Addled Aspirations

I have had many aspirations and setbacks during my thirty seven years on Earth.

During school, I was an overachiever of sorts. By the time I was five, my OCD was in full swing. So scholastically nothing short of perfection was tolerable for me.

When I was about eight years old, my obsession with music began. It quelled the intrusive thoughts and illogical obsessions by giving me an art to truly focus on. My hero at the time was Debbie Gibson. I practiced her songs quietly to myself on the bus ride home from school, perfecting every nuance and glottal stop. My other instrument of choice was the violin. Though I had no innate talent for it I worked hard, and practicing for orchestra also helped me to drown out the other symptoms of my disorder.

We moved from New York to Boise, Idaho when I was eleven. The remainder of fifth grade went well at Pierce Park Elementary. When we moved from a trailer to a house, I switched schools. Sixth grade at Collister Elementary quickly became hell for me. One girl, Rhianna, decided that she didn't like how I had befriended another girl, Donelle. Out of spite and jealousy, Rhianna turned the rest of the class against me. I was mercilessly taunted every day. I would often come home crying. My OCD was spiraling out of control. Thus began my intimate familiarity with the beast of social anxiety. I couldn't trust people anymore, because quite frankly, most of them were petty and callous and cruel.

In seventh grade, I tried out for a talent show. I sang a Madonna song, "Promise to Try." I didn't make the cut but I was recruited into the choir. I continued on, participating in a variety of choirs and talent shows throughout high school. I even received a scholarship for voice at Albertson College of Idaho. There, I became a music major and even learned to sing opera. I also started acting, and became a Theatre major as well.

Though I hid it well, performing vocally terrified me. I was by nature a perfectionist and I couldn't stand the thought of others judging me. The taunting I received in sixth grade also haunted me. Even now, simply performing karaoke, I am a nervous wreck. Acting came more naturally, because when in character, I forgot myself in the role. Auditioning was difficult but once I was cast the anxiety went away. Theatre became an escape, and helped to level out my many frustrations with vocal performance.

My earliest of aspirations, however, was to become a writer. My fifth grade teacher gave me the ultimate compliment once, saying that I could be "the next Stephen King." In junior high, I also wrote three reports in history class that ended up being about 90 pages. They kept the reports in my junior high school library for a time. I wanted to write more extensive books, but because of the need for perfection found that I was better at shorter forms. I continued to enjoy writing throughout high school and college but it was more of an academic necessity and a hobby than anything else.

After college, life changed dramatically. I became a wife and mother, which was something I never thought I would do. Because I had an incurable anxiety disorder, I thought a long-term relationship would be impossible for me. I am happy to report that though it has been a struggle at times, I have been married for over a dozen years. My daughter is now nine years old. She is gregarious and though she does have anxiety at times, I have thus far seen no evidence that she suffers from OCD or any other of my mental maladies. I started blogging early in her childhood, and I am so glad to have a written record of her upbringing.

Since I never completely gave up on writing and I find it therapeutic, I recently started writing at Mostly Planned. I'm hoping to pen at least one piece a week. I am also determined to finish the two books I started writing long ago. Perseverance and persistence are key elements, but most importantly, I must conquer my fear of failure.

Continuing Education

I was supposed to see the psychologist today, but my child care plans fell through.

I was going to explore some different medication options, but that will have to wait.

I was going to discuss my old shrink's suggestion that because of my multiple disorders I should be on disability. Cowardly? Maybe. But the further I push myself the more I feel off. Worthless. As if I have nothing useful to contribute to society. That the beast of my anxiety will take over if I somehow find myself more gainfully employed.

Social anxiety. Anxiety disorder, not otherwise specified. OCD. Bipolar Disorder I.

Three different medications to manage these symptoms I have. Still not enough, somehow.

Stigma. Would I trust a mentally ill person to work with elementary aged students? With my own daughter? I would. But society as a whole probably does not. There are many who do not understand that we are just people, even if our wiring is different. And that different does not necessarily mean bad.

I wouldn't dream of harming a child. In fact, I think my own disability makes me more qualified to work with children who are also different.

Will I ever get a chance to prove it? So far, the seemingly unanimous cry is "no." Thanks, but no thanks. You are qualified, but somehow you are still not enough.

I've been trying the mask on again, you see. The mask that presents me as normal. Sane. The mask that says that I've got things together. That there's nothing wrong with me. Hiding so that society won't judge me. Hypocritical, perhaps, since I've tried these many years not to keep my illnesses a secret.

