Routine

Photo Credit: Wallyg (Flickr.com)

Every day, it’s the same. Get up, pee, have some coffee, read a little, do some stretches, shower, change, and then sit in my living room and build things. Some days, it’s wood, some days, it’s metal, some days, it’s plastic, and some days, it’s a mixture of the three. There aren’t any directions about what to build, or any indications about why I should build them; the materials show up in the morning, I build all day, and leave everything there when I go to bed at night. When I wake up, what I built is usually gone, and more materials are waiting for me.

Sometimes, another man or a woman will come into the living room and build things with me. One man, who looked fairly old, built a hammock in the corner, and they spent every day after laying in it and swinging back and forth while he read. He disappeared one day; we never knew what happened to him. He and I had spoken a few times, but it was always cryptic, as if he understood something I didn’t and wasn’t willing to explain it to me.

I tried to talk to some of the others once, but they don’t speak my language. One of the women who’s brought in is pale white, with silvery hair and smooth blue eyes. She used to talk to me, shouting at me in her strange tongue to do things. I was afraid of her at first; in my homeland, everyone had dark skin and short black hair with brown eyes. She looked very strange in comparison. But she, like me, was a prisoner of this place, and when she realized her shouting got her nowhere, she started sulking quietly and building things on her own.

I learned a little bit of carpentry and welding in my old life, and I always enjoyed putting things together. One day, I built a small doghouse. We don’t have dogs here in the house; they don’t allow them. But it made me happy to remember the dog I used to have, and the house I had built for him. I hoped that the doghouse would stay, but it was gone the next morning. That was the way things worked around here. I had come to accept that.

Some days, the routine would be different. There was a small hidden door leading into the house that would open up into a strange place. I would follow the smells of food and find myself walking into a hallway that looked very different from my house — full of strange curves and interesting carvings in the metal walls. At the end of this hallway, a strange thing would be waiting for me, a many-armed disc  floating quietly above the floor. In one of its arms, it would be holding a small object with a pointy end that it would jab into me. Then, the disk would float away, and a bright light would come on, driving me back down the hallway until I returned to my home.

I often wonder what is outside my home. I used to go out there quite a bit and stare at the landscape, but when I have tried to walk out of my yard, I’ve felt a hard surface, like I’m walking into an invisible wall. It’s strange, because there doesn’t appear to be a wall there. But yet, something is keeping me from moving forward.

Before the old man disappeared, he did something curious. One day, he trapped a beetle under a glass on the table, and he pointed to it.

“This is what we are living,” he said. “Just creatures trapped beneath a glass, being watched from above by things we cannot see nor comprehend.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “The bug is clearly trapped, and will die if we don’t set him free. He will run out of air, or food, and his life will end. But we live here, and we live well. We have things to build, and food to eat… how are we like the bug?”

“Our basic needs are met, because this is a special place,” he said. “A zoo, for beings that reside in another dimension. We can’t see them, but believe me… they are watching everything we do. And their children are laughing at the silliness of your building and my napping, and their adults are commenting about how much we are like them… and yet how inferior we truly are.”

This was all very confusing to me, and so I shrugged and smiled. “I just like to build things,” I said.

“Of course you do,” he sighed. “Because you were bred to. But I… I lived in the wild world once, and I remember what it was like to be free.”

Every day since, I have wondered about his words. Perhaps there is more to life than building… more to life than routine. But though the old man believed there was, I cannot conceive of a life that is any different from my own.

Time Pod

Photo Credit: POD (Flickr.com)

It was disorienting, waking up in a cold gel, realizing I’d been sleeping for some period of time I couldn’t recall, sensing that I couldn’t move (or even remember how to move) while I was plugged in to the machine. But eventually, the pod opened up, and the goo oozed out, and there I was, lying mostly naked in a puddle on the floor, and the forms of the people of the future stood around me, looking down, trying to figure out what they’d found.

