So let’s keep today’s column just between you and me. You see, I’m trying to figure out what to get my wife for her birthday, and, quite frankly, I’m stuck.
My wife is one of the hardest people in the world to shop for, and it’s not because she’s selective or picky. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. She’s just giddy about anything you get her. Seriously. She is one of the last hold-outs of the “thought that counts” cliché, which makes it a lot tougher, because you have to put incredible scrutiny into what you buy. If it was all about flash, that problem’s easily solved. But when your thoughts and motivation are analyzed, you have to be careful: “Uh, why would you think I want a set of men’s golf clubs?”
And I know what you are thinking. And you are wrong. She is not just saying that. I have known my wife for a very long time, and trust me – I can tell when she’s mad. Plus, one thing my wife and I agreed on long ago was that management of expectations was key to a happy coexistence. For example, Valentine’s Day. My wife does not care about Valentine’s Day. How do I know this? Because she told me she does not. She has said before, “If you want to go to dinner or something, that’s fine, but don’t spend $75 on flowers for a made-up holiday.” And you may think she’s just saying that. However, I know she is not, because I have gone against her Valentine’s wishes and gotten her something, which usually resulted in a lecture on fiscal responsibility. (If you would like for your children to be fiscally responsible, I highly encourage you have my wife come and talk to them. She can go on and on and on about how you should pay the bills each month and balance the checkbook and blah blah blah. It’s boring, but eventually you just say, “Fine, I’ll send the power company a check if you’ll JUST STOP TALKING ABOUT IT.”)
Pretty much the only time we exchange gifts is for birthdays and Christmas. For our anniversary each year, we usually have take-out Chinese food, because that’s what we started doing when we were newlyweds, and, quite frankly, we like Chinese take-out. For Christmas, we will usually agree on one big thing for the house. Nothing spreads Yuletide joy like a new dishwasher.
Birthdays have always been the wildcard. Sometimes we get wild and crazy and get each other big whopping gifts. Other times, we play it low key. We have birthdays fairly close together, so sometimes we simply opt to split the difference and go have a nice dinner between the two dates. This year, for my birthday, my wife got pneumonia. I told her that I had not, in fact, asked for my wife to have a debilitating illness for my birthday, something she found funny until she began coughing to the point that she almost fell out of bed.
At one point that day, my wife, partially woozy from cough medicine, began to apologize profusely for not doing anything on my birthday. I reminded her that, based on the medications currently in her system, any attempt to try and do anything for my birthday would have probably been a very bad idea.
My wife and I did go shopping a few days ago, and she pointed out numerous things that she liked. My wife and I rarely go shopping because we have different shopping styles. Her mission is to slowly absorb everything in the store and memorize its placement on the shelf and compare prices at other stores. My method is much like Jim Brown in “The Dirty Dozen” – sprint in, take care of business, and get out of there as fast as you can. Unlike Brown, I have completed each mission and have not been shot on my way to the car.
She did give me some hints the other day when we went shopping. With four new stores in one shopping center, I figured I needed to get out and see where my wife would be spending much of the future. As we strolled the aisles, my wife would point out this item and that item, and say what a nice addition this would make or that would make. Here’s the problem – the whole time she was talking, I was busy looking at other things. One of the main areas I found myself focusing on was – and hold off the creepy factor for a minute – the girl’s clothes. My daughter is six, and I looked at a lot of the young girls’ fashions, and all I can say is, “I sure hope muumuus are fashionable when my daughter is a teen, because that’s what she’ll be wearing.”
Sorry, got sidetracked. So the bottom line is I really did not pay much attention to what she pointed out. An even if I had, the list was rather extensive. I don’t think my wife was actually expecting to get all of the stuff, but rather just casually telling me what she found appealing. (Remember – this column is between us. Don’t tell her I wasn’t listening.)
So over the next few days, I will figure something out, I suppose. I may go to those stores that we went to and hope that I randomly hit on something that she had pointed out. I, of course, am open to suggestions. And please don’t suggest I get pneumonia. But whatever it is, if I put solid, earnest thought into, I am sure my wife will be thrilled. Who knows – maybe she’s always wanted a new set of men’s golf clubs.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
The old college try
The best thing about going back to college is I get to relax and be myself. A lottery winning emu rancher.
