Adventures in Adulthood

My Basketball Nicknames from Birth to Age Forty-Five

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 06:26:00 +0000

Birth: The Next Michael Jordan Age 1: Poopie Diaper Age 2: Dribbler Age 3: Mr. Snappy Age 4: Tinkler Age 5: Po (as in he has potential) Age 6: Chubbs Age 7: Lumpy Age 8: Big Train Age 9: Groan (as in he has finally started groan into his weight) Age 10: Floppy Age 11: Skinny Butt Age 12: Spaghetti Arms Age 13: Statue (as in hands of stone) Age 14: Big Hair Age 15: No-No (as in no, no, please don't shoot the ball) Age 16: Clunker Age 17: Johnny Jump-Up Age 18: Cow (as in he jumps over the moon) Age 19: Skywalker Age 20: Air Age 21: Fly Age 22: Leper (as in nobody can touch him) Age 23: White Lightning Age 24: El Diablo Age 25: Sprain Age 26: Sir Limps-a-lot Age 27: Knee-Be-Gone Age 28: Sloppy Arthroscopy Age 29: Long Time (as in no see) Age 30: Crutch Age 31: Comeback Kid Age 32: Rain (as in his jump shot brings rain) Age 33: Gunner Age 34: Duct Tape (as in held together by duct tape) Age 35: Coach Age 36: Day (as in back in the day, he once could play) Age 37: Old School Age 38: Pappy Age 39: Viagra Age 40: The Distinguished Gentleman from Connecticut Age 41: Whitey White Hair Age 42: Jo-Jo, Jumps-Too Low, Runs-Too-Slow Age 43: One Room (as in so old school the school only had one room) Age 44: Frank (as in Frank N. Stein) Age 45: Florida (as in should retire) ###

Wrong Number

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:49:00 +0000

While in graduate school, I paid the bills for a year by working part-time at a weird little fast-food restaurant at the local mall. They specialized in French fries, so the place was called the "French Fry Factory." For uniforms, we wore bright yellow t-shirts and baseball caps emblazoned with the glowing orange words, "French Fry Factory." (Just for fun, the "o" in "factory" was shaped like a cog.) In the florescent mall lighting, that yellow and orange combination was almost enough to cook the fries by itself. The place had a small dining area with six tables and an open food-prep area so that anybody walking by could stare at us while we worked. And many people did just that--gawked away as grease slowly sizzled its way into our pores. Back in my tiny grad-school apartment each night, even after an hour-long shower and half a bar of soap, I never felt truly clean. Some days I even worked alone, taking orders and operating the cash register with my right hand and frantically reaching back to run the fryers and the grill with my left. I must have put on quite a show for the gawkers on those days. The job paid minimum wage, but I got one free sandwich and all the fries and drinks I wanted during each shift. All in all, it wasn't a bad deal. Each day, I skipped breakfast and lunch, then snacked on fries and iced tea while I worked. When my shift ended, I would settle down for a leisurely burger and do some reading for my classes. I hardly ever bought groceries that year, even stopping in for free fries on my occasional days off, and I actually lost fifteen pounds because the hard work kept me too busy to eat much. Within a couple of weeks, I got "promoted" to "opener." There was no extra pay, but I got to come in at 9 a.m. and open the place--a much better job than "closer" at 10 p.m. when I was ready to collapse into bed. Mornings were quiet at the mall, and I was able to develop a routine that made the job enjoyable. I liked having a couple of calm hours of preparation duty before the lunch rush began. When I'd been there for about three months, my morning calm was interrupted by a phone call at precisely at 9:30. "Hello, French Fry Factory!" I sang out in my cheeriest voice. An elderly sounding woman on the other end of the line said, "I would like to speak to Marion, please." "I'm sorry ma'am," I replied. "There's no one here by that name. I think you might have the wrong number." The woman recited the phone number and again asked for Marion. "That's the right number," I said, "but this is the French Fry Factory. We're a restaurant in the mall, not a residence." "Marion said I should call her at this number," the woman continued, beginning to sound frustrated. "I'm really sorry," I said, "but there's no Marion here." With that, she abruptly hung up. I shrugged, sent a silent wish that she would find her Marion, and then got back to work. The next morning, the phone rang at 9:30 once again. "Hello, French Fry Factory!" "I would like to speak with Marion, please." The same voice. "I'm sorry, but this is the French Fry Factory again." "Marion said she'd be there." This time, I heard what sounded like a hint of panic. "I'm really sorry, ma'am. Do you have a last name for Marion? Maybe I could help you look up her number." "She said she would be there," the woman snapped and hung up. For months, these calls continued--not every day, sometimes not even every week, but always at 9:30. Each time, the woman seemed reluctant to believe that Marion wasn't waiting expectantly for her call. And each time, she hung up before I could say anything helpful. This was back before caller-ID, so I investigated. I asked the other "openers" if they ever got any wrong-number calls. Most of them said they didn't, but one annoying guy said he refused to answer the phone before 10:30 when we officially opened for business. He eventually admitted that he may have heard the phone ring a few times in the morning, but he stuck to his philosophy that if they weren't open, he shouldn't have to answer the phone. As the months went along, I tried several strategies. I started answering the 9:30 calls by saying "Hello?" in a pleasant voice, as if I were a retiree in the middle of morning coffee. That didn't help. Sometimes I picked up the phone and didn't say anything, but the woman would just hang up after a few seconds. I even answered a few times with, "Please don't hang up. I want to help you find Marion." But the woman would repeat, "Marion should be there," then hang up. Once I even answered, "Hello, information ... could I please have the last name of the party you are trying to reach?" No luck--all I heard was a click. I don't remember exactly when the calls stopped, but one day I realized that the woman hadn't called in a month. In the meantime, I had transferred to another graduate program and was about to leave the French Fry Factory and move out of the area. During my last week, the manager held a surprise going-away party. Most of my coworkers were there, and several of the pretty young women who worked at the clothing stores in the mall (and whom I had often treated to free coffee) stopped by to kiss my greasy cheek and give me their best wishes. The unexpected pleasure of this party nearly brought me to tears as I realized how much this silly little job had meant to me for the past year. The owner even showed up. He was a lawyer who hardly ever came to the store. I heard that he operated the restaurant as a tax write-off and was upset when we actually started turning a profit. But he seemed like a nice enough guy, and I was glad he came to say good-bye. With the owner was a very tiny old woman. She had bright, happy eyes, and I could tell she had once been young and active. She still maintained an energy and a glow that made her very appealing. "This is my grandmother," the owner said after shaking my hand and wishing me luck, "Mrs. Candelaria." "Oh, Glen, don't be so formal," the woman scolded her grandson. Then she turned to me and smiled, extending her hand. "Please call me Marion." ###