As it turned out, my pod was the only one that had been found so far. The future people had excavated the cryo facility where I’d been stored, and they’d pushed the button to release me. Thankfully, my pod was a self-contained system that was powered by an extremely efficient mini-reactor, or else I would have perished like everyone else from my time.

The future people were surprised to find me, and I quickly became something of a celebrity in their world. I was surprised at how much like us they were, to some degree; they had arisen out of some sort of apocalyptic dark ages and were just beginning to realize the scientific achievements our civilization had made. They had advanced beyond us in some regards, but seemed to have missed other things we’d found obvious, like air travel.  We were, to them, what the ancient Greeks and Romans were to us; a mysterious culture that was largely regarded as being filled with civilized savages. Media, on the other hand, was an advancement they’d made long before they developed a centralized computer network; as a result, media was a much more boring and dull thing than it had ever been in our own culture. These people preferred public theatre, where communities could gather and see their own members performing.

It took me some time to learn the language of these future people; their tongue was long and flowing, with few breaks between words. It was a language that was quite incompatible with our own, and when they had stumbled upon old examples of our media, they had been baffled by it. It was interesting, because their stories were quite different from our own in structure and purpose. The future people did not like realism in their stories; they preferred tales full of twists and turns, delighting the audience with magic without necessarily having a coherent structure or continuity to them. It was like watching dreams unfold on stage.

I was invited to one of these shows about a year after my emergence from the time pod. The director was particularly interested in the mythology of our era, and she thought it would be amusing to have me see her production and offer some critiques on its authenticity. I was more than pleased to do so, and wondered what mythology she might have found.

I knew that it was going to be a difficult show when the pantheon of the gods first appeared. The great and terrible god Coca-Cola had begun a global war with his arch-rival, Pepsi-Cola. This entire scene was presently with no hint of irony and, I suspect, no understanding of what these icons truly meant. A masked man dressed in black represented the terrible wrath of Coca-Cola’s red power; when he pulled out a red sword made of light, I realized that he was supposed to be Darth Vader, though his name had been adapted to simply mean “the Evil One” in the tongue of the future people. His henchman was an evil clown clad in red and yellow, though the future people seemed to have no idea of what a clown truly was. The two fought against a brave cast of animal warriors — characters I eventually identified as various Disney and Looney Toons characters. It was interesting to see human characters such as Superman and mechanical creatures such as the Transformers fighting on the side of Coca-Cola while the characters with more animalistic names, like Batman, Catwoman and Spider-Man were on the side of Pepsi-Cola, all based upon the animals they were named after. (Oddly, Wolverine was on the human side, the animal being long extinct in this future world.)

The whole miserable, wretched affair went on for four hours, taking great liberties with the characters and ultimately resulting in the characters triggering the dark ages. The crowd was triumphant; it had been an amazing stage show, and the story had been to their liking. The director asked me to come up on stage and share my views.

I stood there, not sure what to say as everyone watched in rapt attention. Finally, I said, “As one who lived through the Cola Wars, this production brings a tear to my eye as I remember all I endured.” That was taken as a great compliment, and the audience erupted into a cheer.

I left the stage, and went for a walk. It was terrifying to think that the future people could look back on our time and get so much so wrong. They truly had no understanding of our daily lives, or our intelligence, or our great culture. In their minds, theirs was better, and our time was an unenlightened era. And that thought brought a smile to my face, for how often had our culture looked back on people in previous places and eras and done exactly the same?

[Journal] Why It’s Hard For People To Change

I’ve spent the better part of the last year talking about all the ways I want to change. I want to exercise more, to eat better, to accomplish the things I do want to do and to stop wasting so much time with filler activities like messing around online or playing video games.

Unfortunately, I’ve gotten so used to TELLING myself what I want to do that I’m having a hard time getting started now that I’ve run out of excuses.

