To remember

Note to self: If, in general, you're not getting happier as you live, you're doing it wrong.

Computers and food

Computers and food don’t mix. That’s a rule at my house. Sure, secretly it’s an optional rule and is only mentioned when there’s a food-related mishap, but it sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it? For me, the problem is that a big bowl of chips really lubricates my creative engine. Something about the crunching rattles my brain. In a good way, I mean. But eating at the computer…? My solution, which I encourage you to use in your own house, is a shop vac. Strap the tube to your chest, fire that sucker up, and you don’t have to worry about crumbs while you eat.

You do have to use appropriate caution. And, seriously, don’t wear a tie.

I’m in front of the computer a lot these days. It’s partly because technology has really improved the business of threatening others. Wrapping a note that says “We’ll grind you into sausage” around a brick and tossing it through a 2nd story window has some old school charm, of course, but you can’t beat software for creating fear. When that little paper clip guy on your computer screen glares at you with red pupil-less eyes and asks, in his little speech balloon, “How may I harm you?” it gets one’s attention. It’s unexpected. I’m rather proud of one piece of text I wrote for Clippie to say: “Ten days: enjoy ‘undo’ while you can.” Good stuff.

But lately I’ve been thinking that it would be good to have a secondary trade to fall back on.

My first thought was to start my own lottery because there’s a good profit margin. As soon as I started advertising, though, goons from the state stopped by to remind me that competition is only for the weak.

So next I started learning balloon animal construction. I was getting pretty good at making flowers, giraffes, puppies, and the Loch Ness monster, but then I realized that I was headed for divorce if I kept with it. I know you figure it was because of the jealousy associated with the inevitable groupies that swarm around anyone successful in the entertainment industry, but no: actually it was the sound. My wife, it became clear to me when she threatened to break a plate over my head, can’t endure the squeakity sound balloons make.

Lots of people have sounds they can’t stand: a fork on a chalkboard, fingernails scratching denim, or currency being removed from their wallet. For me, even thinking about the sloppy wet sound of flesh being ground into sausage gives me the willies. For my wife, it’s the rubbing of balloons.

So the other reason I’ve been in front of a computer a lot recently is because I finally found a secondary trade to pursue; even better, one that wasn’t going to result in harm to myself. It’s surprisingly similar to my own threatening letter work: I’m studying to become a professional lobbyist for fringe special interest groups.

Some of these groups actually have ideas I could get behind. “Resurrect the little dinosaurs” for instance. I mean, I know my kids would love chasing a little compsognathus around in a petting zoo pen. Eradicating volcanoes seems like a worthy cause, too. One group, operating on the theory “if you build it, they will come,” wants the government to construct a bus stop on the moon.

Some of my other favorites:
Talking birds should be allowed to vote.
Let’s use rocket engines to slow earth’s rotation so we actually do have more hours in each day.
“Hella” should be the scientific prefix for 10 to the 27th power.
Humans must be allowed to photosynthesize.
Each state should be required to choose an Official State Pokemon.

The “Monday Anti-Defamation League” claims that if the day of the week is assigned randomly each morning, then all days will share equally the difficult task of following a weekend. They claim it’s the easiest way to end prejudice against Mondays.

One group wants mandatory labeling to indicate the fiction content in all humor columns. Even columns written by amateurs!

The information from this last group I’m going to mention, though, really disturbed me. The People for the Ethical Treatment of Computer Hardware (PETCH) are lobbying for government land to be set aside so that old tired computers can enjoy their last days frolicking in green pastures. Now it’s obvious to me that domesticated computers can't be released back into the wild, since they simply wouldn’t be able to survive, but I didn’t realize what is currently happening in our world. Most obsolete computers, after all those years of service, are being ground into sausage. Yuck. Don’t people realize that computers and food shouldn’t mix?

-I.J. really really wishes the shop vac hadn’t just stolen his last few strips of bacon.

Supertasker

supertasker: someone who can do multiple task at the same time exactly as well (or even better) than they can do one at a...

I feel like I've forgotten something. Huh. Yes, my glasses are on my face. Yes, I am wearing my trousers. (Though, really, I guess that doesn't matter. I mean, you can't see me, can you? I never thought of it that way before. I guess I don't need to be so obsessive about writing only after I have carefully styled my hair, shaved my face, and picked the green bits out of my teeth.) Yes, I have a bowl of... oh, shoot! I forgot about the popcorn in the microwave. Bummer. I guess it's okay, though: there's been a stench like something burning for the last few minutes. Maybe it's the neighbors setting fire to their trash again. Not very appetizing.

