February 6, 2010 by Keli.

My dear readers, today’s post is a blast from my blog past, as I am away at the Northern Trust Open Golf Tournament.  I leave you, once again, in hopes that you will be inspired to think:

What’s this world coming to? Are the stupers (short again for uncontainable stupid persons) finally taking over, like the monkeys did in Planet of the Apes? For a few minutes, I was certain stupidity had staged a successful coup.

I’d ventured out of my home and into the supermarket, figuring that the rain and the Super Bowl, would enable shopping to be stuper free. I was wrong.

My mission was to quickly buy four, 2.5-gallon size, water bottles. A simple enough task. The store had only four such bottles left. I heaved the rather bulky containers into my shopping cart. My sister then telephoned me, and I paused to chat.

As the conversation continued, I parked my cart at the foot of the water bottle aisle. I then walked over to the nearby ATM, mere steps away. Alas, I’d neglected to place a lock on the cart or load it with heavy metal objects. Maybe I should have tied a chain around one wheel and secured the other end to my ankle.

While at the ATM and on the phone, I glanced over my shoulder at my cart. It had disappeared. Barely a minute had passed. Irritated (after all, those were the last four bottles), I ended the call and left the machine. What I encountered was a trail of water bottles, haphazardly running along one side of the aisle. The very four bottles that had formerly been sitting in my cart.

A middle-aged woman pushing a cart approached me.

“Are you looking for the cart with the water bottles? Those four girls got rid of the bottles and took off with it,” she pointed to the end of the aisle.

I saw four indolent, scantily clad creatures in their late teens or so, just turning ’round the corner. I mention their clothing or lack thereof, because the temperature hovered around 48 degrees Fahrenheit. Perhaps the lack of warm attire had frozen what few remaining brain cells they had. Rather than walk fifteen feet to the cart corral, they’d confiscated one already in use.

Since I am a specialist in the psychology of stupidity, I considered attaching dynamite to the handle of their cart took the cartjacking in stride. But this tale gets worse for me before it gets better.

I suddenly had a terrible realization: I’d never removed the cash I’d requested from the ATM. Irritation while talking on the cell phone and simultaneously pushing buttons on the machine had distracted me to the tune of sixty dollars. I admit to hypocrisy in a weak moment, dear readers. Multi-tasking does not work when trying to have a meaningful conversation on the cell phone.

I raced back to the ATM. No $ in sight. I noticed a checker kept her head perpetually turned toward the machine. She knew something. I approached her.

“I don’t suppose some one turned in sixty dollars to you, found at the ATM?”

The checker nodded and barely opened the cash drawer. “Yes, some one did turn it in. A lady thought it was a malfunctioning machine. Here you go.”

It was a malfunction…in my head. Had I been paying proper attention, I would have maintained awareness. Instead, I focused on stupidity and became an amnesiac, leaving my money behind.

The fact that a person actually turned in the money instead of stuffing it in her wallet really warmed my formerly irritated heart. I was truly grateful. It made the stupers look very small indeed. Ever since the ATM mishap, I’ve been exceptionally prudent in fostering present moment awareness. It’s the only way to maintain sanity.

Great minds think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in My very own stupidity | 1 Comment »

January 27, 2010 by Keli.

Yesterday, I had enormous fun juggling the management of two county-wide organizations, by myself, and handling the stupers (short for irrepressibly stupid persons) who persisted in calling. The desks of both associations face each other in one office, so I raced back and forth constantly. I nearly pole vaulted, using my umbrella, over each desk in order to answer the respective phones. Then I catapulted over the visitors’ chairs to unlatch the front door for the UPS man, while I was still on the phone. Being hyper energetic by nature, the sweat pants and sneakers only enhanced my mobility. The true challenge arose when the phones rang simultaneously. But that is fodder for a different post.

