A Declaration of Independence (From Crummy Relationships)

I'm teaching English 11 for the third time in my career, which is great for me, because it is American Literature, and I have degrees in both history and American Lit. Bad news for students: it follows the changes of American language through the history of our nation. Some would argue that there is no great American writer until Twain at the end of the 19th century, which means we as a class have to bumble through the archaic language of the 1700s and 1800s. Many hate everything we read until we get to Poe. Honestly, I don't blame them.

However, there were many great thinkers. And Jefferson's Declaration of Independence is not only, arguably, the most influential documents of all time, but actually quite lovely in its damning prose of King George and England. I compare it to an epic break-up letter. America saying to England: It's not me, it's you. 

So I make them write their own break-up letter in Jeffersonian style. A mimicry of his grievances intended, instead, for a tyrannical love partner. Here's mine (obviously from the MALE perspective). (And no, this is not directed toward my wife, we're fine. This is merely rethinking and exaggerating all the heartache and pain I've experienced and seen).

I'll take it off, but I'm never
throwing it away.  

   --------------------------------------------------------

Preamble: 

When in the course of human relationships, it becomes necessary for one half of the whole to disrobe the friendship bracelet that has hitherto joined them in couplehood, and to assume among the powers of manhood, the separate and single freedoms which the law, God, and our parents agree we are entitle to, we shall declare the reasons for which we are awesome and you are not.  

Declaration of Natural Rights:

We, men, hold these truths to be fact, that while all men are created equal, some of us are more equal than others, yet even the lowest among us have been granted by the Creator certain guaranteed rights, that among these are Comfort, Freedom from nagging, Happiness on Sundays, the right to buy ourselves gifts without your approval, and the Pursuit of Awesomeness. --That to assure these rights, ManCode has been created from the blood of cockolded, browbeaten, and domineered men.  And whenever ManCode is denied, it is the right, NO DUTY, to seek out a new partner that will assure their Safety, Happiness, and Satisfaction.

But when a long train of abuses and complaints, whining and unnecessary blabbering, crying and the lot, and basic unhappiness abound from the same principle Source (i.e. YOU), it is their right to throw off, ye, dump, said partner, and start over anew.  The present history of injustices to ManCode shall be listed hitherto:

List of Grievances: 

*She has scoffed at the Code established by Men, which has outlined the rationale for our preferred gender treatment.

*She has refused to listen to our complaints, nay, she has put them on the back-burner whilst she inputs her caloric intake into her MyFitnessPal app on her smartphone.

*She routinely invades the mancave and tries to light candles or decorate in a manner disproportionate to the style predetermined by the proprietor.

*She refuses to recognize and arm against the threat of Zombie invasions, or North Korean terrorists, yet she demandith military action against harmless native species such as arachnids and rodents.  Her use of military force is neither justified nor rational.

*She inviteth people over to parties without the consent of her governed, and forces upon the governed the need to extensively clean, purchase exotic and expensive foodstuffs that will mostly be uneaten, and commiserate with acquaintances about trivial and mundane happenings.

*She has, (I swear-ith), hired legions of female spies to report on our happenings while she is away.

*She has accused and punished us for crimes of little or no importance, some of which were mere fabrications of her own delusional mind.

*She has eliminated our access to the outside female world, even eliminating IMing to females on social media platforms.

*For removing our X-box, our computer, forcing us to keep an outdated iPod, and limiting any other source of entertainment that does not directly correlate to her likes/needs.

*She has openly mocked friends, deleted accounts, alienated family, and spread rumors about us in order to destroy our reputations.

*She is currently, in anticipation of this letter, sending out large armies of Estrogen crazed mutant women, hellbent on destroying all traces of my manhood.

*She has used our natural desires against ourselves by forcing us to do unnatural and slave-like acts in order to receive temporal gratification.

The ancient  Shao Ming method of elbow-to-rib.
Makes photos look crooked as well.  

*She has spontaneously remarked upon the physical appearance of other male specimen; yet when the opposite is attempted, nay, when nary even a glance at the swaying of the hips is observed for mere nano-seconds, the male is met with an elbow to the ribs.  The ribs crieth out, oh Lord.

*Challenging her to rumors of her infidelity are met with a marathon of cryfests, angry fit hits to the chest in the style of 1890s boxers, and lacerating words like capricious, duplicity, and unscrupulous which seem (although aren't known) to be very hurtful.  Somehow, she is the victim.

Resolution:

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for an honest hearing, but our requests have been universally denied.  A women whose character is thus littered by the aforementioned claims shall then be defined as an impostor, a pirate, a fake--for your definition is contrary to your nature--and you are unfit to any longer be associated with me.

With that skillset, buddy,
you won't be single long.
If Jefferson had a painting
doing this to King George,
the D.O.I. would be even
more amazing today.   

And now to that impostor's friends: Women, we have warned you repeatedly about her injustices. We have sought out your council, and you have repeatedly rebuffed us, and turned a blind eye towards our suffering. We forgive you for aligning yourself with your own gender, but know now that we are single, and if you forget about her now, you may have a shot at us.  We are not enemies, but friends (hopefully more than friends someday).