So I've been training to become a supertasker. Only 2% of the people, the experts say, can actually handle...

Hey! I heard this joke. This guy sits down in a barber's chair and says, "I want a haircut." The barber says, "You need to remove your ear buds."

Oh oh oh! Did I tell you I finally found my missing checkbook?!? It has been in my camera bag for the past 5 months, I guess. This is going to save me from a lot of black glares: every time I have to create my own "I, Carly" checks with crayons and scraps of paper, the checkout line behind me gets kinda restless.

As part of my supertasker training, I'm now eating with utensils in my left hand... which leaves my right hand free to shoo away the dog. I wish I knew why he has suddenly started sitting under my chair at meal times. Eating with the wrong hand is supposed to give your brain a good workout; it is also proposed, for some reason, as a dieting strategy.

So the guy tells the barber, "But if I remove my ear buds, I'll die. You need to trim around them." The barber shrugs and starts cutting.

I just finished installing a 3rd stereo in my car. I'm no longer stuck with only music and an audiobook: now I can listen to traffic reports, too. It'd be nice, though, if I could also listen to my foreign language lessons and modern physics lectures at the same time and really take advantage of my commute time. Did I already tell you that I'm working my way up to Matrix-level learning? "I know kung fu." Oh, right, seeing "The Matrix" is a prerequisite for reading the column today. I forgot to mention that. If you're lucky, you're already watching the movie while you're reading this.

Hey, I found the dog's leash, too. I guess I put it with the Christmas lights. Which reminds me... suspenders do not make a good leash substitute, unless you're working with a dog trained for the Canine X-games or filming for "America's Funniest Home Videos." Though it is kinda fun on a steep hill if you wear inline roller skates and the dog is blindfolded.

After a while, the barber thinks the guy is asleep, so he pulls out the ear buds. Everything is fine for a minute or two, only then the guy turns blue and falls to the floor, dead.

Oh, yeah! I found a great audience gag the other day. By accident. At the podium I started to say "Good morning," but I forgot what time of day it was. So my greeting came out "Good morn... Good eve... Good morning!" The audience gave me a lot of laughter. I think I'm going to use this one again and again. I hope every audience is as receptive as at that early morning church service.

Though even none of them will admit it, I know that one of my kids pulled a clever prank on me last week. Leaving a pot of beans boiling on the stove, Rock Band 2 paused on the Wii, and the hermit crab cage half-cleaned, I ran downstairs to move the laundry along. When I opened the washing machine, it was empty. The only thing in there was the strong scent of bleach: not a single garment. I've known that machine to snack on a sock or two, but I figured that if it was hungry enough to eat them all, I was not putting my arm in there. After poking the washer drum with a stick and searching the surrounding area, I found the clothes exactly where they had started. I had to laugh. One of my kids really got me by pulling the white load back out of the washer after I started it running. The best trick -- which I still haven't figure out -- was getting those clothes completely dry so quickly.

Here's a fun little exercise: while you're solving a Sudoku puzzle, choose a random 7 digit number and determine the minimum nonzero offset, positive or negative, to a prime number. I think this actually started as a drinking game at MIT.

This supertasker training is tough on the brain, though. I've overheated mine a few times. Here is a tip for you: if you start hearing an otherwise unexplained boiling sound, you should eat an entire half gallon of ice cream -- preferably Denali Moose Tracks -- really quickly. Ignore the ice cream headache as best you can... this pain is actually your gain. One other tip: even if it seems like a good idea, never ever put Icy Hot or Ben Gay in your ears. The makers of those products are looking out for your best interests with their printed warnings. Believe me, that is not a cooling sensation anyone will appreciate.

At the library the other day I found, as I approached checkout, that I had misplaced my library card. After retracing all my path, I found the card in my hand. How embarrassing! But for that whole visit, including the search, I didn't drop a single juggling pin or fall off my unicycle.

So the barber listens to what's playing in the ear buds and hears, "Breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... breathe out..."

I figure that a supertasker is a kind of superhero. Why else would they give it that name? So that's why I've started wearing a cape. With trousers, though: those colorful tights might look stunning, but they run really short on pocket space. Do they make cargo tights?

Oh, I remember what I wanted to say this whole time. I wanted to remind everyone -- and this is very important -- do not wait until the last minute to get your income tax forms turned in. You do not want to risk being late. Me, I'm hoping to start gathering my 2009 paperwork together tonight.

- While typing this, I.J. was also working on three other tasks at the same time: cleaning his gutters, spreading humus and manure in his vegetable garden, and baking some yummy brownies.

Is it Good to be Cooperative?