The callers are what really made my day. They generally seek legal information; I’m afraid it’s the issues they’re experiencing that cause me to stop and ponder: Where is the human race headed? Shouldn’t stupidity have been mostly eradicated by now?  I present Exhibit A: “Chuck” who stated,

“I need legal advice. I have a terminal illness…”

Immediately, I sank to the floor to accentuate the deep compassion I felt as well as my exhaustion from pole-vaulting, until he explained,

“I’ve had it since 1992…”

Is that possible? Forgive me if I sound idiotic, but doesn’t “terminal” mean approaching death? I mean, I’m grateful that he’d made it this long, but I had trouble with his word usage. It turned out he wanted to sue a drug company for medication he thought was not working. He’d lasted almost twenty years while taking the meds, so I didn’t follow his plight. Thankfully, he and the drug company were located in a different jurisdiction so I referred him elsewhere.

Next, came Luther. I like the name Luther. It reminds me both of Luther Burbank, the famous California botanist who sweet-talked his thorny cactus plants into losing their thorns, thereby creating the spineless cactus. It’s true. My guru said so (more on my guru in an upcoming post). Wikipedia confirms this phenomenon.

Luther also reminds me of Lex Luthor, the supervillain in comic books and Superman’s archenemy. Lex allegedly lost his hair in a laboratory accident, and well, the rest, as they say, is history. I know how I feel when I have a bad hair day. I can only surmise what would happen if I lost my hair while conducting one of my stuper lab experiments.

Anyway, my caller, Luther, complained to me that he was being tortured and has continued being tortured for some time. I asked for the name of his tormentor.

“Oh, it’s not a person.”

I patiently waited, while I heard the other line ringing. I casually inquired, “Is it the po-po?” (This is the part where I begin to slightly suffer an imbalance in my mind; when this occurs, my speech is the first to go).

“No!”

While he paused, I picked up the other line, only to find the caller had hung up. I breathed a thirty second long sigh of relief. I forgot about Luther until I heard a voice on the speakerphone say (I had to place him on speaker to answer the other call; my umbrella was not handy):

“It’s the Internet. I’m being tortured by the Internet.”

So here’s where I draw the line. I can’t even go into the reasons why as I am currently in relax mode, but I feel confident my dear readers know what I’m talking about. I convinced Luther that this was a matter for Homeland Security and got off the phone.

Truly.

Please think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 6 Comments »

January 18, 2010 by Keli.

Periodically, I engage in a song & dance routine. I get out my black, patent leather shoes, pink bow tie and glittery cane. I’ve performed this little tap number at four branches of a local bank in order to obtain necessary paperwork for a loan.

My husband occasionally buys and sells real estate. Hence, the need for loans. To borrow money from a lender, we must prove that we don’t really need the money.

My energetic little jig is usually followed by polite, staccato applause from my small, subdued audience; afterward, I am handed the requested piece of paper to show the lender. I typically begin my journey to the exit, but rarely make it out the double glass doors. Along the way, I notice that the paper, which summarizes the balance of my accounts, provides no evidence whatsoever that it originated from a bank. I could have typed it up myself.

“Where the hell does it say which freaking bank this is from?” is what I’d love to shout (years of maintaining an angelic demeanor for the sake of the kids has taken its toll on me). Instead I say,

“Would you kindly open a drawer and locate the super impressive, official-looking stamp that says ‘Los Pueblos Bank’ and illuminate this little sheet?”

So begins a mad dash from drawer to drawer by the employee in search of the elusive stamp. This occurs each and every time and can last anywhere from four to twelve minutes, depending on the I.Q. of the person assisting me. (That was mean. I’m sorry. I.Q. has no bearing whatsoever on stupidity. Highly educated people can be impossibly stupid).

Yesterday, Husband and I entered the branch closest to our home to add his name to an account that I have with my mother. Doesn’t that sound delightfully simple? Nancy assisted us. We obtained proper signatures and left to get my mother’s signature. We did so. Husband returned the signature card to the bank (I didn’t have my tap shoes on me). It was his turn to secure the little piece of paper.

Here’s what happened:

When Husband entered the bank, Nancy was nowhere to be found. He overheard some one say, “She’s in the lunch room, doing her nails.” Husband was advised that no other person, out of the 15 employees present, could add the signature and print out the paper he required. He asked to see the manager.

Unbeknown to Husband, the manager had declared Tuesdays to be “Don’t-help-customers-no-matter-what-day.”

When he asked how long Nancy would be, Manager replied, “Ten minutes.”

Husband said, “No problem. I’ll wait. I really need to deliver this paperwork to the lender today.” Husband showed Manager a sample copy of what he needed.

