BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I raced up the stairs, trying my damnedest not to kill myself in the process. You see, our house is old. VERY old. What’s more, the basement stairs were apparently cut and assembled by a rag-tag group of chimpanzees that were somewhere in the middle of a 30 day beer binge – I know this because I found a few of the “church key” topped cans in the wall when we remodeled and tore out the plaster and lath. The other reason I know this is because one stair might have a 7 1/2 inch rise with a 10 inch tread, but the next will have a 10 inch rise with a 7 inch tread. Of course, the one that follows usually has a 4 inch rise and a 12 inch tread, but I think you get the idea. The thing of it is, there’s no discernible pattern, even where muscle memory is concerned. Therefore, much killing of oneself occurs on these stairs, especially when you are in a hurry.

I know, I should probably just rip them out and replace them, like I did with their fraternal twins that led upstairs to the half story. But, that’s beside the point. This blog is actually about Dorothy Morrison and telephones.

Dorothy and cell phones, to be exact…

You see, Dorothy Morrison is a friend of mine. In fact, she is one of my best friends in the whole world. For those of you who might not know just who Dorothy is click on her name and follow the link. It will take you to her website. She’s a fantastic author and we often tour together. We are so much like brother and sister that we had to have been siblings in a previous life. It’s that simple.

So, anyway, there I was, trying hard not to kill myself as I bounded up the stairs from the basement. It was Christmas Day. Just this past Christmas Day 2009, as a matter of fact. Presents had been opened, breakfast had been consumed, showers had been had, and I had finished all of the cooking and meal prep work. We were gathering things together so we could load up and head out to visit with E Kay’s family. I was down in the basement – also known as E Kay’s Dungeon and Playroom – so that I could snag a box or two in order to make the packing up a bit easier. I had already had to skirt my way around the rack, the Iron Maiden, and all of E Kay’s other “toys” without injuring myself, and so far I had been doing fine.

Then I heard it. My cell phone, which was upstairs on the dining room table, began to belt out a jazzy show tune sort of ring. Only one person in my phone book was assigned this particular melange of electronic chirps – Dorothy.

Now, one would imagine that it would be just as easy to safely negotiate the stairs and return the call if missed. But, I knew better. I knew that Dorothy and her husband were on vacation, therefore in all likelihood she was calling me from her cell phone.

“Okay… So what?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you. Better yet, allow me to illustrate by finishing the story.

… The boxes I had been carrying flew out of my hands, as they were all but forgotten. I stumbled up the stairs at a frantic pace, losing a shoe and banging my shin on the 12 inch riser because I had miscalculated after taking the two 4 inch risers at once. The cats scattered in front of me – after all, wouldn’t you too if a fat guy was falling up the stairs at you?

My head bounced off the door frame as I fell through the opening, then rolled across the floor, came up into a dead run… Well, a limping dead run… E K was yelling from our bedroom upstairs, wanting to know why she was hearing a show tune, the offspring was surveying her bounty yet again, and the clock was ticking. I rounded the corner from the hallway and dove for the dining room table, snagging my phone as I crashed through the chairs and ended in a crumpled heap against the wall.

“Hello? Hello?” I said, speaking into the now unfolded cell between labored breaths. But alas, no one was there. Though I knew it was a longshot – and I do mean longshot – I pressed the button to return the missed call, which the tiny LCD screen was telling me had, in fact, come from Dorothy. Moreover, it told me it had come from Dorothy’s cell.

The tiny speaker on my LG warbled twice then clicked. The click, as I had fully expected, was followed by a voice mail prompt.

You see, here’s the thing… Dorothy suffers from CPFCS (Cell Phone Flash Calling Syndrome). She calls you, leaves a message, then before the last syllable has even finished echoing, she switches off her cell phone. Yes, just like a criminal on the run who fears being tracked by a cell phone signal, she shuts the thing down. I’m not absolutely certain, but I think she might even take the battery out of the damn thing.

I have attempted interventions in the past, gathering together friends and other authors who know Dorothy, but we have never had any success. No matter how hard we try, she still calls, leaves a message, then turns off her phone so that you can’t reach her. We even tried to bring her husband in on the intervention once, but Mark has been living under the same roof with her for so long that he has become jaded to this behavior.

When we told him what we were planning and why, he simply responded, “You’ll have that.”

Unable to reach Dorothy, I listened to the voice mail. As I suspected it would be, she was calling to wish us a Merry Christmas. Of course, I couldn’t return the greeting because she had turned off her phone. For that very same reason I also couldn’t call her horrible and terrible names for relaxing in Key West while I was preparing to load a vehicle in snow and sub-freezing temperatures.

Still, even though she couldn’t hear me, I called her names anyway. All in good fun, of course.

I mean, we’re talking about Dorothy Morrison here…

You’ll have that.

More to come…

Murv

And so the dance of deception begins…

What dance? What deception? Read on…

In recent months some of the news organizations had their work cut out for them battling against slow news days. By “slow news days” I mean those stretches where the only news was the same old sucky economy and healthcare debate. Nothing new… No dead celebs, no scandals that hadn’t already been beaten to death, no multi-tuplets, and no shocking tragedies.

