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The rhetorical question

dooce — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 13:54:40 -0600

Last week I posed a completely ~~rhetorical~~ hypothetical question about whether or not you would donate money to a starving family on the condition that you would have to give the same amount of money to someone who would use it to buy crack. Contrary to what some people have argued, this was not a question I was going to use to pin people into a corner, nor was it a way to preach my political views. In fact, it wasn't even a metaphor for the bail out, I hadn't even thought about that until someone suggested it in the comments. But I can completely see how you could view it as such.

I was genuinely interested in what I knew were going to be a wide variety of responses and the reasons behind those responses. I didn't give my opinion at first because I didn't want that in any way to affect your honest answers, but now that so many have weighed in with thoughtful reasons why they would or would not (and some not so thoughtful), I'll go ahead: I absolutely would give the money. No questions. Not a second thought.

That does not mean that I think you are an evil monster if you disagree with me, and perhaps I should explain my reasons for asking it in the first place. I'm sure you'll be surprised to know that it has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with my older brother, Ranger.

I am the youngest of three children. My sister September is five years older than I am, my brother three. My sister and I were somewhat close growing up, but she was already in love with the man who would become her husband by the time I had reached an age where we had anything in common. I was much closer to my brother, and he was my hero. I thought he was the brightest and funniest person alive, and in high school I was proud whenever I got a teacher who had taught Ranger before me. They always gave me special treatment as Ranger's little sister because he was charming, hard-working, and a total smart aleck. I remember sitting in my Freshman Biology class hearing Ranger and his physics teacher next door screaming jokes at each other to see who could out wit their opponent, and since my Biology teacher had taught Ranger three years before SHE TOTALLY KNEW what was going on. Several times she stopped class to laugh into her sleeve, and to my horror she would announce to everyone, "That's Heather's brother you hear. I love that guy."

I loved that guy, too, and when he left for college the next year it broke my heart. I was the only child left in the house, and I didn't have my brother there to tell me stories or to make me laugh. The first semester of my sophomore year was lonely, but when he returned home for Christmas vacation it was as if he had never left, perhaps even better than when he'd left because now he had all these stories about his roommates at BYU and the adventures they got themselves into to distract themselves from wanting to have sex. Even 18 years later when he mentions one of those roommates I can remember exactly who he's referring to and whether or not he was the one who dressed up as Condom Man for Halloween.

But something happened during that Christmas vacation that changed a fundamental part of me, and I bet you he doesn't even remember this. I'd forgotten about it until last week when my brother and I met for lunch, and sitting there across from him at that sushi restaurant and listening to his stories I remembered what a profound effect his influence has had on me.

It was Christmas 1990, and he and I went shopping at a local mall to find gifts for the family. It was bitterly cold outside made worse by a cutting wet breeze, winters in Memphis are like that, and as we pulled out of the parking lot at the mall we passed a man standing on the median of the road selling single stem roses for $2. He was wearily disheveled, not dressed at all for the weather, and looked like he hadn't eaten in days. He could have been starving, but he also could have been a drug addict. I'll never know.

We'd always been taught that you ignore these people, they'll take your money and use it to buy booze, or they're somehow scamming you. Better to keep your money and do something more productive with it. Except Ranger pulled right up to the man, handed him a twenty dollar bill and said, "I'd like a rose for my sister," and he pointed toward the passenger seat. "I haven't seen her in months."

The man looked down at the bill as if he were holding a fragile newborn animal, and his hands started to shake.

"Aw man," he said. "I ain't got no change for this. You got something smaller?"

"No," said Ranger, and then as he shifted the car into drive he continued, "Please keep it."

The window was still down as the car pulled away, and I'll never forget how he called after us, "YOU'LL NEVER KNOW, MAN! YOU'LL NEVER KNOW!"

As we pulled up to a stop light in silence Ranger finally spoke up. "I saw him when we first drove into the parking lot hours ago. No telling how long he's been out there, and he doesn't have change for a twenty? LET HIM HAVE MY TWENTY."

I asked Ranger if he cared what that man did with the extra money and he said he hadn't even thought about that. It was just evident that the man selling roses needed those extra eighteen dollars more than he did. It felt like the right thing to do.

Does this mean that I give money to every homeless person or beggar I encounter? No, but I have frequently, and am inclined to err on the side of charity because of my brother's example. (And yes, this can be extended to all sorts of volunteer work and charity) And there have been many instances when I've ignored the homeless because of the very thought that they would use the money I gave them to do something stupid, and without fail I regret that impulse. And then I wonder why I had that impulse in the first place, and then struggle with myself when I experience that impulse again. Because I have to believe that even if only one of the hundreds of people uses that money to feed themselves or their dog or their hidden, desperate children, or even if they use it to have a more comfortable night than the one they had last night, then we will have done right in every instance by fighting that impulse.

by dooce in Daily

Professional platinum make-up brushes

dooce — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 11:57:27 -0600

Last time we were in San Francisco we stopped at the Sephora store near Union Square and I picked up these make-up brushes. Yes, they are indeed an investment, but they'll last forever, and they make the hugest difference in terms of whether your make-up looks professional or ridiculously amateur. I'm not even going to tell you how long it had been since I replaced my old brushes, your opinion of me would certainly plummet to a new low, so let's just say that I'm no longer worried that I'm going to open my cosmetic drawer and have a mutant spore jump out and suck my face off.

by dooce in Daily Style

L. Mortimer Armstrong

dooce — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 11:43:26 -0600

Time again for another infrequent update on Lou, the least demanding member of our family. Lou swims happily around his bowl most of the time, occasionally stopping and flaring his fins in an attempt to look menacing. And if I could I would totally snuggle him up under the neck and go WHO'S A SCARY FISH? WHO? But that might kill him.

by dooce in Daily Photo

Careless whisper

dooce — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 11:34:26 -0600

Not sure what he's telling Coco here, obviously something he didn't want us to hear, obviously something I'm glad I couldn't hear.

by dooce in Daily Chuck

The multi-room installation

dooce — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 20:05:54 -0600

During the first few months of Chuck's life he had a habit of chewing on anything that would fit in his mouth: the remote control, Jon's flip-flops, my underwear. We hired a trainer who taught us how to make him stop, and the technique worked, but that doesn't mean I'm going to share that technique here with you NO SIREE. People get all weird when your dog training techniques don't match up with their dog training techniques, and next thing you know someone's brain has exploded all over their monitor. But not before they've sent off an email to tell me I'm doing it wrong.

