Oops! Dissected

Now that my children are grown, I can’t remember the last time I used the word “oops.” Sure – it’s part of my vocabulary, but I have never spent any time considering its various implications.  Until of course, last week when Rick Perry was floundering around trying to remember the three US departments that he would eliminate if elected president.  He came up with two, and despite helpful prompting from his rivals he could not come up with the third, even after looking at his notes.  He gave up and then quietly said “Oops!”

His brain freeze was stunning.  After all he was not being tested with “gotcha” questions on obscure foreign policy leaders or domestic issues.  I recall the1988 presidential debate between Dukakis and Bush Sr., where Dukakis was asked if he would favor the death penalty if his wife were raped and murdered.  One might forgive Dukakis for fumbling and stumbling on this question, but instead he gave a composed answer stating that he had always opposed the death penalty.  Although you would think that Americans would value composure in their president, his response was widely criticized as being too dispassionate.  This incident, coupled with the ridiculous picture of him looking like Rocky the flying squirrel posing as a tank commander, doomed his campaign. 

In contrast, Rick Perry was in autopilot debate-speak, reeling off examples of how he would downsize the federal government.  That Perry would forget one of the fundamental principles of his domestic agenda was egregious enough, but it was that added Oops! that sent comedians into rapturous delight.

So what is the meaning of Oops! and where did it come from, and is it a purely American phrase, or is this word used universally across multiple languages and cultures?  According to Slate magazine, Oops did not enter our lexicon until the 1930s, where it was used to signify an apology for a blunder. The word is probably a contraction of the childhood phrase “Up-a-Dazy, which can be traced back to Jonathon Swift (of Gulliver’s Travels fame), which then evolved into the more familiar “Oops-a-Daisy, and from there to the free standing Oops!.  Its use with children is pretty clear – it describes a trivial accident, like spilling milk.  Putting your hand to your lips reinforces the concept.  In fact, if a parent says Oops! to a child, the child is reassured that there will be no recriminations – no harm no foul. 

My bilingual friends have suggested that some variations of Oops! are used in other languages.  For example, in Hindi the equivalent is Oh-ho (with a downward inflection), in Portuguese, it is Opa Opa.  Germans and Poles say Oopala.  But the consistent feedback I got is that regardless of language, we routinely punctuate our blunders with a heart felt Shit! However, I would argue that Shit! is nuanced – it comes with an element of annoyance or frustration.  When we spill milk, we say Shit!, not because we are out of the range of tender ears, but because now we have to clean up the mess.  Compared to Oops!, Shit! lacks the no harm/no foul connotation.

Back in my college days before word processors, a typo would prompt a multitude of “Shits!” since I would have to retype a whole page or get meticulously creative with the White Out. Now with spell check, a typo only prompts an Oops!  In contrast, when the computer crashes and I lose an entire document, I let loose with a torrent of Shits! plus other well chosen words.  There is one additional small niche for the adult Oops! It describes a blunder that is cute or amusing – farting in bed is the best example.  “Oops, sorry,” followed by tittering, exaggerated P.U’s and flapping of sheets. 

The teenage pop singer Britney Spears shot to fame with the song “Oops, I Did it Again,” and it is interesting to dissect the lyrical implications of the word.  The song starts with a series of Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs and then she says:

“Oops, I did it again, I played with your heart, got lost in the game, Oh baby, Oh baby.

To me the word Oops! implies that the singer is a young child.  Indeed Britney sings with a baby doll voice suggesting pure innocence, a young girl who is still unaware of her effect on men.  I remember sitting at a dinner table once with some men my age.  A bevy of coltish teenagers walked in wearing cute little skirts and tank tops, which they repeatedly yanked up, sometimes in unwitting unison.  The man next to me said, “There is just a certain something about teenage girls that is so charming.  They just have no idea what sort of vibe they are giving off.”  I agreed, their innocence was delightful to watch.  “They lose that something when they hit 18,” he continued. “The innocence is usually gone by then.”  Oops.

However, Oops does a 1800 in the next verse:

“Oops – you think that I’m in love, think that I’m sent from above, but I’mnot that innocent.”

