A Trytophanian Thanksgiving

Trytophan—an el camino acid found in turkey that purportedly makes people tired.

Scientists have repeatedly asserted that the drowsiness frequently experienced on Thanksgiving can be attributed to the eating of a big meal and not specifically to eating turkey. Still there are some who continue to believe that eating turkey makes you tired. (See wikopedia – trytophaniacs). I’m with them. It’s true. I’ve experienced it. I offer a summary of my day’s happenings as living proof.

This morning I was in bed dreaming about turkeys, and I didn’t fully wake up until all the cleaning around the house was done and the real turkey was prepared and in the oven.

And then the smell of the turkey cooking made me so tired that I couldn’t even help set the table and prepare the side dishes that I insisted that no one else make but me. (I found a secret recipe on the back of an instant mashed potatoes box. Hint—add extra butter.)

I took one look at the giant Turkey balloon in the parade, and my eyes instantly glazed over and I couldn’t hear a single word of the things people were asking me to do, especially about vacuuming the living room or answering the door. You’d think by the way she went on that Aunt Gilda had never waited out in the freezing rain for ten minutes before.

Then came actually eating the turkey. I was so sleepy during the meal that there was no way I could fight back the belching—let alone say “excuse me Pilgrim,” as is the custom of the day.

Then after the turkey dinner, I barely had enough energy to ask someone to bring me a turkey sandwich, while I sprawled out on the couch watching the game. Truth be told, I couldn’t even stand up when my team scored a touchdown. I had to just raise my two hands above my head, then fold them back behind my head. I was asleep by the time the extra point went through.

I probably should not have had that last turkey sandwich. My drowsiness got so bad that I could not even control what I was saying or doing. There’s no way that I normally would have kept asking Aunt Gilda to loan my thirty-five dollars. And I certainly wouldn’t have slipped her a note that read: put the cash in my pie or a Pilgrim gets it. I had ancestors who were Pilgrims (or maybe it was pilferers—whichever is the one where they were the big hats with buckles on them and steal packs of gum from stores).

I was so tired from all that turkey that there was no way I could help with the dishes or even tell anyone that I had put my dirty plate under the couch because I was too sleepy to take it to the sink. It took all my energy to keep yelling to my wife from the kitchen to come join me and I would do the dishes later. Although, I think that last part was the turkey talking. I meant to say the dishes would get done later.

I usually stay too sleepy to help with the dishes for several months.

At one point my mother pulled me aside and said she needed to talk to me about something really important. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she drew me close. I could smell the turkey on her breath, and I was asleep by the time she could control her tears enough to start talking.

When saying goodbye to all of our guests I would have loved to have zipped up my fly, which I just noticed was down, but by then I was totally exhausted. All I could muster to do was give a half wave and mumble “gobble gobble.”

I didn’t even have the ambition to tell them to come again sometime or even to give Uncle John his coat back—even after he asked for it a couple of times. Give it a rest John. Man, give that guy some more turkey.

Before dozing off for my third nap, I thought about all the pilgrims and why they were so set on eating turkey all the time. Were they having trouble sleeping? Did they want their Native American guests to do the dishes? Was that really “so rude and embarrassing?”

Before crashing for the evening, I complained to my wife about the effects of all this turkey on my system. She said that she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in my behavior today. I guess maybe she wasn’t quite as sharp as usual; she did have a little turkey herself.

Well, when all is said and done, maybe I still haven’t convinced you of the effects of tryptophan. But at least, I can leave you all with this—the pilgrim’s Thanksgiving prayer:

A happy turkey to all, and to all a good gizzard. Gobble, gobble. Amen.

I've Gone Political

I do not often delve into politics on this blog, but only because I don't know who any of the people are or take the time to find out what the issues are, not because I don't care.

In fact, I have had some really amazing experiences with the political process, even as recently as last week. When I went into the voting booth, a strong emotion swept over me as I realized something--I was in a telephone booth. It had been so long since I had seen one of them, I had forgotten what they looked like and got confused. It turns out that our state does mail in votes only. (The emotion that swept over me was embarrassment, which is somehow easy to mistake with voter's pride.)

