Stupid Confidence and Brilliant Doubt

I’m smart.  And here’s how I know it:  I hardly ever feel like I know what I’m doing. 

Yep.  Self-doubt is a sure sign of brilliance according to Bertrand Russell, Father of Analytic Philosophy.  He said, “The trouble with the world is that the stupid are cocksure and the intelligent are full of doubt.”   

Applying a Socratic syllogism, as I frequently do, I concluded that my feeling unsure of just about everything I’m sure of signifies a high level of intelligence.  

Wow.  I feel brighter already.  I think I do anyway. 

That is to say, I’ll feel fine until an alternate view presents itself, again bringing uncertainty to the forefront.   

So it’s all good.  Right?  Right!?? 

Even Charles Darwin said, “Ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge.”  He seemed pretty sure of it. 

Admittedly, he was on rant against the peons who disagreed with his theories of evolution, but what did they know?  They were too sure of themselves to be believed. 

I just read an article about Adam Bryant, “the CEO Whisperer,” who writes a column for the New York Times called “The Corner Office.”  He’s now written a book by the same name in which he synthesizes what he’s learned from his interviews with top performing CEO’s on how they got to be so smug.  Excuse me, I meant to say how they got to be so good at being good. 

He says his own success as an interviewer springs from his understanding of the value of what he calls “good, dumb questions.”   

Well.  There you are.  I can ask dumb questions!  I do it all the time.  Sheesh.  If that’s all it takes to be brainy, I sewed up my position in the annals of acumen in fourth grade when I waited in line to ask my homeroom teacher if she would please take the staple out of my thumb.   

What worries me is another angle on aptitude stated by a couple of brainiac researchers out of Cornell, Dunning and Kruger, who also wrote an article.  Theirs is called “Unskilled and Unaware of It: How Difficulties of Recognizing One’s Own Incompetence Lead to Inflated Self-assessments.” 

Are you still with me?  Good - it takes a lot of smarts to power through a title like that!  

But there it is:  The dumber you are, the less likely you are to recognize your own dumbness.  Not only that, the duller you are, the more likely you are to rate yourself as sharp.   

It all started when Dunning read a news item about an incompetent bank robber named Wheeler who believed — mistakenly, it turned out — that coating his face with lemon juice would make him invisible to security cameras.  Duh!  Everyone knows that to be invisible you have to live with a teenager.  

But Dunning thought deeper and came up with a dumb question.  Er, a good, dumb question:  If the would-be bank robber was too stupid to be a bank robber, maybe he was also too stupid to know that he was too stupid to be a bank robber — that is, did his stupidity protect him from awareness of his own stupidity?  Profound, huh? 

And there’s a certain beauty to it, too, isn’t there?  Ah, to be oblivious in a world of know-it-alls.  It’s a strategy for living ulcer free.  Calculated cluelessness.  No worries. 

One can move about with freedom and even joy, knowing in her own unconscious way that all is well in her world.  People respect her opinions.  Her clothes flatter.  Her jokes amuse.  Associates hang on her words and await her insights.  Her stores of knowledge calm those less fortunate and those more accurate in their own self-assessments.

It’s a conundrum, though.  A pickle.  A mystery wrapped in an enigma floating in a sea of who really cares except the Republicans, the Democrats and the Tea Party:  When you finally secure some wisdom, irony comes around to foil those visions of perfection.  

Life is so much easier when you’re right all the time!  Then bam!  That sneaking suspicion that you understand nothing spoils it all.   

Abraham Lincoln once said, “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak out and remove all doubt.”   

I can only wish I’d listened.

Just Send Smoke Signals

Washington politicians could take a lesson from the process for selecting a Pope employed by the cardinals of the Catholic Church.

 As you recall, when a Pope dies, cardinals from around the globe assemble at Vatican City, huddle up in the Sistine Chapel, peruse the resumes of all the prospective Pope candidates, and haggle, haggle, haggle.  When they finally agree on a new Pope, they send up a plume of white smoke, thus proclaiming their decision to the world.  

Hooray!  Well done!  For us, painless.  For them, mission accomplished and dignity retained. 

In those intermediary moments, when they’re bickering and disagreeing, when the extremists among them will not budge and even threaten to bring down the Church before they’ll compromise, they send up a billow of black smoke.   