I think a big part of the problem is momentum — as Newton told us, and I’m paraphrasing, objects in motion tend to stay in motion, while objects at rest tend to sit around and feel their butts grow bigger. It’s really easy to make changes if you get some momentum behind changing your life. But it’s really hard to do it when you’re starting from nothing. Getting that first shove so you’re in motion is difficult, and it requires a major force (either through your own willpower or some life event) to make the change start to occur.

Another problem comes in the form of habits. We develop habits because they help us to sort of hardwire our behavior into our brains — to allow us to think less and go on autopilot more. Unfortunately, some habits aren’t very good for us, and some activities we get involved in are actually bad habits. But it’s hard to change a habit. I’ve been trying to ditch the fingernail biting for years with no luck. I don’t like chewing on my fingernails, but I think, deep down, that I’m comfortable with it. It’s hard for me to change because I find some comfort in knowing that it’s my way, even if it’s not a particularly GOOD way.

So, what I need to do are the following things:
1) Get some momentum going behind the areas where I do want to change.
2) Understand that if I want to change habits in my life, I have to do so by rejecting the hardwired response and building new pathways instead.
3) Stop being complacent about being comfortable with “my ways”.

-SJJ

Oracle

Photo Credit: Hans S (Flickr.com)

The general was nervous. He knew that his duty, as a good Roman, was to consult oracles before battle. He knew that he needed the gods on his side.

But as the old man tore apart the sheep’s bladder to look inside it, the general found himself starting to wonder why the gods couldn’t be a little more direct.

“Fortune favors you,” said the old man after a moment. “A shining path lies ahead. You will take it, and lead the legions to a great conquest for Rome.”

“I find that a little hard to believe,” the general said. “My forces are only half those of my opponent. I expect that we will resist them, but to move on to conquest? That seems a bit presumptuous.”

“That is your oracle,” the old man said. “The gods have chosen you.”

The general rolled his eyes. “The gods are fickle, then,” he said. “On my last three battles, they have chosen the other side, despite their good intentions.”

The old man raised an eyebrow. “A doubter?” he asked. “You doubt the word of the gods?”

“I doubt the ability to discern their word in such a manner, yes,” said the general. “I do this for my men, so the believe that the gods are on their side. I, myself, am not so certain.”

The old man laughed. “Then you understand the gods better than most,” he said. “Do you understand why the gods are fickle?”

“I would love to know,” said the general.

“Because you do not believe,” said the old man. “Not that belief  makes much difference in terms of the gods. Oh, I wonder sometimes if they are even there. No, because belief makes a difference in your own actions.”

“That seems like nonsense,” said the general. “Whether I believe or not, my actions will be the same.”

“But will they?” asked the old man. “If you believe that you are fated for victory, you will take bolder chances, place the lives of your men on the line more carelessly, because you will believe that they are fated to prevail against the odds.”

“You’re saying that my belief makes me a madman, then, and I am inclined to agree,” said the general. “I would much rather save the lives of my men than be a reckless fool.”

“But you miss the subtlety of all of this,” said the old man. “For if you were this reckless fool, as you say, your victories would be more assured, your troops’ morale higher, your legions’ dominance more powerful. Your men would be galvanized under the illusion that they were the chosen forces of the gods. And every victory would make them more and more certain of that fact.”

“Until their false confidence brought them down,” said the general. “I have seen that happen before, and I would not wish it on my men.”

The old man shook his head. “You think that their confidence was ever truly in the gods! Feh!” he spat. “It was in their general, the one who was favored, and who was wise, and who suddenly, began to believe the lie, began to throw their lives away carelessly. You should know better than that. You are clearly wise enough to question.”

The general was intrigued by this. “So you say that I should believe the lie for the sake of my men, but retain my doubts privately in times of great confidence,” he said. “And if I somehow can keep this double-minded way, I will be victorious in all that I do.”

“Precisely,” said the old man.

The general sighed. “You ask far too much of a man heading into battle,” he said, and turned and left.

