Dear God,
I do not know a real prayer for flying (is there one?), but I hope this will suffice. Please make sure we all arrive at our destinations safely and smoothly. Please, also, let there be no scary turbulence or screaming children. If for some reason it must be one or the other, I’d prefer turbulence to screaming children as long as it’s under control, and not that scary. Please take note.
We’re taking off now. Once again, and sorry to be repetitive, but please help us all get to our destinations safely and soundly. Thank you. I’m very fond of my life, and I don’t want to lose it, if that’s cool with you. By the way, thanks for all that life stuff, and the people in it, and all the joys and beauty in the world. I know I probably don’t say it enough. (That said, this war and killing stuff has got to go. Are You really working fulltime on that, or what?)
Since You’re listening, God, I have a few more things I’d like to go over with You. As mentioned I’m very grateful for all the wonderful people, experiences, comforts, yada yada in my life, but to be honest, everything is not as copasetic as it could be, You know. I mean, I’m thankful for the majority of it, but just a few hours ago when my roommate dropped me off at the airport and informed me that she’s moving out, and I have eleven days to find a new roommate before our lease expires and I’m fucked… I’m not really thankful for that. I suppose I should have faith that all things have some greater purpose, even this new roommate situation, but God, you know me well enough to know that whole "what's meant to be will be" song and dance doesn’t really jibe with me. You can make lemonade out of lemons, sure, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have been better off with oranges in the first place, You get what I’m saying?
I know the only time You really hear from me these days is when I think that maybe I’m about to die, but please don’t hold that against me. If You can help me find a roommate who is not crazy, preferably before my lease runs out and I have to be all homeless, I would be most appreciative. Thanks.
Dear God, why is it all failed wannabe stand up comedians, once they realize they don’t have what it takes, decide to become flight attendants? It’s really not fair. We have no choice but to listen to them ramble on and on over that God-awful (sorry) intercom thing. There’s literally no escape. I can just imagine that thought process: “Well, I’ve been booed off every stage I’ve ever gone on, but I swear I have talent! I swear I am funny! If only there were some way to get a roomful of people together for a two-hour plus set, lock them up, suspend them in the air so they can't leave, and forbid them to get out of their seats. Aha! I’ve got it! Flight attendant school, here I come!” Not cool.
What else, G? I guess You have a pretty good sense of what I’m up to these days, with that whole all-powerful, omnipresent thing You have going on. Life is fairly good (minus that roommate shit). Job’s going really well. Please don’t fuck that up, okay? (That was more to me than You.) I still don’t have a boyfriend. Surprise, surprise. If this long period of solitude is somehow "meant to be" as well, fine, but You should know an active sex life can be just as meaningful. Really. Think about it.
Ok, we’re landing. Once again, please try not to kill us on the way down. Please please please please please please please….
Awesome. I’ve not died. Thanks, God.
Talk to you on the return flight.
Amen,
Lijah
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Great Food Strike of 2000
In the summer of 2000 when I was sixteen, several circumstances conspired against my father and step mom such that all four of their offspring - my brother, my step brother, my step sister, and I - were under their roof for a continuous number of months. My brother and I usually enjoyed one of the standard joint custody arrangements: every Wednesday and every other weekend we spent with our father; the rest of the week we spent with our mom. I never quite understood the schedule my step siblings had with their parents, but it seemed to be derived from some sort of family court algorithm, dependent on the tides and the waning of the moon and the number of car horns beeped in any given six day period. But that particular summer, their dad was incapacitated with knee surgery at the same time that my mom was mid-move into a house that had yet to be affixed with doors, or lighting fixtures, or even some sort of flooring, and so, for the first time, all six of us lived together under one roof for two consecutive months.
At first I think my dad and Shelley saw this as an opportunity -- a chance to bring the family together, a chance to bond and grow, without the intrusion of exes and school schedules and the constant back and forth lifestyle to which we'd become accustomed. But all too quickly the Brady Bunch utopia they'd envisioned faded away, leaving behind nothing but four growing teenagers, who were all very hungry.
Four mouths to feed was something our parents were not used to, and they didn't take the added expense all that well. If you met my dad and step mom, you would immediately conclude that they are both kindhearted, responsible, caring people. You would be right. Yet, somehow something short-circuited in their collective brains that summer. For whatever reason, their answer to the growing grocery bill was to just stop buying groceries.
It began somewhat gradually. The two of them would go out for dinner and tell the four of us to "fend for ourselves." The first time, they left us a twenty, and we ordered pizza. The second time, they forgot, so we pooled our money and ordered pizza. The third time, we simply consulted the fridge. Fairly soon, certain food items began to disappear. Deli meat, sandwich bread, and fresh fruit and vegetables would fail to be replaced upon the fine, white, ever-emptier shelves of our refrigerator. I admit, I was guilty of gobbling up some of the luxury item produce: I've never been able to resist a crisp green cucumber or a ripe, red, beefsteak tomato. Some parents would wish to be so lucky. Mine panicked. I recall quite vividly the day I looked upon the kitchen counter to discover a beautiful tomato wearing a post-it note that said "Do not eat."
About this time, I was fortunate enough to have a job waiting tables in a restaurant. Working a double shift guaranteed me the delight of an expertly-cooked, ample meal around 4 pm and scrapes and scraps of bread and cheesecake until midnight. At the end of the night, I would take home the extra slices of bread bound for the garbage. Leftover rice would get piled into empty mozzarella containers. Anything both transportable and edible was sneaked away to feed my brothers and sister. I should clarify that our parents hadn't left us to starve; there was always Smart Start and cottage cheese in the fridge. Not counting the heisted carbohydrates from Nata's Restaurant, cereal and cottage cheese was the bulk of our sustenance for two solid months.
I'm now coming to the point in the story where a lesson kicks in. This is the appropriate place to recount how I suddenly overheard that my dad had fallen on hard times while eavesdropping on a telephone conversation. Shelley and he used "dinner out" as code for "work a night shift as a telemarketer slash industrial laborer from six to eight pm." The night shift was at the local cereal company, which happened to produce Smart Start and, inexplicably, cottage cheese. All the puzzle pieces were coming together, and what was clearest of all was that they had, as parents aught, a plan, the grander scheme, the larger picture in mind.
