Counterfeit Humans

I tip my hat to all who believe everything they see and hear. Thanks to them, I enjoyed a stuper (short for an assiduously stupid person) free day on Saturday.

When it rains in Southern California, the majority of people (and practically, every single stuper) stay indoors or, if stuck outside, frantically hunt out a dry spot, where they remain glued till blue is restored to the sky. This works out beautifully for all involved because stupidity + rain can = disaster. I’m afraid I’ve witnessed stupers discard what little caution they wielded to speed up on puddle strewn highways during storms; I’ve been the victim of carelessly brandished umbrellas with metal dagger-like points hovering at eye level on sidewalks. Rain befuddles and brings out the worst in them.

On Friday, we had one full, incessant day of pouring rain which was enough for most Southern Californians to start drawing plans for the Ark. A 100% chance of rain was predicted for Saturday. Meanwhile, I plotted to make my pilgrimage to the semi-annual Blue Bee Boutique sale, an extravaganza bargain event that takes place in a neighboring city. Every piece of trendy, super-hip clothing is marked at a 50-70% discount. This cottage size store draws hundreds of the sale-hungry along with the fire department who nobly attempts to tame the smitten and spellbound. These sale-seekers patiently wait in a queue normally reserved for a first-come, first-serve U-2 type concert.

Saturday came and though storm clouds filled the sky, rain was absent. As I approached the store, I anticipated the crowd. However, the sidewalk was empty. Not a sale fanatic in sight.

My heart beat a little faster when I realized there was no line. Then I noticed there were only eight customers in the entire store and all six dressing rooms were empty! The racks were bathed in a rosy hue and a heavenly choir began to sing. Could it be true?

I asked the nearest salesperson to pinch me.

“People keep calling and asking if it’s raining. I tell them no, but they still don’t show,” he helpfully explained.

I bought three super-chic items for under $100; my receipt told me that I’d saved almost two hundred dollars! I felt safe and warm and happy, roaming the two foot-wide aisles lined with carefully folded “Made in the USA” jeans and t-shirts. No stupers to fend-off or play tug-of-war with over the last cashmere sweater. A sales person actually found my sizes for me, unheard of during their typical, sunny, bring in the crowd sale day. All because the rain kept the stupers away.

Think!

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

You’ve probably heard of experts who sometimes cross over to the other side. Police officers, whose job it is to apprehend criminals, become corrupt. Scientists, studying a disease, become infected. Stupidity specialists become stupid. I’d been wondering if the latter had happened to me. It had been hinted at quite often by a few of my close confidantes. Here’s what they’ve stated:

“You just don’t get it.” “That’s not what I said.” “Don’t you understand?”

These pronouncements were usually accompanied by shaking of the heads and looks of pity and annoyance. Sometimes, these remarks were even made to me while I’d been sitting silently for an hour, reading. Is it possible to be inactive and still act stupidly? Yes, according to my children.

Who are these confidantes? My very own teenagers.

I know the trials of having teens are temporary, like one long bout of indigestion, but who needs it? For instance, I commented to my younger son, Michael, about how nice it was that he was invited by a friend to be a guest at a private golf club. My son’s response,

“I’m not his guest!”

Obviously, a case of wrong word usage by me.

I asked my older son, James, if he’d like to take a mini ice chest to the beach with him to keep his drinks cool.

“What kind of question is that?”

Once again, I’d failed the I.Q. test.

I don’t really believe I was stupid all that often. But I do think I suffered from MMS – Mistreated Mom Syndrome – a condition thrust upon unsuspecting mothers with children who had entered the double-digit age bracket. Symptoms ranged from momentary displeasure to snarling fury. Moms often felt as if they were living the life of a serf in Teendom. I am convinced that a bleary, dreamy-eyed mother of teenagers wrote the escapist fairy tale, Cinderella.

I must add that despite being an MMS sufferer, I really do consider myself lucky. Teen torment didn’t start until my older son turned sixteen. And Michael only aggravated me intermittently. Those were the times that I was most stupid. Amazingly however, I received constant compliments on my kids’ behavior…outside of the home.

My stupidity appeared to be triggered by frustration, theirs and mine. I once advised my children that in order to work out a frustration, they should write a candid letter to the source, pouring out all that needed to be said. Afterwards, the undelivered note should be destroyed. Michael informed me that he was going to write just such a missive…to me. Only instead of tearing it up, he would graciously allow me to read it.

The letter went like this:

Dear Mom:

You think you have all the answers. (I try)

You need to be more laid back. (I probably would be a bit more relaxed if my kids were not teens who constantly kneaded me into a pliable dough).

You need to be nicer to me. (This demand was so ridiculous, it was scandalous).

You talk on the phone to Grandma way too much. (Hello? She is my official MMS complaint hotline).

You only think you have too much to do when in reality, you have plenty of time.  (This coming from a kid who once advised me to get a night job. That way I could make money and not cut into the time when he required my services).