By the way, I did end up filling out my ballot and mailed it overnight priority mail to that telephone booth. And that time, there was no mistaking the voter's pride of knowing that my vote counted.

So with that being said, I've elected to turn this blog into a political forum. Relax. I know what you're thinking. What's a white house? There's an "n" in government? You'll catch on. Thirty percent of the populus does. So please, E. pluribus your unum and be prepared to be moved politically.

History in the Making

We have recently witnessed an historic election--the first African American to be elected as president. I think we all share the feeling that a barrier has been broken. This is almost as big as when George W. Bush was elected president. That was the first time that a father and a son had both been elected President of the United States.

I remember after that election sitting in my room thinking. I sat there imagining all the young men, who upon their fathers being sworn into office must have thought, "well, so much for me being president." They never conceived that they would have a chance.

And why would they? It had never been done before. There were probably tens of young men throughout our country's history who feared for their parents going into politics, afraid that the oval office door would be closed on their future. From the first son of George Washington, a history of sons being shunned was shattered by George Jr.'s election.

As I was back then, I again am reminded of what a great place America is. It truly is the land of opportunity. -- Obama's daughter in 2032. Let's make history again.

Missionary Memoirs

It has been three months and six days since the last anniversary of my coming home from my mission in Russia. In honor of this event, I have selected some random entries from my mission memoirs. Be enlightened, enlifted, and engulfed.


I had a hard time understanding anything people were saying. I felt like giving up. Then something happened. I came to a realization—somehow, I was wearing headphones. (I couldn’t remember putting them on, but sure enough they were there.) Once I took them off, I was able to understand every word that anyone ever said to me for my entire mission. (Russian was way easy.)

A whole bunch of Russians were gathered together saying things like “Man, what’s with this country? Let’s just push it into the Black Sea and start over. We can be something more modern, like Laser Astronautica.” That’s when I stepped in. I stood before the enormous crowd and said in my loudest voice “What’s going on? Are you guys talking about something?”* The group quickly slinked away. My inquiry was exactly what they needed to hear. I had saved Russia. And in doing so, I converted a kid (but that was months earlier in a different city).
* It turns out I had my headphones on again.

Another time I stopped to buy an ice cream cone, and I can’t remember exactly what happened, but somehow that ended up saving Russia, too. All in all, I must’ve saved that country around seven or eight times.

I remember frequently laughing and joking with another missionary on the bus until we couldn’t stop laughing. Our companions would always give us these looks like “Oh, here they go again” and “nothing good will ever come of this.” But you know what—we may never have taught anyone on any of those bus rides, but no one can say that we never missed our stop. That happened all the time.

Every week we’d play this game where we would fill out a sheet with numbers. You were supposed to write whatever numbers pop into your head and try to guess the week’s magic numbers, or something like that. I didn’t know all the rules. I usually just looked at everyone else’s numbers and then picked numbers just a little higher than the rest. No one ever told us who won, but a lot of people did tell me that my numbers were good.

One day on the way to a first appointment with a new street contact, I decided that I was going to stand up this contact. I pretended that I couldn’t read my own handwriting and went to a wrong address on the other side of town. I had my companion knock on the door as I tried to hold back my laughter. The door opened and there stood our contact. Apparently he had given us a wrong address. We all learned a very valuable lesson that day, but I can’t seem to remember what that was.

I’ll tell you one thing I know for sure—a mission is not just about learning dumb magic tricks and wearing funny ties. I was reminded of that all the time.

The Russian people were not easy to get to know. Often times, unless you had a leak or didn’t pay rent, you’d have to leave your apartment to even meet any Russian people. Of course, once you actually saw them, they were open and friendly. But again, that’s only after you left your apartment.

Life in Russia was unpredictable. My companion often remarked that he never knew what to expect from one day to the next. I guess I understand that. I mean, some days I wouldn’t even get on the bus; other days I’d follow my companion onto the bus and then jump out just as the doors were closing; and some days I’d really try to get on the bus but would miss the door, hit the side of the bus, and fall back into the ice-cream stand line (where I’d stay all day).

