Monday, June 30, 2008

Eye Contact, Psychopaths, and Poles

Eye contact has always been important to me. Early in my life, Dad the banker always stressed, “Look a person in the eye when you shake hands with him.” And, of course, it was always the right eye, because my dad had only one functional eye (see “Here’s Lookin’ at You, Kid,” April 23, 2008).

“And make sure you grasp firmly,” he’d add. Like when I used to milk beef cattle. Right, Dad?

Good eye contact might indicate trustworthiness, unless the person is a psychopathic liar. I’ve known four: three males, one female.

One, a lawyer, held his hand in front of his mouth when he spoke. He may have been covering up bad breath, bad teeth, or bad words. In his case, it was bad faith, deception, his intent to deceive, which was most apparent on stage.

He’d slip into his fat-man lawyer garb, snug up his belt, and prowl into the theater, ah, courtroom. His eyes would shift right and left, never sustaining eye contact for longer than a nanosecond, unless he was lying.

Illogical, fallacious detritus would spew from his diabolical, egotistical mouth, at which his friend, the judge, would applaud and say, “I know this weasel, ah, man to be honest. And therefore, whatever he expels is gospel. You owe him several thousand dollars, even though he conspired against you. Case closed. I’m going fishing.”

If you don’t have to work with poor-eye-contact people, don’t. And don't deal with psychopaths (or lawyers or judges if you don't have to).

One day I was walking downtown with a friend, frequently turning my head to look into her eyes to affirm my attention. Being a gentlewoman, I walked closer to the street, weaving between pedestrians, parking meters, and postal collection boxes.

Mesmerized by her story, I fixed my eyes on her too long and whap! I crashed directly into a street light pole.

I firmly believe in maintaining good eye contact—with a little foresight and a metal detector, of course.

But sometimes I walk into nonmetallic substances.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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It’s Who You Know


(Puzzle piece number 13 of 38.)
When I was in college, I dated a poli sci graduate named Paul, who served with our university’s campus security. Those were the days when Brian “Kato” Kaelin and the Killer Cushman raced across the University of Wisconsin–Eau Claire footbridge. Then in 1994, O.J. Simpson boosted Kato’s visibility.

My friend Paul was a kick. Highly intelligent and articulate, he loved a good party and made life the best adventure. He’d write notes to me that led me to the dictionary. He engaged me with deep questions that only years later could I answer, such as “What are you doing later?”

Paul was a member, maybe even the instigator, of a fraternity called Phelta Thi. I caught on to that name right away, though Paul was always a gentleman. One day he called to say that he and his roommates were going to throw a beach party. “We’ll be playing Beach Boys tunes, wearing Hawaiian shirts, and we’re having a truckload of sand hauled in, so we can play volleyball between the houses.”

True to his word, all components pulled together to create a fabulous event. That night, to the guys’ excitement and the girls’ horror, a bat flew into the house, which the guys brought down with a tennis racket and threw into Paul’s snake’s aquarium. The sight of the snake eating that bat still gives me the willies.

Years passed, I moved to Colorado, and new lives ensued. Then one summer, maybe 17 years later, I flew back to Eau Claire for a visit. My former client–friend with whom I was staying loaned me a car and away I drove, exploring my old city.

I must have looked like a codfish, mouth agape at all the development. In my amazement, I stepped on the accelerator and quickly soaked in the surreal changes as they flew past my window.

Pulling me abruptly back to reality, a siren sounded behind me. Discovering the brake, I went from 50 to zero in record time. The young officer, about my age, announced my speed and how different it was from the posted limit. He asked me to present my driver’s license and registration, which further shocked me into reality. Do I even have them?

“Well,” I tensely began. “I don’t live here. This isn’t my car, and I don’t know where the registration would be. But here’s my name, which is different from what it used to be when I lived here.”

The officer raised his eyebrows and walked back to his cruiser without a smile. I started seeing bars—and I don’t mean the ones on Water Street.

About four minutes later, he returned to my side with a smile, which prompted me to scoot right a bit. “You’re clear,” he said. “I’m going to let you go without a ticket. And Paul says hi. He’s investigating a robbery, or he’d come to see you.”

A whoosh of relief coursed through my body, and I quickly sped away.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Hear My Plea


I know you’re going to think I’m a children’s health fanatic.

Well, I am. I believe that’s where it all begins. You teach your kids to say no to sugar. You guide them through foods, teaching them the vitamins and minerals contained in each, and in the long run, you both reap the benefits.