We, therefore, Representatives of Men, in accordance with ManCode, God, and ideals arbitrarily established in Stallone/Schwarzenegger/Porky's movies solemnly publish and declare that WE ARE FREE FROM YOUR EVIL GRIP AND HAVE NO ATTACHMENT TO YOUR LIFE, henceforth.  We can date, roam, spend, eat, sleep, and be merry at our own leisure, and will only be haunted by memories of you, and not your physical presence. It's been real, but not real fun.  Bu-bye.

Signed, myself and my two remaining male friends.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Women, I'd love some of your grievances.  Guys what did I leave off (most of these were based off Jefferson's actual list)?

To Tip or not to Tip, That is the Question.

I know the Noid isn't relevant, but...

I pushed open the door of the Domino's Pizza joint just nanoseconds behind a disheveled guy who failed to hold the door open for me--even as (though) he acknowledged my existence with a head nod seconds earlier in the parking lot. Thanks buddy.

Oh well, I was having a good day. Just two hours earlier, I arrived home from four days of camping--and not just your run-of-the mill campsite camping, but out of cell-phone, wi-fi and electronic device service camping with dirt, hiking, lakes, fishing, campfire cooking, and more dirt.  I love camping. I love the post-camping shower almost as much. I felt refreshed on so many levels.

It's good to get away. But now I was looking forward to a fresh hot pizza.  After camping, anything hot (other than a hot dog) sounds good; Domino's is fortunate that they are right down the road from me.

I was tired, and contemplated delivery, but then there's the delivery fee and tipping, and it isn't worth it when the pizzeria (Domino's doesn't qualify for that moniker, does it?) is right down the road.

So when I stepped up to the register, I was perplexed (as I always am) when the little "tip" line was on my receipt.  For pickup?  The employee literally turned around, grabbed my pizza, hit three buttons and swiped my card. Less than 30 seconds? It's almost worth carrying cash around for these type situations.

I stared at that blank line on my receipt before signing. The cashier, capitalizing on my moral quandary hesitation, added, "How's your day going?"

Usually I'd reply like it was my mother asking me about my day at school, "Good." But this time, for some reason, maybe it was the being refreshed and not yet anti-societal, I replied...

"You know, I'm good. Just got back from camping up in the mountains with no amenities; my wife already unpacked the whole car; and my shower was amazing."

I don't know why I was oversharing with a stranger, but, sensibly, I stopped myself short of telling him that I exfoliated with my wife's Dove body wash, and even used one of those girly bathroom Brillo pad/sponge things that administer soap in an endless supply.  (I thought about making this whole post on just that 20 minute shower, but I really don't want people associating me with nudity).

Never-nudes: There should be more.  Way more.  

Suddenly I realized that Mr. Domino's cashier and I just shared a human experience. Was his simple salutation worthy of a tip?  Damn you buddy for making this pizza transaction more complicated than it had to be!  I just wanted a $7.99 deep dish pizza, and you had to turn this into a relationship?  I don't have room for anymore twenty-something dudes on my friend's list.  I already have former students as Facebook friends and I don't even understand their Generation Y quirks.

My password is Creed-fan4life.  Oh crap, it doesn't work.  

A dollar. Is that good enough? What percentage is that? Like 13%? To earn this in an actual restaurant one would have to offer coordinating wines and pronounce the house specials with fancy French names like Velouté sauce in an uppity way.  Is Domino's even a restaurant? This one doesn't even have a table...I can't sit even if I wanted to...Isn't this the fast-food of pizza places?

Why is tipping so hard?  Why does this guy get a tip, and the gas attendant who washed my window(without asking), doesn't?  Why not the super-friendly cashier at Trader Joe's who actually knows my name, recommends what's good (and not good) and bags my groceries with care?  Why is it only people in the service industry (and not people who actually practice quality customer service) that get tips? Why are we forced to play by these unwritten laws that say giving 15% extra isn't even generous, but dare I say, cheap?

Years ago, my wife and I (we notoriously receive bad service--I blame the fact that I almost always wear a ballcap) thought about inventing a tip-o' meter. You place it right at the edge of the table so that the waiter always knows the score.  It starts at 15% and goes up or down dependent on how good or bad the service is. 10 minute wait before asking for drinks? Down to 12%.  Happily refilling my ginger ale, even after the fourth time? Up to 18%.  Being genuinely nice and personable without being annoying? 20%.

I guess they have an app now.  Stupid apps.  

But the tip-o' meter doesn't rectify the inequality for those who receive and those who can't receive the extra gratuity. Tipping should be a generous offering based on quality customer service, not an expected additional cost (especially in Oregon where minimum wage is $8.95).  Some of these waiters are making more than I am as a teacher. Some deserve every penny they get. Others, well...I'm sorry...if I can see you checking your text messages instead of bringing me my meal, I think the only tip you deserve is me giving you this advice: "get a different job."

Maybe I just don't understand the social ineptitude of the generation below me which makes up the majority of these type jobs now. They seems to get nervous when they go off-script. They seem to have trouble finding words and/or solutions when something goes wrong. Customer service, and earning a tip, should go to the person who is proactive in making my experience first-rate, not an expectation based on social norms.

