF THIS SYSTEM. WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE ON THE STREET TO BEGIN PROGRAM!” Once I was back on Ken Caryl Avenue heading west toward Ken Caryl Valley, I put our address in and started the program. I was so busy paying attention to the GPS that I forgot that the right hand lane was right turn only and I had to get on C-470 going North. It says C-470 West but I know better. Marilyn said “Make U-Turn, if possible.” She apparently didn’t know about the signs on C-470 that say “Keep Off the Median.” When I didn’t turn around, she recalculated directions to home. “Exit Freeway in 2 miles” she pleaded. That made sense. The next exit was Bowles Avenue, and I could turn around and go south on C-470 East. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper in the right lane, but no one was in the left lane, so I pulled out and began speeding past everyone. Then I saw the sign that said “Left lane closed 5 miles ahead. Merge right.” This was Colorado, so people merge as soon as they see the sign, no matter how many hundreds of miles ahead the lane closure is. I was going 65 in the left lane while everyone else was crawling along in the right lane. People were staring at me angrily so I tried not to look at anyone. I needed to get in the right lane, so I turned on my right turn signal. Cars just bunched closer together. They weren’t going to let me in. After all, I was a cheater! I passed the Bowles exit. “If possible, make u-turn” Marilyn asked. I wasn’t positive, but I sensed a bit of irritation in her voice.
Marilyn recalculated a new route home and announced, “Exit freeway 2 miles ahead.” That would be Quincy. I slowed down to make it easier to merge into the right lane. Finally, I saw an opening in front of a big truck and I darted in. Hurray! I exited on Quincy. For some reason, Marilyn wanted me to go home on Simms. I wanted to take the freeway. I made a U-Turn on Quincy and headed back to C-470. “If possible, make U-Turn” Marilyn said. I finally lost my temper. “I just made a U-turn!!” I yelled back at Marilyn. She came unhinged. “Where the %@#* do you think you’re going? Find a gas station and ask for directions!”
The trip home was tense. Neither of us said a word. Ten minutes later, I turned left onto my street and Marilyn announced, “Destination on left.” My house was actually on the right, but I didn’t want to start another argument, so I pulled into the driveway of our across-the-street neighbors and turned off the car. Sometimes the key to a successful relationship is compromising, even when you are right.
Last week I attended my high school reunion in Burbank, California. My kids claim that I am so old that they were still using Roman numerals when I was a kid. Of course I don’t think I am that old. I graduated in 1967 – excuse me, MCMLXVII. But 40 years – I mean XL years – is a long time to me too! Actually, we still use Roman Numerals in the United States for things like Super Bowls (the next one is Super Bowl XLII), movie sequels (like Rocky III), names (like J. Gordon Howell IV), or spacecraft (Apollo XIII). So I guess this was my High School Reunion XL.
Initially I had some reservations about going. I loved high school, but I couldn’t keep myself from worrying. What if I didn’t know anyone? What if I couldn’t recognize anyone? What if I sat down for dinner and no one sat down at my table? If I saw the cool kids laughing, would I still assume that they were laughing at me? Would the class bully pick me up and put me upside down in the trash can?
Fortunately I overcame my reluctance because it was really fun. I saw many good friends, some acquaintances I remembered and a few people I didn’t remember at all. The most famous graduate in our class is Anson Heimlich. He changed his name to Anson Williams, became an actor and played the part of Potsie in Happy Days. I hadn’t seen much of Anson since high school. By contrast, most of us had seen quite a bit of our classmate Elaine Morton. Well, we saw pretty much all of her since she was Playboy’s Miss June MCMLXX. I personally never saw the photos though I remember that issue had some really good articles. Elaine moved to Hawaii and at High School Reunion XX Elaine gave me her phone number in case we ever went to Hawaii. We did go a few years later, but I had lost her number. I normally am good with figures but I just couldn’t remember her phone number. The only numbers I could remember for Elaine were XXXV-XXIV-XXXV.
In some ways a 40th reunion is better than a 20th. It has been so long since high school that no one is offended if you don’t recognize them or remember what you did together in high school. I still remember 15 years ago (at High School Reunion XXV) that I asked a girl if we had dated in high school. We had and she was insulted that I couldn’t remember. But at our 40th reunion, we felt comfortable looking at our name tags (which also had our high school picture) and then trying to remember whether we knew each other. It was perfectly acceptable to spend five minutes filling each other in on what we had been doing the past 40 years, and then moving on. It was enough just to know that these familiar faces from the past were all grown up and had turned out all right.