I live in Colorado Springs, and on page 1 of The Gazette (June 24, 2008) are two little kids covering their ears, indicating their pain from hearing stock cars racing. First, I find this a ridiculous sport. Second, it’s a waste of energy. Third, racing pollutes an otherwise quiet environment. Fourth, even adults should use ear protection in the presence of excessively loud continuous noise. Fifth, and most important, children should not be allowed to attend these events!

Stock car racing, or motorcycle contests, or any gathering of way-too-loud PA systems should be a clear sign to parents: Don’t include your children on such deafening circumstances. Dear God, why would a parent want to ruin their child’s health? I shot trap for years and have regretted the decision to not wear muffs or earplugs.

I was at a beer fest downtown many years ago where a music group had the volume on their speakers unnecessarily boosted. I stress unnecessarily, because people from several blocks away could have heard the sound. Up close and personal, it was unreasonably distorted.

A young attendee with his toddler son were standing in front of the band, the young boy covering his ears. I looked at my friend and said, “That’s it!” I walked up to the dad and furiously shared a child-care tip with him, to which he replied, “Man, it’s okay. I take him to a lot of groups, and they’re a lot louder than these guys.”

I told him I was contacting the police. He left.

When I first moved here and saw blue smoke emitting from vehicles, my first thought was, That person obviously has no kids, or he’d fix his car. How would that guy like inhaling his exhaust for a few hours?

Irritated is a mild word to use on the way it affects me.

If a parent must take his child to an overbearingly loud event, give the kid shooting muffs. Please?

And please turn off your car when you’re not moving it.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, June 23, 2008

Pet Peeve Turned Passion


I have a pet peeve.

It really makes my blood boil when I see a parent wearing sunglasses and their child wears none. It makes me want to turn these people into Social Services, but most Social Services employees are inept.

A lot of these parents sport very expensive-looking sunglasses, so my conjecture is that they either (1) cannot afford sunglasses for their child because they’ve spent so much on their own cool shades, or (2) they are so wealthy that they can afford eye-disease treatment or cataract surgery for their child, once afflicted.

So rather than losing my composure and explaining how selfish and neglectful these parents are, I turned my pet peeve into a passion. I started buying inexpensive child sunglasses, five in a pack, and handing them out or placing them on children—with their parent’s permission, of course. Every time, parents have gladly accepted.

When my hiking buddy, who jumped on the bandwagon with me, found two for $2 shades at Target, he bought a bunch of them, gave them to me, and I have given them away. Recently my daughter and I discovered Dollar Tree, which sells myriad styles—all for a buck, so we stocked up! I remove the tags, stick ’em in a Ziploc, pop ’em in a tote with the rest of my stuff, and off I go—saving children’s eyes!

In mid-June, my gal pal and I dashed off to a community event that turned out to be rather unfortunate in its ambience. Equally unfortunate was the number of moms and dads protecting their own eyes while their little ones suffered and squinted. Heartbreaking. Had I stopped for every visually unprotected child, I would have been at least 35 short. The event mimicked a low-class carnival, jam-packed, so I didn’t make any offers…until we were leaving.

Ahead of us were two young guys and a young gal pushing a stroller, her toddler son unhappily squinting in the glaring sun. “Hi,” I greeted, “I have a pair of sunglasses for your son if you need them!”

“Sure,” she said, and I pulled out the Ziploc. The three young adults eyed the assortment and chose the pair I had the feeling they’d select. I handed them to the mom, who placed them on her son. Like turning on a light switch, this little boy’s face changed from a pained frown to a glowing smile! It was brilliant and truly the highlight of my day—and possibly the little boy’s.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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Monday, June 16, 2008

Lesbians, Communication, and the Cute Girl on the Golf Course


(Puzzle piece number 12 of 38.)
I am not a lesbian. Yet.

But don’t you wonder how men and women withstand long-term relationships? The genders operate as differently as automatic and manual transmissions, just grinding away. Communication errors and differing ranges of bandwidth may be partially to blame.

One’s ear may contain a banana and not hear what someone’s voice is saying. The message becomes convoluted, a fruit salad.

Or the speaker may lack clear delivery skills, spewing a mouthful of BFM, bovine fecal matter, the message lost in stench.

Or the listener’s mind could be filled with so much psychobabble that nothing can be accurately heard, like an iPod-wearing, singing-and-dancing teenager just told to vacuum the carpet. (Hmm, that gives me an idea.)

Or maybe a person just doesn’t want to hear. Let’s read this couple’s conversation.

She: “Loverly like a bunch of coconuts it is today, my dear. Let’s get out and play some tennis.”

