Embrace the 99%

The other morning was one of those mornings.  We woke up to a giant hairball and pool of foamy cat vomit strewn across the kitchen floor.  This was actually somewhat of a relief because the cats usually find the toughest-to-clean, most upholstered places in the house to upchuck.  The kitchen floor is much easier to clean than between the cushions of the easy chair or a basket of clean laundry.  My relief was short-lived, however, as a walk into the living room revealed that my cat friend celebrated his kitchen hairball victory with a celebratory piss on the couch cushions.  With feline murder on my mind, I set about cleaning up the messes.  Right on cue, mere minutes after I cleaned the kitchen floor, the over-sized couch cushion, which my wife has successfully previously laundered in the washing machine, caused the washer basin to go unbalanced flooding the kitchen floor.  Seven sopping bath towels later the flood was contained.  With messes fixed it was time to get ready for Grace's Pre-K graduation.  Of course, I discovered the shirt I planned on wearing, my last clean shirt, had been bombed by a bird while on the clothesline.  Wow, pee, puke and poo.  That's an animal bodily fluid hat trick!  Even Jungle Jack Hannah doesn't get that lucky.  What was there no raccoon that could scurry into my home and ejaculate in my shoes for good measure?  Later, after graduation, Grace's teacher was complimenting me, telling another mom I was like Dad-of-the-Year because I always had my stuff together regarding Grace's schedule.  I just chuckled to myself thinking I was glad she hadn't seen me hours earlier, clad only in boxer shorts and undershirt, wading through the middle of my kitchen pond shaking my fist at the cat and shooing Grace from the room.

I tell you all that to tell you this: none of it really mattered.  There were times these events would have left me cross all morning, but not anymore.  You see, I, Bryan Hailey, negaholic, pessimist, Debbie Downer, am trying something new.  It is not easy, but gratitude is the answer.  We, the unhappy among us, spend so much of our time focused on what is going wrong.  The truth is so much is going right.  Call it whatever New-Agey phrase you want - Attitude of Gratitude, counting your blessings,whatever-it works.  If you focus on the 99 percent of things that go right every day, you have nary a moment to focus on the 1 percent that isn't working.  Think about it-we take so much for granted.  Why not celebrate that our car starts every morning or that planes don't fall out of the sky?  Why not delight in the fact that our bodies function properly far more often than they don't?  Embrace the simple.  Marvel at the mundane.  Never take for granted the 99 percent.  Derive your strength from it.  Look around you and note what is working, what is going right, what makes you feel good.  The 1 percent may not be repairable, but you will never know if you ignore the 99 percent.  Be grateful for it.  Revel in it. Put your faith in it.  Then you will be ready to tackle the 1 percent.

People that know me well may be wondering if I have been replaced by an imposter.  Or if I am drunk at my keyboard at 11am.  I know it sounds very "Serenity Now".  Perhaps some of you will wager when I will blow my stack, Kramer-style, and trash my metaphorical room full of computers.  You may be right.  Be skeptical all you like.  The reality is that life isn't easy.  It smacks you around a bit.  But I am working on it; I am trying.  I am feeling my way through it, 99 percent at a time.

Something's Fishy.

In the age of helicopter parents abolishing little league scoreboards and pleading with teachers to change grades, somtimes I get funny looks when I don't rush in to scoop Grace up when she falls on the playground. If I assess that she is not injured seriously, I let her pick herself up and brush off.  I also don't let her win board games and, GASP, I make her write her homework again if she did not take the time to make a good effort.  I believe, and recent studies including one from the APA agree, that a little adversity, leads to more success for our children. Now this doesn't mean that I don't lend encouragement or that I think you should openly root for your child to fail.  But there is one situation where it is absolutely acceptaple, if not mandatory, to root for your kid to fail: when they are playing the "Win a Fish by Throwing a PingPong Ball in a Jar" carnival game.

