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I was watching a program on Discovery or Animal Planet recently. These biologists were doing a study that compared the cognitive problem solving skills of apes to those of human children. There were different areas where each group excelled, but there was one experiment in particular that really struck me as interesting.
They sat a group of apes down and showed them how to get a treat out of a box. It involved teaching them this complicated series of steps that the ape would have to repeat. They learned the steps easily and were able to obtain the reward. Then, they did the same thing with the human kids. Same result; the kids repeated all the steps and pulled candy out of the box.
Next they gave both groups a transparent box. This made it apparent that the complicated steps were not needed to retrieve the treat. It was all just an invented ritual. The apes abandoned the steps and reached in the box to take their reward. But the kids continued to go through each laborious step, tapping the side of the box with a stick and turning it three times to the left, etc., because that’s what they had been taught to do by an adult they trusted.
The narrator explained at this point that human children are predisposed to trust adults. It’s really a survival mechanism, but it made me think what a bad thing that could be if the adults in question are full of crap. Which made me think of my parents and Santa Claus.
The first time I found out that Santa was a myth, it was in the way most kids find out. The snotty-know-it-all-teacher’s-pet-type-girl – let’s call her Jarmella Mitchell – spilled the beans one afternoon during recess. But I refused to believe it. Not because I thought she was unreliable, but on principle. If she was right, that meant that my parents were wrong. And that wasn’t possible. As I recall, that argument got pretty heated. Though this was Utah County and I didn’t really know any bad words back then, so I’m sure it didn’t get out too of hand.
Then there was the second time I found out. It was the other way that most kids find out about this stuff. I caught my mom sneaking into the room late one night to put tooth fairy quarters under my sister’s pillow. I cornered her about it the next day and she came clean. I was seven.
“What about the Easter Bunny?” I asked.
“Yes – we are the Easter Bunny, too.”
I took a deep breath. “And Santa?”
Mom put her hand on my shoulder and nodded her head. Then she made me promise not to tell my little sister, but I could barely hear her through the buzz in my ears. It was like glass was crashing all around me.
I’ve asked a lot of people about what this moment was like for them. Most people say something to the effect of, “It wasn’t a big deal. I was just like, okay… now I know. And I can be in on it with the younger kids.”
My reaction was quite different. I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I just stood there while it sunk in. My parents, my grandparents, my parents’ friends, my bishop, my teachers, my television – literally every authority figure in my life whom I had trusted and relied upon for guidance and approval – had LIED to me. And for me, it was a very big deal.
I always believed these stories were true because my parents told me they were true. And why would they make it up? They even used to have a friend call on Christmas Eve and pretend to be Santa. He would thank us for being good little girls and tell us to go to bed. We talked about Santa in church. We did units in school on Father Christmas stories around the world, for Christ’s sake. And if you learn it in school, it’s got to be true, right?
Of course, I now know that virtually everything I learned in public school was pretty shaky, facts wise. But I didn’t know that at seven. The Santa thing was my first tip off.
I know this may sound completely looney-tunes bat-shit, but coming to terms with the fact that I had been lied to for all of those years by so many people was probably the single most painful experience of my childhood. Granted, looking back on it, that means that I really had it pretty easy as a kid. But I still remember standing there, feeling so set up and gulible; it broke my heart. I didn’t care that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. But I suddenly I felt as though I couldn’t trust ANYONE. And at seven, it was the scariest feeling I had ever known.
And to think, I had actually defended my parents to that brown nosing princess Jarmella Jerk Face Mitchell.
Then something else occurred to me. Something even scarier than being seven and having the realization that no one – NO ONE - can be trusted, is being seven and realizing that YOU can’t be trusted either. Nothing you have learned in school, nothing that you have heard in church, nothing that you think that you ”know.” None of it. The very idea that I could “feel” that something was true evaporated. The foundation of every thought and belief I had carved out for my young self rocked on its axis.
“It’s all crap,” I thought. Seven years of absorbing information, and I felt that I had to start over. Everything had to go. And it would only get back in on MY terms.
Obviously Santa and his friends were the first to go. Then anything that seemed a little on the fantasy side. Things that I used to justify with thoughts like, “but Santa is real… so maybe…” This included magic, miracles, telekinetic powers (Lord, how I wanted telekinetic powers when I was seven), and the movie “The Boy Who Could Fly.” It was tedious and you never got to see him fly, anyway.
Next went anything suspect. Most of the stories from the Bible, anything that the substitute teacher with the wooden leg said in class, and The Littles. (The Littles were tiny people with tails who lived in the walls and stole things like thimbles and socks when you weren’t looking. I never really believed in them, but I remember thinking “wouldn’t it be cool if…“) Gone. And those heartwarming stories from church that started out with a kid feeling conflicted about telling the truth in a difficult situation, but ended where he has done the right thing only to be rewarded in a mysterious and unrelated way (like finding a five dollar bill on the sidewalk)? All crap.
Then it was pretty much anything “iffy”. God. Unicorns. Dinosaurs. Robotic little sisters. Orville Redenbacher. Midgets. I was not going to be fooled again.
It turns out some of those things are real. I won’t spoil it for everyone, but telekinetic powers was not one of them, much to my dismay. But God and Santa both got on the bus that day and never came back. Which is why, in my mind, I think there will always be a connection between Santa Claus and my atheism.
The way I see it, there are already enough truly miraculous things in our universe. Like spider’s webs. Or a flock of birds changing direction in mid-flight. And lightening storms. These things still manage to fill me with wonder and awe. All of the nonsense that people use to confound and amaze small children just doesn’t seem necessary.
Don’t think that I’m completely missing the point here. I know there is a valuable lesson that one gains from to being duped. Those kids tapping the clear plastic box with a stick and thinking to themselves, “This seems kind of stupid. Why can’t I just reach in and take the gum ball?” will one day learn that you can’t trust someone just because they are wearing a lab coat. And they will begin to question authority and sources of information and even their own opinions. It’s a very important lesson. We may even be genetically programmed to trick our kids into believing dumb crap; perhaps that’s why so many cultures do it.
That said, I still get kind of pissed off when I think about it.
Last week, Sarah (my sister) was putting up her Christmas tree. Several family members there hanging out and helping with the decorations. I was holding my six month old niece, Sonora, on my lap. Someone said something about what a fun Christmas the twins will have next year “when Santa comes.” I turned my niece toward me and said, “Sonora Sunny Sunshine, don’t you listen to them. There is no such thing as Santa Claus.”
One or two people laughed, but Sarah wasn’t one of them. The baby was immediately confiscated.
“You can always trust me, Sonora!” I called after her. “I will never lie to you!”
My sister still wasn’t laughing. “Can I at least tell her that there is no such thing as Nephites?” I asked, alluding to all of the other weird crap we were told as young Mormon kids.