We remembered this technique vividly and used it to make Chuck wary of curbs, and thus wary of running into the street. It's a proven technique, totally humane except for the occasional beating and emotional abuse, HA HA JUST KIDDING. Dog's have no emotions, SILLY! So we thought we'd use the same strategy if Coco ever developed a habit of chewing on things that ought not to be chewed on. Except, I don't know if I've ever pointed this out or not, but Coco has a screw loose. I'm not kidding. There is something wrong in her head. Her brain is not intact. And a technique that made Chuck never want to look at a remote control ever again, made him run in the other room and go, DUDE, I BELIEVE YOU, this technique has zero effect on Coco. In fact, when we employ this technique you can almost hear the lone cricket inside her head crawling up to her ear to yell out: THERE'S NOTHING IN HERE. LET ME SLEEP.

So she's got this problem, this really annoying problem, and it goes like this: MUST CHEW TISSUE ALWAYS. It's not a separation anxiety issue because she does it when we're in the room. She does it in the five seconds we've taken our eyes off of her, in the two seconds it takes me to turn around and shut the door after letting her inside. If Coco is not in the room, it's a pretty rock solid assumption that she's doing this:

Or this:

Maybe this:

Or perhaps:

This one is my favorite. It almost looks like she mistook it for an apple:

And then tonight she claimed victory on a battle she has been waging since the afternoon we brought home a dog bed from Costco several months ago. She penetrated the bed's outer core, grabbed hold of its internal organs, and systematically gutted it:

Jon has thrown up his hands and has instead embraced the beauty of Coco's obvious artwork. She's an installation artist, and toilet paper is her medium. And I don't know, if you've read my website for more than a couple of years you'll totally know what I mean when I say that this pretty much means she was sent here directly from God.

by dooce in Daily

Three years ago today

dooce — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 10:18:31 -0600

She wasn't yet walking at this stage, and in some of the pictures from this sequence you can see the shoes she used to drag across the floor when she crawled. The entire toe area of those shoes rubbed off from the friction, and I kept them and have them stored in a box in the attic as a reminder of how far she's come.

by dooce in Daily Photo

The sad pumpkin

dooce — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 09:59:59 -0600

Somebunny only got two pieces of Jon's bacon this morning and is not at all pouting.

by dooce in Daily Chuck

The Napping House

dooce — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 09:54:44 -0600

This is one of Leta's favorite bedtimes stories, The Napping House, a tale of a flea that bites a mouse who then in turn wakes up the cat who was sleeping on the dog who was sleeping on the child who was sleeping on the granny who was sleeping on a cozy bed in a napping house where everyone used to be sleeping. Jon and I play up the sound effects of the creatures as they are all startled awake, and man, IT NEVER GETS OLD. The illustrations are really playful, and it's as if the story starts out with a camera parallel to the bed, and as the events unravel the camera pans to an overhead shot to give you an overview of what a mess it really is. Excellent book for the preschool crowd, plus THERE ARE NO PRINCESSES.

by dooce in Daily Style

One lesson at a time

dooce — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 14:01:50 -0600

Last night I sent Jon on a walk with the dogs while I gave Leta a warm bath, and after successfully washing and rinsing her hair, a feat on par with giving a manicure to a bucking bronco, we spelled words on the side of the bathtub with a set of letters made out of sponge. She recognized HAT and CAT and SAT, and then we moved on to POT, NOT, and LOT. I then spelled BUT, and when she sounded it out in her head she grinned from ear to ear, pointed out first that it was a silly word, and then she whispered it with her wet hands cupped around her mouth: "BUT." I said, no, it's not that kind of but. It's a different kind of but. And before I could explain she screamed, "YOU SAID BUT!" Causing a fit of laughter that lasted a good five minutes. You thought common conjunctions were funny before you had kids? YOU JUST WAIT.
After the bath I wrapped her in a towel, took her to her room, and started the nighttime routine which involves lathering her body in moisturizer. The dry air in Utah is brutal on the skin, so I make sure to douse every inch of her body, something that she LOATHES, and as I was rubbing it into her forehead she complained that I was taking too long. I said, look, one day when you're much older and everyone else has wrinkles and uneven spots all over their faces, you're going to thank me for teaching you how to moisturize. In the name of the Avon World Sales Leader, amen.
"But... but..." she sputtered, her shoulders inching up to her ears in a desperate shrug. "But I'm not even good at putting on my own pants."
Yeah, MOTHER. HOW ABOUT WE START THERE? Wrinkles? WRINKLES?! HOW ABOUT PUBLIC NUDITY.

by dooce in Leta

Large organizational clothespin

dooce — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 11:46:10 -0600

This clothespin was an anniversary present from Jon, something he found at a local Pottery Barn (and something I cannot find on their website). I have it sitting on my desk and use it to hold mail and other things that need to be addressed. This works better than a folder because the folder hides the work I have to do, whereas here's this obnoxiously giant green clothespin going, THINGS WILL CONTINUE TO BE AWKWARD IF YOU INSIST ON IGNORING ME.

by dooce in Daily Style