Mrs. C Wouldn't Last a Day Here

As a child of the 70's and 80's, the way I process events today still tends to get filtered through three different but intricately intertwined philosophies:

1. Bad TV sitcoms (my childhood even jumped the shark in 1985)
2. Bad popular music (I admit it: I had a couple of Huey Lewis albums. I live with that knowledge every day of my life...)
3. Recovering Catholic guilt

...most of the time, all three somehow work their way into my subconscious as I take the kids to soccer practice, empty the dishwasher, or catch the latest episode of Survivor. I bring this up, of course, because last night's episode drew heavily on all three of my childhood vices.


We saw the crest of Mick's forbidden pubes fuzzed out for the betterment of us all. I thank god each and every day that cave-dwelling, frustrated, overpaid losers with way too much power decide what I should and shouldn't see in the comfort of my own living room. Don't get me wrong - it's not like I have a huge desire to gaze upon the pubic pastures of Mick's treasure trail, but then again, what's the fear that drives the sensors to fuzz this out in the first place? Pubic protests? Racy riots? Supreme Court treasure trail trials?


Of course, it's MORE than OK that CBS shows us sea slug guts blended with rotting octopus tentacles and warm milk as contestants chew, gag, vomit and wince the slew down their gullets as chunky parts and pieces dangle from their chins.


Life was so much easier in those sitcoms from 30 years ago. There was no controversy, no sensationalism...heck, there wasn't even any thinking at all. But we get everything all twisted and tied up together today, and can't get past how things used to be. Where's the quick solution? Where's the problem that not only gets resolved within 30 minutes, but is never spoken of again - ever? Where are the khakis and blue button down shirts covering all those nasty private parts?


Yeah, yeah - it's a trade off. We get beautiful bodies, scantily clad model wannabees, taut sinewy muscle-bound hunks... But geez - all the cutest contestants are getting booted early, leaving us with...friggin' Russell!


Not much happened in this episode as nearly three straight days of rain forced the tribes to stay huddled up, shivering, under their sieve-like "shelters," with no opportunity to scheme, create drama or inspire some CBS fuzzing.


I searched for meaning that I could filter through my triumverate of philosophical engines, but for some reason my quest seemed to remind me of an experience Paige and I had in Ireland...

“Far-el.”

“Pardon me?”

“Far. El.”

It was our first hour in Ireland, and I was being corrected with how I pronounce my own name: Farrell (fair-el). We’d found a bed and breakfast (B+B) in Dublin after a long ferry ride over from England and wanted nothing more than to dump our packs and sleep. But the owner of the Marion House B+B was telling me that the way I had been pronouncing my name for the past 29 years was…wrong.

Well, who was I to argue? My heritage was Irish; the pronunciation had undoubtedly been bastardized in the hundred and fifty years since my ancestors had headed west to New York. Just give us a room; you can call us the Yeasty-McTwiddle family for all I cared.

Our acceptance and embracement of the Irish (and Gaelic) accent over the next couple weeks was fairly (farly) uneventful, until we had circled around the country and were finally heading back to Dublin. Due to our earlier stay, I called information to reach the Marion House again to book a room for one night before heading across the sea to Liverpool. It was high season, late summer, and most places were booked solid throughout Dublin.

I gave them my credit card number over the phone to seal the reservation, and we endured the travel day from Galway by anticipating the familiar, comfortable room and a nice dinner out. We were thoroughly exhausted by the time we made the long walk from the bus station in Dublin to the Marion House just as dusk was starting to set in, and stood gaping in disbelief when the lady answered the door and told us that she didn't have our reservation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I believe were the exact words she used. She asked if perhaps we had called the "Merrion House" instead of the "Marion House," which was on the other side of the town, and was actually a hotel instead of a B+B (and therefore much more expensive). We sensed looming disaster.

The hair-curlered proprietress quickly suggested we use her phone to straighten the whole mess out, so we trudged into her back office as we formulated a plan: Paige would take control, hoping to reason with some logical business person who would undoubtedly release our reservation without a fee, and shower ample apologies upon us for the unfortunate miscommunication.