The real truth was that my dad had grown up on a farm. He was the child of immigrants. He learned to speak Hungarian well before English, and he was forced to eat chicken fat sandwiches every single Thursday of his childhood. I'm not sure how these particular facts figure in, but they seem to be the type of idiosyncratic background information that explains idiosyncratic adulthood. If it does in this case, feel free to explain to me how so.
Theorize though I may, I'm pretty sure my dad and Shelley simply got lazy and decided they could stop being parents for a while. This wasn't a hindsight discovery; as the summer dragged on, my siblings and I began referring to the situation as the Great Food Strike. We were aware of the insanity in real time. It was one of the shining moments in the history of my childhood when I realized my parents, in actuality, had no greater plan than making it through the day. When my mother was little, her mother - my dear dear grandmother - once tied her to a tree for several hours as punishment for something so negligible I've forgotten the crime. On another occasion, my grandmother made my mom wear a sign that said "Don't Feed" because she periodically came home from various friends' houses with little appetite for dinner. Parents are too often enlarged versions of children, making it up as they go along or simply refusing to act, erratically subject to whims of selfishness, still wielding the battle cry of "I don't wanna." Parents, as most people find out in their twenties, are human. Perhaps my parents' problem was that they forgot to keep that secret under wraps.
In my current job, some days I'm a genius and some days I can't tell the difference between "know" "no" "now" and "shellfish." What if my "job" was caring for another human being? It's a scary thought that my days of ineptitude might affect whether a child is fed or flossed or tucked in tightly. If I am wise, but still inept, all of my grander mistakes will happen well before my child turns sixteen and knows better. Then again, while I have doubts about my parenting abilities, should having them become necessary, I'm confident that when the going gets tough and the grocery bill gets high, I might make a bad call or two, but I would never call it quits.
I'm lucky that my parents did enough right to right the wrongs -- and, what's more, I get to turn all their transgressions into anecdotal justification of my own adulthood inanity. Everything comes back around. Case in point: my poor father got sacked with a daughter who wants to be a writer of quirky family comedies. Talk about karma. It's not all bad - the stories, the memories, the fatherly example he set - but in the cosmic, karmic nature of things, all the stories worth sharing stir the dirt, point their grubby fingers, and lay the bittersweet, retroactive blame.
The most memorable part of the Great Food Strike, which ended as the fall began, was observing that post-it note tomato as it sat on the counter. I watched it go from plump and red, to slightly squishy, with wrinkled skin, to soft, discolored, and undesirable, to downright rotten and covered in mold. And still the yellow post-it read, "Do not eat." If there is a lesson in this parable - and frankly, there might not be - perhaps it's that a penny saved is sometimes a penny wasted. Perhaps it's that restaurant jobs can have timely, unexpected perks. Perhaps it's that all things must end -- food strikes, summer breaks, and - thank God - childhood.
At first I think my dad and Shelley saw this as an opportunity -- a chance to bring the family together, a chance to bond and grow, without the intrusion of exes and school schedules and the constant back and forth lifestyle to which we'd become accustomed. But all too quickly the Brady Bunch utopia they'd envisioned faded away, leaving behind nothing but four growing teenagers, who were all very hungry.
Four mouths to feed was something our parents were not used to, and they didn't take the added expense all that well. If you met my dad and step mom, you would immediately conclude that they are both kindhearted, responsible, caring people. You would be right. Yet, somehow something short-circuited in their collective brains that summer. For whatever reason, their answer to the growing grocery bill was to just stop buying groceries.
It began somewhat gradually. The two of them would go out for dinner and tell the four of us to "fend for ourselves." The first time, they left us a twenty, and we ordered pizza. The second time, they forgot, so we pooled our money and ordered pizza. The third time, we simply consulted the fridge. Fairly soon, certain food items began to disappear. Deli meat, sandwich bread, and fresh fruit and vegetables would fail to be replaced upon the fine, white, ever-emptier shelves of our refrigerator. I admit, I was guilty of gobbling up some of the luxury item produce: I've never been able to resist a crisp green cucumber or a ripe, red, beefsteak tomato. Some parents would wish to be so lucky. Mine panicked. I recall quite vividly the day I looked upon the kitchen counter to discover a beautiful tomato wearing a post-it note that said "Do not eat."
About this time, I was fortunate enough to have a job waiting tables in a restaurant. Working a double shift guaranteed me the delight of an expertly-cooked, ample meal around 4 pm and scrapes and scraps of bread and cheesecake until midnight. At the end of the night, I would take home the extra slices of bread bound for the garbage. Leftover rice would get piled into empty mozzarella containers. Anything both transportable and edible was sneaked away to feed my brothers and sister. I should clarify that our parents hadn't left us to starve; there was always Smart Start and cottage cheese in the fridge. Not counting the heisted carbohydrates from Nata's Restaurant, cereal and cottage cheese was the bulk of our sustenance for two solid months.
I'm now coming to the point in the story where a lesson kicks in. This is the appropriate place to recount how I suddenly overheard that my dad had fallen on hard times while eavesdropping on a telephone conversation. Shelley and he used "dinner out" as code for "work a night shift as a telemarketer slash industrial laborer from six to eight pm." The night shift was at the local cereal company, which happened to produce Smart Start and, inexplicably, cottage cheese. All the puzzle pieces were coming together, and what was clearest of all was that they had, as parents aught, a plan, the grander scheme, the larger picture in mind.
The real truth was that my dad had grown up on a farm. He was the child of immigrants. He learned to speak Hungarian well before English, and he was forced to eat chicken fat sandwiches every single Thursday of his childhood. I'm not sure how these particular facts figure in, but they seem to be the type of idiosyncratic background information that explains idiosyncratic adulthood. If it does in this case, feel free to explain to me how so.