Manager carefully scrutinized it, then announced, “That’s a cute little paper, but you’re not getting anything today. It’s going to take at least twenty-four hours to update the account.”

Husband, realizing them’s fightin’ words, said, “Are you sure? I’ve done this before and it’s instant.”

She restated, “It can’t be done.”

Husband left. He filled up the gas tank, stopped to get coffee, then drove five miles to the next branch of the same bank. This time he met a very smart teller who printed what he needed in less than ten seconds. Unfortunately, it took another four minutes to find the infamous official bank stamp.

Why? Why must we jump through hoops and perform astonishing feats of ability in order to survive an encounter with stupidity? Well, first of all, so I can run this blog. Secondly, to sharpen our minds. Those who can think and do, can always beat ten men who can’t and don’t (to paraphrase George Bernard Shaw). Don’t you feel a sense of accomplishment when you’ve resolved a problem or completed a task, no matter how large or small? Stupers (short for abysmally stupid persons) don’t know what that satisfaction feels like. And never will.

Choose to think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Professional Stupidity | 7 Comments »

January 9, 2010 by Keli.

I love my Alma mater. It wasn’t always this way. It was touch and go over the past twenty-five, almost twenty, several years or so, but it’s been good between us ever since last Spring quarter when I accompanied Son #2 on his campus tour.

It wasn’t the tour that did the trick; it was what occurred afterward, but the tour was the catalyst. During the walk around north campus, I again discovered what I periodically suspect: I often, sometimes, once in a great while, behave like a stuper (short, as you all well know by now, for an embarrassingly stupid person).

 Our capable tour guide strolled us around the tree-lined walkways, paused in front of the inverted fountain where she genially relayed its history and use (dunking the heads of captured USC opponents usually in retribution for their attempts to defile the statue of the Bruin Bear). Meanwhile, I fondly gazed over at parking lot 2 and reminisced. Just how many parking tickets did I manage to gather from that one lot alone? 145? Or was it 245?

We sauntered through the sculpture garden (I could have sworn it was located on the other side of the campus during my day), and finally stopped at the steps of the Music building. I took that opportunity to look up at an adjacent structure, and suddenly realized that I may have attended an entirely different campus or one perhaps located in a parallel universe. At the very top of the Humanities Building, facing the center of the campus, were etched these words by brilliant English physicist and chemist, Michael Faraday:

Nothing is too wonderful to be true if it be consistent with the laws of nature.

I could not believe I’d walked back and forth past the Humanities Building for four years, several times per day and never once bothered to look up to read that quote. Consequently, I yanked Son #2 away from the rest of the group and bid him look upward.  He read the quote, and then regarded me with  annoyance, a monumental dose of tolerance, as if he now knew for certain I’d lost all my faculties, great respect and said,

“That’s pretty good.”

“Forget about its profundity or philosophical implications. Can you believe I went to school here for four whole years and never once looked up?”

I spent the rest of the tour, chin pointing to the sky, staring upward. My son kept his distance.  But on the upside, I believe, I lost any appearance or hint of wrinkles that may have been creeping up on my neck. This spontaneous,  non-artificial, fast-acting, reverse aging process is what could have led to the incident that drove me to march into the UCLA Alumni Center a short time later.

As Son #2 and I ended our tour and walked to Parking Lot 8, we passed by several tables set up along the way helmed by students. Several of these intelligent students stopped me and asked if I’d like to wear the button they were offering.

“No, thank you,” I replied over and over again, never taking the time to read what the button said. Finally, just before we reached the Lot, I was asked again if I’d like to wear a button. I looked at one. It read,

Kiss Me, I’m a Senior

“You want me to wear this because…,” I started.

“Are you graduating this year?”

This is when my love affair with UCLA started. Granted, I was wearing dark shades. But in my short time there that day, I’d evidently shaved decades, a few years off my age. I looked at my son, who grinned widely. It took all my self-control not to tearfully embrace each student who offered me a button. Instead, I wound my way to the Alumni Center and joined. Money was no object.

 Since this incident, I make it a point to always look upward. Ah, the sights I’ve seen. Wondrous birds I never knew existed. Marvelous, heavenly cloud formations. And the best part: no wrinkles or stupers .

