I had a light, easy day at the office. Eric had a challenging, frustrating day at school where he teaches. We talked over the phone in the afternoon, and he asked me to prepare his favorite new homemade dinner, Chicken Piccata. I stopped at the market on the way home and got the ingredients. It was delicious and we ate off of trays in front of the TV. By this time I was exhausted and just wanted to veg. I set my tray on the coffee table. Either my foot or our dog Nia’s nose nudged the tray and it slid off the table. The plate—with residual sauce of butter, wine, lemon juice, capers, parsley, and chicken fat—fell onto an expensive area rug, staining the rug and my leather slippers.

Perturbed, I jumped up out of my recliner, shooed the dog away, and started blotting the rug with a paper napkin. While Eric guarded the rug stain, I searched the house upstairs and down for Resolve stain remover. Couldn’t find it, must be out. Found an all-natural substitute, wetted a paper towel, and dabbed at the stain.

After taking Nia out for her walk, I played ball with her, downstairs from the accident. I threw the ball to the top of the stairs and she ran up to get it from the TV room. I heard a sound like she had stopped to chew on the ball for a moment as she is accustomed. When she didn’t come back down, I raced up the stairs. She had gone back to the treated stain—obviously not treated enough—and had eaten a hole in the rug!!

I blew up, yelled at her which sent her scurrying, and yelled down to Eric who was in his office and who came up to see the tragedy for himself. Nia got sent directly to bed. Eric and I bemoaned another incident of dog-driven household décor destruction and blamed each other—he blamed me for knocking the tray off the table, I blamed him for not replacing the Resolve when it ran out. I vowed never to make Chicken Piccata again. After pouring, not dabbing, more stain remover on the area around the hole, I got ready for bed at 9:00 p.m. and took the newspaper to bed. The lead article was about devastating tornados in Arkansas that had destroyed not just expensive rugs but several hundred entire homes. Just then, Eric came in and apologized for getting upset, that it was really a minor thing. Maybe we could superglue some of the rug fibers into the hole. The dog was just being a dog—we would have to be more careful in the future no matter how tired we were.

Cute story, isn’t it? But there’s not enough to it to turn it into a novel, a feature length movie, or a TV series. No, to really grab attention and box office, it would have to be taken to an extreme. Perhaps turn it into a story about:

A sexy high school cheerleader (that would be me) goes out on a first date with the star basketball player who takes her to a fancy restaurant. She orders Chicken Piccata—as the waiter sets it down, it slips off the plate and in slow motion, falls onto her new pink dress from Ann Taylor. The whole restaurant explodes in chaos. Apologies are given, dinner is ruined. The hot couple storms out. In the parking lot, the basketball player strangely eyes the Piccata stain on the dress. As soon as they get in his Humvee, he transforms into a wolf with yellow eyes and drooling fangs. He eats a hole through his date.

I bring this up to illustrate the writer’s dilemma. Writers are taught to “write from their experience,” at least I was in school. And yet, there has to be conflict, major conflict. Fiction in any form can be described as showing how people act under crisis so most fiction tackles extreme situations. Even stories about seemingly everyday life tend to ratchet up the dramatic or comedic predicaments—soap operas and “The Office” come to mind.

The problem is most people, including writers, lead generally mundane, uneventful lives in that we’re not out thwarting terrorists from setting off a dirty bomb in Times Square or rescuing hot babes clinging to the edge of a cliff. Certainly there are people who have experienced kidnapping, murder, courtroom trials, war, natural disasters, and serious illness; and write about those experiences. More likely, writers take their day-to-day experiences of falling in love, raising children, training pets, running a household, forging a career, or going on vacation; and with imagination, exaggerate their experiences into major crises. It isn’t false to do that because as my story about the hole in the rug shows, what was really a minor crisis felt in the moment like a major tragedy. I know what it feels like to be in the middle of a catastrophe even if I’ve never fought in a war or been chased by dinosaurs (not counting dreams).

As a reader or viewer, I also know I would be more engaged by cannibalism than a hole in a rug. Nonetheless, I sometimes wish I could write about something important to me without feeling I have to take it to epic, end-of-the-world proportions. When you break down well-known extremist drama and literature to their possible (in my mind anyway) seeds of inspiration, it can still be interesting. From the basest instincts, what ethereal masterpieces may have come.

Oedipus Rex—heir to throne unknowingly kills his father and marries and sleeps with his mother. In real life, Sophocles, a plebian with messianic tendencies, was a “sensitive” boy who didn’t click with his father, a successful Type-A businessman. His father wouldn’t let him attend the nude Olympics in which Sophocles’ BFF Demetrius would be throwing the shot put. To make matters worse, Sophocles’ birthday gift to his mother, a Greek vase engraved with an original fawning poem, was outdone by his father’s gift, a surprise trip for two to Crete. For revenge, Sophocles fantasized about posing as a towel boy and drowning his father in the deep end of the Parthenon baths. Then he would have his mother, the only woman he’d ever get close to and his biggest fan, all to himself.

Romeo and Juliet—star-crossed lovers from feuding families carry on a reckless, secret affair that due to poor communication ends tragically for the teens but brings the families together. Young Will Shakespeare had it bad for his first cousin Catherine. Three years his senior he hung on her every silly word, enraptured and fascinated by her bulging corseted bosom which had developed early for a 14-year-old. Try as he might to hide his affection, no cod piece was big enough to contain his secret, and his parents forbade him to play with her around the May pole. His uncle had hit the big time with the season’s crop, and he flaunted it by buying rounds at the local pub, while Will’s father struggled to make ends meet. Their sibling rivalry decreased the number of family functions in which Will saw Catherine. Despondent, Will skulked around the dirt roads and pastures of Avon, plotting to get out of the dead-end town, maybe to some place exciting like Italy where no one could tell him who he could and couldn’t love, mostly due to the language barrier.

Mary Poppins—a dictatorial banker and father gets a lesson in humility from a magical, too-good-to-believe English nanny for his two quiet but impetuous children. Author P.L. Travers, who at the time had to hide her female identity in order to get published, was constantly scolded by her parents for her flights of fancy. “Stop your daydreaming and do something useful, like count the eggs in the chicken coop. And while you’re at it, feed those damn birds or you won’t get tuppence from me!” But she couldn’t help it—no matter what menial task she put herself to, into her mind delightful—dare I say “merry”—thoughts would pop in. So she started a series of novels to basically catalog her imagination that just wouldn’t quit. Having moved from her native Australia to England and Ireland to make her mark as a writer, she struggled to adjust to the constant rainy weather and the omnipresent umbrella. She brilliantly turned the cursed accessory into a thing of whimsical flight, inspiring scores of children to injure themselves by jumping out of trees with an umbrella in failed attempts to fly like their heroine.

Gone with the Wind—Southern belle Scarlett O’Hara connives to maintain her way of life amidst the turmoil of the U.S. Civil War, torn between romantic notions for do-gooder Ashley Wilkes and carnal satisfaction with rogue Rhett Butler.  Poor Margaret “Peggy” Mitchell—an Atlanta newspaper columnist who no one took seriously. She’d show them! Okay, sure, she had never finished college. It wasn’t her fault! She had been forced to quit and return home to take over the family household after her mother’s untimely death. Such rotten luck. Eventually she had gotten out of the house before the jazz age passed her by and had some fun, flirting and cavorting with young beaus. She thought she had made a good match with her first husband “Red”—who knew he was a bootlegger and an abusive alcoholic?! The best revenge? Marry his best friend and best man, that’s what! Fiddle dee dee, Peggy was determined to crank out an epic potboiler that would shut them all up. An especially traumatic episode from her childhood, when their pug Miss Melanie had a difficult labor delivering four puppies, could be a useful plot device, as God was her witness. Thank goodness she had taken notes while her crazy-as-a-loon Uncle John O’Mara rattled on his tall tales of fighting in the Civil War. Wait! Her notes! They’re gone! Darn that lazy-good-for-nothing maid—she left the window open and the wind blew them all away!!! Oh dear, oh dear, when will it all end?

