Aimless Ramblings

LJI FAR 4: The death of the 1¢ coin / penny and the $1 bill.

Have you ever been surrounded by people engaging in an activity that you couldn't? Maybe you're hanging out with your friends at a club, and everyone's dancing, while you lean against a wall, assisting the building with its structural integrity. Or perhaps it's a foot gear fad, and while you certainly wouldn't mind sporting a new pair of Converse, your pocketbook does not agree. For me, that activity was the phone game craze.

Being a blind guy, I'm sure you'll understand it when I tell you, "Most video games just don't work for me." Of course, there were some work arounds. Playing WII with the kids for example, if I timed it just right, I could swing the controller, and knock one out of the park in baseball. Then there was boxing, the only game I'm aware of where madly flailing about would, as often as not, score the visually challenged dude a win. On a phone though, even given the amazing advances I've seen with touch screens and speech technology, games have generally been … frustrating!

Take Words with Friends—remember that classic? When I first heard about it, what I thought was, "Oh hey, that sounds cool, a sort've electronic version of scrabble. I'm a word geek! I wonder if they've coded it so that it'll work with speech?"

Uh … no! I could kind of tell where the letters might be located on the screen, but manipulating or identifying them wasn't possible. I ultimately e-mailed the developer, since I've had good luck doing that in the past with other apps, but never got a response.

After a few similar experiences, I eventually settled into the mindset of ignoring games altogether. Just like the above example with footwear, it wasn't that I was above wasting hours of my day poking at my phone's screen, it was just that I hadn't yet received an accessible invitation.

Then came Dice World! I was sitting outside, listening to a podcast about adaptive technology, and happened to hear an interview with one of the developers of this game. It was created by two dads who loved playing dice, wanted to share it with as many people as possible, and along those lines, had taken the time to make it accessible.

"Hmm," thought the blind man.

Unfortunately, I didn't know crap about dice games—my family played stuff like Monopoly, Battle Ship, and dominos when I was a kid. Farkle sounded like something you'd scream after hitting your finger with a hammer. Yatzy was vaguely familiar, but Balut made no sense either, unless perhaps you were recounting an election story about troublesome chads in Florida. And Pig? Who knew? Predictably though, even with the prodigious learning curve involved, I was soon addicted.

"Whatcha doing, Dad?" my daughter Amanda inquired one afternoon.

"Playing Farkle," I responded.

"What's Farkle?" she asked, channeling both amusement and teenage scorn.

"A game I can beat you at," I challenged.

Which, as I knew it would, captured her interest for a while.

My first permanent victory though was the wife, Lizbeth.

"I hate these fucking dice," she'd be heard to mutter while lying next to me in bed. Or, "You suck!" directed at me whenever I won a game. Still, she continued playing.

The only annoying thing about being so addicted to this game was the constant quest to acquire more Gold. In Dice World parlance, Gold stood for the bonus points you could use to extend your turn. So, if you rolled the dice and got nothing but crap? No problem. Spend 1 Gold, and you could re-roll the dice one time. Of course, you had to earn Gold to be able to spend it, and aside from playing in tournaments or flat out buying it, you could only do that by watching videos. Watch one video, and you'd get one Gold.

When I first started playing, I'd occasionally watch a video and get nothing, which led to even more horrible exclamations than the ones quoted from Lizbeth above. After a while though, the developers squashed that bug, and went so far as to add a coin drop noise after the video was done playing, as if to say, "There's your penny!"

Did you ever collect pennies in a jar as a kid? Remember that noise they'd make when you'd drop one in? The coin drop noise in Dice World is a little bit like that, except that the coin sounds bigger, like maybe a quarter. Ah, now that would be sweet, twenty-five points for watching one of those goofy videos, instead of just one.

The next time you're looking for a fun little time waster to download on your phone, give Dice World a shot. Even if you don't get to be as addicted as Lizbeth and myself, I bet you'll develop a new appreciation for every penny of Gold you're able to stockpile.

Dan

Most kids don't usually look forward to getting braces. The process is guaranteed to be painful, takes place in an over-reclined chair which probably wouldn't have been out of place at a party thrown by the Marquis de Sade, and inevitably involves multiple individuals sticking gloved fingers and metal instruments in your mouth. Even if you're somehow able to overlook these unpleasant truths, the best possible outcome after the encounter is... A mouth full of wires.

Of course, my youngest daughter Amanda has never been like most kids. She's been pestering us for weeks, asking "When are we going to the dentist to get my braces?"

Since my wife and I didn't really want her to miss school for what we assumed would just be an evaluation by the orthodontist, we set up Amanda's appointment this past Friday afternoon, the last week day of her Spring Break. In fact, because both of our daughters were due to have their teeth cleaned by the regular dentist, we killed two birds with one stone, and scheduled them both for tooth cleanings in the morning as well. Again, contrary to what I expected, Amanda didn't care about one of the last days of her vacation being taken up by multiple doctor appointments, but instead was ready to go and "Get my braces!" Even Sarah, her sister, didn't seem to mind joining us for the excursion, although this might perhaps be explained by an opportunity to observe her younger sister being tortured?

