Congratulations! You’re (Not Quite) A Winner!

Contest time is always one of my least favorite times of the year, mostly because while I would very much like to win (and thus be recognized by my peers as the unbelievably talented artist that I am), I have every reason to surmise that this will be just another futile gesture on my part and the prelude to another sobering judgment that says, "You're a loser! But thanks so much for playing! Do come again!"

Recently, the results for a statewide journalism contest came back, and I was presented with a "Certificate of Achievement." Yes, on fancy faux parchment paper and an old English typeface, just like your average high school diploma. "For submitting an outstanding entry in Sports Photo," it says, and then has the title of said entry printed out below, so I'll know which photo was good – but not quite good enough. And then, in even smaller type, it says, "This entry was among the top 10% that advanced forward to the Blue Ribbon Judging. While your entry was not selected for 1^st or 2^nd place, we would like to congratulate you on being a finalist in the [Great Big Statewide Newspaper Contest]!"

So I've got that going for me.

It's this kind of ego-salving sympathy card that makes me wish I hadn't even entered in the first place. After all, it's one thing to lose, but it's quite another to have someone send you a note saying, "You missed it by this much!"

"Hey, you lost, but we didn't just chuck your photo out in the first round!"

Contest judging being amazingly arbitrary so much of the time, one wonders where a photo might have finished if the judges had decided to have Chinese for lunch instead of the pizza. Or if your photo hadn't reminded one of the judges so much of a picture he missed 25 years ago and it's been eating at him ever since.

Earlier this month, I learned that I was not a winner in a Bay Area photojournalism contest. That was painful, but at least no one sent me a certificate to tell me I didn't win.

And now there's another entry form sitting in front of me, this one for an even smaller and more obscure set of participants. It's like if you had a photo contest with other members of your family, where you were an only child and your parents were legally blind. Should I submit my photos (and nominal entry fee), just for the chance to brag that I took first place in the Sports Division of the Brown-Haired-Right-Handed-Caucasian-New-Jersey-Born-Photography-Contest-For-Men-Over-Six-Feet-With-Hazel-Eyes?

Nah. I'd probably lose at that, too.

Are You My Mother?

I've just been thinking again today about my poor mother. At the ripe ol' age of 82, she's been put in the position of finding a new place to live – being summarily tossed out on her ear by her soon-to-be-ex-husband, whom I shall refer to here as "Mander," because, frankly, using his real name would make me nauseated.

In any case, way back in 2006, Mander relentlessly wooed my mother, a strong independent woman who'd been living on her own since her divorce from her second husband in 1987 (and now, let us never speak of this again). She was aging, mostly gracefully, in her suburban New Jersey home, and living the life that most of us aspire to in our retirement years – except for the multiple church services, that is – close to her children and her Delaware vacation home.

Enter Mander, who had lost his own wife to a distinct lack of interest on her part, misdiagnosed by doctors as cancer. His late wife and my mother had been cohabitants during their college years, more than half a century ago, and had maintained a friendship in the ensuing decades, so who knows for how long Mander had been coveting my mother, but now his chance to win her heart was upon him.

He coaxed and cajoled, nagged and nudged, for more than a year, attempting to convince my mother that they could share a happy future together. In December 2006, my mother married him at her church, in front of a good dozen or so witnesses. She then set about relieving herself of the lion's share of her furniture, books and other belongings, sold her home and moved to Outer Sticksville, Virginia, to Mander's home in the country, where the television plays nothing but FOX News and reruns of Law and Order. The things we do for love…

No one would accuse my mother of being an easy woman – or, at least, no one who has known her for more than, say, eight minutes. Still, it came as a shock to her when, 2-1/2 years later, Mander intoned that he thought it might be a good idea for them to set about getting a divorce. That was the summer of 2009. I know what you're saying: it's now 2011 – were they waiting on government paperwork? Perhaps the slow pace of this divorce can be attributed to old age – after all, Mander is only five months younger than my mother. Maybe he just got drowsy and forgot what he was talking about.

Last month, however, he remembered and served my mother with a "separation agreement" – that sounds so cordial, don't you think? Hi honey! Here's your separation agreement! Now get your stuff and blow outta here, huh? This left my mother in the awkward position of having to find a new place to keep that stuff, not to mention herself. He did offer a nominal sum to help her with the move – and when I say "nominal," I mean "cheap." Perhaps she could hock the wedding ring.

I just find it… interesting that he who would have moved heaven and earth to help her relocate to Bumf*** now can hardly be bothered to help her move out. Just shows you that men, no matter their age, never quite outgrow the douchebag thing. You'd think we'd evolve, but perhaps Darwin was wrong.

I know that it's petty of me to wish any evil on Mander, but I really hope that he'll be quite lonely and miserable in his (very brief) future. Justice of the poetic variety, I would say.

Birth of a Blogger

Someone actually told me that they thought I would make a great blogger. But you should always discount anything your mother tells you (except, perhaps, that admonition not to hold one's penis in public).

Still, the idea that I have thoughts, and that those thoughts might entertain you, the reader, however briefly, has convinced me to render this digital version of my erstwhile newsletter.

Sadly, I am already bored.

Anyway, some random thoughts, and then I'll leave you to mull all this over in the privacy of your own cubicle.

One: the Oakland Athletics. What part of "Opening Day" didn't they get? I don't care if it was a Friday – play the game in the sunlight!

Two: am I just too cynical, or is there something completely jingoistic and simultaneously infantile about a political candidate who would aspire to make the United States "the greatest nation in the history of the world?" Uh, numb-nuts? The Greeks, Romans, Aztecs, Gauls, Huns, Celts, Aryans, Egyptians, Africans and every other country, culture or people that ever contributed to this country we call America just called to say, "Go down to the bank, take out a big withdrawal and buy a clue!"

Three: there is no number three.

Four: speaking of self-important crapola, just where do I get off thinking anybody would give a rat's ass about what I think? Hey, if you're still reading this far, I blame you.

Five: this was all so much easier when I had pictures to fill up the blank space.

Later, gators,

D. Ross