Just think.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in My very own stupidity | 7 Comments »

January 3, 2010 by Keli.

 My farmer’s market is held in a neighboring small town that tourists and stupers (short for fretfully stupid persons) flock to throughout the year. I was once a tourist there myself, before realizing my dream of relocating. It’s a lovely, country-like atmosphere where idiots are scarce, and kindness and patience are plentiful. This is why when a moronically oblivious tourist-stuper holds up all traffic during the busy farmer’s market just to stand in the middle of the street for fifteen minutes to take the perfect snapshot of a windmill, nobody honks.

Yet, as we all know, this is not acceptable.

So while waiting at a stop sign for an idiot pedestrian in the crosswalk after my farmer’s market excursion, I decided to put my horn to good use. It had been so long, I barely remembered its sweet sound.

Despite the long line of cars waiting for the ped to cross to the other side, this Darwinian nightmare actually stopped several times along the way to get in some really epic licks of his ice cream cone before completing his forty foot crosswalk journey.

So, being first in line, I honked. Then honked again. And again. Why the encore? Because my honking failed to impact the walker/ ice cream cone licker. Was I by chance rudely picking on an innocent and possibly helpless deaf person? I don’t think so.  After the first honk, he casually turned his head my way, while wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

I believe usage of the horn has an entirely different impact on persons from third world countries and Texas. In those places, it’s used quite often under these circumstances:

1. When something/someone blocks the road.
2. When something/someone doesn’t.
3. When something/someone might.
4. At all times.

Therefore, honking loses its true meaning and is taken for granted in such places. Perhaps this ped was honk-deaf.

Just before reaching the end of the crosswalk where he’d be out of my way, he stopped. This time to indulge in some fierce itching of one knee. Realizing the time had arrived to roll down my window, I did so and gently called out to the stuper. He turned and, when he made eye contact, I made use of a universal expression we all carry around, and in my case, seldom use: the single digit salute. I don’t recommend the usage of this handy device in foreign countries or Texas, unless you are a ninth degree black belt in at least one martial art, are a former green beret who travels with arsenal or are seeking to incite a small riot.

In my case, I took one class in Tae Kwon Do, I don’t even own a beret and riots are no fun when you’re in the middle of one. Thankfully,  the stuper managed to make it to the curb alive with cone intact, and I managed to make my way home without further incident.

Why not think?

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity | 9 Comments »

December 26, 2009 by Keli.

Waiting in line at a department store on the day after Christmas is as natural an occurrence as quills on a porcupine. It is to be expected. Stupers (short, yet again, for unflinchingly stupid persons) do not comprehend this. They regard it as highly irregular and an affront to their unwavering sense of impatience.

Yesterday, I returned seven items in the men’s section of a store. When my turn arrived to be assisted, two marvelously capable workers helped me. My entire transaction took no more than four minutes. During this period, I glanced behind me. A queue of five people had formed consisting of:

1. A small, quiet, resigned fellow who exuded enough patience for the entire city of Buffalo, New York;
2. Two large ladies, one of whom favored the size and shape of a small elephant (think Babar, without the jaunty crown); and the other resembled a cross between a candy cane and cement truck; and

3. A foreign couple whose accent was indeterminate.

My focus remained mostly on the completion of my transaction, but I managed to catch a smattering of chatter between the foreign couple. As you well know, “striped” is a one syllable word. However, this couple pronounced it as two syllables - “stri-ped.”

“There’s a nice stri-ped shirt over there.” “Do you like those stri-ped pants?” and so on.

I barely noticed this quaint chitchat until the cement truck-like woman interrupted them and announced, “It’s not stri-ped. It’s striped!”

Silence ensued, long enough to tie a sneaker. Then the woman continued,

“You should know that you’ve been saying it all wrong. It’s striped! Not stri-ped.”

Silence again ensued, long enough to tie the other shoe.

Then the couple continued their conversation, “Do you like stri-ped pants?” “I prefer a stri-ped shirt.”

I chose that very moment to turn and face the group behind me. I apologized, saying,

“I’m very sorry to be taking so long.”

The responses were,

“No problem.”

“It can’t be helped.”

“Do not worry. It gives us a chance to browse the selection of stri-ped clothing.”

“Well!”