Not everyone has such fond memories of high school, but most of us have other friendships that last forever. My wife is especially close to the women who had babies at the same time she did. No matter how long it has been since they saw each other, these women feel as close as they ever did. Some of us stay close to college friends, others to friends from work. My dad recently attended a reunion for the guys who served on his ship in World War II (hey – more Roman Numerals!). He had not seen any of them in almost 60 years, so no one looked familiar. They got together not to remember good times but to honor all of the men who served their country in difficult circumstances.
I have decided that I like the idea of using Roman Numerals to identify important occasions. This has been a momentous month for me. My wife and I just celebrated Wedding Anniversary XXXVI. I feted Birthday LVIII. And most importantly, this week we can watch Episode I of Season IV of Gray’s Anatomy.
David LeSueur lives with his wife in Littleton, Colorado and they have IV children and IV grandchildren.
Initially I had some reservations about going. I loved high school, but I couldn’t keep myself from worrying. What if I didn’t know anyone? What if I couldn’t recognize anyone? What if I sat down for dinner and no one sat down at my table? If I saw the cool kids laughing, would I still assume that they were laughing at me? Would the class bully pick me up and put me upside down in the trash can?
Fortunately I overcame my reluctance because it was really fun. I saw many good friends, some acquaintances I remembered and a few people I didn’t remember at all. The most famous graduate in our class is Anson Heimlich. He changed his name to Anson Williams, became an actor and played the part of Potsie in Happy Days. I hadn’t seen much of Anson since high school. By contrast, most of us had seen quite a bit of our classmate Elaine Morton. Well, we saw pretty much all of her since she was Playboy’s Miss June MCMLXX. I personally never saw the photos though I remember that issue had some really good articles. Elaine moved to Hawaii and at High School Reunion XX Elaine gave me her phone number in case we ever went to Hawaii. We did go a few years later, but I had lost her number. I normally am good with figures but I just couldn’t remember her phone number. The only numbers I could remember for Elaine were XXXV-XXIV-XXXV.
In some ways a 40th reunion is better than a 20th. It has been so long since high school that no one is offended if you don’t recognize them or remember what you did together in high school. I still remember 15 years ago (at High School Reunion XXV) that I asked a girl if we had dated in high school. We had and she was insulted that I couldn’t remember. But at our 40th reunion, we felt comfortable looking at our name tags (which also had our high school picture) and then trying to remember whether we knew each other. It was perfectly acceptable to spend five minutes filling each other in on what we had been doing the past 40 years, and then moving on. It was enough just to know that these familiar faces from the past were all grown up and had turned out all right.
Not everyone has such fond memories of high school, but most of us have other friendships that last forever. My wife is especially close to the women who had babies at the same time she did. No matter how long it has been since they saw each other, these women feel as close as they ever did. Some of us stay close to college friends, others to friends from work. My dad recently attended a reunion for the guys who served on his ship in World War II (hey – more Roman Numerals!). He had not seen any of them in almost 60 years, so no one looked familiar. They got together not to remember good times but to honor all of the men who served their country in difficult circumstances.
I have decided that I like the idea of using Roman Numerals to identify important occasions. This has been a momentous month for me. My wife and I just celebrated Wedding Anniversary XXXVI. I feted Birthday LVIII. And most importantly, this week we can watch Episode I of Season IV of Gray’s Anatomy.
David LeSueur lives with his wife in Littleton, Colorado and they have IV children and IV grandchildren.
I received quite a few comments about my last column which discussed a scientific study showing that women with hourglass figures tend to have smarter children than women with other body types.
I would have completely agreed with this research's results if instead of "hourglass" describing figures, they substituted "potato." - Karin M.
I have never heard a woman refer to her body type as a potato. I’ve heard of a pear, brick, vase, cello, column, bell, lollipop, and apple – but a potato? I guess if men can be studs, women can be spuds.
I have smart children, yet I am an apple. Both my mother and my husband’s mother are also apples. Do you think having a long line of apples also produces smart children? – Stacey G.
This sounds like a good thing to study. I haven’t looked at census records very closely, but I am almost certain that women have to check a box indicating whether they are an apple, a pear, a cello, an hourglass, etc. We might be able to use that data to test your hypothesis. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but maybe two apples make an hourglass. Or maybe I am trying to compare apples and oranges.
Do you think men who look at women with hourglass figures are smarter? – Ted G.
The original study actually tried to answer this question. As you know, in order to reach any conclusions, scientists need to find large groups of men who look at women with hourglass figures and compare their intelligence with large groups of men who don’t look at women with hourglass figures. Unfortunately they couldn’t find enough men in the latter group to do the study.