That’s how we know things are unsettled in the cloister.  We sigh and exhale, shrug our shoulders.  What’s taking them so long? 

There may be multiple iterations and repeated puffs of sooty effluent.  We wait.  Even we Southern Baptists twice removed sit at seat’s edge.  We’re intrigued.  We’re titillated.  We wanna know. 

Of course, we find out who the new Pope is, but we never get to know who voted for whom.  We never learn which radical cardinal dug in on what point of contention.  We don’t know who caved.  We never realize how close to the brink the Church teetered. 

Could the Cardinals improve the process by sharing their deal breakers with the masses before going into the huddle?  Maybe they could draw strength for their positions from the perceived moral support of Catholics around the world who agree with them, “Yeah!  The new Pope better not relax the Fish on Friday rules.”  (Forgive my flippancy.) 

I wonder how it would go for the new Pope if all good Catholics knew he was a compromise candidate.  Would they sandbag him if they knew their first choice for the top dog was vetoed by a recalcitrant conservative or hardline liberal cardinal? 

No.  The process would not be improved.  It would be worse. 

The new Pope’s ability to lead would not be enhanced.  He would have a more difficult time asserting himself.  

I think our congress should consider this process for the upcoming Gang of Six “negotiations” on the remaining trillions of dollars of cuts mandated by the recent debt ceiling deal. 

Both parties seem likely to send their dug-in, hard-nosed, party-line perfect representatives instead of the moderates among them who might actually be able to negotiate effectively.  We’re already bracing ourselves for the process of disingenuous proposals, haranguing, lamenting, insincere counter proposals, gridlock, and at last, compromise. 

Why not lock them in to a beltway backroom and let them slug it out like the cardinals do – in seclusion? 

The cardinals surrender their cell phones and iPads.  They even sweep the Sistine Chapel for “bugs” before the conclave, so adamant are they that their deliberations remain secure, no tampering occurs, nor outside influences allowed to creep in.  The cardinals don’t come out between ballots and complain about their colleagues’ well-known ideological stances. 

How could our representatives decline being treated like cardinals?  We can ferry in food and fresh shirts.  Heck, we can sing a song and buy them all capes.  They can send up smoke signals to let us know what we already know:  They’re still fighting.  They haven’t decided.  It’s hard. 

We wouldn’t have to listen to their infantile whining and complaining.  They couldn’t take false encouragement from mindless press coverage of their fingers pointing hither and yon.  We would view the dark vapors wafting from the chamber, recognize them as the typical emissions we’ve come to expect from our elected officials, and wait. 

I know, I know.  Transparency.  Sunshine.  But must we hear every cry of “wolf”?  Must we reel in all red herrings of proposal and counter proposal?  Must we endure the artificial anguish of falling skies again and again? 

I say No!  Lock ‘em up.  Don’t let ‘em out until the white smoke flies.  We will be just fine out here, living our civilized lives.  And, as always, when they’ve reached an agreement, we will deal with their decisions.   

Just once, save what’s left of your dignity by doing the difficult dirty work away from the cameras and out of earshot.  Spare us the maddening and predictable blow by blow.  Just send up the smoke.

Congressional Priorities like Lost Rainbow Toads?

The Rainbow Toad of Borneo gives me hope.

Last seen in 1924, the spindly-legged creature was dismissed as extinct by the less-than-faithful among amphibian specialists in the scientific community.  Yet, it lives.  It survived in obscurity. 

The precise location of the adult male, adult female, and juvenile toads found in three separate trees in the Penrissen Mountains of Borneo is protected by the scientists of Washington-based Conservation International.  Poachers seeking brightly hued amphibians cannot be trusted.

Think of it – not seen in 87 years, but alive, well, and perhaps most remarkable, not forgotten!  If the Rainbow Toad can resurface, why, so could good manners in public places.  Even generosity.  We might find and revive courtesy on the roadways.  Dare I say it?  We could see cooperative policy making in Washington, D.C.

Maybe it’s not too far-fetched to harken back to the days when our elected representatives recognized the common goals of our country.  They worked on our country’s issues with a problem-solving approach, once, ‘way back when.  They understood the well-being of our country ranked above their party loyalty and their re-election didn’t they?

