Congressional District Office

Our democratic congressman won his election by 726 votes out of 160,940 cast. So if you think your vote doesn't matter, well, I guess it doesn't really, but if you had 727 votes, it would matter a lot.

Historically, the 20th congressional district in New York has been solidly republican. Thus, our congressman must tread lightly. The woman we spoke to about health care told us that he's a "Blue Dog" democrat and that he wants to represent all of his constituents, not just the ones who voted for him.

I don't know how this is possible. If half the people (plus 726) want ice cream, and everyone else wants cake, and you can only get one, how do you please the cake eaters? She told us that he'd voted against the second round of Cash for Clunkers as evidence, I think, of his lack of a backbone, so good job.

I went on the Blue Dog Democrat website, and Scott Murphy is not listed as a member. Has he refused to undergo the initiation rites? Has he not paid his dues? Is he lacking in Blue, or worse, Dog? If 725 other voters realize this, he may be in trouble next election.

Racquette Lake

The Dog went on the boat. He didn't mind it too much, although it freaked him out when he was left on land and Kathy went out waterskiing. He didn't care that I was with him.

Some questions come to mind:

Why do dogs enjoy the wind in their faces (out a car window, or in a boat) but if you blow on their noses, they freak out?

If people para-sail from boats, why don't they do it off of cars? Everyone has a car. You could use a skateboard to take off.

I understand why people don't "water" ski off of cars -- it's the crashing.

I don't waterski. I suppose I could get talked into sitting on one of those tubes they pull real fast. But there would have to be ice cream after.

Deck

Do you find that when you are reading a book, you start to think and behave like a character in the book? Sort of like leaving a horror movie and sleeping with the light on, although it lasts for days.

The book I'm reading is Richard Russo's Bridge of Sighs. It's a terrific and complicated novel, but in its essence, it's about a few 60-year-olds who are working to understand how the events of their childhoods have led them to the place they are. Which means I am caught in a web of introspective nostalgia and self-reflection. My favorite place.

It's fun to watch several episodes of The Sopranos and then going to teach a class. Fun for me, anyway, but I don't know about my students. Watching Seinfeld and The Simpsons create no problems, because they fit how my normal self behaves. Kurt Vonnegut novels are in the same vein, only more caustic. Thus, I amuse myself more but upset others more frequently.

Music is this way, too, although I've always been suspicious of the ability of a certain combination of chords or notes or whatever to make you happy or sad or whatever. Was there a Batman villain who was able to use this to commit crime? Regardless, I am wary whenever Jonah plays something on his guitar and then asks for something. I fear I'm prone to musical hypnosis.

Dad's Study

Like imprinting on a duck, the sports team that an adult male roots for depends on what happens when he was about 10 years old. In 1972, for example, the Miami Dolphins went undefeated and won the Super Bowl. Thus, there are many men my age who root for the Miami Dolphins. Sometimes the local culture supports the home team strongly enough to overcome their lack of success (see: Boston Red Sox, circa 1972).

My dad is a lifelong Yankee fan. In the early 70’s, the Yankees weren’t very good. There was another team in New York, though, and they had had some recent success, winning the World Series in 1969 and getting to the Series in 1973. For my dad, the Mets were a diversion while the Yankees regrouped, although I didn’t realize this at the time. Nor did he realize that when he took me to a few Mets games a year, that he was determining my long-term loyalty.

I rooted for the Yankees too, especially in the late 70’s when the Mets were terrible. Still, my heart was with the Mets, and when the Dwight Gooden appeared in a Mets uniform, and the Yankees fired and rehired Billy Martin for the eleventh time, I embraced the Mets and rejected the Yanks. Interleague play cemented my allegiance, and now I solidly root against the Yankees.
When my father I and watch baseball together, we’ll split TV time between the Mets and the Yankees. He knows that I’m rooting against the Yankees, although I do my best to hide it. I’ve caught him rooting against the Mets, which surprised both of us. He sees my becoming a Mets fan as a failure of his parenting.

Also, he feels responsible for subjecting me to the pain of being a Mets fan in 2009. I think.

Golden Wok

I don’t really understand Chinese menus. I do understand that it’s not really Chinese, but I’m not sure why. I did go to a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown (the New York one) once, and I remember an incomprehensible (to me) menu, and incomprehensible (to me) food. Is this a soup? Is it a dip? Do I wash my fingers in it? Very confusing. I won’t even talk about wondering what member of the animal kingdom I was eating. Obviously, I have difficulty stepping outside of my culture.

