Final Jeopardy

Ken Jennings lost today in his 75th game on the TV quiz show Jeopardy. He won 74 consecutive games before ending the streak that started on June 2. Jennings won $2,520,700 over the stretch, averaging about $34k a game.

The previous record for most number of wins was 7 games. Ken not only shattered that record, but also broke the daily haul mark, winning $75,000 in one game over the previous $52,000. I’ll take ridiculous for 300, Alex.

Nancy Zerg finally bested him after he missed two daily double questions and the final jeopardy question. The final clue was “Most of this firm's 70,000 seasonal white-collar employees work only four months a year.” The correct answer was H&R Block. Well, “What is H&R Block?” to be exact. He answered, “What is Federal Express?” My question is this. What were you thinking, Ken?! Everyone knows that.

Besides, Jeopardy is for light-weights and wimps. Let’s see you go on a real game show, Ken. How about trying your hand at DOUBLE DARE? That’s right. You haven’t competed until you’re hamming it up with the one and only Marc Summers. Can you handle the physical challenges? I think not. You’re no trivia champion. You haven’t earned your two and a half million until you’ve run full speed on a giant hamster wheel or crawled through a kiddy pool of green slime to “grab that flag!” I dare you to go on a real game show, Ken. Nay, I DOUBLE dare you. Perhaps, I may even venture to go as far as to say that I, Jeff Leins, TRIPLE... DOG... DARE YOU to go into that obstacle course and emerge a real winner.

Because Ken... you’re not a real winner until you do. Not to me. And not to America.

Second Interview? Not Exactly.

Until recently, I thought an interview was when a series of questions were asked and answered. The dictionary defines it as “a conversation where facts and statements are elicited from another.” I’d even been interviewed before for various organizational or minimum wage positions. And each one consisted of sitting and answering. Answering and sitting.

So when I went to my latest job interview I expected a fair to ample amount of sitting. And answering. Unfortunately, not only was I sorely mistaken, but I forbidden to do either of them. But let me start from the beginning.

I’ve been on the job hunt for a few months now. I’ve been carefully polishing my resume, my cover letter, and even my new snazzy shoes. But not unlike Elmer Fudd, that hunt had proven unsuccessful thus far. Until a week ago, when I got a letter saying I’m actually qualified for something. Knowing this was only partially true, I still couldn’t believe the letter didn’t contain the gentle let-down I’ve become accustomed to by now. I even showed it a few people, making sure I was reading it correctly. “That ‘Call for an interview’ line means what I think it does, right?”

After a series of phone calls, I had my time and place. Needless to say, I was excited. Everyone knew I was going to an interview. I’d find people on the street and shout at them, “I got an interview!” And once the stranger and I high-fived, rejoiced, and embraced, I’d skip to the next unsuspecting well-wisher.
As I drove to Houston, I prepared myself mentally. I practiced in my head my answers, not knowing at the time that I wouldn’t need them.

I got all dressed up in my suit, looking distinguished and hirable. I’d post pictures, but I don’t think anyone is prepared for the swooning that would ensue.


The first interview lasted 5 minutes.
In all fairness, there was actually sitting and answering involved in this first one. But I’m not convinced it wasn’t based entirely on first impressions and judgment of my sweet tie.

So I got a second interview. Sweet, right? My excitement level jumped to unmanageable proportions. So did my nervousness.
I was told to dress in business casual and to come in from 10:30-8:30. Eight thirty? Well, ok, pal. Sounds great.
I had no idea; I’d never done this before. This was unexplored, uncharted territory for me. Too bad Magellan wasn’t there to say, “What the hell? That’s pretty strange. And I’ve been around the world.” But apparently he’s dead. And Ponce De Leon is unreachable.

I get there at about 10, anxious for a day of sitting and answering. The interviewer comes out and tells me we’re going out in “the field.”
“Great,” I think, wishing I knew where that was. Maybe it’s just shop talk for an office where we’ll close the daily deal or two. Maybe it’s a football field and we’re gonna discuss my qualifications while we toss the pigskin. Maybe we’re headed to Narnia where we’ll frolic among the land of the magical. I could only be so lucky.

Instead he drives us out to a nearby neighborhood and starts to get out. I looked around, confused at the lack of office buildings and board rooms. He grabs his “field bag” which I came to find out rather quickly was filled with coupon books. COUPON BOOKS!

You see, what I got myself into was a day of “in the field” unpaid work as a door-to-door salesman peddling coupon books to the unsuspecting suburbanites. Of course I didn’t know this until we were actually out there. I’m standing there in my polished shoes because I didn’t know that business casual meant running shoes. But Jered switches to his cross trainers, he’s prepared. That makes one of us. Though he did have the upper hand, knowing what the hell we were doing ahead of time. It was then that I realized I wasn’t going to be doing a lot of sitting or answering.
I kind of just followed behind him, like a puppy that follows you home. Except we went to every home on the block. Three times.