I am continuing my education. I am learning every day, and perhaps realizing what I was put on this Earth to do. It may not be conventional. And that is also not a bad thing.

Confining Conformity

I stopped discussing mental illness on my blog in anticipation of getting a school job, which may have been premature. Just because the state Board of Education says you're qualified to be a teacher doesn't mean your local community will accept your utter lack of experience with groups of children. Therefore, multiple interviews, and no job. We really appreciate what you have to offer, and we hope you will consider us in the future. Thanks but no thanks.

I'm up in the middle of the night again. It's most likely from weaning off my Abilify, which functions as an antipsychotic but has caused me some pretty severe weight gain over the last year. So I'm struggling to maintain my sanity and find some form of employment. I want to write for a living. It's clear I need some form of mental help.

I suppose a visit to the local psychologist is in order. My last psychiatrist suggested that I should be on disability after she diagnosed me with four disorders, two of which are incurable. She suggested therapy on a weekly basis. I haven't seen a mental health professional since we moved here in October. Hmmmmm. One of the most important parts of maintaining your mental health is learning to accept when you need help. I think I'm there.

In the meantime, I think I'll go back to dying my hair black and apply to be a manager at Hot Topic. I need to stop forcing the dough of my being into some ill-fitting cookie cutter. I need to be myself, as painful at times as that may be.

Pit Bulls and Other Postal Priorities

I wrote this piece in 1996. Thought it was appropriate to post since today is my father's birthday. We miss you, ever-faithful family man and mailman. 

Faster than a speeding mail truck…more powerful than a stamp vending machine…able to leap small poodles in a single bound!  It’s dedicated!  It’s surprisingly non-disgruntled!  Yes…IT”S A MAILMAN!

My mother once said that my father has more faith in the Yankees and mailmen than he does in God.  I never questioned his passion concerning baseball; after all, the Yankees are the best team in the universe.  But being a sane person, I would often wonder why he loved the Postal Service so much.  So I asked him about it.  He was more than willing to share information, due to his first hand experience.  My father, Edward Slavin, has been a letter carrier for nearly thirty years.  His enthusiasm for his job increases annually.  And no, he’s never packed an Uzi. 

The number of negative connotations concerning “fanatical” Postal workers is disturbing.  After all, a mailman possesses many characteristics of an average superhero.  At first glance he appears a mild mannered employee of the United States government.  Upon closer examination, one sees that such a man is invaluable to the operation of a nation.  Indeed, he displays much loyalty toward his country and fellow-man.  Nothing can defer him from his delivering duties; he must brave hazards such as paper cuts on a daily basis.  The macho mailman can scale an office building in seconds, though he often has to use the stairs.  The letter carrier zips around in his sporty mailmobile all day, bringing joy to an endless number of civilians.  Yet instead of primary-colored spandex and a cape, the mailman is forced to wear a fairly nondescript uniform.  And let’s face it: not even Superman or Spider-man are brave enough to wear hiked-up socks and safari hats in public.

“Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night shall stay these carriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”  Indeed, bad weather and other dangers have not prevented Ed Slavin from doing his job since June of 1966.  As a child, my father wanted to be a professional baseball player or a “teacher of mathematics.”  After dropping out of college, he worked briefly as an “engineer of sanitation.”  Seeking a more rewarding profession, he turned to the Postal Service.  My father wanted to quit “when [he first started…[he] didn’t like it.”  He was only earning seventy cents above minimum wage.  For a young man attempting to earn a living in Irvington, New York, two dollars and seventy cents was hardly enough.  Yet he grew to love the work within six months, and has had no desire to change professions since. 

The Crash Test Dummies contend that “Superman never made any money.”  However, the modern mailman makes quite a bit.  Fortunately, the Postal Service went on strike in 1970.  Congress passed the Postal Reorganization Act, and the wage for Postal workers was raised to over five dollars and hour.  It has been rising steadily over the years.  When I asked my father how much money he makes, a look of terror crossed his face and he replied, “I don’t know.”  When I assured him that this information would in no way increase my shopping habits, he confessed.  He earns about seventeen dollars an hour.  Working over eight hours is considered overtime; he then earns twenty-six dollars, or “time and a half.”  After ten hours he earns the “double time” wage of thirty-five dollars per hour.  When working over twelve hours, he receives a whopping forty four dollars an hour!  I immediately changed my mind about the shopping comment. 