The old man shrugged, and got back to his meditations. Let the man believe what he wanted. The message was still the same.

Elevator Pitch

Photo Credit: Mioi (Flickr.com)

“What floor?” Kevin asked as the fat tourist stepped in to the elevator.

“17,” the tourist said, and then did a double take. “Oh my god,” he said. “Are you Kevin Sears?”

“Um, yeah,” Kevin said as the doors closed.

“All right, look,” said the tourist excitedly. The elevator begin to ascend. “So, imagine that there’s this planet, right, where humans touch down, and they start this space colony, and they’re trying to make the place, you know, livable. And the whole time, they keep searching for alien life by cutting through these thick branches in these woods that cover the whole planet, right. Except, they find out at the end of the movie that they’re not branches at all; they’re neurons in a giant, planet-wide brain, and it’s actually God. But they’ve destroyed the part of the brain that has any sort of compassion, and so the planet destroys them. And then… and then! There’s a sequel where the people back on Earth have to wait and be judged while God returns to destroy them for what happened.”

“What, is that, like, a book you’re reading or something?” Kevin asked.

“No, that’s my elevator pitch,” said the tourist. “What do you think?”

The door dinged. “17th floor,” said Kevin. “Your stop, right?”

The tourist moved towards the door, but sort of leaned his back up against it to keep it from closing. “So, c’mon, what do you think?” he asked. “Is that something you’d want to be in?”

“Honestly?” asked Kevin. “I just want to go to bed, man.”

“But…” the tourist said. The door started to close, but he pushed on it with his back, and it went back in. “I mean, this thing could make a lot of money with you directing it. I’ve got some great ideas for casting, too.”

Kevin yawned. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I’ve got my own projects, you know? But good luck with yours, though.”

An alarm went off. The tourist stepped back into the elevator.

“I’ll ride up with you,” he said. “Let me give you my contact information or something.”

Kevin shook his head and pushed the “open door” button. “Look, man, I’m kind of sick right now,” he said. “There’s this big party going on downstairs, and it was just too much, and I sort of need to just call it a night, you know?”

The tourist was silent for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, I understand, Mr. Sears,” he said. “Tell you what… I’ll leave a packet for you at the front desk, and you can pick it up when you check out, OK?”

“Sounds great,” Kevin said. “Take care.”

******

Kevin woke up with a start. His phone was ringing.

“Yeah?” he said into it. He felt terrible. This illness was really coming on strong.

“Hey Kevin,” said his agent. “Look, I know you weren’t feeling well, but you’ve gotta be more careful about sneaking out like that without taking someone with you. This guy you ran into on your way up is down here killing the party, man.”

“Fat guy, looks like a tourist?” Kevin asked.

“Yeah, you know who I mean,” said his agent. “He got in saying he was a friend of yours. Gave them your room number and everything.”

“I don’t know him,” said Kevin. “He gave me some lame elevator pitch.”

“Oh yeah. He’s tried to give it to everybody here, too,” said the agent. “Most of the people down here are so wasted they’re just sort of looking at him.”

“Well, have security get him out of there,” said Kevin.

“I’m going to to. Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t actually a friend,” said the agent. “You think I should have him thrown out of the hotel, too?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Kevin. “I don’t want to have to see him again.

*****

The tabloids had a field day with the story — Kevin Sears, famous director, banned a fan from his hotel just for having the nerve to talk to him. Kevin sighed as he put down the National Enquirer. It was too much. Why did these people feel entitled to treat him badly just because he was a celebrity?

He sat there thinking about it for awhile, and suddenly, an idea struck him. Not about a brain planet or anything stupid like that. No, a documentary about a hapless man who had a dumb idea for a film and who made nothing but enemies by talking about it. A cautionary tale about how not to work your way into the film industry.

Smiling, Kevin picked up the phone to call his agent. This fat tourist was going to get way more than he’d bargained for.

He Snores

Photo Credit: Jamelah (Flickr.com)

Jane didn’t know what she thought marriage would be like.