Theorize though I may, I'm pretty sure my dad and Shelley simply got lazy and decided they could stop being parents for a while. This wasn't a hindsight discovery; as the summer dragged on, my siblings and I began referring to the situation as the Great Food Strike. We were aware of the insanity in real time. It was one of the shining moments in the history of my childhood when I realized my parents, in actuality, had no greater plan than making it through the day. When my mother was little, her mother - my dear dear grandmother - once tied her to a tree for several hours as punishment for something so negligible I've forgotten the crime. On another occasion, my grandmother made my mom wear a sign that said "Don't Feed" because she periodically came home from various friends' houses with little appetite for dinner. Parents are too often enlarged versions of children, making it up as they go along or simply refusing to act, erratically subject to whims of selfishness, still wielding the battle cry of "I don't wanna." Parents, as most people find out in their twenties, are human. Perhaps my parents' problem was that they forgot to keep that secret under wraps.
In my current job, some days I'm a genius and some days I can't tell the difference between "know" "no" "now" and "shellfish." What if my "job" was caring for another human being? It's a scary thought that my days of ineptitude might affect whether a child is fed or flossed or tucked in tightly. If I am wise, but still inept, all of my grander mistakes will happen well before my child turns sixteen and knows better. Then again, while I have doubts about my parenting abilities, should having them become necessary, I'm confident that when the going gets tough and the grocery bill gets high, I might make a bad call or two, but I would never call it quits.
I'm lucky that my parents did enough right to right the wrongs -- and, what's more, I get to turn all their transgressions into anecdotal justification of my own adulthood inanity. Everything comes back around. Case in point: my poor father got sacked with a daughter who wants to be a writer of quirky family comedies. Talk about karma. It's not all bad - the stories, the memories, the fatherly example he set - but in the cosmic, karmic nature of things, all the stories worth sharing stir the dirt, point their grubby fingers, and lay the bittersweet, retroactive blame.
The most memorable part of the Great Food Strike, which ended as the fall began, was observing that post-it note tomato as it sat on the counter. I watched it go from plump and red, to slightly squishy, with wrinkled skin, to soft, discolored, and undesirable, to downright rotten and covered in mold. And still the yellow post-it read, "Do not eat." If there is a lesson in this parable - and frankly, there might not be - perhaps it's that a penny saved is sometimes a penny wasted. Perhaps it's that restaurant jobs can have timely, unexpected perks. Perhaps it's that all things must end -- food strikes, summer breaks, and - thank God - childhood.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Sarah Palin -- really? REALLY????
Last Friday, Senator McCain picked Alaskan Governor Sarah Palin as his running mate in the presidential election. Though I’ve never used this blog to voice political or even moderately serious thoughts of mine, I simply can’t help but react to this latest McCain blunder. About a month ago, Palin said she wasn’t ready to discuss being VP because she didn’t know what the VP did; moreover, she wanted to stay in her more “busy” and “active” job as Governor of Alaska. It’s certainly saying something that she thinks being second in line to become Commander in Chief is a smaller, less-productive role than being governor of less than 700,000 constituents.
Governor Sarah Palin’s resume includes two terms on City Council and two terms as Mayor of Wasilla, a town with a population of 8500. This means that anyone who's been president of a mid-sized university for that length of time has as much experience as she does. She's currently only two years into her first term as Governor of Alaska, which by the way has a population of 670,000, or just over half the population of that sprawling land mass, Rhode Island. But thanks to the erudite leadership of John McCain, a person who's never been voted for by more than 120,000 people and has never worked in national politics, is now a potential leader of the free world.
Governor Palin is married to her high school sweetheart, who happens to be a competitive snowmobiler. I don't know what that is, but apparently it is in line with the activities of "ordinary" Americans. She has five children, the youngest of which is named Trig, like trigger, as in gun(!!). Sarah is applauded for having had Trig even though she and her husband were well aware he had Down Syndrome a few months into the pregnancy. That is not only a sacred and personal decision, it is one that takes both courage and resilience as a parent, and I do applaud her conviction in her beliefs. You see, when you have the freedom to choose, you get to display conviction to your own beliefs, not just the ones McCain/Palin would like to legislate.
A small part of me rejoices in this, the latest in a series of misguided campaign decisions, because now, I am certain, McCain will not be elected. No one can say in seriousness that Sarah Palin is ready to lead a nation (some are saying it out of a habit of making hypocritical statements, but that’s a whole 'nother issue). Despite a strengthened belief in an Obama/Biden victory this November, however, I am still plagued by the worry of what-if.
What if McCain wins? Sure the idea of a woman in the White House is exciting on face value alone, but this particular woman will likely prove to be an incapable vice president for a number reasons, chief among which is her startling lack of experience. When she does so, which she will, she risks hurting the cause of so many other aspiring female candidates in the years to come. If Kennedy hadn't been such a salient and capable president, no one would point to him as a shining example of religious difference in the Oval Office, thus encouraging the political careers of the many well-qualified Catholic, Jewish, etc. men and women who followed his groundbreaking presidency. And if Sarah Palin flops as she surely will do, she will become an all-too-visible and simply unrepresentative example of the kind of bumbling misdirection a woman will bring to the White House. I can just hear it now: "Don't bring any more in. Remember that Sarah Palin chick? What a mistake that was."
Considering the average life expectancy of an American male is 77 years, it would simply be imprudent to ignore the possibility that 72-year-old McCain may not make it through four years in the White House. What then? One would think McCain would make an extra effort to assuage such fears and concerns related to his age and health with his VP pick. I certainly assumed he would choose a person with a resume that rivals his own; someone whose years of experience on the national and even international level could prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he/she was ready to lead the second “VP” turned to “P.” Instead, he picked Sarah Palin. We want a president who is in touch with ordinary Americans, sure; but do we really want an actual, ordinary American in the White House? We seriously, seriously do not.
The greatest problem I have with McCain’s VP pick is that, once again, his decision has proven how misguided and illogical he is as a leader. Every move he has made in this campaign has been motivated by a follower’s mentality: What do the voters want to hear? How do I get them to like me? What will make them like me more? A true leader works to change minds, inspire others, and move forward with an agenda he or she believes in and remains loyal to. Instead, McCain has become almost cartoonishly desperate for approval and support, lowering his standards, which should be presidential, to the level of TMZ and perezhilton.com. This time, instead of carefully selecting a viable vice presidential candidate, he jumped a bandwagon that wasn’t and wound up with a soccer mom.
No one doubts this was a political decision; this is, after all, politics. But if McCain is after the women's vote, or more particularly, the vote of hardheaded Clinton supporters, he would have done better to align himself with someone who is not her ideological opposite. Women are not going to go after anything with boobs that moves like a drunk in a dive bar, and it is frankly both disturbing and insulting that McCain thinks otherwise.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Haikus for all occasions.