This time she broke a smile. “Alright,” she said. And handed the baby back.
“And Sweetheart, I’m sorry but there’s no such thing as Social Security. Not where we are concerned…”
“Enough!” Sarah said. “Now you are just scaring her.”
This Christmas was a Grinchy one for me, as I spent most of the holiday trying to devise a way to kill my parent’s cat. Mona is a 16-year-old calico who just won’t die. She is down to her last three teeth and her arthritis make her move in broken slow motion. Worst of all, she has a constant string of bubbly drool dangling from her jaw. The first thing that you notice, however, is that she stinks. God, how she stinks.
I was trying to eat my Christmas dinner with our ancient pet sitting near by, reeking as if she died some time ago. She sat hunched over – her walrus-tusks of goo nearly brushing the carpet – staring at my turkey as if reminiscing over the days when she had teeth. I glanced over to where she sat, wheeze-breathing, and I tried not to look into her faded green eyes. I held my nose while I chewed, but I was getting queasier with every bite. I finally put her outside in the snow for the duration of the meal. ‘I am going to hell,’ I thought to myself. I scarffed down my turkey and let her in again, coughing and shaking her now frozen drool-cycles.
Later, I asked my parents if they had any thoughts about having her put to sleep. My dad said, “We talked about it last week. She really wasn’t doing very well. Then she lost a rotten tooth. It drained for a few days, but she seemed to be feeling much better now. She has a lot more energy.” He lifted Mona onto his lap with a towel and she began her slow decent through her joints to rest in a sitting position. Even her drool was moving in slow motion.
“I see,” I said. That is when it first occurred to me that my parents needed some help bumping off the kitty. ‘They don’t have the heart to do it,’ I thought. I realized that the tables had finally turned in my relationship with my parents; I have become the one who must protect them from the ugly things in the world. I must be the one to kill the cat.
But how?
“She’s so weak. Do you think that if I sprayed her water with Windex, it would be enough to push her over the edge?”
“Rachel, you can’t kill your parent’s cat on Christmas Eve.” Demetria had called to wish me a merry Christmas and I don’t think she was expecting to have this conversation. “Besides, what if you get caught? Have fun with the annual re-telling of that story.”
“I’m not going to get caught. And don’t make it sound so devious. She already has three paws in the grave. I’m just going to give her that last little push. It will be the best Christmas present Mona ever got. If you saw her you would know what I mean. She has no teeth. She can barely move. I’m pretty sure her feet used to be white. And her breath. Oh my god, her breath. It’s like when you come home after two weeks to discover something didn’t quite make it through the garbage disposal…”
“I’m getting the idea.”
“She’s miserable, and my parents can’t do it themselves. I have to do this. I just don’t know how. There must be lots of ways. At least more than one. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have that expression.”
“How about rat poison?” Demetria suggested without enthusiasm, reluctant to be an accessory to my crime.”
“I thought of that. It seems perfect, but it’s a little tricky. I mean, it’s not like I can just put it in her dish. She can’t eat solid food, so my parents are feeding her with an eye dropper. I’ll keep it in mind; I might be able to sort something out if they leave the house. But do you have any other ideas? Obviously, I can’t do anything that will leave a mark. So I can’t just snap her neck or anything like that. God, I don’t think I could do that, anyway. I guess it has to be some sort of poison…”
“I don’t know, Honey. I don’t think Windex will work, but I don’t have any better ideas. I think you are on your own with this one.”
I went through the cupboards under the kitchen sink and in the bathroom, looking for a little inspiration. Maybe something that would dissolve in water. I wondered if she would drink something that smelled like Comet. Can she even still smell?
If I had some ether I could put it on a rag and hold it over her face, like in the movies. Would rubbing alcohol work? Could I smother her in her sleep? Even if I could go through with it, would I be able to tell she was dead? Everything seemed too problematic.
I decided to give the mission a rest for a while. I couldn’t do anything before everyone went to bed, anyway. ‘Maybe something will come to me,’ I thought.
We watched It’s a Wonderful Life and sang some carols. Then we stuffed the socks with little gifts and chocolate and put all the presents under the tree. My parents were getting ready for bed. They gathered up Mona to take her to their room where she sleeps on an electric heating pad to ease her arthritis.
“Come here, Mona. Poor old cat. Why don’t we give her a bath and clean her up a little before putting her to bed?”
Mom got a towel and set it on the floor. Dad carried her gingerly and set her down on her turdy-brown feet. Mom put one hand on her shoulder blades and the other on her hips and held her firmly so that she couldn’t struggle and strain her joints. Dad dipped a washcloth in warm water and organic soap and started rubbing her fur, paying careful attention to her paws and her sore toothless-jaw. My parents worked together without any words and my sisters and I watched from our chairs. Mona wheezed, but she didn’t fight them. Maybe she understood that they were trying to help her. That they were trying to make her more comfortable in the time that she had left.
I’ve spent a lot of time wishing my parents could be different. Not a lot different. But a little different. I’d like for them to be more active; to stop telling the same stories over and over again, and to go out and make some new ones. There’s still time for that, I want to tell them. I want them to be more progressive. Hip-er. Shrewder in a way that would make them less likely to be taken advantage of by slick salesmen. I’d like it if they were less old fashioned so they wouldn’t worry so much about me being a woman, in my thirties, on my own. Hell, I’d be happy if the would just stop using words like “retard” and “oriental.”
But suddenly, watching my parents clean the cat, I realized how lucky I’ve been to have such unconditionally caring parents. They weren’t putting up with the decrepit cat out of a sense of duty or because they couldn’t bear to have her destroyed. They were taking care of her the best way they knew how because that’s what they have always done. They aren’t going to give up on her because she can’t move, or because she smells so badly, or because she never had much of a personality to begin with. Just like they never gave up on me when I disappointed them, like when I was a teenager and I acted like a complete tool, or when I was in college and I never called, or when I got the divorce. No tables have been turned. Everything is exactly the same as it has always been.
I had a bit of a Christmas movie moment at that point. My heart grew three sizes. I felt like ringing bells to help angels get their wings. I made up my mind to go out the very next morning and buy the Cratchet family the biggest damn turkey I could find. But instead, when everyone went to sleep, I took the Drain-O out from under my pillow and put it back under the kitchen sink.
Before I left, Mona took a nap on my coat and leaked a smear of soupy diarrhea on the lapel. I cursed myself for not hanging it up, but I didn’t get angry with the cat. She’s practically blind, after all. Maybe she mistook it for her cat box. I picked up my duffel bag on the way to the door and stopped to scratch Mona behind the jowl, her favorite scratch spot. She lifted her head, her eyes half closed, and plopped her gooey chin in my palm and wheezed as if to say, “God bless us, every one.”
