Salutation Reform

So now that healthcare reform has been checked off the list, I'm hoping the government will focus on a piece of legislation that I've been waiting on for decades--salutation reform. Our culture has come so far over the past couple of centuries, yet we're still living in the Dark Ages when it comes to how we greet one another. If you know me, you know where I'm going with this. If you don't, then I'll spare you the guessing game. Let's do away with the handshake. In fact, let's make it downright illegal. I believe with all my heart that we can find another gesture to accompany the phrases "pleasure to meet you" and "hey, it's nice to see you again" than by offering an open palm. There are tons of options out there, ranging from ones I can support (the ever-so-slight bow used in some Asian countries) to those that I won't even consider (a kiss on each cheek).

From what I can tell, the handshake is the international standard, but I don't know why. I did some extensive research on the handshake...just now...on Wikipedia. While it appears that the origin is unkown, some think that it was first used as a sign of peace to show that the hand held no weapons. Well if you don't think millions of microscopic killer viruses qualify as a weapon, then shake on--I'm obviously from a different school of thought. And when was the handshake agreed upon as the accepted greeting?? Oh that I could've been present eons ago at the Global Salutation Summit where it was decided that an individual is rude unless they extend their unwashed, germ-coated hand to embrace yours. I don't know who they were, but I can only surmise that the decision makers were a group of filthy men with little to no respect for the perils of infectious disease. What they didn't know is that their descendants would someday become the same men (and women, or so I'm told) that have the audacity to visit the potty and then bypass the sink or Purell dispenser on their way out the door. Those men (and their potty-tainted ancestors) were (and are) completely oblivious to the existence of people like me who genuinely need therapy and/or medication to help deal with the reality of germs (important note: while I'm not currently receiving therapy or taking medication, I am confident that I am a strong candidate for both).

With the help of the federal government, we can do away with this culturally mandatory exchange of germs. The legislative process is my only hope at this point. Nothing else is working. I've tried the fist bump, but that went out with the 90s. I've tried the business-casual hug (using only one arm and initiating the hug sequence from the side instead of straight on). I've also tried the "I'd shake your hand but..." approach in which I finish that sentence with a semi-accurate word or phrase such as, "...I have something on my hands" or "...my hands are wet, dang bathroom didn't have paper towels." My guess is that you've tried some of these things too. Oh sure, they may work for a while, but you can only half-hug someone so many times before they start getting the wrong impression or before you forget that you've half-hugged them in the past and you inadvertently revert to a hand shake, which they interpret as a step backward in your relationship. This isn't working people. We need reform. And I'm willing to go bi-partisan on this. We don't need the help of the Tea Party, we just need enough people to take a stand against the Pee Party.

If you're with me, give me Faux Five--it's like a high five, but our hands stop short of touching.

Techno-Shock

Sarah and I took a giant leap forward yesterday, technologically speaking, and according to my estimates, we’re about five years behind everyone else. After some intense number crunching and smooth talking, I was able to convince Sarah that by switching satellite providers, I could save us money each month and propel us into the 21^st Century with a nifty little invention called digital video recording, or DVR. I stayed up way too late a couple of nights ago implementing my master plan, which included lengthy phone conversations with my former satellite provider, whom I’ll refer to as NeglecTV, and my new provider, whom I’ll call Wish Network. I’ll save my rant against poor customer service for another post.

The installation happened yesterday, but being too tired to dive in last night, I waited until today to give it a try. After sleeping in until 10 a.m. and waking to the smell of fresh-baked muffins and the sight of my son successfully changing his own diaper, I ran into the living room to play with my new toy like a child on Christmas morning. Okay, that’s not at all how this morning went (I got a little carried away with my Wish Network metaphor). Actually, Elijah thought it would be awesome to wake up at 5:40 this morning and pull my hair until I got out of bed to fetch him a bottle. After feeding him and changing his diaper—myself—I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. I digress.

So after glancing over a quick reference guide and familiarizing myself with the remote (I’m a nerd like that), I was ready to try it out, but much to my surprise, my response was not what I expected. I went into full-blown techno-shock. I now had power like never before. With the push of a button (or several pushes of many buttons—learning curve), I had the ability to record two programs at one time, fast forward through commercials and…and...PAUSE LIVE TELEVISION!!! I did, I paused live television several times this morning, not because I needed to, but because I could. For 31.5 years, I’ve been at the mercy of how television wanted me to watch it, but now the tables have turned. Over the next 15 minutes, I managed to pre-select three movies and four shows to record, and I found myself looking for commercials to fast forward through. All of this brought about a sense of guilt, like I was I was doing something very illegal, for only $6 more per month. This is all wrong. Commercials are made to be watched, not skipped. They’re made to inform, promote, inspire and convince. I know this because that’s what I do for a living—I market. In fact, my colleagues and I just finished creating four new commercials to launch our company’s latest branding campaign. They made their debut just last week! And now, I find myself among the group of ungrateful consumers who have the ability to fast forward right through them like they don’t even matter. They matter alright, but the newest member of my household, DVR, wants to treat them like nothing more than a minor and extremely avoidable annoyance to my television-viewing pleasure. I find this all very ironic because, while DVR is a digital slap in the face to us marketers, it will also prove to be a huge time-saver in my life, which may allow me to spend more time at work, creating things that people are just going to end up ignoring thanks to DVR. My convictions tell me to cancel the $6/month charge and send back the DVR receiver, but then again, I did pause live television today.