But as she lay awake in bed, listening to her husband snoring, she realized she’d never expected for it to be so dull.

Jane knew the movies she’d seen and the books she’s read weren’t real; they always made relationships look like they were so easy and effortless once you found that special person. And Jane and her husband had found things easy at first; their marriage had started off well, and they’d quickly adjusted to sleeping in the same bed and sharing the same house.

But what those stories didn’t tell you was the aftermath. There were some nights — and tonight was one of them — where Jane felt terribly alone, even with her husband sleeping beside her and snoring loudly. He’d fallen asleep at 9:00. There had been no time for cuddling, no time for sharing intimate stories or wishing each other a good night. She hadn’t even realized he’d been asleep. And when she’d tried to hug him, he’d yelled at her and went back to sleep.

Jane sighed loudly. It didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. She looked over, and saw his eyelids shuddering. He was dreaming. She wondered about what… or who. She found herself wondering if she ever even appeared in his subconscious.

Her friends had warned her that even a good mariage was hard. She’d thanked them and told them she believed them, but secretly, she’d believed that they’d be different.

But they weren’t. And Jane knew that she, too, would be telling her unmarried friends the same sad story when they secretly believed that they were different.

Heaven or Hell?

Photo Credit: Jiggs Images (Flickr.com)

“I don’t really understand this arrangement, Dad,” said Jacob as he pushed his father’s wheelchair down the hallway. “But I suppose it’s a little late to be asking questions, huh?”

Isaac said nothing. He just sort of drooled and looked ahead with a glassy stare in his eye. He’d been doing that a lot since he got here.

“I mean, you always took care of me,” Jacob continued. “So I’m really thrilled to be taking care of you, now. I mean, I am, Dad. You have no idea.”

Isaac gave a sort of grunt. Jacob wasn’t sure if it was in protest or agreement. Not that it mattered; what had happened had happened. It was a little too late to worry if Isaac was OK with it or not.

“The stroke was a little bit of a surprise, I’ll grant you,” said Jacob. “I wish it could have worked out differently. I wish Mom had been around to take care of you, still. I talked to her the other day, you know… found out what happened to her, why she disappeared when I was a kid. I really had no idea you two had gone through so much together.”

Isaac grunted again. Jacob wiped some drool off his chin.

“I mean, to think that I was at the root of all your arguments,” he said, and laughed. “They always tell kids not to blame themselves. But this is one of those crazy situations where the kid really was to blame, huh?”

“I’m not bitter or anything,” he continued. “I mean, things worked out the way they did, and I’m fine with it, Dad, really. And for what it’s worth, Mom’s happy now, too. You’ll never believe it, but she sort of turned her life around after she left. Got involved in a church, started reading the Bible, even became a Sunday School teacher for awhile.” Jacob laughed again. “I mean, can you imagine mom teaching Sunday school after all those drugs the two of you used to do? You’d think she’d have had enough of religious experiences.”

Isaac flinched a bit. Jacob wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but he put his hand on his father’s shoulders all the same to steady him and show support.

“You know, it’s interesting, Dad,” Jacob continued. “People spend their entire lives trying to be good and get into heaven, and all God wants is a little bit of humility… just a sliver of admitting that you’re wrong and that you want to be forgiven. That’s all He asks. Why is that so hard for people?”

They were approaching a doorway. A uniformed man stood outside of it, looking bored. There were some words written above it in chiseled print, but they were hard to read from too far back.

“I mean…” Jacob felt some tears welling up now. “Why was it so hard for you?”

Isaac said nothing. Jacob continued pushing him forward as he wiped away a tear with a white sleeve. They were nearing the door now, its simple structure belying its complex meaning. Jacob often wondered how such a small and remarkable door could be a gateway to such a place of isolation and suffering. He looked up at the words above it.

