Who Peed in the Dating Pool?

              Some time ago I mentioned I was going to dip a toe back into the dating pool, but then never mentioned it again, like some of those peripheral characters on soap operas.  Truth be told, in my attempt to wade, I slipped and fell headfirst into what can only be described as a kiddie pool based on the maturity level of most of those I’ve encountered.   I will state this was surprising so you won’t think I’m all jaded and whatnot.

                After my most recent debacle which involved an alleged construction accident in the Philippines and the realization that I am not overly attractive while Skyping, I was encouraged to blog about my experiences dating using as a guide the numerous suggestions I have been given by well-meaning friends, church folk, acquaintances, advice columnists, outcomes of lawsuits and random advertisements for dating websites. 

                Titled “26 Ways to Not Meet Mr. Right” (www.26waysright.blogspot.com), this new blog will take you on a magic carpet ride but without any further veiled drug references or Steppenwolf songs.  Over the next six months, I’ll be your intrepid explorer through the vast wasteland of dating in an age of self-involved Pokémon Hunters with little to no ability to actually communicate in person.  I’ll be like Columbus without the smallpox or murderous intentions; like Carrie Bradshaw, with all the fashion but without all the trashy behavior.  I love me some Sarah Jessica Parker but all four of those ladies were what we would call ‘fast’.  Just saying.

On this particular note, please be assured my blog will be rated PG as I am rated PG, or Puritanically Gleeful.  And never fear, I shall continue the Penny Loafers blogs although only 1/8 of my Facebook friends even read it and yes I’m a little bitter, like endive; slightly bitter but still palatable.

Join me on my quest to find my one true love.  I believe he is out there somewhere, unless of course, he was hit by a bus or kidnapped while shopping for clearance-priced Brooks Brothers.  And even though Tanya Calvert and Gary Piercey (yes, I still remember their names) used a particular song to beat me in the Will Rogers Elementary School Talent Show in Burns Flat, Oklahoma, in 1981, I will be like the ant that pushed over the rubber tree plant and have (singing, with jazz hands) HI-I-I-IGH HOPES!

Somebody might want to say a prayer.

Bless Your (Judging) Heart

               In my current position, I sit on many interview panels for both my facility and peer facilities throughout our region.  Judging others has become my life’s work.  If those readers with whom I attended school can kindly refrain from smirking and just say, “bless his heart” and move on with your day, it would be much appreciated.

                Everyone has skills.  Some skills are awesome, some are not; some used for good, some for evil, but we all have them.  Most times, people use skills learned at work only at work and those learned outside of work only outside of work.  I think we are selling ourselves short by not finding new, creative uses of our skills.  For example, I use Lean processes at home to make my shopping trips as efficient as possible. In preparation for the grocery store, I list the needed items in the order I will come across them in the store, saving myself steps and time.  I am Lean like Toyota, people. 

As much as I try to be a good executive and always make the best hiring decisions, I know there are those who don’t seem equipped to make good choices.  I say this only as I see people making bad choices and I feel as if they simply don’t know the best way.  With this information, I thought I would share some of my expertise and the interesting genesis of this different way of thinking. 

                As you know I began working with the Miss America system when I was in college at MUW.  I began as Assistant Student Director and have since served as a Local Director, State Judge and State Trainer.  When I was still in Mississippi, I attended Miss America Judge’s Training with a multitude of fantastic people with gravity-defying hairdos and exceptional outfits.  To clarify, Miss America is not, I repeat NOT, Miss USA which Donald Trump used to own.  I feel the need to distance this blog and my reputation from anything as gaudy and gold-plated as The Donald. 

                Miss America Judge’s Training teaches you not to compare the contestants to each other.  Instead you compare each contestant to the ideal contestant, whatever it may be for you; speaking ability, critical thinking skills, musical talent, ability to levitate, etc.  This way each contestant is judged according to how well they measure up to the ideal.  This is important.

