Mulligatawny Soup For the Soul

I've got two daughters; the word "drama" has become a cliched, painful, repetitive, soul-sapping term in our household.

For example, an innocent, "Who's turn is it to set the table?" will inevitably be met with an, "Awwwwwww, but Daaaaaaaad...I'm so hungry...I can't move...!" ...in conjunction with the throwing of the body on the floor.

In a perhaps pointless attempt at levity, I might counter with a, "...Hence, the setting of the table in preparation for the satiation of the appetite." ...But of course, the drama would then inevitably culminate with one of three actions: open weeping in a futile attempt at volume-raping attention, contorting oneself on the floor and feigning a life-sapping inability to move at all (unless a dessert, TV show or new Webkinz suddenly appeared), or, my personal favorite, the redirection of the request by blaming the of the other sibling (typically combined with the first two tactics), "It's not my turn tonight!"

But watching last night's Survivor, I was reminded that drama can be a good thing. Not a "Chicken Soup For the Soul" type of deal where intellectually insulting drivel attempts to teach you that contrived drama can make you a better person, but instead a more bent, twisted, unexpected and entirely fulfilling drama. Like Mulligatawny Soup For the Soul.

"No crappy, contrived life lessons for you!"

It's the twentieth season - how could we not be expecting much of the same formulaic patterns that have both bolstered the success of the show and yet saddled it with predictable, increasingly boring components? Exile island/continent. Hidden immunity idols. Reward challenge ("You wanna know what your playing for?). Immunity challenge ("Survivors ready? Go!"). Grotesquely gigantic fake mammaries. The inadvertent slip (and inevitable pixelation) of the random testicle, nipple, vulva and peen.

OK, true - they're not all bad.

But I noticed last night that the show has been edited different this year. Perhaps a new director as well? There's significantly more character development. Less challenges (combining of the reward/immunity). More confessionals. More drama.

This is a good thing - at least, it is with this cast. They're actually quite interesting - for once, each person actually really wants to win, and are mentally trying their hardest to stay alive as long as possible. They're sharper. More aware. Consistently funny. And they call each other on their bullshit.

My biggest complaint with a show like The Amazing Race has been that it's almost entirely action/tension, and very little character development. It's all of the bad parts of travel (transportation schedules, communication challenges, confusing directions...), and none of the good (relaxing on an unexpected beach paradise, savoring the local cuisine, meeting and getting to know the locals...). In my mind, if that show spent 10 minutes each episode with all of the cast members sharing a meal after or before the next challenge, it would be infinitely more interesting. Believe me, you can't get to know someone by only watching how they interact with others while immersed in a constant stream of anxiety and stress. Interesting? Perhaps. Fulfilling? Kill me.

But Survivor is doing a fine job this season. Nuances of mini catfights. Paranoia mixed with humor. Clever strategic thinking mixed with the reality of having to react to others in unexpected conversations at a moment's notice. Long voice overs. Hatched schemes and failed plots. More talking, less action.

This is life - interesting life - and not just the sensationalism of constant action, bloody backstabbing and vulva/peens.

By the way, wasn't that a children's book? The Vulvapeen Rabbit? Where the rabbit learns that if the child loves vulva and peens that it will become real? Such a heartwarming story...

But I digress...

The point is, the growing character development component of Survivor this season is good drama. Coach's prolific philosophical rantings used as a voice over in conjunction with building music and wide, sweeping panoramic shots was tremendous! Jerri's slowing festering hatred of Parvati, ultimately erupting in her admission that her deepest desire is to murder her was heartwarming. And Russell's tangible disgust combined with his incredible prose outlining his perceived world dominance against anyone who dares to believe they have more power than him is entirely satisfying.

It's the little things in life that make the mundane interesting. It's the unexpected added colors that brighten our perspectives. It's the Vulvapeen on the rabbit that titillates and satiates at the same time.