“Abandon all hope ye who enter here,” he read. “Is that what it’s like, Dad? Because I’ll tell you, when things were reversed, and you were pushing me around… I never felt that, not once. I always felt loved.”

He sighed, and turned to the man by the door. “Checking my dad back in,” he said. “I’ll be back for visiting hours tomorrow.”

The man nodded.

Jacob knelt down next to his father and stared into the man’s vacant eyes. “I never would have imagined that Heaven would be like this,” he said. “We all feel the loss, and we all want to help. It’s so empty up there, because everyone’s in Hell tending to those in need.” He sighed. “I wish I could take you up there one day, Dad. But even if I can’t, I’ll get you as close as I can every day for the rest of eternity.”

Jacob stood and walked away.”See you tomorrow,” he said to the man.

“Yep,” said the man. “See you then.”

First Step on an Unknown World

Photo Credit: WisDoc (Flickr.com)

I don’t know what we were expecting.

We’d all been through Space Corps training on the colony ship, and we knew what we’d find. But some of us — I think the younger and more romantic of us, the ones whose only perceptions of Earth were shaped by the entertainment vids we had stored onboard the ship computer — were expecting the place to be lush and full of alien life. Flora, at the very least, and hopefully some interesting fauna.

But as we exited the colony ship, it was clear that this place was just a giant hunk of rock sitting atop a lifeless ocean of water. We couldn’t breathe the air, of course; with no plant life, there was no reason for oxygen to be in the atmosphere. But I think that some of us hoped we’d find something like the stories about the unspoiled wilds of the Earth — a sprawling forest, or a magnificent prairie, or a tree line atop a deep blue mountain ridge cutting into the horizon.

But no. This place had none of that. The sky was a deep purple, and the sand was red and rust-colored. This place had been selected for colonization because it was like the young Earth, the Earth no human being had ever known. We were seeing, in a way, our own genesis. And yet as we stood outside the colony ship and stared out at this alien, barren place, we knew that though this was meant to be our new home, it would be hundreds or thousands of years before it ever truly felt like it.

Horror of the Miracle of Life

Photo Credit: Chotda (Flickr.com)

“Did she?” asked Kevin. He picked his daughter up, since she was still small enough to hold, and carried her with him. “Where’s Doug?”

“I think he’s in the barn,” Caroline said. “Can we name them?”

“We’ll see,” said Kevin. They walked into the barn. Sure enough, Polly was lying on her side, and the little puppies were suckling at her teats. They were small and white, with black spots and pink noses; blind, of course, and making little squeaking noises.

“Aren’t they cute?” Caroline asked. She got down from her father’s side and ran over to see them. “I love them so much!”

Kevin walked over to his son, who was sitting nearby, watching the dogs from a distance. “How many?” Kevin asked.

“Six,” Doug said. “But there’s something wrong with one of them. I’ve been keeping an eye on him.” He pointed to one puppy on the side that was being crowded out from the teats. “The other pups won’t let him get any milk, and Polly’s tried to eat him twice.”

Kevin nodded. “Did Caroline see that?”

“She thinks Polly’s just playing,” said Doug. “I didn’t want to tell her, you know?”

Kevin put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “Can you go get a bottle of milk?”

Doug stood up. “You’re gonna try to keep him?” he asked. “You know what’s gonna happen.”

Caroline looked up from her spot next to the puppies. “Come see the puppies, daddy!” she said.

“I think we should try,” said Kevin, sighing. “I don’t want to break her heart.”

Doug headed towards the house, and Kevin walked over towards Polly. “They’re so cute,” Caroline said. “Can we name them now?”

“We can name one of them,” Kevin said. He pointed to the one on the side. “How about that one?”

Caroline reached for him. The puppy squirmed in her little hands, sniffing and squeaking as she picked him up. “Come here,” she said in her little voice. “Mama won’t hurt you.”

“Have you thought of a name?” Kevin asked.

“I think…” she said. “I think I want to call him Cookies n Cream, because he looks like my favorite ice cream.”

