The "Oops!" Philosophy

For the sake of variety — OK, it is actually more about curiosity (that and the fact that tonight’s CSI is a repeat) — I decided to check out The O.C. for the first time. Can’t really say that I’m all that impressed, but mostly that’s probably ’cause I don’t usually watch it and I’m not sure about all the connections and what-not.

Very cute girl-girl couple, though, including the gal from Lost & Delirious (Mischa Barton, can’t remember her name on the film), and Real Estate King from American Beauty (Peter Gallagher; he’s also in that Summer Lovers/King movie that I’ve not yet watched). And this clever line, or something very much like it:

“Yes, that’s right: Alex and Marissa, no longer welcome in the red states.”

(Perhaps I should explain that Alex and Marissa are both girls.)

: )

Don’t know much about philosophy; matter o’ fact, the only philosophy-related person I ever knew was a drunk named Frank Taylor who was a professor of philosophy at EIU. Never heard him say anything philosophical, though, and I certainly never took any of the courses he taught, nor any philosophy courses, period, or logic, or anything of that nature.

Doesn’t keep me from spouting off my “philosophies” or theories or views or whatever they are, about various aspects of ... well, life, I guess.

One of which is The “Oops!” Philosophy.

I have learned, in my 39-plus years on this planet, that it is impossible to stay mad at someone who uses the word, “Oops!”

Naturally, it also helps if that person also apologizes profusely over whatever it is that she or he has done wrong, but honestly: “I’m sorry” is not really necessary.

I made this discovery years ago.

I had worked with this guy named Dave for about a year, maybe longer. I covered sports and he covered news, but in our newsroom, all our desks are out in the open (and not nearly far enough apart), so we all sort of have to get to know each other, a little bit, from proximity alone.

He had driven into town in a junked-out beater. There was no license plate on his car, only a hand-lettered piece of cardboard placed where the rear plate should have been (completely against the law in Illinois ... and probably every other state as well).

I remember he said, “Hmm,” in a Sesame Street-Bert tone of voice, all the time.

One night, one of our co-workers invited a few of us over for dinner, and she gave Dave detailed instructions on how to get to her house.

I was not able to attend the get-together. Dave, apparently, never made it over there, either — despite, apparently, driving by her house over and over and over.

“This car kept circling and circling and circling,” my co-worker’s daughter said, “and I was going to go out and flag down the driver, but he looked like an ax murderer!”

To me, Dave looked a tiny bit like I imagined my sixth-grade boyfriend, Kenny Dallmeier, would have looked when he grew up: Dark hair, dark glasses, thin. He was nice enough, and when he decided to leave for another newspaper, the night before his last day of work, he invited me over for dinner. We ate pizza from DiMaggio’s and watched a movie, and then we spent a couple of hours talking.

When I left, I remember thinking: He’s a really nice guy; I wish I had gotten to know him better before he left.

The next day at work, I tried to access some of my files from the network, but couldn’t.

“Does anyone know what’s wrong with my computer?” I asked, in a mild panic.

“Oh, ah ... hmm. I might have accidentally deleted some of them,” Dave said.

“Deleted them? How did you delete them? What were you doing with them in the first place?”

I glared at Dave.

He smiled kind of sheepishly, then shrugged, then said, “Oops!”

I wanted to yell. I wanted to rant and rave. I wanted to kick his ass, but, honestly, what can you do when someone looks at you and says, “Oops!”?

That’s right: Nothing! There is no possible response to that word!

(I’ve never heard from Dave since that day ... and believe me, he has never heard from me, either.)