They needed something to wax poetic about, as usual, and so they filled the “news holes” with feature programming. One in particular that stood out from the crowd – for me, at least – was when they dusted off a bit of psychology coupled with the Internet. I probably took notice of it because of my fascination with the human condition and how our minds work, but something tells me I’m not the only one had an interest in this subject. (Duh, Sellars! Why else would they be doing the reports you doofus? Yes, I know, sometimes I can be Captain Obvious Doofus Guy…)

What am I babbling about? Simple – the news programs ran some feature reports about the “wisdom of looking up your old flames on the Internet.”

Is it wise to do so?

Is it not so smart after all?

And, what is it you are really after?

Well, personally I found these reports to be interesting, again, because of my fascination with psychopathologies and what makes people tick. They were nothing new. There have been articles about this before, but the statistics and correlations between them and other statistics (divorce for instance) keep changing… And not necessarily for the better.

However, as usual I thought their reports were a bit stilted and incomplete. By that I mean, they skewed it to make things sound like people don’t harbor subconscious intentions, and we all know that’s not true. But, moreover, they didn’t really get into the warning signs of the whole “what are you really after” factor. They had psychologists babbling about how it really isn’t a good idea to go in search of old flames because you might get in over your head, but they were simply paying lip service to the advice. No substance. No admissions that intentions aren’t pure. And most especially, no red flags for the prey of the “old flame hunters” out there who end up sliding down that slope as well if they aren’t careful.

Well, being a somewhat public figure, as mentioned in the past I have actually had to deal with stalkers a time or two. And, while not exactly the caliber of stalkers, I have also had to deal with old flames looking me up.

Yes, I know it comes as a shock to many of you, but I actually dated before becoming an indentured servant to the Evil Redhead. And, I know it’s an even bigger shock to discover that any of them would actually want to look me up after managing to get rid of me… Well, just imagine how surprised I was as well, so there…

But, moving right along… Said flames have ranged anywhere from a “quick flick of the Bic” to “long lasting bonfires.” However, the common thread and most important point about them is that they have long been extinguished and there are no smoldering embers – at my end anyway.

Now, I should point out that there is a difference between an old friend and an old flame. If you don’t know what that is, go back to 5th grade health class and watch the birds ‘n bees filmstrip again (yeah, dating myself…) And, there is a huge difference between looking up an old flame and looking up an old flame then contacting them.

Especially if the old flame happens to be married.

These latter two points are exactly what I am talking about.

So, while I don’t even begin to consider myself an expert on the subject, I do happen to have more than just a bit of experience in this area, as well as some intense background studying irrational behavior (I write about sociopaths, remember?)

Admittedly, I hold no degrees in the subject of psychology. But, as noted, I write fiction for a living, and as any fiction author can tell you, we are lifelong students of human behavior. It’s how we make our stories real. So, while we aren’t licensed to help you cope with your clinical depression, odds are we can spot a bullshit artist quicker than your average bear. And yes, that talent also draws from the old adage, “it takes one to know one,” as fiction authors are bullshit artists by trade. What makes us different from other BS’ers is that we readily admit it.

So anyway, it recently dawned on me that perhaps I could put my powers of BS X-Ray vision to use for the good of mankind, and at least partially fill the void left by the feature news programs. Especially since it is “that time of year” – yes, the holidays – which as it turns out is when statistically there is a sharp rise in the number of “old flame contacting” occurrences. (I have a pet theory that Dan Fogelberg and his song, Same Old Lang Syne are directly responsible for this phenomenon. I call it the Fogelberg Unwanted Creepy Kook Marriage Encroacher Effect or FUCKMEE for short.)

To that end, I am offering here a “red flag dictionary” of sorts. A modest listing of phrases often used – and reused – by “old flames/flings on the prowl.” The thing is, they appear perfectly innocent at first, but when unwrapped they look absolutely nothing like the representation on the outer packaging.

And there you have it.

While the “what it really means” column was presented with a bit of over-the-top, tongue in cheek verbiage for the entertainment value, it isn’t actually far off the mark. The stark reality is that more often than not, the gist of the “hidden sentiments” are exactly the same as those listed above, even if the words themselves aren’t. Word choices have meaning, both obvious and hidden. They are hooks, they are invitations, they are designed to evoke a response. Ask any writer – it’s what we do.

Statistically, the whole old flame thing is a slippery slope. If you don’t believe me, here’s a link to an article written about it back in 2006 – Think Twice. The one thing in this particular article I take exception with is the idea that these things start innocently. This is where I step out over the abyss and state that I think perhaps writers just may know a little bit more about human nature than psychologists doing experiments with a room full of chimpanzees, a crate of bananas, and some bad porn tapes. Primarily because of the fact that a simple universal constant is always ignored, that being – nobody is completely innocent after the onset of puberty. Yes, the “father of modern psychology,” old Sigmund himself (the psychiatrist, not the sea monster) said that, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” Well, that’s true. But, it’s the intent of the person holding said cigar that is at issue here.

Furthermore, I would posit that rather than being the norm for an old flame or fling to contact someone out of the blue after several years simply because they care how they are doing, it is in fact the complete opposite – extremely rare. Whether conscious or subconscious, in contacting an old flame or fling, a person is hoping to re-kindle a feeling that once existed because it is something that is currently missing from their life. And, as noted in the article, the percentage of these “old flame contacts” has grown because the internet has made it easy to chase people down.

But, you need to be aware, people don’t go looking for you unless they want something. That’s a hard, cold fact.

Take it from someone who has not only been on the receiving end of such contacts, but knows others who have as well. There’s an entire story written between the lines, and it’s not Hallmark material…

And trust me dear readers, that is non-fiction…

More to come…

Murv