And businesses: Please eliminate the tip line from receipts when no service is offered. I can be generous, but I shouldn't be put in a moral mess (crisis?) because an employee treated me like a human being. (I worked eight years in customer service, breaking my back for certain customers, and in all eight years, I received a total of three tips...all because my industries weren't considered "tippable" jobs).  I'm not bitter.  I enjoyed giving great customer service.  I like to help. I just want to understand why we tip who we do, and why it is expected even when the service given is second rate.

That's just my two cents on the subject (which coincidentally is a tipping insult). Maybe you can offer a tip on this theme (or how I can eliminate all the parenthesis from my writing)?

Being a Single Parent? Don't Sign Me Up.

I'm tired. Running around keeping my two girls, 7 & 5, occupied, happy, fed, and disciplined is kicking my butt.

Italy, Greece? Blah.  Give me a
Denny's off the highway, any day.  

Not that I haven't done this before (although never for two weeks).  My wife has special opportunities in the school she works at.  As the theatre teacher, she's inherited a relationship with the Manhattan Theatre Company, and gets to go the NY City every other year and work on new plays and develop curriculum (she also drops a small fortune on "essential" Broadway plays).  She's also the Traveler's Club advisor, which means every few years kids fundraise to go see educational tours, like Japan, England, and currently Italy/Greece.

She took 11 kids this year.  A twelfth would've secured me as the second paid chaperone.  Alas, the 12th man in football is the crowd, the ever hopeful audience, and so it is that I am that cheering section for her. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.  But I'm happy for her.  She's having fun, and I'm...I'm watching the kids.

Which is why I'm exhausted.

They're older now, and easier in a lot of ways: I should be fine. The first time my wife left on holiday (as they say in England), one girl was barely out of diapers, and the other was earnestly filling them up. I learned a lot about myself during that week.  Things I don't like about myself.  If I had the Mirror of Erised from Harry Potter back then, I would've seen myself chanting incantations to bring He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, back.  It was a literal $#!tty dark Goth period of my life.

Thankfully, I've stopped speaking Parseltongue, and my kids have stopped fussing like infants.  We've all transitioned into the whining stage. We are all emo kids, now.

They whine about the food I make them.  They whine about their bedtime being too early (even though it is nearly three hours later than their school year time).  They whine, even though they had 11 softball games in 7 days (what a joy it is carting kids all over town for hour long games).  I've taken them to movies (Monsters University), rented movies, taken them out to eat almost once a day, gone miniature golfing, traveled to the Oregon coast, gone to both grandparent's house multiple times, gone swimming, etc.  I'd venture to say we've spent less than 20% of our waking hours inside our house (and it's nicely air conditioned---sorry rest of America).  I'm a little flummoxed.

I really feel like we should give the girls a timeout for
this latest outburst, what do you think coach? 

And then I remember...we're out of sync. Dad, even on entertainment overload, can never replace Mom. No matter how hard I try, these kids aren't experiencing the life they know.  We, my wife and I, are a team. And when one of the coaches is gone, the kids don't know where the signals are coming from.  I, like the town-drunk Shooter (Dennis Hopper) in Hoosiers, don't know how to coach when the real coach (which for the sake of this analogy is Gene Hackman, but also my wife) is incapacitated.  I'm trying my best, but I need Gene Hackman.

But he's in Greece (or at least my wife is...I don't know where Mr. Hackman currently resides). {That analogy was really awkward, remind me not to write like that}.

The Greeks had a lot to say about love.  They had many words to define it, even a god who supplied it, Eros. I don't believe in éros love. You know, that passionate/romantic love that is essentially, eroticism or lust. I mean, I don't believe éros love lasts very long. It has it's time and place, and fades, like all passionate emotions, quickly.  It cannot be the cornerstone of a partnership, IMHO. Real love, or real marriages, I should say, are based on agape love, which is translated as divine, unconditional, self-sacrificing, active, volitional, and thoughtful --love.  Wow, those are great words.

Active.  How many of us are active in our marriages? (Not sexually active: we could all use more of that).  Just active?  Actively keeping it alive, fresh?

So these last two weeks, I'm taking one for the team. Self-sacrificing (while complaining) with two discombobulated girls who are pushing their limits with dad. It's okay. I'm learning a lot about myself again, like: I don't know how to disinfect earring backings/mild infections and I hate coaching softball to 1st graders in 94° weather (who only care about getting under the shade and squirting water on their face).

Late at night, when my impish princesses are finally asleep,  I put on movies like The French

The old mountain of diapers in the backyard.  Don't worry,
I burned them all on Earth Day to lower my carbon footprint.

Connection, or the Royal Tenebaums, because I need my Gene Hackman fix. I miss my wife. I need my wife.  Because I, I could never be a single parent. I don't know how anyone does it. It's exhausting, demanding, and unfair to everyone involved. I don't mean to demean any single moms, or (Han) solo dads, but this work, raising children is tough stuff.  Life is hard enough.  Raising kids on top of that?  

