oh, and the niners lost.

I am not one to spend money on insurance or warranties or protection plans. Like [astute political reference], I am typically short-sighted when it comes to matters of financial security. Why spend a little extra now when I can put it into my savings account (and by savings account, I mean the nearest place that sells food)? Who cares that I always break my iPod/Blackberry/U-Haul? Why spend $18 now when I can spend $265 later on a whole new one? Better yet, I often choose not to learn from my mistakes. So when the next expensive piece of equipment dies on me for no reason after I drop it, I don’t think “hey I’m accident prone, I better play it safe.” Instead I choose to forgive and forget (as in, forgive myself and then quickly forget anything substantial I could have learned).

I think that a toilet plunger is that AppleCare Protection Plan of your bathroom. It is a forgettable purchase, and, for some, an embarrassing one. I, for one, choose not to be embarrassed by drug store purchases. Why, yes, that is a large tub of Metamucil I am buying. Thank you. Debit, please. The plunger is a purchase I often forgo / forget simply because it sort of falls under that category of insurance. Not something I need at the moment I am in the drug store, so something I never think to buy while I’m there. It is, in fact, a useless object until disaster strikes.

Disaster struck. It did not strike me in either perpetrator or host. But, I was that supporting character who helped keep the action of the story going. The Judy Greer, if you will. So, perpetrator, host, and Judy Greer were sitting around, watching TV, and disaster struck. After it was established that the easiest single-person solution (that is, the plunger) was not available, we put our heads together.

Sometimes there is a situation that can only be made worse by group work. For example, a clogged toilet with no plunger. There was actually a moment in which two of us shouted a simultaneous “no no no no no!” as the third pulled a chain. Perpetrator referred to it as the new Katrina. You’re doing a heck of a job, Brownie (I can’t take credit for that poop joke, but I am not one to let a poop joke, however plagiarized, pass by). As brownie was doing its job, the levees had broken. Water. Everywhere. (Water, of course, being a euphemism).

With someone now trapped in a bathtub, we sprinkled a whole pack of paper towels on the ground. I had earlier suggested that dish soap can help to loosen clogged drains. It did succeed in making the water soapier, which I suppose is a step in the right direction. So, the soapy flood waters were now a big papery mess as we debated the fate of the bathmat.

Then, we found a plunger. Well, most of a plunger. The handle was so short that one’s (my) hands had to be submerged in water (again, euphemism) to use it. Also, we found dish gloves. Well, I found them. Sorry, host’s mom. These had a higher calling. Thankfully, a plunger is a very effective tool. The waters receded and all that was left to do was throw away the hundreds of paper towels, the plunger, and the dish gloves, mop the floor, and then close the door behind us.

It was a good reminder to me that in my own bathroom, it might be a good idea to have a plunger on hand, in the spirit of always hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. And someone over there is going to have to remember to buy a new plunger, too.

And some new dish gloves.

we did have a close call in the farting department...

Today, I did something for the first time. I took a yoga class. And, going in, I had thought for sure it would be classic fish out of water comedy. And, other than an awkward moment or two with the receptionist (yogi-ceptionist? I'm sure she has some other title), it really was okay. No falling down. No farting loudly in the middle of class. No strange poses my body refused to do. I did reluctantly join in the rounds of oms (ohms?) and there was a stretch or two that was slightly out of my range, but overall it felt natural, relaxing, and energizing. I even got into the breathing in the end, where we felt our breath wash our hearts to reveal our true selves (or something). I bought it. I am not about to jump into the deep end, but I can definitely see the appeal. Maybe I’ll go again this week.

Sometimes, I am surprised by how much I am able to buy into things. I don’t read Twilight or watch Lost or listen to Taylor Swift. Typically, America has one agenda and I have another. Even when we are watching the same thing, America and I must be watching different things (David Cook? Really?). But then there are times when I just jump in headfirst. For a long time I was morally against any sort of phone that didn’t come free with my plan. Then, one day, I bought myself a blackberry. Totally on a whim. Just up and bought it. And I love it. I love love love it. I can’t imagine my life without it.

The blackberry is my best example of a thing I hated that turned to thing I love. It is like a romantic comedy. It started out as that too uptight new coworker to my laidback, Oreo cookie loving self. And then, we were forced to work on some project together or were snowed in a cabin or something. And now we’re in love. Insane oddball nonsense love.

In any case, the next thing on the horizon is a pair of Uggs. Right? Right? What is it, 2004? Am I going to wear them with my pleated mini and my Juicy Couture sweatshirt? Don a trucker cap? Drink a bottle of vitamin water? Sometimes I arrive to the party late enough to try to pretend I wasn’t protesting outside earlier. What? That wasn’t me. That must have been that other guy….

