When we move to Disney...

My five-year-old son started many a sentence with that phrase over the past year. For a long time he labored under the firm conviction that we were going to move to Disney World. The fact is that my wife and I had joked about that many times.

In order to understand that appeal, you have to know that my wife, kids, and I are total, unmitigated Disney nuts. We’ve been 9 times in the past four years and have plans to go again this year. We love going to Walt Disney World in Orlando, we love the Disney classic movies, we have Disney clothing, Disney knick knacks, Disney mugs, Disney t-shirts. We even considered buying into one of the Disney time-share programs—Disney Vacation Club.

Many of my friends (well probably really all but one—we’ll call him Buddy) simply cannot understand my love for most things Disney. These friends dislike Disney for any number of completely unfounded and irrational reasons. One reason that is often used to perpetuate the Disney smear campaign (It is a vast right wing, errrr left wing, no Marxist conspiracy) is that Disney is some kind of big mind control racket.

They cite the lengths Disney goes to in order to control crowds. If you’ve ever been to one of the theme parks, you are familiar with the roped lines that circle back on themselves like a switchback mountain road. You no doubt also are familiar with the old hidden second line trick—where you think you’ve made it to the end of the line only to find a second line around the corner. Cleverly, they deflect your line rage with props and signs that complete the immersion into the story line and encourage the consumption of Disney swag at nearby gift shops.

Perhaps you aren’t quite as familiar with the other things Disney does to insure a magical, safe experience for its guests. I read on a Disney discussion page that Disney also employs other less visible methods. Those methods include the use of hidden cameras, electric fences, laser-enforced perimeters, and an army of guards cast members.

Mind control? Come on now! These are really magicality insurance measures put in place by Disney’s Magical Experience Insurance Board. They oversee important policies and procedures to insure that each guest has the most magical experience ever! The theme parks deal with literally hundreds of thousands of guests each year. Those policies and measures are in place to insure that good hearted cast members at all levels can give guests a magical experience in a safe, family-friendly environment.

Those same laudable intentions explain Disney’s meticulous concern for employee dress, appearance and behavior. Here are the guidelines from the Disney employment web page:

For males in an on-stage role, hair must be cut above the ear and off the back of the collar with no defined cut or lines and must be a natural color. Males should be clean-shaven and may have a mustache that should not extend past the corners of the lip. No earrings, necklaces or bracelets may be worn. One ring on each hand and a wristwatch are acceptable. Any candidates with visible tattoos must comply with the tattoo policy in order to be considered for a themed area.

For females, the Disney Look means hair must be one natural shade, with no frosting. Makeup should be natural looking and lightly blended. Earrings may be post-style, no larger than a quarter and necklaces and bracelets are not allowed in costumed areas. One ring on each hand and a wristwatch are acceptable. Fingernails may be one-fourth of an inch beyond the fingertip and a clear or natural polish may be worn in most areas. Any candidates with visible tattoos ‘/must comply with the tattoo policy in order to be considered for a themed area.

Any requests for an exception to the Disney Look policy for religious beliefs or questions regarding the accommodation of medical restrictions or religious beliefs must be directed to the Cast Image and Appearance office or the Human Resources representative.

I, frankly, am glad that I don’t have to see anyone’s tattoos, low-hanging mustaches, or frosted hair. There’s nothing magical about those things and the last thing I want to be reminded of is the individuality of the cast members. What about dental embellishment, though? Why don’t I see anything about gold teeth? I am equally appreciative of the work of Disney’s Body Odor Control Board, the Religious Beliefs Review Committee, and the Sexual Preference Re-orientation Program. Honestly, I think all of this mind control business is completely fabricated.

Another ideological element of the vast Anti-magical Experience conspiracy is the belief that Disney does damage to the intellectual past of Western and other traditions by altering famous folk tales. Those folk tales ultimately were designed to teach moral lessons and reinforce norms of proper behavior. They represent a time capsule of moral codes from days gone by.

