I married a jackrabbit

My wife is ADHD. Her entire family is ADHD. I am not. She has an ADHD internal combustion engine. I’m a run down AA battery.

We like to walk every evening during the warmer months. Our new house is part of a development but it’s out in the boonies far enough that we can be on country roads in five minutes. We enjoy walking past the horse farms, the estates, the corn fields, the barns and silos. We share that interest. But our styles differ. I like to stroll. She sprints. I have long legs. Hers are short. I can’t keep up with her. When she senses that she has opened up too great a distance she makes a loop and comes back. She winds up walking a lot more steps than I do. We hold hands until her ADHD accelerator kicks in and she opens up a fast ten yards and the process repeats. 0

I’m sure there is a vastly divergent psychological profile. She lives life faster than me. She thinks faster. She talks faster and gets more words in. She starts sentences and doesn’t finish them before starting the next sentence. When she talks to her sister on the telephone the wires heat up and don’t attempt to get me for at least 45 minutes. Her mom is good for an hour. She accuses me of not being talkative. I accuse her of not explaining things fully so that I understand. She insists she told me things that I never heard. I’m sure she said something related to what she thinks she said but it never registered. It’s not that I’m not communicating. It’s just that she doesn’t give me enough time for the thought to take shape and the words to come out.

Perhaps I don’t talk enough. But I talk quality. When I say something it pays to listen.

She reads my blogs. She may slow down enough to let me know how wrong I am. I may hear her.

Amusement parks

When my children were young I dutifully took them to amusement parks. This piece was written at that time. Now that I have grandchildren the same thoughts arise, although I do enjoy Disneyworld.

I do not like amusement parks
To me they're not appealing
I'd rather swim with schools of sharks
Than venture Ferris wheeling.

I do not like amusement parks
I've found they don't amuse me.
I think I hate amusement parks.
Who needs them to abuse me?

While some are whirling all around
With great acceleration
I stay safely on the ground
And practice moderation.

A stomach was not meant to churn
(It's really not supposedta')
It's clear that I will never learn
To brave the roller coaster.

I'd rather ride the Carousel
It's fine for one who's cautious.
Cause I can hold on very well
Without becoming nauseous.

But other rides that I have tried
My kishkus finds upsettable.
Whatever prompts me to decide
I later find regretable.

On Hurrican, Cyclose, Comet, Whip
A thousand folk make merry.
But when my stomach starts to flip
Is this trip necessary?

When others ride the Tilt-A-Whirl
I just refuse to go.
Around the heavens, how they twirl
While I wait down below.

Like mighty Gods they rule the skies
And I a tiny worm, a
Serpent not equipped to rise
Above the terra firma.

Once in a moment weak I dared
To ride the fearsome Rocket.
I climbed aboard, no effort spared,
My ticket in my pocket.

The engine started with a roar.
I knew I'd met my master.
I braced my feet against the floor.
Ten heroes shouted "Faster."

Three times around the missile sped.
I clutched the handles frantically.
The world revolved about my head,
Pacific to Atlantically.

Once more about the Rocket turned,
My vision growing blurry.
My eyes bulged out, my forehead burned.
The children laughed, "Don't worry!"

And when,atlast,the ride was done
And heavens ceased their turning.
I made my exit on the run,
With stomach fully churning.

At last I found an empty bench
To regain equilibrium.
My nerves had had an awful wrench,
And so had my vestibulum.

Right then I vowed forevermore
Precisely and specifically
That I'd abhor, ignore, withdraw
From things that worked centrifically.

Though I don't like amusement parks
I'm sure there's much to say for them...
Now I don't mind amusement parks
Because I stay away from them.

Jewel box

The lid was stuck, the pin askew
You warned me not to try.
My projects raise a cry and hue
My fixing you decry.

That box is dear to me you cried
Inlaid with oak and teak.
But fragile is the h8inge inside
Just waiting these to break.

No need to worry, my sweet wife.
Wipe sorrow from your face.
There's not the slightest cause for strife.
I'll set that pin in place.
With one swift tap the rod I hit.
The pin came out...but the hinge was split.

