Corralling the Caroling

Is there anything more uncomfortable than standing awkwardly in your own doorway as friends, neighbors or even people you don’t know serenade you with well-wishes and holiday cheer by means of a Christmas carol?

...

I submit that there isn’t.

I don’t want anyone to think that this statement, in any way, insinuates that I hate Christmas —because I don’t. I am just simply stating a simple truth that many are afraid to say themselves for fear that, in doing so; they will be demeaning another’s efforts to spread a little holiday cheer and kindness. After all, it is because of this kindness and longing for universal peace and love that this season is such a popular time of year —world wide. The presents help too, I’ll admit.

However, in an effort to continue with unabashed honesty, I do feel that, in following the guidelines of spreading said peace and love, the act of caroling might be, in and of itself, a direct contradiction to achieving that goal, not to mention one of the least thoughtful deeds a do-gooder can commit. Think about it, visiting friends and neighbors, ringing their doorbells, interrupting their evenings and proceeding to sing popular Christmas hymns in courageous but excruciating, amateur fashion for several minutes, while simultaneously letting cold air in the house because the kind-hearted listeners are too nice to shut the door before the song is finished —or too slow to get it closed between song selections— may be one of the rudest forms of teasing one human being could bestow upon another.

Caroling is a generational thing, pure and simple. In the days before hundreds of channels, movies on demand, iPods, singing greeting cards, and “elf yourself” holiday e-cards, people loved going caroling. It was all they did. It brought color to their monochromatic world. In the olden days, people would wait anxiously by their doors and windows, Kruger style, hoping to secure an invitation from a passing caroling troop. Sometimes, when an invitation wasn’t proffered, they would just try to blend in with the group and see how long they could last before they were sent home —usually at the behest of the old, frumpy school teacher who sang a painful soprano part louder than the rest of the choir. I think I even read somewhere that caroling was a tradition that was practiced all year long. They would just interchange their Christmas song selections with hymns or a mind-numbing renditionall forty verses of “She’ll be coming around the mountain.” Caroling was, for our generation X through Z understanding, the equivalent of an evening watching a High School Musical movie or “Glee.” The only difference being that, instead of singing along with Zac Ephron confidently behind closed doors to an unresponsive flat screen HD TV, you would be singing sheepishly on a front porch to an audience that, believe it or not, probably feels more awkward than you.

This brings me back to my first and original point: caroling, even with good intentions, seems like a brutal way to express neighborly love and holiday-season warmth. But then again, I was born on the flip side of the last century.

The Most Wonderful Time of Year?

It’s that time of year again. The time when we fold up our shorts and t-shirts, bring out the pants and jackets, and settle in for several months of refusing to leave the house until the need to run the defrost in the car has passed.

Winter is a bleak, less-than-favored time of year for me and many other people who have asked that their names be left unmentioned. I think that the founding fathers —not the Washington, Jefferson, or Franklin type, but the ones that laid the framework and schedules for our seasons— anticipated the lack of popularity for the winter season and, therefore, stacked all the best holidays in those months in an effort to even things out. The only problem with this is, they left January and February wide open with nothing to look forward to but Groundhog Day —which really isn’t a holiday at all. It's just a little rodent’s opportunity to rub several more agonizing weeks of coldness in our frost-bitten faces.

I once expressed my loathing for winter to an acquaintance of mine. This person is what many people refer to as a “ski bum,” which, essentially, is someone who has trouble holding down a job, has less-than-stellar hygiene, frequently asks to borrow money for bus fare, and wears snow pants all year long. In fact, come to think of it, the only actual difference between a ski-bum and a street-bum is the shopping cart and accordion. As I lowered the gates and let loose with a flood of reasons explaining my lack of fondness for the frosty season —general coldness topping the list— this perceptive and wise person responded with a piece of advice designed to help me cope. His exact words were, “Maybe you could take up snowboarding.” I turned around and walked away. I was bored with the conversation anyway.