We were so naïve.

“Hi, my name is Paige Farrell...” she began.

“Far-el,” came the voice on the other end.

“Oh, uh, yeah, right, Far-el. Do you have a reservation for a Far-el for tonight?”

“Let me check, please hold…” we held the phone, and our breath. “Yes, a double room, correct?”

“Well, there appears to be a terrible mistake that the information operator made…” Paige proceeded to explain the whole story, attempting to give them an opportunity to understand the honest mistake made by the information operator earlier that day when we had called asking to be connected to the Marion House. But they adamantly refused to care and chastised us for attempting to make them. They told us that it was £80 (about $130) a night there, and that if we cancelled our reservation they would still charge our card £40, case closed. Paige explained further how we had called the operator for directory assistance and she must have mistaken our American accent and given us the number for the Merrion House instead of the Marion House. The bitter old lady on the other end of the phone actually laughed at Paige and said, "No. NO ONE would ever mistake 'Merrion' (Mare-ee-un) for 'Marion' (Mar-ee-un)."

Stunned, Paige resorted to the crying routine (usually a stellar and reliable tactic), but the Merrion House wench would have none of it, and hung up. I was absolutely livid. I immediately called back and reintroduced myself, “Hi, you just spoke to my wife, my name is Farrell…”

“Far-el,” the bitter old callous hag adamantly replied.

I began calmly, wanting as much to simply straighten this whole thing out as I wanted to hear her deny logic to enter into the equation. But she jumped right in, “Nobody would mispronounce ‘mare-ee-un,’ not even foreigners.” Acid bubbled in my throat.

I asked her if she’d ever seen the TV show "Happy Days."

“Excuse me?” she spat.

“Happy Days, you know, with the Fonz and Richie?” She was silent. “You know Richie’s mom? Mrs. C.? Her first name is spelled ‘m-a-r-i-o-n’ and pronounced ‘mare-ee-un.’ They live in the U.S., just like us. Furthermore, we even reserved under the name ‘Fare-el,’ not ‘Far-el.’ It’s actually pretty easy to see how accents can cause honest miscommunications.”

She was quiet for a good ten seconds, and then finally said, “I’m completely booked and I’ve had to turn people away many times today. Sorry. It’s £80, or £40 if you cancel. Good bye,” and hung up.

We stood there in shocked silence, but agreed on the spot that there was no way we were going to patronize any place that didn’t show the proper respect for such an American iconic mom as Mrs. C. Thank god that the proper Marion House had a small space for us to sleep in that night: a tiny alcove literally big enough to fit one single bed with absolutely no floor space whatsoever. Since we were leaving first thing the next morning and were physically and emotionally spent, we were grateful for the opportunity to take it.

It took awhile to put all the negative feelings behind us, but we were able to do so by immersing ourselves in a towering microbrewery nearby, gently calling to us from within. Although we had agreed that we had no choice but to accept the £40 fee that was being unfairly forced upon us, I couldn’t let it go, and slipped out at one point to make a quick phone call.

“Hi, is this the mare-ee-un house?” I innocently asked.

“Yes! Would you like a room?” she proactively offered.

“Do you have multiple rooms available by any chance?” I probed. “My party may need three or more…”

She nearly kissed me through the phone, “Yes! We have as many rooms as you need!”

I hung up, not sure what I had just accomplished. Sure, I’d proven her a liar…and a cheat, and not a very nice person on top of that. But I was still paying £40, and Mrs. C’s honor was still in an unfair state of disrespect.

I didn’t feel very good about myself. Had I really expected this whole episode to be tied up with a nice red ribbon like a thirty-minute sitcom flanked with an inane life lesson as a definitive ending to it all? Was I that delusional? That immature? That removed from reality? What was the lesson I was learning?

Later, back in the brewery as we sat there talking, laughing and enjoying some live Irish music, a bartender approached our table. “Interested in doing a free whiskey tasting?”

“Uh, sure, I guess,” I answered, not really knowing anything about whiskey. But in the moment, I stepped up to the plate - actually a placemat lined with 6 full shots of different kinds of whiskey, surrounded by a table of half a dozen additional patrons doing the same.

