Twas the Night...

 “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”  Except in our house.  There was definitely something stirring and we had the evidence, which unfortunately presented itself in of all places, the silverware drawer.  This is curious because this drawer contains no food at all, thus the name, as opposed to the somewhat cumbersome and completely inaccurate  “silverware and food for a mouse drawer.”  There is always the unlikely possibility that our mouse was one of the more well mannered rodents and simply preferred using a knife and fork to eat whatever it is that well mannered mice eat.  Or perhaps the mouse left his “evidence” behind as a means of venting the frustration he surely felt at being unable to access the aptly named bread drawer.

Whatever the reason the mouse had arrived and it was clear that he had to go so I turned to our cat for help.  Everyone knows that cats catch mice so this seemed to be a logical course of action.  But it turns out that “everyone” actually means everyone except our cat, who would have trouble catching a mouse or anything else for that matter even if the poor creature happened to miraculously become stuck in the cat’s food dish and even then the odds favor the mouse.

With nowhere else to turn, I took matters into my own hands and the great mouse hunt was on.  I secretly replaced the silverware with a mousetrap, which of course, looks nothing like silverware, but I was hoping the mouse wouldn’t notice.  In the morning I carefully slid the newly christened mousetrap drawer open and I’m happy to report there is one less creature stirring in the house.

Then I began to wonder about the mouse.  Was he a rogue acting on his own?  Or was he part of a bigger more diabolical plot involving, dare I say, more mice?  That night I once again filled the mousetrap drawer with another trap.  As I had before, I baited the trap with peanut butter and went to sleep secure in the knowledge that any additional stirring creatures would soon be, well, not stirring.

Upon rising I once again slowly slid the drawer open but there were no creatures, stirring or otherwise inside.  Even more disappointing, there was no peanut butter!  This new four-legged adversary had managed to pick the trap clean without setting it off.  It was clear I was up against a very clever mouse.

That night I baited the trap again, this time taking great care to ensure that it would not be possible to steal the peanut butter without setting off the trap.  But I had failed to take into account just how devious a mouse I was pitted against for the trap once again had been picked clean and yet still somehow remained unsprung.  I knew that somewhere, a mouse with a belly full of peanut butter was laughing.

I also knew the trap must have been defective as I refused to accept the alternative explanations, i.e., operator error or an incredibly smart mouse.  That night, armed with both a new trap and renewed determination, I closed the drawer confident that I would at last outwit a beast whose brain was a mere fraction of the size of my own.  In the morning that confidence was rewarded and once again there was one less creature stirring.

Realizing that stronger measures were required, I pulled out all of the drawers and searched for any nook or cranny that a mouse could possibly squeeze through.  When every possible means of entry had been plugged I sat back to admire my work and suddenly realized that it really was now December 24^th.  In other words:

Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, except maybe still another mouse

The holes near the drawer had been plugged up with care

In hopes that the mouse could no longer get there.

The children were nestled all snug, wait a minute, let’s try that again.

The children weren’t nestled, they were playing XBOX.

As I set my mousetrap like a sly little fox.

Then I thought to myself, as you’re about to see

Do we really need one more twas the night parody?

Of course we don’t.  Here is what happened:  In the morning the trap was still full of peanut butter and hadn’t been touched.  It was definitely a Christmas miracle.

TIVO Kills

The advent of the DVR is another nail in the coffin for the television commercial.  This unfortunately means a lot less work for some really clever people including (although I hesitate to call myself one of the clever ones) yours truly.  Part of me (the part that enjoys making a living) thinks this is a shame as I look back on my countless hours on a commercial set with great fondness.

Readers who have no experience in the commercial industry might think that making what essentially amounts to a thirty-second film is relatively easy.  Those readers would be wrong. The effort involved in selling for instance, paper towels, is equal to if not greater than that required to not only put a man on the moon but ensure he has the right toothpaste when he gets there. 