If scientists can find a 2-inch toad in Borneo after it spent 87 years alone in the rain forest, maybe politicians can find courage in Congress today.

If that little toad survived all this time, minding his own business, clinging to trees, being beautiful, contributing to the ecosystem, doing his part when we weren’t looking, maybe Democrats and Republicans can take a lesson.

Of course, there is another, less encouraging angle on the “long lost” phenomenon.  It’s reflected in the love letter rescued from the dead letter purgatory of the Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, post office, and now on its way to its intended recipient after 53 years.

Since the letter, signed, “Love forever,” was written to Clark C. Moore, he has married twice, fathered 21 children, retired from teaching, converted to Islam, and become a Muslim cleric.

The 74-year-old Moore, now known as Siddeeq, currently lives in Indianapolis and says he waits with mixed emotions for the letter to arrive in his mailbox.

"I'm curious,” he told reporters, “but I'm not sure I'd put it under the category of 'looking forward to it.’”

He and the letter’s author married later in the year it was written, 1958, and had four children before divorcing.  They no longer speak.

Siddeeq told reporters that the romantic piece of mail is "just a testament of the sincerity, interest and innocence of that time."

Well I wouldn’t entrust the fate of the Rainbow Toad of Borneo to him!  How cold!  How cynical!
 
OK, maybe we can never recover our innocence.  But sincerity and interest forever gone?  Say it ain’t so!

I hope our elected officials can reach into their hearts and minds and find the sincerity and interest that inspired them to seek office in the first place.

I hope they will muster the mettle to step up in the face of the jaded around them.  It’s pretty important. 

We don’t just need a new debt ceiling; we need thoughtful restructuring of our borrowing, spending, and raising of funds.  We need stable funding, I repeat, stable funding for our schools.
 
We need accountability and justice for the engineers of the bank failures.  We need jobs!
 
We need to stop spending $10 billion per DAY on wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  We could feed hungry people at home and around the world. 

No more blaming.  No more posturing.  No more lost interest in the work or false sincerity of effort.  The American economy is not a lost love letter.  The sentiments of the American people cannot be dismissed as a quaint reminder of times gone by.

Washington scientists placed the Rainbow Toad on the “Top 10 Most Wanted Lost Frogs” list (really).  They persisted in their search and found him.  Let’s hope his location doesn’t become his undoing.

Some of us are like the lost Rainbow Toad of Borneo, making it just fine on our own, thank you.  We often wish Washington would quit focusing on our stuff and leave us alone. 

But too many of us are not doing fine.  Too many may be unable to survive and thrive without a team of representatives who will go to the ends of the earth on their behalf.

Maybe Washington could establish a “Top 10 Most Wanted Lost Priorities” list and start working on that.

Fireworks are for Old Folks

I used to tell my friends I’d be the oldest living person at America’s Tri-Centennial Celebration. That would put me at 127 years old. Turns out I’m not as far off as it might have seemed back then.

At the recommendation of the Wall Street Journal, I completed a longevity calculator - four different ones, in fact; and they’re telling me I could live well into my 90’s. All of them.

I guess that’s good news.

What I’d really like to do is get my friends and family to run the numbers on themselves. See, I’m unsure how much fun it will be to reach 99.8 years, as one of the calculators predicts, if I am to be alone with my oatmeal.

Susan, my cat, is 21 years old. I think that’s about 300 in cat years. She moves in slo-mo now, carefully securing solid placement for one paw before lifting the next. Like a sloth.

Her life doesn’t seem so bad though. It’s just that her world has shrunk.

Gone are the days when she roamed our lot stalking squirrels and birds and bugs, tormenting our passive yellow lab, Ted, (whom she’s outlived by nine years), and romping through the house with her favorite leopard skin catnip mouse.

Now she has a meal, a poop, (in one of the multiple boxes strategically placed for her echolocation), and a day sunning on the deck, or napping on a heating pad. We can dream of such an existence.

And she’s virtually weightless.

OMG! Just the thought of becoming so tiny. Especially after being so…not tiny.

I want to be one of those surprising old women. The one who’s still writing, who college kids think is a kick. I don’t just want to say what I think; I want to think funny, incisive, no, piercing thoughts.