I'm a cooperative person. I'll almost always put a lot of effort into complying to the wishes of other people. It turns out, though, that this doesn't ensure I'm making the world better for anybody.

Mitral valve prolapse is a heart condition which usually has a low risk of serious complications. The primary recognizable symptom is that the beating heart makes an extra sound that can be heard by a stethoscope. The stethoscope does not have to be cold, but you know it will be.

When I was in about 5th grade, my pediatrician heard some extra sounds in my heart. "Heart murmur." My memories of this are (1) I got to get out of school for part of a day, (2) I had to swallow some kind of barium gunk that filled up my throat until I thought I would choke, and (3) no one ever told me the outcome of the tests.

Fast forward nearly 15 years. Now I'm living in Southern California (though not taking the time to learn to surf, which I'll later regret) and a doctor says he hears an extra sound in my heart. I mention heart tests in my youth, but can only remember "heart murmur" and "barium." He says "mitral valve prolapse" and prescribes antibiotics to take when I got to get my teeth cleaned. I carefully file the prescription paper in the pocket of my demin jacket. I think it's still there.

Another few years and I'm back in Missouri. My new doctor asks about existing medical conditions. "Valve prolapse" is all I can remember. She adds the "mitral" that I forget, but can't hear the sound herself, no matter how cold she makes the stethoscope. Still, it's worth clearing this up, so I get to have an ultrasound.

Watching a technician's face appear more and more worried while she's rubbing an ultrasound device on your chest doesn't make for fun times. Especially when she starts checking the equipment for failures. I know a little about mistakenly blaming medical equipment: I remember when I was about five, I was lying on the sofa and I heard my Mom say "This thermometer is broken, too! 105 degrees F can't be right." "Mom?" I asked right before we headed to the emergency room, "Why do you keep getting really really big and then really really small?" Sometimes the equipment is fine and the problem is with the patient.

"I couldn't find your heart," the technician finally said, smiling, "But it's just way down here." Much lower in my chest that it belongs. Please do not include this in the ever-growing pile of evidence that I am not of terrestrian descent. I'm reasonably certain that you'll never be able to prove I come from elsewhere. I mention the mislocation of my heart only in case I do ever become a vampire and need to be staked for the good of all humanity: you need to aim a lot lower than you might think. Also, please note that if I'm a sparkly vegetarian vampire and you still feel the need to stake me, you have prejudices that you'll need to work through if you ever want to become a truly happy person.

The ultrasound shows I have a fine heart, once you are able to locate it. No evidence of mitral valve prolapse or any other difficult to name medical conditions. Finally I think to ask my Mom what the diagnosis had been in my youth. "Oh, " she said, "They didn't find anything wrong with your heart." The team of doctors finally decided that I was able to sit so still that they could hear heart sounds normally drowned out by other body movements.

All that testing -- including swallowing that barium -- because I was a child that could follow the command "sit still" with great concentration and compliance.

At least I found out that while I may think I'm a good and cooperative person and believe that I mean well, my heart isn't in the right place

"No." It seems so easy, doesn't it? Just two letters. One simple syllable. Your standard issue two-year-old can stream that word like broadband. “No no no no no!” I’m sure Mom would tell stories about how I wouldn’t quit saying that word when I was a mere toddling lad. Maybe I used up my share of “no” in my carefree youth, because now I simply can’t say that word.

Okay, so really I can actually say “no.” I mean, come on…

Every morning while I brush my teeth, I stand in front of the mirror saying the word “no” over and over again. Does it help? Put me in front of someone requesting an action of me and “sure” is all I can say. “Maybe,” if I’m feeling particularly spiteful. I can’t say “no” to a living person. Not even to high-quality manikins, no matter how often I try. I guess practicing when I do simply doesn’t help in real situations. Plus it gets the mirror splattered with toothpaste spit. One of the messes I deal with daily.

My inability to say “no” just got me into a new mess. My brother and some of my friends were dependent on a weekly humorous column to make their Mondays bright. Suddenly the writer quit. I’m sure he has his own good reasons and that my letter campaign threatening him, his loved ones, and even his cats will soon bring him back to where he belongs: entertaining us. He’ll learn the error of thinking that anyone in the spotlight can choose to step back out of it. But in the meantime, to fill the breach, I’ve “volunteered” to write up some humor. Actually, I just didn’t say “no” when my brother asked. Well, except to my spit-spattered image in the mirror.

My three loving, ever-cooperative children can still say “no” without any hesitation. Blasted carefree youth. See, my clever idea for my first column was to write about what happened when I taunted my cats.

I don’t have cats.

I needed some fake cats.