What to do When the Neighbor's Dogs Won't Stop Barking for Thirty-Three Nights in a Row

Fri, 17 Jul 2009 09:31:00 +0000

1) Call the "will do odd jobs" guy whose number you found on the bulletin board at the supermarket. Offer him twenty bucks. He'll know what to do. 2) Turn up the Republican National Convention really loud on the television. (This won't stop the dogs, but it will give you a new appreciation for their barking as a comparative source of intelligence in the world.) 3) March right up to those dogs and tell them in a stern voice, "Cut it out you guys, and I mean right now." 4) Invent a soundproof fence. Install it in the appropriate location. 5) Try to find one of those whistles only dogs could hear that everybody but you seemed to have when you were a kid. What the heck--anything's worth a shot. 6) Place a personal ad in the "singles" section of the newspaper. Emphasize that you are looking for someone who really, really likes dogs. 7) Tie an anonymous note to a brick and toss it through your neighbor's window. The note should say that you "know what they're up to" and "it had better stop really soon or there might be more bricks." 8) Bring six quarts of water to a boil. Add three beef bullion cubes. Add a dozen sleeping pills. Reduce heat to medium. Cover and let simmer for half an hour. Serve at room temperature in a doggie dish. 9) When the dogs finally stop barking and fall asleep around 4:30 a.m., tiptoe up to them and yell, "It's about freaking time!" 10) Purchase a large bucket of "Bark-be-Gone." Apply liberally. 11) Ignore them. Sure, that'll work--just like it did with that playground bully in junior high. 12) Eat lots of vegetables, exercise, take your vitamins, and outlive the hairy beasts by sixty years. 13) Help the dogs open a dot.com business. That should make them disappear pretty quickly. 14) They say that living well is the best revenge, so buy a twenty-year-old Chevy pick-up, drink wine with a screw cap, and take a vacation to Dollywood. 15) Enroll in that community college continuing education course about dog mind control that you've always wanted to take but couldn't quite fit into your schedule. 16) Walk by the windows naked every few minutes. That should confuse them into silence. 17) Go to the library and check out a book about dog behavior. Make sure it's a really big hardcover book. Throw it at them. Throw it hard. 18) Radio their coordinates to central command. 19) Read to the dogs from that notebook full of love poems you wrote in tenth grade. 20) Throw the dogs a surprise birthday party. Get a poodle in a bikini to jump out of a cake. 21) Become friends with the neighborhood kid who's really good with his slingshot. Invite him over for a snack and target practice. 22) Take up the tuba. Practice late at night. Don't worry so much about improving you ability to play. Volume is key. 23) Move. Now. 24) When your neighbor finally comes out on the porch at midnight and says, "Will my sweet puppies please stop their barkie-warkies? Who are my good boys? Yes, you are, yes, you're my good boys, yes, you are, oh, my pookie-wookie puppies!" videotape the whole thing. Make sure your lawyer gets the tape into evidence at your trial. No jury would convict. 25) Take comfort in the knowledge that only cats have nine lives. 26) Enter your neighbors in one of those "win-a-year-long-vacation-to-Madagascar" contests at the local mall. Make sure it's the pet-friendly "win-a-year-long-vacation-to-Madagascar" contest, not that other one. 27) Join a support group. Confront your feelings. Get in touch with your inner child. Make peace with your demons. Pass the talking stick. Revisit past lives. Tame your gremlin. Don't be afraid to cry. 28) Forget the dog whisperer. This job is too big. Contact that horse whisperer guy. Ask him if he does dogs. 29) Begin a novel with the line, "It was a dark and stormy night, and my neighbor's dogs were barking again." Find a literary agent to handle this can't-miss bestseller. 30) Write a complaint letter to President Bush. If anyone can help with such a difficult diplomatic situation, it's him. 31) Mark your territory. 32) Knit each dog a really nice sweater--maybe some booties and scarves too. They've probably just been trying to tell you that they're a little chilly. 33) Bark right back at the smelly bastards and see how they like it. ###

