How to Succeed in Shopping Without Really Trying

Or: How to Get Free Stuff Without Ruining Your Karma.
The trick is being oblivious, so you probably shouldn't read this.

You'll need:

• small ears (optional)
• headphones from a company with a generous warranty policy
• tape
• obliviousness

When I was in high school, a catty girl that I spent a lot of time with told me that I have freakishly small ears. I'd never really considered before that there was a standard size of ear, and that mine failed to live up to such expectations. Despite her best efforts, my ears never became a cause for self-consciousness for me, and I forgot all about this interaction. That is, until my tiny ears set off a chain reaction for which I have just become extremely grateful.

Over a decade after the Great Tiny Ear Revelation, I received from my parents a very thoughtful gift of on-ear headphones, which I'd wanted for some time. They were fancy beyond anything I'd ever experienced in my world of multicolored $9 Panasonic earbuds. But when I put them on my head, they just weren't comfortable.

"Ahem," said my tiny ears in unison. "Forgetting something?"

"Huh?" I asked.

"We're tiny, genius."

"Wait, who is this?"

But my tiny ears were right. These on-ear headphones were threatening to become over-ear headphones, but not quite succeeding. And so it was with great sadness that I returned this thoughtful gift to my parents and went about looking for a suitable replacement.

It wasn't long before I found them: beautiful, big, resonant, and with a shiny wood finish. My tiny ears rejoiced, and all was well.

For about 8 months.

One day, I realized that the right headphone was very quiet. By the time I finished my walk to work, the speaker had stopped working entirely. I tried switching the cables and tapping the headphone, and failing there, I was out of ideas. But then I was told about the company's 1-year warranty on all products! I e-mailed a representative and received a very prompt reply of, "We'll be happy to send you another pair. They have been mailed to you already."

"Should you maybe ask if they want the old ones sent to them?" my conscience asked.

"Uh," I said. "Hey, look, videos of puppies on YouTube."  And so the matter was settled.

A week later, I received the headphones. But instead of the luxurious, over-ear beauties to which I'd grown accustomed, they were earbuds: still quite beautiful and made of wood, but nevertheless not what I wanted. I wrote back to the company and told them of their error.

"Oh okay," their e-mail more-or-less read. "We'll be happy to send you another pair. They have been mailed to you already."

Once again, no mention of a return, even on these brand new, unopened earbuds. This time my conscience just shrugged. Even it couldn't find a way in which we were being unfair.

Another week.

Another pair of headphones.

Another few months of auditory bliss.

And then another sudden one-eared musical deafness.

This time I was outside the bounds of the warranty, so I knew that the company would not help me (and after all, had they not done far more than their fair share?). So I finally turned to that last resort: hypothesis testing. Now pay attention, dear reader, because this is where it gets complicated. I unplugged the headphones from my phone and plugged them into a different device. Where they worked perfectly. And so did the old pair. And a string of lower-priced earbuds that I had similarly discarded into the near-impenetrable abyss that we've taken to calling "the electronics drawer."

Now that's how you science!

About two minutes of Googling then told me that the issue was likely to be dust in the jack, and a couple of applications of a thinly rolled up piece of tape, sticky side out, would fix the problem.

I now have three pairs of fully functional headphones for the price of one. Not to mention a tangled heap of countless old headphones, revived from the dead in true Frankenstein style, just in time for Halloween. And all it took was being too lazy to test a hypothesis for a few months.

That and small ears.

Park Walk in the Clouds

A tree branch snaps somewhere off to the right, and I register its descent, counting the seconds, anticipating the thud as it hits the ground. The sound barely echoes in this evening stillness, yielding quickly to the silence like a child told to hush. A single stone is disturbed and is sent tumbling, a few inches at most, yet I am certain about what happened as if I were watching its short-lived journey with my own eyes. It so happens that I am not watching it, because my eyes are closed, and have been for some distance now.

As we walk, I become more and more aware of the world around me, the world I would ordinarily only perceive by pattern recognition - tree, rock, yellow tractor. Deprived of my most overused sense, I am forced into the present moment by a combination of fear and curiosity. What if I walk into a tree? What if I step into bear droppings? What if I look somewhat different from the way normal people are supposed to look, different from all those people who don't walk through the park at sunset with their eyes closed… Gradually, curiosity takes over - Let me listen to the birds and … wait… what happened to the birds? The tranquility of this evening moment is disturbed only by a handful of distant bugs, making our footsteps and our thoughts the loudest events in the park.

It may seem that we are also subject to the decree of silence seemingly accepted by all living things here, but this is not the case. Our silence is premeditated, or perhaps - currently meditated. We are here to listen to the energy of the park, and to practice guided walking. Intellectually I know that I am not in any danger, for my hand is held firmly by my lovely companion who is not only excellent at avoiding bear droppings, but is managing to create an energetic space of acceptance and ease as we walk. I move inwards, and try an ancient Tibetan practice of cloud walking. I picture myself walking confidently right up to a cliff and then stepping off, onto the blue infinity, continuing to walk on that which is nothing. Although my goal is to feel weightless, all I manage to achieve today is a certain degree of lightness and ease. This is fine as well, there is no rush, and there are no deadlines.

