Risking Embarrassment

I am a disciple of Albert Ellis, Ph.D. and his Rational Emotive Behavioral Therapy. He has withstood the test of time and his theories pervade psychotherapy today. He is a common sense, practical, funny man now in his 80's and going strong.



One of the things he does in his therapy to help people overcome their fear of embarrassment or anxiety in general, is require they place themselves in embarrassing situations. The theory, born out by tons of research, is a person desensitizes themselves from the anxiety by being exposed to it. This sort of thing translates to other forms of anxiety. For instance, if you have a fear of public speaking you will be less fearful, because you will learn that it is no big deal to be embarrassed.



Here is an example of what he does. Since his office is in New York, he tells his students to take a subway ride and yell out the stops on the train. Another option is to walk up to someone and ask them a ridiculous question. You get the idea.



In the spirit of this exercise in embarrassment, I am going to do a virtual dropping of the pants. Don't click off, I am not going to launch a soft porn site here, but I am going to share a few photos most people would consider embarrassing. Why, for reasons I stated above and because I could not think of anything substantive to post.



Actually, I credit Darin with the idea. His comment about the bike photo yesterday got me thinking about other silly photos I had.



(Did I mention I love Alison Krauss? Her song "Empty Hearts" from the "Forget About It" album is playing and it is a peaceful and sooting melody, almost a lullaby - if you are into that sort of thing)



It is Friday and I feel the usual anticipation of an evening with friends. A few drinks and recap of the week, then onto the seafood restaurant for more indulgence. I hope these photos bring a smile and not pity.

The first tux I wore standing in a wedding, age 20

Halloween Party Hosts

Claude and Marty competing for my affections

Is this one big enough or should we get the bigger one?

1985, moving from Rock Island to New Orleans

Young married couple in Florida, 1983

Enjoy your Friday.



Until the next time

John Strain

Risk

I have been thinking about risk ever since I read my mom's blog post about my great grandfather. He left Denmark to avoid being conscripted into the German Navy. He came to America not knowing how he would survive. He left his family vowing to send for them when he could. I cannot imagine such a risk and I have never risked anything comparable. When faced with a hard choice, he chose action over inaction.



As it turned out, he made a life for himself and his family in America. I am the benificiary of his risk. We are all beneficiaries of the risks made by our ancestors. They attempted unbelievable things - they accomplished even more incredible feats because they were willing to take risks, what a contrast to today.



We are so careful. Organizations exist solely to protect consummers, workers, animals, you name it. At some point, being "careful" more closely resembles "paranoia" and "fear." Don't give your kid a grape, he might choke - I wouldn't risk it. Don't leave the house without your cell phone. Don't swim after you eat. Wear your safety glasses. Get the 401K, long term insurance, and make sure your car has air bags. All good advice, and all illustrate how focused we have become on safety and security. The events of 9/11 have sent this need for safety and security into hyper drive.



If great grandpa Andersen were considering going to another country today, can you imagine the advice he would get? "Are you crazy Hans? You don't know anyone in America. Where will you stay? How will we contact you? You better stay and join the German Navy." Safety and security come at a price. We pay by giving up dreams and possibilities. We mortgage excitement and anticipation for what we think is peace of mind.



A boring life is a life without risk. I am not suggesting anyone be foolhardy or endanger themselves, but I would challenge you to "go for IT." You have to figure out what "IT" is. When a person finds IT, they are motivated to get out of bed in the morning. IT is the subject of our dreams and our deepest yearnings. Have you been told you can't have IT or you cannot do IT? Do not believe them. IT is possible, if you are willing to risk a little certainty and predictability. Can you be confused or not know "the answer" for a while? Will you put up with some trials and failures on your way to IT? If so, then do it. Symbolically lay down your hammer as did grandpa Andersen in that Danish shipyard. Embark on a journey to a new world. A world full of promise and possibility. We are only limited by our dreams and the dedication and energy we are willing to expend to make them realities.



Don't be afraid to go out on a limb, that is where the fruit is.

---

Note: I risked riding the bike you see in the picture above. Shortly after the photo was taken, I crashed as I attempted a turn. The risk was worth the fall. How many people can say they rode an antique bicycle?



Until the next time

John Strain

Twelfth Night and King Cakes

I have lived in New Orleans and the surrounding area since 1979. I dove headlong into the customs and culture. This was a joy, because most New Orleans customs involve either eating, drinking, socializing or a combination of all three. One such custom is eating king cakes beginning on Twelfth Night. Twelfth Night celebrates the arrival of the Three Kings to the birthplace of Christ. It is observed on January 5th and marks the end of the Twelve Days of Christmas.