I am always amazed at how the messages in those ancient tales are still topical today! For example, in Cinderalla injustice is overcome by simple goodness and persistence. Most importantly, Cinderella has the innate goodness to forgive her oppressors and they learn important lessons rather than suffer from the consequences of their actions. I am glad my kids learn an important lesson about inner beauty from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. In the end, Esmeralda recognizes Quasimodo’s inner beauty and his willingness to selflessly sacrifice is rewarded by friendship and happiness. Honestly, I haven’t seen that one but the story line and important themes come through loud and clear after watching the previews a thousand times. I think it is great that Ariel’s dogged dedication to her dreams is rewarded by a happy life and an understanding father.

The great thing about those folk tales is that everyone ends up happy and no one really gets hurt. OK, so the Kwicked Ween, I mean Wicked Queen, falls off the cliff and disappears. Still graphic images of revenge, torture, and violent death are just not part of these stories. That is a welcome change from the orgies of violence and revenge fed to our children through TV, movies, and video games. We all have Tipper Gore to thank for cleaning up entertainment! These ancient folk tales illustrate timeless life lessons that reinforce good American values. We should be thanking Disney for bringing those lessons to new generations who don’t read.

Being the responsible, engaged parent that I am I decided to do a bit of background research on those Disney classics. You know, so that I can help amplify their important messages by providing my kids some historical background and additional detail. No, I didn’t go to the library to do this. That would require driving and paying off that overdue library fine. Instead I went to the font of all good information:  Wiki on the web. Frankly, I am shocked at what I learned! It has really shaken by belief in the veracity of the information on those Wiki pages.

Did you know that the Little Mermaid really dies? So much for the rewards of sticking to your dreams. How about the fact that Esmeralda remained horrified of Quasimodo and both ended up dead in a mass grave? Inner beauty, my ass. I never knew the Hunchback of Notre Dame was such a bummer! How about this one? The seven dwarfs were little thieves and the wicked queen was forced to don red-hot iron shoes and dance in them until she fell dead. Wow, that could be adapted to make a great episode of CSI. In the Brothers Grimm version of Cinderella the stepsisters try to get into the slipper by cutting off parts of their feet and they are outted by two pigeons who peck out their eyes, leaving them to be blind beggars for the rest of their lives. So much for happy endings, redemption, and lessons learned. Did you know that Wendy, Michael, and John actually were gone for 5 years and their parents went through years of heartbreak?

If this is what these folk tales teach my kids, I am glad that I have Disney people out there thinking for me and cleaning them up!

And that is why I love Disney and would love to work for Disney. Now that the state of South Carolina is poised to cut another 21% from the university’s budget, my dream of becoming part of the Disney family might become more plausible. After all, I was the last one hired at the Institute where I work, and the last one hired is the first one…well, let’s just try to visualize the best possible outcome on that one. In the meantime, I am keeping my options open. Unfortunately I’ve searched the Disney employment pages and discovered that they don’t seem to hire archaeologists. I honestly believe I could serve as a pretty good consultant for archaeoedutainment, but I haven’t figured out a way to slip that to one of the imagineers already on the inside. So, until I can get the attention of the Unrealized Potential of Low-Paid Cast Members Oversight Committee, I am going to have to do something else for Disney.

Now that I am under 200 lbs (well at least on some days), I figure I can get past the BMI requirement for employment in an “on-stage” role at one of the Disney theme parks or resorts. I’ve got some ideas on what I can do, but need to spend more time thinking on it. I am open to good suggestions.

Open Letters to Rental Agents

Dear Angry Rental Agent:

My wife got an email from you the other day about her post on Craig’s List. In that posting my wife indicated that we are a professional family looking for a house that isn’t a student rental. She also dropped that I was university faculty. You, Angry Rental Agent, indicated that my wife’s post was offensive, elitist, and discriminatory. I can only assume it is because my wife played the faculty card and implied that student rentals are not as nice as houses rented to families.

But you, the Angry Rental Agent, and your colleagues created the rules of the game we are now playing. You do, in fact, maintain student housing differently from family housing. You do, in fact, advertise family housing as different from student housing. And, you do often play the faculty card in your posts and listings. From experience we have learned that you, Angry Rental Agent, provide better service if you know I am a professor. And we have learned that student rental housing is chopped into more and smaller rooms and often receives much greater wear and tear than family housing. We know rental agents who expressly price their rentals so as to discourage students from renting. You learn in your marketing seminars that this is called segmenting the market.

You indicated that faculty members have been your worst tenants. You said that professors seem to think they know everything and can do anything they want. You said you would never rent to us because I am a professor. I applaud you for taking a logical and principled stand against discrimination in the rental market of our fine city!