A feeling of gratitude arises spontaneously in my heart, and we switch roles. No matter how many times I've experienced it, I've found being trusted to feel unusual. I am now balancing a feeling of responsibility with a sense of joy. I'm responsible for her safety, true, but I'd also like to return the favor, to provide her the best experience possible. I know intellectually that this is not in my control, so I try to drop responsibility in favor of pure love. It mostly works.

The road comes to an end, and so does this practice. A pair of green eyes offers me unquestionable love and understanding and a pair of my own reflections. There are two, on two levels at once - the images I see is just the surface. I realize now that she is not thinking, and that's the very state I'm after. In her perfect stillness she is reflecting my nature as a perfect mirror, and my own stream of thoughts begins to finally put on the brakes. This is like having real-time biofeedback that actually works. I understand now the poetic desire to jump into the pools of your lover's eyes, and I do this with my consciousness, joining with her and feeling a oneness that requires no words. I know that both of us are entirely content, and there is nowhere else to go. Not this moment.

Thinking Black

Even from here I can sense the subtle and quick pulsation in the neck, partially obscured by fur, though not well enough to hide it from me. To be quite honest, I don't know what sense I'm using to detect the creature's pulse. Sometimes I think I'm hearing the friction of the blood against the arterial walls, sometimes I feel as though I might be smelling fear. Pheromones and other fancy things, most probably. I know of such things, I've heard the voices talk about them before, from the warm silver box She stares at in the mornings. I don't always pay attention, of course - on most mornings the box talks about complete nonsense, and frankly I don't really understand why She would prefer the box to me in the first place. I may not talk about Remote Viewing or Astral Projection, but that doesn't mean I can't teach her how to do it. Like this morning, when I was exploring ancient Egypt… now there's a place where you get treated right.

Besides, She often needs help, She may not know it, but I do. If only She would calm down a little and stop baby talking to me as if I were a first-rate moron, I could really help her focus and even pull some of that darkness out, the thoughts she brings home sometimes. For now, I'll just have to keep doing it at night. She thinks that I crawl into bed because I like to be warm, and that's fine with me. An agenda of stealth, that's my game.

But now is not the best time to get sidetracked by all this pensiveness.

The pace at the jugular quickens slightly, the ears perk up - he heard something, though certainly not me. I am completely still, even my tail has ceased its unending oscillation. What is the deal with this tail business, anyway? I seriously think that sometimes it has a mind of its own. Sometimes it gets so excited that I can barely hold it still to … wait, hang on, he's on the move. A few hops at a time, taking his time to look around, cautious, and rightly so. All the caution in the world won't help you, little friend. Some of us are prey, that's simply how it is. It's not that I'm so unabashedly self-assured… although I am, in this case… no, sometimes certainty is just so clear and tangible that there is no doubt. Somehow I just know what is about to happen, it seems to come from somewhere both within me and beyond me. What was that phrase this morning? "Zen duality?".... call it whatever you like, as long as it helps me bring this rabbit home. Bonus points for helping me avoid the noisy rolling beasts, blind as they may seem, there have been more of them lately. I must think about this a bit more later… I'm not sure I like the way things have been changing around here.

Hold my thoughts… he stops, inches from my face. No, my furry prize, you cannot smell me, I'm downwind from you, and I smell you just fine. These are the nights when I'm truly grateful for being born black. He's staring right at me, sensing something, yet there is nothing to focus on, nothing to pick out in the blackness of the shadow. I am part of the shadow now… and boy could I work that topic for a while, but I won't, not right now, my thoughts must yield to the instincts that drive me to play this ancient game. Why do I even have thoughts, in the first place? Am I the only feline in the world that asks questions? I've tried it, tried talking to the neighbors, and would you believe it - nothing! Not a single ounce of interest in anything but stuffing themselves silly and commiserating on their dissatisfaction with the weather, all expressed in the same one-word neanderthal language they've used for millennia. Yes of course I know what they mean, but seriously, it's the same weather as last year. And the year before. Mrrl...Year? Yes, year, you mindless furballs, they repeat you know. And maybe it isn't so bad to be constantly surprised by what happens next, keeps life interesting I suppose… but taking it to such heights of ignorance! Makes me wonder sometimes if we as a race even deserve to catch our prey, after all, what makes us better? Are we really any different than those long eared, grass munching poop factories?

Maybe it's better not to go down this path, I don't want it to turn out like last winter, depression isn't that much fun, as it turns out. She pretty much had to resurrect me with her infectious liveliness - without her I'd probably just sulk into the blackness…. but hey, at least I'd blend in, right, right, eh? See, I'm not depressed now, that's right, not a bit. And now it's time to crunch on some collarbones, that's always exciting. And there he is, right on schedule, walking right into my mouth, I won't even have to run. Not that I mind running, mind you, I'm in really good shape, 8 pounds of shiny fur and shapely muscles, and I do say so myself.