There are just three days left until Christmas, and I have only seen two near fistfights since the season kicked off.
The first one had to do with jaywalking. A man had stepped off the sidewalk and was walking in the road to avoid a cluster of holiday shoppers. A man in an expensive car and a suit threw on his brakes and honked at the guy, shaking his fists. The man in the street walked over to the passenger side and started yelling at the driver for honking at him, daring him to get out of the car. The driver made an angry gesture and started to pull away, but the jaywalker punched his car and then hopped back on the sidewalk, disappearing into the crowd. The driver stopped to take a look at the dent, but the guy was long gone.
The second incident happened at one of the local Greek burger joints. It all started when this guy – also in a suit – approached the manager over an error in his order. He had asked for onion rings but received fries. The manager told him he would be happy to make him some onion rings if he would pay the difference, which was $1.33. The man didn’t feel he should have to pay anything as he was the victim of an order error and began to get belligerent. The manager kept pretty cool about it until the guy tried to strong arm him by 1.) revealing that he was a lawyer and 2.) mentioning that he knew one of the owners and was considering putting in a call.
I was in my booth thinking, “big mistake, Buddy. You obviously don’t know any Greeks.”
The manager (who is also part owner) completely lost his temper and told the guy to get the hell out of his restaurant. They argued for another 20 minutes. At one point, they just stood yelling back and forth, “pay for your food!” “Get your orders right!” “Pay for your food!” And so on. Just when it looked like knuckles were going to get bloody, a hapless cop sauntered in for a fry fix and the manager had the bum thrown out.
Over a dollar!
Note that I’m emphasizing the monetary value, not the item in question. Because Damn, those are some good onion rings. You may not be familiar with the Utah Greek burger joint phenomenon, so let me put it this way. I’m a lover, not a fighter. But I’d take one in the face for a full order of those onion rings.
When I left the burger joint, the manager and the cop were sharing a booth – each holding a page from the sports section – and having a laugh over the whole thing .
Speaking of things you shouldn’t say to Greeks, my friend Demetria (who lives in Brooklyn) read my post about my calcium deficiency and my dislike for yogurt. She was horrified and immediately set about educating my palate. I received a note that instructed me to “go to Sugarhouse, enter the Whole Foods, find a guy named Matt, tell him your name and ask for your Christmas present.” I did as instructed and left with a festive basket which held six containers of Greek yogurt. SIX! I think the plan was to cure my bone density issue in a single weekend.
She was right, by Zeus. That stuff is yummy. 12 grams of fat per serving. But Yummy! I called her to thank her (and ask if freezing some was an option) and she told me that she had originally asked Matt to deliver the gift to me personally, plying him with the line, “she’s cute… and SINGLE!!!”
So apparently, I was supposed to get six containers of extra fat yogurt AND a granola crunching bagger boy for Christmas. But somehow it didn’t work out. Which is too bad. We could have gone for some onion rings.
I just read this article and found it interesting. At least, it’s something for me to keep in mind. I’ve been feeling a tad whip-lashed the last 24 hours after receiving several caustic comments which, I’m now considering, were probably written by some very nice people [ordinarily]. The article also made me think about a certain customer service representative in Circuit City’s rebate department who may very well still have nightmares which feature my disembodied voice.
Sorry, Dude. Not one of my proudest moments.
By the way, I want to thank those who took a little of their valuable time yesterday to make my Solstice wish come true. You know who you are. I appreciated it very much. Thank you.
Ho. Lee. Cow.
I awoke to discover that my blog received a record breaking 161 hits last night. My previous high was 21. I usually get about five hits per post, so 21 was pretty exciting. But 161 hits? That’s practically viral! I mean, all 161 of you think I’m an ass-hole. But that’s cool with me. It looks like I asked for it. I actually find it more shocking to discover that there are still 161 people out there who support George W. Bush. I seriously had no idea.
It seems that Tim Blair read my last post and wrote a review of it in his blog, The Daily Telegraph. I’ve stumbled over Tim’s blog many times over the years. We aren’t on the same page politically, but I admire his work and I’m flattered that he took the time. And I appreciate Tim forwarding the link to his blog. That’s probably standard protocol out here in the blogosphere, but I’m still new to this, and it seemed very sporting of him.
Let me just say that I stupidly posted my paper on my blog in that post-finals-end-of-semester-bliss/haze-exhaustion that makes you do asinine things. I never dreamt anyone would read it. And I was in complete earnest when I said it was long and tedious. It isn’t a good paper. I realize this. I was just glad to be done.
That said, it seems I have some retracting to do. In my paper I said, “The Washington Post later reported that the turkey held by the president in the most memorable photo from the surprise visit was a plastic replica. The White House responded by saying that a decorative turkey was a standard feature in military chow lines and that they had no idea Bush would pick it up, much less pose with it.”
I’m actually quoting an article from cbsnews.com, but the article credited the Post, so I did too. The Washington Post’s original article was titled, “The Bird Was Perfect But Not For Dinner” (December 04, 2003). Obviously, I read a lot of back and forth about whether or not the turkey was real in my research, but it seemed from this cbsnews.com article that the White House had issued confirmation:
“The newspaper reported that in response to questions about the bird, the White House said the turkey was a decoration adorning the steam table where GIs picked up their food on cafeteria-style trays. The White House said the bird had been furnished by a contractor, and that officials had no idea that the turkey would be in the mess hall, or that the president would pick up the trophy turkey. The Post quoted military sources as saying that a decorative turkey was a standard feature of holiday chow lines.”
So I went with it. I did make one half-assed attempt to cross-check by visiting snopes.com, but the “W” related myths page seems to be missing this classic. There is so much stuff out there about this damn turkey. In my research I read this article from the NYT published well into 2004 (in addition to many others who have referred to the story much more recently) that also seemed to reafirm the “fake” story. If the Times can’t even sort it all out, no wonder I – a lowly grad student completely undeserving of this attention – have become disoriented.
At any rate, I obviously screwed up here and I officially retract and apologize. I would, however, like to take a moment to respond to a couple of the comments I have received.
Joe Libson wrote:
Wow…you are right. That really was tedious. But as you pointed out, at least it was long.
I wonder at “the motivation of those who have seen to it that the information was presented in the first place”.
Ms. Lewis:
My motivation: to pass my class, which required a 15 page paper.
My mistake: posting what I knew was a bad paper (though I wasn’t aware that I was perpetuating a tired old piece of modern mythology) on my blog.
My Solstice wish: that someday, I’ll write something that will inspire this many nice people to comment on my blog.