                For example, if you wanted someone on your trivia team who would help compel you to the winner’s circle, you would choose someone with significant knowledge of useless information, wouldn't you?  However, if you were to compare The Dad to my sister, she would know more than he about trivia, so you’d pick her.  The Dad’s answer to any and all trivia questions are “Charles Bronson, Clint Eastwood or Leave me alone!”    My sister would seem to be the best of that particular group, right? 

Let’s look at the facts:  my sister thinks Chevy Chase and Bill Murray look so much alike she can’t remember which one is which, just that she likes neither.  She calls Jack Black, “That ugly, greasy, not funny guy.  What’s his name?  Adam something?”  When describing most movies she says “You know that guy?  The one with the face?  No, not him, the other one.  The one with the hair I don’t like.  You know the one who looks like the other one in that movie that I thought I liked but remembered I didn’t?”  She will not help you win trivia.  By the way, she was talking about Hugh Grant.

You should always pick the best; not just the best of the bunch, because your bunch might be a big ol’ mess.  I’m just saying.   Judge not lest ye be judged are definitely words to live by, however, since you were judged in order to get your job, feel free to judge others from the perspective of selecting a candidate for a job.  I feel sure Jesus is okay with it, in this context.   

I use the Miss America training to help me pick the best candidate.  If I am looking for someone who is skilled at critical thinking, I will choose the person most similar to my ideal critical thinker.  If no one in a group of applicants comes close to the ideal, I simply choose no one and re-advertise for the position.  I would rather be alone than regretful. 

Of course, I realize there are situations where you don’t have the luxury of time, but it doesn’t mean you still can’t look at your options more critically to ensure you are getting the best people on your team.   No one is perfect, except Jesus, but He’s not applying to work at your business.  He should already be there, in your heart.  If He’s not in your heart, we can help you, heathen, but not in that judgy, interviewy, pageanty way.   Bless your heart.

Putting the 'Duh' in Humidity

Part of my daily routine, even on weekends, is to check the weather prior to confirming the outfit which had been decided the previous evening is still appropriate.  And while we are safely beyond Memorial Day and in the white shoes/seersucker/linen zone, I am still reluctant to wear any of these things if there is a chill in the air.  Nothing says distressed more than a preppy shivering in cream suede wingtips and pastel chinos and the possibility exists in Southern California in June.  I had checked the forecast, with a current temp of 63 and an anticipated high of 72, but I also did a visual check as “almost” only works in horseshoes and hand grenades and apparently meteorology.  The weather app on my phone is rarely accurate.  Of course it was raining.

There is a meteorological phenomenon known to Southern California and Hawaii; I call it spritzing.  Spritzing is actual precipitation but more along the lines of a baby slobbering than anything even remotely replenishing to Mother Earth.  It comes in fits and starts and is sometimes so light, you think maybe you’re imagining it.  All it is good for is stirring up the latent dirt on your car causing it to look a mess. 

Since it was spritzing, I had to alter my intended wardrobe and choose a more weather-appropriate ensemble, replacing the suede shoes with stylish, navy leather wingtips.    However, because of the humidity, I was forced to wear a Polo shirt, which was much cooler but did not look as nice as a button-down would on my body.  Despite being bereft of children, I have somehow morphed into what can only be described as a “Dad” body, resplendent with man boobs and a spare tire worthy of a dune buggy, people.

Speaking of dunes, the very next day summer arrived in all its glistening glory.  Once I escaped the clutches of the swamp-like conditions of both Louisiana and Washington, DC; I thought man-boob sweat would be a thing of the past.  My four years in the Bay Area led me to believe California to be the land of broken dreams and no need for air conditioning.  My interstate relocation to Long Beach, 18 months ago, gave me the false sense of not needing any appliance to cool one’s household.  I was told on more than one occasion by the bald-faced liars, I mean citizens, of SoCal, “It doesn’t get hot enough to need an air conditioner.”  And like any other yokel from out of state, I believed them.  I wanted, needed, to believe them as my apartment did not have an A/C unit.

                July 2015 reared its fire-emblazoned head which led me on a fruitless search for anything resembling an air conditioner, swamp cooler, fan or ice chest.  None were to be found as they had purchased by the ridiculous people who assured me I didn’t need anything to help cool.  Hateful!

