Critique

I hate to be criticized. Ha-aa-aaa-te.

If you say anything about me, even hint that you aren't perfectly delighted with me in any way, I may not say anything, but I will be hurt to the core.


That's the bad news. The good news is that I am a thousand times better than I used to be.

Back in the day, I would have cut you.

If someone criticized me, there were repercussions. They might never find out about them. They would just find themselves inconvenienced in some way...something would not work out how they had planned. When they least expect it, they should have been expecting it.

Because that's how I rolled. Like a cat that you leave outside all night and who pooped in your shoes six weeks later.

It wasn't effective, or mature, or helpful. But I figured that I was playing my part in passing the karma around.

What helped me?

Newspapering.

You can't be too thin-skinned as a journalist, because someone is always all up in your bizness.

If it isn't your sources complaining about how you wrote the story, it is some freaking reader complaining that you have a liberal/conservative/anti-City Hall/anti-citizen/anti-business/anti-Ron Paul bias.

And if they are all happy, your editors are busting your chops about something.

I remember one day in a crowded, busy newsroom. Doug the copy editor's voice rang out above the din.

"DAVIS!!"

He then held his arm straight out, pointed at me, brought his arm up at the elbow to a 90 degree angle, and gave two sharp "come here" waves of his hand, so that anyone had missed the yell could clearly see the sign language.

I scampered over to his desk like a timid little mouse.

"What is this "On the corner of Main and Fifth Streets?"" he barked.

"Um, the protestors were on the corner..."

"If something is at Main and Fifth it is not necessary to point out that it is on the corner," he said. "Those are three wasted words."

"Yes, Doug," I admitted. "You're right."

Chops. Busted. Again. Lesson learned. Another one. Ihave never again said in a newspaper story "on the corner".

And I didn't even poop in his shoes.

File under "What were they thinking?"

I was having lunch with three friends when a man at the table behind us changed subjects from "How Much I Hated Having an MRI" to "Something That Came Out My Ass."

Yes, right in the middle of my chile relleno, this middle-aged cable guy started telling his friend, in graphic detail, about something that he looked down and saw in the toilet.

Our friends across the table couldn't hear it, but James and I could. We sat there in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, then started to try not to laugh.

We snorted. Our shoulders shook.

And then, all of a sudden, we busted loose. I think it hit us simultaneously - this guy is talking about a crap he took, and we're trying to be polite? Aw, hell no.

James and I started laughing loud and long as Rachel and Matt looked at us, uncomprehending.

The man with the impressive crap realized what was going on after a minute, and stood up, offended, and stomped off with his poor, shit-beleagured friend. I guess he showed us!

After James and I filled Matt and Rachel in on what had happened (if you want to know the exact quote, email me. I cannot in good conscience put it out on the public pixelsphere), Matt asked "How does that even come up?"

I said "You know all those conversations where you start "Hey, Suebob, have I ever told you about this thing that came out my ass one time?"

I don't know how we ever finished our tacos. OMG, my people. OMG.

25 Random Things

Ok, ok, I'll do the facebook meme. I got tagged by a couple people, but I'm too lazy to tag anyone, and it is probably too late since the whole world has been tagged already.

You're supposed to write 25 random things that people don't already know about you. Dude, I have been blogging for almost 1000 posts just on THIS blog. What is there left?

1. I don't miss sex bad enough to do anything about it. Yet.

2. My favorite color is indigo.

3. My favorite place is the beach.

4. The scent of black pepper makes me weak in the knees.

5. I have only ever seen 2 tattoos I liked. One is on a regular reader. The other one I'm not telling so I can tell you that it is yours.

6. I'm also not big on the piercings. Sorry, kids.

7. I have a ridiculously sensitive sense of smell.

8. Which is too bad, because I fart a lot.

9. Sensitive hearing, too. Most movies seem WAY TOO LOUD.

10. So think how much fun I am in a club. Hoo boy. I'll be the one over in the corner, cringing.

11. I spend most of my time alone, yet almost never get lonely.

12. I have a rebellious streak a mile wide.

13. Group activities irritate me just by the mere fact that they are group activities.

14. I could eat the Oxford English Dictionary up with a spoon. It might take me a while, but I could.

15. Which reminds me - I think competitive eating contests are one of the most disgusting things on earth, for many reasons.