Amos writes:
Hilariously self-parodic conclusion. Staying ‘alert’ and ‘aware’ and ‘constantly questioning’, even as she mindlessly parrots information exposed FIVE YEARS ago as false You can’t make this stuff up.
Who hires these monkeys, other monkeys? The modern media is like some sort of privileged feudal system in which everyone is the inbred Duke’s imbecile half-cousin.
Ms Lewis:
Hired? This monkey works for free, baby!
RebeccaH of The New Dystopia writes:
In its obituary of Boorstin, the Economist magazine credited Boorstin with being “the first to describe the phenomena of non-news, spin, the cult of the image and the worship of celebrity.”
Pseudo-event, eh? Sounds like an accurate description of the recent US Democratic presidential campaign.
Ms Lewis:
I agree, though I would include both parties. I said as much in paragraph 18. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have read that far either.
Basic fact checks lacking, turgid language, poor sentence structure, and obvious polemic lifted from other sources. As an article in the New York Times or Green Left Weekly, outstanding. You have managed to appeal to all the basic prejudices of that demographic, but as an objective essay, fail fail, fail.
Start doing some background research before you start pounding on a keyboard and make a complete fool of of yourself.
Ms Lewis:
Okay, that one was just mean.
Richard Blaine wrote:
Well, what in blazes do you expect from a journalist? Accuracy?
Ms. Lewis:
I am not a journalist. I have never claimed to be a journalist. I have no designs on becoming a journalist. My blog is about internet dating, my spastic dog and the idiotic things I always manage to do to embarrass myself (this incident being yet another a prime example). While my post about sitting on the toilet and struggling to stifle my pissing sounds while on the phone with my sister really seemed to hit home with some people, I’m hardly trying to rival CNN here.
In light of the above, think you should shorten your description to simply ‘dork’.
Ms Lewis:
Touche, Evil Pundit. Touche.
lol
what a funny, stupid girl
Ms. Lewis:
Thanks for your comment. It wasn’t constructive or insightful, but it was short and correctly spelled. I can appreciate that. I would like to respond by quoting the irascible Dick Cheney when he said, “go fuck yourself”… but I won’t because I’m from Utah County and we don’t talk to each other like that.
Corwin wrote:
Rachel, You’re a liberal arts/humanities studenty-in perpetuity-aren’t you?I am reminded a bit of Zelaznmy’s “Eye of ther Cat”,which I recommend. My reason for guessing about your field of study is no one in a knowledge based field would have believed the story for a second.It was too ridiculous on a variety of fronts 1)Where would one get a plastic turkey 2) Even if one knew,it would be easier to just have the President carry a real turkey at a Thanksgiving meal. 3)The downside of serving a plastic turkey would be so overwhelming ,it would never be done 4)I doubt anu president would want to insult troops in that way. So,you see,one would have to be,well, cosmically stupid to believe it for a second.I don’t know what term could be used for believing it for years.But,as I say,you must have been a Liberal Arts major. And,since I’m taking a few minutes of my valubletime,would you care to comment on whether you believe in Global Warming.Please tell me if you believe strongly ,and -if you would add your scientific background. Best wishes,Corwin
Ms. Lewis:
I suppose that I thought the statements by the White House implied that there was a standard “decorative” turkey protocol. Which is, you are right, completely illogical. But if you know anyone in the military (my dad was in the Navy), you would hardly expect logical thinking to be routine. When I read the article on CBS.com I thought, “did anyone really think that they would feed multiple units of the Army by preparing whole roasted turkeys? That makes no sense…” I thought that putting a decorative turkey next to the steam trays sounded like a nice touch. I shouldn’t have assumed that “decorative” meant plastic. Of course, you could decorate with a real turkey. Upon re-reading the quote, I’m sure that’s what the White House meant to say to begin with.
I’d also like to clarify here and state that I had never heard of Turkeygate before I started researching this paper. I didn’t believe it for five years. I believed it for a week.
Now on to your global warming question, here is my response. As the word “believe” implies some sort of faith based suspension, I would have to say that I don’t “believe” in anything. I do, however, accept that human activity has contributed to global climate change based on what I have read on the subject. I also accept the “theory” of evolution. Is that what you wanted to know?
Thanks, by the way, for your “valuable time”, Corwin. I will fore-go describing the assumptions I have made about you based on your brief epithet. But I will give you a hint. It has a little bit to do with how much fun you must be at parties and a lot to do with your luck in romantic relationships.
Okay… that’s enough of that. Looking at the photo again…
I can still see why I fell for it. I’m not a turkey expert (obviously). But that bird looks about the same size as my nephew, and he’s a bicep busting 20 pounds. Yet, Bush’s fingers don’t even look like they are clenching to hold the tray! I guess he has strong arms AND cat-like reflexes. You know, I think I’ve come up with a comprimise that will allow us to put this myth to bed so we can all get back to worrying about the economic crisis. I concede that the turkey is real, but you all must agree that those grapes look TOTALLY fake.
I’m kidding… KIDDING!!! Please don’t call me any more names. And again, I apologize. I should have never brought this up. It appears that Adam Gopnik was incorrect when he asserted in his book, Paris to the Moon, that “there is no regulon in the semiosphere.” The lions are out and prowling and it would seem that I’m the limpy gazelle researching banal papers through Google search.
No, I take that back. I’m not even a gazelle. I’m the smallest fish in the world-wide pond, and there’s simply no need to go fisticuffs over this. Really. You can have my juice money.
I haven’t been able to write all week because I’ve been too busy writing my final paper for school. I turned it in at class tonight. Now the semester is over and I’m ready to start getting ready for the holidays. What a relief!
I was thinking that I might not post anything this week, and that it would be the first post-less week since I started the blog last spring. Then it occurred to me that I could post my paper!
Here it is, for your reading pleasure. It’s dry and tedious, but hey, at least it’s long!
The Pseudo-Event and the American Media
by Rachel Lewis
In November of 2003, President George W. Bush traveled to Iraq to spend Thanksgiving dinner with the troops. Bush surprised the Army personnel gathered at the Baghdad International Airport with a grand stage entrance and motivational speech. Bush was photographed in the miss hall wearing an Army jacket and mingling with the enlisted men. In the photo he is carrying what appears to be a twenty pound turkey on a silver tray, opulently garnished with fruit, while smiling broadly at the soldiers who surround him. It’s a touching scene: the American president forgoing a traditional family dinner at the Texas ranch to show his appreciation for the sacrifices made by the men and women in uniform.
Every moment of the two and a half hours Bush spent visiting the troops was carefully staged. It was later reported that the turkey Bush held for the photographers was a plastic decoration. The troops were served meat and vegetables served from steam trays. After the meal, Bush returned to Air Force One and departed Iraq. He never left the airport.
