Escape

“Panera Bread” is a great place to escape. I arrived at 9 AM today (a Saturday) and found the place already packed with people. A few of them are getting out of the car carrying their laptop cases. I went straight to the right side wall by the window and placed my laptop on a small table near a wall socket. - Yes, I am going to be here for quite a few hours.

Fresh bagel is served. Unlimited coffee, the Hazel Nuts flavor is way better than Starbucks at Barnes & Noble. I used to go to Barnes & Noble then my son told me that the Wifi at Panera Bread is way faster, not to mention the giant fireplace in the middle of the large room.

Nonetheless, by this time, Barnes & Noble would be full anyway. People there are fully equipped with their high tech gears and they would stay perhaps until 9PM.

I am looking at all the people here, some with friends, chatting, a few small kids. But most people are alone, either with their laptops in front of them, or with a book in their hands, or typing on a smart phone, or simply sitting there enjoying a cup of coffee. Most of them look like “seasoned visitors”, they look fit and intellectual and they feel comfortable. A couple of them look like high school students - yes, they probably are. They have the big SAT prep books in front of them.

So why do people come to places on a bright, sunny Saturday morning like this? A light breakfast, quiet place to sit down, delicious bakery, fruit cup, relaxation, a chance to enjoy a cup of fine java.

Well, for me, it is an escape.

Last night, on the way back from work, my 13 year old daughter called and asked me if I could order a catering service for her friends from Panda Express.

“How many friends?” I asked.

“10? Maybe 12.” she said.

My daughter is one of those teenagers who never calls or talks to me until she wants things - a ride to taker her and her friends somewhere, a request to sleep over at her friends’ house, a request to have friends over to hang out, a request for me to pick up something from stores for her, and of course, money. Her sentences would always begin with “Can I....”, “Can you....”, “Did you.....”, “Where is my....”, “Pick me up at....”.

My usual sentence when I answer her call would be: “Yeah? What do you want?”

She doesn’t usually answers her phone if she is “busy”, claiming “the battery is dead.” Her phones are put on silence at school, by school regulation, and she usually forgets to turn the volume back on. She answers her SMS texts. My most used text default is “Where are you?”.

I stopped by Panda Express after my daughter’s call, it was too late to order catering. So I called my daughter. No answer. Called home, some girl answered my home phone, the intense noise on the background was too loud, so I shouted: “Could I speak to my daughter please!”

“Too late for catering. How about Pizza?” I shouted.

“Abby is allergic to Pizza.” said my daughter.

“How about some sandwiches? I will get a few from Safeway. Do we need milk?”

“No! Mom! No sandwiches from Safeway! They are disgusting!” She hung up the phone.

I bought some sandwiches anyway, and a cart full of food that teenage girls might like, went home.

It was a chaos! The dogs were barking, the girls were screaming, there were things, clothes, shoes, socks, blankets everywhere, from the kitchen floor to the dining table, to the ping pong table, to the front room, to the TV room, to the basement, all the way to my own bedroom! Ping pong balls were everywhere, paddles were broken.

Worst of all - half drunk Gatorade and Vitamin Water bottles. This is one thing I hate the most - the friends of my children would open a bottle, take a sip or two, and leave the bottle wherever. Then they forget which one is their own, they would open another one. When they leave, I would have 10 - 20 sometimes more, perfectly good drinks, occasionally half empty, most of the times nearly full. Then they were thrown away because they were open. No one knows which bottle belongs to which person, so no one wants to drink the rest.

The rest of the evening was pushed to an unbearable state - the noise was rowdy and piercing, the chaos was uncontrolled. My son furiously put his jacket on, stormed out of the door. Leaving behind an enraged shout: “I hate this freaking house!”

The word he really wanted to use, the four lettered F word, is never allowed. I felt sad and angry that my son was chased out of the house. He is leaving for college this fall, his time at home is limited to just a few more months. He has reserved 5-6 weeks this summer for a backpack trip to China, which means, my time with him would be even shorter.

The year the first born is leaving home perhaps is the hardest year for a mother.