Here Britney is no longer the innocent child, she has become the vixen.  Although she may be breaking a man’s heart, she dismisses the situation by saying, Oops! The addition of Oops! has trivialized love.  No harm/no foul on her part, and so what if the man got the wrong impression? That’s his issue to deal with.

So here is another role for the adult Oops – it trivializes a mistake.  When Rick Perry said Oops! could he possibly have thought he could pass the whole moment off as an innocuous brain freeze?  I can imagine the frenzy in Perry’s backstage war room during that sickening minute as he flailed around on stage.  His advisers at first stared in disbelief, and then as agonizing seconds ticked by, they turned and retched in the corner wastebasket.  Somehow they would have to explain how the next leader of the free world could not remember the cornerstones of his campaign.  Forty more excruciating seconds ticked by as the hole got deeper, and then the advisers saw Perry shrug his shoulders and say Oops! Now they would have to additionally explain why Perry thought that his blunder was only a trivial mistake.

Certainly Americans expect that their president can keep more than three things in his mind at once. Perry also looked down at his notes for help, but his advisers probably did not think that it was necessary to give him crib notes for his basic campaign strategy.  It would have been like giving him crib notes for the names of his wife and children.  Instead, his notes probably addressed easily forgettable names that have been the mainstay of gotcha questions  – like countries and their presidents.  Just the week before, Herman Cain had referred to Uzbekistanas Uz Beki Beki Beki Stan Stan, casually dismissing the former Soviet state as totally irrelevant.  Or perhaps Perry’s notes provided him with a map of the Middle East, so he would not mistake Libya for Syria.  Personally, I think that the President should be able to keep not only three, but dozens of lists in his mind.  I would hold the President to a higher standard than, say, a football quarterback.  The quarterback is being paid the big bucks to memorize all of the plays– that’s why they call it a “skill position.” Therefore, I am always disappointed when the quarterback gets into the huddle and checks the crib notes taped to his arm.

Clearly Oops! was not the optimal word – it falls hopelessly short of the required presidential gravitas.  But then I thought, what should Perry have said?  I bet that a heartfelt Shit! or even Fuck! was on the tip of his tongue, and perhaps he deserves credit for stifling two of George Carlin’s words that you can never say on television.   Part of the problem might be that our vocabulary lacks a suitable word that acknowledges a mistake and takes responsibility for it – something north of Oops! and slightly south of Shit!  Okay, well how about Darn!?  This word occupies the same niche and Oops, but is not as cute.  “Uh-Oh” is also a poor choice because it implies an oncoming disaster and thus was not compatible with the damage control launched the next day.  His advisers apparently saw no noble or presidential way out of the hole, so they continued with the Oops! strategy.   His subsequent appearance on the David Letterman show, and in the next Republican debate, continued to trivialize the mistake by playing it for laughs.  It’s totally different in football – in the post game press conference, the coach, the quarterback or the defense somberly admit their mistakes, and promise to better next time.  There is no Oops! in football.

There are a couple of other professions where a ready admission of a mistake is ill-advised.  Airline pilots for example – if there is a very rough, but safe, landing the pilot will not come on intercom and say “Oops! I forgot to put up the flaps as I landed.”  Surgeons are another example – an Oops! can lead to a law suit.  I remember sewing up my first episiotomy in medical school.  I put in an ill-placed stitch and said “Oops!”  I simply removed it and put in a better one.  No harm/No foul.  Afterwards the attending took me aside and said, “Please listen to this advice. Never, ever, ever, say Oops unless the patient is under general anesthesia.”

The missing words in the following poem are anagrams (i.e. share the same letters like spot, stop, post) and the number of asterisks indicates that number of letters.  One of the words will rhyme with the previous or following line.  Your job is to solve the missing words based on the above rules and the context of the poem.  Scroll down for answers.

American watched in fascinated horror as Perry started to blither

And before our eyes a presidential campaign start to shrivel and ******

Backstage, his advisers were horrified and they couldn’t believe their eyes.