Are you saying my Mom has a lousy figure? – George C.
I certainly didn’t mean to blame your mental deficiencies on your mother. Many things influence your intelligence, though scientists all agree that your mother’s figure is the most important factor. If it makes you feel any better, the United Nations just released a report blaming global warming for a general decline in world intelligence.
Is Mary (your wife) talking to you yet? – Andrea M.
In my column I said Mary was not speaking to me because she caught me looking at a woman with an hourglass figure and I tried to excuse my action by saying I was just marveling at how smart her children must be. Those of you who know Mary and me know that I just made that up for dramatic effect. Of course I do sometimes look at women with hourglass figures. I also look at pears, apples, bricks, cellos and even potatoes. But Mary doesn’t get mad because she understands shopping.
She is an amazing shopper. When she decides to buy a sofa, for example, she spends months looking at catalogues, visiting stores and watching for sales. She asks my opinion. She asks everyone she knows what they think. She asks my opinion again. Finally she picks a sofa and waits for it to go on sale. She asks my opinion again. When the sale starts we go buy the sofa. On the way home she asks me if she made the right decision. We stop at three stores on the way home to look at sofas again.
When I ask her why we are stopping to look at sofas even though we just bought one she gives two reasons. First, she wants to reassure herself that she made the right decision; second, it is fun!
Had I known about her shopping habits, I would not have been so startled in our first weeks of marriage by Mary’s habit of comparing me with other men, even though she had just married me. Her comments ranged from “Alan is a real jerk – I’m sure glad I didn’t marry him!” to “Roger is really nice. He would make a good husband, but I would rather be married to you!” When I asked her why she was doing this, she gave me the same reasons as when she shops for a sofa – it was reassuring and fun!
Of course, buying a sofa is different than getting married. You don’t have to remember the date you buy a sofa and it’s acceptable to replace a sofa when it gets lumpy. But when I go to the mall and look at a pretty girl, Mary doesn’t mind. She knows window-shopping is fun. There are just two rules: don’t get too close to the windows and every once in awhile reassure Mary that I am glad I married her.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife, Mary . . . and is glad he is married to her and not to that blonde he saw last week while Christmas shopping.
I would have completely agreed with this research's results if instead of "hourglass" describing figures, they substituted "potato." - Karin M.
I have never heard a woman refer to her body type as a potato. I’ve heard of a pear, brick, vase, cello, column, bell, lollipop, and apple – but a potato? I guess if men can be studs, women can be spuds.
I have smart children, yet I am an apple. Both my mother and my husband’s mother are also apples. Do you think having a long line of apples also produces smart children? – Stacey G.
This sounds like a good thing to study. I haven’t looked at census records very closely, but I am almost certain that women have to check a box indicating whether they are an apple, a pear, a cello, an hourglass, etc. We might be able to use that data to test your hypothesis. Two wrongs don’t make a right, but maybe two apples make an hourglass. Or maybe I am trying to compare apples and oranges.
Do you think men who look at women with hourglass figures are smarter? – Ted G.
The original study actually tried to answer this question. As you know, in order to reach any conclusions, scientists need to find large groups of men who look at women with hourglass figures and compare their intelligence with large groups of men who don’t look at women with hourglass figures. Unfortunately they couldn’t find enough men in the latter group to do the study.
Are you saying my Mom has a lousy figure? – George C.
I certainly didn’t mean to blame your mental deficiencies on your mother. Many things influence your intelligence, though scientists all agree that your mother’s figure is the most important factor. If it makes you feel any better, the United Nations just released a report blaming global warming for a general decline in world intelligence.
Is Mary (your wife) talking to you yet? – Andrea M.
In my column I said Mary was not speaking to me because she caught me looking at a woman with an hourglass figure and I tried to excuse my action by saying I was just marveling at how smart her children must be. Those of you who know Mary and me know that I just made that up for dramatic effect. Of course I do sometimes look at women with hourglass figures. I also look at pears, apples, bricks, cellos and even potatoes. But Mary doesn’t get mad because she understands shopping.
She is an amazing shopper. When she decides to buy a sofa, for example, she spends months looking at catalogues, visiting stores and watching for sales. She asks my opinion. She asks everyone she knows what they think. She asks my opinion again. Finally she picks a sofa and waits for it to go on sale. She asks my opinion again. When the sale starts we go buy the sofa. On the way home she asks me if she made the right decision. We stop at three stores on the way home to look at sofas again.