I kid, but this realization actually reminded me of a story that occurred almost exactly ten years ago...

Paige and I had been looking to buy our first house for over six months: an unending stream of frustration, outrageously expensive non-options, and dead ends. We went through a pattern of finding something we liked, but having someone else beat us to the punch with an offer. It got the point that when we finally found a house even remotely in our price range, we put an offer on it on the spot, had it accepted almost immediately, and then backed out of it hours later when the buzz wore off and we realized neither of us even liked the house.

We were nearing the end of our patience.

But then our brother-in-law, Tim, mentioned that he had heard that his neighbor, a reclusive widower two doors down, might be thinking about moving. Having heard that the best opportunities were the ones in which you could swoop in on a house either before the owner put it on the market or immediately after their untimely death, we pounced.

We knocked on his door and introduced ourselves. Paige had grown up in the neighborhood and the man, George, actually remembered her. He was tickled pink that we had stopped by, and confirmed that yes, he was in fact thinking of selling the house. His wife had died a few years earlier, his kids were long gone, and his health was failing. His problem was that he absolutely didn't trust realtors and refused to use one.

He invited us in, walked us through the house, asking about our lives (we had just moved back to Sacramento and were hoping to start a family), sharing his own, and clearly displaying a deep affection for what the house meant to him: the memories, the experiences, his connection to it all through his soul mate that had passed. He hadn't even slept in the Master Bedroom since her death almost five years earlier, having moved to a smaller room down the hall, and desperately missed his grown kids. "I just want the house to feel alive again!" he remarked more than once. "I want a new family to live here and make it their own!"

We ended the tour 45 minutes later out front and didn't know how to proceed. Paige finally said, "Well, if you are really thinking of selling, I think we're definitely interested."

He was clearly relieved. "That's great, that's great!" he remarked. "But I won't use a realtor." We didn't have a problem with this, although we told him that we would likely hire someone on our end - and entirely out of our pocket - to handle all the details, since we had no clue about what needed to be done.

And then came the topic of price. We asked him what he wanted to sell it for. "Whatever you want," he told us.

We were extremely uncomfortable with this, and told him so. He then told us that he didn't really care about the money. His main goal was to find a nice family who would bring children back into the house, take care of it and appreciate it like he and his family had. He was so excited to meet us and get to know us, that he wanted us to have the house... He wanted us to name the price.

But, of course, we couldn't possibly go into a deal thinking that we had lowballed this incredibly generous man. We told him we knew how much two houses on the same court had sold for over the past year - how about we split the difference between the two? He looked at us with a half smile and a gleam in his eye and suddenly named a price literally 1/3 lower than the price we had suggested.

"No - we couldn't possibly do that," we protested (however much we wanted to - this price was actually in our price range - granted, the extreme top of our price range...).

But he would have none of our arguments. "That's the price. Take it or leave it - no discussions."

So we took it. And we moved in. And George moved out. And life went on. We went to work every day. We came home at night and cooked dinner. We watched the first season of Survivor. We read the Vulvapeen Rabbit...you know - all the normal, everyday things that people do.

Although we knew we had been the recipient of an incredible deal, the "story" of how we got the house wasn't exactly earth-shattering, or something our kids would tell their grandkids, or even remember one day...

But then we found out Paige was pregnant, and soon Reese was born. We'd worked very hard on the house - removing wallpaper, painting, fixing things, etc. We put our mark on it, and after about a year, it really finally felt like our house. There was life in it again - our lives and our growing family.

But then unexpectedly one summer day a little over a year after we'd moved in, there was a knock on the door while I was at work and Paige was home with the new baby. It was George - with his nurse.

We hadn't heard a peep from George over the past 10 months or so; the realtor we'd hired had befriended him and had told us that soon after he moved out, he'd moved into a full-time hospice as he was on 24 hour dialysis when his health had took a turn for the worse. We'd sent him a couple cards after we'd moved in and had even shared the news of Paige's pregnancy, but had never heard a word from him.