This last comment came out in one great huff from the cement truck-size lady, who, as you may have guessed, was a stuper. That one word indicated that I had no business returning so many items (to which I heartily agreed; but the men in my life are exasperatingly fickle when it comes to wardrobe).

In a span of a few short minutes, stupidity revealed itself. Take note of how the chatty couple dealt with the stuper. They refused to acknowledge her existence, continued their quest for stri-ped clothes and maintained their sense of well-being. They regarded stupidity as they would a pothole in the road. It existed for barely a moment. Once passed, it was readily forgotten.

Think first, last and always.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Holiday Stupidity | 12 Comments »

December 18, 2009 by Keli.

 I’ve recently noticed that I exhibit a stuper (short, as you well know, for a wickedly stupid person) trait, particularly in weak moments: gullibility. Though I find this appalling, I’d like to think it’s because I so want to believe that people are telling me the truth, that I fall for outright lies. I’m not talking about the Santa Claus fib or when an acquaintance says, “I’ll call you” and never does. I carry a healthy skepticism both about Santa and acquaintances. But I fall for a sob story every time. The only reason I haven’t invested in swampland yet is because the salespeople don’t bother shedding a tear or two before hobbling away and groaning in pain.
Kind, elderly Mrs. P entered my office seeking legal help. Her husband, Big John, pushed her wheelchair. Mrs P cried out in pain when a wheel ran over a pen that had fallen on the floor. She had undergone hip surgery and ended up with a host of other problems, thanks to a Dr. G., so she said.

“I can’t even walk no more because of what he did to me, ” she told me in frustration, dabbing her wet eyes with a Kleenex. I pictured her winning the Boston Marathon. “I’m in pain all of the time. I don’t want Dr. G to do this to no one else.”

“I understand,” I sympathized, as my heart swelled up to the size of a bowling ball and felt equally heavy. “So you never used a wheelchair before the surgery?” It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears.

“No ma’am. No painkillers neither. Now I gotta take them the rest of my life.”

Leaning toward me, she explained that she believed so strongly in her case, she’d filed her own lawsuit, had a court date in one month and needed an attorney by her side. “I want you,” she quietly added.

Had I not been so gullible, I would have suspected that she filed her own case because no attorney in his/her right mind would take her case. But the wheels in my momentarily stuper, if I may be so humble, head had stopped turning.

Big John leaned down to whisper in his wife’s ear. She continued,

“He says I don’t even bake him gingersnaps no more and can’t provide him no conjugal services. It’s terrible.” Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks.

“I am truly sorry,” I told them, then effortlessly segued into some routine questions such as, “Do you have your medical records?”

“I do.” Big John leaned down and whispered in her ear again. “He says, do you think they’re taking pictures of me?”

My heart shrunk to normal size and my tears suddenly dried up. “Who?”

“You know. Them. The doctor’s lawyers.”

The wheels in my head were now properly oiled and turning. “Anything is possible.”

Big John gave her a frightened look and opened his mouth, but Mrs. P threw him a nasty look, and he closed it again.  I asked,

“Did you place a complaint with the State Medical Board?”

“No!” she snapped, annoyed with my question.  “Then I won’t get any money.”

I shoved Big John aside, pushed Mrs P’s wheelchair out of my office, none too gently. I avoided the temptation to tilt the chair forward and command her to walk, preacher style, as I am a person of great self-control, except when it comes to chocolate and lemon meringue pie. Instead, I thanked her for coming and suggested she try physical and mental therapy, the latter of which is a course of action all stupers should undertake.

How about thinking?

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in My very own stupidity | 7 Comments »

December 12, 2009 by Keli.

When we view an act of remarkable stupidity, should we take action? Unfortunately, this is not possible because stupidity typically strikes instantly, dashing any hope of defense or prevention. Yet another reason why we must always be alert and on the lookout for the stupid among us.

  As I drove on a city street at the speed limit of 35 mph, I approached a garbage truck, quietly stopped on the shoulder. This was not cause for alarm. If I stayed in my lane and continued driving, all could be well. But throw in a variable, say an earthquake registering 6.9 on the Richter scale or a violent twister drifting off course some 1500 miles from Kansas City or a stuper (short for a heinously stupid person) on a bicycle, pulling a wagon that may or may not contain a child, who swerves in my lane just as I  pass, and suddenly, a mini Armageddon potentially swings into action.