The Washington Post later reported that the turkey held by the president in what became the most memorable photo from Bush’s surprise visit was, in fact, made of plastic. The White House responded by saying that the replica was a decoration, a standard feature in military chow lines. They stated that they had no idea Bush would pick it up, much less pose with it. Furthermore, the White House noted that the shortness and limited scope of his visit were due to the extremely high security precautions being taken to protect the president’s safety.
Why did the President travel to Iraq to spend less than three hours in a chow hall where only two Army units were present? (No more were allowed entrance.) Why push the limits of security to stage such an elaborate and expensive photo op? And what in the world was he thinking when he picked up the decorative plastic turkey and turned toward the camera?
Certainly, the gesture meant a great deal to the troops who spent that meal with their Commander and Chief, as well as to the rest of the men and women serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. But it is obvious that there was a message that Bush and the White House wanted to deliver to more than just those serving in Iraq. Perhaps Bush wanted to say to the American people and the world at large, “this is the kind of president I am.” A message that was less about the troops, or the heartache of war, or even the Thanksgiving tradition, than it was about his image.
The fake turkey incident is an example of a modern pseudo-event, a phrase coined and defined by the historian and former Librarian of Congress, Daniel J. Boorstin (1914 – 2004). In its obituary of Boorstin, the Economist magazine credited Boorstin with being “the first to describe the phenomena of non-news, spin, the cult of the image and the worship of celebrity.” Pseudo-events are a common and effective way for someone – a politician or a the PR Rep of a given corporation – to influence or even manipulate the opinions of the media and the media viewing public as a way to sell an “image” or idea.
To be clear, Boorstin did not mean to suggest by the term “pseudo-event” that the facts are concocted or that the stories themselves are complete fabrications. It is true that President George Bush traveled to Iraq in 2003 and shared a meal with the troops on Thanksgiving Day. Those are facts. And yet, pseudo-events can be deceptive, as they are designed to illicit a response. Therefore, the difference in the reporting of a pseudo-event and the reporting of other types of events is centered not in the story, but in the intent in its being reported in the first place. In short, pseudo-events have a purpose which extends beyond their content.
In The Image, A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America (1961), Boorstin describes specific criteria for determining whether an incident is, in fact, a pseudo-event.
A pseudo-event, then, is a happening that possesses the following characteristics:
(1) It is not spontaneous, but comes about because someone has planned, planted, or incited it. Typically, it is not a train wreck or an earthquake, but an interview.
(2) It is planted primarily (not always exclusively) for the immediate purpose of being reported or reproduced. Therefore, its occurrence is arranged for the convenience of the reporting or reproducing media. Its success is measured by how widely it is reported. Time relations in it are commonly fictitious or factitious; the announcement is given out in advance “for future release” and written as if the event had occurred in the past. The question, “Is it real?” is less important than, “Is it newsworthy?”
(3) Its relation to the underlying reality of the situation is ambiguous. Its interest arises largely from this very ambiguity. Concerning a pseudo-event the question, “What does it mean?” has a new dimension. While the news interest in a train wreck is in what happened and in the real consequences, the interest in an interview is always, in a sense, in whether it really happened and in what might have been the motives. Did the statement really mean what it said? Without some of this ambiguity a pseudo-event cannot be very interesting.
(4) Usually it is intended to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. The hotel’s thirtieth-anniversary celebration, by saying that the hotel is a distinguished institution, actually makes it one.
In our example, (1) President Bush plans a surprise visit to Iraq to deliver a speech. (2) The media is present. The audience is invited and contained. The activities surrounding the appearance are choreographed down to the moment. (3) Bush gives his speech and poses for photos; he does not take questions or leave the airport to inspect conditions in greater Baghdad. (4) Bush is filmed foregoing a cherished national holiday at home with his family to show his appreciation for the troops, showing the world that he is the type of president who would do just such a thing.
In The Image, Boorstin provides many general examples of pseudo-events. The “interview” is a simple contrivance which, according to Boorstin, came about with the Graphic Revolution and later permeated radio and television media. Though the mechanics of the basic interview have been employed since Socrates, historians claim the first modern interview took place on July 13, 1859 when Horace Greeley interviewed Brigham Young for the New York Tribune. In these early days, the interview was seen as contrived and as an invasion of privacy. But in the 20th Century, as “celebrity journalism” established itself as a profitable area of interest, the interview became a staple in all permutations of the media.
The press conference is another example of a standard pseudo-event. The modern press conference was established in 1933 with Franklin D. Roosevelt. The presidential press conference is a powerful American institution. The press is regularly allowed to access and question the president on events and decisions. Reporters can pressure and embarrass the president. But the benefits are in many ways mutual, as the president and the administration have open access to the media, giving them regular opportunities to present events and decisions in a favorable light.
American Presidents have understood this from the beginning. Boorstin describes Franklin D. Roosevelt as “a man of great warmth, natural spontaneity and simple eloquence.” However, Boorstin goes on to say, “paradoxically, it was under his administrations that statements by the President attained a new subtlety and new calulatedness.” Take, for example, take these comments made by FDR to reporters in 1939 at the height of World War II.
”I want to get something across, only don’t put it that way. In other words, it is a thing that I cannot put as direct stuff, but it is the background. And the way – as you know I very often do it – if I were writing the story, the way I’d write it is this – you know the formula: When asked when he was returning [to Washington], the President intimated that it was impossible to give any date; because, while he hoped to be away until the third or fourth of March, information that continues to be received with respect to the international situation continues to be disturbing, therefore, it may be necessary for the President to return [to the capitol] before the third or fourth of March. It is understood that this information relates to the possible renewal of demands by certain countries, these demands being pushed, not through normal diplomatic channels but, rather, through the more recent type of relations; in other words, the use of fear of aggression.”
The third general type of pseudo-events described by Boorstin is the “news leak.” This is, of course, is where a government or corporate official delivers information to the press with designs on a specific and often devious outcome. News leaks are carefully calculated and deliberately executed. As Boorstin states, “the news leak is a pseudo-event par excellence.”
Boorstin also describes examples of pseudo-events from his time. He specifically calls out Senator Joseph McCarthy as a premier example of the pseudo-event’s pernicious power over the American psyche. “[McCarthy] was a natural genius at creating reportable happenings that had an interestingly ambiguous relation to underlying reality.” Richard Rovere, A Washington Reporter during the 1950’s, recalls of McCarthy:
“ He knew how to get into the news even on those rare occasions when invention failed him and he had no un-facts to hive out. For example, he invented the morning press conference called for the purpose of announcing an afternoon press conference. The reporters would come in – they were beginning, in this period, to respond to his summonses like Pavlov’s dogs at the clang of a bell – and McCarthy would say that he just wanted to give them the word that he expected to be ready with a shattering announcement later in the day, for use in the papers the following morning. This would gain him a headline in the afternoon papers: “new McCarthy Revelations Awaited in Capital.” Afternoon would come, and if McCarthy had something, he would give it out, but often enough he had nothing, and this was a matter of slight concern. He would simply say that he wasn’t quite ready, that he was having difficulty in getting some of the “documents” he needed or that a “witness” was proving elusive. Morning headlines: “Delay Seen in McCarthy Case – Mystery Witness Being Sought.””