I asked my boy Ferdinand (not his real name) if he’d dress up as a cat so I could taunt him. Maybe it wasn’t the best choice of wording.

I tried again with my darling Thumbelina (not her real name), asking if she’d be a dear and dress up like a cat so Daddy could write funny things about her. I even pulled out the cat costume she wore for Halloween a couple years ago, the one that she would have worn to the library and to school back then if I had let her. “Here’s your chance to wear this costume on a normal day.” I think my girl is growing up. She didn’t even say “no.” With that facial expression, she didn’t have to.

Qui-gon (not his real name) was my last chance. I figured he’d play along with me. This boy has no problem doing unusual things: he wears a football helmet -- with full face mask -- to his figure skating classes. This boy has learned much about cats from reading the cat-based Warrior books. And, best of all, this boy is so driven to please people that none of his teachers can keep from gushing the word “sweet” when describing him. He’d sweetly cooperate, I figured. I figured wrong: his “no” was quick and ugly. And I wish there had been a mirror between us when he said it.

So, like any reasonable adult, I turned to stuffing chips into my mouth while mumbling profanities. But then I realized I did know someone who never says “no” to any request, no matter how strange.

And so, for next week’s column, I’ll write about how I felt being dressed as a cat while my children taunted me.

-- I.J. is new to this humorous column thing, but has a good deal of experience writing threatening letters to draw upon.

Secrets of Chores

Being an engineer, I have been trained to analyze everything thoroughly. Or maybe because I am, by nature, driven to analyze everything thoroughly, I ended up in engineering. Anyway, today on I.J. Theater, we present "My Hastily Well Thought Out Theory on Doing Chores and Other Nastiness." I've also used these ideas for homework and projects at work, not just household chores.

(1) I keep it in my head that I could be called away from the chore at any moment. This adds dramatic tension, of course, keeping me focused and interested. "What will I actually get done?" It also makes me break a bigger task into little pieces. It's easier to be motivated to do a little thing like clean the top of a dresser than it is to clean an entire room. (By analogy, if I were climbing a mountain, I'd make a series of short walks to nearby landmarks rather than setting out to reach the top.) And for the nastiest chores, I can entertain myself with pleasant thoughts like "hopefully I'll be hit by a stray meteor before I have reach under that sofa." Added bonuses: (a) if I am called away, nearly no work is lost (especially important these days, since distracting children roam my environment) and (b) I get a constant stream of "task complete!" euphoric moments as I finish each teensie little piece.

(2) I can't always manage this, but if I can decide that the chore doesn't need to be done now, I can get right onto doing it. Once my little mental demon is happy that he defeated my mental angel and I don't have to do the task, he can go celebrate his victory in whatever intoxicating way he chooses and I can get to work. I kinda doubt this works if you need a deadline or other external motivator to get started.

(3) For chores that get boring because I have to do them every day or week, I try to do find a different way to do the work. When mowing, for instance, I create new patterns. I'll mow diagonally to change it up, or try a different way to mow around a tree. My aim is never to make something take longer for the sake of variety; I search for new ways to trim time and effort off the task. It keeps my novelty-seeking brain satisfied and (sometimes) gets me better ways to get the chore done.

(4) I like to make clean up part of the task. In fact, it's probably the most important part to me. I don't quite believe the statement I once made ("If you're gonna cure cancer but leave a mess, then I'd rather you just leave the cancer alone"), but I do believe you should consider cleaning as part of the deal. The most logical options are to clean up at the end of a creative task, or to clean up when you need to use the materials or space not cleaned up from before. The other option -- cleaning at some unspecified other time -- simpy leaves you another task for later. I also like to clean up when I'm tired from the work itself and don't need to be creative anymore.

(5) One of my best tricks is to do two bad chores at once. As long as I stick with task A, I'm happy that "at least I'm not doing task B." As soon as B looks better, I switch to that one. The chores really do have to be about equally bad or I'll get done with the better task, never having started the worse one.

(6) I like to figure out how to do the next chore while I'm working on the current one. It keeps my mind off what I'm doing now (I already made a plan while doing the previous chore, so my brain will have idle cycles) and gives me a plan for the next task. Once I have a plan, I feel like I've already started the next thing, so I might as well do it. I'd hate to waste the time I've already invested with all that thinking. Sometimes I'll even go start the next task before I finish the current one… but then I have to give myself a mnemonic so I remember to return to the first task (like leaving the dishwasher door open so that when I get back to the kitchen, I can return to loading it before I have even thought about what I'm doing).

(7) I usually try to start with the worst chore, that way doing the others feel like resting.