There are as many king cake types as there are Mardi Gras beads. People have their favorites and mine is a cherry and cream cheese filled king cake. They resemble coffee cakes, but have purple, green, and gold sugar sprinkled all over the top. These are the traditional Mardi Gras colors. Gold represents power, purple stands for justice, and green represents faith. Concealed inside the king cake is a small plastic baby. This all seems normal to me now, but as I write this I am aware of how strange it all is. Anyway, whoever gets the baby has to buy the next king cake. There is always a next king cake. We bring them to work on Monday, because Mondays are boring. We bring them to work on Friday to celebrate Friday. As a matter of fact, there are ample excuses and reasons to bring and eat king cakes. In times past, the baby was a random way of selecting a queen for a particular Mardi Gras ball. Some people have been known to swallow the baby in an effort to avoid buying the next king cake. Not everyone is generous or in the Mardi Gras spirit.



If you are the type of person who relishes sitting down with friends and drinking a cup of coffee, you would love the king cake custom. We all give our diets the finger and eat the tasty treat without guilt. It is easier to indulge if you have company. It is just plain fun. These cakes are eaten throughout the Mardi Gras season. This year Mardi Gras is February 24, so I have about 7 weeks of king cakes to eat. It is a tough job, but someone has to do it. I read where the New Orleans area bakeries produce about one million king cakes each Mardi Gras season. Approximately one third of those are shipped.



Check out the king cake history. King cakes are just one more reason I love it here. I wish I could give you all a big piece of this gooey, sticky, yummy, treasure - but you will have to settle for a virtual piece of king cake. Just cut a slice from the picture above - enjoy.



Until the next time

John Strain

Dresser Drawer Archaeology

When I was working at a church in Buford, Georgia one summer I helped some people clean out a house of an elderly woman who had recently died. I do not remember the circumstances completely, but I do remember going through drawers, closets, and boxes full of paper, letters, greeting cards, and sundry items this lady saw fit to keep. Fact number one: People save stuff. Fact number two: Said items have meaning for the saver and possibly a small group of people. In this case, I was on the outside. These personal memories held no significance for me. That's the way it is. The things which are meaningful to us, do not hold significance for many others.



So I got to thinking. In a never ending quest to develop new blog genres I pulled the small handkerchief drawer from my bedroom dresser and paroused the contents. What would an archaeologist conclude from this sample of my life's belongings? This could be an entire blog series. My desk at work, my shed, other drawers, closets, and corners in my house and in my life all tell a story. This post tells one such story. The story of my handkerchief drawer.



Drawer Contents:

26 business cards, most of them mine

16 handkerchiefs

6 folded up pieces of paper with phone numbers and other info

3 paris of gloves used for running

3 pennies

3 band aids

3 credit cards

3 ball point pens

2 Packages of collar stays

1 jewelry box containing, 1 set of cuff links, 4 tuxedo shirt studs, my high school class ring, a ring that belonged to my step father, a gold bracelet that belonged to my step father, a key chain of the Greek god of fertility Priapus, with an over sized penis I bought in Turkey.

1 estimate sheet for our new roof August 02

1 piece of paper / crude story board for a video I was thinking about making

1 Office Depot gift card, probably $6.00 left on it

1 post it note with a chart detailing my weight and dates from a couple of years ago

1 House key from our old front door

1 alcohol prep

1 round silver pipe trim

1 plastic bag containing a watch band link

1 plastic bag containing 6 X 3'' #12 screws

1 plastic bag containing 4 buttons

1 plastic bag containing 1 ceiling fan bolt

1 Saints vs. Falcons ticket stub 10/21/01

1 Saints vs. Rams PLAYOFF ticket stub from 2000

1 House of Blues ticket stub for Peter Frampton 10/30/2000

1 Ticket stub for the Titanic exhibit at Union Station in Kansas City

1 restaurant receipt from 11/08/01

1 Audubon Zoo admission receipt from 03/25/01

1 heart rate monitor

1 Working Timex Indiglo watch

1 Whoopee cushion

1 US Army stainless steel pocket knife

1 white sock, probably Barbara's

1 Craig Wilson baseball card, who????

1 broken "bolt puzzle"

1 medal I won at a run

1 Fossil watch owner's manual



What would an archaeologist conclude from this dig? If he/she tried to posit a logical explanation for these items being gathered in this spot, they would be wrong. At least I cannot think of any intended purpose for collecting these items in my handkerchief drawer. The main reason this stuff is in the drawer is because I empty my pockets on the dresser and I throw spare parts and tools up there if the bed is already full. Barbara gets tired of the clutter and moves it to my drawer. Once in the drawer it stays. These items would stand a better chance of getting out of a black hole than my handkerchief drawer.