So yeah, I’m slowly becoming a yoga-doing, blackberry-using, ugg-wearing … what is the noun for that? I am pretty sure it is douche bag. Oh well. At least I don’t listen to Taylor Swift.

an instant pizza machine, maybe

One thing I am really curious about is the future of technology—specifically, at what point will it surpass my abilities to keep up? I imagine that there has to be some point in which it just moves too fast. My great-grandmother was able to send an email, but, when faced with a camera phone, asked, “Where do you put the film?”

My father is closer. He gets the general idea of email and text messages and instant messaging. Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite get the nuanced differences in the methodology of each communication. An email, he understands, is somewhat like a letter. You write a whole message and send it. Instant messaging is that one step beyond his grasp.

Dad: Hi Jesse.

jesse: hi dad

Several minutes pass. (Dad is typing)

Dad: [long message] Love, Dad.

jesse: no, dad, it’s like talking. it’s not an email.

A few minutes pass. (Dad is typing)

Dad: Oh okay. Well your mother needs to me to [insert some household activity involving words like “baseboards” or “retaining wall”]. Puff says hello. Love, Dad.

jesse: just talk and press enter.

The spelling and grammar has been edited for your convenience.

And, yes, there is nothing my father loves more than to greet me via the cats.

Recently, he became the owner of a blackberry and has taken up text messaging as a way of communicating. Today, after not immediately responding to the first text message, I was treated to four more identical copies (plus a missed call from my mother—it was apparently a team effort today). This was all in the span of time it takes to withdraw some money out of an ATM.

My mother, bless her heart, has not yet ventured into text message territory. My father once asked me to show her how. I politely declined.

She does, however, use instant messaging and throws out the occasional “lol” or “omg” as, I think, a way of ensuring that those phrases are officially uncool. It’s like when my 4^th grade campers started wearing “Vote for Pedro” shirts. Time to let it go, mainstream America.

There do exist common technologies that I do not participate in. I have never tweeted anyone (is that even a transitive verb?) nor have I ever downloaded an iPhone app. I have no idea how to play Call of Duty. I have never watched a movie on blu-ray. And I got in trouble for not knowing how to use my parents’ DVR (it said something about changing to NCIS, and I selected “no.” I didn’t want to watch NCIS!). But I assume that if I ever want to do any of these, I could. This isn’t what I’m talking about.

I am assuming at one point, I am going to search for keyboard on some kiosk that uses my brainwaves or sit and shout “winky face” into the voice command of some magic hologram communication technology. I really wonder at what point my brain just can no longer wrap itself around the concept behind a device. I hope that it is something awesome. Not something scary like a robot dog that will outlive me.

in celebration of text messages

I am really bad on the phone. I lie all the time on job interviews and in cover letters and claim to have good telephone manner. Or at least I don’t explicitly say anything to the contrary. But, the reality is that I’m a stuttering, rambling mess who gives people about fourteen minutes more information than they wanted and says “yes” when I really mean “oh, I wasn’t listening, could you repeat the question and this time I’ll try to pay attention.”

Now, I seem to remember that in my early high school years, I used to spend hours on the phone. Hours. Just talking. I cannot even imagine what we must have talked about. I think that, in hell, the playback on those phone conversations is playing on an endless loop. “You know that song? ‘Have You Ever?’ That totally is how I’m feeling right now….” “I totally know how you feel.” And so on. In any case, that sort of tapered off once I was able to drive a car and actually interact with people. And really, that cannot be what people imagine when they think of “good telephone manner.”

And, the only thing harder than being good on the phone is being good at voicemail. I chalk a lot of it up to the pressure of a monologue. On the phone, there is a natural ebb and flow that keeps you from having to remember all your lines at once. “Hi yes, may I please speak to Ryan?” And while that is going on, I can take a minute to remember my name. And somewhere in the “how are you this morning” and “oh great, thanks for asking” I can try to find my own ass and the reason I have the phone held up to my face. But with a voicemail, suddenly all of that pressure is on at once. While I am scrambling to come up with a concise version of my conversation, I also have to remember what my extension is and when would be a great time for you to call me back. And somewhere in that mad, unexpected dash, a vital piece of information is left behind. Or worse yet, thrown in at the last minute, like trying to stir the sugar into an already mixed cake batter on its way to the oven. “By the way, this is Jesse!” click.

Then came along a brilliant invention: the text message. I love it. I love it so much. There is the necessary concision, the subtle politics, the timing of it all. Don’t yet have the answer? Text back a “?” and give yourself a minute to figure it out. Don’t actually have something to say? Text back “:)” and you’re good to go. In a real conversation, and especially, on the phone, smiling in response to a comment makes you a jackass.

But, the best part of all is in that awkward world of dating. If I give you my number, and you text me—Thank GOD is what I think. Maybe that’s an atypical reaction, but there is nothing worse than the long pauses that happen with a pre-first-date phone call. Let’s save that for dinner, buddy. Give me a when and where and a winky face, and I’m good to go.

So maybe not the solution for the professional phone call, text messages remain a lifesaver. So, please don’t be offended if I text you. You didn’t want to talk to me on the phone anyway. Believe me.