They began to ****** in agony as each painful second ticked by

Their knuckles turned ****** and they all wanted to up chuck

But when Perry said Oops! they knew that they were shit out of luck.

 *

*

*

*

*

*

*

*

 

Answers: Wither, writhe, whiter

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Chapter 1: Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Thursday, with nothing on my schedule for Friday.  First time in a long time that I wasn’t going to be working a weekend.  So I certainly didn’t want to take Penny’s case, but the referral was from Charles Grimes, my father’s old partner on the force. 

“Hey Liza, I’ve got a case that I think might be right up your line.  It may be nothing, but it could be a juicy missing person’s case, and it involves some of Santa Teresa’s finest, so it might lead to something.  These were the kind of cases your Dad loved.”

“Charles, I have a hair appointment for tomorrow, and after that maybe a massage, and one of my clients gave me a gift certificate for a facial.”

“Now Liza, you are not going all girlie on me now are you?  All those years working with your father you should know to never turn down a case, and I am handing this one to you on a platter.”

I cold hear him tsking in the background, and knew that it was both good natured teasing and also the truth.  I had worked hard to keep the agency going since Dad died, but I had relied too much on his client list, and knew that I had to start developing my own.  Dad was a pro at networking, and knew exactly how to draw the line between a professional acquaintance and a friend.  He often told me that friends don’t hire their friends as  private detectives,  but they didn’t like hiring total strangers either.  They would hire someone who moved in that middle ground of acquaintances that could be trusted but not titillated by deep family secrets.  “I wouldn’t want my best friend to be your mother’s gynecologist, would I Liza?”, he said, “But I do want someone I could trust.  That’s the balance you have to strike.”

Dad always knew how to drive the point home.  I always knew that I had great instincts for the business and that my father often relied on me to see through the complexities of a case, but I hated the networking part of the business, and my roster of clients had slowly dwindled over the past couple of years.  The most lucrative clients were the ones that put you on a retainer, like law firms that needed an investigator from time to time.  But those clients only provided me enough security to pay the rent every month.  It was the “one-off” cases that were more interesting and more lucrative since you could bill by the hour, and who knows when those types of cases could turn into a retainer arrangement.  

“Okay, Charles, you are right as usual, give me the background details.”

“I have gotten a couple of calls from a young woman named Penny.  She says that she is a student at the University.  Nice sounding kid on the phone, but I haven’t met her in person.  She is worried about her room mate – says she has disappeared and that no one seems to care.  She called the room mate’s parents, but she told me that the parents brushed her off, told her the room mate had taken a leave of absence from the University and was on an artist’s retreat in Mexico.

“George, that doesn’t sound like much.  A college student – no corroboration from the family.  I can see why the police won’t get involved, but this hardly seems to be worth my while either.”

“Okay, normally I would agree, but here is the good part, Liza.  The room mate is Dessa Todd, her father is that developer that caused such a stir last year.  He lives up in that big place up in the canyon, his Skye Isle development.”

“Oh great.  It is one thing to be hired by the Todds, quite another to piss them off by showing up on their doorstep and insisting to them that their daughter is missing.  And this Penny, I can’t imagine that a college student could actually pay me.”

“Liza, just talk to her.  I told you, I liked her over the phone.  Nobody is forcing you to take the case, but it is the “you just never know” about detective work that keeps life interesting.  Here is her number.  I am going out of town for the next week fishing in Montana, no cell phone, no nothing.  I expect you will have finished the case by the time I get back.  I know you love missing persons.”

Charles was mostly right.  I did like missing persons, because usually they were quick and easy – not hard to track someone down these days.  But the real appeal of these cases was why the person went missing, and that was my particular expertise – mucking around deep dark and dysfunctional secrets, often in the decaying infrastructure of the booze-addled and idle rich.  It was satisfying if I recovered lost souls, but more often than not  I just shattered lives in the name of truth – and at the beginning of a case you could never tell which way it was going to fall.  