Still, you seem angry, Angry Rental Agent. Perhaps it is your crusade against discrimination in the rental business that has made you so angry. Crusaders who give so much of themselves for the greater good often end up resenting the very commitment that makes them who they are. Look at Batman (the Caped Crusader), most agree that he was a pretty angry guy. Even Mother Theresa had her issues, I hear.

I am sorry you are so angry and I wish I could help you. Maybe renting a house from you would help. Unfortunately, you do not rent to professors because they are so filled with self-importance that they tend to be bad tenants. It is a shame that you paint all professors with that same brush. It is that kind of stereotyping that leads to misunderstanding, unnecessary conflict, and discrimination. If it is not possible for me to give you some business, then maybe I can help you with business networking. I will share your approach to renting houses with my friends. Since most of them are not professors, I am sure they will instantly see value in your approach and encourage their friends to rent from you.

Dear World’s Friendliest Rental Agent in the World,

Thank you for reaffirming my faith in the general goodness of humanity. You showed us a very nice house in a neighborhood that is very much in demand. You took the time to walk us around the neighborhood a bit and talk about the people you knew living there. You spent as much time as we wanted looking and talking about the house.

You were honest about who had lived in the house before and the things you’ve done to maintain it. When we pointed out concerns, you told us that you would fix them and it would be no problem. You told us about how you have a father-son handy man team that you employ for all your maintenance needs and that you also have them do work on your own house. You told us how you’ve used the same cleaning service for years and that she also cleans your house. You offered to store our refrigerator, washer and drier for us while we rented from you.

Unlike the Angry Rental Agent, you were honest about the fact that some properties are best suited for students and that they are different from properties designed for families and professionals. You told us you wanted to keep professionals and families in these properties because they have always been good tenants.

Most importantly, you talked to us and treated us as if we were people. You did not make assumptions about us based on preconceived notions formed because of the nature of my occupation. You listened to our story, asked about our lives, and really heard what we wanted. More than that, you honestly talked about your business and told us about you and your family as well. You told us about how you love Carolina sports and that you were going to the baseball games this weekend. I mentioned that I had been meaning to take my son to one. You gave me tickets to a game. You knew we already that we liked the house. You gave me those tickets because you love the baseball games so much that you wanted to share that with my son and I. Because you are the World’s Friendliest Rental Agent in the World, you established with us a relationship that is based on mutual respect and understanding. When I saw that you sell insurance, I considered using you as my agent.

Thank you, World’s Friendliest Rental Agent in the World. By treating us as individuals and not making assumptions about who we are, you created a positive relationship that has made a lasting impression. I like you and trust you. Whether I rent the house from you or not, I can still help you with business networking. I will share your approach to renting houses with my friends. Like me, I am sure they will instantly see value in your approach and encourage their friends to rent from you.

Ode to Stinky Food

Why do my cats love you so?
Shades of Brown, gray, or pink
Lumpy, unrecognizable, vaguely meat-textured
Taste-tempting flavors like Ocean Whitefish and Turkey Giblet with Gravy
You seem so delicious
Why, oh why do you smell so bad?
Your aroma fills my house
Overpowering synthetic meaty smells
Lingering long after the feast has ended
Why don’t they eat you all up?
Are you too good to finish?
You stick like meat cement to the plate
Brown and crusty remains
Even past your prime, your aroma stays
Every day the cats beg
Cries ring out for stinky food
Every day my daughter obliges
Faux meat for all her friends
Revisiting the gastronomic Bacchanal
Oh cat joy bringer, oh meaty treat
Why do you smell so bad?
Alas, your days are numbered
My sweetheart disapproves

Objects of our own oppression

So yesterday was Valentine’s Day. After an evening shopping trip, my wife came in and told me she had gotten me a Valentine’s Day gift. I had to close my eyes while she and my daughter held out a target bag for me to peek into. Inside was none other than a Black and Decker rechargeable screwdriver and a stud finder! Don’t get me wrong, I love power tools as long as I can use them on my terms. In this case, this was a gift with a message. A couple of weeks ago my wife asked me to hang a coat rack in the stairwell to our basement. I said I would do it but needed to charge my power drill. A few days later she asked if I could do what she already asked me to do—she’s pretty patient persistent that way. I told her that since we had moved I hadn’t been able to find my power drill. You could argue that I was stalling. I’ll take the 5th and let you form your own opinion.