The dark in the closet

The dark in the closet: A bedtime story

by

Popop


Jack was a brave boy. Just three years old he could jump from the sofa to the ottoman without ever falling, (even though his parents were not pleased when he did that). He could run as fast as a rabbit. He could lift a very heavy chair and move it to the corner so he would have room to play with his trains and trucks. He was also a very smart boy. He knew the names of all the dinosaurs. (Tyranasaurus Rex was his favorite.) He went to pre-school three days a week and sometimes learned bad words from other children, which did not please his teacher or his mom or his dad or his grandmom Jo. He could not understand why it was OK to say “stupendous” but when he said a shorter word, which needn’t be written here, he got in BIG trouble. So he didn’t say the shorter word, except once in a while it slipped out and then he had to have a serious talk with dad and then warm up the time out chair.
Best of all Jack liked to pretend he was Spiderman. He ran and jumped and lifted and caught make pretend bad guys, as he saw on TV. Once in a while that got a little out of hand as well so he had to have more serious talks with dad and the time out chair didn’t get too lonely. But most of the time Jack was a well behaved –well pretty active—little boy who made everyone happy when he was around.

But Jack had one big problem. Jack didn’t like the dark. Even though his mom and dad told him the dark was there to help him sleep at night next to his trusty dog Tillygirl, Jack just wasn’t very comfortable with the light out. So his parents left the light on at night and he slept
fine… except for the closet.. In the corner of his room, next to his toy chest, was his clothes closet where his best dress-up clothes were hung. Dad told him there was nothing else in that closet but Jack was not so sure. How can you tell there is nothing else if it’s so dark you can’t see inside?” Jack knew about witches and monsters and bad guys from TV. He also was told many times about fairytales not being real but still…if you can’t see inside the closet how do you really know?” At least that’s what Jack thought about when he was trying to close his eyes and go to sleep. And sometimes it was worse than that. If mommy left the closet door open the darkness might escape and come into his room and then anything might happen!
Jack’s mom and dad didn’t know what to do. How could they show Jack that the dark was friendly and not scary? Do you have any ideas? Well they didn’t. This was too bad because Jack was such a happy boy and this was the only thing that was spoiling it (except for the occasional talks with dad and time out, but those weren’t so bad either).
Well, that went on for a while until Grandmom Jo had a very good idea.
“Lets make a trap for the darkness,” she suggested. “I’ve got a very special shoebox that likes it dark inside. We’ll put this box here right outside the closet door and I’ll make a tiny, little hole in the side. It’s a very special hole. Things can go into it and get trapped. If the darkness comes out of the closet it will go right into this hole and be trapped inside the box. Nothing can escape so you don’t have to worry.”
So Grandmom Jo put the box by the door and I guess it worked because the darkness stayed in the closet, and Jack went to sleep, and that’s the end of the story. Good night.

On psychs and writing

In my early years as a psychologist I was able to publish a fair number of research papers in professional journals. I was doing what had been drilled into me as a graduate student at Penn. Psychology (at least empirical psychology) was a scientific discipline and we are obliged to expand our science by publishing controlled, meaningful research in respectable, refereed journals. After several years of doing just that, most often in the area of mental retardation and habilitation of handicapped persopns, I had an epiphany. It wasn't the research that motivated me. Most of my studies were not that important or influential. It was the writing that drove me on--a visible validation of who I am and what I do. Compulsively I maintained by curriculum vitae and even saved copies of each paper in folders for my children, who would one day be grateful for the opportiunity to learn what their father did. They never did read those admittedly boring papers and I have have long since since discarded them. However, I continued to write in a more creative style outside the realm of psychology. I was less than successful. Of my 12 published books, only one was an attempt to reach a more general audience. Notes and Blots was a collection of short, autobiographical and annecdotal pieces. It was piublished, never marketed, and sold 43 copies. However it is still available on Amazon.com and occcasionally I buy a few used copies for friends.

There have been a few well known psychologists who were successful as popular writers. Hiam Ginot's Between Parent and Child, B. F. Skinner's Walden Two, and Robert Lindner's Fifty Minute Hour and Rebel Without a Cause are some notable examples.

My efforts to publish my first novel, Shrink, are on-going and somewhat painful.
I have learned that the actual writing is the least important part of the process. Finding a publisher, editing to specifications, and marketing are the most time consuming and least satisfying tasks. Presently I am having problems communicating with a review manager and have a bad premonmition that this odyssey may not end well for me. Time will tell. If successful, I will undoubtedly continue my feeble efforts at becoming a popular psychology writer. If not, I'm not sure that my
motivation will sustain itself.