A Streetcar Named Desire—disgraced, aging Southern lady Blanche Dubois intrudes upon her poverty-stricken little sister in New Orleans where Stella’s dumb jock husband Stanley abuses them both, driving Blanche insane. Openly gay author Tennessee Williams actually knew a Stanley Kowalski, whom he met at a shoe factory. Williams’ father had forced him to withdraw from his highbrow studies at the University of Missouri to go to work on the assembly line. Disgraced and mortified—and “off track” from his true desires, Tennessee was reduced to repetitively threading shoelaces which drove young Tennessee nuts and stained his delicate hands. The saving grace was salivating over hunky Stanley, who strutted up and down the factory aisles in a sweaty white tank-top, heaving large crates of shoes onto his broad, muscular shoulders and deliberating flexing his biceps in front of the sissy boy oddly named after a state. Tennessee was further intrigued by Stanley’s size 12 boots and his startling habit of yelling at the top of his lungs, “Cruella!” whenever he set down a crate of shoes.

Star Wars—Young Luke Skywalker learns the ways of the Force from master Obi Wan Kenobi and fights Darth Vader and the dark side, with help from two robots, a princess, and renegade smartass Han Solo. Writer/director George Lucas, nicknamed “Luke” by his high school buddies, had dreamed of becoming a professional racecar driver, but just after graduating from high school, he was in a serious car accident. From his hospital bed, he introspectively realized that he hadn’t trusted his instincts, and had gone right, when he should have gone left, and was thereby Forced off the road. “Luke” rebound and went to film school, puttering around with animation and short films with robotic intensity. Taken under the wing of renegade, smartass auteur director Francis Ford Coppola on the set of Finian’s Rainbow, Lucas formed his own film company and hired an oddball crew of studio rejects. A diabetic, he fought to control his energy—one moment he was lethargic and weighed down by gravitas, the next, fueled by massive cinnamon rolls, his blood sugar would spike to hyperspeed. A hard-nosed trooper with obvious balls, Lucas soldiered on against Hollywood skepticism and against all odds, hit the mark with a beloved film that blew up box office records. He continued with a Star Wars sequel, no wait, a trilogy, or maybe that should be a double trilogy, with prequels. Having run out of decent source material, it went on too long and just kind of petered out, with superfluous scenes, forced lame cleverness, this, that, you know. And after starting out so well. Oh, well. Now what?

My only responsibility was to walk our dog Nia three times: morning, afternoon, and early evening. It cuts up the day but I could deal with that. Maybe I would take her with me on a day excursion to who knows where. I started thinking a few days in advance about what I would do on my “day off.” When I went grocery shopping on Thursday, I considered what I could get for my bachelor meals, an opportunity to feast on things that he won’t eat such as asparagus, mushrooms, tofu, or fresh trout. I settled on a dinner of grilled bockwurst (the pale white kind of sausage), a salad with lots of tomatoes, and for dessert something I love and he despises: rhubarb crisp.                                

I checked the local movie listings to see what Saturday matinees were playing. I went online to find out what time my favorite 9-hole golf course opened in case I wanted to go out and play a quick practice round by myself. I left a message with my friend Michael to see if he wanted to get together for brunch, a hike, or go to the movies.                              

And then Friday night I had the sleep of the damned due to residual anxiety from the work week. I probably got five hours of good sleep at the most. With a cup of coffee in hand, I saw Eric off to his festival right before 7 a.m., and then thought about going back to bed. I took the dog out for her first walk of the day and noted that the grass was very wet with dew, not great for an early morning round of golf. I dispensed Nia’s breakfast of kibble and while she gobbled away I considered my options. Frustrated by a poor night’s sleep and the appearance of a new cold sore, I did what any sane person would do with a day to their self—hours of manual physical labor.                               

It started with changing a light bulb. (Doesn’t it always?) It’s one of those difficult-to-change bulbs where part of the fixture has to be disassembled. It went more smoothly than I expected. The fixture is hanging over the kitchen sink and had been installed three or four years ago when we remodeled. The electrician had measured and marked with a pencil on the ceiling above the sink. We’ve been meaning to touch up that section of ceiling ever since and had finally bought a can of paint a few months earlier. It was a task on our spring break to-do list that still hadn’t gotten done. I hesitated. I wanted to have some fun today—I would still have the afternoon to watch a DVD or purchase an on-demand movie. It wouldn’t take that long to paint a 4 by 1 foot section of white ceiling. And it would sure surprise Eric.                                

I went to the garage to find the paint. However, it was in a cupboard that is blocked by our Wriggly Wranch worm composting bin made of hard black plastic which stands on four spindly legs attached only by plastic clips. The clips are missing from two of the legs so moving the bin results in at least one of the legs splaying out, and the bin threatening to fall over. The bin consists of three crates that stack inside one another—the top is filled with mulch and compost that a colony of worms feeds on. The middle is filled with worm castings, a technical term for worm feces—looks like potting soil and can be added to the real stuff. And the bottom is filled with water enriched by the seepage of nutrients from above, ie., the worms’ liquid and solid waste matter. There is a spigot to dispense the liquid into a pitcher for pouring onto the garden beds.                              

A leg did fall off but I managed to scoot the bin and hold the legs on at the same time. I still couldn’t get the cupboard open far enough so I got my car keys and backed up my car out of the garage a few feet, moved the bin some more, and got the cupboard open. I confirmed that the new quart of paint matched the color code for the original kitchen paint. I made several trips back and forth to the kitchen with prep and painting tools: two sizes of masking tape, a new plastic drop cloth, a roll of masking plastic, paint roller and pan, a small brush, a mixing stick, a couple of new paint rags, and an aluminum step ladder. I couldn’t find sandpaper anywhere and I remembered having designated a spot in the cupboard as “sandpaper storage.” Obviously, Eric had used it and didn’t put it back in the right place. I almost aborted the whole operation, considered just getting the painting done without doing proper preparation of the surface, but decided to look around the garage for a third time.                               

I found some electric sander paper that I could use by hand. A light bulb went off. I stopped and looked over the peg boards with tools such as an electric drill and saw. There was a black case I didn’t recognize—I took it down and opened it to find an electric sander—and all the sandpaper you would ever want! (Even the paper that doesn’t work with an electric sander, Eric.) I sort of remembered we had bought an electric sander at one point but how often does one use such a thing? A couple of times in a decade?                                

The gig was back on so I changed into grungy shorts and t-shirt, old sneakers, and a backward baseball cap. I found some safety goggles and masks and went to the kitchen with renewed determination. I was amped at finally getting this task done. I decided to take some photos to show Eric so he wouldn’t feel left out of the whole process—it was something we had planned to do together.                               

As the day progressed, I kept taking photos. When Eric finally got home at 9:30 p.m., while he ate a late dinner of bockwurst and broccoli that I prepared for him, I ran a slide show (modeled after the TV program “24”) of my approximately 12-hour-long day’s adventures.                               