I rushed to the garage to ask where my son was going, saw his car backed out of the garage and the door shutting down loudly.

The TV volume was turned up, loud and boisterous. My husband was watching the NCAA hockey playoffs, streamed from my laptop. I played with the brand new iPad 2 in my bedroom, the obnoxious hollers from the girls were too loud to bare. I slammed the garage door and drove off.

I had envisioned a nice family Friday night with all four of us, perhaps watch a movie on Netflix, or catch up with the Glee episodes we had missed, or simply chat a bit random things.

Lately this has been the usual practice - my son is never home because he can’t stand the mess and the noise. My daughter is either in her friends’ houses or in our own home - however she is always with her friends, nearly 24/7 now that it is spring break - more than 11 days of doing nothing started last Wednesday!

Whenever anything is mentioned, the response would always be: “She is a teenager! And it is spring break!”

It was 9PM, I did not have any clue where I was going. Barnes & Noble was closed. My son was no where to be found. He was not answering his phone, and I would not text him - he was probably driving.

I sat at a dark parking lot of a trail head near my house. I wish it was not so late. I would have taken my dog on those favorite trails for a long hike in the woods.

So that was my night - last night, Friday night, at 9PM, I sat in the car, phoned my brother in Hong Kong, looked at the stars through the moon roof.

“I am so alone, Satellite. There are more than 15 people in my house right now, and I am sitting in a dark parking lot near the road. … Hang on a second, someone is coming. …. - it was a park ranger! He just wanted to make sure that I am not some teenager making out with the boyfriend in a parked car.”

“What does making out mean?” asked my brother in Chinese.

My brother despises me mixing up English words in our Chinese conversations. He said I was being lazy and disrespectful.

“Making out, kissing, messing around, fooling around, stupid things teenagers do.” - I then realized that I just explained in English again. These words are impossible to translate into Chinese - we don’t usually talk about these things in China!

At 2 AM last night, I was waken up by the most redundant girl screams. I put on a rope and stormed out of my room. My own daughter was no where to be seen, 4-5 girls were in the living room, another 6-7 in the basement. Apparently my daughter had gone sleep in her room upstairs. I shouted with all the almighty anger in my system: “Girls! If you don’t go to sleep now, I am calling your parents!”

“And I am dead serious!” I never knew that kind of anger existed in my body. I am usually the calm and mellow and funny Asian Mom who makes Chowmein and fabulous Sam’s Club pot stickers and always volunteer to drive everybody anywhere - because I want to grab any chance I can get to spend time with my daughter, to have a glimpse of her, to talk to her.

This morning, 8 AM, I woke up from an exhausting night, walked out of my room. The house looked like a battle field. It was quiet, and I needed to run.

I took a quick shower and grabbed my laptop and stormed out of the house. On the way out, I saw my son’s car. I wasn’t sure what time he had come home last night. I truly hope that he had slept alright. His room is in the basement - where the “Battle of Bulge” happened - every time when the girls have their sleepovers.

So it is 12 now. My son just joined me at Panera Bread, with his books spread out on the table, laptop pulled out of his school bag.

“Western Civilization” - his AP European History text book.

Western civilization is certainly a new subject for me to learn. Western culture, sophistication, education, perception, discrimination, cultivation, manners, fashions, desires, ways of life - so different from Eastern civilization - so much to learn and so little time!

Western style of parenting - what can I say, I did not know much about Eastern style of parenting and I never thought of becoming a parent when I lived in China. Having lived only 10 of my 17 years of childhood with my own parents, one thing I know very clear is that I am determined to spend as much time as I can possibly find, to spend with my two children before they go off on their own. Something my own parents did not do when I was growing up - they had sent us to other places, raised by other people, nannies, child care workers and such. Therefore, I am determined to do the opposite.

Having seen other mothers who have gone through mental depression after sending their children off to college, this last year or so, I have been mentally preparing myself to get ready - to cultivate myself and wean myself from mothering my babies - they have grown up, they are now independent, they now need their friends, they no longer cling on their mother.

I now need to let go of them, my babies, my teenagers. They now have their own wings - ready and strong, well prepared to take the wind.

