V for Vacation

From time to time, one of our carpool members decides to go on vacation. I always find that to be bittersweet. On one hand, it's nice to have a break from someone who may, oh I don't know, spit gum at you in a blatant show of disrespect. (See Madd Dogg v. Fidget.) But on the other hand, it's very difficult to leave someone who would spit gum at you in a blatant show of disrespect. It's complicated.

Anyway, I'm on vacation as we speak. The first day of a vacation is always somewhat of a "throwaway," and this one is no different. Here is a brief account of just the first leg of my trip to Washington D.C., via Chicago O'Hare Airport. (I will leave out the part where my flight was cancelled in D.C., prompting me to fly standby.)

• 5:20 am -- Alarm goes off, ten minutes earlier than on a regular work day. Feeling relaxed already.
• 6:15 am -- Leave for airport. My flight is scheduled for 7:55 am. But I like to be early, so shut it. (Remember folks, they don't give you extra credit for showing up at the last possible minute.)
• 7:25 am -- Boarding is set to begin. For some reason, we are not boarding. Hmm.
• 7:45 am -- Boarding begins. Airline personnel explain that the delay is due to [insert vague jumble of jargon that no one can hope to understand].
• 7:55 am -- Official departure time. We are not departing. Ho hum.
• 8:15 am -- Seated, strapped, and (still) waiting for departure. But wait! Is that the pilot on the intercom? So it is. He is explaining, in a manner that sounds like he is asking a girl out for the first time, that the airport in Chicago -- the entire fucking airport, mind you -- has closed due to crappy weather. Our flight will be delayed until the "top of the hour," when the Chicagoans will tell us if we can take off.
• 9:00 am -- Captain explains that the flight has been delayed until 9:35 am.
• 9:35 am -- Captain explains that the flight has been delayed until 11:00 am. But we can deplane if we want. I contemplate suicide.
• 9:45 am -- I have deplaned and I am hungry. But the choices near the gate are limited. I am now hunched over a bratwurst with sauerkraut from Good Dog/Bad Dog. It's dinnertime somewhere, isn't it?
• 10:40 am -- Re-boarding begins.
• 11:10 am -- The plane begins its bumpy roll backwards from the gate.
• 11:15 am -- We taxi.
• 11:20 am -- We taxi.
• 11:22 am -- I begin to get heartburn from the brat.
• 11:28 am -- Our plane takes off. Surprisingly, it stays aloft. We are, as they say in the industry, "wheels up."

Vegetarian Interrupted?

Sure, I make a bet from time to time for something like a cup of coffee, but I am by no means a seasoned gambler. You could fill a book with the things that I don't know about gambling. (Like what in the hell is a "river card"?)

I am fairly confident about a few things, however. I'm reasonably confident, for example, that no "sure thing" exists in gambling. And I certainly know from watching Honeymoon in Vegas that you don't bet something that you are not willing to lose. I don't know if Mumbles has seen that movie but, before he makes any more bets, he should. Listen:

The other day in carpool, I made an unfortunate reference to David Puddy, the Seinfeld character, who responded to the question "Where do you want to eat?" by saying "It feels like an Arby's night." Mumbles picked up on the Arby's reference and suggested that I could go to Arby's and get the "five for $5.00," which is a deal that Arby's has offered from time to time -- five regular roast beef sandwiches for five dollars. I mentioned to Mumbles that I thought that Arby's most generous offer is currently five for $5.95. Mumbles flew into a near rage, emphatically suggesting that we bet on it.

I didn't want to bet Mumbles, mostly because I wasn't all that confident that I was right. But when Mumbles proposed the terms, I really didn't want to bet. The terms -- again, suggested by Mumbles -- was that the loser of the bet had to eat five roast beef sandwiches from Arby's. I should point out now that, for those of you who don't know, Mumbles is a vegetarian. He doesn't even eat cheese.

I tried to dissuade Mumbles from entering such a rich bet. "I'm not eating five sandwiches," I told him. "I just don't want all those calories." But at that point, I could barely hear myself talk. Sparky and Madd Dogg were in the back seat chanting (helpfully) "DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" They sounded like frat boys at a beer-bong contest. I am ashamed to say that I folded under their pressure and accepted Mumbles's bet on modified terms -- the loser would eat only one roast beef sandwich.

