the lostest of them all

I'm manning a table at work for a few hours this week. My main job is to direct lost students in ways which make them less lost. I'm not always successful. My secondary job is to listen attentively to crazy people.

I should've known about this one guy yesterday. He'd been hanging around in the general area of my table for more than an hour. I thought he was probably waiting for someone to come pick him up. He had no books, no bag, not a single pencil as far as I could tell. But he didn't look crazy. He even smiled at me a couple times, so I wasn't too worried. Usually if they're crazy, they begin talking to you the first time you make eye contact.

Finally came the fatal moment. He had walked down to the road and was now walking back past my table. "Hi," he said in a friendly, undisturbing sort of way. "What are you doing here?" So we talked for approximately four seconds about what I was up to, and then he became distraught. Zero to distraught in four seconds. Apparently I, a person he had met only four seconds before (although to be fair, we'd known of each other's existence for over an hour at that point), struck him as someone to whom he could vent his rage. He began talking. I have no real idea of what he was saying, but it was angry and it went something like this:

"I had this class and I went there and, you know, it's been thirty-seven years I've been working on this thing, and so I went there, and after all this time, and what am I, too old? And then the teacher called me over and told me you have to leave and I don't know what, I guess I'm too old. What am I, a million years old? How old are you? How many millions of years old are you? How many past lives have you had? I guess they think I'm just too old -"

And the whole time I'm nodding and making sympathetic noises and trying to work out how old he is based on the "thirty-seven years" comment, because frankly, he doesn't look that old. Certainly not old enough to get kicked out of a school that regularly admits people in their eighties.

And then a lost student of another kind approached and I politely said, "Excuse me," and turned away, and he wandered away and kind of hung out silently behind me for another half-hour, muttering to himself in a bitter sort of way now and again, and then eventually disappeared, and I wondered if he was kicked out of class on the first day because he wasn't actually registered for the class or because he spouted off crazy talk in the middle of the lecture or maybe because he forgot to bring his pencil. But it never crossed my mind that he was kicked out because he was too old.

the phone rings again

Scene - the phone rings. Jenny runs to answer it because now her parents KNOW THE TRUTH.

Jenny: Hello?

Dad: This is Dad. I read your blog.

Jenny: Wait - you read my blog?!?

Dad: Heh heh. Funny enough, you were right.

Jenny: About what? The fireworks? The mustache?

Dad: It was a computer-related question. We were working on a computer birthday calendar thing and we needed to know what year Raphael was born in. Heh heh heh.

Jenny: That's actually really funny. Guess I know you better than I thought.

Dad (ominously): Or maybe you don't know me as well as you think...

Jenny: But I was right about the mustache, I bet.

Dad (ominously): Bwuah hahahaha! Ah ha hahahaha!*




*We didn't actually discuss the mustache, and my Dad doesn't actually laugh like that - as far as I know...

parents: can't live with 'em, can't avoid the phone every time they call or they'll catch on

My dad calls me approximately three times a year, most often with questions pertaining to my computer (e.g., Dad: "Is your computer still working?" Jenny: "Yes." Dad: "Well, good. That's good. Alright, talk to you later.") Or with questions pertaining to Mom: (e.g., Dad: "Did you remember it's your mother's birthday on Wednesday?" Jenny: "I did just now.").

Now, keeping that in mind:

Scene - The phone rings. Jenny runs to answer it because her parents have been trying to reach her and if she doesn't, she'll get another of those guilt-inducing messages where her mother sighs and uses her sad, Jennifer-are-you-deliberately-avoiding-your-mother voice.

Jenny: Hello?

Dad: This is Dad.

Jenny: Hey, Dad, what's up?

Dad: Well, let's see. What year was Raphael born in?

Jenny: Uhhh...1973?

Dad: Are you sure?

Jenny: Uhhh...yes. Yes, I'm sure. 1973. Why?

Dad: Okay, well, that's all I wanted. Talk to you later.

Jenny: Wait, what?

Dad: Bye.


See what I mean? What the heck? In order to solve the mystery of this unusual and puzzling conversation (which probably relates back to the computer somehow), I have attempted to think like my dad. No mean feat, that. But I'm pretty sure the following accurately represents his thought process leading up to our odd little conversation:

Raphael's birthday is coming up according to my wife who pays all kinds of attention to these things. That Raphael...he's an interesting character. He's apparently from Guatemala. I have never been to Guatemala but I understand from my daughter Jenny that they like their fireworks over there. I like fireworks too. I like watching fireworks pretty well, at least, although I never liked being the one who had to drive everyone home from the big Wright-Patt Air Force Base Fourth of July fireworks show every summer. That was really terrible. I really hated sitting in all that holiday traffic for hours while every yahoo and his brother tried to cut me off so they could get out of the parking lot first and my daughters made their annoying stuffed parrots sing "Hey Jude" in the backseat. Come to think of it, how come my wife never offered to drive? Criminy. You know what was a good year? 1973. Two years before Jenny was born. A decade before I had to start going to those damned Wright-Patt fireworks displays. Ah, 1973. I was a free man then. A man with no troubles. A man, his wife, his dog Wendy, a mustache, and a good hose for watering the front lawn. That was all I needed back in those days. What a life. 1973 was even before the internet, of course. I like the internet a lot. I like video Skyping with my grandson, Jack. I wonder if I can get Jack to learn to say "yahoo" without people suspecting that it was me who taught him? I wonder if I can get him to call my daughter Julie a yahoo? I bet I can. I'll bet he's right on the cusp of that one. Wait just a goldarn minute here. How old is Raphael anyway? Hmm. It would sure be something if he was born in 1973. I'd certainly like him better if I knew that about him. I think I'll call Jenny to ask.

Yep. Mystery solved.

you'd rather hear about julie's visit and what exactly happened in the hot tub after the free martinis...(I'm totally kidding!) (but ask me later)

I have this sinus infection that I'm 99 percent sure is something much more sinister than a sinus infection. Mucus could not cause this headache. It has to be little army men jabbing things into my skull from the inside.

Today, it's worse than ever, even though I've been medicating myself heavily since Monday morning. If I look down or stand up or turn my head or try to put on pants or hear anything pertaining to the Health Care Debate, these throbs of pain and pressure make me sure that the army men have mutated into malignant tumors. (But then the throbbing subsides and I return to reality.)

I dropped a contact on the floor this morning. It was so brutal.

This thing came on last Saturday, right after my sister left. I've done everything in my power to make it go away, although until just now, I believed that my powers in this situation were limited to taking antibiotics, scarfing down Sudafed and Ibuprofin, sniffing Nasonex and some sort of nasal irrigation spray recommended by my doctor, and inhaling steam which I've been too lazy to actually make happen.

Having just spent thirty-seven seconds perusing the internet, however, I've discovered a few additional remedies that a person with a sinus headache could try.

I could try, for example, something called Jal neti which is apparently a yogic method of cleaning out the nostrils and sinuses (presumably involving sending in tiny military forces to thwart the ruthless takeover of my sinus pockets by corrupted army men with jabby things). But for this, I'd have to have supervision, according to the internet, and I suppose Lila doesn't count.

I could make a "decoction" of mustard seed powder and water which "if instilled in the nostrils, redresses migraines." But only if I knew what a decoction was and how exactly one instills it into one's nostrils and if the whole idea didn't frighten me so much.

According to the internet, the juice of ripe grapes is good for a sinus headache. Are we talking about wine? Drinking ourselves into oblivion until we can no longer feel the pain? Who knows. At any rate, I don't have any grapes.

Also, I'm supposed to eat a jalapeno "as soon as possible." But I won't be doing that.

What I may actually try, if this headache doesn't subside soon, is one of the various types of pastes the internet suggests. Cinnamon, basil, cloves, ginger, etc. mixed with water and applied to the forehead. Mmm. I'm going to smell like cookies. And I'm going to try some essential oils in steam, I guess, since I have them and if boiling the water doesn't hurt too much.

But until the water boils, coffee coffee coffee. If I can get the army men jittery enough, they won't be able to aim straight. That should do it.

Julie & Julia (& also Jenny)

For reasons obscure, my sister is here! In Tucson. In August. Overall, she's acting fairly normal, if slightly and chronically dehydrated. (Woozily informing me of the color of her urine every couple of hours for example: "It's practically clear!")

We have several goals for the week (all of which were her idea if anyone is interested) including reading twenty-seven books in five days (her goal, not mine, in addition to not being my idea) and cooking several things from Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" in a kitchen that features temperatures that soar regularly above 90 degrees in August which when we collected it (the book) from the nice, older hippie-ish guy with the dangly jade earring and the crazy hair at the library desk inspired him to call enthusiastically after us as we exited in triumph: "Master it!" and also to express an interest in smelling our mastering of it from his desk at the library. Which I don't know if that's going to happen but we will certainly see.

Anyway, Raphael has just brought us a consolation Taco Bell Mexican pizza to consume prior to comsuming something French that I can't remember what it's called for dinner on account of Julie having had the idea to open a bottle of prosecco as we made the orange almond cake earlier ths afternoon. We were supposed to have artichokes with butter as an appetizer, but Safeway was fresh out of artichokes, so okay, Taco Bell can be appetizing as well in many ways.

And so in conclusion, I have to go.