I’m here in lovely Washington D.C. for a conference (like Ethan Hunt, I’m only pretending to be a software marketing guy–really I’m a spy). Today, sitting in a panel discussion with three colleagues, I couldn’t help but notice that one of the panel members, a lawyer for a very (very) prominent communications company, was of, well, indeterminate gender.

He/she had super short black hair, but finely groomed eyebrows. An angular face. A very slight build. Large eyes.

But he/she was wearing a black man’s suit  [okay, to be clear, which I admit I wasn't, he/she didn't steal it from a black man, but rather the suit is black, and seemed cut/made for a man, black or white. Or whatever.] with a red tie.

“Absolutely a woman” I said to the colleague on my left. “I’ll bet you a dollar.”

“A dollar it is” he said.

As I watched him/her move about the room, and then ascend the stairs to the panel desk, I only grew more confident that I was about to be four quarters richer.

Until the moderator, sitting in the center of the four panelists, introduced him/her as “Ed” and described HIS illustrious career.

Chagrined, I pulled out my dollar and handed it over.

And, I swear, at that moment I saw three other dollar bills change hands around the room. At least I wasn’t the only one.

You know, I don’t want to get off on one of those “things that must go” rants. That’s not my way.

And yet.

Something icky has happened three times in the last week. I can’t contain myself any longer.

Remember in Eddie Murphy’s classic (well, okay, not classic. Not great. But fun?) The Golden Child? He’s sitting there, talking to the crazy old Buddhist warrior guy who is the father of the woman he loves? Mid conversation, the old guy picks his nose, and Eddie says out loud what we’re all thinking–”You’re just gonna pick that? And . . . now you’re wiping it on your jacket.”

Well, I’ll be talking to someone, just, you know, in the middle of a conversation. Could be about anything. Work. Baseball. Healthcare. Bad Halloween treats. Whatever.

And suddenly (really) the guy (in fact, not always a guy) will, usually without pausing his train of thought, usually mid-sentence, dig a finger into his ear, root around for a second, pull said finger out, examine anything stuck to it, flick any encountered debris to the wind, and continue speaking as if nothing happened.

Ack.

Or, in an even more egregious act of social faux pax-itude, he will scratch at something directly on his face with the same results.

These are not social retards I’m talking about here. Not people who, if they suddenly picked their noses in a board meeting you would just shrug and say “Well, that’s Benji–he may be a social retard, but jeez you should see him write code.” I’m talking about people who are otherwise socially and professionally successful ladder climbers. Actual people.

Look, I’m all for personal grooming. Yes, keep your earways clear. Remove distracting and itchy acne or boils from your skin, especially your face.

But really? While you’re talking to me? Right in front of me? In mid sentence with me?

I object.

At what age do kids learn about averages in school? While we were watching game 4 of the World Series last night, Holden was having a hell of a time getting his arms around the idea that someone could get a hit 2.5 times for every 10 at bats. “Wait. How can you get a HALF a hit?”

I think it took me about a half hour before I had successfully explained how this worked. I finally got the idea across when I stopped using “for every ten at bats” as my scale and went to 100 and 1,000. Then it clicked.

Which really doesn’t say much for me, I guess, does it? I’m kind of stuck in a box. All of me, not just that one part of me.

Did I go to Meet the Candidates Night” at Draper city hall last night? Yes I did.

How did I like it? I spent much of the evening texting my daughter, who was sitting about 20 feet away, funny things about the candidates and their pompous attitudes (and their funny hair).

Do I love when people talk in questions? How could you not love that? Who DOESN’T love that? Can you imagine me NOT loving that?

Do the candidates LOVE Draper? Are they DESPERATE to serve Draper? Do they think every single candidate except them is a a crazy Tax and Spend twit? Yes Yes Yes.

Are most of the candidates for Draper City Council bloviating knuckleheads who think they are the smartest guys in any given room? Um, duh. ARE they the smartest guys in the room? Have you ever been to a city council meeting?. Do I think the city will manage to run itself no matter which of these “politicians” (the 14 year old (I swear, he can’t be older than that) running for city council actually referred to himself as a politician, even though he’s never held elected office, and is running for DRAPER city council) wins the election to our little city council? Natch.

Why am I talking this way? I can’t stop. Did the candidates do every pompous thing short of refer to themselves in the third person? Wait, they did that too? They did that WHILE they tried to be self-deprecating? How awesome is that?

If all politics are local, we are in big trouble.

As the Godfather once told the undertaker down the street, “Bonasera, Bonasera, what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?”

I got Boo’d last night. Well, that’s not exactly true. I got poo-poo platter’d last night.

Think of the children!

Remember Boo’ing? You make some yummy treats, you leave them on someone’s doorstep along with a Boo Sheet the recipient can put in the window so people don’t Boo them again, and then the receiver Boo’s two other people.

Kind of like a multi-level Halloween network. But in a good way.

Except when you get Boo’d with the Poo Poo Platter. Someone’s trying to get a rise out of me. Kim insists I shouldn’t write this post, that I’m being mean. I say ME? I’M being mean? I’m not the one passing out the $1.79 crap sandwich. Someone is trying to get me in their Boo’ing downline. Well, I will NOT go gently into your stupid downline.

Here’s the Boo paper (slightly modified):

A blown Boo on so many levels.

My initial reaction:

But then I decided on a more fitting fate for these frosted pumpkins:

And that’s where they’ll stay all Winter. Unless I get peckish in the night. Which has been known to happen.