And I need to re-discover my lost self, my lost esteem, my own reverence that used to be cherished and treasured, but now no where to be found.

This is why I escape.

This is why I come to Panera Bread, a place where I observe people, where I read a book on Kindle, where I surf the Internet for places I would like to visit, where I write stories and essays of randomness.

3 hours ago I came in with agony and anxiety, having just escaped from my own house - the place I call home, ordering a cup of coffee without the patience of asking for a spoon to stir, devoured a toasted bagel without even thinking what flavor it was.

3 hours later, now I am sitting next to my son, who has his head phone on watching a music video on YouTube - I thought he came here to study - but I know he came here to escape.

In the past 3 hours I have learned that we all need a break, a rescue, a time off, an avoidance, a short period of “freedom”- a liberation - just to be with ourselves, just to be alone - even if sometimes the place we choose is surrounded by people - Panera Bread, Barnes & Noble, parks, hiking trails, bike lanes....

I think I will go home, and take my dog for a long hike.

“I am sorry for your loss... but, Congratulations!”

At the self checkout line of Wal-Mart, I bumped into an ex-coworker of mine Mike.

“Oh hey, Mike, how is it going? Haven’t seen you for a long time... how is the job hunting going? Did you find something?” - It is always a guilty feeling to bump into a person who used to work with me, then when the economy tanked, he got the pink slip, and I did not.

“Oh hi! Good to see you. No I did not find anything. It is tough out there, so I gave up sending resumes. But, my father died!” said Mike. He just had one backpack to check out.

“Oh, I am sorry for your loss.....” I said automatically, lowered my voice.

“Well, I am not! The bastard finally checked out! I am cashing in on the life insurance policy! I have to split it with the stupid girl friend of his... but hey, half a mil! Not bad! I just got my passport, now my backpack - I am going to Costa Rica!” said Mike loudly and enthusiastically.

“Well, I am out of here. See you around!” Mike walked out of Wal-Mart with such pride and dignity.

“Yeah... you too Mike. …. and Congratulations!” I offered my warm and sincere wishes.

It is rather rare to hear the phrase “I am sorry for your loss.” followed by “Congratulations!”.

It is usually an automatic and polite response to say to someone who just lost his loved ones - especially close family such as a father - “I am very sorry for your loss.”

I suppose it is in our nature to feel sad and offer sympathy whenever a human soul is taken away. But we know very well that every single second a soul would pass and a new life would be born. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, 150,000 people die each day, about 2 deaths each given second.

Do we feel sad for all of them? Of course not. We wouldn’t be able to live if our emotions are swallowed by sorrow constantly.

We only feel sad for the deaths of people we know.

That’s perhaps not entirely true either. Sometimes people do not feel sad at all. Sometimes people even wish for the deaths of their kin.

“Why don’t you just shoot yourself in the head and put all of us out of this misery!” shouted the angry ex-wife to the selfish husband who refused to send child support checks.

“Why don’t you just shoot yourself in the head and put all of us out of this misery!” shouted the furious ex-husband to the bitter ex-wife who had turned all their children against him.

“Why don’t you just shoot yourself in the head and put all of us out of this misery!” shouted the raging son to the father who just crawled into the basement window well drunken as a pig.

“Why don’t you just shoot yourself in the head and put all of us out of this misery!” shouted the fuming husband to the wife who stocked up 500 pairs of shoes in her walk-in closet.

“Why don’t you just shoot yourself in the head and put all of us out of this misery!” shouted the enraged daughter to both of her parents who constantly screamed at each other non-stop.

“Why don’t you just shoot yourself in the head and put all of us out of this misery!” shouted the menacing man to the older brother who stole his motorcycle and sold it to some drug dealer for his cocaine debt.

So it seems that people use the phrase of “shoot yourself in the head” a lot when they wished to have their hated ones erased.

Sometimes they would vary the phrase a bit after they had exhausted the previous phrase and realized that “shoot yourself in the head” would probably never happen.

“What don’t you join the peace corp in Africa and feed yourself to a lion!” shouted the angry wife to the womanizer husband who spent their daughter’s entire college tuition on his girl friend’s new breast implants.