Until now.

Paige, baby in tow, immediately invited them in and George was the picture of happiness. He saw Reese and started crying, patting her on the head and saying how happy he was that kids were back in the house and that a new family was making it their own. Paige walked them through the house like he had done with us a year earlier, and George was so happy and so proud of the changes we had made - he loved them all.

After about 30 minutes, George began to get tired and he told his nurse it was time to leave. Paige invited him to stay for some coffee, but he thanked her profusely and politely declined. "I've got to get back to the hospital," he told her.

Out on the sidewalk, he turned around one more time to look at the house; Paige was standing on the porch waving goodbye with one of Reese's tiny hands... George waved again - tears in his eyes - then turned and climbed into the car and was gone.

Three days later our realtor phoned us: George had passed away. It was like he had been holding on with everything he had in order to ensure that the house had been passed into the right hands, and when he saw that it was loved once again with a new family, he could now let go.

This was a story we could tell our grandkids about. The added drama - good drama. Real drama.

That little extra something that makes the "normal" seem sensational.

It's the roasted coriander and white poppy seeds to the mulligatawny.

The vulva and the peen to the rabbit.

The delicious nuances in Survivor.

Take the time to flesh things out. Invite the details to get filled in. Be patient, and allow yourself to love that rabbit...one day it just might become a real vulvapeen.

And really, what more can any of us ask for?

OK, Parvati's kind of a bitch - how about her getting booted soon as well?

Until next week,

PB

Douchebagism

Douchebag.

It's such a satisfying word, right?

The sound: a perfect, precise mix of both the soft and guttural typically found only in the purest forms of nature. The humor: the universal hilarity of human genitalia hygienics and early adolescent regression, tempered with a smidge of Summer's Eve early 80's advertising. It's the Darwin of modern day vernacular.

...And then, of course, there's the pin-point accuracy blunt labeling of someone being an absolute friggin' douchebag.

I find myself pondering this gem of the English language because of James. That's right, Adonis James: douchebag. He didn't used to be a douchebag; if anything, he has been a fun, engaging, likable guy. But my god, if there was ever anyone who could be called a douchebag, he was it on last night's episode.

But for a word so seemingly perfect and beautiful, there actually are many douchebag variations that, if used improperly, could cause severe embarrassment, danger of retribution, mislabeling, or worse: chafing.

Let's examine a few to ensure we've got James pegged properly:

1. Pure Douche. In its purest form, "douchebag" is simple, exact, quick and omniscient. We have all encountered these pure douchebags...unfortunately more often than we want to admit. Occasionally the word, "dick" may be substituted for males, but only when spoken aggressively, emphasizing the monosyllabic nature of the word, and typically with some spittle flecking the targeted douchebag's face. As a rule, just stick with "douchebag."

When I was 12 years old, my mom signed me up for a week-long kids cooking class over the summer; four of my oldest and closest friends would be going with me. When we arrived, the instructor asked the class to take seats at a ten or so four-person tables. Without thinking, we all grabbed seats...until we realized that, because there were five of us, one person, my friend Tom, was suddenly sitting alone at another table. Tom looked absolutely crestfallen at realizing that he would be all alone for the entire week while his four other friends laughed and worked together the entire time. My three friends could care less - but I felt his pain. I stood up and changed tables, joining Tom as his table of one, and glad to have helped him. But once I was seated, Tom immediately stood up, ran to my old table, and claimed my seat. Pure douchebag. There's nothing you can really do to counter pure douchebaggieness; they typically act without notice, and you have to find a way to get past them and move on with your life. I would also argue that the fact that I egged his brand new Mongoose the next day made me a dick rather than a douchebag, but perhaps that's now in Tom's hands to determine.

In my mind, James is not a pure douchebag - he has too much good history that invalidates this option.