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Author’s Commentary 2: The Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

I initially titled my little murder mystery “The Blue Hammer,” in homage to the Lew Archer detective series written by Ross MacDonald.   However, I will definitely need a title of my own if I continue this exercise. After reading a few more Lew Archer books, I realized that the title need only be tenuously related to the plotline. The Blue Hammer only comes up in one line in that novel; it was not the murder weapon at all, but described the pulsating temporal artery of the love interest who succumbs to colllateral damage in one of the final scenes.  In the “Zebra Striped Hearse,” the car makes only a cameo appearance. Therefore, for the time being, my story is called “The Clean Plate Club,” after a dinnertime phrase my mother often used. It was the 1960s and there was this notion going around that Americans should not waste food since others were going hungry.  She would say, “You had better clean your plate, because Armenians are starving,” but I don’t think that anyone had a clear idea of who Armenians were.  In our household, members of the Clean Plate Club would be rewarded with two Hershey kisses for dessert. I always thought that “Clean Plate Club” would be a good name for a restaurant, implying particularly yummy food. However, Nick pointed out that diners would have no confidence in the cuisine if a restaurant had to reassure them that the plates were clean. So I have shelved the improbable restaurant idea and have repurposed it for an equally improbable book title.

The detective was at first unnamed, but now I have decided to call her Liza Blue, which I have occasionally used as an alias for Elizabeth Brown. This name came about when my brother Tim proposed that we change the color of our last name, so I changed Brown to Blue and went with Liza.

Suggestions welcomed regarding plot lines – i.e hidden identities, family secrets, possible blackmail, shady business deals, etc. No clear idea where I am going with this.

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Chapters 10-12 Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Prior chapters of The Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery are filed in the “Murder Mystery” category.

 

Chapter 10

My next stop was the University where I thought that I would start with the fencing coach.  I knew that I couldn’t get any information from the administration – schools these days don’t even feel the need to send report cards to the parents paying the tuition.  In my day, report cards were a dinner time event.  I would prop the sealed envelope against the candlesticks waiting for my father to be home, and he would open it over dessert.  Since he often worked nights, the letter could be silently sitting there for several days until we had dinner together.  I was an only child and the first one of my parents’ families to go to college, so I understood the pride and drama.  Fortunately, I worked hard at school and did well, but it was nerve wracking.  I would close my eyes and listen as my father slit the envelope open with his silver letter opener.  The unveiling would be followed by a small toast.  “To my daughter the College Student, who makes me so proud and also makes me work so hard to provide this opportunity.”  We would have a shot of liquor in small frosted glasses, and clink them together. Continue reading

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Drunkard’s Walk

Every now and then when I am doing errands, I stop at the local bookstore to see what’s new.  I freely admit that I judge a book by its cover – the title, the graphics and any blurbs.  I also like to stroke the cover – a nice grainy feel may be the tipping point to a purchase.  The particular book that recently caught my eye was “The Drunkard’s Walk: How Randomness Rules Our Lives.”  The dust jacket was very cute, consisting of punched out holes spelling out the word random.  The title resonated since I have often marveled at how coincidences can change your life on a dime. (See prior fanagram, “That Moment in Time.”)  Certainly my life changed for the better in 1978 when I randomly met my husband Nick at a large Christmas party that neither of us was invited to.   Continue reading

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Pet Care Rationing

Health care rationing for family pets has struck me as an interesting contrast to the emotional and unsolvable issue of health care rationing for humans.  Pet owners routinely make budgetary decisions on when to put a pet down, or how aggressively to treat a chronic disease.  Veterinarians typically required up front payment for pet surgery, concerned that owners will simply not return to pick up their pet if the price tag suddenly seems too high.

The story in the paper today, “Lost for 61 Days at the Airport, Weakened Cat is Euthanized” provides an illustrative vignette.  A cat was lost for 61 days at Kennedy airport after he escaped from his carrying case.    He suddenly reappeared in an emaciated state when he fell through the ceiling at Terminal 8.  At this point, American Airlines took over the costs of his medical care, and thus assumed the role of the insurer.  The cat was first taken to a nearby animal hospital, and then taken by pet ambulance to an intensive care unit in Manhattan.  American Airlines popped for a plane ticket for the owner to fly from California back to New York to visit the cat in the ICU.  The following day, the cat was euthanized, “surrounded by family and friends.”