The Post Office determines a number of elements according to the experience of the worker.  For example, those with low or no seniority are used as substitutes for ill co-workers.  After a year or two, these workers can put in a bid for a “regular” route.  The individual offices label employees with numbers in accordance to their seniority.  Seven years ago, my family moved from New York to Idaho.  My father had to request a transfer, for he had no intentions of leaving the Post Office.  A small tragedy ensued.  My father accumulated twenty-two years of seniority in Irvington; after the move, he had to start all over again.  After moving up several hundred notches to number five on the revered list of seniority, he moved clear across the country.  Consequently, he received a rank of one hundred and eighty-nine on the Boise list.  Yet he has quickly climbed the charts.  In seven years, he has moved up fifty-four notches to number one-thirty nine.  As Casey Kasem might conclude, “now, on with the countdown!”

My father’s alarm clock sometimes goes off at four-thirty in the morning.  On the day after a holiday, he punches in at five or six a.m.  He arrives at seven in the morning on an average day.  The well-being of a mailmobile remains a top priority; my father inspects his faithful vehicle immediately every morning.  “Half asleep,” he then sorts mail for about three hours.  The first hour of sorting is dubbed “the golden hour,” when the letter carriers “are not supposed to talk.”  This silent ceremony supposedly encourages efficiency.  Ed “case[s} letters into a flat case in delivery sequence.”  He then ties the mail in bundles, loads them into his truck, and drives into the brightening sun.  He delivers mail to the crime-ridden metropolis of downtown Boise.

Most deliveries are commonplace.  However, my father has delivered his fair share of oddities.  He once delivered a man’s nose.  The recipient of this package came to the front door nose-less, and my father had the pleasure of giving him a brand-new, prosthetic nose.  My father also delivered cremated remains, jokingly referring to the ashes as “registered mail.”

My father has received two “special achievement” awards for efficiency and a certificate extolling him for unused sick leave.  Obviously, he takes great pride in his work.  He enjoys working outdoors, and appreciates the exercise.  Interaction with the public is also important to him, and he talks to many of his customers on a regular basis.

However, many unpleasant occurrences can darken the day for any father.  The randomly closed streets of downtown Boise present constant irritation.  Most customers on my father’s route are “nice”; however, he admits that “there’s one lady on my route who’s pretty bitchy.”  Those who complain of the high cost of service are also annoying.  “Go to a different country and it will cost you more,” he remarked.  “It costs more to send a letter in Germany, which is about the size of Texas.”

“Certain supervisors” and the Postmaster General often do not acknowledge the fact that letter carriers are human beings.  Marvin Runyon, the current Postmaster General, is a “crotchety old guy…[who] makes all the major decisions for the Post Office.”  Yet Runyon concerns himself only with the financial aspects of the Postal Service.  Sighing sadly, my father remarked, “to them, we are just numbers, numbers, numbers.”

And then there is the issue of dogs.  Mailmen must immediately file reports and receive medical attention for canine-inflicted wounds.  The Postal Service loses three million dollars in productivity per year due to dog attacks.  Canines all across America snack on mailmen.  Consider the following example:

           

It is a quiet summer’s day in Irvington.  A certain German Shepherd (we’ll call him “Rocco” to conceal his identity) sat by the storm window, deep in reverie.  He had just watched the movie “Cujo” with his master, and the film was highly inspirational.  How Rocco longed to become a star; hell, he’s even settle for one of those Alpo commercials.  Just outside the window, something moves.  Rocco’s ears perk: this is just the opportunity he needs to display his star potential!  This could land him the role of Lassie’s abusive boyfriend!  “A mailman!” He thinks.  “Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy.”  Without further thought, he perfects his growl and leaps right through the glass window. 

Ed Slavin may seem superhuman, but he still has the average risk of heart failure.  After hearing and seeing Rocco blast through a window, my dad yelped.  The dog bounded closer; yet quick thinking and a can of mace prevented potential gore.

“I don’t understand!”  Whined Rocco’s owner.  “He’s a friendly dog!  See, look!  He’s wagging his tail!”  Rocco, however, remaining loyal to the art of theatre, continued to shake his head vigorously and produce shaving cream with his lips.  My father then decided it was time to “wag [his] tail outta there!”

Another time.  Another place.  Another dog.  “Fufu” is hungry.  The Sheltie mix hasn’t eaten in an hour.  The dry heat of Boise is growing unbearable.  But just his luck!  Along strolls a citizen, one who is getting too close for comfort.  Ah, and not just an ordinary citizen, either!  Fufu waits until the left pointer finger is within range.  Chomp!  Mmmmm, delectable!  Mailman with just a touch of Brut!