"Memories"
Somber lilies
Hollow box and gone forever
Which one was Uncle Howie again?
"The Dirty Deed"
To-die-for body
Killer lips kiss mine
Oh no, you're a double agent! Aaaaaaahh--- (thunk)
"Turning Point"
Three weeks
Still no blood
Fuck, I think I'm pregnant
"Pros and Cons"
Lying bitch
You cheated with that guy from Whole Foods
But, your apartment has central air.
Somber lilies
Hollow box and gone forever
Which one was Uncle Howie again?
"The Dirty Deed"
To-die-for body
Killer lips kiss mine
Oh no, you're a double agent! Aaaaaaahh--- (thunk)
"Turning Point"
Three weeks
Still no blood
Fuck, I think I'm pregnant
"Pros and Cons"
Lying bitch
You cheated with that guy from Whole Foods
But, your apartment has central air.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
development meeting minutes
July 2, 2008
In attendance: Landry Marks (Principle), Katie Delano (Head of Development), Martin Banner (Screenwriter), myself (Scribe, Office Wench)
Agenda: Discuss sequel to horror movie MOMMY TRIED TO KILL ME (previously SPOILED MILK), opening wide in August.
10:00 AM
Meeting begins. Landry re-announces our film will be getting a wide release. Many rounds of "congratulations" consume the better part of an hour. It is generally agreed upon that we are all great geniuses, brilliant artists, sexy beasts, etc.
10:45 AM
Landry brings up the recent title change for the film, spurring a second round of needless self-congratulations. Each attendee takes a turn explaining the intricate, yet vast greatness of our new title. Generally takes the form of:
- This new title is so amazing. What were we ever thinking with the old one?
- I know, we are such unparalleled masterminds of the universe.
- I have such a very large penis!
11:30 AM
Landry approaches Martin with the idea of doing a sequel. Martin appears interested. They discuss whether he will be paid nine or ten times the amount of my yearly salary. They settle on ten.
11:50 AM
We determine the following things in the next forty-five minutes:
- The sequel should be scary.
- The lead character should be in it.
- The mother (who died in the last film) should not be in it.
- People should go and see it.
Martin suggests Abigail and her "father" become engaged in a tryst. I laugh out loud as he is obviously joking. I am told to leave the meeting.
12:40 PM
Am invited to return to the proceedings in order to take the lunch order.
Submitted by:
Ashley Beaker
Assistant to Landry Marks
Landry Marks Entertainment
In attendance: Landry Marks (Principle), Katie Delano (Head of Development), Martin Banner (Screenwriter), myself (Scribe, Office Wench)
Agenda: Discuss sequel to horror movie MOMMY TRIED TO KILL ME (previously SPOILED MILK), opening wide in August.
10:00 AM
Meeting begins. Landry re-announces our film will be getting a wide release. Many rounds of "congratulations" consume the better part of an hour. It is generally agreed upon that we are all great geniuses, brilliant artists, sexy beasts, etc.
10:45 AM
Landry brings up the recent title change for the film, spurring a second round of needless self-congratulations. Each attendee takes a turn explaining the intricate, yet vast greatness of our new title. Generally takes the form of:
- This new title is so amazing. What were we ever thinking with the old one?
- I know, we are such unparalleled masterminds of the universe.
- I have such a very large penis!
11:30 AM
Landry approaches Martin with the idea of doing a sequel. Martin appears interested. They discuss whether he will be paid nine or ten times the amount of my yearly salary. They settle on ten.
11:50 AM
We determine the following things in the next forty-five minutes:
- The sequel should be scary.
- The lead character should be in it.
- The mother (who died in the last film) should not be in it.
- People should go and see it.
Martin suggests Abigail and her "father" become engaged in a tryst. I laugh out loud as he is obviously joking. I am told to leave the meeting.
12:40 PM
Am invited to return to the proceedings in order to take the lunch order.
Submitted by:
Ashley Beaker
Assistant to Landry Marks
Landry Marks Entertainment
Monday, May 12, 2008
Letter from a Precocious Youth to His Grandmother
12 June 2008
Dear Grandma,
Thank you for the pajamas you sent me for my birthday. Even though I was hoping for a new set of water skis (I believe I mentioned this to you over Thanksgiving and again in our phone conversations on March 12 and May 7), pajamas are a much more practical alternative, so I can understand the substitution. Unfortunately, they do not fit and are purple; nothing against the color, but I'm pretty sure you grabbed the garment from the girls' aisle, yet again. You also forgot to remove the price tag. I apologize if this sounds ungrateful, but $3.99, Grandma? You really broke the bank on that one.
As you should well know, I am now in the third grade. While I have a near prodigious knack for numbers (enough to know you are exactly six point five times my age) and what Ms. Lindt calls a "darling precociousness," among many other gifts, what I am lacking is a new titanium-framed bicycle. If you do not know what one looks like, please consult any of the folded pages in the enclosed catalog (which you will probably recognize from three previous mailings). In lieu of a bike I see you've chosen to provide me with another coloring book - one that used to belong to Annie Hodgekiss, according the inscription on the inside front cover, a daring, but talentless young artist who thought - and drew - outside the lines on more than half of the well-worn pages. I would like to say that my love for you does not hinge on your gift-giving ability. However, since my parents deem in necessary to live in excess of three thousand miles from you at all times, and I remember you only as that funny lady with spotted hands who smells like stale cigarettes, all other discriminating factors on which to base my affection are simply unavailable. Purple jammies and used coloring books are about all you have going for, or against, you at this time.
As a minor, I am denied rights in a manner not unworthy of its own constitutional amendment. Daily, I am reminded of my own powerlessness in a most humiliating and demeaning fashion: the need for permission to make a bowel movement during gym class; a school system that fears ingenuity and praises conformity in all matters of spelling, mathematics, and even world history; and a weekly "allowance" that keeps me dependent on adults for all but superfluous items like bubble gum and Cheezits. My parents exercise tyrannical control over every aspect of my existence. My broccoli intake, the cleanliness of "my" room, and even my sleeping regiment has been predetermined by their primordial insights on child-rearing. I bring this up only to assure you that I am not capable of any serious maliciousness. Any ill will I feel can and will only take the form emotional absence: a cold shoulder at our yearly reunions and my refusal to sign any future greeting cards purchased by my mother, but sent to you on our entire family’s behalf. However, by observing my parents I have learned how powerful emotional unavailability can be, and so I shall wield it like a heavy iron bludgeon in your general direction.