So here is American Airlines putting out an enormous amount of money for ultimately doomed end-of-life care in response to an emotional and a “do whatever it takes” scenario.  The unanswered (and more interesting question in my mind), is how much money would the owner have ponied up out of her own pocket?  In our household, as much as we love our dogs, I think $1,000 might be the absolute limit.

 

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The 25 Hour Day

Tonight we turn our clocks back, and the general consensus is that everyone should enjoy an extra hour of sleep.  While true when I was in college, it hasn’t quite been the blessing ever since.  When I was in medical school we would scan the “on call” schedule and pray that it was not our turn on the “fall back” Saturday.  If you were on call, you actually had to work all 25 hours and you could rarely sleep through that blessed extra hour.  And it was not because I was such a bean counter,  it was just that the extra hour potentially meant an extra hour of pure terror, with beepers going up, emergency room admissions and cardiac arrests.  When I segued to a mother with young children the extra hour just meant that the kids woke up earlier, and instead of running out of things to do by 10 AM, now it was only 9 AM.  Now I mostly just get up with the sun, so the extra hour means that I am typically just kicking around waiting for everyone else to catch up to me.

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Chapters 7-9: Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery

Prior chapters of the Clean Plate Club Murder Mystery are filed in the Murder Mystery category

 

Chapter 7

The police station was actually not far from Ralph and Fanny’s. The city had gotten a good deal on the empty lot that Sam Todd had targeted for a Costco and had built a new “green” cities services building that they were proud of. The parking lot was crushed gravel to prevent rain water run off and the close-in parking spaces were designated “for hybrid cars only.” The dramatic architecture featured floor to ceiling windows and a living wall of plants in the foyer that was supposed to create some sort of climate control. But as I walked though the hallway to the detectives’ office, I noticed that many of the offices were equipped with umbrellas to tame the relentless sun. I found Detective Rush on the second floor. Continue reading

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Unfinished Business

I have been on a math kick recently, having rediscovered math in last year’s experiment in retaking the SATs after a 40 year hiatus. (See prior posts filed under “SAT Experience.”)  A previous essay described my quest to finally understand why you can’t divide by zero (Grokking It), but now I realize that I have one piece of unfinished business left from my junior high school education.  How is it that multiplying two negative numbers results in a positive number?  It makes no intuitive sense to me, because as I was taught early and often – two wrongs do not make a right. 

 

My journey through the history of zero taught me that math is best understood if you can restrain yourself from trying to explain all math through real world problems.  Basically, numbers are simply tools, and have no meaning aside from what we assign to them.  The number “1” on its own doesn’t mean much, it is only when we say “one banana” that it acquires some sort of context.  Aside from mathematicians, engineers and physicists, every day math for the everyday person is all about counting objects in our every day world, so that math as a concept is unfamiliar.  So perhaps my multiplication problem should be reframed as a problem that does not have a simple real word explanation, and, just like dividing by zero, I should just accept it and move on.  Continue reading

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Grokking It

Grok: to understand so thoroughly that the observer becomes a part of the observed—to merge, blend, intermarry, lose identity in group experience. It means almost everything that we mean by religion, philosophy, and science.
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Last year’s experience of retaking the SATs reminded me of a mathematical mystery left over from high school, namely why dividing a number by zero is either not possible or equals infinity. I never understood the logic behind this, but begrudgingly accepted it as a rule I had to live by. My day job of medical consulting is currently in a bit of a lull, so I decided to use this found time to spend quality time with zero and grok it.

In high school I assumed that if I didn’t understand something it was my fault, but as I investigated zero I was astonished to find that zero has perplexed mathematicians, philosophers and religious leaders for thousands of years. Part of the reason was that there was no role for zero in early math, which was simply based on counting – Ooga Magook in his cave counting bears’ skins, or Jesus counting his shepherds, and his shepherds counting their sheep. If there were no bearskins, there was simply nothing to count, and Mr. Magook would merely grunt, “I got no skins.” Continue reading

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