2. Evil Douche. This is a scary one. First of all, there's a fine line between being an evil douchebag and simply being a f*cker...but the nuances are important. A f*cker is entirely intentional with a complete, consuming desire to inflict pain or hatred; an evil douchebag inflicts that pain or hatred, but they tend to be either misguided or basing their actions upon an alternate reality/justification in which they can claim that they're not being douchebags. Of course it's a ridiculous and irrelevant differentiation to the recipient of the douche nozzle, but intent is important.

One time when Paige and I needed a rickshaw in India at the train station, we met an evil douchebag.

“How much to the Grand Hotel?” I innocently asked the rickshaw driver, fully knowing it was around 7-10 rupees. We’d asked locals on the train how much it should cost and were prepared to share this information.

“20 rupees,” he replied as if we were already annoying him.

“How about 10,” I answered, figuring that this was his sign that we weren’t gaudy tourists willing to pay the first quoted price and yet we also understood that we shouldn’t necessarily expect to pay the locals’ price.

“No, 20.”

All we wanted was for him to work with us just a little, to show that he acknowledged that we weren’t complete idiots. So far no good.

“C’mon,” I replied, “15 at least.”

“20,” he nonchalantly said as he turned away from us, obviously tired of this conversation.

“OK, fine, how about you just use the meter then?”

This was a last resort tactic. Rickshaw drivers never want to use their meters (even though they all have them) because they believe they can make more with up front money. And they can. Meters must be present by law, even though almost no one used them. Although this was a legitimate attempt to find some middle ground, it was also an outright challenge that I knew he was trying to screw us and it was my way of saying, “You’re a dick.” He whirled back around and scowled at me; his anger his obvious answer.

Frustrated, but not in any mood whatsoever to get into any kind of argument or heated negotiation (all he had to do was come down a couple rupees – twenty wasn’t such a completely ridiculous price, but his tactic was only saying to us, “Because you’re foreigners, you will pay me x amount over the going rate, no ‘ifs,’ ‘ands,’ or ‘buts’ about it”), I noticed that there was a traffic policeman nearby and walked over to him for some insight.

“Is there some reason the rickshaw drivers in this town refuse to use their meters?” I asked in the most loaded-question sort of way. The policeman immediately was ticked off – thankfully not with us, but with the rickshaw guys.

“They absolutely will use the meters!” he angrily exclaimed, “just get in and he will use it!” he definitely told us with a wave of his finger. He stormed in front of us over to the rickshaw guys and the group proceeded to get in a heated conversation in full Hindu, waving their hands, pointing at us, pointing at the rickshaw, screaming, spewing venom…I was glad we were off to the side. Finally the policeman appeared to win and turned towards us, “OK fine, you get in now and he will use the meter.”

“Uh, I’m not sure that’s the best idea, that guy is probably pretty pissed at us,” I explained quietly to the policeman.

“NO!” he demanded to us, “YOU GET IN, HE WILL TAKE YOU AND HE WILL USE THE METER!” OK fine, no argument here.

Although this was an apparent victory, we couldn’t help but feel extremely hesitant as we crawled into the back of that rickshaw and watched as the defeated driver, red with fury, started it up and drove off, leaving the policeman to himself…and us to the driver.

He proceeded to drive off quickly - in the wrong direction - wind down a few alleys, making a quick turn there and a sudden yank here…and after about ten minutes in the middle of seemingly nowhere, he simply pulled over on the side of this deserted, disgusting alley, turned off the engine, and sat there. Paige and I looked at each other, dreading what we both knew was going to happen next. Finally he mustered up enough courage and turned around.

“It is broken, get out.”

Bile erupted in every space in my body. I was livid. Who knew where we were or whether we were even safe? I couldn’t believe that this guy would take us off in the middle of nowhere and dump us when all we’d tried to do was get a fair price. He was pissed at the policeman for being honest, and making us suffer, and that pissed me off. No way was he expecting that we’d be stupid enough to buy his “broken rickshaw” b.s.; this was evil, straight up.