Here’s the only thing I learned all day. Door to door salesmen go to each house three times, unless it’s marked as a definite Yes or No. They carry a notepad and if they make a sale or get rejected, they mark it so they don’t go back. But if you’re busy or not home, they’ll be back. So they make the rounds three consecutive times, at least.

So I trudged around and around the block, all the while thinking, “NOOOOO! GET ME OUT OF HERE! AHHHHHHHH!” My foot slowly becoming a giant festering blister with each step.

After one pass of all the houses, Jered was nice enough to drive me to my house to change my shoes. I pleaded with my dad to rescue me from the terrible day I was having, but I eventually plodded back to the car, hanging my head in shame and exhaustion.

Even though I did all the walking, I wasn’t really allowed to make any sales or even interject, as I wasn’t an employee. All I could do was muster a weak smile if anyone shot me a glance.

The actual “job” consisted of five steps.
1. The introduction. This consisted of reassuring them that we weren’t from the church.
2. The pitch. Jered would tell them that we were there to support the local wheelchair basketball team. This was mostly true, but still just a setup to pull in that commission.
3. The presentation. Once he explained why we were there, then it was time to pull out the coupon book and hand it to them. Once you have it in your hand, you’re in trouble. Now he’s got you thumbing through it with him, checking out the deals. He doesn’t take it back so easily.
4. The closing. “So how many extras would you like to get today?” Not “Would you like to buy that one in your hand?” But rather an assumptive stab at trying to sell multiple bound and bundled wasted trees.
5. The rehash. The final attempt at pushing the product, followed by a guilt trip reminder of the cause they refused to support, just to show them we care.

I know what I don’t care about. I don’t care that you get two free oil changes. I don’t care that you can get a free 30 minute massage. I don’t care that you can save money at Astroworld or Mountasia or Jim's Taxidermy and Funeral Home.


At one point in the terrible trek, a thirteen year old rode by us on his bike, leading a posse of menacing pre-teen terrors. Once he realized we were door-to-door salesmen, he started in about how we weren’t wanted. I thought about saying, “You’re telling me, kid,” but I found myself defending us.
“It benefits wheelchair basketball,” I said, thinking that would deter him a little.
Nope. A response just encouraged him. “Wheelchair basketball? So what. No one likes wheelchair basketball.”
Ignoring him, we moved on down the street, resisting the urge to push his bike over to end the incessant badgering.

On the next pass, hours later, he made his mistake.
“What happened to your leg? You get in a fight or something?”
I tried to ignore him, but finally Jered stepped up and said, “It’s a prosthetic. It’s a fake leg. Leave him alone.”
“Whatever, I don’t believe you,” the future failure in life replied.
So I did what I needed to do. I had Jered hit me in the leg with an umbrella.
But still they were skeptical, so he did it a few more times.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Little Timmy the Terrible said.
That’s when I lifted my leg above my head.

So terrified by the sight, he dropped his bike and bolted in the other direction, his gang close at his heels. He ran the entire way home. I laughed hard enough to forget that I was bleeding in multiple places from the walking.

I’m pretty embarrassed about the whole affair though, since everyone knew I was interviewing. I just reply to mini-interviews about how it went with, “They offered me a job, but I didn’t take it. It’s not what I want to do.” That being an understated truth, of course. In fact, it was one of the worst experiences of my life. If only I could have just sat and answered.

Thanksgiving Tradition

Thanksgiving with the Leins family has never been anything fancy. There’s no ceremonial cutting of the turkey or pilgrim decorations or anything silly like that. But it’s always traditional, for the most part.

We gather around a long dining room table and pass things in circles. There’s football and small talk and pumpkin pie. There’s a traditional prayer over a traditional turkey around a traditional table.
For the past few years, the Leins family has broken bread with the Collins family for Thanksgiving. They’re friends of the family through my sister and we just keep getting invited back. And each time you can expect certain things. Mini traditions, if you will.

For example, my sister loves noodles. She’s not really a big noodle-eater the other 364 days of the year, but for some reason these noodles are special. These noodles have that magic ingredient that makes her gobble them up like she hasn’t eaten since the last noodle offering. But what makes it a tradition is that every year, without fail, she gets some lame comment about her noodle fetish during dinner. In my head I’m thinking, “Wait for it. Waaaaait for iiiiiiit.” Then it comes, usually from Bradley, the youngest of the Collins clan. “You sure love your noodles, Kristen.” Ah, there it is. And just under 2 minutes, a new record. And we all laugh because we’ve never heard it before and it never gets old. Never. It never ever gets old even though we’ve heard it every year for at least half a decade. Still hilarious and clever. Never gets old.