Boorstin also levels his sights on the pageantry of the modern American election as a premiere example of a pseudo event. He compares the 1960 election and the Kennedy – Nixon debates to the famous Lincoln – Douglas Debates of 1858.
”The drama of the situation was mostly specious, or at least had an extremely ambiguous relevance to the main (but forgotten) issue: which participant was better qualified for the Presidency. Of course, a man’s ability, while standing under klieg lights, without notes, to answer in two and a half minutes a question kept secret until that moment, had only the most dubious relevance – if any at all – to his real qualifications to make deliberative Presidential decisions on long-standing public questions after being instructed by a corps of advisers. The great Presidents in our history (with the possible exception of F.D.R.) would have done miserably; but our most notorious demagogues would have shone.”
Certainly, we can relate. Nearly fifty years after The Image was published, American elections have reached new heights in production scale. The 2008 election, despite the constant use of the phrase “campaign finance reform”, was the most grandiose and expensive pageant in our election history. The debates were plentiful. Four in the general election, 26 in the Democratic primaries and 21 in the Republican primaries. Certainly, the ideologies under discussion were central. But reporters consistently evaluated the candidates in terms of sound bites and body language. Who got the best “zing” in? Which joke received the longest laugh? Again and again we heard pundits determine the “winner” of any given debate based ultimately on which had “appeared most presidential.”
Today we might use the term “pseudo-event” to describe any number of highly viewed or scrutinized public fascinations. We could include publicity stunts like Janet Jackson’s 2004 Wardrobe Malfunction, benefit concerts packed with celebrities, or distracting political theatrics such as those surrounding Sarah Palin’s vice presidential nomination. The over-produced and highly-choreographed pseudo-event pervades modern culture. As David Greenberg of the Los Angeles Times wrote in 2004, “Boorstin invented a concept that the culture needed.”
We live in an age where technology and experience has made the business of producing, broadcasting and publishing content faster and less expensive than ever before. But why does this over saturation of polished and barely-real information play such a role in our culture? More to the point, why do we continue to accept pseudo-content as “news”?
Boorstin contends that it is, in part, due to what he refers to as our “extravagant expectations.” A more modern phrase for his concept is the “entitlement culture,” wherein average Americans expect to have unfettered and uninterrupted access to the living the American Dream. We want to feel wealthier than our parents, be housed more stylishly than the bulk of our coworkers, and drive cars which are as nice as or nicer than our neighbors’. We expect that we will be happy and comfortable at all times and become irate when unexpected obstacles to these ends present themselves. At the core of the ability to achieve this sense of self satisfaction is the need to be entertained at all times.
In the post-telegraph and image saturated world, information is a commodity. Cable TV, talk radio, internet news and the blogosphere have joined with printed journalism and are met with the challenge of supplying their audiences’ growing demand for mass quantities of intriguing content. We feel entitled to our information and the media does not intend to disappoint us.
In the past, newsmen operated under the construct that a newsworthy event either occurred on a given day or it didn’t. The effect of a slow news day was a dull newspaper. A reporter could not be held accountable for such things. In today’s newsrooms, reporters have new obligations. In this passage, Boorstin described the paradigm shift.
“We need not be theologians to see that we have shifted responsibility for making the world interesting from God to the newspaperman. We used to believe there were only so many “events” in the world. If there were not many intriguing or startling occurrences, it was no fault of the reporter. He could not be expected to report what did not exist.
Within the last hundred years, however, and especially in the twentieth century, all this has changed. We expect the papers to be full of news. If there is no news visible to the naked eye, or to the average citizen, we still expect it to be there for the enterprising newsman. The successful reporter is one who can find a story, even if there is no earthquake or assassination or civil war. If he cannot find a story, then he must make one–by the questions he asks of public figures, by the surprising human interest he unfolds from some commonplace event, or by “the news behind the news.” If all this fails, then he must give us a “think piece”–an embroidering of well-known facts, or a speculation about startling things to come.”
Our growing sense of entitlement and our desire to be entertained may explain the expanding market for convenient content. However, this cultural tendency alone does not explain why the pseudo-event is so successful with its audiences. There may not be a hurricane every day, but countless journalists and makers of documentary film and radio programming manage to investigate and produce high quality and introspective work all the time. For example, the award winning program This American Life (which is both a radio broadcast and, as of the last two years, a television program) comes immediately to mind. Why are pseudo-events more attractive to audiences and media producers alike?
Boorstin offers eight reasons why pseudo-events are so seductive to audiences, and ultimately why it is more appealing to the media to go on using pseudo-content than to simply produce more “hard news” to fill the hour.
(1) Pseudo-events are more dramatic.
(2) Pseudo-events, being planned for dissemination, are easier to disseminate and to make vivid. Participants are selected for their newsworthy and dramatic interest.
(3) Pseudo-events can be repeated at will, and thus their impression can be re-enforced.
(4) Pseudo-events cost money to create; hence somebody has an interest in disseminating, magnifying, advertising, and extolling them as events worth watching or worth believing. They are therefore advertised in advance, and rerun in order to get money’s worth.
(5) Pseudo-events, being planned for intelligibility, are more intelligible and hence more reassuring. Even if we cannot discuss intelligently the qualifications of the candidates or the complicated issues, we can at least judge the effectiveness of a television performance.
(6) Pseudo-events are more sociable, more conversable, and more convenient to witness. Their occurrence is planned for our convenience.
(7) Knowledge of pseudo-events–of what has been reported, or what has been staged, and how–becomes the test of being “informed.”
(8) Finally, pseudo-events spawn other pseudo-events in geometric progression. They dominate our consciousness simply because there are more of them, and ever more.
The relationship between the producers of the pseudo-events and the reporters who sell there wares is symbiotic. A politician has a message to deliver to the public. A reporter has a column to write. The column’s regular subscriber is a third beneficiary. What exactly is it about this arrangement that is so toxic for our culture?
The answer could depend on the intent. Pseudo-events use illusion and drama to captivate and impress the public. In the example of the benefit concert, a rock star may build his image as a deep and caring individual. Fans tune in initially for entertainment, but gain a greater understanding of a political issue or the suffering caused by a disease. Perhaps some cash is generated for a good cause. Certainly this seems acceptable.