If you've taken any classes in contracts law, you will immediately wonder if the "contract" that Mumbles and I entered suffers from an enforceability problem. That is, I sort of like the Arby's roast beef sandwich. So I really didn't put anything at stake in the bet. Mumbles, on the other hand, put his vegetarian lifestyle at stake. And the guy used to work for PETA, for crying out loud. Is Mumbles an idiot for talking me into a bet in which he is the only one who stands to lose anything? Draw your own conclusions.

And at this point, it's unclear who will win or lose the bet. As you can see from the picture, Arby's does currently have a "5 for $5.95" offer. But the fine print on the window of the restaurant -- which I got out of my car to read -- says that the $5.95 deal applies to, among other things, sandwiches with roast beef and cheddar .

Does Arby's still offer the traditional "5 for $5.00"? For Mumbles's sake, let's hope so.

Madd Dogg: A True Zentra Patriot

Usually, I hate Thanksgiving. Oh, sure, Thanksgiving means that I get a day off work and an unrestricted license to eat myself into a new pant size.

But Thanksgiving also means that I actually may have to give thanks for something. And that possibility leads to my fear that during the traditional Thanksgiving gathering -- trimmed with all of the stumbling conversations and awkward silences with people whom I have not seen since last Thanksgiving -- some yahoo will walk up and ask me what I'm thankful for.

This year, however, I'm not afraid. And it's all thanks to Madd Dogg.

This year, if some corny cornball has the gall to ask me what I'm thankful for, I don't have to give my usual answer ("Underarm deodorant"). Instead, I'm going to stand tall, look that schmuck straight in the eyes, put my right hand on my heart, and say:

By God, I'm thankful for Madd Dogg.

In recent days, Madd Dogg has been nothing less than a beacon of hope for this blog. In the face of my second bout of the flu last week (don't even get me started on that one), Madd Dogg grabbed the SFZ reins, held on tight, and fired off five -- five! -- blog entries in a row. Not only did she shatter the SFZ record for consecutive blog postings, she held this blog together when the only other poster (me) was out of commission.

So Madd Dogg, this year, I'm thankful for you.

Mumbles and Sparky, you can suck it. You didn't do shit. . .

On a lighter note, now it's time for . . . fun Thanksgiving facts! (Brought to you by www.wikipedia.org.)

• Squanto, a Native American who hung out with the pilgrims, taught them how to catch eel. Which leads to a question: Why don't we eat more eel at Thanksgiving? No doubt because the stuffing lobby is way too powerful. . .
• In 1939, President Franklin D. Roosevelt declared that Thanksgiving would be the next-to-last Thursday of November rather than the last. And of course, because this is America, his decision was based on hopes that stores would sell more worthless crap before Christmas. What a patriot.
• In Canada, Thanksgiving is celebrated on the second Monday in October. Which means that those wacky Canucks have a much longer shopping season.

[photo by thomas hawk]

What happens when you assume?

Not so fast, smarty pants! I know that you all were thinking that, when one assumes, it makes an ass of "u" and "me." But we at Searching for Zentra take literalism to an extreme and somewhat painful degree. I thought that, before we all head off for turkey, a little family dysfunction, and football, I'd share a little vignette about what happens when you assume in our carpool (and I'll give you the very most abbreviated, least painful version that I can):

Sparky to Fidget (As he gets into the car, where Madd Dogg, Fidget, and Mumbles are waiting): Dude, I'm not talking to you.

Fidget: Why?

Sparky: Because you left the office without me!

Fidget: But dude! I assumed that you had already gone to the car without me. But I guess I know what happens when I assume, it makes an ass out of..

Sparky: You better not say that it makes an ass out of me, because I didn't do anything. I'm not the ass, you are.

Fidget: Yeah, that's true. But, as an aside, to make that saying more accurate, "assume" should be spelled "assyoume." Otherwise, it's just misleading, because "you" isn't spelled "u."

Mumbles: It's an imperfect saying, dudes, jsueosybjdlwsu3osl#@sdld.

My head hurts now. And the family dysfunction hasn't even begun yet. Happy Thanksgiving!