My wife knows that the power drill we have holds a charge for about 3 screws before it needs to charge again for 8 hours. So the rechargeable screw driver is a good idea. It also represents her way of yet again asking me to put the coat rack up in the stairwell. I fully intend to do that, really. Buying me the gift was yet another well played move in the ongoing politics of power tools in my household.

Over the years, my wife has lamented that I am not as handy as my father. My dad is the king of power tools, making things, and mechanical problem solving. Over the years he worked as a general contractor, plumber and electrician, head of buildings and grounds for my home school district, and maintenance at both IBM and Toshiba. During my life he has built and fixed everything imaginable. He built a house we lived in for 15 years, from the ground up. He is a handy guy. My brother is no less smart and no less handy. He’s got all the tools that a real man should have and not only does he know how to use them…he does use them. So you can see why my wife has such high expectations. I grew up handing the handy their tools so that they could be as handy as they could be. You would think some of it rubbed off. It is not that I am not capable of being handy. I believe I could be just as handy as my dad and my brother.

In fact, I have done handy type things in the past and actually enjoyed them. I made a tool box out of sheet metal and wood in high school shop. Before high school, I made wooden boot pullers. In the more recent past, I built a chicken tractor for our chicken experiment and a little grass shack out of plastic piping for an ice show my kids were in. In our old house I pulled up a linoleum floor and put down a pretty nice tile floor. I can do things like that, and like I said, I can actually derive some satisfaction from doing them.

One problem that keeps me from taking on really complicated handy type tasks is that I am a bit spatially challenged. That is bad when trying to be handy. It is also bad when trying to be an archaeologist. I have to try really hard to tell left from right. It usually comes down to answering one question: which hand do you eat with? Distinguishing east and west is a major intellectual feat for me. I close my eyes and try to picture were the ocean is and where Georgia is. I once staked out an entire archaeological site with east and west transposed. Luckily I figured it out (with some help) before we excavated too much. This same affliction makes it hard for me to find things in complex or confusing situations. There are times where I search and search for an item at the grocery story but never find it. Only to return another day and find it right where I was looking. My wife seems to think this is a male affliction—that all men have a hard time finding things. She also has insinuated that my inability to find things is manufactured to get out of trying to find things. While claiming faulty brain wiring to get out of tasks is a clever idea, I can’t take credit for that one.

More than just that, I know if I show a propensity for handiness my life will forever change. I will be expected to be handy and to pull that handiness out whenever anyone needs it. And it won’t just be at home. Oh no. I’ll be building sets for Peter Pan the ballet, building ramps at the synagogue, and contributing to local barn raisings. This same logic extends to the mere ownership of power tools. If I have ‘em, I’ll be expected to use ‘em. Now, I am a guy and so I can appreciate a good power tool. In fact, I wouldn’t mind owning a jig saw and a skill saw. I own a router and honestly have no idea what I am supposed to do with it. A really nice power drill would be useful. The problem is, if I let it out that I would like those things then Pandora’s Box is wide open and I sow the seeds of my exodus from my own little Garden of Eden of Non-handiness.

I’ve worked hard to carve out some extra hours and bankroll them for the day when I can and want to go on hours long bike rides. If I get power tools or even hint that I might use them, all my hard work and saving is gone. Aren’t economists lamenting that Americans just don’t save anymore? Well, I’m trying to save. Isn’t there a government program out there for me? Where is the program that provides handyman services at low cost or for free so that I don’t have to blow my saved time on handiness?

I say to men of the world: Wake up, rise up, unite! Power tools are the objects of our own oppression. Stop making me look bad by using them.

Valentine's Day?

It’s been a few days since I weighed myself and I didn’t do it this morning either. Honestly, I’ve lost my way a bit. That sense of purpose, that eye of the tiger. Things have been a bit dark in the house for the past several days. We all have been sick and it is so easy to get caught up in surviving everyday life. I’ve got some kind of bronchitis thing that I cannot get rid of and as a result, I haven’t exercised literally in days. Some cheer needs to come back to my house.