09:53 am

10:00 am

10:44 am

10:52 am

10:53 am

10:56 am

11:40 am

I had finished the painting and some of the cleanup when there was a loud crash in the garage. I found the compost bin sitting flat on the concrete floor, all four legs thrown helter-skelter. Worm juice was splattered on the cupboards and pooling on the floor. Before taking a photo, I quickly wiped up the noxious brown liquid but you get the idea.                         

11:59 am

I had had it with that damn bin, something our former gardener had talked us into before we fired her, and it wasn’t being fully utilized. I kept hitting it with my car, it blocked the cupboard, and those cheap legs were worthless. The thing was too heavy for me to lift and reattach the legs one by one, not to mention more liquid would leak out. I looked around for some wooden blocks we used to have that it could sit on. Instead I found six cinder blocks stacked in the opposite corner and decided to relocate the bin out of my way forever. It could sit on the blocks and the legs could be retired, having outlived their usefulness. But the corner was filthy with leaves, dirt, and cob webs so I had to sweep it out. I managed to separate the bin’s three crates and carry them one by one to sit on the blocks in the corner.                        

12:07 pm

 I decided I may as well finish sweeping out the entire garage, another leftover task from spring break. The paint had to dry before I could finish the kitchen cleanup anyway.                     

12:14 pm

 I went in from the garage to find Nia waiting for her afternoon walk.                           

12:45 pm

 Time for lunch–I heated up a frozen enchilada pie.                           

1:36 pm

Back to the kitchen to do post-painting cleanup. While I did that, I blasted several vinyl records I haven’t played in years, music that would disturb Eric if he was home.                              

2:19 pm

Though I had moved some items away from the area near the sink and covered the counters with a drop cloth, a lazy susan and its few dozen kitchen utensils were covered with dust from two minutes of sanding so I had to wash every one and completely clean out one corner of the counter. I also wiped down the front of every cupboard, the stovetop, and foot-mopped the floor with a wet rag.    

3:15 pm

3:16 pm

When I went to get the mail, it really bothered me that the driveway and front patio were full of fallen leaves and pine needles from recent windy days. I didn’t want that to get into my clean garage.                             

3:45 pm

But first there were some branches hanging over the front steps that needed to be trimmed.                        

3:56 pm

4:16 pm

4:17 pm

I dried the dishes and put everything back into place so Eric wouldn’t know until he saw the slide show that  I had done the painting.                      

4:21 pm

I finally had time to relax in the sun before taking a shower.                             

4:26 pm

Then I decided to start a new jigsaw puzzle so Eric wouldn’t think I had slaved all day long.                             

5:50 pm

I was running out of time. And getting a little hungry. So I began preparing my strawberry-rhubarb crisp.                             

6:50 pm

And dinner.                             

7:10 pm

While I ate dinner, I started a DVD from my collection of James Cagney movies.                             

7:30 pm

And finally, dessert was ready!                     

8:00 pm

It was warm, bubbly, sweet and delicious. I had mixed my favorite hemp granola in with the flour and sugar topping and it was totally awesome, dude. Though Eric doesn’t like rhubarb it was also really sweet, offsetting the usual tartness, so I saved him half. The phone rang, he filled me in on the festival, and then I got his dinner ready while he drove home. The day was over, and it was good.  

*********  

To Eric’s credit, he noticed as he drove into the garage that I had trimmed the tree, swept the front patio, and swept the garage. And he thanked me for it as soon as he walked into the house. I had aired out the house enough that he didn’t smell the new paint and was genuinely surprised when I started the slide show. He was delighted I had finally finished the painting task.  

He had had a very long, chaotic day at the singing festival, a constant scramble of dealing with late accompanists, no-show judges, and a rock band—part of another campus-sanctioned festival—performing outside the SF State building where youngsters were singing classical art songs so the singers had to change rooms and then change back later. He was a good sport to watch the silly slide show of my self-contained day after his had been so all-consuming.  

He didn’t know—perhaps I failed to tell him—that I had designated a storage place for the sandpaper. He had thought it logical to keep all the sandpaper together in one place in the electric sander case–I’ll gladly keep it that way so we both know where to find it. He was glad I had crafted a sturdy solution and out-of-the-way place for the composting bin. He has yet to try the rhubarb crisp but maybe if I reheat it and wave it under his nose he’ll succumb.  

It’s fun to have a day to myself once in awhile, but believe me, I wouldn’t want to go it alone every day without my chosen husband, no question.   

He demonstrated the free book, Winnie the Pooh, which comes with the book reader application. Not only are the original drawings on the page in color, but when you brush your finger on the touch screen from right to left to turn the page, the page curls and stays in place as you move or stop your finger—the pages are even see-through with the previous page’s text shown in reverse through the back of the turning page. That’s creative and inspired engineering.

I have been following the newspaper accounts of the release of the iPad, the sales figures, the positive reviews, and it certainly got my interest but I didn’t rush out to be the first in line for several reasons with which I am struggling today. First is the cost, $500 to $800 depending on the amount of memory and type of Wi-Fi connectivity. Second, the iPad is essentially an oversized iPhone, minus phone calling features and I haven’t gotten an iPhone because I couldn’t justify it. I hardly use my cell phone except in the car, I do not text much, and while the iPhone has a cool interface and features, I don’t have a lot of free time where I’m sitting around on a train or a bus and could utilize the features. In short, for me an iPhone would not be a must-have useful tool—it would be a toy that I would have to set aside time to enjoy, like a set of golf clubs, a deck of cards, or a board game.

I was one of the first to get a Macintosh computer back in 1986 and for several years I got swept up by manic upgrade fever. It was an exciting time with the beginning of PageMaker and desktop publishing, email and the world wide web as they called it then. I was one of the first to thrill at digital scanning and the first version of PhotoShop. I kept upgrading my operating system and applications, added more memory, subscribed to magazines, attended Mac user meetings, and attended MacWorld to feed the addiction for the latest and the greatest. Eventually the passion faded, a business went belly up, and I grew tired of spending money on upgrades that didn’t have a lot of wow factor. At the end of last year I contemplated upgrading my slow and outdated iMac but for half the price I did what was once unthinkable—I got a powerful Gateway PC with Windows 7 and a 21” high-definition letterbox flat-screen monitor that can easily double as a TV. I’m very happy with the non-Macintosh computer I have now.