I know where each screw came from and the ticket stubs conjure good memories. I have so many handkerchiefs because my mom gave me some of my step dad's after he died. Looking at the cuff links makes me think about going to Mardi Gras balls. The high school ring was a prize at one time in my life, but now it resides in the darkness of the jewelry box in the handkerchief drawer.



I suppose the archaeologist would conclude that I had a sinus problem, and liked to collect hardware and phone numbers. He/she might note that I occasionally got out to sporting events, restaurants, concerts, and the local zoo. They would theorize about the groups of three. 3 gloves, band aids, ball point pens, pennies, and credit cards. Perhaps they would believe I was a soldier because of the US Army knife. The heart rate monitor could indicate cardiac problems, probably developed after winning a race. The key chain with the Greek god and over sized penis might represent a dark side to the owner of these things - perhaps he worshiped penises they would guess. What of the whoopee cushion? Is this another perverted fetish of some kind? Why did he have a Craig Wilson baseball card? What did the key unlock? The poor devils would theorize themselves to death. Cockamamie theories are the stuff good books are made of and my archaeologist would no doubt hit the lecture circuit and answer questions about the god with the big weenie.



Look around your abode. What would the archaeologist think about your artifacts? Is your stuff as random as mine? Our stuff tells a story, what story does your stuff tell?



Until the next time

John Strain

Variety

I like variety - most of the time. For instance, I get tired of the same soap. It may smell good at first, but after awhile, it nauseates me. For a long time Barbara bought Tone, with cocoa butter. I got tired of it, but only thought about how tired of it I was when I was taking a shower. I remember getting down to the last bar thinking, "good, now I can get some different soap." To my horror though, I looked under the sink one day and Barbara had bought a new 72 bar package (at least it seemed like it). I was sentenced to another few months of the bland, no fun, soap. Finally, at Wal Mart, one day, I remembered in time to do something about my soap problem. I threw some Coast in the shopping cart. Coast had more of a "manly" smell. After that, I noticed an article in a Men's Health magazine which said Lever 2000 was voted the best smelling soap by a bunch of good looking women. Guess which soap I tried next? But after a few bars of that I got tired of it too. Parenthetical note: while using Lever 2000 I was not aware of any good looking women stopping to sniff as I passed by. My secret santa gave me a bar of soap from Bath and Body Works. I am still using this bar. It is my favorite scent from that establishment - Woodlands. This soap is touted as a massaging bar. I guess because it had 8 round knobs on one side of it. After three showers, the knobs wore down and it looks like an ordinary bar of soap, except it is clear and has some sort of grit mixed in it somehow. Maybe the sandpaper feel is what they mean by massaging bar.



I am lucky to have a wife who makes my lunch every day. It gets packed into a small purple ice chest. I have to request little changes or I would go nuts. The same lunch begins to taste like cardboard. Fat free lunch meat on whole wheat bread, apple (cut up), pretzels, and yogurt. Day in and day out. Like the soap, I only thought about it when I was eating my lunch. Eventually, the displeasure rose to the point I thought of it at a time I could do something about it. Now, I may mention to Barbara to use the hot mustard or relish, maybe a banana instead of an apple. I worked with a girl who hated the fact, Barbara made my lunch each day. She would tell me how she wished someone would make her lunch. I told her, "have your wife make it, that's what I do." Celeste would then say, "I wish I had a wife." She contended lunch does not taste as good if you make it yourself. Sandwiches are always better if they are made by someone else.



Continuing on my theme of variety, I will now change the subject. LSU beat Oklahoma in the Sugar Bowl to win the national championship. Their last title was in 1958. I know the folks at USC feel they have a share or are the outright best team, but all that aside, folks in this part of the country are ecstatic. If you are a sports fan, you know what a championship drought is. My heart still aches for the Chicago Cubs fans. I true sports fan agonizes over their team. Rewards come as a tease only to wind up as a broken heart in most cases. I have felt real emotional pain from sports, but last night it was all good. I was over at one of my friend's houses and we had a blast along with the usual eating and drinking.



It is raining outside as I write this. Ordinarily I would be running. The upside of the rain is I now have time to get this post in. Marathon training is going well. I ran 14 miles last Saturday. I am enjoying fresh coffee right now. I love morning. I wake up full of energy. The quiet is only broken by the steady sound of rain on the roof, the whir of my computer fan, and an occasional spoon clinking on the side of a coffee cup stirring in some Splenda, (Barbara's) followed by the clink of the spoon being set on the counter. I drink my coffee black, so the only sound I make is when I pull the pot out of the coffee maker, pouring the coffee, and putting the pot back. All of these sounds say to me - all is right with the world. They are familiar and as much as I like variety, I hope they never change.



Until the next time

John Strain