It doesn't necessarily take a village, like Hillary Clinton wrote, but merely a team, to raise a family.  And I need my Gene Hackman to come home.

Empowered Buyers: 10 Steps to get Everything You Want in Your Next Purchase.

Using my principles you too can be a pretentious Acura owning snob.
Okay, it is a 2003 model; but I still want to take up cigar smoking and
get a subscription to Golf magazine.  

Lately I've written a lot about not needing material possessions, but there comes a time when necessity dictates a purchase.  In my past lifetime I was a salesperson, so I've learned a few tricks as a consumer to get nearly everything you want in any budget.

I recently had to buy a new vehicle because my beloved Nissan Murano started having transmission problems. And knowing that those problems translated to a $3000 dollar fix, it was time to put ole' Murano down.  So I traded it in to a dealer, and bought an Acura MDX.  They will prudently euthanize my Murano (read: they will sell it to some sucker).

Here's 10 ways to ensure you are never the sucker.

10. Never pick a specific model.  Consumer Reports readers fall in love with "Best Buys," and other people get fixated on a make or model of something they loved in the past; yet this is a salesman's dream. You didn't do your own research. Years ago, CR picked a Kenmore vacuum as their "best buy" and it was nothing but problems.  CR loves features: an extendable wand? check; a 20' hose extension? check; a belt-less beater bar? check...reliability? Uh, not really...but it has really flashy features.  If the customer had the time to listen, I'd redirect them to a vacuum that was $100 dollars cheaper, lighter, less clunky, and totally reliable.  What percentage of customers listened?  about 40%.  They kept their vacuums.  The customers who listened to CR returned them...en masse.  Oh well, I made more in commission on the CR "best buy" model.  

Clemson Tigers? Bengels? Nerd? 

9. Never buy based on looks. If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty model your life. I'm not saying that you have to buy unattractive products like the Nissan Cube, or Crocs because they are good deals...just don't let smooth lines, fancy LED lighting, and Apple-type stainless steel trim play with your mind. Nothing gold can stay...

8. Buy out of season. Patience is a virtue; a virtue many of us don't possess. I've learned to buy my camping supplies and softball gear in October, when it is a whole 9 months from playtime.  Yet on average I save at least 50% off the summer cost. In February, as un-festive as it is, I purchased an 8' lighted Christmas tree for $20 (originally $300). While I'll miss the smell of a real tree, I won't miss my wife's allergies, the disposing of, and constant maintenance of a dead conifer in my living room (or the yearly rising cost of dead trees). Patience always pays off.

In retrospect, this car actually looks better than Kitt.  

7.  Never buy the last year of an old design.  Those poor souls who bought the 1993 Dodge Ram, or the 1981 Chevy Camaro.  How many guys were driving around their '81 Camaros, Trans Ams, or Firebirds (all essentially the same car), when Knight Rider came out and instantly made their year old body style lame. Most body styles last four to six years.  Buy the second - forth years, as the "add ons" in later years aren't worth the extra cost.  Nobody knows the difference between a 2008 and a 2012 Honda Accord except for the buyer who either saved or swallowed the $10k difference in cost.

Iphone 4 reception issues?
Not anymore.  

6. Try not to buy the first year of a new redesign. You want to be cool, right?  You wanted the first iPad with its little memory and no camera, you got it.  Couldn't wait eight months for the kinks to get worked out, right?  Basically, all products get tweaked between the initial manufacture run and subsequent reorders. Most product recalls are in that initial 6 months a product is manufactured. Year three is usually the most reliable of any given product on the market.

More like "Ready when I feel like it"

5. Ignore patented jargon.  Versa-cut, Durafoam, StabiliTrak, Wikaway, what do they all mean?  Mostly nothing other than a company paid to have a useless feature patented. I used to sell treadmills, and every single make and model had a different cushioning system (even though all five of our brands were owned by the same conglomerate--Icon Health and Fitness).  The more money you spent, the more "foam" (and fancy patented names) you got to separate the deck from the frame. Like shoes, the best solution is to try them out.  Give everything a test drive, and ignore the salesman harping about some product's "industry exclusive." If something works, every brand will have its variation of it in five months.

4.  Never tell the salesman what your "price range" is. An honest salesman should sell based on needed features, and not budget. 90% of the time a salesman has his/her own interests in mind.  Remember you hold ALL the CARDS.  A salesman makes NOTHING, if you walk away. Don't like a salesperson's attitude?  Request another one, or ask for a manager.  Salespeople are only pushy because we ALLOW them to be pushy.  This isn't middle school, or your first beau; don't get bullied/manipulated into something you DON'T want.  It's your freakin' money, so man up!

3.  Do some research.  Even if you have to walk away and look it up on your smart phone, you need to be educated. Know what the cost should be and what is a good deal.  Some stores have the same sales every single week.  Just because it's 50% off, doesn't mean it is a good deal.  Know which stores and retailers mark their prices up so that their sales look even better. I can't do my grocery shopping at Albertsons (huge chain west of the Mississippi) anymore, because only 1/4 of the items I need are on sale, and the rest are so marked up, it makes for ridiculous shopping experience. There's always a better deal.  You may not be willing to search it out, but you should imply to the salesperson, that their deal isn't that good.  Be ready to negotiate and use your research to your advantage.  Yes, even in stores with "set prices" like Walmart. Almost all stores will price match to beat a competitor.