The stakes are always incredibly high and every decision is not only agonized over but requires more approvals than the average bill making its way through Congress.  College educated adults will debate the ramifications of the color of pillows on a couch deep in the background of a set for hours while others will argue about whether or not a house chosen for a location is “aspirational” enough (yes the house aspires to be a mansion).  This may sound bizarre but I assure you the list of such things is endless.  Whether it’s the variety of tricks used to make food look appetizing or the detailed instructions about the proper way to shoot an actor putting gum into his mouth, there is simply no shortage of absurdity, all in the name of advertising, on the commercial set.

Of course the other part of me (the part that writes this blog and is also partial to pizza - though not any pizza seen in a commercial) applauds this turn of events.  That same part almost feels sorry for the advertisers who have labored for years under the assumption that I, and no doubt the rest of the public, care about the color of the pillow on the couch in the background.  I don’t.  And these days, thanks to the DVR, I’m not watching your commercial at all.  Instead I’m fast-forwarding through your pillow and couch with my thumb firmly planted on the Tivo remote.  The odds of me stopping during a commercial are similar to those of Brett Favre retiring.  There is always the possibility but in the end it just doesn’t happen.

Even if I were to sit through a spot it certainly wouldn’t influence what I buy or whom I vote for (politicians are you listening?).  I won’t buy a certain SUV because it looks great crashing through a stream nor will I purchase a truck because it can tow something like the space shuttle.  The fact is, I can’t remember the last time I needed to drive through a stream of any size and I’m quite confident the shuttle can get around without my help.

Come to think of it, there are a few more things that advertisers should know.   First, no amount of bikini-clad women will ever convince me to drink one beer or another (although I reserve the right to drink said beer if a dozen or so of these women miraculously appear at my doorstep).  Second, no amount of celebrity endorsement will sway my decision to buy a particular shampoo, cell phone, cereal, or other product.  You should also know that I’m quite happy with my car insurance already and have no intention of wasting even five minutes on the matter.  And lastly, if you ever find yourself in a meeting where a decision is made to have singing in a commercial for anything at all, you should run.  And don’t stop until you can find the fast forward button for your life.  I could go on but NASA just called and it seems I’ve got to go tow the space shuttle.

The Big Mistake

Decisions, decisions.  We make them constantly every day.  Most are small mundane things such as what should we have for dinner, or should I wear the blue shirt or the red one, and so on.  But sometimes we’re faced with larger, life altering decisions like should I take that job in another state or can we afford this house or do I want paper or plastic?   Okay maybe that last one isn’t exactly life altering.  But those that are often require a great deal of thought in addition to the counsel of family and friends.  Unfortunately it is impossible to know, except in hindsight, whether or not we’ve made the right choice.  Some decisions will prove to be the smartest move we’ve ever made and others will turn out to be enormous errors in judgment.

In looking back at my own life, there are several big decisions that have proved to be life changing.  I’ve married, had children and twice moved across the country.  But what is the smartest move I’ve ever made?  I thought it through and getting married was easily the best decision I’ve ever made.  I couldn’t ask for a better partner and would without question do it again.  But then I thought, if getting married is the smartest thing I’ve ever done, what is the dumbest thing?  What is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made?  And therein lies the problem.  I’m worried I haven’t made it yet.

It’s not that I haven’t made mistakes. Like everyone else, I’ve made plenty.  But none of my numerous errors have been so big that I spend each day filled with regret.  This in turn has led me to another big realization, namely, if I haven’t yet made the big mistake, there is a chance it could come at any moment. 

Consequently this has lead to a sort of paralysis in my decision making process.  I’m suddenly unable to order a beer without worrying if the dreaded draft or bottle choice might prove to be the big mistake.  Driving has turned into a nightmare since every fork in the road could potentially lead to the big mistake.  I now find myself wondering if medium or medium rare is the right way to go.  And choosing a movie to see has become a herculean task.

In an effort to relieve myself of this burden I’ve tried, without success, to assign big mistake status to some of my smaller faux pas.  But somehow neither the purchase of the wrong size coffee filters or the decision to eschew lima beans fits the big mistake criteria, so my search goes on.