Love, Michael

My son generously invited me to write him a letter in kind. So I sat down to write. My immediate reaction was to list his unappealing traits. But I didn’t. Instead, I re-read his note more closely. In a moment of sudden clarity, I realized what he was really saying:

Dear Mom,

You really do know a lot. That’s why it’s important to me to follow all the things you’ve taught me. I carry you around with me everywhere I go. I don’t always behave my best at home because sometimes, I need to test your love. I like it when all of your attention is on me.

Love, Michael

Okay, maybe I read a little too much between the lines, but basically I do not doubt that my children love me. The way they conduct themselves in public makes me proud. After all, if they cannot act like utter, immature fools at home, where can they?

In my letter to Michael, I decided to implement another piece of advice that I’d given them: nurture the good, so the good will grow. My letter went like this:

Dear Michael,

You are an outstanding young man whom I love dearly, and of whom I am very proud. Forgive my impatience with you sometimes, as I am still learning how to be the best mom.

Love, Mom

Let me tell you, I had him eating out of the palms of my hands for weeks afterwards. But truly, I realized that if I focused on their positive traits, all else would fall by the wayside.

Eventually, anyway.

Meanwhile, an impromptu shopping spree does wonders for MMS.

Think first.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

I was recently rejected after an interview. Not a job interview or a                               magazine interview profiling bizarre writers claiming to be stupidity experts,  but a different sort of interview. Being of a resilient nature, I did what any semi-intelligent reject would do: changed my identity. But not without permission, of course.

It started when I’d filled out a four-page online adoption questionnaire. Canine adoption, that is, from a dog rescue group. I had one dog already; I decided it was time for another as our Aussie Shepherd, Rio, seemed lonely.

The adoption questions started out as standard fare, such as: “Do you have other pets?” and “Will you take your new dog for walks?”

But then they started getting a tad tricky with questions like, “Where will your new dog sleep?”

I answered that Rio sleeps wherever he likes. Sometimes inside and sometimes outdoors. The same will hold true for our new addition. This resulted in my immediate failure.

Unbeknownst to me, dogs from this rescue organization were not permitted to sleep outside, meaning anywhere not contained within the four walls of what was deemed human living quarters. I sent an e-mail, explaining that we leave it up to Rio to decide where to sleep. Sometimes he prefers to nestle down in my son’s bedroom and other times, he prefers to sleep outside. I received a response, asking me to define “outside.”

I explained, “Under the stars, or on the cool, green grass ‘neath the sweet-scented Magnolia tree, or in his fashionable, igloo style dog house.”

I received no further communication. I tried again, “If my new canine friend prefers to sleep inside, she is more than welcome.” “My bed is large and cozy.” “We live on fully fenced acreage, perfect for frolicking animals.” “I’m a good dog owner, I am!”

I had to face facts. I had been blackballed by the Dog Rescue Organization.

The fifty canines or so awaiting adoption at this organization were kept indoors, all together, in a room the size of a three car garage. I had heard that dogfights erupted now and then as the animals tousled for control. I could not believe that any dog would be happier there than in my home.  I called my mother.

“Do you want to adopt a dog?” I asked her.

“Not really.”

“Do you mind if I borrow your name and address and pretend to be you adopting a dog?”

“Go right ahead, dear.” 

Using my mother’s email address, I again filled out a questionnaire. This time I was successful because nowhere did I use the frowned upon “O” word. I was granted a personal interview.

Please do not think for a moment that I have a penchant for impersonating my mother. I merely felt I had been grossly misunderstood, and Mom was the only one who would allow me to borrow her identity, no strings attached. Once at the Rescue Headquarters, I was going to fess up.

When Rio and I arrived, (his presence was required so he could have a say in picking his new buddy), a very nice, exhausted looking young man named Kevin helped us. He never asked my name, merely wanting to know if I’d filled out the online questionnaire. Then he picked out a candidate to take for a walk with Rio and me. I said,

“I’m not sure if I’d make a good dog parent. There are things I need to explain.”

Kindly Kevin responded, “I can tell by the way you treat Rio that you’ll be very good.” 

Four dogs later, we hadn’t found the right fit. I had to reject the first one since the enthusiastic creature excelled in knocking me flat on my back; the next one kept giving Rio the evil eye; Rio displayed an exceptional loathing for the third one; and the last pooch kept mistaking Kevin for a fire hydrant. 

When Kevin went inside to change his pants, another representative came over to me. She narrowed her eyes and said, “I’ve been watching you.”

“Then…you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Should I leave?”

“You wait right there!” She went back into the shelter.

They’d figured it out. They were probably in a group huddle, deciding what to do with me. Rio looked at me as if to say, “Let’s make a run for it.” But I couldn’t. I had to state my case and face the consequences. 

The woman returned. At the end of her leash was a very sweet, young German Shepherd.  Rio made no objections. I said,

“About the application…”

 “I’m glad you reminded me. Will you take two dogs?”

At this point, I realized that no one here cared who the hell I was or where my dog slept at night. My confessing became irrelevant. This was a case of positive stupidity as we both came out better off after our contact. I learned never to borrow my mom’s identity again. The guilt of “fixing” the application was not worth repeating. And they found a good home for a needy pet.

Make thinking a habit!
Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com