Fickleknitter

March 12, 2007

Intelligence Lost and the Passion of the Fussy-fuss (a guest blog by the Husband)

The Wife and I had the pleasure of seeing Bill Cosby perform at the Pacific Amphitheater last year around Orange County Fair time, and while it was evident that most of his bits that night had seen likely more than their fair share of audiences, he still put on a pretty good show. We were careful to pay particular attention to the "Parenthood" stuff, since we were just a few months away from dealing with the process ourselves.

Bill was nice enough to share with us a few tidbits of early fatherhood experience, including a transformation of him and his wife that, while memorable, struck me as no more than idle curiosity at the time:

"The arrival of a baby coincides with the departure of our minds."

He boasted of his wife's credentials in child psychology from the University of Maryland, and his own degree advancement in education at UMass, yet proclaiming that upon the arrival of their first child they realized that their education meant diddly-squat, life from that point onward was an exercise in sleep deprivation, and that each parent, whether by consequence of said sleep deprivation coming to terms with their own post-academic lack-of-child-rearing skill set, felt as though they had lost fifteen IQ points in the following weeks.

I thought that last point was a bit extreme. Fifteen IQ points is a lot. That's the difference between a cop and a criminal. A corporate executive and a corporate sycophant. Our cat and our dog. Our dog and our one upstairs neighbor at the old apartment who would have loud fights with her girlfriends and scream during sex.

Then we had Maya.

"The arrival of a baby coincides with the departure of our minds."

This is a bitter pill for someone who's arguably prouder of his intelligence than perhaps he ought to be. Before sleep deprivation it was Sudoku, chess, physics and bridge. I would take the Mensa entrance exam just to laugh at them when they invited me to join. After sleep deprivation, my intellectual pursuits have become diaper changes, baby defussing techniques, pretending to be productive at work, and laughing at American Idol wannabes Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

Recently on a whim, and with not inconsiderable baby fog surrounding my brain, I decided I would tempt fate and challenge Cosby's contention head-on. I found me an IQ test on the Internets, and went straight to work, figuring my historical scores were underreported enough in the past that I would likely lose no more than, oh, five points and still keep my inflated ego intact. The first question comes up, accompanied by three symbols in some presumably patterned order: "Pick from one of the four choices below the next progression in the pattern."

The three consecutive symbols are ancient Babylonian hieroglyphics. The four choices below me are also ancient Babylonian hieroglyphics with no pattern of obvious significance. I take a guess.

Thirty-four more guesses later, I click the "calculate" button dreading what I already sense to be true: My score comes back twenty-two points low. Oh, and Mensa called: they want my ego back in their trust.

I rationalized this outcome the way any reasonable person would: the test was obviously way too easy, and I was overthinking my responses. Clearly, I needed to take a harder test. I Googled "hard IQ tests" and picked a tougher one from the batch. Twenty-five guesses later, I click the "calculate" button knowing already that the score will be higher than, but not as high as, the old days. My score comes back ten points low. Mensa calls and offers to sell back my ego they've been keeping safe for me in a Mason jar. I tell them to get bent.

So I'm thinking I'll continue to score better if I just take harder tests. So I find a real nasty test and start it. The first section is word associations: "Dissonance is to myopia as periwinkle is to a) dodecahedron, b) cauldron, c) bodacious, d) Chlamydia". I punt.

One last try, a "fast quiz" version, lands me about sixteen points low. Mensa starts calling collect.

So evidently I am dumber post-partum than pre, consistent with the Cosbyan prophecy. It's just as well, I suppose: I don't have time for Sudoku any more, and my intellectual interest in American Idol far outweighs what little patience I have left for physics, bridge and chess: the Antonella scandal on AI has afforded me the first opportunity to view, uhh, "photographs of questionable repute" with impunity since before the Wife and I were married*. (Hey, she found 'em before I did. And I know you sneaked a peed too; there’s no point in denying it.)

This matter is not, however, without its lighter side. My sleep-deprived mind wanders in ways never before imagined. I double-up on baby words. Before being a dad I would have used big words to describe a kid toy so that people would think I was smarter than for my own good. Now I call the swing chair the "swingy-swing". The bounce chair is called the "bouncy-bounce". Her stomach is her "tummy-tum". Her perpetual leg motions are "kicky-kick". The little toy spinner mounted to the swing tray is the "spinny-spin". And of course, when she gets grumpy, I call her a "fussy-fuss".

It is this last point where the sleep-deprived minds truly shine. I believe that "fussy-fuss" is a remarkably versatile word, having discovered that it can be substituted for key words in famous movie quotes and still, the quote makes sense (in the sleep-deprived world). Whenever I think, "this line would be more memorable if such-and-such word was replaced 'fussy-fuss'", I write it down. And now my list is sufficiently complete that, I, the Husband, now share it with my Wife's loyal readers.

But that's not where it ends. Guess the greatest number of keywords and associated movie titles, and you'll score some of the Wife's white-elephant yarn. Send e-mail privately if you don't want your answers co-opted by erstwhile competitors. Good luck!

"You want answers?"
"I think I'm entitled."
"You want answers?"
"I want the fussy-fuss!"
"You can't handle the fussy-fuss!!"

"I love the smell of fussy-fuss in the morning."

"What we have here is failure to fussy-fuss!"

"Fussy-fusses? We ain't got no fussy-fusses! We don't need no fussy-fusses! I don't have to show you any stinking fussy-fusses!"

"I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a fussy-fuss, which is what I am, let's face it."

"I have one simple request. And that is to have sharks with frickin' fussy-fusses attached to their heads!"

"They call me *Mister* Fussy-fuss!"

"Nobody puts Fussy-fuss in a corner!"

"You had me at 'Fussy-fuss.'"

"Show me the fussy-fuss!"

"I know what you're thinking. Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful fussy-fuss in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya punk?"

"I just want to say one word to you -- just one word...'Fussy-fuss.'"

"Fussy-fuss, for lack of a better word, is good. Fussy-fuss is right. Fussy-fuss works. Fussy-fuss clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Fussy-fuss, in all of its forms.

"Fussy-fuss is made out of people!!"

"Like a wild fussy-fuss in the desert, I go about my work!" (a little something for the geek in all of us)

"Fuss. Fussy-fuss."

I'm going in to work now. Maybe I can get some sleep there for a change.

*As testimony to lost intelligence, note that a smarter The Husband with fifteen more IQ points would never own up to such an action on his The Wife's blog.

Posted by Michelle at March 12, 2007 06:53 PM