                Not wanting to put the ‘Duh’ in humidity again this year, I learned from my mistakes.  So when I went to bed on a chilly Saturday in Long Beach and awoke Sunday morning stranded on a pirogue in a Louisiana swamp (it’s a boat; look it up), I simply turned on my air conditioner, which I had purchased back in April when it was still 50 degrees outside.  The only thing I want moist in my home are baked goods. 

                And my friends say, “But Dustin, you’re from the South.  Shouldn’t you be used to the heat and humidity?”  And I always reply, “Yes, I spent the first 32 years of life, traversing every boon and cranny in every part of the South not touching the Atlantic Ocean, sweating and pouting about sweating.  I was a hot, unhappy child, yearning for a family from somewhere cold.  I was convinced I was switched at birth with a preppy family from up North who somehow had a small redneck child, begging for Wranglers and boots while swaddled in layers of MY argyle and corduroy.”

Why do you people think the first place I moved out of the South was to Alaska?  No one moves to Alaska by accident, y’all.  And speaking of Alaska, my little air conditioner keeps it chilly in mi apartmento por favor.  Seriously, you can see your breath in my living room.  And that’s all I’m saying for now as I have become too cold to type.  Winning!

You. Are. So. Gross.

               Visiting relatives always sparks memories and you spend much of your time reminiscing, mostly about embarrassing events.  Now, I would never air my siblings’ dirty laundry but as you have come to know, I will air mine like a reality star hoping for their own spin-off.

                In 1979, we had returned to Northeast Louisiana, settling into an old plantation home situated behind the post office, a block from Sonic, in the bustling metropolis of Tallulah, Louisiana, which was the first US city to offer shoppers an indoor shopping mall, Bloom’s Arcade, built in 1925.

                This particular house was built long before indoor plumbing was even a glimmer of a hope in anyone’s mind in a small Southern town; therefore the bathrooms were located in areas not previously utilized for daily ablutions.  Hence, the master bathroom was an enclosed part of what had previously been a wrap-around porch, with an additional half bath near the kitchen.  The upstairs lavatory was directly at the top of the stairs.  To give you a more vivid picture and place you right in the episode, the toilet was situated directly facing the door within full view of all stair travelers.

                On this particular day, I had exhausted myself with manual labor and farming (full disclosure: making my bed and raking leaves) and retired to the bathroom with the latest tome in my favorite series about an 11 year-old detective, Encyclopedia Brown.  As my sister was attending an ironically named slumber party, I felt completely comfortable leaving the door open due to the ridiculously warm weather often found across the South in the fall.

                Having been trained through example by The Dad, I was settling in for a relaxing, lengthy session when I heard footsteps on the stairs and girls’ voices.  I froze.  What else can you do when you are seated with the door open and not remotely within reach?

                My sister and her friend get to the top of the stairs, see me and stop to stare, horrified.  My sister, never at a loss for words, stated matter-of-factly, “You.  Are.  So.  Gross.”  I could do nothing but hide my face in shame.  Instead of walking away, my sister turned to her friend and said, “See?  I told you.  He’s so stupid.”  Still staring in disgust, she yelled, “Mother!  Dusty is so gross!”

                My mother walked to the bottom of the stairs and asked what had happened.  My sister, still looking at me, now with a mixture of condescension and revulsion, like Alexis looked at Krystle on Dynasty, responded, “He’s pooping!  With the door open!  Reading a book!  With the door open!”

                I stated my case, pleadingly, “I can’t shut the door.  I can’t reach it.  Make her go away!”

                My mother started up the stairs and asked my sister, “Why are you standing there?  Shut the door or go to your room.  Actually, do both and leave him alone.”

                My sister huffed in frustration and departed with the scathing indictment, “You.  Are.  SO.  Gross.”  Her friend looked traumatized, which is understandable.

With the humiliation, you would think I would have quickly dethroned to shut the door but you’d be wrong.  I felt I had earned my spot with the poor treatment and I remained ensconced until my leg fell asleep. 
I spent the next year and a half unable to look my sister’s friend in the eye, until we moved to Oklahoma, not only from this but from an additional embarrassing moment. 