Yes, my wife and I made our annual pilgrimage back to college, and yes, I am still hoping my voice returns in the next few days. Each year, we head back to the University of Alabama for a fraternity reunion. Since she and I dated during my fraternity days (I know, lucky her), it is a reunion for her, too, as she gets to see not just her husband but plenty of other college friends as we revert back to idiot phase.
This year, we traveled with a full van of folks. My wife and I were in the front, and three guys from college were in the back. Because the van was not loud enough, we stopped in Birmingham to pick up another person. My wife merely rolled her eyes as we went through story after story of pranks and parties and, of course, road trips (One was recounted thusly: “It was akin to a Viking raid: We came for their food, drinks and women.”)
Of course, this trip would be far more tame. We’re grown-ups now. We have families and jobs and responsibilities. And, in my case, a chaperone.
The first night we were there, there was a lot of catching up with people, some of whom I had not seen in more than a decade. We also got to know some of the current house members and their friends, which is how I came upon my $8 million in lottery winnings.
You see, if someone I am never going to see again is going to ask me what I do for a living, I find it far more entertaining to find memorable occupations. Steamboat pilot. Emu rancher. Professional fencer (for the pride of Luxembourg, no less). Or even independently wealth, courtesy of a correct lottery pick. When I spin the yarn, the reaction is one of two things: (1) A roll of the eyes, followed by a “Seriously, what do you do?” or (2) The wide-eyed look of amazement at ACTUALLY meeting a someone who tests zero gravity suits for a living.
My wife says I am an idiot, but I think she means that in a loving way. She did enjoy this exchange as well.
CO-ED: How old are you?
ME: How old do you think I am?
CO-ED: Ummm....24?
MY WIFE: Ha!
CO-ED: Are you his sister?
MY WIFE: Uh, yes, his twin.
CO-ED: I can tell.
MY WIFE: 24, you said? Yes, I am definitely his twin. (Under her breath: Bless you, you poor little dumb child.)
That evening, there was a band party at the house. And that evening I made a deal with myself and the world – I am going to stop trying to dance with any rhythm whatsoever. I have no soul. My wife, bless her heart, has worked with me for 13 years trying to make dancing a possibility, but I just always have this look like I am about to sit down and then decide against it. Basically, I do this over and over and over and consider it dancing. I also occasionally put my fist in the air for some odd reason. I am a mess. But I have to come to terms with it. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my dancing. Don’t tell me it stinks. I already know that. It’s what I can do, it’s what the music drives me to do. It’s sad and pathetic, but, quite frankly, it’s me.
The next day, we opted out of going to the game, even though they were giving away tickets. Seriously. Around kickoff time, three Ole Miss fans (representing roughly half of the Ole Miss contingent), asked us where the Bear Bryant Museum was. That’s how excited they were about the game.
We opted to head to the stadium and see the new Walk of Champions, featuring statues of the coaches who have won national championships at Alabama. There, with the years of their titles, were Wallace Wade, Frank Thomas, Bear Bryant and Gene Stallings. And just to make sure the pressure is on, there was a fifth spot reserved for the coach who brings home Alabama’s 13th national title. Bear, of course, drew the biggest crowd, although we stopped for a moment of reverence for Ol’ Bebes Stallings, since he won his title when we were in school.
We returned to the house to watch the game, where a cooler, a bathroom and a huge buffet of Big P fried chicken were at our disposal. Big P has been the cook at the fraternity house for roughly 800 years, and I have to say – I weep for you, knowing that you have never had Big P’s fried chicken. Think of the greatest fried chicken you have ever had. Now think of that ss roadkill squirrel. That is how good Big P’s chicken is. I am not positive, but I am fairly sure Big P’s fried chicken, if you asked it nicely, would loan you money. It is that good.
We had a band party that night as well, and we all stayed up WAY past our bedtime. The next morning, most everyone had very little voice left. Unlike our college days, when it may have been from screaming at the top of our lungs, this was from trying to shout above the band, “MAN, THIS IS LOUD.”