Unfortunately, as they attempted to explain the process over the din of blaring music, I guess I just didn't hear them say, "You only have to taste each sample." I, on the other hand, proceeded to shoot the first four in a row before one of the guys leaned over and asked me if I knew what I was doing.

Wasn't it obvious?

But I was in Ireland. With my girl. In the moment. I was happy. And through my haze, I looked up and saw the Fonz smiling at me with his thumb in the air…


You see, sometimes there just isn't any life lesson. No bows. No learnin'. And that's OK. It's a hard lesson to learn when you plod through the trial and tribulations of every day life...or the constant scheming and glorious backstabbing of Survivor Samoa. 


Just look for that bone they throw us every now and then.


Mick's pubes. 


Natalie and Ashley's near lesbo experience on the beach. 


Shamwow's bitter extradition. 


Take it when it comes, don't be shy, don't beat yourself up, and then look past your need for meaning for the approval that's always waiting for you if you just open your mind enough to acknowledge it...

Until next week,

PB

Mr. Excitement Eats Too Much Chipotle

Inappropriate behavior ahead...

My freshman year in college, I met this guy on my dorm floor who was intensely into the Beatles. At that age and at a time when you’re living away from home for the first time and trying to meet new people, I was receptive to meeting this guy because I too had a love for the Beatles. But it quickly became apparent that this guy was…very different.

He literally had thousands of tapes, records, books, magazines, clippings, interviews, videos, trivia, hearsay, bootlegs, fingernail clippings, DNA samples, etc., of everything the Beatles had ever even thought about doing, and then all their individual, post-Beatle (i.e. boring) lives too. EVERYTHING.

The Beatles were all he ever talked about, when he talked, which was infrequently, and his obsession was already far past the “psychotic fan” level. He had no other friends, had never been with a girl (or guy for that matter), and didn’t talk to anyone at all. He never washed his hair, nobody ever saw him take a shower the entire year, he went home (an hour away) every weekend…I think you’re getting the picture. Anyway, I’m getting to a point here, so hang on.

After a couple of times hanging out with this guy (always with my roommate as a buffer, who shared my concerns/fears), my tolerance level of his psychosis/my boredom was met. He would never start a conversation, never offered any insight into anything, was just incredibly passive, annoyingly quiet, and unnervingly…existing. We quickly coined him: “Mr. Excitement.”

When we broke for summer, I was relieved and confident that our paths would surely never cross again. But of course, that first week of sophomore year, I was walking along Bruin Walk (UCLA) minding my own business when suddenly I get a wimpy poke on my shoulder and turned around. There was Mr. Excitement with that corny smile on his face and that, still, unwashed hair.

“Chris, hi, how are you?” he said with that same meek, mildly greasy voice. Now I’m really not a bastard at heart (no, really); I was amiable, and somehow watched in horror from above as I invited him over to my place to hang out later. This was all under the guise of my same roommate, or either of my other additional two roommates being there to deflect the discomfort...I hoped. But when he showed up, all three of my roommates were nowhere to be found. I decided that I would really give him a chance this time; I’d make repeated efforts at getting conversations going, would keep things interesting, and would not allow a lull to be found anywhere.

Within five minutes I was in Hell. Mr. Excitement was so incredibly boring, I was having a hard time staying awake…and it was only 5 PM. We had nothing to talk about, he didn’t want to watch TV, didn’t want a beer…I was dying by the minute. Finally, I decided I would have to go to extremes. After a particularly life-sapping twenty-minute lull, I simply laid down on the couch, stretched out, and closed my eyes. I was going to out-bore Mr. Excitement. He was going to get so bored, that even he couldn’t stand it, and would walk out in disgust.

I lay there for ten minutes totally silent. Twenty. Thirty. Sixty. It was hard to keep my eyes closed for so long and my body still in that deathly silent room. What the hell was he doing? Was he even still here? I hadn’t heard anything the entire time. But no way, I couldn’t stir now; surely he was on the brink of getting up and walking out.