Do you remember Big Wheels/Hot Cycles from the 70s and 80s?  You know those plastic tricycles with the big wheel in front, but low-riding like a gangsta?  My little brother had one back when we lived in the previously mentioned house.  Please note our neighborhood had, at the time, short hedges lining the sidewalk. 

Like members of the royal family, my sister enjoyed being outdoors but not necessarily under her own exertion.  Deciding she desired to traverse the perimeter of the yard but lacking the inclination to actually pedal the Big Wheel herself, she directed me to serve as the horse to her molded plastic carriage; her team of Clydesdales if you will.  Her idea included a jump rope fastened to the handle bars and looped around my waist.

To give you pertinent information into the situation, you must understand I was in 4^th grade, age 9, measuring just a notch above five feet.  My sister was in 6^th grade and measured 5’7”.  She was taller than my mother and almost as intimidating as my father.  When she said jump I instantly complied, not waiting to ask how high or how far; hoping against hope I would meet her unspoken expectations.

Cut to me pulling Princess Shontyl down the sidewalk like one of those carriages in Central Park if they were low riders and the horses wore husky-sized Tuffskins.  As we were making our way in front of the house, a car slowed down and before I knew what was happening, my sister leapt from her vessel into the hedge to hide, leaving me to stand on the sidewalk pulling an empty Big Wheel behind me.  As the car passed, I realized it was my sister’s friend (who bore witness to the previous bathroom-related shame) who was in the back seat staring out the window. 

Her look informed me she had just crossed over into the same territory as my sister, thinking I was indeed So. Gross.

A single tear slid down my cheek.   

Not really, but I sure was shamed, y'all. 

Bangs, Funnel Cakes and The Rapture

              When offered the opportunity to attend an event in, at or near a fairground, pavilion or other such assembly, my family typically says a hearty “Yes, please” with the immediate clarifying query, “Do they have corn dogs and/or funnel cakes?”  Knowing this, I was not surprised when my larger extended family and I visited the Oklahoma State Fair sometime in mid-September, 1978; close enough to my birthday to have possibly been my gift.  Like other nomadic groups, my family tends to travel in packs so our party consisted of my parents, brother and sister; an aunt, uncle and cousin and the aunt’s best friend, her husband and two children, who I actually though were related to me until I was told otherwise when I was in high school.

                Everything was going along as swimmingly as possible when I had an accessory malfunction and was forced to bend down to tie my shoe.  As I was not skilled at squatting, I did a complete bend at the waist as if I was an early adopter of yoga, my buster brown haircut’s signature bangs blocking my peripheral view.  In that moment my family made a sharp right into one of the buildings to look at homemade jam, pigs, rocking chairs or whatever else occupies your attention at a State Fair besides the aforementioned corn dogs and funnel cakes. 

                When I righted myself, I did not immediately see them and before I could make an assessment of the situation and do something other than completely freak out, the “I’m 7 years-old and a bit dramatic to boot” gene took over and I leapt and ran just like OJ did in the airport in those commercials back in the day before he was a murderer or whatever.  It never occurred to me to realize if my family hadn’t themselves run as if being chased, then I should have overtaken them.  It didn’t occur to me they wouldn’t be standing at our car in the parking lot waiting for me until I arrived at the location and found myself alone; impressed I found the car, but alone nonetheless.

                Now out of breath and unsure of my next move, I took the opportunity to pause and reflect.  Full disclosure: I was almost paralyzed by fear; I wondered if the Rapture had happened and I had been left behind with the heathen who did not know Jesus, like the Moonies or the Catholics.

                Just like every after-school special, I was found by a kind elderly couple from a nearby Winnebago.  I say elderly as I remember them seeming grandparent-esque.  To be honest, my mother was 33 and I thought she was “pure grown”, so they could’ve simply been in their late 40s.  Whatever their age, I was fortunate this couple did not kidnap me.  They simply questioned my solo status and took control of the situation, returning me to the entrance of the Fair, leaving me under the care of a friendly carnival worker who suggested I wait with her and let my family find me.