16. I want to go back to school but have no idea what my masters should be in. I will take suggestions.

17. I'm mostly a vegetarian because I don't like meat, not for any nobler purpose.

18. I get earworms really, really badly, so I am kind of afraid to listen to music. There's always the chance that what I listen to will end up in my head constantly for 6 months. Seriously.

19. I sleep badly from 3 to 5 am, but 5:30 to 7 is golden.

20. I have to get up for work at 5:30

21. It cracks me up when people pity me. They don't know what they are doing.

22. I love men with shaved legs. Vive la tour de France.

23. My one big regret is not learning to play a musical instrument.

24. One of my closest girlfriends and I talk about everything but men and relationships. It isn't a subject that comes up between us. Ever.

25. I think life is silly, but I like it that way.

All Differences Aside

Present from my sis
Originally uploaded by suebobdavis

My sis brought me a bag of Obama blend coffee today - a mix of beans from Kenya, Indonesia and Hawaii - pretty cute.

Considering that she was the person who left me a long comment (on my post I wrote listing all the reasons I was voting for Obama) telling me why I shouldn't vote for Obama, it's a really sweet gesture.

And pretty good coffee, too! I'm drinking some right now.

In which I totally lose it

I feel for you parents. I mean, I KNOW having a dog isn't the same thing but there are times when I get a glimpse of the heart-wrenching horror you go through on your daily quest to balance good parenting with helicopter parenting, with wanting your child to grow up and be happy and independent and OMG THEY ARE GOING TO KILL THEMSELVES I JUST KNOW IT AND I WILL BE THE WORST PARENT IN THE WORLD HOW CAN I LET THEM RIDE THAT SKATEBOARD I JUST KNOW THEY ARE GOING TO DIE DIE DIE.

My dear dog Goldie's favorite thing in all the world is to chase birds on the beach. Since she can run a mile in about a minute and I can run shuffle about 200 yards before collapsing, this means she goes off leash.

And when she goes off leash, she loses her hearing and her normal devotion to me. She is in the Zone, the Bird-Chasing Zone where the only thing that matters is that seagull down the way.

For a mostly sedentary dog, she can go for a surprisingly long time, too, racing up and down the beach for 45 minutes as if she had had a transfusion of Seabiscuit's racehorse blood.

I just have to watch and wait, because she is not at all under my control. Sometimes I can just see a tiny dog-colored speck in the distance. Sometimes I lose her altogether. I can yell, I can wave, I can whistle, and she will not come.

Why do I let her do it? Why did Tony Hawk's parents let him go on a skateboard, though they had to go through child-abuse grilling by emergency room staff every time they brought their bruised, broken, skinny little boy in for treatment, which was often?

Because it is irresistible to let them do what they really love and are really good at. It is a risk you have to take.

But tonight was almost too much. It had been a super sucky day at work. As soon as I could escape, we went to the beach.

It was about 4:40 pm and she started chasing birds. When the sun went down at 5:20, she was still chasing birds. And as darkess really started to fall 10 minutes later, she was still running, even though she could hear me calling her and whistling and waving my arms and walking up the path to leave.

She kept running even when I went out knee deep in the water to catch her, zipping past me with the ease of Magic Johnson eluding a Celtics double-team (oh, those were the days).

Finally she got tired and I got near her. I had to go out waist deep to grab her and I was so scared and tired and just...cooked by then that I lost it like a mother of triplets in Wal-Mart on a Sunday afternoon. Screaming.

GOLDIE GOLDIE GOLDIE G*DDAMNIT GOLDIE GET OVER HERE RIGHT NOW! RIGHT NOW YOU GET RIGHT OVER HERE! RIGHT! NOW! YOU DOG!

I did not beat her. I did not strangle her. I did not leave her behind. But I wanted to, and I told her...well, screamed at her...that I should have done all those things, and that we were never, ever coming back to the beach.

In other words, I lost my parental sh*t. Even if my child was a just a dog. I think I may have broken my voice. I know I scared her by yelling, but she got over it by the time we crossed the railroad tracks and she peed on the iceplant.

That's the difference between dogs and kids, and I'm glad for that.