I pushed on. An hour fifteen. An hour and a half. Still no sound. Now I was really getting worried. Maybe I had dozed off without realizing it and he’d walked out… I tried to squint my eyes without giving myself away…but he had been sitting behind me and off to the left, I’d have to turn my head to check for sure. Can’t give up now after so much hard work. I plodded on.

An hour forty-five. Two hours… Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer; I had to get some stimulation in my head. He had to be gone. I opened my eyes and slowly turned my head.

Mr. Excitement was sitting on the chair with both feet on the floor and his hands on his knees…looking directly at me. He was having the time of his life.

I couldn’t do it. He won. Mr. Excitement got the prize as the King of Boredom.

“I got some…stuff to do. You should leave,” I lamely said in defeat.

“Oh, OK.” He looked shocked. Why would I ask him to leave when he was having such a rollicking good time?

He got up and left, I turned on everything in the apartment that made noise: the TV, both stereos, the blender, the hair dryer, the answering machine…my stimulation tank was way too low.

...Did anyone feel exactly like this while watching Survivor last night? I mean, in an episode where the most action was in Shambo/Rambo/Shamwow trying to find an escaped chicken in a tree...I nearly called Mr. Excitement for some stimulation.

Where was the backstabbing? Where was the scheming? Where was the drama?

In fact, the one person who always manages to keep things interesting:

...didn't even bother to show up for the (ooo - invigorating!) bocce ball challenge.

Other spine-tingling challenges CBS considered (lawn bowling, shuffleboard & BINGO!)

Thank god these types of episodes are few and far between...otherwise it would be like eating Chipotle too many days in a row...

What else is there to say about this void of an episode? Foa-Foa wins for the first time ever, Yasmin gets the boot in her high heels, and the immunity challenge is a thrilling test of stacking blocks.

Is it just me? Am I the only one who's a glutton for disturbing controversy? Is it wrong to so tangibly miss the shimmering golden shower taboos of reality TV?

In a word: yes.

Pray for my soul. Or not...Hell is a journey, not a destination...

Until next week,

Probst Beef

Frog Jerky

On her 5th birthday, my youngest daughter, McKenna, asked for and received a couple of exotic Amazonian frogs from her grandparents. The very next day, we noticed that one of the frogs had wedged itself into a compromising position in the plastic terrarium we put them in - in between the plastic landscape and the plastic sides. Mildly concerned, we opened it up and disassembled it - only to discover that the frog had crushed itself to death.

McKenna, however, was only mildly concerned. "I still have Emily," she announced.

"Who's Emily?" I asked.

"The frog that's still alive," she answered.

Ah - of course. Here I was expecting a name like "Ribbit," "Jumpy," or even "Greenie," but no: Emily. What a perfect frog name.

"Emily"

So - fast forward two years; that damn frog somehow clinging to life the entire time. And for those of you who have had young kids know only too well - guess how long until the parents are taking care of it 100% of the time? Right: by day 2.

You've never met a more resilient creature in your entire life. Emily would only eat live bugs, so we had to buy bags of live crickets each week and even keep them alive in an empty oatmeal container in order to provide her the sustenance she needed to continue forging ahead.

But, who has time to feed an effing frog every couple days? Pretty soon we found ourselves in a pattern of feeding Emily 4-5 crickets at once, once a week. She'd eat the lot in a matter of seconds, remain motionless for the next 24 hours as her system digested the animated shapes outlined in her bulging abdomen, then deposit a gigantic frog turd on the fake plastic log in her terrarium. And to justify our efforts, McKenna would occasionally glance at the frog as she passed by. It appeared to be a perfectly harmonious agreement of existence for all involved parties.

But...as time wore on, our diligence to keep Emily alive...waned. Busy lives meant that Emily might wait 10 days between feedings, then two weeks...then maybe even longer. Emily's BMI would change dramatically in between bloated/satiated, to gaunt/sallow.

And we'd wonder - out loud, too many times to count - how the hell is she still alive?! We longed for the day she died...