I did not know Mike well, but from what he described about his father’s passing - “the bastard finally checked himself out” - I would assume that he had wished to have his father erased as well.

Come to think of it, when some people actually did “shoot themselves in the head and blew their brains out”, they never received any positive affirmation after their death - they were condemned unanimously!

For example, Hemingway, he lived a wild, rampant life, married four women and fathered 10+ children - I don’t know, need to Google it. I am pretty sure he had broken many people’s hearts. But he lived a heroic life, an adventurous life, a brave life, and a powerful life, not to mention his extraordinary accomplishments, and his undenied gifts to mankind.

Other than the imperial “Old Man and the Sea” among many other timeless classics, it was Hemingway’s death, his suicide, his act of “blowing his own brains out” that made people remember the most. People usually took his suicide negatively - they considered it was immoral, depraved, cowardly, even sinful that he had taken his own life.

People would say: “Hemingway - Yeah, he was a writer, and he killed himself.”

Never you hear people say that Hemingway was brave, courageous, bold, or honorable to put his own suffering and misery to an end at the exact moment of his own design and his own triumph.

Never you hear people say that Hemingway had perhaps did everyone a favor by pulling the trigger on his favorite shotgun. Most certainly he had did himself a great favor for ending his own mental and physical deterioration and and decay.

Never you hear that people say that Hemingway died a heroic “Soldier’s Death” - like a defeated Samurai.

Dolphins, I think we all agree, are far more supreme intelligence than humans. Dolphins have the natural power to control their respiration and breath. They sense and live the great agony and despair enclosed inside a pool surrounded by concrete walls and buoyant, mindless humans, dolphins would emerge out of the water, take their last breath of air, and refuse to take another - And they would die, righteously, and honourably just like that.

Why can’t we humans do that?

Because we are not “allowed”, because we are “civilized”, because we are not “animals”.

A young woman went to a nursing home to visit her grand mother, only to find that her 92 year old Nana had “checked out” more than 3 months ago. The nurse was relieved that finally someone who knew the poor woman had come to collect her belongings. The young woman came out with a large box in her hands. In there, some night gowns, pair of slippers, a Bible, and an enormous collection of prescription medications. There were perhaps more than 200 bottles.

The young woman walked straight to the Waste Management dumpster behind the building.

I just came out the back door, started reading the stack of “Application Forms” I received from the nursing home front desk. I realized for me to volunteer my time at the nursing home, I would be subjected to a “background check” at the police station, finger prints and all nine yards. Sounds like hassle. I walked to the dumpster to throw away the stack of papers.

I helped the young woman to lift the heavy large box into the dumpster.

The hundreds of prescription bottles in that box, various shapes and sizes, were perhaps be worth hundreds of thousand dollars - no way to verify, perhaps even more. My co-worker recently told me that his new prescription was $700 per pill.

Seeing that the 92 year-old woman had spent her last 30+ years at this nursing home, I was pretty certain that the 30+ years of prescriptions were paid entirely by the nation’s tax payers - as the Fox News always say - “You and I”.

The “price tag” and “money” seem to be always one of the first headlines - regardless what circumstances.

If you do not agree - open up your browser and go to CNN.com, you will notice that today’s featured advertisement on the upper right panel shows a huge bold headline - “If You Die Today” - and underneath that, some smaller prints “Is your family protected? For only $35 dollars a month, you can get a Term Life policy of $500,000”. Then a huge bold line again: “Call Today! 1-800-PROTECT”.

Has anyone, including the nurses and the young woman and the young woman’s parents, who would be the immediate kin to that 92 year old woman, ever thought of whether that old woman was “happy” during her past 30 years in that nursing home?

Did she learn things? Was her mind content and active? Was she stimulated? Did she do her favorite activities?

Was she joyously delighted every time she was stuffed a handful of brilliantly colored pills into her timelessly aged stomach followed by a glass of tab water?

Was she happy to be handled roughly by the large, rude black nurse so her soaked diaper could be changed?

