In my early twenties there was about a five second period of time when I seriously thought I was going to join the FBI. I prepared for this the way I imagine most people do: by discontinuing any recreational drug use, watching the X-Files, and reading John Douglas books.

Now, in case you aren’t familiar, John Douglas had a hand in creating the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, which is, of course, where Mulder started out. So his books are not only gruesome, but informative. The take-away message that I received was basically 1) Don’t hitchhike. Ever. 2) A ballpoint pen is the best weapon (you can stab someone in the jugular! And you can take one on a plane!), 3) Always keep your gun hand (or ballpoint pen hand) free in case of attack, and finally, 4) Be observant.


I have the first three pretty much down pat. I get car sick unless I’m the one driving, I doodle and therefore am always with pen, and I already look for any excuse available to make other people carry things for me. It’s the “observant” thing that I kept getting hung up on. At first I tried to walk into every room taking note the number of people, the number of exits, the color of the walls, how many cars were parked outside, the time on the wall clock, the level of water in the cooler... you know, all the crap that can be considered useful. Except I’d always forget. I’d already be in a room and, suddenly it’s “shit! I didn’t count the number of people in this room! Should I walk out and come back in?”

It’s not that I would just forget, I really don’t think I’m cut out for anything observational. Just the other day I went to visit my brother at his lovely cottage home. After I plopped my jacket on the floor and took a seat, my end of the visit’s conversation went a bit like this:
“Hey Guys”
“Sure, I’ll have a cup if you’re making it”
“Whoa, that cat’s getting fat”
“Is it like a thyroid thing- no? He’s just fat? OK.”
“Oooh- is that pumpkin bread?”


This would be fine except for the fact that it wasn’t until about an hour later that I noticed that my brother had ripped up his carpet, gotten rid of two leather couches and an antique organ, and moved all of the outside furniture inside. I was sitting on porch furniture instead of a couch and I. Didn’t. Even. Notice.

So I'm pretty sure I will never be an FBI agent (I think I'm too old at this point anyway), but I bet if I lost 15 pounds and did something better with my hair I could play one on TV.

The New York Times and Why My Dad Is So Full of Shit That He Squishes When He Walks

First of all, I can’t say for certain why, but my dad has been known to occasionally stretch the truth. For instance, after a Scotch or two he may tell people that he was quarterback for the University of Tennessee football team. Not only have I never seen my Dad do anything sporty aside from golf (and, really? Golf? C’mon), he never even went to college, he went to Vietnam instead. But when he tells people this it really makes my mom mad, which may be the reason why he does it.

He also swears that he and another fellow, T.W. Ford, wrote the lyrics to the George Jones song “I’ll Share My World With You” and sold it to a record industry-type in a bar in Connecticut for two hundred dollars. There are so many reasons why this is probably not true (among them being that “T.W. Ford” is way too cool of a name to be a given to an actual person), yet I don’t ask too many questions because it’s a good song and I kind of like the idea.

But the real reason my dad is so full of shit he squishes when he walks (his term, not mine) comes from his tragically inflated confidence in my abilities, both creatively and, I think, as a human being. I told him I was going to try to write for money and he (in a roundabout way) told me I could be like Thomas Friedman of the New York Times.

Let me clear a few things up: I love Thomas Friedman just as much as the next person, but I’m not lining up any time soon to be a Middle Eastern foreign correspondent. The closest I’ll ever get to Lebanon is Lebanon County. Because that’s where my brother lives, and he makes really good stuffed mushrooms and doesn’t cheap out on the beer. But even if I had a hankering to walk around reporting on the desert I still wouldn’t be like Tom Friedman. Why? Oh, I don’t know... maybe because I have zero experience? That, and I can be kind of mean (and not in an insightful way).

And this brings me to my main point here: Can I reallybe blamed for my inflated sense of awesomeness? It was clearly given to me by my dad, who apparently thinks I can do just about anything. My mom thinks I can do anything, too, with a few exceptions. For instance, she may think I could be a foreign correspondent as well, but would suggest that I cut my hair first. See, she believes ladies past a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Period. I once pointed out to her that Demi Moore has long hair and she replied, “Well, dear, you’re no Demi Moore.” Anyway, I don’t think I’ll ever be Tom Friedman. But until I come close I can harass him on Twitter if I want.