I didn’t always detest winter. I remember, as a kid, looking forward to snow, sledding, and snowball fights. But, with each year I age, my flare for winter and its wintery wonders seems to melt. Now I understand why St. George, Scottsdale, and pretty much all of Florida are such popular destinations for old people. Although, that still doesn’t explain dinner at four in the afternoon or driving with the left blinker on. I expect by the time I reach retirement age, I won’t even like opening the freezer anymore.

So, unless I decide to uproot my family and move somewhere closer to the equator, I guess I will just have to come to terms with the unavoidable turn of seasons. It’s only a few months of excruciatingly miserable coldness. On the positive side, wrapping up in several layers of sweaters and blankets on the couch doesn’t sound all that bad. I suppose the biggest obstacle will be finding something to occupy my time until summer returns.

Maybe I could take up snowboarding.

G.O.L.F.

If you sit back and think about it, golf is kind of a silly game. But then again... so is curling.

...

The origin of golf is as muddy as the water hazards conveniently placed on courses around the world. Some believe it can be traced back to the Romans. Others believe it made its roots in China. The most common historical belief, however, is that the modern game —the game we know and love…then hate, as we dig our way out of the bunker on eight…and then love again, as we make our way back to the club house, bragging to our friends about how well we played— is that it originated in Scotland around the 12^th century with shepherds knocking stones into rabbit holes.

...

Another popular rumor, specifically among the antiquated or chauvinist male crowd, is that the word “golf” is actually an acronym for “Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden”. It’s no secret that golf is known as a gentleman’s game, and whether or not females were allowed to play in its early beginnings is of little consequence to me and the current times in which I live —with exception of my music. I like 80s music. Deal with it. Anyway, I just hate the pressure of having to consistently hit my tee shot past the ladies tees on every hole in order to avoid the embarrassing march to my second shot with my pants around my ankles. What “gentleman” developed this unofficial rule?

...

Golf is an interesting sport, and I’m not just stating that as a personal opinion. I know a lot of people who would agree and many who would unconsciously agree. I don’t claim to be a pro, by any means, even though I have bragged up my game on several "water-cooler" occasions. I guess what it all boils down to is, golf is just one of those sports that seems within our grasp of attaining professional status. With other sports, such as basketball, football, or the Olympic sort, there are very apparent physical qualities associated with the top tier athletes. For all of us sub-six footers, we know that the NBA is probably a little out of reach, so we limit ourselves to “dominating” in pick-up games and church ball. And, I think the majority can relate to the fact that I can’t bench press a dump truck, nor do I weigh as much as one either. So, the NFL isn’t a viable option. Soccer and baseball don’t really count because baseball requires interest and soccer is for poor people and children with too much energy.

...

In contrast is golf. Golf is different. Every time someone young or old steps up to the first tee at a local municipal golf course, they believe that their game is going to be very reminiscent of Tiger’s the weekend before. Then, three balls and two bent irons later —as they make their way to the first hole’s green— they’re shocked at realizing they’ve already hit course par.

...

An example of this mentality was demonstrated recently when my dad and I made an attempt to finish 18 holes in under seven hours. We made our way through the first few holes feeling pretty confident about the direction our scores were headed. Then, the back nine happened. It got so ugly and miserable that, at one point, I had to encourage my dad to stop sulking, get out of the sand trap where he was sitting, put his left shoe back on and finish the hole. As added incentive, I may have even promised a special trip for ice cream on the way home. The point is this: it got pretty bleak to say the least. If either of us thought we were just strokes away from obtaining our tour card, we were quickly reminded that, in reality, we couldn't be further away. In fact, it's pretty humbling to realize that, not only are you undersized and under conditioned for the mainstream professional sports, but you can’t even hack it, (yes, hack it) at a novice level on a city course with an unlimited amount of mulligans at your disposal. At least there were no ladies around to observe our shameful display of ability.