Did we seriously think that we tax payers was doing the old woman a favor by keeping her alive on a mass collection of plastic feeding tubes and the massive daily dosage of colorful prescription pills?

Did she plan to live her last 30 years in her diapers?

Did she cherish her days of her last 30 years?

How was the quality of her life?

Did she live an honorable, graceful, dignified and noble life?

Did she deserve to live an honorable, graceful, dignified and noble life?

Was she given a choice?

…

During the past 30 years, if at some point, this woman was offered an “option” to shoot herself in her head, would she have taken that pistol? Would she be brave enough and courageous enough to point the gun onto her own temple and pull the trigger?

Probably not.

After all, not every one can be Hemingway.

That is why, Hemingway is remembered. The rest of us will simply perish. No one will remember, no one will even know that we have existed.

If I had not decided to walk to that dumpster that day, I would have never known that there was this 92 year old woman, died 3 months earlier in a nursing home. I would have never know her name. As a matter of fact - I still do not know her name.

It is easy for me to think, that if someday when I am old and sick, suffering from painful disease that will never be cured, bedridden and drowning in my own wastes, being handled forcefully by that enormous angry black nurse - I would gladly take that pistol and blow my brains out when I am able pull the triggers with my own fingers.

Die of a “Soldier’s Death”, like the great Hemingway.

“Yeah, right, you betcha!” My friends would say. “But by the time you and old and sick, you would be furiously clinging on your big basket of colorful prescription bottles and guard it ferociously and barbarically with all your old might - because when you are old and sick, the nation will be broke, the tax payers would be broke, and the big basket of colorful prescription bottles would become your life! You will actually have to work for those bottles - your pathetic 401K? That’s right, whatever left in that Vanguard account of yours - you’d be lucky to get one basket of colorful prescription bottles!”

So for those of us who actually use our head to think, occasionally, and every once a while, perhaps we should make a mental note that each day, we need to live our lives at minimum good enough so that no one - particularly our beloved kin - would shout at us: “Why don’t you just shoot yourself in the head and put all of us out of this misery!”

If we lived our lives well, when we actually die, our beloved would respond to people’s “I am sorry for your loss.” with genuine gratification.

However, if we are not careful, someday when we die, our beloved family would respond their friends’ cheerful “Congratulations!” with much enthusiasm and anticipation: “You betcha! I am going to Costa Rica!”

Dreaming Everest

A good friend of mine, Rachel, always wanted to go to Tibet to see Mt. Everest. I’ve known her for 30 years since college. She has talked about it for many years.

When it comes to travel, Rachel is not a talker, she is a goer. She is a freelance IT contractor specializes in CRM data security that is in high demand of large enterprises. The nature of her profession - high paying short term contracts - had afforded her trips all around the world - not only to big metros like Paris, Moscow, or Dubai, but also to exotic corners such as Zimbabwei, Tanzania, as well as the Taupo and Waikato mountains in New Zealand where the Middle Earth was captured by Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings.

But Everest was her dream. Nothing topped that. She had long dreamed an impeccable 2-months plan to execute her grand expedition.

In late 2009 Rachel had 2 surgeries to remove a few tumors from her ovaries. Two of the tumors came out non-benign. It was that time she had begun the idea of “Life is fragile, time maybe running out.” In December of 2009, she made the decision for the coming summer.

She had reserved 2 months for Mt. Everest. She had never hallucinated about climbing and submitting the peaks, but she always visioned herself to visit the base camps described in several her favorite books including John Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air”.

I had suggested Rachel to go through Nepal rather than Tibet - nearly 95% expeditions with western passports begin from the Nepal side largely due to political and government regulations. But Rachel rejected the idea flat. The Mt. Everest dreamers had made it too commercial in Nepal.

“I want to see the North Face. It can only be seen from Tibet.” Said Rachel determinedly.

So the planning began in December. Rachel had always wanted this experience to be with her only sister, 15 junior of her age. The sister had agreed, but she need to consult with her husband and her in-laws. After a 2-months emails and Skype, they finally decided on the dates - they would begin late June in Qinghai province, and finally arrive the base camps in Mid July.