Teenagers with Scapels

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 17:57:00 +0000

For much of my life, people in the medical world had one attribute in common: they all looked ancient to my young eyes. My first dentist had wrinkled fingers the size of hot dogs, but he could still fit seven of those blotchy digits in my mouth as he drilled my first fillings. Our school nurse had quite a few bristly gray chin hairs and was rumored to be well over 100 years of age. And the doctor who delivered me and saw to my health needs until I was eighteen had bags under his eyes so big he could have kept a stethoscope in one and reflex hammer in the other. Things began to change when I made my occasional visits to the health services clinic in college. One doctor who examined my sprained knee seemed like a pretty cool, almost-middle-aged guy, a lot like the hip young professors who hung out at the student center or shot baskets in the gym. The nurse who gave me a flu shot was barely thirty and cute enough to make me blush as she rubbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball on my shoulder before stabbing me with the needle. As I’ve grown older, the people in the medical world seem to have gotten progressively younger. Now that I’m hovering around the half-century mark, I’ve reached some sort of median patient-professional age. About half of the people in white coats look to be my age or older, but the other half look like they’re about to shave for the first time or still have a provisional driver’s license. The most extreme example was the urologist who performed my vasectomy a decade ago. When I asked how many of these operations he had done, he replied, “A bunch, you know, like, several.” From the rough way he handled my still-sore goodies during the follow-up exam a week later, I could tell he’d never been on the receiving end of the procedure himself. And the nurse assisting him looked too young to be a legal participant. These situations keep repeating. When my wife and I took our twenty-year-old son to the emergency room with a broken wrist, his doctor looked like he could be on our son’s intramural soccer team. Kid Doctor decided to consult with his supervisor, so I expected a craggy old guy who smelled like mouthwash and mothballs. But the supervisor looked young enough to be the first guy’s slightly older brother, who just stepped out of a Gap ad. The young cardiologist who oversaw my first treadmill stress test kept calling me “Sir.” The doctor who did my knee surgery last summer mentioned that we had some mutual friends, so I looked him up on the Internet and discovered he graduated from high school a year after I did. At a recent physical exam, the phlebotomist drew my blood while simultaneously texting her friends about that night’s Hannah Montana concert. (Okay, that last one may be a slight exaggeration.) These youngsters have been wonderful practitioners (with the notable exception of the ham-fisted urologist, who I like to call “Dr. Knuckles”). I have great confidence in them even as I chuckle and wonder what they’re planning to wear to the prom. I never make any comments about their youth because I was once in a similar position. At age twenty-three, I taught my first college classes and was barely older than the students who rolled their eyes when I walked into the room wearing an ill-fitting suit to try to look the part. What worries me now is that these youthful technicians, nurses, and doctors provide an unwelcome window into the future. How young will the doctors look when I get my bad knee replaced in a decade or so? What about the dentist who pulls the last of my teeth and fits me for dentures? Will the teenager on the nursing home staff call me “grandpa” as she feeds me my strained peas and applesauce? Of course, those visions are better than the alternative. A former student stopped by my office the other day to visit. She’s a smart, confident woman, young enough to be my daughter. She combines a professional attitude with a friendly smile and sympathetic, comforting eyes. Those qualities served her well as a student and will be even more essential as she sets off in her chosen profession. This young woman just passed her certification exam to be a funeral director. ###