The morning dental cleanings went as planned, and after eating lunch, the four of us arrived at the orthodontist's office. We were greeted by a cheerful receptionist, who immediately handed over a thick pile of paperwork that needed to be filled out, and began verifying that our insurance was active. My wife started scribbling, Amanda was taken away for x-rays, and I settled back in my chair for what promised to be a long and boring delay.

The waiting room's most notable feature was a flat screen television, mounted on the wall right above my head, and tuned to HGTV. As I fished out my headphones and prepared to listen to some music on my phone, I heard the featured couple above me discussing room size, beach views, and how the current property they were viewing was "right at the top of their budget." The latter appears to be an HGTV code phrase for, "This one, this one, this one's the one we're going to pick!" Which is fine, I suppose, if you like eating Ramen Noodle Soup for every meal.

I think it would be fair to say that I don't handle boredom particularly well. I had planned ahead of time for the days dull and tedious bits, ensuring that my phone was charged, and that I had a choice selection of music and audio books to listen to, but now, confronted with the reality of another long wait, I grew restless. Lizbeth, the afore-mentioned scribbling wife was busy, so I turned to Sarah.

"What did you think of the dentist this morning?" I asked. Both she and Amanda had previously gone to another dentist, and I was curious to know what she thought of the new tooth cleaner.

"She was okay," Sarah responded, "but a little rude."

"Rude?" I chuckled, caught off guard, "Rude how?"

"She kept asking me all these nosy questions, and then wanted to know if I had a job yet. I told her that I was only fifteen and still in school, and she was like, 'That's no reason not to have a job. Get with the program, lady!'"

I laughed again, "Did you explain to her that your a princess, and that people work for you, not the other way round?"

"Very funny," she said, shoving me with one hand. "I just ignored her after that."

"Well, come on, lady," I retorted, returning the shove, "get with the program!"

Shortly after that, Amanda returned from being x-rayed, Lizbeth handed over the completed paperwork, and we were guided to a small room where we could await the mighty orthodontist. There was just one problem. Amanda, of course, got the large chair in the room's center, Sarah snagged the left side of a contraption that looked like two normal chairs which had been fused in the middle, and Lizbeth took the right. I was--as usual?--the odd man out.

After a few moments where I stood by the room's open door, a little bit like a servant awaiting the summons of a nobleman to refill his wine goblet, Lizbeth said, "Sarah, why don't you let your dad sit there, and you can sit on his lap."

To her credit, Sarah agreed immediately, and I was seated. Although I was marginally more comfortable in this new arrangement, there was still the earlier unresolved boredom issue, compounded by Sarah's inability to sit still. She sat quietly for a few minutes, and then began to wiggle. I shifted my legs, trying to discover a more comfortable position, and she wiggled again. Eventually, tiring of this repetitive game, I poked her in the ribs. This elicited a screech of rage, followed by a retaliatory elbow thrust to my stomach.

"Children!" Lizbeth warned us both, casting me into the juvenile under class.

After another blessed moment of silence, Sarah's attention was captured by the collar of my shirt. "Why is this top button open?" she demanded, tapping my neck accusingly.

"Oh no," I exclaimed, shock and embarrassment evident in every syllable, "thank you so much for pointing that out." Gesturing at my collar bone, I lectured, "You know, for girls, too many open buttons means that other people can sometimes see your cleavage. But this," I fumbled with my shirt's collar, finally succeeding in tapping the exposed bone, "is almost as bad. What you see here is clavage!"

"Oh my god," Lizbeth cried, performing a classic facepalm, "Dan, other people can hear you!"

In my lap, shaking with laughter, Sarah had slumped against the wall to our left, and was slowly banging her head against the painted plaster. In her chair at the center of the room, if not the center of attention, Amanda appeared to be having difficulty breathing. Calmly, I refastened my shirt's top button.

"Yes, I'm sure everyone can hear us, and see us too," I said to Lizbeth. "When it's as quiet and uneventful as it is today, they change the channel in the waiting room from HGTV to the patient rooms back here." Raising my hand, I waved at the imagined location for the video pickup. "How ya doin'?"

Predictably, it was then that the tooth straightener of doom materialized. "I believe I'm going to have to pull this car over," he said, "you guys are having too much fun in here."

The doctor, who never once sat down during our meeting, popped Amanda's x-rays up on a computer screen, and explained the treatment plan he was recommending. He was a talented presenter, and by the time he was done, I felt as though I had a clear understanding of what they would do, how long it would take, and even how much it would cost. The best part of all though, for Amanda at least, came when they checked their schedule to see when it all could begin.

"Actually," the lady looking at the calendar announced, "I have a spot available this afternoon."

So it was that my young Amanda acquired her first set of mouth wires on Friday, and I added a new word to the English language.

Clavage: a shocking and unnecessary display of the hollow between a person's collar bones.

Dan

LJ Idol, Week Six

"Jungle gym!"

It used to be, when my two daughters gave this war cry, I wouldn't even flinch. They'd scream their challenge, and I'd laugh maniacally in response. Next, they would begin their approach, often thrashing and flailing at one another for the right of first ascendants--a dubious honor, since the first up was always immediately crushed by the second--and then the demands would start.