A lot of the missionaries would wear those big fur hats, but I always thought that looked silly. I just wore a plain black stocking cap. I kept my fur hat tucked in my coat and would pull it out to pretend that a beaver was attacking me.

In Russia, when it snowed, it really snowed. Not like around here. The snow in Russia would be white and would fall downward from way up in the sky. This may sound like snow here, but the snow in Russia was Russian white and fell from a Russian sky.

On a mission you always go by “Elder.” In fact, after a time, I honestly forgot what my first name actually was. And that happened around lunch time on my first day! And that was just the start. By the end of my mission, I had forgotten where I lived, what I thought tasted good, what words rhymed with jam, almost everything.

I will never forget the time I went to a discussion or some other meeting and taught some people a whole lot of things about some topic and how they did or did not accept it.

The waiting

I haven't posted in about three months. I took some time off to think, brush my teeth, and watch some T.V. I'm happy to say that I have decided to take a break from taking time off.

So now I give you the three month's worth of thinking (and brushing teeth and watching T.V.) that went into the following post:

I decided to go to the beach, but then I forgot about it and stayed in my room all summer. One time my brother came in and told me a joke, but I was actually asleep with my eyes open (I reached the point where my eyes had dried out from so much T.V. that my eyelids could no longer close. -side note-Try leading a social life without being able to wink--good luck.) The next day my brother asked me if I liked the joke, so I pretended to choke on a bite of orange to get out of answering. It would have been very convincing if I had really had an orange.


I hope that was worth the wait. (p.s. If my brother has told you a joke in the last few months, let me know if it was good. I'm sure it was the same one.)

Amateur Researchers World of Researching the World (ARWRW)

ARWRW members-- This week's research assignment:

Is trumpet a word? I believe so. All letters put together that are not numbers are words. Trumpet has letters together. Trumpet is not a number. I see no other alternatives—unless it is a noun. It could possibly be a noun. That gives us plenty to research for this week.

DR Alice* -- Advice Column

(*DR stands for Don’s Relative, not necessarily “doctor” as many believe)

Dear Dr. Alice,

Most of the time I enjoy being with my in-laws. Meal times are the only exception. Whenever I look down to take a bite, my father-in-law shoots me in the face with a rubber band. He does this every time my wife and mother-in-law aren’t looking. He carries a rubber band ball made of hundreds of bands with him, and he can usually get in fifteen or more shots during a meal. I’m never sure what to do, so I merely smile and lightly nod to him each time he shoots me like I think it is a good joke.

We’re newly married and she really admires her father. I don’t want to rock the boat, but I am worried about getting my eye poked out. Do I say something? We have a dinner scheduled next week.

Bruised and Banded Husband


Dear BBH,

You may consider yourself silly to worry over this, but your concern is well founded. You may not realize this, but you use your eyes a lot more than you think—probably almost every day. If you really think about it, I bet you can scarcely go four or five hours without wanting to look at something. Many popular past-times such as reading, watching television, or even blinking all require at least one good eye. I fear that losing your vision would certainly prove to be a major inconvenience. Therefore, you should not feel like a big coward or baby because you are worried.

However, I think you would probably be crossing the line to talk to your wife about this. You have yet to lose even one eye, so to go on and on about losing your vision would seem a bit over-the-top. Plus, your mother-in-law would certainly think you were a big whiner. Although, you should not feel like that of course. But you cannot pretend to believe that others will not think that of you.

It is probably best for you to buy a nice pair of sunglasses—the kind used in sports, with the wrap around lenses would be best. This would preserve your eyes and prevent you from looking like a silly little girl in front of your in-laws. You could also try to buy him a pocket Tetris game. His hands would then be occupied and unable to inflict any more pain upon your face.

----

Dear Dr. Alice,

Sometimes I just get the feeling that people are watching me. I feel this most acutely when I’m making a speech or doing cartwheels in a crowded area. I just wish people would leave me alone and let me do what I want. If I want to stand in front of the T.V. and sing during everyone’s favorite show, so what? What’s the big deal? I’m just me.