So there is a difference. Somewhere along the line, our culture created an Americanized Chinese cuisine. I would think then that the menu would be easier to understand. Ironically, the names of the items you order are very literal: Chicken with broccoli, Shrimp with Snow Peas, and so on. Yet, when they arrive, they look very different. Sometimes, the named items are part of a larger group of vegetables. Sometimes, it’s just those items in some sort of sauce/goo. Sometimes fried, sometimes wokked. It’s very difficult to know. Some Chinese restaurants have photos of the food (genius!). Ours does not. It’s another one of the many situations in my life where I feel like I’m expected to understand something that seems easy, but in truth is impenetrable by intuition. Maybe I should hire a tutor.

Fortunately, there are some go-to items that are mostly predictable. Sesame chicken is pretty consistent from restaurant to restaurant, as is General Tso (of frequent crossword puzzle fame) and my favorite, Moo Shoo Chicken. Sometimes spelled Mu Shu. Traditionally served with pork instead. At least in America.

Admission Office

Generally, those who haven't taught before are scared out of their wits. What they should be feeling is scared out of their wits, so this is good.

Entering teaching as a profession is like nothing else. You've spent your entire life around teachers, watching them, judging them, speculating on how you'd handle different situations. When you are in front a classroom for the first time, things flip around in more ways than one.

The most difficult reversal is often unexpected. If you've become a teacher, chances are you did okay in school, kind of liked it, and surrounded yourself with other students who felt the same way. Sure, there were kids who didn't buy into the whole game, but you could essentially ignore them and do your own thing. Now that you're in front of the classroom, however, everything is reversed. You love the students who buy into your program -- they make things go smoothly. Quickly, though, it's the other students who command your attention -- kids who don't like school, don't do their work, and generally distract from what you're trying to accomplish. They're now front and center in your world, and the non-squeaky-wheeled-goody-goodies like you were become background to the challenging students that are now front-and-center in your day.

How you deal with this challenge is a crucial test of whether you can ever be a successful teacher. My second grade teacher used to put masking tape on your mouth if you talked out of turn. Although she (and I) turned out to be okay, I can't recommend this approach.

Hair Salon

Getting a haircut is full of anxiety for me. First, when I call to make an appointment, they always ask "Who cuts your hair?" Honestly, I don’t care who cuts my hair, but when I tell them this, I wonder if it’s offensive. Am I discounting their individual talents when I say it doesn’t matter? I do resist saying, "Just anyone with scissors," but I feel like they’re offended anyway. I just want an appointment time that is convenient for me.

When you get there she asks, "So what are we doing today?" I want to say, "Um, cutting my hair shorter? Duh?" but I understand that other people are more creative than me: "I’d like the Brad Pitt on the top and front, but layer it a bit on the sides and back with highlights and French twist with some bacon." I’ve learned to say, with confidence, with a thoughtful look on my face, while running my fingers through my hair, "Hmmm. Let’s take off about half of it." That’s the best I’m gonna do.

Then comes the hard part – small talk. I’ve actually asked friends to give me suggestions as to what I can talk to my barber – sorry, hair stylist – about as she cuts my hair. Weather is a no-brainer, but that always comes up first and lasts about 40 seconds. Then, she’ll ask about my kids, whose hair she’s cut for several years. I’ll ask about her kids. That’s about two minutes gone, total. I feel guilty when the conversation is made up of her asking me something, and then me answering and then asking her the same question back.

If there’s a local news story that’s relevant, I’ll sometimes practice how to bring it up with her, and if my courage allows, I’ll actually do so. This is a major coup for me. Often, I’ll just close my eyes and pretend to doze.

When it’s all done, she asks, "How’s that?" I try to look critically at my reflection, and say with sincerity, "That looks great," when in reality, I don’t really care much because, c’mon, it’ll grow back anyway, right? I do think she’s on to me here, though, because she doesn’t use the hand mirror to show me the back anymore.

I always finish by tipping a dollar more than I think is appropriate, because in my mind this atones for all of my previous sins. It’s worked, because she’s never shaved "Kick Me" into the back of my head. (As far as I know.)