Today is Valentine’s Day. What better way to bring back the joy than a holiday devoted to love? I thought I might look into this fine holiday a bit. It turns out that the basis for Valentine’s Day is not one but a couple of Saints named Valentine: Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni. The fun fact about these saints is that they were martyrs. They were killed because they were Christians. I am looking for love here and I get death. In case you want to get in touch with these saints, you can find their “relics” in Basilica of Saint Valentine in Terni and the Church of Saint Praxed in Rome.

So how did these guys who were killed for their devotion to a fledgling religion get associated with romantic love? Well part of it seems to come from religious politics of early Christianity. Pagans had various celebrations devoted to fertility during the middle of February. Some have argued that the feast of St. Valentine was designed to co-opt a Pagan holiday and Christianize it.

Others suggest that Chaucer had something to do with this. In his 1382 Parlement of Foules Chaucer wrote, “For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.” This is dicey at best. It turns out that the middle of February is not the time for birds to be making whoopee in England. In fact, some have suggested that Chaucer was really referring to yet another Valentine, this one from Genoa. He’s got his own Saints’ day and it is May 2—a much better time for birds to get busy in England.

The language of love came to be associated with Valentine’s Day in 1400 in Paris when the “High Court of Love” was established. Apparently bringing legal approaches to matters of the heart, this court dealt with love contracts, betrayals, and violence against women. Not exactly the warm fuzzy you expect from Valentine’s Day, but a good idea nonetheless. The judges for this court were picked by women on the basis of a poetry reading. Somehow these poems helped associate Valentine’s Day with courtly love, poems, and the like.

Apparently, sending hand-written poems became fashionable in England near the turn off the 19th century. I assume one of many attempts by the masses to adopt courtly behavior of the upper classes from days gone by—the Victorian Era. By the middle of the 19th century, mass produced paper Valentines were popular in both the United Kingdom and the US. Apparently, once people realized they could make money things really took off. Some version of Valentine’s Day is celebrated throughout Europe, North America and even into South America. Thanks to concerted marketing efforts, the celebration made its way to places like Japan, Singapore, China, South Korea, and the Philippines early in the 20th century.

Most famously in India, Valentine’s Day, our Western celebration of romantic love, has sparked violence rather than spontaneous exchanges of love. Surprisingly, some Hindu fundamentalists see the celebration as a Western intrusion that promotes commercialism and sex. Shops selling Valentine shwag have been trashed. Groups of fundamentalists armed with batons apparently patrol public places and harass Valentine’s Day-card holding lovers.

So, this day devoted to romantic love has its roots in some dudes named Valentine who died as religious martyrs. It was established as a religious holiday in order to increase the palatability of Christianity to Pagans and help bring about the extermination of an ancient religion. Its association with romantic love comes out of this religious imperialism and the legalization of courtly romantic behavior in Medieval Europe. It was popularized by Victorian glorification of past courtly behavior and perpetuated and spread by the profit search of industrial capitalism. Instead of love, it is driven by overwhelming commercialism, leading to it being called a “Hallmark Holiday.” This commercial drive has spread it around the globe, in some places inspiring not love but violence. The history of Valentine’s Day nicely captures the history of Western cultural dominance and the rise of industrial capitalism.

Wow, that didn’t bring much joy, did it?

I still love my wife and kids and got them candy, cards, and presents. The kids are totally jazzed on sugar, my wife likes her new earrings, and I got a really nice card and some tasty candies. It may have a crappy history, but Valentine’s Day brought a bit of happiness to my house again this year.

I Don't Feel Pretty

Monday night, at about 11:30, my daughter decided to call in a marker. I have a friend who let his daughter put bows in his hair and make-up on his face. My daughter said, “I bet Daddy wouldn’t let me do that to him.” She knew full well that an approach like that was pure gold. I told her I would sit still for such a thing. Well, last night as I was getting the post-11 pm fades she called my bluff. Now the post-11 pm fades are sort of like the bobs. You know, we all have had them at one point. You try desperately to stay awake, but you can’t. Your head bobs uncontrollably forward. As it does, you wake and jerk your head back….and the drool from the left side of your mouth does spit cartwheels across the room…and you strain most of the muscles in your neck. Well, the fades are the same idea but less active. There’s no flopping and bobbing, just the eyes slowly closing. Sometimes I’ll mumble or grunt in my half sleep and wake myself up. That causes a bit of bobbing and jerking.