Harmless little Fufu bit right through my father’s finger.  It was my father’s first week on his “regular” route.  Since he was not yet fully acquainted with Fufu’s owners, my dad stifled the urge to slit the little dog’s throat with a letter opener.     

Yet there exists an organization which can sometimes defend mailmen from dogs and lawsuits.  The National Association of Letter Carriers is the union of the Postal Service.  It was this organization which won the right to negotiate with Congress for the contracts of Postal employees in 1970.  The NALC shields employees from managerial abuses of power and protects each worker’s rights under the contract.  Unfortunately, one is not required to be a member; my father was visibly upset by this fact.  “Non-members get all the benefits without paying…if the union has to defend them if they get fired, they should

Have to pay the costs.”

The threat of Postal privatization also looms.  Privatization would “do away with the USPS monopoly on first class mail and let other companies compete” in delivery services.  This idea greatly angers my father.  “They [the government] will sell it off in bits and pieces…they’ll deliver to highly profitable areas and leave rural areas to the Postal Service,” he suggests.  He believes a privatized system would cater to only private companies and the wealthy.  Massive layoffs would also occur.

Hoping to spark some semblance of competitive spirit, I asked my father what he thought of the United Parcel Service.  “Do you know what UPS stands for?”  he asked.  “Under Prickly Shrub.  That’s where they leave the packages.  They hide ‘em.  We leave notices,” he added haughtily.

If my father is an average mailman, most mailmen don’t mind the stereotypes surrounding such a profession.  The Postal Service employs over eighty thousand people.  “Other big corporations have problems, too,” he claims.  He feels “disgruntled” incidents are bound to occur; he also feels that the manner in which managers treat employees instigates most violent incidents.  For example, the Postmaster General recently eliminated the “Employee Involvement Program” because it wasn’t cost effective.  My father sometimes worries about ex-employees that might “go off the deep end” and pay the local offices a visit. 

Other stereotypes are a source of amusement for my father.  “I think Cliff Clavin [from “Cheers”] is funny,” he chuckled.  He then told me about an episode where Cliff is going through the hall of a business delivering mail.  After Cliff leaves, the businessmen all open their doors and hand each other the correct mail.  Due to appearance or rhyming last names, my father is often called “Cliff” by certain customers.  The worls sometimes operates in reverse: Cliff Clavins hide in the clothing of civilians.  My father told me a true story about an oblivious customer.  A clerk asked her what kind of stamps she would like.  “Anything but the self-adhesive kind,” she remarked.  “They taste terrible!”

My father will retire from the Postal Service in about five years.  When I asked what benefits he would receive, he responded: “A monthly annuity.  That’s about it.”  Yet I know he will always cherish the memories of his job.  I feel better knowing he will never be disgruntled.  When I asked who he would recommend his job to, he pulled a very somber face and said, “Ex-convicts.”

“Just kidding!”

But has our story ended?  Will the increase of e-mail eliminate the need for our hero?  Will a rabid dog cripple him long before his retirement?  Tune in next century to find out!  Until next time, remember to hug your mailman.  And if you see Fufu, run!!!

Here, Profound Appropriately Title Themed Insert

Writing, for me, is simply a way to empty the trash in my brain.  And I have many wonderful professors who guided me to the refined style I currently use.  Each teacher or professor had specific guidelines to follow, and here, I fondly remember and forsake them.  The rules, I mean.  Not the teachers.  It’s a wonder I ever passed English in the first place… 

Thanks to my ninth grade teacher, Mrs. Gerhardt, I still know all of my pronouns.  She made us learn them to the tune of “Mamma’s Little Baby Loves Shortenin’ Bread.”  And that little song has stayed with me.  Here, for your reference and entertainment, I shall enumerate all of them.  In, on, into, over, under, to, at, by, for, from, off, of.  Up, down, near, past, outside, inside, toward, around, about, across.  Against, upon, after, along, among, until, between before.  Beside, below, behind, beyond, beneath, above, during, and like.  Through, except, with, without, within (mamma’s little baby loves shortenin' bread).  I did that without the aid of any reference guide (insert grandiose bow here).  I will be tirelessly impressed with myself for the rest of the day.