The Chinese government had tightened up travel to Tibet after several “Pro-Independence” demonstrations in 2008. Western Passport holders would need to obtain a special visa for Tibet -TTB. The paperwork was an enormous task just to get these faxed and stamped. Rachel was lucky to travel with her sister - who lived in Guangzhou and held a Chinese passport. Finally the TTB was issued in early May - under the the condition that the two of them would go on a private escort tour operated by a government owned travel agency in Qinghai. The land tour itself was over $4000 pp for double occupancy (sharing a room).

Rachel had prepared her trip with great enthusiasm. She came to Colorado in April, we hiked “Barr Trail” and drove up to Pikes Peak (14,100 feet). The altitude was only ½ of Mt. Everest, but it would help her for some high altitude adjustment. On top of Pikes Peak, I began to notice her talking in “slow motion”, and her lips became purplish blue. I thought it was my sun glasses, so I took it off, looked closer - her lips were blue, moving slowly, and she was starting to lean sideways on a rock, eventually supporting herself on the walls of the summit house.

“You alright? You look dazed... “ I asked. Thought to myself how Rachel would cope with the much thinner air in Tibet.

“I am dizzy. But I’ll be ok. No worries.”

Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS) could cause people a lot of problem at high altitude, headache, fatigue, stomach illness, dizziness, and sleep disturbance. In severe cases, even death. I began to worry about Rachel before she left Colorado for Austin, where she kept a permanent house.

Rachel was supposed to leave for Shanghai on June 1st. In mid May she received a call from her sister - she was bailing out. Her sister’s husband and mother-in-law were highly against the plan, worried about the safety of the two women. Rachel was very disappointed about being able to travel with her sister, also about the late notice. She began to solicit another traveler to join her tour. 5 days before her departure for Shanghai, a British couple responded. They had just obtained the TTB from the Chinese government an they would fly to meet Rachel in Qinghai. The tour price for Rachel had gone up to $5500 due to “single occupancy”.

Two days before Rachel’s flight to Shanghai, Bank Leumi group in Israel called, offered her a 6 weeks assignment in Tel Aviv for $50K starting on June 15th. Rachel turned down the contract with much agony because she had worked on the RFP for a long time and established the network connection with the Israelis. She had wanted some long term contracts so she could spend 6-12 months in the middle east. This would have been be a great start. She cried after she got off the phone with Bank Leumi.

But, she was determined to fulfill her childhood dream.

*

In September of last year I visited Rachel in Austin. There was a 8x10 picture hanging on her wall. The very exhausted Rachel smiling in the photo, purple lipped, with a familiar scene on the background - The North Face viewed from Rombok Gompa. This is a popular tourist stop, this particular angle is seen all over the Internet. “So you made it to the Rongbuk Monastery!” “Yeah, that was the only place allowed for an Western tourist, the closest you could get to Mt. Everest. You can get closer if you already have an expedition permit from the Chinese government. - $25,000 per climber.” Smiled Rachel, as she stared at the picture. “But you are a Chinese. Well, you were. And you still have families in China. Does it make it easier for you than those Brits?”

“Well, in fact, it did not make any difference.” Rachel sipped a little tea and continued: “I checked in with the travel agency as soon as I arrived Shanghai. They said that the TTB I had was based on the assumption that I would be traveling with my sister - who is a Chinese citizen. Now that she was not going, I would have to obtain another special permit for Americans, which would take up to a few months. They would need to run some background check to make sure I had not been associated with the Dalai Lama “Pro-Independence” movement. I cried, and begged them, and begged my sister’s husband to pursue them. He was a big shot and had lots of connections. He had felt a little bad about convincing my sister to drop out of the tour at the last minute. So 3 days later, he pulled some strings with his power. I was granted a special TTB for an extra $500. I was totally relieved.”

“And how was the private escorted tour?”

