The last 100 years or so have proven that there isn’t a lot of distance between men and women in terms of intelligence and ability. I say “isn’t a lot of distance,” because I think some still exists. It is the distance between pockets and purses.
Men use pockets. Pockets hold stuff. They do not encumber [...]
That day began like any other. At least it began like any other in that no cosmic, life-changing things were going on, but it did differ in that this was a company party day at the beach instead of a company work day in a dark model home garage office in the desert. So the day began at a movie theatre in San Clemente. Our division president spoke to us about the recent lay-offs (I worked for the nation’s biggest home building company, and this was the summer of ‘06) and what the held. I appreciated his candor (those of you in the corporate world know that BS is often the lingua franca) in admitting that he was generally optimistic but didn’t know exactly what the future held for the company and industry at large. He was a big deal in the home building arena in California, was said to personally know Governor Schwarzenegger, made a million or two a year, but was a very approachable guy. His bold candor was accompanied by an even bolder mustache, but one rendered respectable by a shock of voluminous, swoopy salt and pepper hair. In holding forth about the state of homebuilding, he reminisced about some home building recession in the 80s that he weathered by taking a couple years off to focus on competitive sailing. No big deal. This was said as if to reassure we enlisted troops that we too could pass through this coming hurricane and have a good time doing it. Maybe I could sell my computer and Ikea couch to finance a few years of swimming with dolphins in Bali. But I wasn’t too concerned about all this. I had seen that Southern California was about to sink into the Pacific and had arranged to take a promotion in New Mexico.
After the meeting in the movie theater, we drove to San Onofre Beach. I had been excited for this. But after a few minutes I thought “why was I excited for this?” It’s at these events that the social structure of an organization steps fully into the light of day. I had always felt a little out of place at this company. I had made a decent effort to befriend people, and had some friendly relationships. But at these big events, you realize that the people you are closest with are usually much closer with other people, especially if you are relatively new. They go drinking with these people, maybe went to school with these people, sometimes dated these people. I felt a little left out at these events, which was a feeling I wasn’t used to; a feeling which made me wish I had put up a better effort to include people throughout my school years. But this lack of intimate work relationships didn’t concern me too much because I was married and wasn’t very interested in being friends with these people outside of work. I think many of us Mormons (including me) can be bad that way. We have a built-in social system which lends itself easily to clannishness. We have a host of popular activities, words, and conversations that we don’t engage in, and we want our friends to have kids we trust our kids with, so we don’t “venture out” too much.
My least favorite of these functions had been the celebration we had after winning the JD Power Customer Service award. After the rah-rah rally we were let loose into this very small amusement park (think of an outdoor Chuck E. Cheese, but 5 times bigger) to have our fun with free kiddie rides and games. I did my best to suppress the self-conscious feeling welling up in my throat at the weirdness of a grown man cruising around a two-bit amusement park alone in the middle of the day. It was either that or join up with a group of dudes I didn’t know well who were following around another dude I didn’t know well who was deciding what whack-a-mole type game the group would go play next. I left after half an hour.
But this day wasn’t that bad. I had been around a year by now and was closer to a couple people than on the amusement park day, and at least there was the beach. Plus I won an iPod in a raffle.
Earlier that day my cell phone ran out of batteries, so I stowed it away in my car. At around 3, I decided go to my car, turn it on to charge the battery, and listen to my messages. The first one was from Rebecca. “Hey hon, I’m at my OBGYN appointment and the Dr. says I am having regular contractions, which isn’t normal, and she wants to take me to the hospital across the street to be monitored for 20 minutes on a machine. Call me.”
Second message: “Ok, I’m at the hospital and they have me on this machine and I keep having regular contractions, and she says if it continues they might have to take me in and do a C-section. Hurry and call me back.”
Third message: Sobbing throughout: “Honeeeeeyyyy, She says they are going to do the C-section. I’m so s-s-s-cared. You need to g-g-get here!”
I was walking out of work to the parking garage the other day, following a lady who was pulling a couple of boxes. I happened to snap a photo of the boxes, as I thought they were kind of interesting:
My firm shares our building with a very large healthcare services corporation. I suppose it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that they traffic in certain medical commodities. But this is the first intimation I’ve ever had that they actually ship spare parts around. This realization was both disconcerting and comforting– disconcerting to know that the shipping is done in what looks like the U.S. Mail, rather than in some high-tech refrigerated truck as you’d expect; comforting to know that at least the parts go well-labeled. If you need to ship breasts, it is infinitely safer and more cost-effective to ship them in a box specially made for the purpose. Yes, this looks like a normal, everyday rectangular brown cardboard box, but don’t be fooled. This box is a BREAST MAILER BOX. Certified for safety and freshness by the Governing Board of the United Breast Shippers Association (I think). It contains every bell and whistle you could ever need to provide the absolute most comfortable possible environment for these valuables, as well as great support. Or maybe it is just a standard cardboard box, but still, it is clearly marked, which is enough to tell people to handle delicately.
I imagine there’s a stack of these up in the floors above mine, each one sitting there flattened, waiting for some employee to pick up a tape gun, fold the box together, and fill it with its precious cargo, for mailing. Questions arise, however. What’s the capacity of one of these boxes? How heavy would it be when filled? And isn’t it fascinating to imagine the person opening the box at the end of the line? I wonder, is he or she excited? A little afraid? Or perhaps it’s a surprise? No matter. Whoever the BREAST MAILER BOX recipient is, she can’t be more excited to receive her shipment than the man waiting for his brand new NEWBORN HAL. Man, I’d love to get one of those.