Well, that's that then, and now I have my teeth in his stinky scruff, dragging him across the road. Why can't you furballs come a little closer to the house and save the Ghost some work? Maybe when She sees you on the steps, the gift of gratitude that I owe her, maybe she'll start calling me by my real name. Not that other name, I won't even mention it, it makes my tail hairs stick up every time I hear it… why do they always do that, these humans, why do they make up names for us and just assume that we're cool with it, that they are the foremost authority? Did you ever think to ask us? To give her credit though, She sometimes just calls me "Cat". Even that's better than … no, I won't fall for that trick, you won't make me say it. That name always brings up an image of a country bumpkin out to chop firewood. Not that I have an issue with alternative fuels, but seriously, it just doesn't feel cool. And have you seen me? I'm pretty damn cool. Now up the steps, furry token of gratitude, She'll be up soon.

Who has time?

I don't have time. Not today. I don't have time to write a blog post. I don't have time for the hour long lunch I just took. I don't have time to look through the puzzle books I looked through this morning. I don't have time to just sit here and think about how spacious my office is, or how delicious my milk tea is, or how nice the weather is.

I have to apply for jobs. I have to meet with a student. I have to meet with another student. I have to write tomorrow's exam. I have to make the weekly homework. I have to submit a paper. I have to meet with another student. I have to make a lesson plan.

I have to be a better researcher. I have to be a better teacher. I have to be a better planner. I have to be a better organizer. I have to be more motivated. I have to go to the gym. I have to go for a run. I have to eat less candy.

I don't have time to kiss my fiance when he meets me halfway on my walk home. I don't have time to give the dogs hugs in the street and scratch behind their ears. I don't have time to make these sentences so long. I don't have time for a delicious dinner. I don't have time to cuddle while watching TV. I don't have time to go to bed early.

I don't have time for anything.

So I may as well do what I want.

Method Man

My feet contact the ground in a steady rhythm, loosely protected by a pair of unfastened sandals. I am running across a dark Rite-Aid parking lot towards the welcoming entrance doors, left wide open on this beautiful October night, an indication that even the mosquitoes know that this warm weather is only temporary, and that they no longer have dominion over human outdoor experiences.

I typically do things for a reason, and this time I have two brilliant justifications for my apparent pedestrian impatience. On one hand, I am keeping one very lovely human waiting for a pack of Zyrtec (because just because you are comfortable enough to cry in front of each other does not mean that you should be crying continuously), and, on the other hand, I do like to run.

I scan the shelves carefully in an attempt to fulfill my quest without significant delay - but to my dismay, Zyrtec is the only item I am not finding. Still hoping for quick service, I approach the pharmacy counter and discover my coveted prize stacked neatly behind the two highly trained and professionally attired attendants, currently engaged with the two people ahead of me in the queue. A stern warning sign reminds me to respect their privacy and wait my turn, and that is what I do.

After a while, one of the employees decides to improve throughput through the use of pipelining, and asks me a question via human long distance communication technology (aka yelling): "What is your last name?" Having watched the process for some time, I immediately infer that she is expecting that I am here for a pre-existing prescription, and thus I preempt the useless search she is about to embark on with a direct answer: "I am just here for the Zyrtec". She gives me a knowing nod and proceeds to look around her in a somewhat absent minded manner dominated by focused disinterest.

It is quite clear that her surroundings are failing to entertain her for very long, as only ten seconds later she looks up at me and repeats the question, an inquiry which, unsurprisingly, yields the same answer.   I believe that this time I see a spark of cognition in her eyes, and indeed her second survey of the land is not limited to the ceiling, but appears to be focused on the general area of my interest.   As I finally approach the counter, I find myself looking at a pack of Zyrtec that is so close that I could (and do) touch it, and yet it is so far…

In truth, I knew this going in - a few cursory Google searches revealed that Zyrtec is a highly controlled product because it can be used to make meth. Thus I am not surprised when the two indifferently nice ladies request my drivers license. I am surprised, however, when they request that I swipe my license through the credit card reader. Figuring that they must know something I don't, I obediently run my non-magnetic piece of plastic through the magnetic reader slot. The ladies clearly believe that in addition to presenting a malfunctioning license I lack fine motor skills to properly operate complex technology, and proceed to swipe my license for me repeatedly for some time without success, producing only a mixture of frustration and disbelief.

Eventually, they switch tactics and attempt to have my license communicate with the RFID reader in the same device. We are clearly living in the dark ages in New Jersey, because my very pretty holographic identification card does not appear to be all that open to either form of communication, and is thus probably vastly inferior to its Pennsylvanian counterparts. Some five minutes later, the puzzled and frustrated employees finally admit defeat and concede to proceeding manually. This process involves typing the entire 15 digit license number into the point-of-sale unit using only their fingernails.

Some 20 minutes later, I leave the store with a pack of Zyrtec and newfound interest in watching Breaking Bad.