But now out of the blue the iPad comes along to sweep me off my feet when I wasn’t even looking for it–I haven’t had this feeling and passion for a piece of hardware for many years. The iPad beckons me to return to the Apple way of computing canoodling. Why not give in to the temptation? I don’t have a personal laptop, just the one issued by my employer and they block all the fun stuff and have it set up so they can monitor your usage whenever you turn it on and connect to the internet, even outside of the office and the corporate network. But do I really need a new technology love in my life? Is that how I want to spend my leisure time? I have so many entertainment choices already via technology. It’s no longer as simple as sitting down in front of the TV at 7:00 p.m. to watch Jeopardy and if you’re not there on time you’ll miss something. I don’t miss any programs because I didn’t get to the TV in time or miss a movie because it has already left the theatre—now I miss entertainment opportunities because there are too many to choose from and I don’t have time to enjoy them all. When I want to unwind and read, watch TV, see a movie or listen to music, these are some of the choices I know that I have without an iPad:

Current TV

1. Live Comcast Cable (with commercials—usually only during the Super Bowl or Oscars)
2. Digital Video Recorder (DVR) recorded programs (I bought one of the first DVRs in 2000, ReplayTV which is now part of DirectTV satellite service and not as well known as TIVO, its only initial competitor—but I always liked Replay’s interface better than TIVO’s.)
3. Comcast On-Demand (box)
4. Comcast Fancast Xfinity (on-demand online)
5. Hulu.com (online)
6. iTunes.com (download to PC)

Movies

1. DVD Collection
2. Netflix DVDs (we have the two-at-a-time plan and they frequently sit on the coffee table for weeks)
3. Netflix Instant Play (streaming over the internet, on a PC but usually through our blu-ray DVD player, which is connected to the internet, to our 61” TV)
4. Vudu Rental or Purchase (through our blu-ray player—movie service like in hotels)
5. CinemaNow Rental or Purchase (through our blu-ray player—movie service like in hotels)
6. Live TV
7. Recorded to DVR from cable movie stations like HBO or Turner Classic Movies
8. Comcast On-Demand (box)
9. Comcast Fancast Xfinity (on-demand online)
10. YouTube Movies (on PC and through blu-ray player)
11. iTunes (download to PC)
12. Movie Theatre (I almost forgot to put it on the list!)

Recorded Music

1. Vinyl LPs
2. CDs
3. Cassette Tapes
4. Digitized music collection—Windows Media Player
5. Digitized music collection—iTunes Player (picky about what formats it plays)
6. Digitized music—iRiver MP3 player (was never drawn to clunkier iPods)
7. Internet music/videos—lastFM.com
8. Internet music/videos—lala.com
9. Internet music/videos—YouTube
10. AM/FM Radio
11. Internet Radio—AOL
12. Internet Radio—iTunes
13. Sirius XM Satellite Radio (car)
14. Sirius XM Satellite Radio (online)
15. Music Choice (Comcast cable)

That’s a lot of choices. If I didn’t list them all, I would forget about some of them. These are just the ones I’ve identified for myself—I know there are others (including pirated music and movies) that I’m not tuned into or don’t have the time or need to investigate. The above list also doesn’t go in to detail about TV programs, movies, and music I have read about and am interested in seeing—my Netflix queue of movies currently numbers 142 and some have been there for a couple of years. When am I going to watch all of those? On my deathbed?

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I have a stack of books and magazines on my nightstand waiting and waiting for me to read. There are more in bookcases, even more in bookstores and libraries, new ones are coming out every day. When am I ever going to read them?

Whenever I have a free moment, on my new iPad, is what I’m thinking. Last week I had an acupuncture session and after inserting the needles, my acupuncturist asked if I’d like an eye pillow and an iPad? I raised my head and cried out, “Yes, both!” at the same moment he corrected his Freudian slip and replaced iPad with iPod (to listen to meditative music while the needles and I rest for a half hour). He smiled and said “make that two iPads.” For once he and I appear to be lusting after the same thing. How can I not take his slip as an omen that I should satisfy my desire?  I may have to forego a few acupuncture treatments so I can pay for it, but I think he’ll understand. I wouldn’t be surprised if the iPad has an acupuncture app to take the place of the missed treatments.

Sally was probably mimicking and referencing Bob Dylan’s philosophy (or was it Boston’s?) from the 1967 concert tour documentary “Dont Look Back.” Of course, Bob now hosts the “Theme Time Radio” program on Sirius/XM satellite radio in which he plays and comments on old, old songs. Yesterday it was songs about places around the world and he played a catchy ditty from 1953 by the Four Lads called “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)”:

Take me back to Constantinople
No, you can’t go back to Constantinople
Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That’s nobody’s business but the Turks’

Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it, I can’t say
(People just liked it better that way)

So I can’t look to Bob Dylan as a role model for not looking back. Therapists, at their own expense, have also told me to stop dwelling on the past and look to the future. So to avoid turning into a pillar of freshly ground sea salt, let me predict that Lady Gaga will advise in 2011 to:

Turn on the lights, baby
The sun is arised, hey ee
Time to pee, you see
And flee, woo wee.
P-p-p-p-pee
Fl-fl-fl-fl-flee

By the time you read this, I’ll be onto something else but if you comment on it, then I have to stop moving forward and think about what I wrote in the past in order to respond. It’s a dilemma, this philosophy of looking to the future and not living in the past. My literalist nature and unflailing commitment to my choices entails that I take everything to the extreme. My “Oh Dave Now’ entries have been in most cases my memoirs. Not today, my friends, today is about tomorrow.

But first I need to turn my back on the past which contains a whole lot of history. On the global level there are scores of ancient buildings, books, lives long gone that I will shun.  Bye bye, Bible, Koran, Dead Sea Schrolls. There will be no point in visiting dusty museums filled with the likes of Picasso, Rembrandt, Van Gogh. I won’t be reading any more of my favorite plays by Shakespeare or George Bernard Shaw, for starters. It can be argued that as long as I see a live performance of their masterpieces, then I’m living in the present and looking forward. But their language is so not hip and modern that within five minutes I’ll feel like I’ve traveled back in time (not to mention the memories they’ll conjure).

On a personal level I’ll want to start by cleaning out my closet and buying all new clothes, a simple act that will snowball by stimulating the economy and creating a new era of prosperity. My new duds will attract new, fashion-forward friends who will hang on my every word as they admire my crisp, fresh designer knockoffs from Marshalls and Ross. I will never set foot in a Goodwill or Salvation Army again except to unload my old crap.

Last year I started a photo album project of indexing piles of old photos that went back to grade school. I selectively started laying them out chronologically in several albums. Into the trash bin! There haven’t been enough rainy days to work on them anyway. In the future I won’t be writing (or reading) any holiday letters that regurgitate the past year’s highlights. No more reading buried Facebook news feeds over a day old.

I have hundreds of music CDs and a collection of over 165 movie DVDs, all of which I can load into bags and sell at Berkeley’s Amoeba Records that they can then resell as used to people who live in the past. I only bought DVDs of movies I had already seen more than once because I knew I would want to see them again. But they’re old movies! With dead actors! Zzzzzz. I’ll need to remove Turner Classic Movies from my favorite channels menu, along with TV Land. You were funny in your time, Lucy, but you are old, old news. “The Golden Girls” are dead to me.

No more recorded music, movies, TV. If I’m going to be serious about looking forward, I will only permit live performances into my life. If a band covers an old song by the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, I will walk right out of that club and find musicians who only compose and perform new music.

When the HR department tells me it’s time for my annual performance evaluation, I will only fill out the questions about my future goals and where I see myself in 3-5 years. It’s pointless to evaluate and rate what I did in the past, not only my successes but also my screwups. It’s the achievements and screwups in the future that matter. Reward me—or don’t—for those!

I believe in paying taxes to support the future of our country and community, but don’t ask me to look back at what I earned and spent in the past. I’ll budget out what I can afford and pay it in monthly installments from my paycheck and the IRS can take it or leave it.

This is going to be very liberating, I can see that. Everything in my life will be new—new challenges, new discoveries, new products, new experiences. It’s exciting! Sure, there may be boredom, sadness, frustration, and disappointment too, but those will be replaced soon enough as I move forward. As long as I don’t look too far into the unpredictable but ultimately inevitable future, I won’t freak out and be frozen by fear.

So let’s end this session and go out and see what’s next in our lives, both online and offline. Thanks for reading as I take this new direction. I’ll see you in the future and soon forget that this ever happened. Sorry if there were typos or grammatical mistakes this week, but I didn’t go back to proofread.