We have always said that when we run out of things to blog about (projected date somewhere in early June, 2010), we will transition DDDT into a site where we post funny reader-generated pictures of their pets with equally funny captions, specializing in the neglected reptilian and ferret markets. Until then, you get yet another Asian-themed post from me.
Have you seen this video yet (you really only need to watch the first 45 seconds)?
I like these types of statistics, and I particularly like the ones about China and what an unbelievably, incredibly, insanely humongous population it has. We have seen a proliferation of these statistics in the last few years. Of course the undertone to all this isn’t “Wow, China’s huge. That’s cool and interesting.” but rather “America has another 3 or 4 good years, so get handy with your chopsticks and ditch the Free Tibet bumper sticker, bub.”
So here’s the deal. We’re going to have a little contest to see who can create the best Scary China statistic. The winner will win any candy bar of their choosing with my signature on the wrapper (I will mail anywhere in the contiguous U.S. Also, the candy bar you choose must be available in regular American grocery store, and not some hand-spun by Uruguayan spider monkey orphans dark chocolate bar only available in your San Francisco Whole Foods). Also we will be able to compile the best few and try to make money off them. I’m not sure how yet, but one idea is to take out an ad in AARP magazine where we share these statistics and a phone number where people over 80 can call in to buy Chinese Invasion Insurance or Sean Hannity t-shirts or something like that.
Let me get you started:
China is so big that the vomit of all the people there with the flu on an average day would fill 4 of the 5 Great Lakes.
If every person in China jumped up off the ground at the exact same second, the simultaneous landing would throw off Earth’s orbit enough to make it “spaceborne” in space, eventually putting it into a different solar system.
China has more window cleaners than the U.S. has windows. And windmills.
If all the people of China were crammed into the U.S., they would be stacked on each others shoulders 6 people high.
There are more man eating tigers in China than there are men for them to eat in the U.S.
Satellite pictures of the Earth taken 25 years ago show China as green, while pictures taken today show China as solid black, since no ground can be seen between the tops of heads.
If Brad Pitt is the coolest American, statistically there are 37 million Chinese cooler than him.
Don’t be shy (even you lurkers); submit one, or as many as you want (nothing even remotely racist, please). I really will send the candy bar.
Yesterday I noted with dread and loathing that my motorcycle permit is almost expired, which will of course require a trip to the local DMV. I can sense the rising concern in you, and I want to put you at ease: Read the rest of this entry »
Each epoch offers its own particular opportunities for an enterprising young man looking to make a start. If I’d come of age in turn of the century Liverpool, I’d have been a hard working dock laborer; in 1960’s Texas, a young oilman. In turn of the century Provo, Utah, there was but one choice for a self-starting take-charge young buck in need of summer work: door-to-door sales. In the spring of 1998, the pest control game was in decline and there were some new hotshots making waves around town. My hardscrabble friends and I checked out the ProtectAmerica Security Systems Informational Pizza Party that year, and our lives were never the same.
The numbers on offer were impressive, though never very easy to precisely nail down. We took it as evidence of our own naiveté that we couldn’t figure out whether your 12% super-seller escrow bonus kicks in between your gold and platinum level merit awards, or after your management star upgrade. But Oliver and Becton always had answers, the kind of answers that penetrate you with good sense and then instantly evaporate into the pepperoni air. Regardless, the bottom line numbers were easy to understand: If you had disfiguring acne and the kind of demeanor that causes young mothers to draw their children closer, you were looking at around $100,000 for the summer. For a group of impressive, charming young strivers like us . . . well, Ollie and Becton will let you do the math.
So one morning in early summer, four of us caravanned out of Farmington in four different cars, each packed with a few small possessions and unbounded optimism. Read the rest of this entry »
Going through this season with Jake, watching him court and sift through 25 women, and seeing him zero in on and fall for Vienna gives me an idea of the sick feeling a parent must get when their child brings home a goth they met on Second Life and says they are engaged. It’s a very painful thing to watch. I don’t really have anything against Vienna. I just don’t think she’s right for our Jake. But what can we do? Nothing. We just have to trust his judgement and hope for the best, I guess.
If I were to ask you to recount your day to me (which I would never do, mostly because I don’t actively seek out boring experiences) you would undoubtedly mention a few people or things you encountered that got under your skin. You’d probably refer to these things as “annoyances” or even “pet peeves.” Read the rest of this entry »
Sometime around eighth grade or so, I started saying ‘Dude.’ The word traveled far to get to me, from its origins somewhere in the uncouth middle America of the 19th century (where it referred to a city slicker out of his league in the wild west), to its deep envelopment in the coastal surfer crowds of the 1960’s (its original meaning already completely wiped out), to its jaunty expansion back inland, toward the ambling valleys and greenswept mountains of its founding. Dude found me embarrassingly innocent in junior high school as the 80’s ended, and, finally, gave me one small way to sound like I wasn’t a child from 1942. I welcomed it like a puppy greets its first growl.
I had a tight-knit group of friends at that point, all of whom were Dude to me. I was Dude to them as well, which was right and proper. As the group of friends expanded, each new friend was Dude in turn, through high school, a time when friends seemed to just make themselves. In time everyone was Dude, even a few of those girls whose charm was casual enough to hide under a guise of friendship for a day or two until you realized you never cared to be just buddies. Dude drew boundaries and pledged allegiances and said whatever kind things teenage boys were never willing to just come out and say.
Dudes
It stayed with us in college, expanding wherever we could find the right mix of casual camaraderie with any new friend. But even before then it had clearly come under attack. Read the rest of this entry »