Example case: I know I'd like to clean the play area of the basement soon. I decide it doesn't have to be done today, but I might as well get started anyway. Whatever I get done will be great, but I don't have to finish. I work by sorting into everything three piles: (a) trash, (b) things I can quickly put away, and (c) things that I need to think about. Every three to five minutes I'm done with some little sorting goal (Hooray!). I handle pile (a) or (b), completing another task (Double hooray!). If I'm off putting things away, I might stop to clean a fish tank as I pass by. Or if I'm taking paper to the recycling can anyway, I might grab the newspaper pile for recycling. Whenever I quit cleaning, I'm happy because the play area looks better than when I started (nearly no "making it worse before making it better"), because I didn't need to do any of this today anyway (I'm ahead of the game), and because I got other extra chores done without even really noticing. I end my work feeling very productive, making it easier to work on the task again later.

Of course, I've left out the best way to get things done: cut all the corners! No, actually it's "delegate to others." (When it's allowed. You probably shouldn't do that with homework.)

I'd love to hear other people's ideas on this. I'm always looking for ways to improve what I'm doing.

Facebook is a problem

Facebook is going to kill me.

No, it’s not actually sucking up too much of my time. Sure, I like to check what my friends have posted 2 or 3 times a day, but I’m not one to linger there. While I might take a quick quiz if I have a few seconds to spare, I’ve never played any of the super fun addictive games Facebook offers. Facebook itself is not the problem.

What’s going to kill me is how Facebook bleeds into the rest of my life.

I keep myself busy. Oh, I realize that saying “I’m busy” is equivalent to saying “I live in 2010,” but I consciously chop out of my life anything that isn’t a top priority. Once I went to a quilt shop to buy some quilting books. “These are for my wife,” I said because I was starving for something to say, “I used to do some quilting, but I don’t have time anymore.” The sales clerk replied, “You’d have more time if you didn’t watch television.” I might’ve said something at that point, but she launched herself into an anti-television diatribe that morphed into some new topic before I was able to find any chink in the monologue. In afterthought, where I am a master of clever replies, I should’ve said, “I know it’s a waste, but I can’t bring myself to give up that half hour of TV I watch each year.”

Keeping away from TV is good for me for another reason: I am cursed with a hunger for trying out all the newest things. What I don’t know about, I can’t leap enthusiastically into.

As a Scout leader, it’s a great thing to be fascinated by the newest ideas. Or the old ideas that are new to me. Every time I see a great new skit, award ceremony, craft, opening ceremony, etc., I burn to try it out myself. That keeps my scouts (cubs and girls) interested because I’m never going to try the same thing twice… or at least not without adding some new twist.

The bad news is that I can only hold so much in my hands. There’s only so much time in each day.

When my oldest son was just over a year old, we took him to his first Easter egg hunt. The course had been set up by college students and each child was allowed to find some number of candy-filled plastic eggs. Because we were overprotective first-time parents and the terrain seemed a bit rough for our toddling little lad, my wife carried the basket for his eggs. Little F found one egg and was very happy. He insisted on holding the egg rather than putting it in the basket. Then he found a second egg. With one egg clutched in each hand, he was done and we couldn’t convince him otherwise. His hands were full; he didn’t need anything more.

I wish I could be more like that. I’m not a glutton for nearly any physical object… but I am for ideas. That’s probably why I’m in the middle of about 20 books right now.

Have me hunt for plastic eggs stuffed full of ideas and new experiences and I’m the kid with his basket, arms, and pockets full of eggs, repeatedly stooping to pick up the eggs that he dropped when trying to grab the ones he just found. If I end up punished in Hades like Sisyphus, that will be my task.

So Facebook is going to kill me because I see all the interesting things my friends are doing, and I want to do them, too. I want to read that book, listen to that music, or cook that food. I want to learn Muay Thai. I want to register with a site where I can track my reading. I want to visit Texas. I want to see that new baby animal at the zoo, volunteer my time with that group, take that Scouting training, attend a reunion, grow those plants in my garden, play that strategy game, fence with the group on Mondays, take my kids to that performance, spend more time writing fiction, train for a triatholon. I want to blog my thoughts and experiences of all these things. Facebook is a whole world of plastic eggs stuffed with ideas and new experiences… and, what’s even more tempting, people I know are trying these things. If I do them, too, I can share the experience.

And so I need more time. Lots more time. Not the measly extra few hours a day you can get by giving up eating and sleeping entirely, but an order of magnitude more time. I need 240 hours each day. Yeah, I think that’ll hold me for the next few months… probably.

Facebook is either going kill me, or finally motivate me to perfect that time machine I’ve been tinkering with in the basement.