But I can’t get excited when I’ve only seen 4 of the 10 Best Picture Nominees and even less of the Actor and Actress nominees. Why rush out to see the Picture nominees when it’s probably between “Avatar” and “The Hurt Locker” anyway. One of my highest rated and favorite movies of the year—I keep a list and rate every movie I see—was “Up” which will probably win Best Animated Feature so not much suspense there.  

I’m also not too thrilled about the dual hosts of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin.  I’ve enjoyed them in the movies but I’m guessing that they picked two old guys, instead of one, in case one of them has a heart attack or gets too drunk that there will still be one left to finish the show. Now there’s a reason to watch the show, to see if they both survive it.  It’s Live–watch what happens!

If they’re going to do two hosts, why not Robert Pattinson and Taylor Lautner from the “Twilight” movies? They’re not comedians and they probably wouldn’t bring any charm to their announcing duties, if they could get the words out at all. But they would look good just standing there and subtitles could do all the work.  

Why have a man at all? Why not a funny woman like Julia Louis-Dreyfus or Meryl Streep (on a year when she isn’t nominated if there is such a thing)? Whoopi Goldberg has hosted in the past but she’s as close to a man as a woman can get in primetime. Ellen was funny on the Emmys but she’s overexposed. I could get excited about the Oscars if RuPaul was the host—she’s hysterical as the host of “RuPaul’s Drag Race” and with the Oscars her writers and camera filters would be even better.  

Enough Hollywood bitchiness, it will just give me more wrinkles. The other day I was walking down the street in downtown Oakland and a street person was about to solicit me for change, but he dismissed me with a wave of his hand and said, “Oh, you’re in a bad mood.”  I wasn’t about to give him change but I was taken aback because I was actually in a carefree, relatively relaxed mood, or so I thought.  

A couple of years ago in a stressful job with a long commute that exhausted me, I walked past a colleague in the aisle between the cubicles on the way to mine. He’s a semi-retired Quality Assurance expert in his early 70s who I had already talked to that day. Deep in thought with my to-do list, I didn’t feel the need to greet him again. He stopped me and asked if I was all right, and I said yes, why?  “You were SCOWLING,” he emphasized. I made some excuses and forced a smile, to assure him I had no reason to be scowling.  

My inability to crack a decent smile has become a trend. It’s probably been two years since a good photo has been taken of me. My brother Paul says that I’m photogenic, which I take to mean I look better in photos than in person–how distressing that now I don’t even look good in photos! I’ve taken some acceptable self-portraits for my Facebook profile photo but I gave up a couple of weeks ago to take a new one because in every photo I took, I indeed looked like I was scowling, even when I thought my pose had been “angelic.” Am I becoming like Alec Baldwin whose best effort at a smile looks like it took a crane to turn up his mouth just a smidgen? And when I do show teeth, do I have to look like a maniacal puppet like Steve Martin or Mary Tyler Moore (MTM)? 

Mary, Mary

Arguments for putting it DOWN:

• Common etiquette in consideration of delicate women folk who always use the toilet sitting down and are dependent on men to make sure the seat is in the down position before the woman can use it.
• ­So during the night, a woman (or man) doesn’t sit and fall in the toilet.
• ­So women don’t have to touch the seat with their fingers to put it down before they use the toilet and potentially infect their privates with whatever germs they got on their fingers.

Arguments for leaving it UP:

• ­So during the night, a man doesn’t piss all over the seat.
• ­If touching the icky toilet seat is a concern of women, consider this—if the seat is down the man has to lift the icky seat with his fingers. He then uses those “contaminated” fingers to hold his penis while he urinates. It’s doubtful that he then washes that penis before sexual activity with a woman, so the woman has less control of avoiding icky-toilet-seat contamination via the man who had to lift the seat.
• ­Penis-crush injuries can be suffered by toddler males trying to lift heavy seats that slip out of their little hands and fall onto their penises.

Most of the arguments above are questionable, at least as a male vs. female conflict. I know men who always sit, even if they’re just urinating. It’s not as simple a decision as women make it out to be. However, I’ll admit that when I use the bathroom in an office or home where the primary users are women, I’ll be polite and considerate and lower the seat when I’m done.

There are options for women to urinate standing up, primarily in public restrooms so they don’t have to sit on dirty and/or contaminated toilet seats. Products developed in Europe include a portable disposable urination funnel called Urinelle. Ellen DeGeneres uses a product, developed by a Dutch woman, called P-Mate! A German company manufactures a female urinal fixture that has been used in European concert facilities and airports.  

There is, however, a somewhat simple solution for the home that works for everyone—install a urinal!! 

We did it in our two-male home. It’s wonderful. In that bathroom we always leave the toilet seat down.  If we just have to pee, we use the urinal. If we want to do more than pee, we use the toilet. It’s that easy, people!

There is also something freeing about a urinal. Splashing and spraying worries that come with peeing into a toilet are gone. All is contained by the urinal wings. A man can focus on release, not only of his bladder but also of anxiety, overwhelm, anger. Whizzzzz—away it all goes. A man is left with his thoughts and can connect with his root, primal nature. Peeing into a urinal is as freeing as peeing outdoors in the woods or in the snow. It’s a simple joy of manhood.

Space-wise, a urinal may seem like a luxury for most homes. Make room—it may be more important to marital bliss than double sinks. And they are not that expensive, sometimes less than a toilet—Home Depot has urinals for under $200, not that much more than their toilets. As you can see from the photos of our urinal, there are stylish designs from which to choose, apart from the basic utilitarian urinals found in most public restrooms. We chose an electric-eye flush rather than the clunky looking knob handle models that would have made our bathroom look like one in a gas station or bar. (The only weird thing is sometimes it flushes on its own, waking us up during the night—we wonder if a ghost has passed in front of the eye causing it to flush. Or do ghosts pee too? Invisible phantom piss…)

If you don’t have the space, money, or chutzpah to install a urinal, then I suggest that whenever someone, man or woman, goes to the bathroom, night or day, they individually take responsibility to check the current position of the seat. If it’s up, and you need to sit, then put it down. If it’s down and the man needs to pee (or the woman needs to clean it), he (or she) raises it and leaves it there when they’re finished. The next person to use the toilet can then decide whether they need to put the seat down or leave it up. It’s the democratic thing to do, oui-oui, ladies?

The Love Parade begins at the brunch hour and thumps and grinds into dusk. For the last two years by the time Eric and I ascended from BART at Powell Street, making our way to a Broadway show or fancy restaurant near Union Square, all we have witnessed are Love Parade leftovers. This is somewhat fitting as the Love Parade caters to people in their late teens and early 20s. That is about the same age group as Romeo and Juliet whose love was impetuous, passionate, plagued by miscommunication and ultimately fatal.

Love Parade celebrants are more likely to die from skin exposure or broken eardrums than from hearts stabbed and poisoned by either love or rejection. Electronic dance music blared from colorfully decorated truck beds masquerading as parade floats. Groups of young women flitted through the tourist mob clad scantily in shiny gold hot pants, tutus, sandals, tie-dye or lamé blouses and tank tops. On their backs were homemade fairy wings. They were high spirited and giggly.