Yes, when folks are at their wits’ ends, casting about, wondering “what the heck?” suddenly, something I’ve said will pop into their heads and they’ll feel better. Lately, it’s been: When you’re going through hell, keep going.

I stole that of course. But I’m going to start recording all my clever insights, so by the time I’m 80, let’s say, or 85, I’ll have amassed a veritable panoply of pithy sayings.

The Anderson Cooper of the era, no, the Jon Stewart, will call me up for on-air interviews. Like when David Letterman calls his mom. You won’t see me; you’ll only hear my voice, bright and tinny. I’ll lampoon the newest president, poke fun at democrats and republicans, and make you laugh with my snappy wit. If you’re still alive, that is.

Of course I’ll be a dancer. I’ll be one of those tiny curved women who wear a leotard in front of a mirror, waving her spindly arms in the air, glorious. Feeling as if she looks good. Just like now when, on a rainy day, I play my “Just Dance” CD on the Wii and pretend I can keep up, pretend I rock. I still have the moves.

If I have to go to an old folks home, I’ll be the spark, the one the nurses won’t mind feeding. Maybe a high school girl will volunteer her time as a part of her senior project. She’ll sit with me and tell me about her boyfriend. I’ll make her blush, just as my grandma did me.

But in the short term I have to go to my husband, the man who helped me retire a year ago, and tell him I might live a long, long time --- longer than we expected. He’s already a little suspect of my earnings-free existence. I don’t know if we have 99.8 years’ worth of rent and Top Ramen. I might have to mow lawns to justify the added years.

He’s younger than I am - my husband. And since women typically outlive men, I’ve always thought it would average out and we would die more or less on the same day. I like the concept since it involves no sorrow. I’m already steeped in sorrow for those who’ve gone ahead. Not sure I could bear it if he up and decided to go before me.

He has better genes than I do, so the calculators are probably on his side. But I don’t want to go first.

I want to light a Roman candle at the Tri-Centennial.

Oh NO! Am I Republican?

Sometimes I actually think I’m a Republican. (I hope my mom can’t see this from her grave! A staunch Democrat, she’d be spinning for sure.)

I hope my in-laws don’t get wind of it either. They already are Republican and I resist giving them an edge in my political persuasion.

But honestly, how can we Americans stand our whiny self-centered selves? New polls out this week say 66% of us report feelings of “frugal fatigue.” We’re tired of being thrifty. We wanna spend again. Or more likely, charge again. We don’t wanna think or plan ahead. We want what we want, and we want it now.

The symptoms of Frugal Fatigue? You’ll recognize them: stress, anxiety, and sabotage.

Being conservative about spending is stressful. It requires us to look at our bank balances. Who wants to do that? It’s depressing. We must put pens to paper and subtract expenses before we go out to buy, buy, and buy. We’re supposed to start with net income (yes, net!); subtract rent or mortgage, subtract electricity, water, insurance, gas for the car…egad! Where’s my credit card?!

It’s easier and more relaxing just to go out and get what you want. Right? It’s soothing to impulse your way through Target. I love unpacking the varied items found (at good prices!) throughout the store. I’ll use this stuff! Come on!

Being frugal makes us anxious. If I shop with my friend, the impulse buyer, I am fretful for two reasons: At the rate she spends, she’ll never get to retire and hang with me during the lovely weekdays that working people pray really do exist.

And I’m uneasy playing the role of killjoy again. Terrific! I thought I retired from managing other people’s behavior. But no, she says she depends on me to stop her, to protect her from her impulsive self when what I really want to do is join her in a house wares spree! Lamps and rugs and pillows, oh my!

Third, those forced into frugality longer than is natural for human beings tend to sabotage their own efforts at living within their means. They put themselves among the Borg of retailers, like Cost Plus World Market or Old Navy, where resistance is futile. Where did you ever see such cute stuff at such reasonable prices? And it’s not for me! It’s for our nieces or our son or … okay this one item is for me. But the rest is for others! What’s imprudent about that?

Of course with our newfound weariness comes advice from the experts: How to overcome Frugal Fatigue.