There are many general rules that remain etched in my rusty steel trap of a brain.  Slang is wholly inappropriate.  It simply ain’t proper to use such colloquial terms, and it makes y’all sound somewhat uneducated.  Proper structure is essential to the continuity and strength of your piece.  An essay, for example, must contain an introduction (with the thesis as the last sentence), several paragraphs supporting the thesis, and a conclusion. In formal writing, don’t directly refer to your audience: hence, you should not use the word “you.”  Yes, in case you’re wondering, I am a literary rebel of the worst kind.  I hope you didn’t come here actually looking for advice about writing, because if so, you’ve come to the wrong place.  Insert maniacal laugh here…This brings me to another rule.  Ellipses are not something teachers or professors really care for.  But I love ellipses…in fact, I think I may run away with an ellipsis one day and raise a family…

One of my high school teachers had an interesting rule about the forms of “is.”  He considered our writing weak if we used this evil word or any of its forms (is, am, are, was, were, be, being, been).  We could only use these words three times in any given assignment.  The consequence of disobeying this rule was death (or, if he was feeling merciful, he would simply penalize us a whole grade).  This rule did curb overuse of the offensive words.  But instead of saying something simple, such as “This rule is asinine,” you would have to reform your thought: “This rule seems asinine.” To me, this process often diluted the statement I was trying to make.  Such forced word usage also makes one sound a bit haughty and superficial in certain instances.  In other words, it was pretty dumb.

Yet another rule I am notorious for abandoning: one must always stay focused on a specific subject, because there’s nothing worse than reading someone else’s inane ramblings.  Did you hear about the recent Mattel toy recall?  It scared me because Violet has some Sesame Street toys, but then I checked out the website and she didn’t have any affected items.  Whew!  Oh, and the toilet upstairs is running again like there’s a ghost depositing an otherworldly turd every once in a while.  But I digress…

In addition to the multitude of rules already enumerated, one simply must avoid sentences consisting of more than twenty-five words, because otherwise your writing becomes convoluted, and the average reader, being the over-caffeinated, over stimulated, cell-phone texting, I-pod user that he is, simply cannot follow your crashing train of thought.  I agree with this statement, since I hate having to re-read sentences just to understand them.  Don’t you?

Though these rules might be valuable, I think equal emphasis should have been placed on not letting rules confine your style or your voice.  In fact, these endless rules have held sway over me for far too long.  I hereby throw them out the proverbial window.  And syntax screw!!!

Things that Go Bump

 

I awoke to the creaking and moaning noises again this morning.  I hid my head under the covers, afraid to look up, lest I should spy the ghoulish source of this terrible noise.  Taking a deep breath, I peeked just above the comforter, and saw…nothing unusual.  It was then I realized that it was just the neighbors, jumping on the bed again.  Despite the fact that these noises had no otherworldly source, I am convinced that my house is indeed haunted…by the spirit of poor planning and shoddy workmanship. 

The poor souls who planned and constructed this house were obviously suffering from some kind of psychosis.  My miniscule home gives one the feeling of being trapped in a coffin.  The downstairs is also half-underground, so if you look out my bedroom window, the first thing you see is a large patch of dirt.  This only serves to enhance the feeling that you’ve somehow been buried alive.  Due to its small size, there is very limited storage space in our house.  We have dozens of totes stuffed in the back of our garage, leaning ominously and threatening to fall on anyone who dares walk too close.  As a testament to sloppy construction, the walls of our home resemble someone’s lame excuse for a fun house.  To look at the walls or windows is rather disorienting, because nothing is level.  This also makes it nearly impossible to hang pictures properly, which increases the lopsided effect.  However, if the claustrophobia or asymmetry bothers us too much, we can always take refuge on the rickety, slanting porch outside. 

Many noises heard in this house might make one suspect supernatural presences.  Our house is part of a quadruplex, and because there is no insulation between the walls, we can clearly hear the activities of the neighbors on both sides.  I often hear demonic children yelling and running up and down the stairs.  Late in the evening, I can hear a child crying, but it is not my daughter’s voice that emanates eerily from the monitor.  It is the voice of the three-year-old next door, and I can hear her because my daughter’s monitor is too close to the shared wall.  Though this housing was built in the late 80s, and the floors are carpeted, the floorboards often creak like you’ve opened a mausoleum door that leads straight to hell.  And then there are the winds, prevalent in this part of South Dakota, which whistle through the stove and roof access panels like a disgruntled banshee.   