I think celebrating love and peace is a brilliant reason for a parade. It rekindles and re-imagines the Human Be-Ins in the 1960’s that freed men, and especially women, to love the one you’re with, in this moment, and also the one in the next. There is practically nothing more magical than hooking up with a stranger picked out of a crowd, knowing absolutely nothing about them, maybe not even their name. It is all eye contact—instant adoration of souls—and smiles. The first gentle kiss and the first caress blossom amidst the safety of a like-minded throng. Speed soul-mating. This street-cart love is intense and immediately satisfying but can hardly be called a meal.

This past year Eric turned 55 and expressed that he was having difficulty with this milestone, more so than age 50. He felt his youth was getting farther away from his present. In other words, he was finally starting to feel old. Brushing past partying young things in the street doesn’t help.

I hadn’t told him where we were going for this birthday dinner which is traditionally a surprise, one simple way of keeping some mystery in the relationship. We weaved our way around the self-made cupids and other people on the crowded streets surrounding Union Square. It was cold and windy so I led Eric on a zig-zagging route towards our destination to avoid the wind. He ventured a few guesses whenever we turned a corner. “Remember Rue Lapin?” he said, fishing for a clue.  “Yes, that’s the first place I ever took you for your birthday. Is it right up here on this street?”

Then he saw a yellow awning with a single decoration but no name. “Is that Fleur de Lys?”

“I guess it is. I forgot that it was right around here.” 

As we walked past, I said, “Let’s see if they have a table.” And I led him in dumbstruck to claim our reservation. We had been there once before for my 40^th birthday. Having cheered on Chef Hubert Keller on “Top Chef Masters,” I thought it might give Eric a special thrill to celebrate his birthday Fleur-de-Lys style.

Once we had given our coats to the charming hostesses and taken our seats, I excused myself to go to the restroom and wash the swine flu germs from BART off of my hands. As I did so and straightened my windblown hair, I thought that what struck me about the revelers and about young people in general is that they carry magic with them.

For example, when Eric and I visited Venice three years ago for our 10^th anniversary, there was a young American gay couple staying in our bed-and-breakfast who we encountered uneventfully in the breakfast room. The men were cute with black hair, were sensibly well-dressed, and neither too effeminate nor overly masculine. Thoroughly embraceable by all. They indeed carried magic with them, and while they were aware of it, they possessed it like a prized Gucci travel pouch. We saw them around Venice in piazzas and at the Guggenheim being wonderful and curious, oblivious of us except as spectators.

I once traveled with self-contained purpose and interest. At age 21 I criss-crossed the entirety of Venice several times on foot in three days by myself, ignoring the tourists, adventurously finding my own way, my own magical discoveries. Looking back, I see myself as having been more closed off then self-contained. As exemplified by Glinda the good witch in The Wizard of Oz, magic is easier to sustain while living in a bubble.

Back at our table, the young waiters served up a succession of artful food creations. A light musky lemony fava bean puree, scooped up with a tiny silver spoon. A small interlocking stack of perfectly cut French fry timbers that breathed truffle oil vapor when you bit them. My entrée was a row of sliced Muscovy duck breast, each slice topped with a juicy, naked orange segment. It was surrounded on the plate with wedges of roasted sweet potato here, a smooth puff of mashed potatoes there.

Eric was silently entranced by his entrée. He awakened to me and said, “You have to try some filet.” I discreetly slid my bread plate to him; it returned momentarily with a good bit of dark brown juicy beef. Perched on top were a thin slice of truffle and a matching sliver of seared foie gras. I carefully cut off a morsel of each and tasted them separately—each was delicious and cooked perfectly. But when I cut off a morsel of each and grouped them together on my fork, the flavors together were amazing and startling. We finished our entrees reverently with quiet conversation and contentment.

After our entrée plates had been cleared and we were alone again, I looked across the table at Eric. His head was bowed and he looked sad. “Are you okay?” I asked. He looked up and made intimate eye contact.

“You made me cry. This dinner, this amazing place. Thank you, it’s wonderful.”

Tears welled up now in my eyes. “You’re welcome. I wanted it to be special for your 55^th.”

“It is.”

We smiled at one another, eyes moist, faces warm with wine and the emotions of the moment. Our table seemed enveloped in a protective glow, a sacred spot around which the waiters, other diners, and the restaurant circled jubilantly. We were happy, and together we were suspended by the love and caring that we brought to the table, even at our age, especially at our age.

Suddenly from around the corner, two waiters brought out breathtaking plates of dessert, including a candle-lit chocolate mousse for Eric. Our glistening eyes slowly cleared to take in the sugary perfections. The rollercoaster of tastes continued for several more minutes than it should have, but we held on to the end, screaming quietly and joyfully with every bite.

The bill was very special too but no tears were shed. True romantics that we are, Eric put his birthday dinner on his Visa card, because it has a lower interest rate than mine.

I don’t do enough daydreaming anymore.  In every house and apartment I have ever lived in, I have lied in bed or on the sofa and gazed out a window and let my thoughts wander. I partly marveled at how lucky I was to always have an interesting view. My teenage bedroom window on the 2^nd story looked into the top branches and leaves of a maple tree framed by patches of ever changing sky. The bedroom in my first apartment in California looked out over the red Spanish tiles of a dentist’s office. The window framed perfectly a single, tall, swaying palm tree. The 2^nd story bedroom window of the French cottage I shared in Oakland with my former partner looked out over the apartment building roof next door and again my view was of a soaring tree surrounded by usually blue sky. One time I rolled over onto my partner’s side of the bed to see with surprise that his view had no foliage and was an ugly web of electric and telephone wires.

In my current bedroom, I don’t have a window view. From where I lie now, my eyes fall upon two paintings over the fireplace mantle. Each painting, one, my favorite Caillebotte framed print, and the other, a small framed original watercolor by my late friend Tom Young, has a detailed story to it. I don’t dwell on the stories while I daydream. Instead I just use them as a familiar focus to calm my thoughts. Daydreaming is my time to slow down from everything. I take a few easy deep breaths until my breathing calms too.

I notice the sounds inside and outside the room. Air blows out of the furnace vent. Electricity hums with reliable consistency. An owl hoots beyond the walls from a temporary perch in a California pine alongside the house. Then it sounds like a second owl on the north side answers. I am just another living creature alive in the world. The simplicity of it makes me happy and I smile to myself.

“Honey,” my partner Eric says from his side of the bed. “Are you going to sleep or are you going to read?”

I’m slightly startled and only slightly annoyed. “No,” I reply. “I’m daydreaming.” I close my eyes against his innocent intrusion. He’s lying in bed next to me on his back, engaged in his ritual of reading a mystery or suspense novel for ten minutes until he can’t keep his eyes open. There are stacks of books on the floor on his side of the bed, books he has quickly sacrificed to his ritual, at least one a week. On my side of the bed, there is a small stack of books on the nightstand waiting to be picked up.

Eric is perplexed by my daydreaming—he always thinks something is wrong. His family is all about activity that never stops—talking, eating, drinking, emailing, crossword puzzles, and reading-reading-reading. More talking.

I settle back into my daydreaming. It is relatively peaceful in here tonight. The usual mental loops have turned off. My mind is not racing about the next deadline at work. Nor am I dwelling on petty slights that I take too seriously. Nor what groceries need to be replaced. Nor are the music and lyrics of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” or the Wild Beasts’ “We Still Got the Taste Dancin’ on Our Tongues” playing over and over as they frequently do.

Instead I notice how the walls and ceilings look from my current angle. I still like the shades of sandal wood we painted the bedroom a few years back. The big room is not a typical square or rectangle—it is all interesting angles and cutouts—high ceiling down the center but then dropping down dramatically almost to the floor on either side. A plant that we’ve had for years needs water and trimming. Probably more light.