Act now, Grandma, and you can salvage the unsalvageable. Without drastic and immediate improvement, however, the future of our relationship shall bear the unmistakable signs of spiritual and emotional emptiness. It shall be cordial, of course, but also disingenuous, superficial, and painfully unfulfilling. Perhaps this does not seem like the greatest of threats to you now, but when I'm in my prime and you're on your third artificial hip, you will see the error of your ways, and it will be too late.
Yours in relation and obligation only,
Timmy
Encl: Bicycle Catalog; Itemized List entitled, "Suggested Gift Items for Use in the Immediate Future".
Dear Grandma,
Thank you for the pajamas you sent me for my birthday. Even though I was hoping for a new set of water skis (I believe I mentioned this to you over Thanksgiving and again in our phone conversations on March 12 and May 7), pajamas are a much more practical alternative, so I can understand the substitution. Unfortunately, they do not fit and are purple; nothing against the color, but I'm pretty sure you grabbed the garment from the girls' aisle, yet again. You also forgot to remove the price tag. I apologize if this sounds ungrateful, but $3.99, Grandma? You really broke the bank on that one.
As you should well know, I am now in the third grade. While I have a near prodigious knack for numbers (enough to know you are exactly six point five times my age) and what Ms. Lindt calls a "darling precociousness," among many other gifts, what I am lacking is a new titanium-framed bicycle. If you do not know what one looks like, please consult any of the folded pages in the enclosed catalog (which you will probably recognize from three previous mailings). In lieu of a bike I see you've chosen to provide me with another coloring book - one that used to belong to Annie Hodgekiss, according the inscription on the inside front cover, a daring, but talentless young artist who thought - and drew - outside the lines on more than half of the well-worn pages. I would like to say that my love for you does not hinge on your gift-giving ability. However, since my parents deem in necessary to live in excess of three thousand miles from you at all times, and I remember you only as that funny lady with spotted hands who smells like stale cigarettes, all other discriminating factors on which to base my affection are simply unavailable. Purple jammies and used coloring books are about all you have going for, or against, you at this time.
As a minor, I am denied rights in a manner not unworthy of its own constitutional amendment. Daily, I am reminded of my own powerlessness in a most humiliating and demeaning fashion: the need for permission to make a bowel movement during gym class; a school system that fears ingenuity and praises conformity in all matters of spelling, mathematics, and even world history; and a weekly "allowance" that keeps me dependent on adults for all but superfluous items like bubble gum and Cheezits. My parents exercise tyrannical control over every aspect of my existence. My broccoli intake, the cleanliness of "my" room, and even my sleeping regiment has been predetermined by their primordial insights on child-rearing. I bring this up only to assure you that I am not capable of any serious maliciousness. Any ill will I feel can and will only take the form emotional absence: a cold shoulder at our yearly reunions and my refusal to sign any future greeting cards purchased by my mother, but sent to you on our entire family’s behalf. However, by observing my parents I have learned how powerful emotional unavailability can be, and so I shall wield it like a heavy iron bludgeon in your general direction.
Act now, Grandma, and you can salvage the unsalvageable. Without drastic and immediate improvement, however, the future of our relationship shall bear the unmistakable signs of spiritual and emotional emptiness. It shall be cordial, of course, but also disingenuous, superficial, and painfully unfulfilling. Perhaps this does not seem like the greatest of threats to you now, but when I'm in my prime and you're on your third artificial hip, you will see the error of your ways, and it will be too late.
Yours in relation and obligation only,
Timmy
Encl: Bicycle Catalog; Itemized List entitled, "Suggested Gift Items for Use in the Immediate Future".
Friday, April 4, 2008
Putting things into perspective.
Sometimes when life really gets you down, the easiest way to start to feel up again is to put your own woes and miseries into perspective. It's hard to complain about the lack of a parking space when you remind yourself, in a moment of somber reflection, that there are people in this world who unclog toilets for a living.
The other day, I arrived at work at six a.m., only to be sent out again at nine on an emergency grocery run. Nine o'clock is, of course, when every other car is just driving into the claustrophobic parking structure, while I was trying to get out. Since two vehicles can never round a corner at the same time, I only finally managed to scrape through, literally, by gauging the side of my three-month-old Toyota against the cement wall. (As my friend Mike once accurately determined, hell is most definitely a parking garage.)
Once in the grocery store, a search for large, unsalted, hard pretzels, toffee-coated pralines, Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper, and Slim Jims ensued, which meant only one thing: the boss was in town. I once purchased a single pack of gum on the company dime during one of these excursions only to have to cough up the ninety-five cents in a large public display of my powerlessness. But three boxes of pretzels no one else will eat, twelve dollar pralines, and a twenty-four can set of nasty ass cola for a one-day only appearance is, apparently, fine-d-dandy.
I return to the office to an accusing chorus of "Where were you?" Everyone's in on this one, but by the time I remind them I'd been there since six, two hours before anyone else might I add, they've all lost interest. I become known as the office slacker.
"What were you doing last night?" Jill asks me, after I let loose a particularly jaw-popping yawn.
"I was here."
"Sure."
"Until ten." I point to Jarvis, the other production assistant. "We both were."
Jarvis thinks he is funny, but isn't. So when I say, "And then I was sleeping," he jumps in with "Around!" and proceeds to explain why his joke is so hysterical. It has to do with the comic timing and the play on words.
Jarvis is an asshole. But I don't tell him this. Instead I think about the fact that I could have been a caveman. Now that would have sucked. Can you imagine? An entire existence based on just trying to freaking survive. All you do is hunt and try not to get mauled by a woolly mammoth or clobbered with a large wooden club wielded by a hairy guy named "Ug," who likes to say things like "Ug Ug Hoo Ug Ug." And you can't even tell him what a loser he is because you're a caveman too, and all you can say is "Ug ug hoo ug," right back.