After a very long ride home, we were happy to be back in the present. We missed our kids, our pets, our home. I love going back to college. I love getting home even more. Guess that’s what happens when you’re old. And an emu ranching millionaire.
Yes, my wife and I made our annual pilgrimage back to college, and yes, I am still hoping my voice returns in the next few days. Each year, we head back to the University of Alabama for a fraternity reunion. Since she and I dated during my fraternity days (I know, lucky her), it is a reunion for her, too, as she gets to see not just her husband but plenty of other college friends as we revert back to idiot phase.
This year, we traveled with a full van of folks. My wife and I were in the front, and three guys from college were in the back. Because the van was not loud enough, we stopped in Birmingham to pick up another person. My wife merely rolled her eyes as we went through story after story of pranks and parties and, of course, road trips (One was recounted thusly: “It was akin to a Viking raid: We came for their food, drinks and women.”)
Of course, this trip would be far more tame. We’re grown-ups now. We have families and jobs and responsibilities. And, in my case, a chaperone.
The first night we were there, there was a lot of catching up with people, some of whom I had not seen in more than a decade. We also got to know some of the current house members and their friends, which is how I came upon my $8 million in lottery winnings.
You see, if someone I am never going to see again is going to ask me what I do for a living, I find it far more entertaining to find memorable occupations. Steamboat pilot. Emu rancher. Professional fencer (for the pride of Luxembourg, no less). Or even independently wealth, courtesy of a correct lottery pick. When I spin the yarn, the reaction is one of two things: (1) A roll of the eyes, followed by a “Seriously, what do you do?” or (2) The wide-eyed look of amazement at ACTUALLY meeting a someone who tests zero gravity suits for a living.
My wife says I am an idiot, but I think she means that in a loving way. She did enjoy this exchange as well.
CO-ED: How old are you?
ME: How old do you think I am?
CO-ED: Ummm....24?
MY WIFE: Ha!
CO-ED: Are you his sister?
MY WIFE: Uh, yes, his twin.
CO-ED: I can tell.
MY WIFE: 24, you said? Yes, I am definitely his twin. (Under her breath: Bless you, you poor little dumb child.)
That evening, there was a band party at the house. And that evening I made a deal with myself and the world – I am going to stop trying to dance with any rhythm whatsoever. I have no soul. My wife, bless her heart, has worked with me for 13 years trying to make dancing a possibility, but I just always have this look like I am about to sit down and then decide against it. Basically, I do this over and over and over and consider it dancing. I also occasionally put my fist in the air for some odd reason. I am a mess. But I have to come to terms with it. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my dancing. Don’t tell me it stinks. I already know that. It’s what I can do, it’s what the music drives me to do. It’s sad and pathetic, but, quite frankly, it’s me.
The next day, we opted out of going to the game, even though they were giving away tickets. Seriously. Around kickoff time, three Ole Miss fans (representing roughly half of the Ole Miss contingent), asked us where the Bear Bryant Museum was. That’s how excited they were about the game.
We opted to head to the stadium and see the new Walk of Champions, featuring statues of the coaches who have won national championships at Alabama. There, with the years of their titles, were Wallace Wade, Frank Thomas, Bear Bryant and Gene Stallings. And just to make sure the pressure is on, there was a fifth spot reserved for the coach who brings home Alabama’s 13th national title. Bear, of course, drew the biggest crowd, although we stopped for a moment of reverence for Ol’ Bebes Stallings, since he won his title when we were in school.
We returned to the house to watch the game, where a cooler, a bathroom and a huge buffet of Big P fried chicken were at our disposal. Big P has been the cook at the fraternity house for roughly 800 years, and I have to say – I weep for you, knowing that you have never had Big P’s fried chicken. Think of the greatest fried chicken you have ever had. Now think of that ss roadkill squirrel. That is how good Big P’s chicken is. I am not positive, but I am fairly sure Big P’s fried chicken, if you asked it nicely, would loan you money. It is that good.