I like a good moonroof on my RV.  

2. Search out the scratch and dent section. While I love me some e-shopping, nothing beats brick and mortar stores for returns. Clearance, mark-downs, repackages, refurbished and floor models can be purchased for AT LEAST 20% off the SALE price. I love finding these deals, but often times the brand new item in a pristine box is only a few dollars more. Notify a manager about the discrepancy. They want that stuff out of the store, and can make additional markdowns. No store wants to look like a garage sale. They will make concessions to get junky looking products out of their store.

1.  Never fall in love with anything. No car, no house, no phone, no television, no DEAL is so good, that you shouldn't be able to walk away if your terms aren't met. Too many people fall in love with an item and wave the small green flags of surrender. NO! Save your money. Make them sweat. Make them sweeten the deal. A good customer will say, "I want this price, this product, delivered on this day, with zero percent interest for a year..."  Maybe the retailer can't meet those demands, but a good salesman will say, "well, on such and such a day you can get it a little cheaper, and we will have no financing"...employees usually have a heads up on future sales (especially major holidays).  A customer can make demands...and if these demands aren't outrageous, the seller will usually comply.

Be empowered. It's your money, you should get the best deal.

Now excuse me, I have to buy a monocle and some leather bound books to go with my new Acura.  

Relationship Advice From A Mean Old Man

I learned from the best of them.  

Sometimes you have to take what life gives you; and other times you have to use your unique skill set to open doors for you.  I have found a way, through a carefully crafted cult of deprecation personality, to make myself completely unreliable for relationship advice.

Which is quite odd, because I have amassed a plethora of experiences (mostly bad) that I could easily educate the masses with.  Yet I'm not complaining.

Because let's be frank: relationship people are needy, and I don't have the time to cure their deficiencies and read my 1700 twitter author friends' fascinating narcissistic tweets (my new tongue twister).  Honestly, I care more about my friends than these twitter egotists, but my friends' problems are not solvable, so why bother even trying?  

People in crappy relationships have to figure it out themselves. Because they never listen. Ever.

Back in the day, friends used to ask me things like: "Why does she hit me?" To which I would reply: Because you have no balls, and she has microwaved what little masculinity you have left into a piece of radioactive boyishness. "Do you think she's cheating on me?" Well, that's really observant of you, considering she is the female Wilt Chamberlain. "How come she never says "I love you" when people are around?" Because you're an embarrassment to America, not just your family and friends.  

I'm kidding, of course, I was much harsher than that. It doesn't matter if you or I sugarcoat our opinions, telegraph them, or stage an intervention with Dr. Drew Pinksy...people in bad relationships only want us to endorse their sad significant other, rather than offer any honest detractions.

I'd tell this man anything...
even my pin numbers.  

One of my best friends has been married for a while now, which is really convenient for me, because he was the last person who attempted to pick my brain on affairs of the heart.

He's the kind of guy who loves relationships.  LOVES THEM. He enjoys the chase, the warm fuzzies, that early lustful passion, the awkward transition to committed stage, the 'we can work this out' moments, the public fights, the meltdowns, the 'we got back together' (after I've awkwardly expressed my negative feelings for his choice), and finally, the "dude, can we hang out...'cause she just broke up with me," phase.

Magnetic poetry...the adult version of
kindergarden fingerpainting "masterpieces." 

I like to believe in some privacy when it comes to the in-workings of a relationship, but he has no such stipulations. Metaphorically, he was the kind of guy who would drive a garbage truck over to my house, flip the switch, slop the gross contents of his baggage on my front lawn and ask me to help fish through the sludge to find the tiniest morsel of hope.  "There's nothing here, ___________, just some regurgitated oyster flesh...it's over dude..."  "Oh, she loved oysters...help me find my poem...she wrote me a poem, once..."  "____________, I hate to say it, but poetry sucks.  F--poetry.  Her poetry sucks. Just like her personality..."  

Okay. I was never really this brutally honest. I really do want to help my friends to find happiness in their relationships, it's just so much easier to smell someone else's BO from across the room. I never liked hearing other people's honest opinions about my youthful flings; maybe that's part of every teenage developmental stage: the I'm illogically ignoring your logical lessons phase.  Maybe it should be added to Freud's bizarre psychosexual stages.

I've realized, however, in this new touchy anti-social world that we live in, that my 'say it like it is' counseling is not interpersonally appropriate, it is perfect for the internet. So I'm offering free relationship advice in 140 characters on twitter (@plumbeddown), because nobody takes anybody serious on twitter. #breakupNOW #Idonttiptoethroughthetulips

Breaking Up is Hard to Do: Finding Oneself Through Turbulence

Different date, same outcome.  I should start a collection.  