Anyway, there I was fading when she got her idea. It had been a difficult day for her and so I knew that I really couldn’t say no. She set up a chair for me in the family room, put a pillow on it and even brought a stool for my feet. That was the peak of my comfort and it was all down hill from there. First she got out what looked to be a tackle box. Instead of lures it was filled with small containers of various shades of powder. She mashed several different colors onto my cheeks, under my chin and across the bridge of my nose. My three-day old beard turned out to be a bit of an impediment, causing her to press harder. I am pretty sure it tore up the applicator pad.

From there she went for the eyes. Eye shadow was first. She deliberated a while about the color to choose. I knew I was an autumn, but didn’t say anything. She picked a nice shade of purple and mashed it all over my eyelids. Through most of this my wife sat by, alternating between amusement and shock. She stayed on the sidelines as long as she could, but then jumped in the game with both feet. She got out a green eyeliner pencil. That sucker hurt as she outlined the very edge of my lower eyelid. It felt like she had taken a flat-head screwdriver and raked it across my eyelid…no, a dull razor blade. There are United Nations conventions devoted to banning this kind of treatment. There are CIA centers in Eastern Europe that employ these tactics on the enemies of freedom and capitalism. At any moment I thought the pencil might slip off the eyelid and plunge right into my eye. It was unnerving. Honestly, I do not know how women do this stuff.

As I was thrown off my game, I started to lose track of what was happening to me. I am sure this is how all good torture sessions go. I think a few more shades of eye shadow were added and maybe some more eyeliner. Then out came the lipstick. This is where I really got lost. The lipstick was kind of sticky and it just felt weird to have that stuff all over my lips. I felt like I couldn’t talk. I didn’t want to spread it around. To make matters worse, my daughter brought out some really gloppy lip gloss. She could tell I was getting uncomfortable and that just inspired her to really apply a thick coat of the stuff. Honestly, it felt like caulk, no bacon grease on my lips. It was thick and viscous and sticky. Not being one to miss out on the fun, my wife chimed in that my daughter could use the lip stick to brighten the color of my cheek bones. Thanks! So, now that nasty lip stick was mashed into my stubble-covered cheeks.

By the time my face was “finished” it felt so caked, gloppy, and just downright uncomfortable that I really didn’t want to move. I was paralyzed by beauty products. My wife kept asking why I was acting so funny and insinuated that I was being both ridiculous and unfair. I was taken so totally outside of my comfort box that I didn’t want to move. Now none of this is because getting your face made up is traditionally something only women do. Nor was it because someone could question which team I play for because I am appearing semi-in-drag. I am married, I have my kids. I’ve done my evolutionary bit and I don’t need to worry about any of that. No, the real problem was that all of that stuff made me feel so uncomfortable. It was like I had mud or chocolate pie or barbeque sauce caked on my face and I was not allowed to wipe it off (or scrape it off with another rib). I was immobilized, like superman when the kryptonite comes out.

With the face “done” my daughter shifted to bling. She got out some plastic beads and tied several brightly-colored ribbons in my hair and around my neck. She heaped them on in layers. I even got a fairy crown with flowers and a tail. The coup de grace (yeah I spelled it right, I just couldn’t figure out how to do the accent mark over the A. Go look it up) was a Minnie Mouse earring that she put into one of my remnant earring holes. I used to sport three earrings in my left ear. I’d probably still have them but my kids pulled them out when they were babies. It seemed safer at the time to leave them out. As I got a bit older, my wife informed me that she thought it looked stupid for “old guys” (Her words, not mine. I think of myself as distinguished.) to wear earrings. She cites Ed Bradley as an example…looking at Ed, I have to agree. It looks silly. Now some people can pull it off, but really only younger men seeking doctorates in philosophy or people in the performing arts.