We had a band party that night as well, and we all stayed up WAY past our bedtime. The next morning, most everyone had very little voice left. Unlike our college days, when it may have been from screaming at the top of our lungs, this was from trying to shout above the band, “MAN, THIS IS LOUD.”
After a very long ride home, we were happy to be back in the present. We missed our kids, our pets, our home. I love going back to college. I love getting home even more. Guess that’s what happens when you’re old. And an emu ranching millionaire.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Sick days
I made it through one of the most difficult weeks of my life. You could not begin to understand the pain, the difficulty, the hardship I endured.
My wife probably had it kinda rough, too, since she was the one with pneumonia.
It started on the weekend, when my wife woke up and started to say that she felt warm, but instead began coughing to the point I was pretty sure she was about to expel major organs. I tried to get her to relate, explaining to her that launching her pancreas across the room could leave a nasty stain on the wall.
When she finally stopped hacking, I felt her forehead and it did, indeed, feel warm. Actually, it felt like the hood of car in the summertime. She asked me to get the thermometer. I told her that would not be necessary, since I was aces at gauging this type of thing. I put my hand to her forehead again. “163,” I said. She began to tear up a little, most likely because she was so proud of my medical skills.
She spent much of the day in bed, and I did the sensible thing, which was to clear out of the house with the children. Bless their hearts, when a parent is sick, kids try their best to make you feel better, but have not quite honed that nurturing skill. Our son, who is 3, made an attempt to make Mommy feel better by licking her. He looked a little hurt when I explained that we do not, in fact, lick people, and that goes double for sick people.
That night, I kicked my nursing skills into high-gear, which was to ask her every four minutes if she wanted some NyQuil, which is the single greatest product America has ever made. Fever? NyQuil. Sniffles? NyQuil. Stubbed toe? NyQuil.
OK, so I am not actually a NyQuil junkie. I just know that when I have had a cold in the past, if I take some NyQuil, I generally wake up four days later feeling great. Eventually, I convinced my wife to take some (“Yes, dear, the label says two bottles at bedtime”) but she was still hacking to the point that even the vaunted NyQuil could not knock her out.
After a very restless evening (I kept waking up because SOMEBODY kept coughing and coughing and coughing), my wife made her way to the doctor. She still had a fever and wicked cough. And she had that sick person look about her that people get when they just have this defeated my-cat-just-got-run-over look.
The doctor gave her some cough medicine, which, judging by the warning labels, was NyQuil on steroids. Alas, this was not going to do the trick either. Another night like the one before. The next day, my wife called the doctor again, who called her in another prescription. This one came in a black bottle with a little skull and crossbones on it. OK, so it didn’t but the warning labels were far direr that most (“Prior to taking the medication, tell your family you love them, and apologize in advance for things you may say. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this medication. In fact, do not even think of heavy machinery, as this medication gives you the power to control dump trucks with your mind. Do not mix this medication with anything, including oxygen or water. Do not think about this medication, as opening the pathways of your brain to it will allow it to use you as a conduit to conduct its evil bidding.”)
The morning of this ubermedicine, the kids were at school, and my wife was entering her semi-coma for the first sleep she had gotten in days. After a few hours, my phone rang. “Can you come home? I feel like I’m going to faint.”
I got there as fast as I could, and when I entered the bedroom, I saw my wife, sitting in the middle of the bed. The TV was on, but she was kinda staring at the wall. “Uh, you OK?” I asked.
“No. This medicine makes me feel really weird,” she said.
“Uh...where are the sheets? And the comforter?” I asked.
“In the wash. But I got dizzy.”
At that point, it was clear that this medicine needed to work quick, because prolonged use of it might result in the police finding my wife wandering down the stream babbling about her days as a Navy man.
The next day, she was somewhat on the mend, which was a relief, because it meant that she would be able to go back to the warm embrace of Dr. Q.
We’re more than a week removed from the initial sickdown, and she is feeling much better, which is a good thing. It’s a lame feeling to see your spouse sick as a dog and not be able to really do much for her. Oh, and for those of you who think laughter is the best medicine, I can assure you that, when you have pneumonia, laughter is not only not a good medicine, it is ill advised. On the rare occasion you can eke out a laugh, it results in a 20-minute fit of convulsive coughing.