But there’s one tradition that makes it Thanksgiving. Every year, right before we caravan over to the Collins household, there is this anticipation in the air. It’s not that excited anticipation that buzzes during Christmas Eve, but a hanging uneasiness as we all think to ourselves, “What’s gonna happen this year?”
That’s the best part for me. I sit quietly back and wait for outbursts that I know are coming. They aren’t unexpected, just unprovoked. It’s like a precarious game of Jenga, you just never know when it’s going to topple and Mr. Collins is going to lose it on the closest family member.

You see, the Collins family is an odd bunch. I wouldn’t call them dysfunctional, because there’s no pregnant teenager or adopted wheelchair Somali slave. But it’s more of the opposite. It’s more of a super strictness that makes me half-expect to see them break into song about their age in true Von Trapp fashion.

Mr. Collins, the circus master of our Thanksgiving troupe, sits at the helm of the table, pretending his high-backed chair is a throne, barking orders at anyone who will listen. He’s the kind of dad that never really coached sports for their kid, but was right there to yell at the coach or the official or the mom whose turn it was to bring snacks. Ahhh, vicarious participation. Coach Collins is a lawyer. Though I’ve never really seen him in the courtroom, I imagine it like the scene from A Few Good Men where Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson have it out about the truth. Only they’ve combined Tom and Jack into one incredibly angry part and he’s just lacing into people. I’m not really scared of him, just like I’m not scared of steam engines or balloons or anything else full of hot air. In fact, I appreciate his wild antics because it literally brings something interesting to the table.

Though usually taking the brunt of his verbal abuse is his wife. She has that quiet sophistication that everyone wishes he had, so we could all eat in peace. Mrs. Collins is a school principal, though you’d never know it with all the deprecation she endures when she’s trying to take the traditional Thanksgiving pictures. “Just take the picture already, dear,” Ray Collins Sr. will huff at her in front of everyone. She aims to please, making special arrangements or lending a helping hand, one that compliments her husband’s iron fist.

The twins are Kristen’s age, Lianne and Raymond, obviously not identical.
Lianne used to be a feisty little brat, folding her arms and giving icy stares where she deemed necessary. But maturity and freedom from parental tyranny the last few years has allowed her to become laid back enough to enjoy a little mockery from my brother and me. She’s a smart kid though, valedictorian and all. Though she can’t be all that intelligent, choosing voluntarily to go to the University of Texas.

Raymond, the other twin, used to be a really quiet guy. Bashful from years of neglect, I felt for this barely middle child. Though recently this calm, quiet nerd has given way to a full on cowboy. Texas Tech will do that to a poor innocent lad. He’s like some kind of horse whisperer or something, wrangling wild stallions with lassoes and keeping a stable in the country. As a strictly suburban Texan, I cringe at the thought of him upholding the stereotypes. This year should be interesting too since, in the last year, Raymond took quite a spill off a bull he was riding and broke his arm. Not a mechanical bull with the padding all around, but a real life raging bull. That crazy kid.

And then there’s Bradley. The baby of the family, he’s escaped some of the discipline that keeps the others from talking non-stop. He chatters on about anything and everything, as long as there’s someone within earshot. Sports are his favorite subject, as he’s dabbled in most of them and picked up how to scream at the TV from his father. I’ve inadvertently become his favorite and he latches onto me as soon as I break the threshold of the front door, prattling on about one of the games scheduled for the day. And somehow he graduated to the “grown-up” table at the same time as me, despite me being five or six years his senior. So he’s still right there, giggling and babbling. Unfortunately he’s six inches taller than me, so I’m dwarfed in his adolescent shadow, wondering who’s following who now. They grow up so fast.

Dinner consists of the usual round the table discussion about life and success in the past year, catching up on all the happenings of the various children. I usually sit next to my brother, slouching down in my chair and hoping no one directs a question at me. Just pass me the cranberry sauce. That sweet lump of reddish purple mass still shaped like the can. Hand it to me now, so that I can eat it quickly before Bradley can say, “You sure love your cranberry sauce.” And we’ll laugh and laugh. Because it never gets old.

So this Turkey Day I’m already in preparation mode, thinking to myself, “Here it comes.” But I’ll know it’s really Thanksgiving when I hear that first outburst from across the house. After all, it’s tradition.

Crazy Baby Head

Name Changes

I look at people going to med school and I realize that is definitely not for me.
They go to school for years and years and spend tons of money, just to get a couple of letters added to their name. A Dr there, a p, h, and d there. An m. d. over here. All so they can practice medicine. Practice. Reassuring isn’t it?
Well, I don’t plan on spending that kind of time. Instead, I’m heading to the courthouse for a name change. That’ll spice things up a bit, without rigorous schooling and burdensome debt.
And when people ask me what I want to be when I graduate I’ll say, “Spanish Conquistador and Conqueror of Far Away Lands.”
They’ll cock their head to the side and say, “Interesting…”
And I’ll respond, “And that’s just my first name.”

This should make for an interesting traditional Thanksgiving 20 questions session.