“Other than some money disputes and occasional food poisoning, it was great. We got a Jeep, a driver and a special guide. Sometimes we stayed in Tibetan Tee Pees, most of days we stayed in local hotels. Some were very fancy, in large towns, a few of them... you know, bugs and insects, didn’t bother me much. I’ve had worse in Africa.” Rachel described with such delighted joy on her face. “The worst of the whole trip was my 10 days sickness from the high altitude. - You thought Pikes Peak was bad? You should have seen me in Qinghai! None of the AMS pills worked, I had to stay in bed for some days.... I felt so bad for that young English couple. One day, my brain was not functioning right, I wanted to say something but nothing came out, and I started vomiting.”

We went through some other photos on the computer. Eventually I asked her:

“Well? Was it worth it?”

“What, Everest? Of course!” Rachel smiled. “It was my dream, my childhood ambition, my endeavor and destiny!”

“Will you do it again?”

“What do you think?! ” She went into her den and came back with a large box in her hands.

She smiled at me excited, like a child on Christmas morning:

“This just arrived yesterday! This, my friend, is a Canon EOS 1Ds Mark III SLR, and this big one here, KJ13X6B KRS Zoom! The best out there! Well, the best I can afford.”

“Are you going back again?”

“Most Definitely! But this time I will have all my paper works ready before leaving home.”

As she was unpacking the giant Canon lens out of the box, she beamed at me:

“You want to come with me?”

That Was Fun!

4 plane tickets to Orlando - $1600.
7 nights at Disney Epcot Beach Resorts - $1500.
Waiting line to get on the “Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster” ride - 2 hours.
Lunch for 4 - $90.
Temperature - 95 o F.
“Mom! That was fun!” - Priceless.

1 giant pack of toilet paper - $35.
Hiring a “Tee-Pee” Cleaning Crew for neighbor’s trees and house - $200.
Fine from the HOA for littering the street and gardens - $300.
“Dad! That was fun!” - Priceless.

20 Pumpkins - $120.
Ghostly decorations for the Halloween “Hunted House” in the garage - $250.
Candies - $150.
Dental bills for 4 fresh cavities - $600.
“Mom! That was fun!” - Priceless.

4 lift tickets at Breckenridge for 3 days - $1200.
3 nights at “Beaver Run Resorts” - $750.
Ski rentals: $500.
Waiting line at the Gondola: 30 Minutes.
Ambulance to ER: $400.
ER bill for a fractured femur: $12000.
“Dad! That was fun!” - Priceless.

Pulling out a loose baby tooth with a polyester sewing thread: $0.
“Mom! That was fun!” - Priceless.

Taking the high school senior to visit 20+ colleges from east coast to west coast: $5000.
Opening the large envelope from his dream school - “Congratulations!” - Priceless.

I Don't Know

Some people have trouble to say “I don’t know.”

This is more apparent at work places. When you ask your colleagues some questions that you think you are quite clear, and you are simply expecting a clear answer of “Yes” or “No”.

You often hear answers like :”It depends.” followed up by a 20 minutes nonsense.

Or “Shoot me an email, I’ll see what I can do.”

Or “Can I get back to you?”

Or “ %432^5&^&*% *7^%$43 @1md#4d$4 ,.... blah... &^f34k4(* blan.... **7%hshts54$4... blah....”

Worse, you get some bogus, deceptive “bluff” that sounds real and legit, and you follow the answer and spend numerous hours and still unable to find the solution. Eventually you discover that you just got downright boasted.

You will think that if you had gotten a clear answer of “I don’t know.” you will save tons of time moving on to other resources such as Google and Wikipedia, and perhaps find the answer you need in an accelerated fashion, save every one’s time and company’s money.

Therefore, “I don’t know.” should be highly promoted by a company because it promotes curiosity, proficiency, innovation, and productivity.

However it does not work that way in an competitive work place.

“I don’t know” shows weakness, incompetence, inexperience, inability, and lack of confidence.

It also shows unwillingness and intolerance.

Jeremy Martin was one of the DBA’s in the small IT company I work at. He was perhaps one of the most brilliant Database Administrators I’ve known. Among the 4-5 DBA’s on the floor, Jeremy was the only one who would give me some accountable and substantial answers - many times the answers were “I don’t know.”.