So the house is coming out of quarantine now, and we can get back to the routine of living our lives. I am just thankful she’s better. I was getting tired of being woken up all the time.
My wife probably had it kinda rough, too, since she was the one with pneumonia.
It started on the weekend, when my wife woke up and started to say that she felt warm, but instead began coughing to the point I was pretty sure she was about to expel major organs. I tried to get her to relate, explaining to her that launching her pancreas across the room could leave a nasty stain on the wall.
When she finally stopped hacking, I felt her forehead and it did, indeed, feel warm. Actually, it felt like the hood of car in the summertime. She asked me to get the thermometer. I told her that would not be necessary, since I was aces at gauging this type of thing. I put my hand to her forehead again. “163,” I said. She began to tear up a little, most likely because she was so proud of my medical skills.
She spent much of the day in bed, and I did the sensible thing, which was to clear out of the house with the children. Bless their hearts, when a parent is sick, kids try their best to make you feel better, but have not quite honed that nurturing skill. Our son, who is 3, made an attempt to make Mommy feel better by licking her. He looked a little hurt when I explained that we do not, in fact, lick people, and that goes double for sick people.
That night, I kicked my nursing skills into high-gear, which was to ask her every four minutes if she wanted some NyQuil, which is the single greatest product America has ever made. Fever? NyQuil. Sniffles? NyQuil. Stubbed toe? NyQuil.
OK, so I am not actually a NyQuil junkie. I just know that when I have had a cold in the past, if I take some NyQuil, I generally wake up four days later feeling great. Eventually, I convinced my wife to take some (“Yes, dear, the label says two bottles at bedtime”) but she was still hacking to the point that even the vaunted NyQuil could not knock her out.
After a very restless evening (I kept waking up because SOMEBODY kept coughing and coughing and coughing), my wife made her way to the doctor. She still had a fever and wicked cough. And she had that sick person look about her that people get when they just have this defeated my-cat-just-got-run-over look.
The doctor gave her some cough medicine, which, judging by the warning labels, was NyQuil on steroids. Alas, this was not going to do the trick either. Another night like the one before. The next day, my wife called the doctor again, who called her in another prescription. This one came in a black bottle with a little skull and crossbones on it. OK, so it didn’t but the warning labels were far direr that most (“Prior to taking the medication, tell your family you love them, and apologize in advance for things you may say. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this medication. In fact, do not even think of heavy machinery, as this medication gives you the power to control dump trucks with your mind. Do not mix this medication with anything, including oxygen or water. Do not think about this medication, as opening the pathways of your brain to it will allow it to use you as a conduit to conduct its evil bidding.”)
The morning of this ubermedicine, the kids were at school, and my wife was entering her semi-coma for the first sleep she had gotten in days. After a few hours, my phone rang. “Can you come home? I feel like I’m going to faint.”
I got there as fast as I could, and when I entered the bedroom, I saw my wife, sitting in the middle of the bed. The TV was on, but she was kinda staring at the wall. “Uh, you OK?” I asked.
“No. This medicine makes me feel really weird,” she said.
“Uh...where are the sheets? And the comforter?” I asked.
“In the wash. But I got dizzy.”
At that point, it was clear that this medicine needed to work quick, because prolonged use of it might result in the police finding my wife wandering down the stream babbling about her days as a Navy man.
The next day, she was somewhat on the mend, which was a relief, because it meant that she would be able to go back to the warm embrace of Dr. Q.
We’re more than a week removed from the initial sickdown, and she is feeling much better, which is a good thing. It’s a lame feeling to see your spouse sick as a dog and not be able to really do much for her. Oh, and for those of you who think laughter is the best medicine, I can assure you that, when you have pneumonia, laughter is not only not a good medicine, it is ill advised. On the rare occasion you can eke out a laugh, it results in a 20-minute fit of convulsive coughing.
So the house is coming out of quarantine now, and we can get back to the routine of living our lives. I am just thankful she’s better. I was getting tired of being woken up all the time.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Dumb-ocracy
Well, it’s that time again – the time where I think to myself, “Democracy – is it such a great idea?”