I got a letter yesterday. I've seen it enough times (five in fact) to know what entailed without reading it. It was a layoff notice, the same exact, impersonal, layoff notice I've seen five times from my school district. The last line glazes over my contributions to the students, to the school, to faculty and administration in only the way a form letter can. Nowhere does it acknowledge that I am an individual, rather, just one of many for whom there is no longer a need and/or funding to keep employed.

It hurt the first few times I received the letter. Maybe because there was no administration that came along and said, "You know, Chris, it's not you, it's us. We just have no money."  Or, "This is just a technicality, we'd love you to be a part of the _______ family, you'll just need to reapply next year." --I used to work in the Human Resource Department at Sears, and even in a fortune 500 company (back then), we had a more humane way of handling layoffs, firings, and cutbacks.  Oh well, whatever...

The boys of my wife's Cuckoo's Nest play in 2011.  

I guess in the "real world," we're supposed to realize that it's all just numbers and dollar signs, and I'm just a replaceable cog to the machinery known as education. Just a piece of the combine, that Chief so elaborated on, in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.  I can be plugged in, pulled out, reformatted, melted down, repurposed, recycled, or tossed out, with no emotional impact to my personage.

And sadly, that's becoming true. I don't really care anymore. It doesn't hurt so much. I'm jaded, and ready to walk away from the career that I once loved and felt called to do.

Like a long term relationship where "I love you's" were tossed around with future implications, then the relationship sours, and hurtful words replace the "I love you's,"---it seems like time to walk away.

I'm not saying I am walking out on teaching.  I'm saying it reminds me of all my breakups. Breakups where I wasn't okay with the outcomes. You see, I've never broke up with a girl. Not once. They always broke up with me. Oh, sure, there were many times I should've pulled the plug, should've saved some self-respect, but decided to tug desperately at the fissured ends of a broken heart, desperate to pull it back together for one last hurrah.

It never worked. My wife is the only girl/woman who hasn't broken up with me. And now that we have children, a mortgage, and my super unstable paychecks, I've entrenched myself in her future. Self-deprecating aside, and giving her due credit, she is an amazing woman who agrees with me that marriage is a lifetime deal. Surely there are ways of fouling that up, but neither of us intends to go those routes.

She was horseradish.  

And thinking about life in that way makes me lucky. I've been broken up with any manner of ways: from parking lot arguments, to living room couch agreements; to Post-it notes attached to my locker; and being embarrassed in front of my friends; with letters with long explanations, and letters with brief complaints.  I've felt sad, like $#!+, oddly optimistic, mildly depressed, severely depressed, and briefly happy. I've loved and lost, and eventually regained my integrity along the way. And so did the girl. That's the cordiality that humans deserve to give each other.

Not the cold business letters informing us that we are no longer needed. Not the Friday notices that leave us packing our belongings after everyone else has left the building, careful not to "cause a scene." Breaking up with someone, whether that be in a relationship or through a job, should be handled by a human being. This stupid informal age that severing ties with people via cell phones and internet and form letters, is not humanity, it's immaturity. Human beings deserve a "scene." It shouldn't be easy to destroy a part of someone's soul.

But at least my family doesn't treat me that way. Despite the lifetime of breakups and failures, and unreached goals and dreams, my family, my wife, my loved ones, have been unconditionally there for me. Never threatening to take a break, or walk away, if this or that career plan again falls through.

I don't want to burn the place down.  Just tell
me in person what I'm doing wrong.  

And so, instead of feeling sorry for me, which was never the intention of this article, I hope you feel jealous.  Because at the end of my life, I don't give a flying F what I did for a living.  I care that my wife still loves me, my parents are proud of me, that I raised daughters who bring me joy and happiness, and that my God will graciously welcome me to a place where I will never be broken up with again.

And so, if I'm not appreciated in this life, it will be nice to be graciously accepted in the next life.  That's not a childish suicidal statement, rather, a realization that as a person of faith, I'm not living for the acceptance of man, but rather the glorification of Another.  I hope my tragic flaw of pride, doesn't get in the way of my real message of Hope.  I've been hurt a lot in this life, but I refuse to give up Hope, no matter how personal or impersonal the world tells me "you're not good enough."  I know something they don't.

8 Writing Habit Problems That I Need to Address

Webster's Dictionary defines a habit as:  an acquired mode of behavior...NO. I'm not going to finish the definition, because as an educator, I'm sick of articles/essays/etc. that start with a bland intro and go south from there.

But just because the above writing problem is not my own, it doesn't mean that I am innocent of any other writing ails. No, I have plenty of bad habits, and I fall prey to them (8--to be exact) quite often. Although "I'm baby steppin', I'm doin' the work, I'm not a slacker!"  

8. Overusing commas. I love 'em. I don't like short sentences. I love to let my mind wander off into the insane depths of my subconscious, yet mindful not to lose my way, I often employ lots of commas to keep me company along the journey. I've read almost the entire Hemingway cannon, you'd think I'd learn to keep my sentences compact and strong (like his build), but instead, I end up Faulkner-izing my sentences. I just have to remind myself not to become Henry James (whom I consider almost unreadable for his long-winded, comma laden, complex sentences).