I am suddenly shocked to realize that our fireplace mantle has unintentionally become a shrine of sorts to those who have passed. Four little pine boxes, each put there at a different time, hold the ashes of two special dogs and two special cats. My late father’s small collection of tattered Louis L’Amour westerns is held together by two carved yellow stone bookends, kitschy stallion busts that I inherited from my late friend-poet-artist Tom. I decide that once I finish reading a contemporary novel, I will lose myself in the Old West the way Dad did over and over again.

I reflect without anxiety on all the years behind me now. What a lot of activity there was, building a career and taking home a paycheck. Looking for love and finding it. Alternately fighting to keep hold of it and telling myself I don’t need the drama. Wishing I hadn’t chosen to live so far away from my family—everyone there has grown up and I wasn’t there enough. Yet it is hard for me to imagine living anywhere but where I am.

I pull the blankets closer and almost purr. I am tenderly grateful for my enduring partnership with Eric, a good Midwestern boy, loyal and smart and full of good humor. He snores too loudly—drinks too much soda pop—doesn’t clean up after himself quickly enough. Kisses me good night after he closes his book. Keeps the tea kettle warm for me in the morning. We have an affectionate, high-spirited little dog, a Welsh Corgi, a demanding and dependent child who brightens up our days with her peculiar and predictable habits. I think about some good friends and family and wonder how they are doing tonight and when I will see them again. All of our lives are complex and we live in a complex world, built on simple, individual day-to-day actions. But really, like me here, we are each just another breathing animal needing warmth and to be fed.

I close my eyes and open them again, and remind myself that I am in my early 50s—it’s easy to forget—and should get on top of all the unfinished business that surrounds me. There’s the stack of books full of undiscovered insights and adventures. Several aging magazines with once-important news are losing their luster. But they will have to wait until another day.

I roll onto my back and my daydreaming is over. The clock says it is time to go to sleep. Maybe now, I can.

adjective.

1 : marked by unaffected simplicity : unsophisticated, artless, ingenuous
2 : deficient in worldly wisdom or informed judgment; especially : credulous
3 a : self-taught, primitive b : produced by or as if by a self-taught artist <naive murals>

synonyms see natural

Huh. So that’s what “naïve” really means. Funny what you can learn when you open a book, or in this case, search the Merriam-Webster website.

People have told me all my life that they think I am naïve. Sometimes they quickly backpedaled and said they thought my naiveté was really cute and they liked that about me. I think they saw my face go from blissful innocence to killer rage. I thought being called naïve was an insult. I zeroed in on the negative connotations of definition #1, i.e., that I was an airhead, a bimbo, a country bumpkin, a clueless little boy who would get eaten alive in the big bad world and needed to be protected.

The fact is they didn’t know what they were talking about. The word “naïve” is one of those words, like “ironic,” that is frequently misused. Naiveté is not usually a permanent state of being or character. It’s a stage that everyone goes through in experience and education. Or is sometimes a deliberate decision to stay unpolluted by potentially influencing opinions and history in order to discover and experience something for oneself (e.g., teenagers and me).

Allow me the latitude to compose a few paragraphs that will elucidate and illuminate these conceptions further. Ahem.

I will admit that when my energy and enthusiasm is high, I get caught up in the moment and surface impressions. (But inside, trust me, I’m noticing what is really going on.) In social situations I put a simple, pleasant face forward and politely acknowledge each and every person, taking them at face value, assuming the best in all of mankind. I walk with purpose and greet others with a nod and a smile (as if everyone likes me even though I know they don’t). And then someone speaks to me. SCREECH—PANIC—CRASH!

I suddenly become tongue-tied and nervous. If I say anything at all, it comes out mumbled and incoherent. “Yes, a good morning. Take it a good one!” And I turn away.

So that’s one reason I come across as naïve. I’m incapable of spontaneous verbal communication. Therefore, people think I’m a simpleton or stupid. You should have seen the baffled look on the face of my first semester college French teacher (a pretty blonde, voluptuous, bubbly young woman) when she handed back the first exam of the semester—I had gotten the highest score. My score was unexpected. She even said to me after the first couple of weeks that maybe I should transfer out. As far as speaking French and class participation, I was a dolt. When she effusively greeted my entrance to the room with “Bonjour, monsieur! Comment t’allez-vous?” I would stare blankly, grunt, and say nothing in return, unable to hear even the simplest phrase at the time. But once I see something printed, in black and white, it tends to stick with me. I had studied my textbook, practiced writing French, and aced the test. What? She expected me to hear the words in class and imitate the sounds without knowing how the words were spelled and ordered? It doesn’t work that way, not for me.

Similarly, an office friend burst into laughter when I told her I had tried out for “Jeopardy.” She just couldn’t see me on the show, even though when I watch it, I usually know a lot of the answers. And when we took a trip to Paris together, she had the same baffled look on her face as my French teacher did when, after a quick lunch at a Tuileries Garden outdoor café, I casually spoke French to the waiter, settling the bill and asking him for a bottle of water to go, all of which he understood instantly. She hadn’t understood a word of it. Startled, she said, “I didn’t know you could speak French like that.”  

Well, sure, I can do just about anything when I need to. I’m nowhere near fluent in French, civil engineering, bread making, drug use, gardening, or kinky sex. But if the situation arises, after a muddled period of naiveté, I can figure out enough to get by. What I didn’t tell her was that as she babbled on about what Impressionist paintings we would see at the Musée de l’Orangerie, I was forming and practicing in my mind the phrases I would say to the waiter.

In my senior year of high school for the yearbook “hall of fame,” I was voted as the Most Timid and I was told by someone on the yearbook committee that I came in second for the Most Intelligent, out of a class of over 400. That pretty much sums it up—my timidity masks my intelligence and I appear naïve. That’s part of it anyway. There’s more.

The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator is a tool that has helped me to understand how I process information, compared to others. I’ve taken the test a few times and my results typically are I-S-T-J, or Introvert-Sensing-Thinking-Judging. In particular, I think the “I” and the “J” contribute to my being perceived as naïve.

In this model, the Introvert piece means I process information internally rather than being able to converse verbally on the spot, whether in English or in French, without prior study and thought. I get excited about ideas and per the website’s definition of an Introvert, “I sometimes forget to check with the outside world to see if my ideas really fit the experience.”

This happens all the time with everyone. You might get excited about remodeling your kitchen or starting a new love relationship and your imagination runs wild. But once you get into it, you find out that you had been naïve. The reality is very different than what you imagined. Another example is going to a new movie—you’re all excited about seeing “Avatar” because you’ve seen the trailers and heard all the buzz. And then when you actually see it, even if you enjoy it, there is a letdown, and maybe you feel foolish for getting all worked up. Now that you’ve seen it, you’re obviously no longer naïve about the experience of seeing it. (Even if you don’t comprehend or care about what went on behind the scenes to create the movie.)

I get worked up in my mind prior to visiting a city for the first time. Before I ever went to Paris, I had studied a map of the city repeatedly and knew by heart the layout of the city center. I romantically planned to take the Grande Promenade from Notre Dame Cathedral, through the Louvre and the Tuileries, up the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe, over to the Eiffel Tower and back to the Latin Quarter. Of course, I was naïve about the reality that the map didn’t show—the pigeons, traffic, cigarette smoke, dead flowers, and passed-out vagrants as well as the glittering lights, the sculpted façade of Notre Dame, the smell of fresh croissants and bread.

