Head Scratch

The little lies we tell ourselves.

I flew to Los Angeles on Sunday to catch a connecting flight to New York, where I was to host a conference on Monday and Tuesday. When I got to my departure gate in LA I discovered that my flight had been canceled due to impending lousy weather in New York. It was announced that the earliest we would be able to fly out was Tuesday. The departure lounge was a funnel cloud of frustration. I called my boss, explained the situation, and we both came to the conclusion that I could spend all day looking for a flight on another airline and still not be guaranteed to be in New York in time for my conference. A colleague was already en route to New York, so she'd host it. We decided that I should turn around and come home.

I headed off to the ticket counter to purchase a return ticket. I waited in line for close to three hours (I wont even go into the other hour I spent in another line trying to track down my lost bag, which as of today, Wednesday, has still not shown up.). In all of the mayhem that ensued I just don't understand how an airline can put a single ticket agent on the desk as people frantically attempt to make alternative travel arrangements. The mind boggles.

However, the thing that struck me more than anything else was the little lies that people would tell themselves and others as they stood there in line. The anger and the frustration somehow needed to be supported by exaggeration, half-truths, and lies. For instance, a gentleman behind me placed a call on his cellphone and started telling the person on the other end that he had been standing in line for over an hour and that the line hadn't even moved. The truth was that I had only been in line for 30 minutes, so he being right behind me had stood there even less, and although I'll admit that the line was moving at a snail's pace, it was moving. We moved at least two medium-sized floor tiles.

It started me thinking about the lies I tell myself in an attempt to protect an emotion I have  become addicted to or an opinion I hold onto even when all evidence points to the contrary. I guess it's ego and its self-righteous need to fight tooth and nail to be right. All the time. It has started me thinking about honesty. Honesty in my dealings with myself and honesty in my dealings with others. And releasing the need to right. Being wrong, or vulnerable, or just not having all the answers is okay.

A word of thanks....

As you'll have gathered from reading my *NEW* post below, the discipline of posting daily is proving to be a challenge for me. And by extention, the discipline of responding to your posts is equally challenging. I do read and appreciate your responses, so a million thanks for your opinions and thoughts. I feel like I get to know you all a little better with each response I receive. Cheers!

The Tacher

I have a secret fantasy to be a syndicated columnist. To write about every day occurrences and for it to serve as a kind of reflecting pond for my readers. In the haste of daily life my writing would allow people to take a moment to see who they were, to laugh at themselves and to recognize themselves in the act and joy of living. Starting this blog was motivated by this desire. Try my hand at writing, see how it actually feels, I said to myself. Well, it's a lot harder than I thought. Writing every day takes discipline. I have been failing miserable so far. I have a million thoughts in my head, but putting them down on paper feels like such a chore. Remind me to hire a PA to whom I can dictate.

My dear friend, April Stearns, recommended that I read Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. The subtitle is Some Instructions on Writing and Life. (Should that have been in quotes? I always get confused, but who cares, my PA will figure it out.) It's a hilarious book full of wisdom. No sooner had I opened the book and started to read when she stated that writing is not easy and it takes discipline. I didn't know whether to be reassured or deflated by the realization that I wasn't so unique in my struggle. One of the first "exercises" she recommends is to start writing about one's childhood, remembering as much as one can in as much detail as possible. So, here's something I remember......

My Aunt Kitty had a mustache that would make any man proud. Now, I'm not talking about peach fuzz or a few wayward hairs, mind you. What I'm talking about is a full on "tacher." I knew from quite a young age that it was quite a unique physical attribute for a woman to have. "Com'ere Donal boy," she'd say, "give your Aunt Kitty a kiss will ya." The experience was hairy and prickly, mixed with the smell of perfume.

Kitty owned a butcher shop. Over the front of the shop in big painted letters it read "Murphy's Butchers." I always got a thrill from seeing my name on the wall.

The butcher shop was not large, but to a five year old like me it was an enchanting place. The smell of fresh meat every time I'd walk through the door; Pigs heads and tails in the window; Fly paper hanging in coils from the ceiling like long forgotten streamers from a New Year's party; Sharp knives that I was warned never to touch, which always held me spell-bound.

The counter-top, a big cold slab of speckled marble, maybe 10 feet long and two and a half to three feet wide dominated the interior. The thing was huge and regardless of the time of year, it was always cold to the touch. It was especially delightful in summer-time. Given its monstrous size, my Aunt Kitty would allow my siblings and I to lie on it. It was cool and soothing against our cheeks and legs. To us it was like hugging a large over-sized Popsicle.

Ok, as childhood memories go that's a start I suppose.

The four-way stop personality test.