The great bee caper

My son Michael keeps bees. Forty thousand of them in two hives. He feeds them sugar water, takes the honey and distributes it to friends and relatives, including me. I like the honey. It's medicinal. I stay away from the bees. One got into my shirt last summer but didn't sting, to its credit. However, that still doesn't endear them to me. Seinfeld's Bee movie was amusing.

Joyce opened the walk-in closet of our master bedroom of our almost new house in the
country last week and there were four bees. Then there were eight...then 100. They looked very similar to Michael's (and Seinfeld's) drones. Don't tell Michael but we killed a few to identify them for the local Bug-B-Gone serice whom we called. (Not their real name). The first appointment produced a house inspection. Mr. Smooth Talker explained that they weren't honey bees (which they wouldn't treat ("Get a bee keeper," he advised.)"I've already got Michael," I returned. They were yellow jackets, which look a lot like honey bees but less friendly. They would get rid of them but required a one year contract for a small fortune but would protect us against all manner of creeping, crawling, other pedes about which I had no concerns. However, you do what you have to do. A man would come the next day prepared to rid my house of bees for the duration of the contract.
The next day a man arrived as promised. He seemed somewhat baffled when he entered the house.

We'd been sleeping in the basement, swatting them on the glass patio door, one at a time. Joyce, far braver than me, was shooing hundred at a time out the door, waving a towel around her head like a "meshuganah." Of course they were going around the back again into the attic (We spied their enterance hole)after spending the day sucking on my neighbor's large flowering hydrangea. She was feedimg them while we provided housing.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"No, they didn't tell me."

I showed him the dead bodies and the closet, now swarming with bees
"You'll have to get up into the attic and see if you can find the hive. Do you have a ladder?"

"No, they don't give us ladders."

I took him to the garage and showed him my ladder. He climbed to the top step, put his head in the attick opening, and climbed down the ladder.
"You don't have floor boards...only rafters. We're not allowed to go in there."

f you had a tall ladder you could possibly work from the outside."

"I'm afraid of heights."

"So am I. That's why I paid your exhorbitant fee."

Controlling my mounting anger I pointed out to him that my next call was to American Express to cancel the charge. Futhermore,I was certain that my next-door- neightbor, who had signed on when I did, would also cancel her contract.

"I'll have to call my supervisor."

"You do that."

A few minute later he reported that he now had permission to go into the attack but he didn't have the correct spray. He's be back, adequately preparewd at 8:00 AM the next day.

The next day he arrived, an hour late, and after my irate call to Bug-B-Gone.
He again climbed the ladder and peered in.

"It's very dark in there. Is there a light switch?"

"No lights. we never go up there. Do you have a flashlight?"

"They don't provide us..."

"Never mind, I have a flashlight you can use."

The story improves. He squirted the hive with a spray that shoots 15 feet.
He sprayed the entrance holes, inside and out. He left me a can of the poison which instantly attacks the bees' nervous system.

"Would you also plug up the entrance homes?"

"We're not allowed to do that."

In a day there were no more bees. Michael came and climbed my ladder to plug the holes. We've been bee-free for a week. I haven't canceled my charge. If anyone reading this is having a bee problem I will be glad to tell you the real name of the Bug-B-Gone company as an exterminator not to call.

Watch for Shrink

For those wondering where I have been, here is an update. I have been diligently editing a book which should be out this winter. "Shrink: Odyssey of a therapist"
has been two years in the making. It is a psychological novel set around a therapy situation. Morris Shwartz, a 62 year old Philadelphia psychologist brought up in the Bronx, NY treats James O'Malley, a displaced farmer from northeast, Pennsylvania. Although the patient originally presents problems in asserting himself on his job, the therapist begins to suspect more serious problems as the patient's dreams become increasingly violent. Book One ends with a court trial and a surprise climax. The story evolves from a confluennce of two personalities-the therapist and his patient. The book is heavy in psychological theory and practice,particularly dream interpretation. In Book Two,the therapist, now retired, becomes more spiritual. After a series of experiences which appear paranormal, he delves into the literature about altered states of consciousness. The climax, in a psychioatric hospital, when Morris appears delusional, raises questions about the boundaries between normal and abnormal, delusions and deality, fantasy and truth.

Later enties here may deal with the hazzards and frustrations of publishing a non-professional book.