...until last week, that is. As I was getting the kids' lunches ready last Friday, I looked in Emily's terrarium and didn't see her normally wide-eyed frog eyes boring into my soul and seemingly screaming, "GET ME SOME CRICKETS DUDE!" like usual. Hmm...with visions of her voluntarily choosing the same fate as her brethren from two years ago, I picked up the terrarium and looked in all the nooks and crannies: no Emily.

What the hell?

Had she escaped finally? If so good for her (unless she was still in the house). I asked the girls where she might be (figuring that in the spectrum of possibilities one of them might confess that they wanted to see what happens when you let a frog swim in the dog's water dish or something...), but they didn't know. McKenna came over and immediately found her: "She's dead!"

I had missed her because she had died spread-eagle on top of her fake plastic swamp reeds, like a sky diver, and her desiccated body had shrunk to a wafer thin level, providing a nearly indistinguishable texture and shape to the rest of her environment.

She was frog jerky.

My first thought was: YES! It's over! No more crickets! No more huge amorphous frog turds on fake plastic logs! No more worrying when this damn thing was going to finally and gloriously die!

But then, I kind of felt...bad. Was this our fault, or had she lived a full frog life - or at least as full as you can in a fake plastic terrarium? How many times had we looked in that box expecting her to be a lifeless shape over the past two years? A hundred times? More?

My emotions were mixed between relief that it was finally over, and sadness that her diligent struggle to stay alive in such extreme conditions had finally come to an end. She was a frog jerky hero.

McKenna, however, succinctly summarized her own feelings, "Can we flush her when I get home from school?"

Are you seeing where I'm going with this in relation to last night's Survivor episode? Ben is the frog that died on day 2 - forcing himself into a compromising position and siphoning the life directly out of his own soul because he refused to adapt, refused to bend, refused to survive on terms other than his own.

Because he didn't have enough time to build more complex dimensions of his personality with the viewers, his departure was...anticlimactic, or at least anticlimactic in comparison to how fulfilling it would have been to blindside him somewhere down the line when he least expected it, providing the proper seasoning and texture for a successful frog jerky.

Like our initial unnamed dead frog, Ben thought he could do everything himself, and wouldn't let anyone else even try to help. "Don't even try to use the flint - you'll just waste it," he bitterly tells his tribe. Then to Russell, "Girls can't make fire; they can't do anything useful."

...And, perhaps in the most eerie parallel to our unnamed dead frog, "I just had the biggest poop of my life."

Russell, on the other hand, is Emily. Staying alive. Remaining in control. Pooping all over the place. "Nobody's playing the game but me," he proclaims to the camera, and it's not difficult to agree with him. (Even if he is a colossal douchebag.) "I'm on perhaps the worst tribe ever in the history of Survivor," he continues, "...but I'm the best player ever."

Chilling how similar Emily must have felt in our household as she fought for life numerous times with nary a cricket on the horizon...

Russell, basking in his evil manipulations, even goes so far as to lie to Ben that Ashley was gunning for him in order to cause a huge controversy. And it works perfectly. Similarly, did Emily put the seed of fear in our unnamed frog's cranium way back on the day they arrived, forcing it to want to flee rather than face our forgetful cricket-feeding practices?

Late in the episode, Russell, like Emily, realizing that his desire to manipulate every move could put him in an antagonistic view with the rest of his tribe, quickly adapts to survive. Ben, however, when given an opportunity by Jeff to fess up and apologize for some racist remarks he made, instead answers, "There's nothing I've done to apologize for that I can think of."

Then it's time for your flushing, dude.

So, that leaves us with Evil Emily...uh, I mean Russell. Will he allow his ego to destroy himself? Or will he adapt, pretend to forgive and forget, and live to make his tribemates lives (and ours) a living hell for the next few weeks?

Let's hope it's the latter. And, even more importantly, let's hope that when it finally is his time, that his frog jerky leaves us appreciating his gumption while remembering all his evil ways, but ultimately feeling complete, satisfied...and maybe even a little sad that the anticipation is finally over...

Until next week,

Probst Beef Jerky