"Go, Daddy!"

"Go where?" I'd ask innocently.

"Try and throw us off," they'd respond, often while bouncing or pounding on my back insistently.

"I'm so comfortable," I'd lie, manfully ignoring the possibility that this refusal would result in a crushed vertebra. "Yes, yes, I believe it's time for a nap!"

Usually, around that time, my wife the realist would say, "One of you is going to get hurt."

"Daddy!" both girls would shriek, intensifying their bouncing and pounding, and completely ignoring their mother's admonition.

Suddenly, the sleeping jungle gym would spring to life, and giggling little girls would be tossed hither and yon. Occasionally, Mommy would be proven right, and one or another of the young adventurers would be scuffed or bruised during the thrilling fall. But, after all, what fun are adventures if all the risk is taken away?

Alas, it is a universal truth that little girls get bigger, and also that daddies get older. A week ago on Saturday, my youngest daughter, now aged eleven, was curled up on the bed in our bedroom, watching her mother and sister sort through that day's collection of letters, bills, and junk mail. I had abandoned my chair in the far corner of the boudoir, and instead chosen to sprawl out on the floor as close as possible to the mail sorting festivities. When Amanda, the youngest, spied me in my vulnerable and relaxed state, the temptation for mischief proved to be too great to resist.

"Jungle gym!" she shouted, and threw herself into the attack.

I must confess, I flinched.

Unfortunately, during her descent, one of Amanda's feet got caught in-between myself and the wooden frame of the bed, and was severely twisted in the process. Fun was instantly transmuted into pain, and a crying little girl was dumped unceremoniously on to my back.

What followed was pure pandemonium. Amanda was sobbing, her mother and sister were consoling, and I was sitting by her feet, wondering how serious her injury might be. At one point, perhaps after exhausting her supply of comforting words, my wife commented, "I told you not to play with Daddy like that. You always get hurt when he plays with you."

"Dude," I objected, "I was just lying on the floor," but I still felt guilty.

Eventually, we were able to examine Amanda's foot, and discovered that although scraped and quite painful, limited movement was still possible. An ice pack and medicine were fetched, and I lifted my baby back into bed.

Even though she was strongly encouraged to stay still and let her foot completely recover, it wasn't long before boredom set in, and we found her hopping around the house, a precariously balanced flamingo on a mission. Almost as soon as we resettled her in one location, she would be up, intent on traveling to a new destination. By the time evening arrived, she was managing to limp more than hop, although I noticed that the self-prognosis remained rather bleak.

"Does it still feel sore?" I asked her at one point when we were sitting in the back yard.

"Yes," she responded instantly.

"Well, I know you had ice on it earlier," I told her, "but sometimes I've found that heat helps relax sore muscles. What do you think about soaking your foot in the hot tub for a bit?"

She considered, and then decided, "I think I'll just sit on the edge and put my feet in the water. That way I can get out if it's too uncomfortable."

Shortly thereafter, Amanda was sitting on the edge of the hot tub with both feet immersed, and I was relaxing in one of the far corners.

"Daddy," she said after a bit of companionable silence, "may I have a potato chip?"

"H'm," I hummed, thinking through the possible ramifications of granting her request, "I suppose that would be all right."

I moved to the side of the hot tub which was next to the table containing the potato chips, and handed Amanda one so she wouldn't have to stretch for the bag.

"Did you know," I said while surrendering the morsel to her, "that it's impossible to eat just one chip?"

"Really?"

"well sure. Think about it," I challenged, "can you ever remember eating just one chip before?"

"No," she admitted, "I can't."

"Besides," I continued, "even if you could, there's a law against eating just one chip."

"So," she said, taking another offering from me, "what happens if you do eat only one?"

"Oh," I said, my voice hushed, "that's a very serious situation. There are actually potato chip policemen, and they are stationed close by whenever a bag of potato chips is being eaten." I leaned in closer, and whispered, "They wear little potato chip police hats."

Amanda giggled, turning her head from side to side, "I don't see any policemen back here."

I scoffed, "You think they're going to stand out in the open where just anyone can see them? I'll have you know the men and women in the potato chip police force are trained in the very best undercover procedures. The only time a person sees one is when they're snapping on the handcuffs because of a chip violation."

"And," she asked, still not sounding completely convinced for some reason, "where do they take people who get arrested?"

"Why to potato chip prison of course." I hesitated for a second. "Guess what they eat there?"

"Potato chips!" responded my clever child enthusiastically.

"Yes," I agreed, "and they have to eat them all day long."

"That sounds like paradise," Amanda sighed, accepting yet another bit of salty goodness from my hand.

In the end, I'm not sure whether it was the soak or the snack which did the most good, but Amanda's self-prognosis seemed much improved by the time we got out of the hot tub. In fact, by the time Monday rolled around, she was able to resume most of her school activities with little or no difficulty.

I think I've finally decided to put an end to all the jungle gym nonsense however. Besides the risk of further girlita injuries, there's my back to consider. You see, unlike the potato chip police, the backbone police enforce a very strict policy.

"There can be only one!"

Dan