7. Contractions. No, I'm not pregnant (big boned, yes), rather, I believe in brevity. (But you just said you loved long complex sentences--that seems like a contradiction) {I'm talking about contractions right now, not contradictions, please keep up internal audience dissenter}. For those playing the Plumbeddown contraction drinking game, you should've had 11 drinks already. That's right. I haven't even written 400 words and now we're at 14 contractions, and they're getting closer together. This baby's coming whether you're ready or not. If this was a formal blog; if I was trying to impress a potential employer or fellow English teacher with my uppity prose, I would not attempt contractions. But until I get PAID for this blog, it will remain INFORMAL--just like how I prefer to dress--without a tie.

6. Style guide confusion. I started as a journalism major, which means I usually harken back to the the AP style guide. But I later decided to become a history major, which made me switch to the Chicago style. Then I became an English minor, so back to the high school MLA style, finishing with my masters in Education (which uses the APA). Needless to say, when citing, I've almost given up. Notice there is no citation for the What About Bob? quote from above. Some quotes are so familiar, like "I love the smell of Napalm in the morning," I feel they no longer need citation.

I will say, converting to internet HTML language is probably the toughest transition. I still hit the space bar twice after every sentence (computee no likee). And no indent for a new paragraph? It feels dirty.

5. Pauses and Interjections. When to use a hyphen, a semicolon (which some people won't touch), an ellipses, or parentheses always puts me in a quandary. I've learned the rules, and still get confused. Some of my grammatically superior friends probably feel a sense of pride when I use one wrong. I'm glad I have given them a purpose in life.

4. Passive Voice. I see it too.  I just used it in number 7 (still think it looks better the way I wrote it then switching to "I'm glad I gave them a purpose"). I had an English teacher basically scream it, "NEVER, EVER, EVER, USE PASSIVE VOICE." Well, Mr. Bumstead, I have to say, you were right. It usually looks and reads ugly. Yet there are times, I not only use it, I prefer it. Call me passively aggressive, or overly verbose, but I just have to use passive voice. 

3. Mixed Metaphors. Writing to your target audience is like lovemaking, it's better when both parties understand what's going on. I realize that was a simile, but I was metaphorically trying to say something deeper. Maybe I'm digging myself into a hole. I'm in too deep to start over now. Wait, those were idioms. What is this paragraph about again? I seem to have mixed my own metaphors up. I hope this paragraph was better for you than it was for me.

2. Starting sentences with AND or BUT.  If you want another good drinking game, go back and count how many sentences I start with either of these conjunctions. I know, even my teachers harped on this grammatical law in the 80s & 90s. But they didn't write (they drank: probably because of my writing). And I think and or but works more often than not. It's my party and I can conjunction however I want to.  Sometimes I feel like I get to these junctions in my writing, and I have to place the perfectly right functional conjunction.  (Wasn't that a weak way of linking a Schoolhouse Rock video?). Plus, there are only so many howevers, therefores, and moreovers, that a person can take unless they own a monocle and a tobacco pipe. Those Masterpiece Theatre people love moreovers.

1. Generic Singular Pronoun Misuse. Guilty, like capitol offense guilty. I hate adding "he or she" to the end of sentence when I don't know the gender. It's awkward and looks silly to me. I usually try to rewrite a sentence when confronted with this problem, but it's often unavoidable. Example: "Whoever is responsible for writing "Mr. Plumb is a fruit" on this desk, I want them to grab a bottle of cleaner and clean it right now!" Of course, "them" implies that there is more than one guilty party. I should've said him or her. Only, as a teacher, I know it's not a girl who wrote it. Well, 98% sure. Anyway, we need a new pronoun. Some have suggested "they." DUMB. I vote for my word: OMAN. Half man, half woman. Gender neutral. Plus, the country of Oman never comes up in daily conversation in the U.S., so it really isn't rivaling an existing word. Example: "If anyone wants extra credit, oman should refute Bobby who thinks I'll look like Mr. Prune in three years."

So, you've read my blogs. What else do I need to work on? Maybe using quotation marks around words that don't need them (like air quotes)? Should I invent a sarcasm font?

What are your writing hang-ups or pet peeves?  

The 12 Days of Retail Christmas: Extended Warranties

I'm pretty good at servicing my own stuff.  I don't need
your silly warranty.  

You dread that moment.  You've finally decided on that big purchase: maybe you researched models online, or studied environmental impact ratings, or decided that it looked the prettiest, and then the sales associate has the nerve to ask for more money.  "For only 8 dollars a month, you can protect your investment for the next five years.  We can guarantee that every feature of your lawn-mower/ dishwasher/ beta max player/ AK-47 will opporate effectively, and you will never be charged a single dollar for any repairs or parts."

Only 8 dollars, that's not so bad?  Maybe some of you are saying that, but I don't even like to donate a dollar to whatever cause the local grocery store is fundraising on behalf of.  I'm not heartless, I just don't like surprises at the register.  One time I won a reward for being the 100,000 customer, and it was so shocking, I refused the gift.  Okay, that didn't happen.  Maybe I'm just cheap.