Now this a difficult balancing act.  All your outward signals, verbal responses and body language must convey that you are 100% behind the idea of your sweet daughter proudly landing one of those balls in a jar. Meanwhile, deep inside your dark soul, you are tabulating how the cost of a bowl, fish food, and whatever other totally unnecessary, but necessary things fish require is far greater than the two dollars you just forked over for ten ping pong balls. You must stifle a whoop of joy when her first attempt barely reaches the platform of jars.  You must choke down the rage when a ball circles the rim repeatedly before falling off.  You cringe on the inside or share an eyes-wide silent scream with your wife when a ball slowly tink,tink, tinks across the mouths of six different jars.  You use your mouth to blow a breeze subtle enough to go unnoticed by passersby, but strong enough to send a ball on a wayward course.

Then it gets trickier. Then you must face the ethical dilemma when, after eight unsuccessful attempts, your little girl asks you to try to win her a fish.  What do you do when your precious five-year-old, face sagged with discouragement, asks you, one of her heroes, to slay this carnival dragon and take home the prize? My first thought was to pass the buck and tell her what a remarkable ping pong ball bouncer her mother is. My second thought was to throw the ball six feet wide of the table and say something about how, " it must have slipped." But, of course, I did the right thing; I pretended to have a cramp in my throwing arm.  No, I am not that lame. I tossed the ball high in the air and let the fates carry it to its destiny.  (Though if you looked closely you could probably see me leaning, attempting to put a little anti-fish English on the flight path.) My attempt failed to net a fish as did my wife's throw.  Suppressing a smile was easier now. But then came the toughest task, summoning the courage to pull out another two dollars as Grace begged for another ten tries.

Gateway Rub

Men, I want to tell you a cautionary tale so that you may learn from my experience.  I recently visited a new establishment, a kind of place I had never been before.  The type of transactions they conduct here are the kinds that I am used to enjoying in the privacy of my own home, for free.  But my wife told me she no longer wanted to help, so I sought service elsewhere.  I had heard about this place from a friend; you always hear about this kind of place from a friend.  Word of mouth is their lifeblood.

Upon entering the building I saw a several other men, all of whom avoided eye contact.  A woman approached, asking me a few questions about what I was looking for today.  She told me since this was my first visit they would throw in a little extra treatment for free.  Ah, yes, the first one is always free.  That's how they get ya.  After a little further discussion I was told to have a seat and that "Brandy* will be right with you."  A few minutes later Brandy, a reluctant smile upon her face, led me back.  After a little action, Brandy led me to a dimly lit room for my "MVP Service".

If you are still reading this, you may think I am some sort of pervert.  If you do, I submit it is you who is the perv because I am just talking about getting a haircut.

I had gone to uh...the place that Rhymes With SportBlips because The Wife had decided my hair had gotten long enough and thick enough that it may have exceeded her amateur barber capabilities.  I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I liked the idea of watching basketball while I waited instead of flipping through a decades-old People magazine.  I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I don't like small talk with strangers and thought televisions blasting the MLB Network might render it unnecessary.  (They don't.)

Now, I can't say Rhymes With SportBlips is like a whorehouse.  How could I, I've never been to a whorehouse?  I do know, however, that a haircut shouldn't feel skeevy.  And at Rhymes With SportBlips, it does kind of feel unsavory.  The haircut is normal enough, but that MVP treatment gets a little sketchy.  You are led to this darkened room and have a seat in a recliner for the shampoo.  The next thing I know, the chair is vibrating, I have a hot towel on my face (Which feels fantastic, by the way.) and the shampoo has morphed into a full-on head massage.  I don't know about you, but I feel a head massage is a pretty intimate bit of business.  It felt great, though, and there lies the lesson gentlemen.  Don't let the MVP head massage be a Gateway Rub.  Because who knows what you'll go looking for next time. 

*Name changed to protect the innocent. And because I have no memory of the stylist's real name.  For the record, Brandy was courteous, professional and was probably far more skeeved at having to massage my lumpy head than I was by having my head rubbed.