                I thought about discussing my “left behind” theory with her, but had quickly assessed her to be a heathen, due almost entirely to the feathers clipped into her lustrous hair.  Deciding I did not want to cause a ruckus on my first day on earth without Jesus or my parents, I didn’t broach the subject of religion.  Additionally, as I was here, it seemed I had inadvertently joined the ranks of the carnival heathen and needed to get along with my new people.  One of my talents has always been the ability to insert myself into any situation quickly and with relatively little fanfare. Ms. Feathers, as I named her, was very kind and allowed me to have a great time greeting people.  Well, as great a time as you can have looking toward an eternity in the Lake of Fire.  At least I could smell the funnel cakes.

                I sat for what I remember to be quite some time (but was probably less than 20 minutes) saying hello and taking tickets from the more fortunate Fair-going families who had not been torn asunder by poor timing, overreactions and bangs.  My family finally made it to the front gate as my mother is a proven problem-solver.  Hugs abounded, at least from the mothers; back slaps from the fathers.  My siblings and cousins were less charitable.  Apparently the group veered to the right into one of the buildings in search of ice cream, but before any orders could be placed my absence was noticed, the frozen dairy treats were quickly forgotten and the search began.  I should have known the pursuit for sustenance would be our downfall.  We are Southern; eating is what we do. 

                After my rescue the adults wanted to head home, as searching for a missing child is, apparently, psychologically exhausting.  The children, including me, still wanted icy refreshment.  Skilled at reading her audience and a negotiator at heart, my mother suggested a trip to Baskin-Robbins which was on the way home.  Also gifted in looking on the bright side she said, “At least Dusty knows where we parked.”   

Newly found by both God and family, I triumphantly escorted everyone through the maze-like parking lot, not unlike a chubby, pre-pubescent Pocahontas, with less woodland creatures but about the same amount of suede fringe.  It was Oklahoma, y’all, cut me some slack.

I’m not referring to the cologne from the 90s

We often hear stories about Lewis and Clark and how successfully they maneuvered the vast unknown of the US.  However successful they were, there are tales of the incompatibility of their personalities and I am reminded of a time in my past when I traversed this country to visit our neighbor to the north, Canada.

                I graduated college in May, 1993, and was to set out on the course of my new career when I realized I had neglected to actually obtain employment.  Having no idea what to do with myself, I moved home and panicked. I decided I needed to travel and my best friend John Allen’s parents had a lovely resort in Nestor Falls, Ontario and I had been invited to join them for a week or two.  My parents and I looked at our finances and to the bus station we went.

                Have you ridden a bus from McComb, Mississippi, to Duluth, Minnesota?  No?  Well I have.  It took more than 24 hours of non-stop driving and I use the term loosely.  We stopped for about three minutes in every podunk town on the route through Tennessee, Missouri, Illinois, Iowa and Wisconsin.  I don’t know if our driver was lost or drunk but we weaved our way northward spending hours-long stops in both Memphis and Chicago. 

                Do you know what people do in the bathrooms of the Chicago bus station?  Well I don’t because I refused to enter due to the overwhelming stench of “stock show” greeting me before I crossed the threshold.  I took refuge with the kindly snack bar manager who let me spend time in the employee breakroom because, in her words, “You don’t look like you belong here, honey”.  I concurred and enjoyed my respite from “the bus people”. 

                I made it to Duluth, the rendezvous point as John’s brother Lee lived there and it is very, very clean and very, very close to the border.  Upon my arrival, we ate, watched a Joan Rivers standup special, slept and headed to Allen’s Crow Lake Lodge on the shores of Kakagi Lake.  Kakagi is the word for crow in a language I failed to establish.  We headed to the land of ketchup-flavored potato chips armed only with a driver’s license as it was all you needed back in the gentle, innocent days of the 1990s, well before anyone wanted a piece of Britney and she was simply a former Mouseketeer whose family lived about 15 miles away from mine, just across the border into Louisiana.