When I ask her why we are stopping to look at sofas even though we just bought one she gives two reasons. First, she wants to reassure herself that she made the right decision; second, it is fun!
Had I known about her shopping habits, I would not have been so startled in our first weeks of marriage by Mary’s habit of comparing me with other men, even though she had just married me. Her comments ranged from “Alan is a real jerk – I’m sure glad I didn’t marry him!” to “Roger is really nice. He would make a good husband, but I would rather be married to you!” When I asked her why she was doing this, she gave me the same reasons as when she shops for a sofa – it was reassuring and fun!
Of course, buying a sofa is different than getting married. You don’t have to remember the date you buy a sofa and it’s acceptable to replace a sofa when it gets lumpy. But when I go to the mall and look at a pretty girl, Mary doesn’t mind. She knows window-shopping is fun. There are just two rules: don’t get too close to the windows and every once in awhile reassure Mary that I am glad I married her.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife, Mary . . . and is glad he is married to her and not to that blonde he saw last week while Christmas shopping.
I saw a news report the other day on the local news that I had a hard time believing. But it was reported by their medical correspondent, Dr. Dave Hnida, so it must be true. Scientists have been studying the factors that affect a child’s intelligence and concluded that women with hourglass figures tend to have smarter children.
Yes, you heard correctly. They determined that having a narrow waist and large hips produces certain enzymes that promote brain cell production in the children they bear. I didn’t hear all of the details because I was laughing too hard.
How and why did someone decide to study this? I imagine that scientists were sitting around discussing factors that influence intelligence like genes, environment, exposure to books, and economic status. Then someone said, “Hey, why don’t we see if women who have figures like Jennifer Lopez have smarter children than women with figures like Calista Flockhart?” Naturally all of the female scientists said, “Yes, we have always suspected that having large hips was good for our children’s IQ!” And of course all of the men volunteered to conduct the research.
How was the data collected? Did researchers interview women and collect statistics about their children’s grades, and then secretly rate the mom’s figure on the amount of hourglassness? Or did they send out questionnaires asking women about the intelligence of their children, whether they are involved at the school, and oh by the way, what are your measurements?
This study does make me feel better about the nature of men. Before, I just thought men were base creatures who were attracted to certain kinds of women for selfish reasons related to base animal instincts. But these findings prove that in reality, men are just reacting to their altruistic, unselfish and noble desires to improve the human race by producing smart children.
The clever men among us can also use this study to our advantage if our eyes wander when we are with our wives or girl friends. To prepare for this column, I decided to test a few ideas. So last week I went to the mall and purposely looked at all of the pretty girls. When my wife finally caught me staring at an attractive woman, I turned to my wife and said, “I was only looking at her because I was amazed at how intelligent her children must be.”
How effective was that particular line? Well, that was two days ago, and as soon as my wife is speaking to me again, I will ask her opinion.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife. They have very intelligent children.
Yes, you heard correctly. They determined that having a narrow waist and large hips produces certain enzymes that promote brain cell production in the children they bear. I didn’t hear all of the details because I was laughing too hard.
How and why did someone decide to study this? I imagine that scientists were sitting around discussing factors that influence intelligence like genes, environment, exposure to books, and economic status. Then someone said, “Hey, why don’t we see if women who have figures like Jennifer Lopez have smarter children than women with figures like Calista Flockhart?” Naturally all of the female scientists said, “Yes, we have always suspected that having large hips was good for our children’s IQ!” And of course all of the men volunteered to conduct the research.
How was the data collected? Did researchers interview women and collect statistics about their children’s grades, and then secretly rate the mom’s figure on the amount of hourglassness? Or did they send out questionnaires asking women about the intelligence of their children, whether they are involved at the school, and oh by the way, what are your measurements?
This study does make me feel better about the nature of men. Before, I just thought men were base creatures who were attracted to certain kinds of women for selfish reasons related to base animal instincts. But these findings prove that in reality, men are just reacting to their altruistic, unselfish and noble desires to improve the human race by producing smart children.
The clever men among us can also use this study to our advantage if our eyes wander when we are with our wives or girl friends. To prepare for this column, I decided to test a few ideas. So last week I went to the mall and purposely looked at all of the pretty girls. When my wife finally caught me staring at an attractive woman, I turned to my wife and said, “I was only looking at her because I was amazed at how intelligent her children must be.”
How effective was that particular line? Well, that was two days ago, and as soon as my wife is speaking to me again, I will ask her opinion.
David LeSueur lives in Littleton with his wife. They have very intelligent children.
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