Jill is reading over the receipt. "Where are the pralines?"
I look over her shoulder and point. "Right there. Above gingersnaps."
"No," she says, putting one hand on her hip so I understand the seriousness of the situation. "Where are the pralines?" I follow her eyes down to the bags.
Fuck.
Sometimes the grocery store feels like a second home to me. My first being, of course, the office, which probably explains why, lately, I've been so down on LA. In my first home, I am office wench; in my second, I am service boy. Or girl. I am not especially great at either, and am told so often. My true talents lie in a job I will not be qualified for for at least another seven years. Apparently, making coffee and photocopies for that amount of time is the only suitable preparation for a career in writing. My third home is a fairly decent apartment I hardly ever see and pay for, but only just, by home number one.
Forty-five minutes later, I return with pralines and a monster headache, roughly the size of Jill's ego. I settle into my daily activities, which, being utterly mindless, allow me to contemplate the existence of slugs and how much it must suck to be one. To be just two solid inches of slime, and that's it. I could have been born a slug. I could have lived as a blob of goo and died as a smear on the pavement. And as I sit at my desk “looking up stuff on the internet,” the entire span of my hypothetical, meaningless slug life spreads before my eyes. Day one, I am born. Day two through nine-hundred and eighteen, I just sort of hang out, maybe move a couple inches now and again, just for the heck of it. Day nine-hundred and nineteen, I find a rotting apple core on the side of the road; this is the highlight of my existence. Day nine-hundred twenty, some eight-year-old nose-picker steps on me on his way home from school. My final moments are just a blur: me, dying on the pavement, while Nose-Picker scrapes his shoe against the curb. He points one germ-filled finger in my direction and says, "Eewy." As if it’s my fault my innards are all over his foot.
I can’t even tell you how glad I am not to be a slug.
"What are you so happy about?" Jill wants to know. In our office, happiness cannot be trusted.
"Just happy."
She gives me a look. The look. Then, "Don't forget ink cartridges."
"I didn't," I say, pointing to my computer as proof. I am ordering office supplies from staples.com. It is thrilling. My parents and college professors would be proud.
Any existence in which being bludgeoned is, like, a real concern I think deserves to win some sort of pity prize. Lately, I think I’ve been taking my lack of bludgeoning for granted, and that stops now. Because even though the boss would like our refrigerator door to open in the opposite direction, and I am charged with removing the door, switching the hinges to the opposite side, and reattaching it back to the frame, I can go through my day soothed by the realization that I will not be challenged to a duel, or contracted into mercenary work, or impaled by a jousting lance while riding a horse named Goldenfire.
Four hours later, Jill looks over my handiwork, then tells me I smile weird, and I should stop. This is because if she doesn't say something mean once every four minutes, her central nervous system will spontaneously combust. But I'm over it. I could have been a beetle 'got run over by a motorbike. 'Nuff said.
In some ways, my day continued to go south, but with my new life perspective in place, nothing seemed nearly as bad as the plausible alternatives: I could have been a tire swing; I could have married King Henry VIII; I could have been a concubine. Worst yet, I could have been a prisoner during the Roman Empire, forced to battle a lion in an open-air arena with my bare hands. I don't know about you, but in a fight between me and a lion, I will lose. It's just a fact I've come to accept. I once took an online quiz that assured me I could "take" thirty fifth graders, but a lion is a whole 'nother story. In fact I'm willing to bet one lion could take thirty of me. The beauty is, I'll never know for sure.
---
ADDENDUM: More about slugs and why I'm glad I'm not one...
"Slugs are hermaphrodites, having both female and male reproductive organs. Once a slug has located a mate they encircle each other and sperm is exchanged through their protruding genitalia. A few days later around 30 eggs are laid into a hole in the ground or under the cover of objects such as fallen logs.
A commonly seen practice among many slugs is apophallation, when one or both of the slugs chews off the other's penis. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to participate in mating subsequently, but only using the female parts of its reproductive system."
--http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slugs
The other day, I arrived at work at six a.m., only to be sent out again at nine on an emergency grocery run. Nine o'clock is, of course, when every other car is just driving into the claustrophobic parking structure, while I was trying to get out. Since two vehicles can never round a corner at the same time, I only finally managed to scrape through, literally, by gauging the side of my three-month-old Toyota against the cement wall. (As my friend Mike once accurately determined, hell is most definitely a parking garage.)
Once in the grocery store, a search for large, unsalted, hard pretzels, toffee-coated pralines, Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper, and Slim Jims ensued, which meant only one thing: the boss was in town. I once purchased a single pack of gum on the company dime during one of these excursions only to have to cough up the ninety-five cents in a large public display of my powerlessness. But three boxes of pretzels no one else will eat, twelve dollar pralines, and a twenty-four can set of nasty ass cola for a one-day only appearance is, apparently, fine-d-dandy.
I return to the office to an accusing chorus of "Where were you?" Everyone's in on this one, but by the time I remind them I'd been there since six, two hours before anyone else might I add, they've all lost interest. I become known as the office slacker.
"What were you doing last night?" Jill asks me, after I let loose a particularly jaw-popping yawn.
"I was here."
"Sure."
"Until ten." I point to Jarvis, the other production assistant. "We both were."
Jarvis thinks he is funny, but isn't. So when I say, "And then I was sleeping," he jumps in with "Around!" and proceeds to explain why his joke is so hysterical. It has to do with the comic timing and the play on words.
Jarvis is an asshole. But I don't tell him this. Instead I think about the fact that I could have been a caveman. Now that would have sucked. Can you imagine? An entire existence based on just trying to freaking survive. All you do is hunt and try not to get mauled by a woolly mammoth or clobbered with a large wooden club wielded by a hairy guy named "Ug," who likes to say things like "Ug Ug Hoo Ug Ug." And you can't even tell him what a loser he is because you're a caveman too, and all you can say is "Ug ug hoo ug," right back.
Jill is reading over the receipt. "Where are the pralines?"
I look over her shoulder and point. "Right there. Above gingersnaps."
"No," she says, putting one hand on her hip so I understand the seriousness of the situation. "Where are the pralines?" I follow her eyes down to the bags.
Fuck.