With the bling on, my daughter flirted with the idea of getting out a skirt. I quietly but firmly resisted that suggestion. Somehow, putting on women’s clothes while having my face made up seemed over the top…unseemly. With that idea shot down, there was only one thing left to do: pose me for pictures. After all, I did say that I would let her take pictures after she made me up. I really thought the pictures would be funny and had no problem with the idea. The thing was, the caked products on my face—my kryptonite—made it hard for me to smile and mug for the camera. I was just too far off my game. My wife again questioned why I was acting so strange. My daughter became worried that I wasn’t enjoying myself. Now, getting make-up from a girl tackle box plastered on my face followed by having heaps of bling piled on me is not something I ever said I would enjoy. Honestly, if I enjoyed doing that sort of thing…well what would you think of me if I ENJOYED that?

So I allowed myself to be posed for pictures. I didn’t think I would look good in make-up, but I had no idea I would look that bad. I had really hoped for a Pig Pen moment…”On the contrary, I didn’t think I looked that good.” That is not the way it played out. I didn’t really feel pretty and my god I do not look pretty. I look like a drag queen in a mug shot after an all-night bender in Atlantic City…no Jersey City…no Wilkes-Barre. Honestly, it’s a bit hard to look at the photos. I put them up here because my friend Kyle (not his real name) was clearly uncomfortable with the level of self-deprecation in some of my earlier posts. This one should pretty much run him off for good.

The hell of it was that after my photo shoot I had to wash all that stuff off. By that time it was well past midnight and I was past ready to go to bed. That horrible, gloppy stuff didn’t want to come off. It would have been easier to get axel grease and tar off my face than that eye shadow. Oh, and I thought the eyeliner hurt going on? That was nothing compared to the pain of scrubbing it off. The stuff wouldn’t come off. I was seriously starting to think I would have to appear in front of my classes the next day with remnant eyeliner on. Again for performance artists and the like that is fine, but I am a professor. I demand and command respect from my students. Something like eyeliner would let them see the human side of me. They’d see the cracks and exploit them. They’d be asking me to give them a few extra days for exams, to stop taking attendance; they’d start hitting me up for smokes like work release prisoners or community servants on landscaping detail. I can’t have that.

Luckily no one except those who actually read this blog will ever see those awful photos…

The Right Stuff

I finally figured it out. I know what has been holding me back. I’ve been at this weight loss thing for about a month and I really haven’t lost any weight. I’ve been working really hard. I cut back on seconds at the barbeque place and have given up the peach cobbler all together. I try to drink whey protein shakes for lunch and have cut back on after-dinner snacking to just one snack before bed. And the exercise! I’ve walked (many times) and discovered the rigors of the trampoline workout. Despite all the deprivation and physicality…nada. I’ve lost no weight. I haven’t gained any, which I suppose I can claim as a victory.

I was getting down about this, but I finally cracked it. I figured it out! It took the remembering a 1983 astronaut movie to figure it out. You know, the one that shows how those daring test pilots who became our first astronauts had it. They had the right stuff. I finally realized that I need the right stuff! What did they have? What was the right stuff? What is that I need to get? Then it hit me. I figured it out, the key to the right stuff. It’s the gear. Those guys went from leather jackets to kick ass space suits. What I need is some cool gear. I gotta get me some stuff that puts me in the “lose weight” zone.

I took a step in the direction of having the right stuff today. The kids and I went to Target and I got myself some nice fleece-lined nylon running pants—navy blue with a subtle but strong double stripe down the legs. The right stuff, yeah. I feel the weight running scared now. It’s shakin’, its days are numbered. I don’t quite have the right stuff completely yet, though. I am still shopping for a fleece top to finish off the look. I know, I said top. Guys don’t call it a top. It’s a jacket. At least I didn’t say outfit or ensemble.

I am still debating on the jacket to get. I am not sure which will give me more of the right stuff. Is it the New England Patriots Throwback Scrimmage Quarter Zip Fleece? 

It’s a bit flashy with the two colors and really may not go well with the running pants. That logo is wicked cool, though. Maybe the Coaches Speed Quarter Zip Crew with the more subtle Patriots script logo is a better match. It looks sportier, manlier.

 Maybe I should go for the more subtle and understated Disney fleece with Mickey Mouse emblazoned over my heart. I can even get FA (Fat Archaeologist) under Mickey.

 If I go navy blue, it would match my pants. I need to decide fast. I need the right stuff if I am going to jump start this lagging project of mine.

Once I get the jacket, I’ll need to put some time into the hat…and maybe gloves. By the time I get this worked out, it will be spring. Then I’ll need nylon mesh shorts and some cool t-shirts. Then my socks will be visible, and….