Boorstin, however, would warn against our culture’s growing fascination with the modern celebrity. David Greenberg of the Los Angeles Times wrote, “Boorstin also lamented how celebrities, with their manufactured reputations, had displaced the authentic heroes he admired – those who earned fame through genuine innovations in leadership, science or the arts.” This displacement of attention and gratitude for achievement has only continued to distract more recent generations of Americans. Perhaps this puzzling phenomenon was best stated by Thomas L. Friedman in his bestseller, The World is Flat. “In China today, Bill Gates is Britney Spears. In America today, Britney Spears is Britney Spears — and that is our problem.”
Still, the pseudo-event poses more potential harm to our culture and collective conscious than celebrity worship. Sean Wilentz, director of the Program in American Studies at Princeton University, wrote an article published in 2000 in The American Prospect which invoked the writings of Boorstin. Wilentz contended, “the latest metamorphosis of Boorstin’s pseudo-event is the pseudo-scandal, an ambiguous or outright false scandal that acquires the appearance of the real thing in the media through the dogged repetition of charges and investigations.”
Pseudo-scandals are effective distractions because they do not require a definitive result. It is enough to simply associate a politician with a scandal to have an effect on public opinion. These sorts of tactics are by no means new. American political propaganda is as old as American politics. But televised media has raised the stakes through far-reaching circulation and by removing all need for context with the all too popular video/sound bite.
Wilentz cites three developments, aside from innovations in technology, which have furthered the influence of pseudo-scandals in the past few decades. “[The] growth of antipolitical media sensationalism, the post-Watergate tendency to criminalize political differences, and the development of an absurd and degrading soft money campaign finance system that has widened opportunities for genuine corruption and pseudo-scandals alike.”
In the article, Wilentz goes on to describe several scandals (that he categorizes as “pseudo”) which dogged Al Gore in his 2000 bid for the White House. Wilentz cites a survey by the Pew Research Center for the People & the Press which found that 76% of media coverage focused on Gore from April through June 2000 was focused on alleged lies and alleged scandals. During that same period, the survey found that the majority of Bush’s coverage focused on his political shift toward the center and the theme of “compassionate conservatism.”
Throughout the piece Wilentz presents painstaking evidence of the blatant use of tactics by both parties (though the author is quite obviously writing in support of Gore) and eloquently speaks out in defamation of the gullibility, if not outright culpability, of the media at large. He ends the article, written before the outcome of the 2000 election was known, by broadly stating “Bush and other Republicans have given every sign that they hope to ride the Gore pseudo-scandals all the way to the White House. If that happens, our entire political system, and not just Vice President Gore, will be the loser – for future candidates and advisers, of all parties, will be bound to reflect on the 2000 elections, and go on to master and refine the pseudo-scandal playbook.”
There is little doubt that the influence of pseudo-events is effective and far reaching, but is it possible that pseudo-events and scandals cost Gore the 2000 election? Calculated presentations of people and events which are designed to illicit the desired response in the targeted demographic are what campaigns are made of. We all know this. Still, is Wilentz is overstating the issue?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. And perhaps the media is culpable. But as reporters continue to be met with the daunting task of supplying to our condition-less demand for information, they will be more than happy to broadcast and print pre-fabricated content and the modern theatrical art of the pseudo-event will continue to pervade.
Ultimately we – as the consumers of the information we choose to review – must take responsibility. Our love for a constant distraction does not supply a rational for the ease with which we accept media projections which can, with some analysis, be identified as choreographed productions. And while it seems that Boorstin’s prediction that it will only become more difficult to find the reality in the illusion holds true, awareness is key. Boorstin wrote this summation of our continued collective responsibility in scrutinizing the information we receive from the media.
”To discover our illusions will not solve the problems of our world. But if we do not discover them, we will never discover our real problems. To dispel the ghosts which populate the world of our making will not give us the power to conquer the real enemies of the real world or to remake the real world. But it may help us discover that we cannot make the world in our image. It will liberate us and sharpen our vision. It will clear away the fog so we can face the world we share with all mankind.”
We can assume that pseudo-events will continue to be successful in their quest to suffuse our culture. As the businesses of self-promotion and innovations in media production continue to advance, it becomes more and more difficult to spot the fake turkeys. We must stay alert and aware and constantly question both the merit of the information as it is presented to us and – most especially – the motivations of those who have seen to it that the information was presented in the first place.
I was recently sorting though my photos from Greece and unearthed a series of shots I had completely forgotten about. Demetria and I were in Santorini on a day cruise. Everyone told us not to go because it was raining like mad, but we decided to go anyway. What were we going to do? Waste one of our two days on the island just because it was raining?
The day cruise promised a chance to soak in a natural hot spring, something Demetria had been wanting to work into the trip since day one. But when the boat arrived we learned there was a little catch. You had to be willing to swim about 300 meters through the cold ocean water to get to the spring, and then you had to swim back to the boat. In the rain. And the tour guide told us that they would only wait fifteen minutes. “What’s the point?” I thought. About five people (all teenaged) jumped overboard and swam to the spring. The rest of us settled in for what turned out to be a twenty minute stop at the least picturesque spot in all of Santorini.
It wasn’t a big deal, really. It was just irritating because it wasn’t the sexy soak in the Greek island spring the brochure had implied we would experience on our day out. I spied a herd of goats on the lava rocks and started snapping pictures. I guess I thought it would make an interesting shot – Greek goats on an exotic volcanic island. But the photos weren’t interesting and I never looked at them again. For one thing, I was too far away. For another, we have goats in Utah for Chrissakes. And lava rocks. What was I thinking?
But flipping through the photos this time, one photo caught my eye. Take a look:
I mean, what the kinky hell?
I recently took a bone density test and discovered that I have Osteopenia. As in, “Attention passengers, we are pulling into the Ostepenia Station. Next stop Osteoporosis! If you are 5 feet 2 inches tall or less, [we mean you, Ms. Lewis, so please put that down and pay attention] we would like to remind you that there are no transfers at the Osteoporosis stop. We suggest you drink less coffee and eat some yogurt.”
The actual conversation went more like this.
Health Fair Nurse: You really should drink less coffee.
Ms Lewis: What else you got?
Health Fair Nurse: Of course you should be taking a regular supplement. And more dairy… yogurt, for instance…
Well, as my college chum Christian would say, “Gag me with a naked smurf.”
Okay sure, when I was in Greece, I ate a lot of yogurt. And it was great. But it was a “When in Rome” kind of thing. Hell, when I was in Oaxaca, I ate fried bugs! And that wasn’t so bad, except that I had braces at the time, and… on second thought, I’ll spare you the details.