Of course there was the expected cursing, threats of bodily harm, flying pustules of venomous spit, yada yada yada, I stormed off, having a hard time shaking my rage, and it wasn’t until a good couple hundred yards until I realized that Paige was having a hard time keeping up with me, hurrying along but still way behind. Somehow we made it back to the station a half hour later and saw the same policeman patrolling the parking lot. I wasn’t prepared to let it end like it did.

As I emotionally retold the story, trying my hardest to leave the severe cursing out – and nearly succeeding – a small crowd of other rickshaw drivers and locals crowded around to watch the big guy waving his arms and getting red in the face. Paige had had a clear enough mind to get the rickshaw’s license number and the policeman avidly promised to “take care of it.” Then, fuming himself, he led us by the arms to another rickshaw guy and told us that everything would be all right and “taken care of,” whatever that meant.

“You take these people to the Grand Hotel,” he heatedly explained to the new rickshaw guy, “and you will use your meter!” No argument from the new rickshaw guy, he’d been watching the whole escapade unfold. “The trip should be about seven rupees, no more,” he explained to us as the rickshaw driver burst the vehicle into a loud roar. “I will take care of the other guy, you don’t worry. I am sorry about this, but everything is OK now.”

I was all for everything being OK now. We cautiously settled in for the short ride.

As we pulled up to the Grand Hotel and into their mini-parking lot, the driver killed the motor and I strained to see what the meter said, but it was pointed away from me. The driver noticed my intentions.

“Meter is broken, twenty rupees.”

The first rickshaw driver: evil douchebag. The second one: idiot douchebag. James is neither.

(A side note here, there is actually a subset of the evil douchebag called the "endearing evil douchebag." An example here would be someone who sends me an email at work with a sound file that indicates it's something important, but it ends up being a file that locks my computer, turns the volume up to max and screams, "I LOVE GAY SEX! I WANT TO HAVE GAY SEX RIGHT NOW!" ...over and over again as my employees all stop what they're doing as the noise can be heard from halfway across the building. Hil-A-rious. ...Oh, I'm not saying that happened to me...it's just an example...)

3. Endearing Douche. Polar opposite from the Endearing Evil Douchebag, the Endearing Douchebag is a mix of a sad but sweet loser, naive but well-intentioned...and desperately needing someone to call them a "douchebag." We've all been here at some point in our lives. In college once after a particularly bad breakup with a girlfriend, I became exceptionally shy around women and didn't have a date for months. Finally, working at a shop in Westwood and having seen the super cute, young co-ed from next door come into our store repeatedly and offer smiles and short bits of attention to me, I finally mustered up enough courage to awkwardly ask her out, fumbling all over myself and nervous as hell. Her response? "Awwwwwwww! How cute!"(I was smart enough even then to instantly realize that "aw, how cute!" was the polar opposite of, "my undies are getting humid, will you please be so kind enough to help me out of them?") But she wasn't done - she could see that I knew she was patronizing me, and she lamely tried to end it quickly. "Uh, I'm sorry, I already have a boyfriend." Ugh. I could hear my friend Anthony in my head snickering, then knocking me to my senses, "Douchebag!"

Nothing about James's tirade last night was endearing.

4. Unintended Douche. The most common of all the bags, we all personify this - frequently too. Reflecting upon an unintended douchebag experience can inflict lifelong discomfort and pain...more to the person who was the douche than to those originally on the receiving end. At my same friend Anthony's wedding, I was giving the best man speech (I know - it's so cliche - but I promise I have made other best man speeches and have since redeemed myself!) and made fun of Anthony's LonG-eyeland accent, and how he calls a pizza a "pie..." It was then that for the first time I realized the room was filled with Anthony's extremely offended, unsmiling, Italian, Goodfellas-resembling extended family... Gasping for air, I quickly transitioned into a story that I was sure would personify how special Anthony was to everyone whose life he touched...in which a random hot chick once pulled up in a convertible to Anthony standing on the corner, lowered her sunglasses, and said in a sultry voice, "Did anyone ever tell you that you have the most sensual eyes...?" It was then that I glanced over and saw Michelle, Anthony's new bride, mouthing "douchebag" to me.