Sometimes the grocery store feels like a second home to me. My first being, of course, the office, which probably explains why, lately, I've been so down on LA. In my first home, I am office wench; in my second, I am service boy. Or girl. I am not especially great at either, and am told so often. My true talents lie in a job I will not be qualified for for at least another seven years. Apparently, making coffee and photocopies for that amount of time is the only suitable preparation for a career in writing. My third home is a fairly decent apartment I hardly ever see and pay for, but only just, by home number one.
Forty-five minutes later, I return with pralines and a monster headache, roughly the size of Jill's ego. I settle into my daily activities, which, being utterly mindless, allow me to contemplate the existence of slugs and how much it must suck to be one. To be just two solid inches of slime, and that's it. I could have been born a slug. I could have lived as a blob of goo and died as a smear on the pavement. And as I sit at my desk “looking up stuff on the internet,” the entire span of my hypothetical, meaningless slug life spreads before my eyes. Day one, I am born. Day two through nine-hundred and eighteen, I just sort of hang out, maybe move a couple inches now and again, just for the heck of it. Day nine-hundred and nineteen, I find a rotting apple core on the side of the road; this is the highlight of my existence. Day nine-hundred twenty, some eight-year-old nose-picker steps on me on his way home from school. My final moments are just a blur: me, dying on the pavement, while Nose-Picker scrapes his shoe against the curb. He points one germ-filled finger in my direction and says, "Eewy." As if it’s my fault my innards are all over his foot.
I can’t even tell you how glad I am not to be a slug.
"What are you so happy about?" Jill wants to know. In our office, happiness cannot be trusted.
"Just happy."
She gives me a look. The look. Then, "Don't forget ink cartridges."
"I didn't," I say, pointing to my computer as proof. I am ordering office supplies from staples.com. It is thrilling. My parents and college professors would be proud.
Any existence in which being bludgeoned is, like, a real concern I think deserves to win some sort of pity prize. Lately, I think I’ve been taking my lack of bludgeoning for granted, and that stops now. Because even though the boss would like our refrigerator door to open in the opposite direction, and I am charged with removing the door, switching the hinges to the opposite side, and reattaching it back to the frame, I can go through my day soothed by the realization that I will not be challenged to a duel, or contracted into mercenary work, or impaled by a jousting lance while riding a horse named Goldenfire.
Four hours later, Jill looks over my handiwork, then tells me I smile weird, and I should stop. This is because if she doesn't say something mean once every four minutes, her central nervous system will spontaneously combust. But I'm over it. I could have been a beetle 'got run over by a motorbike. 'Nuff said.
In some ways, my day continued to go south, but with my new life perspective in place, nothing seemed nearly as bad as the plausible alternatives: I could have been a tire swing; I could have married King Henry VIII; I could have been a concubine. Worst yet, I could have been a prisoner during the Roman Empire, forced to battle a lion in an open-air arena with my bare hands. I don't know about you, but in a fight between me and a lion, I will lose. It's just a fact I've come to accept. I once took an online quiz that assured me I could "take" thirty fifth graders, but a lion is a whole 'nother story. In fact I'm willing to bet one lion could take thirty of me. The beauty is, I'll never know for sure.
---
ADDENDUM: More about slugs and why I'm glad I'm not one...
"Slugs are hermaphrodites, having both female and male reproductive organs. Once a slug has located a mate they encircle each other and sperm is exchanged through their protruding genitalia. A few days later around 30 eggs are laid into a hole in the ground or under the cover of objects such as fallen logs.
A commonly seen practice among many slugs is apophallation, when one or both of the slugs chews off the other's penis. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to participate in mating subsequently, but only using the female parts of its reproductive system."
--http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slugs
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Countdown to 24.
In six minutes, I will be twenty-four. There are a lot of things I meant to accomplish before becoming 24, and now I'm really feeling the crunch. Can I publish a well-respected novel in less than six minutes? Uh oh. Five now. Dammit.
Here are some of the other things I've yet to do, which, by the way, I'd definitely planned to accomplish before this very day.
1. Become an international pop sensation.
2. Stop a forest fire (I may actually have done this, but I'll probably never know).
3. Fall in love in the requited sense. Yes, yes, I know. Sad, sad...
4. Hold down one job that made me feel truly important for more than one year.
5. Hold down one job that made me feel truly important for more than one day.
6. Learn to blow smoke rings.
7. Tear down the house with my karaoke stylings.
8. Score a date at the grocery store.
9. Streak. It's definitely too late now.
10. Cease getting pimples.
11. Appreciate red wine.
12. Skate backwards with speed and agility, but without fear of death.
13. Fully understand my car's internal combustion engine.
14. Sustain a relationship for longer than five months.
15. Learn to play guitar. Perform at an open mic night.
16. Incorporate words like "bollocks" and "cheeky" into my everyday vernacular.
17. Brave a Brazilian wax.
18. Cook a gourmet dinner (without getting seriously flummoxed and threatening to burn the house down).
19. Invent a new word, publish it three times, and call it a day.
20. Use a chainsaw. Saw stuff in half.
21. Correctly apply make-up to face.
22. Grow four more inches.
23. Successfully swim the butterfly stroke from one end of pool to other without looking like a dying seal.
24. Genuinely and whole-heartedly love Shakespeare.
25. Master an English accent. Convince total strangers I am British.
26. Have my shit, like, all of it, together.
It's now 12:34 AM, countdown is over, and it's time for bed. Goodbye early twenties and hello mids...
Here are some of the other things I've yet to do, which, by the way, I'd definitely planned to accomplish before this very day.