July 4th: A Timeless American Holiday

Ever since I can remember, the Fourth of July has always been my favorite holiday.

Every year on Fourth of July eve, we could hardly sleep at night with excitement and anticipation for what Uncle Sam would bring us the next morning. I remember staring out my window into the starry night sky with a vigilant eye, hoping to catch a glimpse of Uncle Sam making his special visits to eagerly waiting, legal U.S. citizens. You’d think he would be easy to spot in his super cool, gas-guzzling, government issued Humvee pulled by fifty elephants and donkeys, which represent each state and their party alignments. However, for whatever reason, his stop at our house always remained secretive... but no less magical.

As kids we would often stay up through the night reading stories to each other, like: The Preamble, The Constitution, or our personal favorite, The Declaration of Independence. Sometimes, as we sleeplessly sat in our rooms eagerly awaiting dawn’s arrival, we would quiz each other on the amendments or the dates that each state joined the Union. Those were good times, nay, great times!

Finally, morning would arrive, and we’d soar from our bedrooms like bald eagles from a telephone pole in a newly developed neighborhood. Jumping loudly on our parents’ bed to wake them, we would sing: This Land is Your Land; this Land is My Land; America the Beautiful and all our other favorite Fourth of July carols.

As a family, we would then head down the stairs and to the backyard to see what wonderful pieces of meat Uncle Sam had left us under our barbeque grill. We could hardly contain ourselves. Each person would hurriedly un-wrap their special Fourth of July gift, revealing a different cut from their favorite animal. I usually got select grade, premium Angus ground-beef hamburger patties that were perfectly-formed! My sisters and mom typically found non-steroid enhanced, boneless chicken breasts or fresh fillets of fish; my brothers always got an asortment of hotdogs and brawtworst; my dad —a one-inch rib-eye steak.

I recall how thrilling it would be to see the half eaten plate of Baked Beans we'd left out the night before, or to stumble on the empty soda cans that he had discourteously strewn across our yard. Dad usually made me clean them up, but I didn’t mind because they were just signs that he had truly visited us. Plus, nothing could ruin this special day for me —nothing.

Yes, I may be guilty of the occasional, in-the-moment love spouting for other holidays, but the Fourth of July will always hold a tender place in my heart. And now that I am older and with a family of my own, I can hardly wait to see the excitement on my children’s faces as they find Uncle Sam’s grill-able gifts under our barbeque.

Technology Has No Age

Growing up in this day and age just isn’t what it used to be —for starters there are far more buttons. I quickly found this out when a ten-year old kid embarrassed me for even being born as he beat me soundly on a new video game being displayed at a local department store. With the score growing exponentially in his favor, I began asking him some probing questions, like: “So, do you get out much?”

I am always amazed at how much time people, specifically teenagers, spend chatting, blogging, playing video games or surfing on the web with friends, strangers and probably Dateline’s Chris Hansen. I guess the act of covering every square inch of a neighbor’s home with toilet paper is considered old fashion. I bet it would be more popular if there was a smart phone application for it.

Technology has not only changed the face of how we do business and interact, but our overall behavior as well. This was recently demonstrated during an opportunity I had of being a chaperone at a youth, spring break getaway that was held in my area; and when I say, “my area,” I am, of course, referring to my home. The situation was pretty simple, really. I volunteered to be the chaperone because the idea of several reckless, teenage kids inconsiderately invading my house during a weekend stay sounded like a great patience building exercise. Let it be known that this was not my idea. A clean freak with obsessive compulsive tendencies does not invite teenage boys to stay at his house for days on end.

When my wife first told me that her younger brother and a few of his friends —and by few, I mean somewhere in the ballpark of his entire senior class— would be coming to stay with us for a few nights, my immediate response was, “Are they bringing their own food?”