Floss is weird. First, it’s just a string you wrap around your fingers, and rub between your teeth.

But my floss is made out of Gore Tex. Just like my ski jacket. Am I the only one who finds this weird? I was struck by the weirdness this morning, because I was flossing in the shower, as is my wont, and while tugging the super slippery, and (I assume) waterproof Gore Tex floss down between an old tooth and my shiny new crown, the floss snapped.

Apparently Gore Tex is water resistant and slippery, but not super strong.

Anyway, it got me thinking about the weirdness of floss. Which got me remembering the weirdest floss story I’ve ever heard.

A couple years back, I was talking with my friend Ben about a guy in the neighborhood, about whom I’d heard something weird. I said to Ben “Do you know what’s weird about [let's call him] Barney?”

And before I could jump in with my funny story about Barney, Ben said “That he’s used the same piece of floss for over a year?”

Picture me doing a comical double take, times four. I started to respond as if I hadn’t heard him: “So I heard he called the cops and . . . Wait. WHAT?” I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out.

“Yeah. He told me. He re-uses the same piece of floss over and over again. For like a year.”

“Wait. My floss breaks like 25% of the time. I would be down to an inch of floss in a week.”

“Yeah, I dunno. It’s what he told me.”

So, I have floss made out of Gore Tex. Barney must have floss made out of a single stretchy molecule not yet released to the general public..

And I’m not sure which is the bigger deal–that the floss never breaks, or the idea of accumulated gunk on the floss. How does he wash the floss? Simple rinse most days with a vigorous soaping on Saturdays? And where does he keep the floss? And does the floss fray? And WHY does he do this? Floss is not expensive.

I cannot wrap my head around this. And now Barney has moved away, so I can’t ask him. I feel like I need to get on the Facebooks and track him down and ask him. Would that count as a Poke?

On a scale of 1-10, ten being the most wigged out, how wigged out are you when you put your money in the machine and get the wrong soda/candy bar?

Does it depend on how wrong the candy bar is?

Like, how bout if you put seventy five cents in the machine, push A6 for a Butterfinger, and you end up with a Snickers? Notwithstanding that Snickers is somehow marketed as a newfangled kind of energy bar, that’s a solid SEVEN on the disappointment meter for me.

But when I put sixty five cents in the machine, push the Diet Coke button, and out comes a root beer? Well, that one goes to eleven.

I’m in a desperate place here, on the bubble, trying to decide if I’m a good person or a bad person.

The scales of justice in this case? The tip jar at a restaurant with no table service. Call me a sucker–I generally drop in a dollar. Or write a dollar on the tip line. I don’t know why. I realize they’re not coming out to my table. In fact, at Cold Stone ice cream, where they say they’ll sing a song if you tip, I drop a dollar in if they promise not to sing.

Am I just shallow, vying for favor from people I will never see again? Am I generous? I don’t know. What’s the next step, everybody asking for and giving dollars? That sounds like my relationship with my kids (sans the getting-a-dollar-from-them part).

But Kim has the most compelling argument–”Hey! Don’t give them that dollar. Give ME that dollar! I’ll go buy a diet coke.”

I guess to me it feels like giving a dollar to the guy at the stop light with the “veteran out of work” sign.

But, um, maybe it’s not?

Instead of hunting for deer to put food on my family, I took the troops south for some Goblin Valley and some Arches last weekend.

It’s our happy place.

Fun for the whole family:

And best of all? Goblin poo.

Ian badly twisted his ankle skateboarding a month or so back, and has been a bit gimpy ever since.

And yet, of course, he’s out on the trampoline with a tramp board practicing his tricks pretty much every day. And he hasn’t skipped any lacrosse games or practices. Not even when we warn him that ski season is fast approaching and he’ll want full use of his feet for when the snow flies in earnest.

All this got me thinking about ignoring doctor’s advice, something I’ve made a lifelong practice, especially if it contradicts, not so much my own gut feeling, but my schedule. That is, if the doctor’s advice interferes with fun, it must be stupid advice. If the advice gets in the way of work, or, you know, work, then I say Listen Up!

My brother Dave once broke his arm, had it set, rode his bike against doctor’s orders pretty much right away, and broke it again, but less cleanly. The doctor wasn’t so delicate with setting it this time. Hearing him recount how the doctor just grabbed his arm and “set” it still makes me wince.

But the best ignoring of doctor’s advice award has to go to Brad.

A couple of years ago, Brad noticed something weird about his heart. Not that he didn’t have feelings (he does) or too many feelings (he doesn’t), but that his heart beat a bit funkier than maybe yours or mine. He went to the cardiologist, who did a battery of tests and told him he probably had a congenital heart defect, some kind of hole in a chamber or something, and he would be very wise to avoid any strenuous activity until they could arrange an entirely new and more complete battery of tests.

So, of course, Brad rented a couple movies, and spent a few restful evenings at home, reading books and watching old films.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Or. Or rather than take the cardiologist’s advice (the guy who just looked at his EKG and such) to heart and waiting for the verdict, Brad decided to do his OWN test.

He went and rode up Big Cottonwood Canyon, setting a personal best time to Guardsman Pass. He figured, “If I die, my heart was faulty. If I don’t die, my heart is fine.”

Nowadays I run all big medical questions by Brad. He seems to have a knack for that kind of thing.