Daily occurrences in our home mimic scenes from horror movies.  My husband once went to turn the faucet on and the hot water handle crumbled in his hand.  The knobs and shower head in our bathtub look like they’re going to fall off, because none of the bathtubs were installed correctly.  The bar in the tub also falls out if you apply the least amount of pressure, which has resulted in a few slips and several blood-curdling screams of frustration.  One of the local maintenance men even told me horror stories of bathtubs falling in. And our household appliances behave strangely as well.  Many mornings, I awake to find an ectoplasm-like substance lingering on my supposedly clean dishes.  Our water heater also taunts us, as the water runs hot, then cold, and then scalding hot again.

The temperature fluctuations in our home are enough to drive one insane.  It seems the fires of hell possess the upstairs portion of our home.  There are no ceiling fans upstairs, and sometimes the weather conditions prohibit us from opening the windows.  Our only other options are to run the air conditioner (which we’re not supposed to do in the winter), or bake in the stagnant air.  Downstairs, one can feel many cold spots, which might indicate that there are supernatural presences at work.  Or it could just be that no matter how hot it gets upstairs, it is always freezing in the half-buried basement.  On the rare occasion when we pry open the windows, the unholy stench of dog poop invades.  Each housing unit has a very small yard, and my neighbors have very big dogs…you get the picture.

In addition to the clinging stench of canine excrement, there are also a variety of uninvited guests in my house.  During the winter, large spiders skulk between the folds of the shower curtain.  Earwigs galore inhabit the downstairs in the summer.  They like to hang out on the toilet seat, which can be particularly unnerving if you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  The flies also invade during the summer months, as if each garage on base contained rotting corpses.  It’s truly disgusting, and it gives one the cozy feeling of living in a garbage dump.

So, as I lay awake at night, hoping not to hear those infernal creaking noises again, I must ask myself…is my house haunted, or does it just suck?  In either case, I think it’s time to move.

One, Two, Three-Four-Five

“Looking for a set of wheels?  We can beat all them deals.  Great is how you’re gonna feel.  We’ve got the cars that have appeal.  Come on down to Dave’s, let’s make a deal.  You’d better believe it!  Leary Chevrolet, Route 9-W, just South of Newbergh.  You’d better believe it!”

The above is an example of some of the completely useless information I have stuck in my head.  It is a commercial jingle I heard when I was eight years old, and we were living in New York.  It’s no wonder I try to sign my maiden name on checks half the time.  I can’t concentrate worth a damn.  And here are some of the reasons why.

I know the lyrics to entirely too many hair band songs.  I can’t remember my sister’s current address, but I know every word to “Unskinny Bop.”  Though this information might one day prove useful at drunken karaoke, these unintelligent and perverted lyrics are not something I want crowding my brain anymore. And for some reason, I know every word to “I Want it that Way” by the Backstreet Boys, even though I don’t recall making any effort whatsoever to actually listen to the Backstreet Boys.  The lyrics to many “One Hit Wonders” are also stored in my cursed cranium.  “Baby Got Back,” “Ice Ice Baby,” and “Mambo Number Five” are just a few of the offenders.  “A little bit of Monica in my life, a little bit of Erica by my side…”  And yes.  I meant to get that stuck in your head.  If I must suffer, then so must everyone…

Naturally, when I want to know the lyrics to songs I actually like, I can’t remember them to save my life.  I have to look them up, and then I promptly forget them.

I have also played the “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon” game way too much.  It has permeated all forms of entertainment for me.  Do you know how many actors they re-use in “Law and Order?” I do.  I can identify them within seconds, along with which versions and which episodes they starred in.  I can even recognize actors from commercials and link them to movies and TV shows.  Other than the fleeting and nerdy sense of accomplishment it gives me, this information serves no practical purpose.  If I’m lost in the woods, the crickets and raccoons and vultures are not going to be impressed that I can link Joe Piscopo and Kevin Bacon within two steps.  Since I have not managed to retain even the most basic of survival skills, I will die of exposure or dehydration or bear mauling, while deliriously reciting lines from “Ghostbusters” or any of the other movies that I have memorized in their entirety...

Then there are certain things I’d really rather not know: some of the interesting but trivial tidbits I learned in college.  Like the chemical composition of stars.  And the many fun facts I retained from Biology of Human Disease.  Tetanus, and tapeworms, and cysts, oh my!   Not stuff I really want to dwell on.  Maybe I can be on “Jeopardy!” one day.  Until then, I must endure the burden of such useless knowledge in silence.

And of course there are commercial jingles.  And elevator music.  And the different versions of secular Christmas songs I had to listen to during my short stint as a department store employee.  Do you know how many versions of “Santa Baby” there are???

 “A little bit of Rita’s all I need, a little bit of Tina’s what I see…”

Dear God, make it stop.