Week 267: Trying to make life go on
I try to get past the funeral. Failing at that.
The oddest part of this whole process actually happened. I actually had to explain that I wasn’t the one who died, that the algorithm’s reports of my demise were completely exaggerated. A recent but distant Facebook connection of Dana’s wasn’t aware that I was her second husband and that Catie is my stepdaughter (though she has seen us together and seen John and Catie together, so I’m not sure how she’d make that mistake), and sent her condolences about losing me. I considered my options here, inside our overlapping network of friends we’re fine, and the people who connected to me were able to see her post through me sharing. But the part that doesn’t cover is exactly this group, people who are distant, and don’t see my activity, or don’t open Facebook often enough to get all the updates. The confused connection could not have been the only member of that category, and so I am wondering if I need to post some bizarre proof of life update on my timeline. Of course the timeline is so broken already that I could do that and then someone might get my post and then her announcing the funeral, prompting a response of “he seemed so lively yesterday.” Actually this may be a way to disengage myself from all social media for a while.
Momentarily breaking away from the theme: I should also note that with no more tournaments in the area, and with attendance down, we folded the tent on Seton’s year the same week John went to the hospital. I’m not sure about next year, can’t be sure about next year, but this has opened up my Thursdays to complete additional tasks, including writing about ten more pages on the book to be, writing the pre-tournament press releases, and completing index cards for my collection. So it is leading to progress.
The other thing that is progressing due to having Thursdays open is that Catie’s racking up mileage driving with her learner’s permit. Though she’s going to be 18 in October, due to our inability to locate her SSA card, she’d been unable to get her learners permit in Pennsylvania until the beginning of April. So this month I’ve been going over to the school to pick her up after musical practice, and she’s driven back to the house. It’s not relaxing for me, but it is getting me more comfortable with her growing up.
For my part, I’m relearning how to drive as she is spoke, to borrow from the poor translation. Trying to explain the exact reason you shouldn’t do something on the fly leads to me not being a clear instructor. The official state’s driver manual has changed over the years, the written test I took never had to deal with red arrows at a stop light, or the proper procedure at a roundabout, but those are now more or less standard rules of the road that I need to be aware of when they pose the trick questions and I have to explain the trick. (It’s the same logic I’ll have to employ in the runup to her SATs in a month. If you don’t know the exact answer, knowing the tricks will at least point you to guessing with confidence.) What they didn’t include in the manual are some of the avant-garde road stylings they’ve imposed on Washington County: there is no section for the diverging diamond, or multiply connected roundabouts, though I think we could all use a refresher, or at least an explanation of why they thought it was a good idea. I’m also trying to see the things she really will need and put them into practice on the road. She’s already been asked to park at the mall and remember the lane she parked in, and to figure out which side of the car has the gas tank without getting out.
For Catie, I am a much less stressful passenger to carry. With her mother, she’s used to top speed and swearing out the slow cars in front of her. She mentioned this to me as I was taking her to school, and I simply noted that I don’t get angry at them because they won’t hear me, they won’t become more attentive drivers by me yelling at my windshield, and I really don’t want them further distracted. Sometimes it’s best to just let it pass in front of you. But what you don’t do is let it pass without noticing it.
Monday was the service. Cremation, a small service, and we’ll inter him on Thursday so Catie has a place to visit. We weren’t expecting many people, since she’d kind of pushed him away from all his friends, that he hadn’t pushed away in the divorce. Almost everyone there was there for Catie first and foremost. Against all advice, she tried to come to the service, having been warned off by Catie through her son, and he in turn warned us that she was wanting to come. It was kind of heartening that as soon as she crossed the street and Catie identified her, there were four of us lining up behind the funeral director, even before I said “Wall up.”
The ex-brother-in-law who never liked him, but he won’t have you here.
The ex-prison guard who babysat Catie like his own grandchild when he left for you, he won’t have you here.
The nephew who watched you block him off from the rest of his family so he was stressed and had nowhere to turn, he won’t have you here.
And the stepdad who found out you bled him dry so he felt he had to lie to his daughter, he won’t have you here.
Sometimes it’s best to just let it pass in front of you. We stared her back to the truck, we felt bad for her son as he had to drive her away, but it had to be done. And as Catie saw us file back in, having defended the territory, a lot of the anger she had been carrying ebbed. And some of same that I had worked up passed. I don’t like that anger in me, and I hate seeing it in her.
I’ve been sitting in the living room the past few nights, and just letting the kittens have a body to lay on. I have not been their favorite human, unless I was serving them the wet, and they would pop up in their velociraptor pose and track the dishes, but the top two candidates have been absent, and until the musical’s done I’m the best available offer. John would let them ride on his roller, and they’d wait for him to come out of his room every evening so they could hail a cat-uber and ride in style to the living room.
As I’ve been sitting there, and letting them climb over me, I’ve found old episodes of the revival of Leverage, which is one of my favorite empty calorie shows, in one of my favorite genres, con artistry. (You knew this, one does not quote a random episode of Hu$tle without tipping one’s hand.) The episode that I watched last night was wrapping up with this statement.
“What is a con?
It's a set of artificial circumstances designed to elicit an intended response.”
I ended up rewinding over it six times to make sure I had it right.
As defined, the answer also solves for “What is a question?” in quiz bowl or quizzing.
The set of artificial circumstances are all the ways in which clues are placed in a quiz bowl question, the artifice being the order of clues, the approach to which aspect of the answer and what is included and what is not. And it is designed not merely in pyramidal order but in a way to keep the interest of the audience of the question. It is designed to elicit a series of responses, interest in the answer of the question, the correct answer from the player and the associated endorphin rush of success, or if the player does not know the answer, their continued interest in learning about the answer.
When someone writes a question they are leading the player through a series of thoughts, a script which the moderator performs, and conjures the right answer in the player. It’s no less artistic than a con or a TV show about a con.
And that’s why the next line after the explanation of how each conman puts their own flavors and style on a con is the realization: “I guess that’s why we’re called con artists.”
A good night to you all. I already know what I’m writing about for next week because of why I’m going to Chicago. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll close this off early, and get back to being the kittens’ marble slab for biscuit making.