Kevin smiled. “Cookies n Cream is a little long for a name,” he said. “How about Cookie?”

“But… OK. But can I still call him Cookies n Cream, Daddy?” she asked. “Even if his name is just Cookie?”

“You can call him whatever you want, sweetie,” he said. He knelt down. “Let me see Cookie for a minute.”

She held him close and kissed him for a moment, and then handed him up. Kevin quickly looked over the pup, trying to sense why Polly wasn’t taking to him. It looked like he was all right, but Kevin wondered if something was wrong with him they couldn’t quite spot yet. He handed Cookie back to Caroline.

“Doug says Polly tried to eat Cookie earlier,” Kevin said.

“Yeah, she’s silly,” said Caroline.

Kevin laughed to show he’d made a joke. “Did she know we were going to name him Cookie?” he asked. “Did Polly think he sounded like he was going to taste good?”

Now Caroline laughed too. “You’re silly, Daddy,” she said.

Kevin was glad this had worked out so easily. He needed to explain to his daughter that Polly might try to eat the puppy again, that mother dogs would cull their own pups when they sensed they wouldn’t survive. He needed to make sure Caroline knew that life came at a high price, and that dogs didn’t think about killing their young the same way that people did. It was a lot to have to explain to a five-year-0ld who had just warmed up to the idea of puppies.

Doug returned with the bottle, and Kevin showed Caroline how to feed the puppy. “Milk for Cookie,” he said with a forced laugh. “They go together.”

And then, with a heavy sigh, he sat his daughter down and watched her cry as he explained the cold, difficult facts to her.

Where Should We Eat?

Photo Credit: Scorpions and Centaurs (Flickr.com)

“So, where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

Sigh. “If you don’t tell me where you want to go, I’m going to decide for us.”

“I don’t really care.”

“You say that, but if I take us somewhere you don’t want, you’ll get upset and say I never listen to you.”

“That’s because you always want to go out for pizza.”

“Yes. You’re right. I do. Pizza is good.”

“Well, I just get tired of eating pizza all the time.”

“We don’t eat it all the time! I don’t think we’ve had it in over a week.”

“We eat it every time we go out.”

“All right, fine. Maybe you should just list what you don’t? want.”

“Why do you always have to act like this?”

“Act like what? I’m trying to get you to make a decision?”

Scowl.

“Look, you can be quiet if you want to, but if you don’t speak up, I’m going to drive to a pizza place.”

“No pizza.”

“What about Indian? Russian? Ethiopian? Peruvian?”

“No.”

“Vietnamese? Chinese? Thai?”

“I don’t like Thai.”

“OK, so no to all of those, too. Have you narrowed it down to a nationality you do want?”

“I don’t know. American.”

“OK. So, that means, what? Burgers, BBQ, fried chicken, hot dogs, pizza…”

“I said no pizza. And that’s not American.”

“It was invented in America. And I’m just making a list. What else? Country cooking, sandwiches, buffets, New York strip steak…”

“Maybe… seafood.”

“Seafood? All right. Which restaurant?”

“I don’t know… what sounds good?”

“Well, I don’t like seafood that much, so you tell me.”

“I don’t know. You pick.”

“You’re being deliberately difficult, aren’t you? How about Red Lobster?”

“We just went there last month.”

“Well, where else do you go for seafood around here? We don’t have a lot of choices. Long John Silver’s?”

“No fast food. It’s too greasy.”

“So… Red Lobster, then.”

“No.”

“Should I drive us to a stream and catch the fish myself?”

“I want shrimp.”

“OK. Shrimp. Red Lobster specializes in shrimp. Somestimes, I think they should change their name to reflect it.”

“Maybe a shrimp… chimichanga.”

“Chimichanga? That’s Mexican food. I thought you said you wanted American.”

“That is American. Mexico’s in America.”

“All right, fine. So, Mexican food, then. Which one?”

“I don’t know…”