In all honesty, I am not opposed to being a gracious and hospitable host to the occasional guest we may have. I just tend to develop a large knot in my stomach at the thought of teenage boys growing stir-crazy in my home without a structured schedule to keep them busy. Nevertheless, I was kindly invited to, and these are my wife’s exact words, “get over it”. Sure it was going to be an inconvenience, but the real issue was my vivid recollection of having been a seemingly invincible teenager at one point in my life. I am well aware of the thought process, or lack thereof, that goes in to choosing a group activity. In fact, having been a teenager myself at one time, I participated in many “team building exercises”, commonly referred to as pranks, mischief or no-goodery. These exercises typically resulted in a strengthened relationship between me, my parents and various law enforcement officials —and those are just the memories I can still recall.

It wasn’t until this large group of guys stayed at my house that I realized technology has taken much of the rambunctious behavior, not to mention the social interaction, out of being a teenager. This was exemplified late Friday night when the thought came to check on the boys and see why they were being so uncharacteristically quiet. It turned out they were all diligently engaged in rapid texting conversations —cleverly referred to as “text-versations”— with, not only friends in other places, but with each other as well. I’m sure this quiet form of communication is appreciated by their parents, at least until the bill comes.

At the end of the weekend, I came to the sobering conclusion that technological advancements, while truly amazing, are quickly making many business practices, means of communication, delinquent activities and certain people completely obsolete. If I have any hope of keeping-up in the world, I had better just “get over it” and embrace the future. However, I will always prefer wiping egg off the door over having computer hackers steal my identity.

As for the house guests, I had no real reason to complain —other than the fact that one of them clogged the toilet, causing it to overflow. But that would have never happened had they turned off their phones and video games and put the toilet paper to its real and intended use —decoration for someone else’s yard.

The Answer Is Yes

From a young age, I was brought up under the tutelage of, what I consider to be, respectable role models, even though many of them happen to have been of the less reputed, and oft-criticized male classification. In fact, to this day, I don’t quite understand why men, as an organization, seem to have such a bad rap. Sure, we may find humor in the simplest forms; such as: bodily functions, jokes involving bodily functions, or any unexpected, solid-object making contact with areas where bodily functions are emitted. But that really shouldn’t be a determining factor for our overall intelligence. If anything, it is just another great example of our ability to “keep it real”. After all, it is a lot cheaper to spend side-splitting hours making fart sounds come from armpits than it is to gossip about the latest hook-ups and break-ups over a three hour shopping spree that results in hundreds of dollars worth of shoes that seem to differ only in color. But I digress.

I was always taught to respect women and treat them equal. However, I have to admit that this has been hard at times and, quite often, a bit confusing. After all, girls always seemed perfectly capable of opening their own doors. But for whatever reason, society —and by society I am referring to every woman I know— has made it perfectly clear that failure to assist in this seemingly trivial task can have a damaging and lingering effect that will undoubtedly resurface at every opportunity possible.

This is also true of a certain sensitive, yet uncomfortable situation that men get forced into all too regularly. I am, of course, referring to the interrogation that takes place whenever a new outfit is put on. At the risk of over-generalizing, similar situations may also include, but are not limited to: pants, shoes, dresses, skirts, hair styles, pajamas, cars, houses, house plants, mirrors, couches, friends, ex-friends, enemies, strangers, electronic equipment, and basically anything that a female may, or may not, come in contact with.

In fact, just the other day, as I was watching a sporting event on the television, I found myself backed in to one of these tight-fitting corners. My wife sat down next to me on the couch and, with a heavy sigh, asked if I thought her arms were skinnier than an acquaintance we had made earlier in the week. It is actually quite a surreal experience to be in a pickle, such as this, and also be simultaneously watching the infielders on the TV put a base runner in a pickle between first and second. In either case, you had better be a quick thinker or a fast runner.