ME

Dear ME,
Unfortunately, sometimes people can be cruel. Public speaking is extremely frightening. In certain polls, people actually reported fearing public speaking more than death (however, it should be noted that dying while giving a public speech was not an option). The only thing more frightening than public speaking would probably be public speaking at great heights. However, it sounds as if the people you have chosen to surround yourself with will not appreciate that. So, you have two options. Find an entirely new group of people to be around, or instead of singing in front of the T.V., just mouth the words of the actors on the show. Then there would be no cause for complaint.

The Ol' Fishin' Hole

One day I decided to let Tommy in on my secret fishing hole. We were at lunch between classes, when I told him that I was done learning for the day, and that he could come along for some real education. Tommy took the bait, and we spent the rest of the afternoon lying on our backs looking up at the clouds and fishing. The next day I noticed Tommy wasn’t in class again. At lunch I took off to the fishing hole. And just as I had expected, there was Tommy. “I’ve created a monster,” I declared. Tommy looked up at me and then spread his wings and flew right at me. I was able to duck from his fangs just in time. I grabbed a broken tree branch lying on the ground and when Tommy came circling around, I used it to crack one of his wings. He fell to the ground and I finished him off with a big rock. After that experience, fishing always seemed kind of boring to me.

Help college

I heard on the news that there are less college students today then there were even two weeks ago (I guess because a lot of students just graduated). If there continues to be less college students every two weeks, in enough time, there won't be anyone in college at all anymore. And then who are professors going to force to buy the books they wrote? High school teachers? Unlikely. But what about postal workers, and librarians, and other non-high school teachers like you and me? The answer is probably all of us .
We need to do something to encourage more people to go to college. I have one idea.

We could make a video and circulate it around the Internet. The video would show a college graduate walking through the procession. Then it cuts to later that night. The graduate is sitting in a dimly lit apartment eating soup out of his graduation cap. He looks at the camera and says "I will never eat soup again!" Then the rest of the video is of him later on in life walking around town throwing piles of money in the air everywhere he goes. And we're all thinking, Man, where's he getting all this money? Then at the end in big letters is the word College in solid gold lettering. Problem solved.

We would need a catchy title to draw attention. I was thinking, "Man jumps over volcano to save dog."

Please let me know if you are interested in helping. I'll need someone to shoot the video and someone to donate all the piles of money that will be thrown around. Let me know. Thanks.

My Feelings: Day 10

I was skeptical at first, but now that I've gone through this process, I can honestly say that I feel that writing about my feelings is a big wasto el timo (in commemoration of Cinco de Mayo).

My Feelings: Day 9

I asked some guy a question today, and he said he didn’t know the answer. It just really bothered me, because I didn’t want to have to ask someone else. I guess I can’t understand why things can’t just work out. Why is everything so difficult? I ended up having to ask a third person before I got the answer. It only took a couple of minutes, but by then, my day was shot.

My Feelings: Day 8

My job is so hard. Nobody knows how hard my job is. How could anyone ever know? No one ever sees me doing my job. I spend most all of the day down in the basement. If someone comes down, I just pretend that I’m grabbing some pens and supplies and head back upstairs to my office and then circle back when they are gone. Nobody knows.

My Feelings: Day 8 update

I was fired today. I guess somebody knew. I have never felt like this before. I feel free. No more hiding in the basement. I spent all day walking around, going into everyone’s office. I can’t even count how many people’s office I went into and said, “Did you hear the news? The rumor is I got canned.” Then after a couple of minutes of my rummaging through their things, they invariable struck up a conversation with me. We talked about all kinds of things—respecting a person’s private space, really having a lot to do right now, enforceability of restraining orders. I really enjoyed it. I think I might do this all week—maybe all year. It’s great finally getting to know these people.

My Feelings: Day 7

I wonder if I’m really making an impact in the world. No, not really. But I do wonder if I could run over and take that man’s hat without him waking up.

My Feelings: Day 6

Today I experienced one of the most powerful things a human can feel—a hot curling iron left on the bathroom counter for apparently no reason.