Even if you have made the big mistake, there is unfortunately no guarantee you won’t make an even bigger one in the future.  One needs to look no further than the world of sports for examples of this occurrence.  In the third round of the 2000 NFL draft, the San Francisco 49ers selected a quarterback named Gino Carmazzi who became neither a household name nor a quarterback.  Meanwhile, 134 picks later, the New England Patriots drafted future Hall of Famer Tom Brady.  This was obviously a big mistake by the 49ers.  Then in 2005 they did it again.  With the number one pick in the draft they chose Alex Smith, whom five years later has yet to prove himself.  Twenty-three picks after that the Green Bay Packers selected Aaron Rodgers.  While Smith was recently benched in favor of the third string quarterback, Rodgers has led his team into play-off contention. 

I could go on about the big mistake phenomenon.  For instance, while I cannot yet recognize my own big mistake, I seem to have no trouble identifying the big mistakes made by others.   But I am unable to elaborate on this as the thought that this column might itself be the big one has found its way into my mind and if I don’t publish it now I might never do it.  Of course not publishing it could also be the big mistake.  You can see the dilemmas I find myself in.  At least when the choice is draft or bottled beer, I still end up with beer.

The Man in the Mirror

Earlier this year I managed to reach fifty years of age.  Those of you who haven’t yet reached the half-century mark will no doubt be surprised to learn that the AARP begins sending you literature immediately upon your fiftieth birthday.  And I mean immediately.  Moments after you’ve blown out that fiftieth candle (which in itself is exhausting and may require a nap after the first twenty-five), your mailbox will somehow fill up with a ton of information from the AARP that simply cannot be for you.  The unfortunate truth is that one-minute you’re fifty and moments later you’re using those dreaded words “senior discount.” 

This all hit home for me recently when I glanced in a mirror and was horrified to see a gray haired man wearing glasses looking back.  I assumed this had to be a window to a parallel universe as it most certainly couldn’t be me behind those glasses but as we all know, this is not the case.  I suppose at my age I should be happy to have hair of any color, it’s just that the gray is another not so subtle reminder of my ever-advancing years.

The reading glasses are relatively new for me.  Aging and denial have always gone hand in hand and I certainly spent a good amount of time ignoring the problem before finally succumbing to a pair “cheaters”.  Previously I convinced myself that all that was required for me to read the newspaper was good lighting and lots of it.  I briefly considered replacing all the 60-watt bulbs in the house with 300-watt versions but the fear of disobeying the little sticker in the light fixtures as well as the corresponding fear of burning down the house eventually prompted me to seek a better and ultimately safer solution.  In short, I got some reading glasses.

There are plenty of other reminders that I’m not as young as I used to be.  Last summer, in an effort to shed some pounds and perhaps regain some of my lost youth, I did some running at the high school track.  It should be noted that here the word “running” is used when perhaps “shuffling” would be a more appropriate choice.  As I neared the last one hundred yards of my mile run, my youngest son urged me to sprint to the finish line.  “Are you kidding?” I said between gulps of air, “I am sprinting!”

And now a new family milestone has created another reason for me to feel old.  The state of Connecticut has issued a drivers license to my oldest son.  When he showed me his shiny new license (with a picture he already hates), I couldn’t help but think back to when I got my own license.  Times were different back then.  The test was much easier.  I recall only about four minutes of driving and no parking to speak of.  I should point out that contrary to popular belief (popular at least in my house), I did not take the test in a Fred Flintstone car.  The reason I didn’t hate my picture was quite simply because in those ancient days licenses had no pictures and were instead mere pieces of cardboard.  All of this reinforces just how long ago it happened which in turn reminds me of just how old I am.  What’s worse, the very thought of the number one son driving on his own will no doubt result in a phenomenal amount of additional gray hair.

Many people opt for face-lifts or tummy tucks or other procedures designed to ward off the appearance of aging.  I’ll pass on all of that.  I prefer to wait for the invention of a time machine.  Until then, I just realized there are other mirrors in the house.   I’m sure the younger me must be in a parallel universe in one of them.