Playground Etiquette

The public playground secret code of conduct. Ever heard of it? It exists. I saw it with my very own eyes the other day. I liken it to the guidelines that exist around personal space in a public elevator or the unspoken rules that two male friends adhere to when entering a public restroom at the same time--the one urinal buffer and the pause in conversation until meeting again at the sink.

Sarah and I took our 17-month-old son, Elijah, to a public playground for the first time last Sunday. Sure, I've been to public playgrounds before. In fact, I was the self-crowned king of the monkey bars between the ages of 6 and 9, and my wife claims that she was quite a swinger when she was young. I suggested she find a better way to say that. Well, apparently frequenting public playgrounds as a kid and taking your own kids to playgrounds are two very different things. We were the newbies, and it was quite evident. Now, at this point, I could go into the fact that our son has a very serious heart defect, and that, much to his dismay, he lives 95% of his life inside a boring, little antimicrobial world that we've worked really hard to create. But I won't go there because I think it's better that you maintain an objective opinion of our experience and not rule in our favor by default.

So, here we are, the rookie parents rolling up to the busy playground; our plan was to have a quick picnic lunch and then treat Elijah to some normalcy--something he doesn't often get. The park was crowded, really crowded. A birthday party was in its infant stages (I had to) under the shelter off in the distance. Directly in front of us, the sight of children ages 2 to 12 running here and there, trading giggles and germs like it was their job. I first noticed the stares in our direction as we navigated our stroller packed with cargo down the sidewalk toward our grassy destination. Sure, the stroller was full--we were having a picnic. Was it ideal that we had to carry Elijah because there was too much stuff in the stroller for him to ride? No. Hence the staring. After a fast lunch, we headed up to the swing set, which consisted of two big-kid swings and two toddler swings (you know, the bucket seat with leg holes). After parking our baby U-Haul, we proceeded to pull out the Clorox wipes to try and kill as much bacteria as possible before placing Elijah in the swing. We knew that sanitizing playground equipment in broad daylight was a risky move, but there was nastiness on that swing, and it was our job to annihilate it. The Clorox wipes drew some stares, but not as many as what came next in our little adventure. It was Elijah's first time on a real-deal swing set, so of course we had to take pictures--Smith family style, which is more like a Gerber product photo shoot. Sure, we snapped a few more than we needed to, but the sun provided perfect lighting and the smile on Elijah's face was priceless. As for the man pushing his daughter in the next swing over? Well, he was disgusted. His non-verbals almost said it all, and what they didn't say, his verbals did. Caught up in her mission to get the money shot, Sarah inadvertently stepped in the path of the man's swing zone. There was still plenty of room between Sarah, our camera and his little girl's feet, but not enough for his liking. "Ma'am!", he quipped. And that's all it took. That one word quickly made us realize that, between disinfecting public equipment and our mini-photo shoot, we were way out of line. We simply weren't adhering to the same code of conduct that the other parents were. We were rattled. After a couple more pushes and some retaliatory snapshots, we removed Elijah from the swing and made our way to the slide. Elijah was none too pleased about the abrupt ending to his swinging bliss (the photo with this post says it all). The slide didn't work out, and so we decided to call it a day. We did manage to squeeze in a nice stroll around the park during our stay and that, combined with the enjoyable lunch was enough to make us return someday. Yes, we'll have the Clorox Wipes and the camera with us the next time because we're the Smiths, and that's what we do. As for acknowledging and adhering to the parental code of conduct, we'll see how that goes.

I Think I'll Start Blogging

I'm always thinking about things that I want to do and things that I'm going to do. Unfortunately, these rarely translate to things that I actually do. Need references? Okay. The keyboard in my hall closet, the Wii Fit under my bed, the eliptical machine in my garage, the "Learn Spanish in Two Weeks" book in my nightstand, the leaves in my yard from last November, the plastic guard that I bought two summers ago to prevent birds from flying into my attic through the exterior dryer vent, the dead bird in my attic who flew in from the exterior dryer vent last summer. Can I stop now?

Today, I diagnosed myself as a chronic thinker of the worst kind--one that's way too easily distracted. It happened after an occurrence that has become far too normal for me. I was in the shower, and I'm pretty sure that I washed my hair twice because I was so deep in thought the first time that I don't remember doing it. Snicker all you want, you've done it too. Haven't you? Anyone? Please? My wife once told me that I go through shampoo too fast. Today I figured out why. That's when the self-diagnosis came. The prescription? One more thing that I think I should start doing. So, here I am. And hopefully, here you are (note to audience: if "you" ends up only being my wife, let me know; I'll shut this thing down, and we'll do this at the dinner table). I figure it's time to start letting some of these thoughts out, if for no other reason than to increase the lifespan of my shampoo. And if this blog is headed in same direction as my aspirations to play piano, learn Spanish, exercise 30 minutes a day and keep birds out of my attic, then don't get too comfortable, this ride will be over before you know it.