1. Become an international pop sensation.
2. Stop a forest fire (I may actually have done this, but I'll probably never know).
3. Fall in love in the requited sense. Yes, yes, I know. Sad, sad...
4. Hold down one job that made me feel truly important for more than one year.
5. Hold down one job that made me feel truly important for more than one day.
6. Learn to blow smoke rings.
7. Tear down the house with my karaoke stylings.
8. Score a date at the grocery store.
9. Streak. It's definitely too late now.
10. Cease getting pimples.
11. Appreciate red wine.
12. Skate backwards with speed and agility, but without fear of death.
13. Fully understand my car's internal combustion engine.
14. Sustain a relationship for longer than five months.
15. Learn to play guitar. Perform at an open mic night.
16. Incorporate words like "bollocks" and "cheeky" into my everyday vernacular.
17. Brave a Brazilian wax.
18. Cook a gourmet dinner (without getting seriously flummoxed and threatening to burn the house down).
19. Invent a new word, publish it three times, and call it a day.
20. Use a chainsaw. Saw stuff in half.
21. Correctly apply make-up to face.
22. Grow four more inches.
23. Successfully swim the butterfly stroke from one end of pool to other without looking like a dying seal.
24. Genuinely and whole-heartedly love Shakespeare.
25. Master an English accent. Convince total strangers I am British.
26. Have my shit, like, all of it, together.
It's now 12:34 AM, countdown is over, and it's time for bed. Goodbye early twenties and hello mids...
Saturday, January 19, 2008
I hate everything about you, no offense.
"No offense" is the weirdest saying there is. Ever notice how it's always preceded by something incredibly mean or insensitive, but then the magic phrase comes around and you're, like, not allowed to be mad? In fact, if you do get mad, the other person will probably come back with, "Hey, I said no offense." Yes, but you also said I was an immature ugly-face. I chose to pay attention to that part of the sentence.
Next time someone tells you "no offense," remind them that two little words can't erase a sentence-full of meaning.
BE AWARE: Even if someone says "no offense,"
they still ARE offending you.
No offense is much like the expression "just kidding." This is another magic phrase that makes it your fault if your feelings get hurt because you can't take a joke. But "just kidding" actually means "and by the way, this is what I really think of you."
While just kidding allows you to mask your true feelings in the guise of a bad joke, this type of deceit is ultimately harmful. Here's an example:
-Do you think we should break up?
-Yes. I feel stifled. You're unbelievably controlling and a terrible lay. Just kidding.
-Haha. For a second there I thought you were serious.
-I was. (pause) Just kidding! Gotcha again!
-Oh Eddie!
-Oh Babette!
They smooch. (Seems nice, doesn't it? But just wait.)
Fifteen Years Later:
-I want a divorce.
-We can't get a divorce! We have two kids and a dog and a split-level house in the suburbs.
-I've wanted to break up with you since 1994.
-You always said you were kidding about that.
-It was just a line, Babette. Like, "Nothing would make me happier." When I say "nothing would make me happier," I am also lying.
-Oh I get it. So you actually hate visiting my parents?
-Yes.
-And taking me to the movie theater?
-Yes. But only because you always have to get up to pee, and then when you come back, you make me tell you what happened while you were gone, and then I always miss something pivotal, and it ruins the whole film.
-Eddie, why are you doing this? Just give me one reason.
-Don't take this personally, but I hate you in every way.
-No, I mean, why couldn't you have done this ten years ago when I was still cute and un-cynical? Now we're both forty pounds overweight and we have baggage and a mortgage. You prick! Why did you say "just kidding" all those years ago?
-I don't know. I was a spineless coward, I guess.
-No kidding. (pause) Haha.
-Haha.
-Maybe we should just stay together and be miserable. What's fifteen more years?
-Nothing would make me happier.
On the other hand, sometimes it's fun to tell someone it is personal even when it isn't:
-Do you know what time Billy's coming over?
-No, he didn't call me back yet.
-Oh.
-What?
-What? Nothing. Just... it's probably personal.
Monday, January 7, 2008
This is REAL! This is NOT a trick! Read on!!!!
Dear Danielle,
Your friendship means so much to me, and I do not say it nearly enough.
A friendship is like a beautiful flower that blooms both day and night,
And the sun above, showering us with love, and also heat and light,
Your friendship is like all these things from which I could not part,
Even though I forget you most of the time, you're always in my heart.
Pass this letter on to twenty of your closest friends in the next hour, including the person who sent it to you, and in one week, your heart's deepest desires will come true. (This really works! My friend did it and it changed her life!!)
If you send this letter to all your friends in the next hour, the love of your life will ask you out tomorrow and you will receive ten thousand dollars on your doorstep in the coming week.
If you don’t send this to twenty people in the next hour you will die an excruciating death and harm will befall everyone you care about. You will also never be loved by anyone and will never get married, or if you are already married, you will immediately get a divorce, and your worst enemy will be the one to end up with your true love. You will also lose all of your money and get run over by a car and then a dog will bite you on your face (leading to an infected wound, and later, your aforementioned excruciating death).
A woman in San Diego once sent this letter to thirty of her closest friends within forty-five minutes and in two days she was promoted from secretary to CEO of the company she worked for! Within three months she also met and married the man of her dreams!!
A man in Wesley, MA ignored this letter completely. Now he's dead. And handicapped.
Please pass this on to twenty of your friends and let them know how much they mean to you!!!!!!!!!!
Love your friend forever,
Michelle
P.S. Remember! If you don't send this you could die!
Your friendship means so much to me, and I do not say it nearly enough.
A friendship is like a beautiful flower that blooms both day and night,
And the sun above, showering us with love, and also heat and light,
Your friendship is like all these things from which I could not part,
Even though I forget you most of the time, you're always in my heart.
Pass this letter on to twenty of your closest friends in the next hour, including the person who sent it to you, and in one week, your heart's deepest desires will come true. (This really works! My friend did it and it changed her life!!)
If you send this letter to all your friends in the next hour, the love of your life will ask you out tomorrow and you will receive ten thousand dollars on your doorstep in the coming week.
If you don’t send this to twenty people in the next hour you will die an excruciating death and harm will befall everyone you care about. You will also never be loved by anyone and will never get married, or if you are already married, you will immediately get a divorce, and your worst enemy will be the one to end up with your true love. You will also lose all of your money and get run over by a car and then a dog will bite you on your face (leading to an infected wound, and later, your aforementioned excruciating death).
A woman in San Diego once sent this letter to thirty of her closest friends within forty-five minutes and in two days she was promoted from secretary to CEO of the company she worked for! Within three months she also met and married the man of her dreams!!
A man in Wesley, MA ignored this letter completely. Now he's dead. And handicapped.
Please pass this on to twenty of your friends and let them know how much they mean to you!!!!!!!!!!
Love your friend forever,
Michelle
P.S. Remember! If you don't send this you could die!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)