Question of the Day: Good Advice? Not so much.

What was the worst advice you ever received? Did you follow it?

I suppose it’s heartening that nothing immediately springs to mind. Hmmm….

Well, back when I was in high school, one well-meaning relative suggested I look into becoming an x-ray technician; she’d heard, I think, that x-ray techs were in high demand. If I’d taken that advice, I’d be bored and radioactive.

About that same time, I also took one of those career inventory tests; my interests somehow matched up with those of the prototypical chemist. My high school passion for math pointed in that direction, I guess. Today, though, I can’t even imagine being a chemist. I’d be lonely in a lab, and I’d be squeamish about whatever was in those test tubes. Ewwww.

You know what? I just dug around in my files and found the results of that darned career inventory. (Gosh, do I keep everything or what?) Sociologist finished second—just behind chemist—and the test probably did get me thinking about sociology as something to study. I ended up with a graduate degree in sociology, and I think I’d be fairly happy today as a sociologist, too. Other fields that matched up well with the high-school iteration of me: college professor, geographer, psychologist, librarian, and public administrator. I didn’t wind up in any of those careers, but they all sound feasible. So maybe that test wasn’t so bad after all.

What career was I least interested in as a high school student? Vo-ag teacher, according to the results. That still sounds about right.

But what if, somehow or other, I had gone into vo-ag teaching? Well, I guess I’d’ve been the vo-ag teacher with the Abba fetish and the special interest in gay sheep. That almost sounds like fun.

Florida Marlins 15, Philadelphia Phillies 2

I was there for the ugliness.

Actually, it wasn’t as ugly as it might’ve been. A day after the Phillies traded two of its best players in order to save money, and a day after the team’s general manager said the team wouldn’t contend until 2008(!), the Phillies’ boisterous fans took the shellacking better than they might’ve. Sure, there were boos. But there was more sarcasm—e.g., applauding when every little thing the Marlins did turned out right, joking that the home team now consists mostly of players who couldn’t be traded anywhere—than anything else.

Highlights of the day for me:

• Seeing that the Phillies’ gift shop already had its Bobby Abreu jerseys marked down 50%;

• Sitting in a shady section on a hot, hot summer day, enjoying a frozen lemonade;

• Using the familiarity of a baseball game, even a rout, as a background to processing some bad news about someone I used to know and love.

Question of the Day: You’ve got to blog!

If you could get someone in your life to start a blog, who would it be and why?

My sister, maybe? She’s 15 years older than me, and she just retired early from a 30-year career as an elementary school teacher. (Yeah, I’m old enough that my only sibling is retired. Is that sobering or what?!) We live a long way apart, and I don’t hear from her often enough. I think she’d have a lot of interesting things to say, though, and I think the blogging habit might do her some good.

Of course, these days, she seems to be more interested in raising horses, baling hay, and canning tomatoes than anything else. Really. In fact, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even own a computer. Getting her into blogging wouldn’t be easy.

And, um…despite the way I made her sound, my sister’s not Amish.

Newark Bears 2, Camden Riversharks 1

This is how I spent my Friday night. Some coworkers, beer, water ice, and a panzerotti were also involved. (A panzerotti, for the New Jersey-impaired among you, is a sort of fried, folded pizza.) For the first time, I took the ferry from Philly to Camden and back. It was awfully nice to be on the water, especially on a suddenly cooler summer evening. It reminded me a little bit of New Orleans….except for the suddenly cooler part, that is.

I came away with a cool new ballcap. Unfortunately, the Riversharks came away with a loss, as they gave up the game-winning run in the top of the ninth. But the post-game fireworks seemed to make up for it a bit.

Every summer, I tell myself I’m going to hit all the minor-league parks in the area. So far, though, I’ve only made it to see the Wilmington Blue Rocks and, now, the Riversharks. I still need to hit the Atlantic City Surf, the Reading Phillies, the Scranton-Wilkes Barre Red Barons, and the Trenton Thunder. Tick tock, Jay.

Question of the Day: They’re Grrreat!

What or who is your favorite product mascot? Why?

I’m going to have to go with the Pillsbury Doughboy. In fact, if he were (a) human, (b) hairier, and (c) in early middle age, I’d probably want to date him. I guess that means I’m hoping he’s gay, too. And while I’m tweaking the Doughboy for illicit purposes, can I get a model with a deeper voice, too? Thanks.

I probably shouldn’t have admitted this.

Question of the Day: Your fantasy restaurant

If you could open any sort of restaurant, what would it be like?

Although I’m sure I’d go broke, I’d open a café in my hometown in northeast Oklahoma. I’d want to serve unexpected dishes, cooked with fresh, local produce and lots and lots of wine. Nouvelle Okie cuisine, let’s call it. I’m seeing okra, turnips, corn, free-range buffalo(?), watermelons, peaches—all prepared and presented in ways your grandma never dreamed.

But I’d want the restaurant (Jay’s Place?) to be more. It should be the kind of place where disaffected young and old people—loners, wannabe anarchists, queer Okies, and rebels of various stripes—could safely come for coffee, good conversation, alternative newspapers, and places on big, overstuffed sofas.

It’s a shame I can’t cook.

Question of the Day: I wish I could…

Play any instrument or speak any language, which do you choose?
Question submitted by cruftbox.vox.com.