When most of us approach a stopped vehicle, we hopefully stop, or if safe, pass the car using the passing lane. Stupers, being defective in brain capacity by habit and nature, are unable to stop. They are incapable of safely passing. They just continue and either run smack into the stopped vehicle or make a sudden turn in a different direction without assessing the situation.

The moron on the bike did not hit the stopped garbage truck as she approached it. Instead, she continued at the same speed, directly into my lane, not after I’d passed her or even before, but while I drove side by side with her. Perhaps, she was making an exceedingly feeble attempt to enter through my open window or trying to attach herself to the side of my vehicle, as she was tired of pedaling the bike and the wagon. I’ll never know for sure.

Thankfully, no other cars drove in the lane next to me, so I moved quickly away and then back into my lane upon passing her, but not before I carefully observed the sanitation engineers (notice that I am not only politically correct in using job titles, but handy with euphemisms as well- Omawarisan, please take special note; I realize you are carefully examining applicants for your administration) gasp in horror at her insane maneuver. I also viewed the stuper’s expression. It was blank, as usual. Please take note again, that I maneuvered and observed simultaneously.

Daily, I am inundated by those who have a working mind, but who abstain from using it. The group is growing larger. I am thinking of buying a large van, possibly even a retired double-decker tourist bus, collecting stuper specimens and setting up the lab I’ve always dreamed of (”always” is a relative term. For me it refers to when I began writing this post).  In my lab, after obtaining a large government grant, I’d tirelessly try different means of awakening the dormant mind, such as surgery (it’s true, I’ve no surgical experience, yet I’m a hands-on person who is a quick study, and I do have an undergraduate degree in science…political science, but nonetheless, I feel I could make a difference after a few tries) and therapy, such as electric  shock (sooner or later, stupers would have to realize the pain will continue, unless they think first before speaking and/or acting).

Also, think of the giant petri dish factories that would have to be built in order to hold the stuper specimens. That would certainly stimulate our sluggish economy.

We make up our world with our thoughts. Why not think?

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Vehicular Stupidity | 7 Comments »

December 5, 2009 by Keli.

I usually focus on everyday stupidity, the type we come across in banks, gas stations, public libraries and bathroom fixture outlets. But I’m afraid the Tiger Woods’ scandal has seeped into my everyday life. I’ve always regarded him as an extraordinary, supernatural golfer; possibly even a supernatural human. Although he is still the incredible golfing phenomenon, with the recent events, he is also a stuper (short for a rambunctiously stupid person).

I recently spoke to a junior golfer; my eighteen-year-old who is away at college. I mentioned that I felt distressed hearing about the Tiger woes. His response:

“You’re distressed? I’m extremely upset about it. I never expected this from Tiger.”

We, as fans, all hoped Tiger was above the sordid and seedy in life. He appeared able to manage fame and extreme wealth and talent while maintaining esteemed values, without acting moronically. At least that was what he and his business team wanted us to believe. But yet again, like many famous stupers before him, politicians and athletes alike, he lied and acted without thinking of the impact not only on those close to him, but on the general public and fans who adored him.

I like to think that with fame, fortune and/or intelligence comes responsibility. In fact, skip the first two and with mere intelligence comes great responsibility: to operate your motor vehicle with diligence, to treat others (unless their stupidity screams out at you) with courtesy, and to promise to love and respect the ones you’re voluntarily hanging out with on a regular basis.

Yes, Tiger achieved fame and fortune at a tender age; he possibly lacked wise and loving guidance, and consequently lost his head and at least a portion of his reputation and possibly in the near future some of his wealth as well. But, dear readers,  yours truly promises that will never happen to her.

Firstly, I’m a bit older than Tiger (just a little, mind you), and I have something he does not: years of carefully studying and analyzing the complete and utter idiots among us, thereby seriously learning how not to look, act or remotely resemble a stuper. Plus, I’ve get a large, ongoing  dose of experience with regular people (I shop at Costco periodically for that very reason, although I draw the line at Walmart). Therefore, I will always stay in touch with reality.