My answer was obviously, yes. I passed the test. But, honestly, did I really have a choice? I mean, what options did I have? I am not insinuating that I lied. It’s just that, unless you have a combination of poor judgment and a lofty moral code or you’ve been slapped in the face too many times to remember the proper response protocol, there really is only one viable answer for situations like the one I found myself in. The real problem comes when you begin to wonder if they really believe the answers we give them. After all, for the thousands of years we’ve spent together on this giant, co-educational rock we call earth, women have to be aware of the fact that men are constantly being less than honest with them.

I wouldn’t even call it lying, really. Nor would I say that our lack of complete honesty is specifically done in an effort to spare feelings. If anything, the answers we give in situations like this are probably more for our own welfare then they are for the women with the probing inquisitions. In fact, I wouldn’t even label them as answers or responses. They are reactions. Our reactions, I would say, are typically made in an effort to get us out of the uncomfortable situation as fast as possible and back into the mindless, easy-going world we know and love. It’s all just part of the “fight or flight” instincts that kick in when we are put in imminent peril.

When it’s all said and done, wondering if women know this or not really doesn’t matter. What does matter is that our answers, whether brutally honest or exactly what they want to hear, achieve both agendas and placate all parties involved. After all, constantly worrying if the pin stripes on the uniform make the player look fat just makes the game go slower.

When the Situation Gets Difficult, the Difficult Get Situation

Every year I celebrate an anniversary. Sometimes these anniversaries are significant; other times they are just random. These anniversaries typically mark some sort of achievement or milestone I have accomplished in my life. I know this sounds pretty vague and rather obvious, but even the slowest of wits can claim an anniversary in one form or another.

I am speaking more specifically of my momentous graduation from college; and by momentous, I, of course, mean: not completely thought through. College and university studies are often referred to as “higher learning” which, simply translated, means: spend as much time here as possible as a way to put off the murkiness of grown-up life. And by grown up life, I am refering to the reality of waking up every morning to a job your degree has absolutely nothing to do with.

Isn’t it good to know it was all for something.

I don’t want to sound completely cynical about post-graduation life, but doesn’t it seem odd that students come and go but professors are the only ones who seem to hang around? It’s probably because they are the only ones smart enough to have figured out that staying in school is the best way to avoid having to move back in with the parents or live where a high-speed connection isn’t free. In fact, not only are they living the carefree college life, but they have made a paying career out of it.

I don’t know what it is about careers and jobs that make them, well…jobs. The problem is that, even if you are lucky enough to be doing what you always dreamed of doing, somehow reality strikes on your already bruised skull and that once golden career turns out to be plain and boring work. You may even start to wonder if that fantasy of a perfect job is a reality waiting to be discovered. It’s for this reason that I began brainstorming formulas to find the career options that, I feel, would hold their value and be a pleasure to wake up to every morning.

First, you have to think of the things you enjoy doing the most. My first thought was swimming, and to be more specific: relaxing by the pool. The problem with this is my options are limited to lifeguard or pool boy. The first entails the taxing responsibility of being vigilant and possibly having to save someone. While the idea of resuscitating some hot babe doesn’t sound all that bad of a responsibility, the likelihood of it being a hairy, obese, sea lion of a man that decided to ingest his complete lunch plate in one bite is far greater —and that grosses me out. The later involves work, which is what I am trying to avoid. So obviously that won’t work, but I’m on the right track. I also like going on vacation. So why not make vacation a career?

Every year corporate allotted vacation days go unused in our workaholic society, and every year these poor, forgotten vacation days become void and unusable as the accruing begins anew in January. So, my simple solution would be to start a firm that specializes in making use of people’s unused vacation days. For a moderate but realistic price, I would be happy to take a cutthroat work-addict’s forgotten vacation days off their hands and use them at my discretion. For a small additional fee, I’d even in send a postcard to the person’s family, friends, co-workers, and boss stating how great it has been to get away and enjoy some time away from the office.

Who knows, a year from now I could be celebrating the one year anniversary of putting this job into effect. Maybe, I’ll celebrate by going on vacation somewhere nice.