He: “Yeah! But it’s a better day for golf!”

She: “Uh-huh. Well, afterward maybe we could grab some Thai food to spice things up a bit.”

He: “You bet! But I’d like to bite into a big burger. I’m getting hungry already.”

She: “How about if we call Brent and Kathy and see if they’d like to get together for happy hour.”

He: “Maybe. Though watching the game then jumping in bed sounds better. I’ll go get my clubs!”

According to the Oxford Dictionary on my iBook, the second definition of communication reads “the successful conveying or sharing of ideas and feelings.” Note the word successful.

Verbal communication (vs. listening) has been estimated to be about 7 percent words spoken and 38 percent delivery and tone of voice. The remaining 55 percent is expressed via body language—facial expression, foot tapping, club in hand.

In the fact sheet “Stress and Communication,” the authors state that “the core of effective communication is listening.”* Listening.

Please permit me a small generalization. If a study were conducted on men listening to their wives, and if the wives were to talk about their relationship rather than sports, food, or sex, actual listening may be from 2 to 5 percent. Ninety-five to 98 percent of the husbands’ thoughts may be about what time a ball game will be on TV, planning his next meal, or thinking about that cute girl on the golf course.

Do women hear any better if a guy is talking about the ’48 Chevy he’s restoring, the score of the last ball game, or the cute girl on the golf course? I suspect her ears would prick up a bit on the latter.

Especially if the listener is a lesbian. But she’d wonder about the girl’s swing.

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

* Suzanna Smith and Joe Pergola, “Stress and Communication,” University of Florida Cooperative Extension Service (November 1991), quoted in National Ag Safety Database (April 2002), www.cdc.gov/nasd/docs/d000001-d000100/d000012/d000012.html.

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Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Revenge


Revenge may be the dish best served cold, but I served mine while it was still warm.

From 2:30 till about 6:30 almost every day for weeks, someone’s dog barked like my mind thinks—incessantly. But the dog bothered me more.

I resorted to wearing my shooting muffs while I worked in an attempt to concentrate. Considering one’s home should be their sanctuary, my coping device seemed contradictory—though I had contemplated shooting something.

By week five, I wore permanent circles around my ears from the muffs, and my tolerance had worn as thin as the seat on my favorite jeans. So I ventured down the street and began spying behind people’s houses.

There it was, the culprit: a Lab mix wagging its black, long-haired tail as it pranced back and forth in its backyard that abuts my kinder neighbors’ backyard. The dog probably hoped its owner would hear what the rest of the neighborhood had gone insane from and let the neglected beast inside.

But derelict petkeepers aren’t concerned about what their dogs need, nor what their neighbors have to suffer. The unconscious flybrain probably wouldn’t even notice if every house on the block displayed a For Sale sign, with arrows pointing toward the perpetrator’s house.

I know everyone on my street, but not everyone on the adjacent street where Inconsiderado lived. Had I known this person, and being the diplomatic, sensitive person I am, I would have promptly suggested his or her moving to North Korea.

In my investigative, CIA style, I learned that the inattentive, irresponsible black hole was a female! I jotted down her name and phone number and decided to ring her in a courageous moment and have a little chat.

But I don’t have many courageous moments anymore and never got the nerve. Instead, I donned the shooting muffs again and tried to work. After wearing the muffs so long I could hear my thoughts twice, I decided to walk around the block with our fairly well-behaved, nonbarking Lab, Shiloh.

I first tossed the ball a few times to encourage him to deposit treasures on my own lawn, rather than another’s. Once accomplished, I leashed him and embarked on our journey. We rounded the corner at block’s end, walked the short end of the block, then turned right again, proceeding up Numbskull-Neighbor Street.

Only two houses into this block and good ol’ Shiloh yanked me to the side to produce yet more jewels for my collection. I stared up at the sky, hummed a little all-I-ever-do-is-pick-up-doo, I-need-to-feed-him-less ditty, and awaited my opportunity to bag the morsels.

Great, I thought, that’ll cut my walk short, because I will not hike with this odiferous, porous bag at my side. And then I started to smile. Today was garbage day for some. I continued forward about eight houses, and Bingo! Such excitement! Her garbage container awaited my warm, thoughtful gift. I surveyed my surroundings, saw no one watching, and with the widest, most devilish of grins, I slipped my Warm Dish of Revenge into No One Is Really Home’s empty bin.

Revenge may be the dish best served cold, but fresher and warmer with a little side odor is more gratifying. What a stinker!

copyright © 2008 by Auntie Eartha. All rights reserved.

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