On a regular basis, however, I gotta say I’m not feeling the love for the yogurt. I know they try to sex it up with the fruit bits and the artificial colors. And I can manage it. But still, I’m going to have to do some soul searching to fully embrace that concept.
I also learned that all exercise isn’t created equally when you are talking about bone density. Apparently, you have to stress the bones with weight bearing exercises. All that cycling and elliptical crap I’ve been doing has only helped my stupid cardiovascular system (who knows what that does).
So yada yada yada, I’ve been running regularly for the last three weeks, and it hasn’t been that bad. Except that my knees are staging a small coup d’état. (Good Christ. Since when is 31 “old?”) Truth be told, I have discovered that I really enjoy running. It feels good, and – If I have the right music going – it’s a complete buzz.
And, I discovered a rather curious side effect.
Yesterday, I was on the phone with my little sister, when I discovered that I really had to pee. (Oh, yeah… warning warning not for squeamish readers…) And I thought, “What the hell, it’s my sister. And anyway, she’ll never know…” But once I was in sitting position, I discovered that my thighs weren’t performing their usual muffling effect. I looked down, and saw there was a definite space.
Did you catch that? There is an actual SPACE there. I never knew that was possible before! Did I mention I am 31 years old? And I couldn’t make the space go away. I literally had to use my hands to squish my legs together to achieve said muffling effect.
I assume other people are used to having that space, but it certainly hasn’t been my issue before. And then I thought “Holy cow, there’s something to this ‘exercising’ thing after all! If only my knees would stop being such pansy assed losers, maybe I could actually get somewhere.”
As for building up my yogurt tolerance, I’ll keep you posted.
There are only 19 shopping days left until Christmas. But I’m not really tracking that number, as I have my Christmas shopping done. Well, nearly done. There still is a scarf and a half that refuse to knit themselves. (Yes, I knit. I grew up in Utah County. I know how to do all kinds of freaky shit.) But as I was saying, I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about the fact that there are only 25 days to actualize last January’s New Year’s resolutions.
Let’s see… there was Number 1. “Stop Lying Lie Less”.
Ah yes. That one bit me in the ass. It was like a curse! I’ll share one example:
I never bothered changing my address after the first time I registered to vote and, for all of these years, I have been voting at the university’s dorms. Mind you, I graduated from college in 1999. And the building I supposedly live in was torn down for the 2002 Olympics, as it was an unsightly blight on the campus landscape. But the volunteers at the polls never pushed me on it and I work near campus so it’s been really convenient. I simply never felt the need to take the time to update my registration.
But when I went to campus to vote in the presidential primaries last January, and the guy asked (as they always do), “is this address current?” I said, “it sure isn’t!” without so much as a pause. It’s like it didn’t even occur to me to lie. I’m used to that being my first instinct, at least. But the truth just flew right out of my head. I couldn’t believe it. I reflected back on my [then still recent] resolution and thought, “what have I done?”
So I didn’t get to vote in the primaries. But obviously, I did re-register and found my new precinct. And after a couple months I got used to telling the truth, even when it wasn’t convenient. I discovered it can be nice because you don’t have to keep track of what you’ve told people. It’s much less stressful that way.
That was a good goal, and I think I did alright in my execution. Right now I’d give myself a B.
But in the spirit of contrition, and also to show that I am serious about improving myself, I’d like to take this opportunity to confess the following.
Dear friends, I have already come clean about the fact that – last year, after the accident in Greece – Demetria and I snuck out of the window of the hospital and hid in an alley to escape the angry Moped rental guys. It was my idea. Demetria didn’t want to do it. But I was afraid that they were going to take [further] advantage of us, and so we hid from them and never paid for the damages.
What I have not yet confessed is that we didn’t wreck a moped. It was an ATV. I lied, because ATVs are just so red-neck Southern Utah and I was embarrassed by their inherent lameness. And anyway, I wanted to rent a moped but in the end we decided to take out the ATV instead because we thought it would be safer (ha!).
And that’s the truth. My nose still looks like I broke against a Greek retaining wall, but at least I don’t feel like Pinochio any more. Granted, I still need to have that moment where I look people in the eye and admidt I’m a stinky liar. But I took a big healthy step today. So let’s raise that grade from a B to an A-. Yes!
Movin on. Number 2. “Complete condo remodeling project.”
Oy vey. This one will be a squeaker.
Since I last wrote about this catastrophe, I have consulted with several potential contractors. I considered several options. I even tried to make a little progress on my own. But eventually, I “coped” with defeat by shoving all the tools and remaining tile into the unfinished tub/surround, pushing the little lock button on the inside of the bathroom door knob, pulling it closed behind me and saying to myself “I have no second bathroom. I have no second bathroom. I have no…”
That was in July. Now, as I write here in this coffee shop, my NEW contractor is grouting the last of the tile in my FABULOUS new bathroom. He has also put down the new kitchen floor and we are going to use up the extra tile by putting down a tile landing at both of my entrances. At this very moment, I have a fridge in my living room and my entire apartment is covered in a thin silica dust. But I can see light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m confident that this one will be complete in time for my sister and her boyfriend’s upcoming holiday vist.
Yes, I managed to stretch what should have been a three week project out over a year and four contractors. But hey, it’s a resolution. It’s about finishing; no one ever said anything about extra points for style. And besides, slow and steady… etc. etc. etc.
I’m giving myself an A+. Excellent!
That leaves me with 25 days to (#3) learn Spanish and (#4) meet a fabulous man.
That’ll be one F and one big F-.
I guess those two can just wrap onto the 2009 list. But while I’m thinking about it, I’ll make a mental note to (at minimum) move the Spanish intro CDs to the car. I’m pretty sure I can manage to do that over the next 25 days.
I’m working on a paper for one of my classes. Last night, before I left work, I googled my topic, sorted my finds and printed off the articles that seemed to be the most relevant. I then packed the pages in my gym back to read on the stationary bike. Later, I realized that when I was doing my undergrad work back in the mid nintees, it would have taken me hours at the library to generate the same amount of research material, and I would have had a difficult time coming up with the most recent publications.
I was feeling grateful for the fact that I’m working on my graduate degree now. Then I had a more abstract thought. I was thinking that all of that saved time is actually wasted on me, as I’m probably just going to use it for sleeping in or watching reruns of MacGuvyer. But think of all of the truly great researchers from past generations who didn’t have the internet at their disposal. Like Howard Zinn and Mark Van Doren (to name the first two who come to mind). Just think what brilliant things they might have accomplished with today’s information technology!
I was expressing this thought to my friend Deborah, and she responded with this anecdote about her seven year old daughter.
“Did I tell you about when I was explaining to Amira that when I was in elementary school, we didn’t have computers at school? Her response: ‘So you just had to take your own with you?’”
I laughed and laughed. And then I cried a little.