Now, now, settle down. And remember that mob violence flies in the very face of democracy. I, of course, love democracy. Yea, democracy! It’s just unfortunate that it spawns one of the most vile, despicable creatures on earth – political campaigns.
I am not sure when political campaigns evolved into their current unsavory status. My guess is that they have always been dirty, underhanded efforts (“Abe Lincoln: A man of values. Unlike Stephen Douglas, who once ate a kitten”). With the Internet and television, of course, the campaign weaselness has been catapulted to new highs (or lows, as it were).
That’s why this year, I challenge each and every one of you to take charge of our political system. Let’s stop letting people whose moral switch is set to “evil” fill us with the skewed knowledge when we elect our leaders. So let’s change a few things this year. Who’s with me? I call this the Mike Gibbons Election Year Challenge. I challenge you to:
1. Question everything. Next time a commercial comes on that says, “Bob Crabapple voted against small businesses...” don’t let them get away with it. Call up the offending campaigner and say, “Yeah, when exactly did Congress hold a thumbs-up/thumbs-down on whether people were for small business?” When they say, “Bob Crabapple wants to take away your right to...” call and ask for the bill number, and, if it exists, go read it and see what it really says. We have got to stop letting these people get away with saying ridiculous generalizations about their opponents.
2. Accept that things change. If you step out of your partisan shackles, you can logically see a couple of things. First, someone can vote for something and, later on down the line in the legislative process, vote against it. Happens all the time, since politicians change a bill more times than most people change socks in a lifetime. Second, someone can have you read his lips that he won’t do something, but then have to go back on his word. Plenty of fine people on this planet said “till death do us part” and went on to part ways. Things happen.
3. Accept that your guy is not perfect. You should not agree with everything your guy says. If you do, there is a problem. You should never agree completely with something another person says. My wife will attest to that.
4. Accept that the other guy is not pure evil bent on your destruction. For the most part, pure evil stays out of the political spotlight, instead lurking in the shadows, feasting on the flesh of freshly killed goats that have been snatched up from fields that the campaign bus travels by.
5. Your demographic is not under attack, so don’t let them convince you it is. Sure, as a nation we face a frightening enemy in terrorism. But the vast majority is far too busy to make hating a subset of society a priority. And don’t get me wrong – I know there are pockets of hate and prejudice in the world. But I feel confident that most people are just like you and me – just trying to make it through the day. We have some common enemies that we can all agree on. After that, people are just trying to scare you into voting for them.
The simple fact of the matter is that we are an incredibly uninformed group of voters, and we keep getting worse off by avoiding the hard part of doing the research. Instead, we let our politicians or talking heads tell us what to think. Let me prove my point. Take this little quiz. Be completely and totally honest with yourself:
1. Should stems cells be used for medical purposes?
2. Is global warming occurring?
3. Should we be in Iraq?
Now, do the same with these questions, without citing a politician, Rush Limbaugh, Michael Moore, or agenda-driven entertainer or politician:
1. What is a stem cell and where does it come from?
2. What is global warming?
3. How many troops (and from how many nations) are currently in Iraq?
Now, I am sure some of you out there scored a whopping 6-for-6. However, I would argue that vast majority, deep in your soul, can admit that you have very strong opinions on some things you know nothing about. And if you think I am being condescending, I can tell you that I, too, have very strong opinions on some stuff that, when I am being totally honest with myself, know very little about. And I have no one to blame but myself. It’s amazing that we can get passionate about things we have no hard, factual data on.
Think of it this way: Suppose my 6-year-old daughter suddenly approached you and began giving you her take on why the designated hitter is ruining baseball. You might be convinced by her argument. But if you stopped and said, “Allie, what’s a designated hitter?” and saw the blank look on her face, you would probably stop listening to her argument. So let’s stop listening to people’s hollow arguments, and let’s stop making them ourselves. Let’s start being informed. Look, we’re not going to agree on a lot of things, but at least let’s get all the information before we solidify our opinions. And we have a very simple reason why you should do this: Because I wouldn’t lie to you.