To top things off, I carry around a quote originally uttered by ancient Greek playwright, Euripides:  “There is one thing alone that stands the brunt of life throughout its course: a quiet conscience.”

Keep thinking.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Monumental Stupidity | 6 Comments »

November 25, 2009 by Keli.

Ah holidays! When nearly forgotten, ever eccentric and quirky relatives leave their attics and tree trunks or wherever it is they reside, and provide ample entertainment during family gatherings. No, I don’t have an Uncle Albert who floats up to the ceiling every time he laughs or an Aunt Mabel who likes to wander into neighbors’ homes and pilfer their pantries. But I do have Uncle Larry,

For many Thanksgivings my grandmother’s children, along with assorted grandchildren and great grandchildren, gathered at her home to celebrate together. Personally, I believe in small, meaningful (as opposed to meaningless) crowds at holiday events. Anything beyond say, a dozen or so relations may provide a recipe for unrest and possible mayhem.

Grandma’s youngest son, Larry, lived 140 miles away. He visited Grandma several times a year bringing along his wife, Fran, twenty-three year-old daughter Melba and pooch, Henry. Henry is a Boston Terrier, whose purchase price, we’d all been assured, rivaled that of a small, slightly used, Korean automobile.

Henry was much loved by Fran and Melba. Whenever they visited, Henry perched on the coffee table or sofa, striking a pose that only a dog owner could love. His owner, that is. Or he pranced about as far as his little paws carried him, though Grandma preferred he enjoy the great outdoors. No matter that Grandma hovered around ninety years old, had asthma and kept her own dog in the backyard when company was present; Henry’s place was among the other guests.

Larry’s previous visit was during a family and friends party of about fifty people. Visitors mostly lounged in the living room, family room and kitchen areas. Coincidentally, Henry too mostly lingered in those rooms, on a leash. Unfortunately, his flexible, twenty-six foot leash created a booby trap of sorts, tripping a few elderly relatives who then slipped on the wet puddle next to Henry’s water bowl (in the family room) and almost fell headlong onto the kitchen counter.

After a few complaints about said leash, Melba decided to liberate Henry. He, in turn, chose to reward all by trotting away into Grandma’s master bedroom and doing his dooty on the carpet beside her bed in the exact spot that Granny liked to place her foot upon climbing in and out of bed.

So come Thanksgiving, Grandma asked Larry to leave Henry at home. Larry objected, claiming Henry had nowhere to go.

My dear, intelligent reader, please note at this point: Larry’s family kept a full-time, live-in maid, and Fran had about a dozen relatives living within a fifteen-mile radius of their home, including her parents, assorted aunts and uncles, brothers, and several cousins.

Larry told Grandma that either Henry came along for Thanksgiving or none of them would be there. Grandma felt disturbed, not quite knowing how to please everyone or anyone, for that matter.

Grandma clearly failed to adequately explain about kennels and dog-sitters to Larry in his youth. She considered her options: hosting an outdoor Thanksgiving celebration that year so Henry could do his business properly. Grandma could wrap herself in heavy blankets and a snow-cap so the chilly, late fall air would hopefully not affect her. Then again, she could wish Larry and Henry “Happy Thanksgiving” via the telephone, fax or instant messaging, thanks to the wonders of modern technology. And there always was plastic sheeting. Granny could spread the sheeting over the flooring and furniture so Henry could roam and reign and do his dooty freely.

As it turned out, Larry and his family came, and left Henry at home with their housekeeper which, Fran informed Grandma, was where they typically left him when they were not at home. All this fuss over naught.

Larry needed to get his priorities straight. As the ending of this episode showed, holiday arrangements for Henry were easily made. Larry could have made his mother happy by merely exercising some thought and flexibility for that one evening. Yes, moms do take priority over pets. Most moms, anyway.

Holidays may bring along added stress from the excitement of organizing, socializing and/or traveling. Stress promotes stupidity as it prevents clarity of thought. Take note of what it did to Larry. It’s important to acknowledge this ahead of time and plan ways to alleviate or defuse potential sources of anxiety. Deep thought, deep breaths and an equally deep sense of humor can work wonders to keep stress at bay. A small taser gun slipped inside a long sleeve may help too.

Think first, last and always.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com

Posted in Relative stupidity | 5 Comments »