My apartment overlooks a four-way stop intersection. I drive through it or observe it on a daily basis.  It's a great place to observe personalities. There's the conformist who behaves as he/she should and waits his/her turn. There's the passive-aggressive who inches out without making a commitment to drive through, finds his/herself blocking the intersection, becomes paralyzed with fear and remorse and then proceeds through the intersection to the sound of screeching brakes all around. And then there's the Alpha (fe)male. These folks don't even stop and lay claim to the intersection the moment they arrive. And why shouldn't they, it is after all their turn all of the time.

So, next time you're at a four-way stop, observe your behavior. It most likely reveals the true you. And you may not like it.

Stop the Valentine's Day madness!

I ended up making my girlfriend Jules a Valentine's Day card. I chose to make a card as opposed to buying one for two reasons. Nothing that I saw at the store quite conveyed what I wanted to say, but more importantly, as I stood there in the card isle trying to make up my mind I got mad with the realization that this is a holiday built around commercialism. I always knew it, but this year it got the better of me. There is a huge amount of pressure to buy tokens and expressions of love for everyone from your romantic partner to the guy that delivers your daily newspaper. I always thought that Valentine's Day was the expression of romantic love. Yet there I stood in the store in front of Valentine cards not just for boyfriends/girlfriends, husbands/wives, but for brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers, landlords, tenants, bosses, employees, co-workers...... Oh come on! Valentine's Day is a romantic holiday. The last thing I want to be forced or guilted in the doing is buying a card for my boss that says giddy up or some such.

By the way, I didn't see one card expressing gay love. Have some balls Hallmark!

What defines us?

I have been living in the U.S. for almost 14 years. In human development terms that's adolescence. And when I remember back to being fourteen it was the beginning of self-exploration, sexual awakening, testing the boundaries of independence, and utter confusion, to name a few.

I'm reading a book at the moment called The Pope's Children, which I picked up in Ireland when I visited last summer. The book chronicles the dramatic changes that Ireland has witnessed economically, socially and culturally in the 14 years I have been gone. In fact, I was compelled to pick it up while I was there because the Ireland I observed when I was there is not the Ireland I grew up in. So much has changed.

And as I enter into the adolescence of my life in America I'm beginning to ask some big questions. How have I changed? Who have I become? What part Irish am I? What part American am I?  What defines me? People? Places? Life circumstances? Things that I have done? Or things that I have failed to do?

I'll keep you posted....

Old lady by day. International assassin by night.

There's a spry old woman who lives in my neighborhood, who I see on a fairly regular basis. I have never spoken to her. I just see her pass by. Mostly she's walking to the store. She's always alone. I have never seen her in the company of someone else.

She wears the exact same outfit, the only variation being the color of the sweater. Flat black slip-on shoes, grey slacks, waist-length knit sweater buttoned up the center with gold pearl buttons, a classic Herringbone Gaffer on her head, and wrap around sunglasses (the type you get at Walgreen's that go over prescription glasses). The whole look is very distinguished. This is obviously a woman who takes pride in her appearance.

She looks like she's in her late 70s, is rail thin, and walks with poise and athleticism.

I think she's an international assassin.  And here's why.

She's always alone, probably the result of never being able to get close to someone for fear of having to kill them for knowing too much. She has a deceivingly "nice little old lady" way about her that could fairly easily lure her target to his doom. She's fit and agile and could shimmy through the air duct of any building. And she wears the same outfit over and over, so packing at a moment's notice is a cinch.

But without speaking to her I'll never know for sure.

Hood First or Trunk First?

Have you ever noticed that while the vast majority of us drive hood first into a parking space, there's a small but noticeable minority that like to reverse into a space? Are these "Trunk First" parkers special? Do they know something that the rest of us don't? Are they just more pessimistic about life, believing that anywhere they go misfortune is sure to follow and they need to plan for a fast exit? No time for looking in the rear-view mirror, inching slowly out, checking left and right making sure you're clearing the vehicles on both sides. No, they're in the car, key in the ignition and screaming head first out of the parking space. Or maybe they live life with a certain eager anticipation and are not trying to get away from any place in a hurry, but rather excited to get onto the next thing and wanting to get there faster.

Anyway, whatever the attraction, I'm going to give it a whirl.

There's paper all around you for heaven sakes!

The men's toilet in the office building I work in has a nasty hidden secret. Someone frequents it (and we can narrow it down to the male gender), picks his nose and wipes it on the tiled wall. And there it stays, hardening with each passing day. And it happens over and over again. Little deposits here and there.

I just don't understand. I could understand if this was a toilet in an elementary school. Haven't we all in our childhood picked our noses and been curious about how snot reacts with the outside elements. But when I last checked, the youngest man in the building was in his mid-twenties, with the average age probably in the mid-forties.

What motivates an adult male to pick his nose and wipe it on the tile? For the love of God, toilets by their very function are full of paper, within arms reach.

So, I'm willing that guy, whoever he is, to reach out and grab some paper and do the right thing.