Now, now, settle down. And remember that mob violence flies in the very face of democracy. I, of course, love democracy. Yea, democracy! It’s just unfortunate that it spawns one of the most vile, despicable creatures on earth – political campaigns.
I am not sure when political campaigns evolved into their current unsavory status. My guess is that they have always been dirty, underhanded efforts (“Abe Lincoln: A man of values. Unlike Stephen Douglas, who once ate a kitten”). With the Internet and television, of course, the campaign weaselness has been catapulted to new highs (or lows, as it were).
That’s why this year, I challenge each and every one of you to take charge of our political system. Let’s stop letting people whose moral switch is set to “evil” fill us with the skewed knowledge when we elect our leaders. So let’s change a few things this year. Who’s with me? I call this the Mike Gibbons Election Year Challenge. I challenge you to:
1. Question everything. Next time a commercial comes on that says, “Bob Crabapple voted against small businesses...” don’t let them get away with it. Call up the offending campaigner and say, “Yeah, when exactly did Congress hold a thumbs-up/thumbs-down on whether people were for small business?” When they say, “Bob Crabapple wants to take away your right to...” call and ask for the bill number, and, if it exists, go read it and see what it really says. We have got to stop letting these people get away with saying ridiculous generalizations about their opponents.
2. Accept that things change. If you step out of your partisan shackles, you can logically see a couple of things. First, someone can vote for something and, later on down the line in the legislative process, vote against it. Happens all the time, since politicians change a bill more times than most people change socks in a lifetime. Second, someone can have you read his lips that he won’t do something, but then have to go back on his word. Plenty of fine people on this planet said “till death do us part” and went on to part ways. Things happen.
3. Accept that your guy is not perfect. You should not agree with everything your guy says. If you do, there is a problem. You should never agree completely with something another person says. My wife will attest to that.
4. Accept that the other guy is not pure evil bent on your destruction. For the most part, pure evil stays out of the political spotlight, instead lurking in the shadows, feasting on the flesh of freshly killed goats that have been snatched up from fields that the campaign bus travels by.
5. Your demographic is not under attack, so don’t let them convince you it is. Sure, as a nation we face a frightening enemy in terrorism. But the vast majority is far too busy to make hating a subset of society a priority. And don’t get me wrong – I know there are pockets of hate and prejudice in the world. But I feel confident that most people are just like you and me – just trying to make it through the day. We have some common enemies that we can all agree on. After that, people are just trying to scare you into voting for them.
The simple fact of the matter is that we are an incredibly uninformed group of voters, and we keep getting worse off by avoiding the hard part of doing the research. Instead, we let our politicians or talking heads tell us what to think. Let me prove my point. Take this little quiz. Be completely and totally honest with yourself:
1. Should stems cells be used for medical purposes?
2. Is global warming occurring?
3. Should we be in Iraq?
Now, do the same with these questions, without citing a politician, Rush Limbaugh, Michael Moore, or agenda-driven entertainer or politician:
1. What is a stem cell and where does it come from?
2. What is global warming?
3. How many troops (and from how many nations) are currently in Iraq?
Now, I am sure some of you out there scored a whopping 6-for-6. However, I would argue that vast majority, deep in your soul, can admit that you have very strong opinions on some things you know nothing about. And if you think I am being condescending, I can tell you that I, too, have very strong opinions on some stuff that, when I am being totally honest with myself, know very little about. And I have no one to blame but myself. It’s amazing that we can get passionate about things we have no hard, factual data on.
Think of it this way: Suppose my 6-year-old daughter suddenly approached you and began giving you her take on why the designated hitter is ruining baseball. You might be convinced by her argument. But if you stopped and said, “Allie, what’s a designated hitter?” and saw the blank look on her face, you would probably stop listening to her argument. So let’s stop listening to people’s hollow arguments, and let’s stop making them ourselves. Let’s start being informed. Look, we’re not going to agree on a lot of things, but at least let’s get all the information before we solidify our opinions. And we have a very simple reason why you should do this: Because I wouldn’t lie to you.
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