James's douchebag was fully intentional.

5. Angry Douche. Emotion, reaction, spewing, in the moment, unthinking, an anomaly from their usual disposition...this is James. It started in pure response to the Immunity challenge loss, and needing someone to blame. Unfortunately that someone was the heroic Stephanie. But then for James to continue filling his douchebag with more and more piss and vinegar, actually lambasting her for being the last one left on her tribe in seasons past - one of the greatest accomplishments in Survivor history - and using that as evidence to her lack of value to the team...?!

Douchebag, please.

Kudos to Colby and Tom for stepping up and supporting Steph at tribal council, but Cirie and Candice? I hope you both get the life of you squeezed out slowly, and then get mindlessly tossed away, tucked away in the bottom of the garbage can so that nobody will see that you've been used...

OK, so I have an ulterior motive...I picked Stephanie to win it all... Perhaps I need to be less of a Bitter Douchebag and more of what John and Yoko stood for...

Until next week,

PB

F*!# The Tooth Fairy

Rarely does the real thing live up to grandiose expectations.

Of course, occasionally there are exceptions. For example:

• the 2004 Red Sox/Yankees American League Championship series
• Look Who's Talking Too
• the fall of the Berlin Wall
• Crystal Pepsi (the soda, not the porn star - although perhaps an argument could be made there too...)
• the 2002 edition of Whittling for Dummies
• that episode of Blossom where she and Six wait in line for hours to see C+C Music Factory (still rubbin' down the goosebumps on that one...)
• Olestra

And last night we experienced another: Survivor Heroes vs. Villains. Let's give a quick rundown of the innate tremendousness of what we saw:

• full frontal nudity

...need we go any further? Granted, sorry ladies that it wasn't Colby (and sorry gents that it was Sugar), but the strategy of literally ripping your rivals' clothes off their backs to win a challenge is rewarding in so many ways.

On top of this we get a man-crush on Boston Rob from the Dragonslayer, an appendage broken in multiple places from Rupert, the return of Danielle (who I had forgotten who she was until that bikini came out...), Tyson's banana hammock (kudos to him - we may have to call this a plantain hammock), and the stud of all studs: Stephanie, who dislocates her shoulder and then pops it back in - ready to go. Incredible.

But is this really all it seems to be cracking up to be? This is Survivor's third all-star edition, and to be honest, the past two haven't been anything too special...

However, I am optimistic, and I'll tell you why. 

Look at the way the contestants initially "respect" each other. This is a unique development which means that there's less upfront pettiness and rash, brainless decisions at the get-go. For example, the villains are here solely because they've proven to be effective manipulators. In a field of ten of the "best," suddenly they are all on a visible, equal playing field. You don't want to stand out, at least not right away. Where big moves up front may be an effective strategy in a normal season, here you have to take some time to learn the dynamics, assess which way the wind blows, and ensure your own evil schemes aren't initially perceived to be any more threatening than the next person. Because everyone has an agenda this time. ...Of course, it's inevitable that it's only a matter of time before the tribe implodes and the remaining dolts are clawing at each other's neck like rabid vampires. 

Oh, I can't wait.

Still...the somewhat vanilla ending reminded me that nothing ever lives up to what you hope it will be. Sugar's the weakest: Sugar gets booted. Solid, but boring. And as I sat there wondering why life can't always be as edge-of-the-seat, Heinz-ketchup-anticipa-yay-tion exciting like when Blossom waits to get into the C+C Music Factory concert...it reminded me that maybe I should just chill.