Madd Dogg vs. Fidget

We, my dear readers, have stooped to a whole new low. Hard to imagine, isn't it? I suppose that I should clarify that by "we" I mean Fidget and Madd Dogg. Let me set the stage, in chronological order:

Madd Dogg had a shit pisser of a day at work. So, on the way to way to the car at the end of the day, Madd Dogg describes to Fidget various aspects of her day that have pissed her off. Fidget, having been well trained, says all the right things, like "wow, yeah, that sounds really frustrating" or "I'm sorry, that totally blows." However, Fidget promptly forgets what he's been taught as soon as we're in the car.

I can't even remember what he said, but rest assured people, it was totally rude. In fact, it was so rude that Fidget himself said, "yeah, that was rude, so punch me." He then proffers up his arm for me to punch. I say to myself, "Self, do you really want to hit him or would you rather spare him the pain of your iron fist and instead come up with another, alternate punishment?" I chose the latter road and this is really where things begin to deteriorate. Now, in case I wasn't clear above, I had had a really bad day and I was feeling extra cantankorous. I may have spit my bright green spearmint gum (see photo) at him. At his arm, mind you, which was amply covered by his waterproof coat. Fidget was, dare I say, stunned. So I did it again. So stunned was Fidget that he dared me. He told me that if I did it again, he'd put the gum in my hair.

Such a threat gave Madd Dogg but a second of pause, before the residual oppositional defiant disorder kicked in and she promptly spits her gum at his waterproof covered arm one more time. Fidget grabs the gum and heads for my head. We then engage in a wrestling match for the gum, which ends when I latch onto his hand with my teeth. All the while, our little Sparkles is squealing out oh so helpfully from the front seat that peanut butter will help me get the gum out of my hair. Anyway, I managed to wrestle the gum away from Fidget and threw it out of the car (thereby committing a crime in the process). Then, our little Sparkles shrieks out again that Fidget got beat by a girl, and Mumbles said something that sounded like "dude, you adljwu@@@%#djotpweit, dude." Fidget is really pissed, not because I spit gum at him but because he didn't manage to stick it in my hair.

Now, after this melee, I mention out loud that, had Fidget been successful, it would have been awfully hard to explain why I had gum in my hair when I get home. And, even though I arrive home gum free, as I'm trying to describe this event to my partner, she looks at me with a mix of pity and horror and disbelief and says, "Oh honey, things have really have deteriorated, haven't they?"

Um, well, yes dear, they totally have. I have no excuses for such deplorable behavior other than to say that I was forced to such extreme measures.

PS: Thanks to happy massager for modeling my gum.

Space Invaders of the Fidget Kind

We have a serious problem in carpool. Seriously. Now, as a caveat, I will admit that, probably more than most people, I have what Fidget has so endearingly termed "space issues." That is, I don't like people in my personal space (is that so unreasonable? I think not). I hate those people who, when you're in line at Peets, get within like two inches of you and you can feel their breath on your neck. You inch forward, away from them, and damned if they don't move even closer to you. Makes me nuts.

So, in light of my oh so reasonable "space issues," it is well established in carpool that you don't invade my, or anybody else's, personal space. It's why we can never have five people in the car, because if you have to sit in the back, you'd literally have the third person touching you. Now granted, we violate this rule just about every day when we conduct an Operation Sparky Sandwich or Fidget is being a particular pain in my ass and I have to flick his ear to get him back in line. But, within those limited and well-defined exceptions, the rule is clear: stay outta my personal space and I'll stay outta yours.

Fidget, apparently, has not been paying attention. Because today, as I was merrily driving down I-5, I see the hand out of my peripheral vision, headed my way. I'm thinking Fidget is just gesturing as he's celebrating the recent Democratic victories, but I'll be goddamn if he doesn't reach across, INTO MY DRIVER'S SPACE, and TURN ON THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS. This, it now occurs to me, violates not one but TWO rules. First, the space rule. Second, it is most clearly within the province of the driver to determine when the windshield wipers should or should not be on. So I karate chop his hand, and away it slithers. But then, our little Sparky chirps up from the back seat that that was TWICE in the last week that Fidget has done that. Apparently, when it was just Fidget and Sparky in the car, with Sparky driving, Fidget reached across the demilitarized zone and into Sparky's space and HONKED HIS HORN. This from the very Fidget who won't honk his own horn and chastises me whenever I use mine to express my displeasure with another driver's lack of manners. Unbelievable. Of course, Fidget tries to twist and twirl his way out of this, but he's screwed. I had Sparky write him up a ticket, and he's on serious probation. Any further violations and he's relegated to the back seat for a month (and if you knew our seating patterns, that would really hurt him).