But for seven years, I was forced to sell these add-on warranties for everything from HEPA air cleaners to Craftsman sliding compound saws.  And no matter how well the customer and I were getting along before that moment, everything changed the instant I said "service contract."

Their faces contorted, their attitudes went through instant bipolar emotions, and I was recognized for who I really was: Beelzebub.  Don't get me wrong, certain extended warranties have some value.  But the prices my store Sears was asking were along the lines of soul selling.  I was often tempted to say, "or I can just challenge you to a fiddle playing contest?"
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Some of the most common reactions to when I tried to get a person to buy a service contract:

"So you're telling me this item is going to break as soon as the warranty is over."  ---Yes.  It was designed with an internal clock to die the moment it is no longer protected by the manufacturer.  We have to keep the economy going, so nothing lasts forever...

32K of RAM and two floppy drives!  Do you know how
many foreign governments I can cripple with this bad boy?  

"Back in my day [oh Lord, I hate this intro] products were designed to last 15 years!"  Yeah, they were.  But surprisingly, the manufacture has figured out how to cut 15 times its costs on that same product today, plus give you more features, most of which are fragile, like LED displays.  How's your $2,200 dollar Apple II computer doing today anyways?  Cause it's worth about $2 in scrap lead today.  (potentially more to an Apple fanboy).

"Give me your honest answer, do I need this warranty?"  I honestly don't know.  Some people use their microwave to make popcorn.  Some use it to make bacon out of hotdogs.  Some use it to test bomb making materials.  Only you know how hard you are on certain items.  How many have you bought in the last few years?

"That's just a ploy for stores to make pure profit."  Well, I can tell you, there are certain customers who use the service contract on all their products...and it isn't free to send a tech out, or to put replacement parts in.  In fact, if not for Sears, there may not even be a replacement part system in place.  Companies don't want you to fix their products, they want you to replace them.

"Well, such and such model has a five year warranty as standard on it."  Yeah it does.  And it's twice the price of this product with our optional five year warranty.  If you want the best, you pay for it.

"Every time I buy one of these, I never use it before it expires."  Yeah, I feel the same every time I buy milk, cheese, sliced deli meat, prophylactics, etc.
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I only throw my iPhone in the toilet when
James Taylor comes on my Pandora station. 

My advice, rather than strong arming someone is this:  If you're hard on a certain type product, then buy it.  My parents historically never bought service contracts, yet my father breaks a lawn mower every other year.  They also have extremely hard water, and the iron destroys anything that uses plumbing.  I finally convinced them to get a contract on their dishwasher, and Sears has put over $800 dollars in parts and labor into his $188 dollar basic dishwasher in five years.  You have to know how hard you use an item.  Do you have a history of dropping your cell phone into toilets?  Well, better read the fine print and see if it's covered under the warranty (NEVER trust the salesperson.  They have to sell this junk, and they routinely LIE, or state OUTDATED service coverage material).

Almost never buy a contract that is sent out through a secondary service company.  If you have to package it up, ship it away at your expense, and wait for their "decision" you probably aren't going to do it.  Some stores have a drop off service (good), some have in-store service (better), and some have instant replacement of product with almost no questions (best).

Always read the fine print.  If you don't like the sound of it, you usually have 14 days to get your money back.  Odds are, that employee who said he'd take care of you, is not going to be there when you have a problem...so if it isn't in writing on a form, you're only as good as your ability to make a huge scene.

What do you mean Volkswagen will not cover my
blown engine? I know I removed the radiator, but I
needed room for the turtle head.  

Almost no warranties cover your stupidity.  You shot a hole through your television?  You need help-not a service contract.  You dropped your phone?  Make sure that's covered.  You were using your oven as a reptile habitat?  Yeah, no.  Don't go waltzing into the store you bought it from expecting them to honor a warranty on a treadmill that you modified to use as a gold mining sifting machine.

The reality is, stores are tightening their return policies, and products are being built cheaper to stay under certain price points.  Most of the items you use today will not last five years, and lucky if they make it to ten years (or even be relevant), and many stores will not even accept a return after 30 days.  You have to ask yourself, is it worth spending 20% more on a product to keep it working like new for the next 3-5 years?

Other things to consider:  Is this product so cheap and off-brand that I can buy the extra warranty and still be under the next model up?  Might not be a bad move.  I've never had luck with Coby electronics, or Westinghouse appliances, or any of the new brands that show up on Black Friday, so an extra two or three dollars isn't a bad investment.  (Or maybe you should just buy a better brand).

And if you don't want the warranty, just say "no."  Don't waffle or come up with lame excuses or get argumentative with the store clerk, they are trained to deal with these reactions.  But two or three firm "no's"  is impossible to combat.

Last thing to consider:  is a longer warranty on an item better than the extra features on the next model up?  We Americans love stupid gimmicky features.  But newsflash, if the product won't even work for basic functions, those extra features are useless too (and you never even used them).  Some times, peace of mind is the best feature; it keeps me from worrying that my high end microwave won't last from all the kiln drying projects I use it for.  Gotta go, it just beeped.  My next batch of hardened clay customized chia pets is done.