1. Get a battle plan. Make an agreement with your partner about your spending. Of course, if opposites happen to have attracted each other in this aspect of your relationship, the plan may turn out to be one’s circumspection used to counterbalance the other’s splurges. Not a winning long-term strategy.

2. Be honest about vulnerable spending and set up roadblocks to it. Translated: Stay home. True shopaholics, genuine impulsers are susceptible to just about any good deal in any situation on any day. So just settle in like you’re snowed in. Serve hot chocolate in those darling demitasse cups you got at Pier 1 last week, on sale.

3. Pay cash. Yep. The experts say put debit and credit cards in the freezer in the garage and carry only $50’s and $100’s. Because it’s so painful to break large bills, they theorize, we will hold onto our hard-earned that much longer. What? Cash? Really? I don’t know if I can test this theory.

I have the symptoms of Frugal Fatigue. I want the economy to hurry up and get better so I can go out and spend selfishly, with at least a little bit of abandon, without guilt. In fact, I’ve heard that my spending will help the economy recover. So isn’t it my duty?

I should spend; I shouldn’t spend. Am I a liberal Republican breaking ranks, or a conservative Democrat who’s disgusted with herself?

A full 66% of us cannot suffer a spell of austerity without its end in sight. Like grounded teenagers, we don’t want to keep on restraining ourselves. No wonder our federal, state, and local politicians face such dire scenarios. They represent us.

We want our politicians to do what we’re weary of doing for ourselves. And we want them to do it while we cry and complain and threaten to toss them out if they do.

Whaddaya call that?

Don't Make Me Stop the Car!

When my brother and I were growing up, we tussled as any pair of siblings might. I remember once when the two of us rode with our mom on the spacious bench seat of her beautiful baby blue and white 1957 Mercury Turnpike Cruiser.

We squabbled back and forth over something as important as who ate the last Popsicle, with counterpoints as erudite as, “Did not!” and “Did too!” until she got sick of it and directed us both to keep quiet, which we did. With arms crossed, chins out, and jaws set, we established a battle free zone for her sake.

But then my brother, God love him, stretched his fingers under his arm and across the space between us to my skinny upper arm (where my triceps would have been), and gave me a hard pinch.

It was on! Where we had exchanged inane pre-adolescent barbs ‘til kingdom come (as mom would say), we now engaged in full tilt physical war. I think she stopped the car…

Could be that’s why it’s so hard to feel confident about the newest claims from our lawmakers in Washington, D.C. With contrite expressions, representatives from both parties hit the airwaves this week with proclamations of a new way of business in our nation’s Capitol - cross-party collaboration. They feel sure they’re going to be more successful this way. Hallelujah and amen.

Why, they’re going to quit being rude and combative with each other. They will even sit next to each other! My oh my! What big boys and girls!

Okay, okay, I’ll tone down the attitude. I want to be sarcastic about our lawmakers and their resolutions to be nicer to each other. It’s easier and yes, more fun to be mocking and cynical about their late but well-meaning declarations. But someone has to provide them a role model.

Honestly, I applaud them for stepping up and taking responsibility for the acrimony they have created. They have, in effect, confessed to being vitriolic and venomous. They must have made themselves miserable, along with the rest of us who depend on them for thoughtful leadership and support.

In fact, I appreciate their symbolic gesture of mixed seating for the State of the Union address later this month. (Though it begs the question of why some felt compelled to proceed with the equally symbolic repeal of the Health Care Reform Bill when in their magnanimous mode only moments before, they acknowledged that the whole bill shouldn’t be scrapped. Specific elements are valuable as written and enacted; other elements should be reviewed, tossed out, or improved.)

In the interest of cross-party collaboration, they should dispense with party seating altogether. A rotation of seating might be enlightening and productive for them. This week, let’s seat them alpha by last name. Next week, alpha by state. After that, brown eyes - blue eyes. Anything to get them out of their packs and into the true mix of the needs and interests represented there.

Maybe if our political parties weren’t so well-insulated from each other, they might listen to and learn from each other. In their long-standing segregated practice, too many seem not to listen to anything once the party line is established. Like the penguins in Antarctica, they close ranks, backs to the storm, and wait out the winter of intellectual challenges.