Query:

Harking back to our "do baseball players wear cups" question (which was never resolved, by the way, so I never got my coffee from Fidget), I was forced to wonder today whether football players wear cups. Now, lest you think I have an obsession with men's crotches, I assure you, in the most emphatic way possible, that that is NOT the case. What made me wonder this was watching a replay of Tyler Brayton of the Oakland Raiders knee my boy Jerramy Stevens in the groin on Monday night football. Brayton got ejected, but watching it made me wonder whether it hurt Brayton or Stevens more. If Stevens was wearing a cup, I dare say that Brayton's knee probably hurts like hell today. If Stevens wasn't wearing a cup, then he probably bears more pain. But watching Stevens dance away after being kneed, rather than falling to his hands and knees and grabbing his family jewels, makes me think that he was wearing a cup. Wanna bet, Fidget?

Carpool vs. The Rain

I'll be the first to admit that whenever somebody bitches about the rain, I tell them to shut it. I mean really, we are in Oregon. Don't like it? Then move. In fact, I'm such a fan of the rain that I frequently invoke the rain dance in an attempt to get it to rain more.

But seriously, I'm done with that now. I was officially done as of like 4:43, when Fidget and I were driving down I-5 North and Fidget let out a little girl scream when a car going southbound splashed a big ass splash all over his little Honda. That was nearly as scary as all the swerving we did as we hydroplaned on giant puddles on the freeway. One might think that, given how much it rains here, Oregonians would know how to drive. Not so. How about we all slow down to a safe 20 mile an hour school zone speed, because that'll like, totally help.

You know what might be the worst thing about it though? The rain is so damned loud that Mumbles is even more unintelligible than usual. Fidget and I were conferring and thinking that Mumbles has gotten worse, but really, I think the rain is to blame.

Hello, carpool calling

I was home sick on Thursday.
I had the flu, which sucks for at least two notable reasons:

(1) Vomiting. (And I think you'll agree that vomiting while sober is a little too, um, sobering. I've found -- or at least I found during my college years -- that vomiting is best done when one's mental capacities are somewhat dulled.)

(2) Carpool withdrawals.

Although no one in the carpool could do anything to help me with my number (1) problem (nor would any of them probably want to know about it), the carpool members were thoughtful enough to help me with my carpool withdrawals.

At about 5:05 pm, when the pool must have just been starting the long ride back to Portland, I received a call from Madd Dogg, pleading for help. As it happened, Sparky was being a [insert obscene word], and she wondered if I could make him stop.

"What is he doing?" I asked. I felt like the advice nurse that I had called only hours before, attempting to diagnose the problem from miles away.

"He's repeating everything I say in a high-pitched voice," she said woefully. And indeed, I could hear Sparky's mock whimperings of that very sentence in the background. "Will you make him stop? Mumbles just keeps saying that he doesn't want to get in the middle of it."

"Ok, put him on," I said.

Needless to say, Sparky had a somewhat different version of events. Although he admitted that he was imitating Madd Dogg (and how could he deny it), it was apparently her fault. "She's being extra-cantankerous today. She punched me and pulled on the back of my jacket, and she's just generally being a [insert obscene word]."

I quickly realized that I could never determine with any level of accuracy which of them truly was at fault. They both had memories like elephants; and given time, they would each remember some earlier reason why the other one started the fight. (That would go on, likely, until each of their births were to blame.) So I attempted to appeal to Sparky as the so-called "mature" one.

"Ok, well, could you just stop saying everything that she says?"

Not surprisingly, he turned on me: "Oh, you're not going to be that dog who just takes her side. Don't be that dog."

But I was going to be that dog. And that's ok because I knew that Madd Dogg and Sparky would continue to snipe at each other for a couple of minutes, but that they would soon stop. Mumbles would tell a story from the back seat, much of which would be inaudible. And I would go lie down, feeling nauseated, but glad to have been included in the carpool ride home.