Weight Loss by Flowbee

Today I weighed in at 203.4. After pouring over the data from the last week, I’ve concluded that I weigh 203 lbs. My body likes that weight right now and is not really interested in make a big change. I am a bit disappointed because I really thought I was going to drop a pound or two. You see, I got my hair cut last night. It’s been pretty long time between haircuts and I got some hair cut off. I was really hoping it would make a morale-boosting difference. Despite the absence of any noticeable change in my weight, the haircut itself is worth talking about.

I have a complicated relationship with haircuts. We’ll it’s really not that complicated. I don’t like getting my hair cut. I like looking good after I get my haircut, so I have nothing against haircuts per se. What I don’t like is the process of getting my hair cut. I never have. It may go back to when my mom cut my hair and my brother’s hair…and come to think of it my father’s hair. It wasn’t a happy experience for any of us. I can see now why it was a hard and sometimes frustrating thing. My brother and I were little boys. Now that I have one I understand that little boys can’t sit still and don’t like personal grooming, hygiene or even clothing all that much. After doing it a few times I am sure my mom dreaded it as much as we did. If you so much as moved a muscle you were made aware that your connection to your ear was tenuous.

While that may have something to do with why I don’t like haircuts, I think the main reason is social. Honestly, the whole haircut thing makes me uncomfortable. You invite a stranger to wash your head, cut your hair, and then groom you. It’s just weird. I am not thrilled with strangers pawing me. That is the sort of thing I like to leave to the people I know really well. The thing is that having your scalp massaged and your hair tussled feels good, making the whole experience even weirder. Is it OK for a stranger to make you feel good? I’m really conflicted about that.

Just knowing that this stranger is going to mash all over you sets the tone for your relationship with your stylist. My stylist relationships generally only last one haircut. This is because I get my hair cut infrequently enough and shift places enough that I rarely ever see the same person twice. Even when I do see the same person, it’s been so long since they cut my hair last that they might as well be a total stranger.

Without some personal connection to your stylist, the entire experience is awkward. I don’t, by the way, go to barber shops. I did when I was in college, but it’s just not the experience I want. They are too personal. I want this to be as impersonal and fast as possible. I am not much of a small talker to begin with and just shy enough that politely chatting with strangers is an effort. I am not a southerner and so I never really learned the skills required to interact socially with strangers. For those of you who know me, that probably explains a lot.

So last night I had a different kind of haircut experience: The Flowbee. You know…that thing that hooks up to your vacuum and cuts your hair as it sucks it into a flexible hose. You’ve seen it on TV and it can be yours for four easy payments of $19.99. I’ve let my hair grow way too long and to say it was unflattering is to understate how bad I looked with that hair. My friend, who I will call Kyle (not his real name), owns one of these fine machines and has been cutting his own hair for, as far as I can reconstruct, years. His hair looks fine. You wouldn’t know that he cuts it with a late-night TV gadget. He keeps a job, has a fine family and lots of friends. The thing seems to really work. And, it’s given him relief from both the expense and social complications of mainstream, public haircut options.

(Note the intense concentration on Kyle's face and my nervous laughing. Also, nice product placement, huh?)

Honestly, I was a bit unsure about someone using this contraption on me. It wasn’t a bad experience at all. Sure there was still the whole head massage thing. I am comfortable enough with Kyle, though, that it seems OK for him to make my scalp feel good. And it was fun for the kids. Several of them tried it. Here’s the amazing thing…my hair doesn’t look too bad. Sure, it still needs a bit of trimming around the edges and there’s one wicked cowlick that needs to be tamed. The problem with getting my hair cut is that now I feel obligated to pay attention to the rest of my appearance. I almost shaved today. I wonder how much weight I’d lose if I did?

I didn’t get a chance to take a bike ride or walk today, but I did discover another really tough work out. You are going to laugh, but I bounced on the trampoline with my kids today for about 45 minutes. It about killed me. My legs are like lead, my stomach muscles hurt, my lungs just now stopped burning…plus I worked up a sweat…and fulfilled my parental obligation to engage my children. My daughter told me today that she would rather I went to work instead of working at home because I spend too much time on the computer. Those words plus a sincere pout kept me from writing this blog doing my work all afternoon.