It’s easy to see that when they return to their well-worn, still–warm, and familiar seats, they’re more likely to return to their well-established and unproductive custom of group-think. Common sense and human nature tell us that getting out of the old neighborhood is one of the best ways to get out of an old habit. It’s too easy to blend in, vote with the pack, and avoid controversy and even retribution, when the party is closed around you.

It’s darn near impossible to break from the pack when you’re surrounded by the pack.

It doesn’t seem likely that the seating arrangement planned for the State of the Union will endure beyond its ephemeral symbolism. Too bad.

I hope I’m wrong, but my guess is that ultimately, someone will reach across the aisle and pinch the other guy.  Congressman Anthony Weiner, Democrat, New York 5th District, came close with the tone of his "half time report" during the Health Care repeal debate. 

Soon we’ll have another partisan battle in the hundred year war, replete with volleys of, “He started it!” “Did not!” and “Did too!”

I just hope we don’t have to stop the car, or the country, for it.

What's a Voter to Do?

I married into a nest of Republicans. In this family, a game established by the patriarch entails a set of questions of his device, always about events of the day and politics. After every holiday meal, all generations debate the answers, singing out in happy banter, voicing their insights, opinions, and assertions, all decidedly to the right of center.

My beloved father-in-law and his three children, including my husband, all have advanced college degrees. The same for their spouses, and their children, and now even their children’s spouses, our son being the only exception. (He went to technical school and remains single, thank God.)

It makes an impressive collection of conservatives working on pumpkin pie and whipped cream.

Arriving from a blue collar family in Oklahoma made up of teachers, oil refinery workers, deputy clerks in the county office, and postal employees, I kept quiet at the California dinner table for a long time. My mom and I are the only ones with any college on the Oklahoma side of my life. Back there, we were the sages. But if we mentioned our bachelor’s or master’s degrees, we’d only be showing off. And the conversations on Aunt June’s floral velvet sofa after an orgy of mashed potatoes and gravy heaped on turkey and green beans never approached the erudition of my West Coast family.

Somewhere during my acclimation, I remember hearing that only Democrats have hearts, and only Republicans have brains. There I found my rationale for becoming independent of party affiliations. I have a heart and a brain, and I vote all over the ballot.

Lately, though, neither my intellect nor my conscience can find comfort.

I listen to the debates; I read the stuff in the paper and the voter’s pamphlets. I put x’s and o’s on the chart in the “Election 2010” section of the Times like a gridiron coach developing a play book, choosing quarterbacks and defensive linesmen. I try not to be a one issue voter. I think about the economy and education and jobs and taxes and immigration.

But my guts count for something. And this candidate makes my shoulders sag. That one makes me hold my nose. Too many candidates seem like more of the same self-serving do-nothing office-holding politicos, unwilling or unable to do more than join the pack and play self-righteous. Any candidates who do seem fresh and selfless also seem doomed to be swallowed into the belly of the business-as-usual whale.

It’s crazy making! What’s a voter to do? Choose a stinker, or throw your vote away in feeble protest.

What I’d like to do is grab the table by its edge and flip it skyward. Start over. New game. New players. New strategy. New plan. I understand why some people don’t want to play at all.

Yet I marked my vote-by-mail ballot and sent it off to be counted. Why?

Maybe I voted because 21 people were killed in Karachi, Pakistan, during elections there. No one’s going to shoot me to keep me from participating in our frustrating democracy, though my exasperated brother-in-law sometimes shakes his head at me.

Maybe I voted because in the face of seemingly fossilized opinions and limited enlightenment, we elected a black man; and now we are mad at him not because he’s black, but because he hasn’t solved our problems fast enough.

Maybe I voted because I want to be heard. The action of voting says I do not give up and become a conspiracy-theory survivalist living in a commune with shotguns, “keep out” signs, and trip wires. I use the system to improve the system. I will not slink away in bitterness and retreat.

Maybe I voted because I’m just now starting to get it. At sixty, I’m finally beginning to understand enough of the intricacies of human nature, of complex systems, of long-term change, and yes, of politics, that by voting, my hope and belief are renewed.

Wow. Who knew? Renewed hope. Renewed belief. Voting: a shot of B-12 for the campaign weary.

In fact, now that I think of it, no nest of Republicans or Democrats can keep me from voting.

I voted...Will you?