This is a little bit hard because—either way—I’d be something of a freak. (Not that I’m not already, of course!) The question, I guess, is which super-freaky talent would lead to the most interesting life. And as much as I like music, and I do, I think I’d opt to be able to speak any language. With that talent, I’d surely be a diplomat, or a linguistics scholar, or a travel-industry guru. Any of those might mean I’d get to (a) travel much or all the time and (b) communicate with all sorts of interesting people.

Plus, my skill with languages would enable me to help out with one of my passions—preserving the world’s dying languages, which are becoming extinct at an alarming rate.

I’d still probably regret I didn’t know how to play the banjo, though.

Question of the Day: Sugar, Sugar

What was your favorite candy when you were a kid? How does that compare to now?

As a kid, I loved candy, and there wasn’t anything subtle about my tastes. If it was sugary, well, I liked it. Some of my favorites included Pixy Stix, candy cigarettes, candy corn, and—what was probably my absolute favorite—Bottle Caps. See the connection? I guess each of those things is, oh, about 100% unadulterated sugar.

Even when it came to chocolate, I went for forms that showcased the sweetness. I liked Rolo for the caramel center. I enjoyed my favorite candy bar—3 Musketeers—more for the nougaty goodness than anything else.

I was a candy hound, too. On Saturdays, my dad would take me to a nearby gas station that had the best candy selection around. (I grew up in the sticks, and I couldn’t get to a store on my own.) That was a real highlight of the week for me.

Today, I’m not really sure my tastes are all that different. Sure, I like some subtle, more adult flavors. I’m a big fan of licorice, for instance. (Save the black jelly beans for me, please.) And today you’d have to coerce me to have a 3 Musketeers bar; I’m more interested in the complex—and less, um, fluffy—nougat of Zero candy bars (yum). Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups are also one of my standby choices.

But when I get right down to it, a little hit of direct sugar still satisfies me. When I stop by the convenience store, my eye is often drawn to those darn Bottle Caps (root beer is still my favorite, by the way) or to something as simple and sugary as NECCO wafers.

Yum.

(P.S. For obvious reasons, I’d appreciate it if you could fix me up with your cute dentist. )

Question of the Day: Back where I’m from…

Soda? Cola? Pop? What do you say? Any other regional words that set you apart?
Question submitted by Gladys.

I’ve lived in so many different parts of the country that I frequently just don’t know what to call the, um, carbonated-beverage thing anymore. When I was growing up in Oklahoma, I definitely called it “pop.” When I later moved to Ohio, “soda” started to sound right to my ear. I even started to say that sometimes. When I lived in New Orleans, I often heard people say “coke,” no matter the actual brand was. I never cottoned (hey, is that a regionalism?) to that, but—by the time I arrived in Philly—I wasn’t quite sure what to call Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, Coca-Cola, RC, or anything else.

Today, when I say “pop,” I feel like maybe I’ve said the wrong thing. When I say “soda,” I feel inauthentic (i.e., insufficiently Okie). But screw it. Since I recently decided to embrace the inner (but wholesome!) redneck in me, I vow to be more comfortable with “pop.”

And when I say “sack,” instead of “bag,” for that thing the cashier sticks your groceries into, remember that’s just the Oklahoma in me. Nothing wrong with that. Speaking of supermarkets, you may call it a shopping cart, but that’s a “buggy” to me. If it’s raining while the sun is shining, I’ll wonder if the “devil’s beating his wife.” (That’s an awful figure of speech, I know, but that’s what I used to hear in Oklahoma.) And when I tell you “even the old blind sow finds an acorn once in awhile,” well, just remember where I’m from. Then you can ask me what the hell that means.

Question of the Day: It’s hot in here…

What’s the most extreme weather you’ve been in? A memorable storm? Heat wave? Or something else?

I grew up in Oklahoma, where, um, the wind—and a lot more—comes sweepin’ down the plain. As a consequence, even the most severe thunderstorm leaves me pretty much unfazed. Thunder and lightning just doesn’t do anything for me. And heat waves? Please. There’s a heat wave every summer in Oklahoma. That’s normal.

In May 1995, though, when I was living in New Orleans, I got caught up in what was then the city’s worst flooding since Hurricane Betsy in 1965. It rained at my apartment for more than 24 straight hours, and we received well more than 20 inches of rain. Unfortunately, my car was in the apartment building’s parking lot, and the only exit to the lot flooded right away. For the rest of the day, we tenants watched as the water rose and rose and rose, swallowing up our cars one by one. The pumping stations—designed to protect the low-lying city from heavy rains—were just overwhelmed.

If that’s not bad enough, my apartment building also lost power that day. Like many of the tenants, I was a student, and we were in the midst of final exams. The apartment building had back-up generators to power the common areas, so—deep into the night—we all sat in the hallways, trying to focus on American legal history or calculus or whatever and trying to forget about all the leaks and our drowning cars. I’ll never forget that. I’ll also never forget the smell of the neighborhood in the days and weeks that followed. Everything, including Simone, my Mercury Lynx, smelled like the bottom of a minnow bucket.

How did it all turn out? The next day, it was sunny, and my final exam was postponed. (Immodest aside: I ultimately made an A.) Even with the care of the best mechanics, including my father, Simone was never the same. The engine sputtered, the wheels locked up, and—months later, even—a warm day would bring back the smell of the minnow bucket.

Now, in these post-Katrina days, I feel a little bit sheepish about relating this story. Obviously, it could’ve been a lot, lot worse. Last spring, I gave some serious consideration to moving back to New Orleans. If I’d done so, I know my day-to-day life would still be completely different. As it is, though, when the rain won’t seem to stop, I get a little short of breath, and I start wondering where I parked my car.