                Upon arrival I was greeted warmly by the family and coolly by the weather.  August in Canada is simply delicious weather; 70 degree days and 50 degree nights which required a lovely fire.  I was not sweating in the summertime and I was loving life even though I was voluntarily swimming which required a level of public nudity I felt inappropriate.  I tried water skiing but was unable to surface on the skis, even when they tried to start me from the end of the pier.  My body is not built for water sports, such as canoeing, which I try to avoid.

                It was decided by those who decide such things that we were to fish and I was to participate, just like in my youth in the Texas and Mississippi.  At least this time there would be no sweating but the setting, ominously, was canoe-related and I’m not referring to the cologne from the 90s.  The day began with John and his father in one canoe.  I and the 12 year-old cabin boy Stephen were in the other.  Yes, the Allen’s are a two-canoe family.  It’s fancy up in Canada, y’all. 

At the time of the event, I was 6’ and approximately 275 pounds give or take a Frito Pie; Stephen was 5’5” at best and 110 pounds at most.  Due to the differences in our masses, the canoe was riding low in the rear and barely skimming the surface of the lake in the front.  I don’t know the nautical term for popping a wheelie but were doing so, I can assure you.

Anyone familiar with canoe etiquette knows you must paddle on opposite sides of the craft in order to keep your forward momentum on a reasonably straight trajectory.  John and his Dad were making great time.  Young Stephen and I, on the other hand, were taking a more meandering route.  For every deep stroke I made, Stephen’s paddle did little to counter so we made continual, lovely loop-the-loops in the water as if we were a graceful, but boring Ice Capader. 

It was bad enough we fell further and further behind, but all the circling had caused me nausea, coupled with an irrational fear of a snake swimming in my back pocket (as the water was mere centimeters from the top edge of the vessel).  The only thing keeping us from being forever lost in the mists of Kakagi Lake was the repeated stops by the Allen men due to their constant laughter at our performance.

Even in adrift on Canadian waterways, I’m funny.

Sparkly Sister Wives and Sci-Fi Movies

                I recently watched a sci-fi film, “Midnight Special”, not to be confused with “Midnight Express” which is what I kept calling it, serving to befuddle everyone with whom I shared this information.  In the movie, there is a young man with special powers of some sort who may or may not be an alien or a messiah or something equally spectacular and implausible.  The young man is a member of a cult, but is kidnapped by his father (also a cult member) and a random state trooper, who “saw the light” which came out of the young man’s eyes.  The cult was located in West Texas and I am assuming was supposed to be based on the Branch Davidians at Waco, you know, before Janet Reno put the hurt on ‘em.

                Have you ever noticed the women in these cults whether on TV, in the movies or on the actual news all wear the same dress; a high-necked modified shift with a pointed collar and jaunty puffed sleeves made a bit more uptight by trailing all the way to the sinful wrist where it buttons so as to allow the toil and drudgery I imagine is required?  They are, however, allowed a veritable rainbow of color which the men are not, one of the myriad reasons not to join.

                From what I have read, cult members are not to be of this world and anything causing undue attention has no place in a community with very strict rules about hair volume and living arrangements.  During the scene where all the members are loaded onto school buses and transported to the local high school to be interviewed about their interactions with and knowledge of the young man, whose name escapes me. 

During the scene, a thought occurred to me concerning the original seamstress who designed this dress.  Did she feel it worthy of ubiquity?  Was she the original sister wife?  Was her husband the original prophet?  Did he like it and proclaim it to be the “dress of their people”?  Was she specifically tasked with designing the dress?  Was this an original pattern?  Was it a McCall’s pattern that she modified into what I call Subservient Sister Wife?  And if this was her original design, was she allowed a demure acknowledgement of her legacy?  If so, did she handle the attention with humility ?  Did she demonstrate the proper degree of self-effacement or was she banished due to pride, exiled to life in our society?  If she is among us, is she the person who designs Loretta Lynn’s Grammy dresses?  You don't agree?  Well, then you explain her choices.

                Oh, and the movie was good, too.  Weird, but good.