Having worked in the rapid evolving technical field of Internet software industry, after being “bluffed” numerous time I had long learned to seek answers on Google first until all open-source resources had been depleted and the problem I was facing was too specific to our particular platform and architecture that I had no power to resolve on my own.

So I would bring the problem to Jeremy Martin, who would always give my problem a few good seconds of good thinking before he looked into my eyes and opened his mouth with calculated caution and agitation. The answers and conclusions I received were usually distinguishably correct, or genuine - even if it was just “I don’t know.”

Quite a few times after Jeremy gave me the “I don’t know” answer, I went back and Googled more, as I was consumed with some potential solutions that might need some twist and become useful to me, an email arrived - from Jeremy, with a few lines of code that I was desperately seeking for, beautifully and carefully presented that I could just cut and paste and run, viola! Those were the greatest moments and validation to me. Not only my problems had been happily solved, I had just asked an extremely intelligent question that actually made the great DBA Guru to take some time to think.

Jeremy had a defective eye. He was short, rustic, shabby, wore uneven, scruffy beard and messy, greasy hair. He often wore unmatched shoes, sometimes just one shoe. People often said that his cubicle and the surrounding area did not “smell good”. Often times when he looked at you, the two eyes were not aligned on the same direction, so it was hard to distinguish which one was the good eye that was starting at you, and which eye was the bad one that stared at something else, and occasionally maneuvered to somewhere below your face.

But I got used to it. I taught myself to always stare at his left eye, and ignore the right one, because it swirled around uncontrollably and you never know where it would land, and it was quite distracting.

So Jeremy Martin was “Mad Eye Moody”.

He did not talk much. In fact, he did not talk at all. You never saw him in the hallway or the break room chatting with others. When you pass him in the hallway walking in opposite direction, he would always looked at the carpet, and his entire body would rub the opposite wall with great agitating effort, so he could get the farthest distance from you the hallway allowed.

So basically this brilliant mind was socially retarded. But he was ultimately competent and superbly confident as soon as his two hands touched the keyboard.

The phrase “I don’t know” was perhaps the one Jeremy Martin had used most.

“When do you think you will get this done?” Requested the project manager.

“I don’t know.” Jeremy would answer with very low voice. His bad glass eye raced fast and nervously.

“What do you think the problem is? Why is it working in QE but not in production? What did you change? What did you do?!” Accused the manager.

“I don’t know.” An even lower almost inaudible tone.

“What should I tell the client?! These are some big shots, they are coming tomorrow, and they need this done! I need this done! Ger her done!”

The manager was getting increasingly frustrated. Her voice was echoing throughout the great floor where over 80 cubicles neatly lined up like a giant maze.

People stood up and looked curiously to this direction.

“I don’t know.” Jeremy slowly sank into his chair and desperately buried his face onto his keyboard.

“Well?! “ The project manager rose up, stood nearly 6 feet tall with a giant statue and an enormous resemblance of the “Red Queen” in Alice in Wonderland.

“I don’t know.” Jeremy turned his face towards the manager, his vague glass eye swirling fast, and the good eye gave a helpless plead to leave him alone.

These would be his last words.

Two weeks later, Jeremy was gone. He was fired. And I had lost my DBA Guru, the most assertive resource I would not receive any bombast deception or “I’ll see what I can do.”

So I guess the phrase “I don’t know” really does not sell well in Cooperative America.

It is not good “PR”, definitely will not get you the power, the money, the responses, the glory, the support that you would need to climb the cooperate ladder, to promote your agenda, to accomplish your motive, to fulfill your ambition, to boost your personal ego.

Imagine George W. Bush had answered “I don’t know” when he was asked “How much Weapons of Mass Destruction do you think Saddam Hussein has developed?” at the Press Conference in October 2002?

If George W. Bush had answered “I don’t know.” to the question regarding the WMD, do you seriously think that he would have received the unconditioned approval from the U.S. Senate for a wide invasion of Iraq?

On the other hand, if George W. Bush had answered “I don’t know.” to the question regarding the WMD, would U.S. troops be in Iraq today?

Don’t you think sometimes the answer “I don’t know.” is the most accurate, honest, accountable, and obligated response to many questions?