You see, earlier in the week my youngest daughter, McKenna, lost a tooth. It was a tooth that had been knocking on death's door for months - loose and waggling in direct defiance to evolution; the new tooth underneath had already started coming up behind it. She was turning into a shark right before our eyes...

So when it finally fell out, she (and Paige, me and her Orthodontist) was ecstatic. "All right!" she screamed in pure, childlike joy, "The tooth fairy is coming tonight!"

Unfortunately, this occurred on my oldest daughter's birthday, which meant it happened in the midst of a loud, chaotic family birthday party with over 20 people, raucous babies, multiple dogs and countless bottles of wine in the mix. By the time it all ended and we went off to bed, I'm sorry to report we had completely forgotten about her tooth.

The next morning Paige had already gone to work and the girls woke late and had only about 20 minutes to eat and get ready for school. As I was sleepily fixing my french press, I watched as a lightbulb suddenly appeared over McKenna's head at the table and she remembered that she had put the tooth under her pillow but forgot to look when she woke up. She instantly screamed, "THE TOOTH FAIRY!" jumped up, and ran to the stairs. 

I panicked. Visions of my daughter's spirit being crushed under the all-consuming weight of parental neglect danced in front of my half-open eyes as I did the only thing I could think of to do before it was permanently too late...

"MCKENNA! GET BACK IN YOUR CHAIR THIS INSTANT AND FINISH YOUR BREAKFAST! DID I SAY YOU COULD BE EXCUSED?!"

I felt horrible for a split second for such a meaningless explosion of fury, misdirected because we - her supposedly loving parents - had completely dropped the ball...at least until I realized that she actually stopped halfway up the stairs and was listening to me...

"But daaaaaad - I just want to check if the tooth fairy came..." 

My heart would have been breaking...if I wasn't so excited to suddenly have this window crack just wide enough to realize I may actually be able to salvage this thing. Granted, I was perhaps irreversibly scarring the daddy-daughter relationship I've worked so hard at for the past 7 years over a lie in which a winged fairy pixie visits our house to take bloody, plaque-stained teeth and replace them with cold hard cash...

She reluctantly trudged back to the table as I grabbed my wallet, high-tailed it upstairs...and realized I had no dollar bills. Brutal. In a moment of desperation, I slipped eight quarters under her pillow (overcompensating for the lack of a thrilling dollar bill with an extra dollar in quarters), and slunk back downstairs. McKenna soon finished her cereal and disappeared upstairs. I waited, ears peeled, for the shriek of delight...but nothing came. Ten minutes later she came downstairs playing with some stuffed animal and went about her business in the other room.

I approached her. "So what happened?"

"What do you mean?" she asked me, completely perplexed as to what I was referring to.

"Your tooth - what happened? Didn't you go see?"

"Oh - whatever," she replied, anxious to get back to her stuffed animal. Now I was totally confused.

"Was there nothing there?" I prodded.

"Just some coins," she answered.

"No good?" I asked.

"Usually she gives a dollar bill. I just got coins."

My guilt was complete. She didn't care about the amount of money - she had a preconceived notion that she was getting a crisp bill. Anything else was a letdown. Granted, in her mind the tooth fairy failed her and not Dad and Mom (perhaps the sole saving grace here), but it was an instant jolt of the differences of perception and anticipation that I had needed to comprehend.

Such is life, and such is the parallel with Survivor. Are you expecting a crisp, satisfying, memorable season to top all past experiences?  If so, at least consider and prepare for the alternative, and let's find a way to enjoy the experience for what it truly is: a fleeting, meaningless foray into pixelated nudity, superficial backstabbing sensationalism, and the brilliance of Probst. Anything else is simply icing.

As far as McKenna is concerned, I gave her a hug, told her how sorry I was that the tooth fairy had failed her, and gave her a crisp new five dollar bill. "This is from Mommy and I - we'll never let you down!"

Until week 2, 

PB