On the other hand, some of my moments of naiveté are my own fault, due to the “J” portion of my personality. I am goal-oriented and get bored with in-depth processing, including conversation. I like to attack a task with purpose, with quick judgment of what needs to get done. I complete it efficiently and successfully without thinking it through entirely before I get started. When I pick up a newspaper, I read the headlines and skip the meat of most articles so I can finish and get on with my day. So I’m informed about what’s happening but don’t ask me to give a speech on the details of an issue. I know I’m not alone in the “uninformed” aspect of naiveté, but that’s more due to our reliance on sound-bites and Twittering than personality type. We have the opportunity with the internet to bury ourselves in pages of detail on any given subject, but who has the time, unless, apparently, it’s about Tiger Woods’ affairs and sex addiction.

So okay, at times I am naïve about certain things but then, if I have enough interest, I’ll read up on it and expand my knowledge, like I did when I figured out how to create a blog here on wordpress.com (there’s a lot of tools I didn’t bother with—just learned the basics). But I suppose in social situations, due to my introverted personality, people will continue to experience me as a deer in the headlights.

Nonetheless, the next time someone says that I’m naïve, my response will be, “No, I’m not. But you obviously are in the ways of Dave.” 

(See, I just have to figure out what to say ahead of time. Let’s hope I can say it without sounding stupid or naïve.)

You can’t open plastic bags at the grocery store.

I have caused scenes in the produce section. If the plastic bags don’t rip, then I’m struggling with getting them open. It helps to find the right end of the bag. I often end up having to blow them open which results in a kazoo sound and odd looks from other shoppers. My partner Eric gets impatient and frequently grabs the bag from me and with a quick flick of his thumb and forefinger parts the plastic. In terms of plastic bags, he has been blessed with oily skin. I have taken to running a finger over wet cucumbers and then using that moisture to get the bag open. Thank God for produce sprinkler systems—in the meat section the only available moisture is blood! No, I won’t lick my finger after putting my hands on a shopping cart.

You can’t open plastic dog poop bags.

Conversely to the grocery store, I have left dog poop on the ground because the damn bag won’t open. We buy biodegradable doggie doo-doo bags at the pet store because we walk our dog in the local park and have to pick up after her. If I don’t run my finger under the faucet and open the bag before leaving the house, I’m frantically blowing on the bag while our corgi Nia is pulling on the leash in order to move on from the scene of her biodegradable expulsion.

You drink a lot of water.

To understand this better, you should read The Case of the Missing Water Glass. I take a bottle of water with me everywhere, even sneaking them in to movie theatres as it’s my civil right to drink decent water without paying $3.25.  I know plastic bottles are an environmental concern but the fact that it’s the backseat of a Prius that is piled with empties to be recycled more than balances out the carbon emissions they cause, right?

Air conditioning gives you nose bleeds so you grease your nostrils.

I prefer to have the car windows open than to have the air conditioning on, whereas Eric has the AC on all the time, even in winter. After an hour in AC, my nose is so dried out, it bleeds when I blow it.

You carry lip balm in your pocket at all times.

For my nostrils, it takes a Q-tip and Neosporin to soften them up. For my lips, I always have a tube of Carmex in my pocket wherever I go.

You slather expensive lotion all over your body.

The harsh winters in Minnesota when I was a kid resulted in chapped calves and fingers. My mom made me put on Corn Huskers lotion every day—awful, goopy stuff even if it does work. When I was in my early 30s, a bad case of poison oak developed into eczema on my arms and legs. It took several years before it all went away, but a dermatologist early on recommended Moisturel ($12-14 for 14 oz.) and it’s the best thing for my dry skin. It’s not heavily stocked in drug stores if they carry it at all so when they have it, I buy several bottles. It’s not greasy, it’s practically fragrance free, and it’s the perfect consistency for a quick, full-body coating after bathing.

You have bottles of lotion everywhere.

So I have Moisturel in the bathroom, in my office at home, in my office at work, in my briefcase, in my gym bag.

And still you have bleeding cracks on your thumbs and fingers.

Which is what happens from washing my hands so much but better than getting the swine flu. I wash after petting the dog, after shaking hands with anyone, before putting groceries away, after opening mail. When I make a meat and cheese sandwich, I wash my hands after getting the meat out so I don’t contaminate the cheese. And then I get cheese on my hands so I have to wash before closing the cheese package so cheese grease doesn’t get on the outside of the package. It’s not compulsive behavior, it’s sensible.

You have a drawer full of tubes of prescription ointments and lotions.

Doctors rely on a lot of guesswork, almost as much as psychics. Dermatology is the worst. I had a patch of scaly, flaky scalp cultured twice, once by my Primary Care Physician and once by a dermatologist. Is it psoriasis? Impetigo? How about seborrheic dermatitis? They never figured it out for certain. Three prescription shampoos later, and it finally started to clear up, slowly, with a little help from putting conditioner directly on it as well. I also have partially-used tubes for what may have been shingles, eczema, fungal infections, and more–it’s hard to keep track. But I always make sure I take some of them with me on trips. You never know when something is going to flare up, especially with the stress and excitement of security checks.

You have no desire to visit supposedly arid states and nations.

I’ve been to England, France, Germany, Netherlands, and Italy several times but never to Spain which my gut instinct perceives as being warm and therefore dry. Same with Florida, Arizona, and New Mexico. I’ve been to Mexico and didn’t encounter too much dust and dryness like it always is in the movies. I get physically uncomfortable watching movies like “Lawrence of Arabia” and “Dune” that take place in the desert—too much sand and wind for my taste. Dries me out just looking at it.

You have an aversion to really salty foods.

Really, really salty food makes me retch. I’ll eat potato chips, pretzels, beef jerky, olives, and anchovies, but a little goes a long way. High doses of salt cause dehydration, my mortal enemy.

You LOVE moist food.

Give me soft, gooey cakes, puddings, and brownies. Spare me crunchy cookies, cardboard scones, biscotti, and crusty fried foods.

You like food and coffee piping hot.

Hot showers and baths definitely make my skin dry out. But for some reason I like my food and coffee to be almost too hot to eat and drink. Maybe the heat causes more saliva production than lukewarm or cold foods.

You crave spicy foods.

I can’t say I like super spicy foods but I do like foods with a kick, which is, I think, because salsa, peppers, and wasabi probably make my mouth water, making it easier to swallow food.

You avoid paperwork.

On a project several years ago, I got really behind in filing, mainly because I was doing the work of two people after someone quit. I sent the regional manager a photo of the filing stack when I requested some clerical help. But I also hate it, especially because the paper dries out my hands. Same with collating reports and opening mail.

Your temp administrative assistant brushes dandruff off of your shoulders.

She would come up behind me while I was working at my computer and sweetly brush off the “flakies.” When I told her sharply, “Please don’t do that,” she got upset. She stopped brushing off my shoulders but for about a week she would hand me documents with her arm outstretched from several feet away, so as not to invade my apparently overly sensitive space requirements.

You are great with chopsticks!

The first time I picked up chopsticks as a teen it was like second-nature. My skin is so dry that they don’t slip like they do in Eric’s hands. I can pick up a single grain of rice and gracefully lift it to my tongue. I should exploit my dry constitution and enter a chopstick competition with cash prizes.

You have a dry sense of humor.

I would have to, to have dreamt up this entire piece. Or to think that anyone would be remotely interested in reading it.