Panera Bread sells these awesome little soufflés. Four Cheese, Spinach and Artichoke . . . even a couple featuring various meats if that’s how you roll. I freakin’ love these little soufflés: Warm, eggy, flaky, cheesy, spinachy. Add in mango, eggplant or chocolate and you’ve covered every one of my food fetishes.
I don’t want to overstate the case, but finding these soufflés means a lot to me. Now, every morning I wake up and I think “I want soufflé today”*. And it feels really good just knowing that. For the first time in my life, I know what I want. Y’know, for breakfast. My wife and I spend an awful lot of time discussing meals. It’s always hard to decide on something that sounds good to both of us and then of course, we have to determine how much effort we’re interested in putting in to preparation or clean up. But at least now breakfast is covered. The answer is easy. ‘What are you hungry for?’ ‘Why, soufflé, of course!’ And having that certainty feels really good.
I’ve spent most of my life not knowing that I wanted soufflé. Now, I know I want soufflé and I want it so badly that I can taste it. I get up in the morning while my wife is still in bed, throw on some pants and head to my local Panera franchise or get a soufflé or two. Here’s the rub: my local Panera franchise is always sold out of the soufflés! I walk in the door, craning my neck to see around the person blocking my view of the bakery case, hoping, wishing, dreaming that there’ll be a couple of soufflés waiting there just for me, looking all steamy and take-me-home-y. But they’re not there. The signs are there. The teasing little signs reminding me of the delicious varieties of soufflé are there, but they’ve got nothing behind them. Just an empty, slightly greasy looking tray.
No soufflé for you.
I don’t think I’m asking for all that much. Just a fucking soufflé or two. But the universe is conspiring against me, keeping me from achieving my dreams of warm, flaky, French pastry. And no, a croissant or breakfast sandwich will not do, please don’t trivialize this, Lady Behind the Counter.
Here’s where, through use of a literary device, the soufflé becomes something more than soufflé. Here’s where I show that the soufflé is really only an allegory for the rest of my life . . . a warm, flaky, delicious allegory, but still only an allegory. Or a microcosm, if you will: a single tiny experience that reveals the larger state of my life.
I went to college for eight years. Most of that time I had no idea what I wanted to do after college, I just aimlessly forged ahead. It really wasn’t until I did my student teaching this spring that I knew for certain that I actually wanted to be a teacher. And having that certainty feels really good. So I waded into the job pool with optimistic visions of landing a good one . . . only to find that the pool was less of a pool and more of a puddle. A small puddle quickly evaporating. I’ve applied, I’ve even interviewed but those are all just the little signs reminding me of the soufflés I’m missing out on.
No job for me. For months now. And without a job, I can’t get that which I really want in life: a goddamn soufflé. For the first time in my life, I know exactly what I want. But I can’t get it. So many other things in the way, too many other people beating me to the pastry counter. Happiness is so close but it looks like I may never grasp it. It’s getting harder and harder to even bother driving down to Panera. How long until I just give up and eat some toast? Or do I keep trying only to be let down day after day?
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it fester like a sore and then run? Or will it fall like a soufflé not carefully attended to?
14 July 2008
28 June 2008
Mommy Issues
I called my mom the other day. I’m a good son (not a great son, but a good one) so I do that from time to time. I called this particular time with a great sense of purpose. You see, I was driving home after having spent some time with a friend of mine. This friend, though both she and my mom would probably resent the comparison, reminds me a lot of my mother. Situationally, at least. She’s going through many of the same kinds of issues that I watched my mom go through years ago. Watching the situation from a new perspective I’ve gained a new appreciation for the overwhelming shit my mother went through and I realized that I’d never really thanked her, never told her how proud I was of her for simply having survived. So, I called.
For whatever reason, I’ve been strangely emotional lately. Other than an incident a year ago when I was watching Spider-Man 2 on DVD, I don’t really remember the last time I cried. But for the past week or so I’ve been ready to crumple at the drop of a hat. You know that feeling where something terrible has happened but you’re in a place where you can’t let yourself fall apart so you buck up and as long as everything is normal, you’ll be fine, but if anyone so much as puts a hand on your shoulder as a sign of affection you’ll be reduced to a sobbing wreck? I’m finding myself in that place more and more these days and I’m not really sure why. Maybe its menopause. *
Anyway, it was in one of these deeply, unpleasantly emotional states that I tried to call my mom. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, that I was sorry for not saying it more often and for never letting her know how proud I was of her, how much she meant to me and what a wonderful mother she was. I imagined trying to choke back my emotions as I talked, and ultimately failing like a hurricane wracked levy as she too started to cry. It was a mother/son moment worthy of the sappiest, crappiest Hallmark movie and I wanted it for us.
As is typical of our relationship, I couldn’t actually get a hold of her right then. We usually play a pretty good round of phone tag before catching each other—usually when I’m at work and she’s about to go to bed.
The next night, we caught each other. By this point I was feeling momentarily less emotional and kind of embarrassed by the touching family moment that hadn’t happened. We talked for a while about this and that, how Grandpa and Grandma were doing, her job, my job search etc. Then I saw my opening. I started by telling her about my friend, the things she’s going through and how eerily similar they were to our experiences years ago. She was moved, expressed empathy and offered to help.
It was then that I told her why I had really called. How I wanted to thank her and apologize to her for not being appreciative enough in the past. “Thank you,” she said, “but you don’t have to do that.” This wasn’t just humility: she was trying to cut me off. And it’s not out of coldness that she wanted to cut me off before I got all weepy, it was out of discomfort.
My family, as a rule, does not express positive emotions to each other. Anger? Irritation? Pain? Frustration? No problem! But when it comes to saying something nice we are woefully ill equipped. We say “I love you” through shared derision and sarcasm. I know my family is really unhappy with me when they’re not making fun of me, my hair, my clothes, my diet or my beard. We never, ever hug. Both my twin sister and I are working on introducing hugs into familial gatherings, but it’s still pretty awkward for everyone involved.**
By calling my mother to offer sincere, straightforward thanks I had broken a cardinal rule, a fact which she illustrated in a story. “A few months back,” she said, “I did something like this [expressing emotions] and I wrote a letter to my mom and dad just to say . . . y’know. I didn’t need or want them to respond, I just wanted to say some things in writing so they would know. I talked to my dad a few times after I knew he had gotten the letter and he didn’t say anything about it, of course. Then a few days later he said ‘We got your letter. You didn’t need to do that.’ I could tell it made him uncomfortable but I’m sure he appreciated it.”
The more I think about it, the more it amazes me just how much that story and her telling of it says about my family. There is such a level of discomfort with positive emotional expressions that she had to use a parable to tell me that. I guess in a weird way I really respect that.
And yet, flying in the face of all that, I will here and now proclaim that I love and appreciate my mother. Hopefully she’ll never actually read this, because that’d be really awkward . . . ***
*Menopause, Menopause the Musical!
**Because I work in theatre I’ve been thrust into the world of hugging. Initially that was terrifying to me, but now I’ve really come to (pardon the pun) embrace it and have become a big hug advocate. It’s actually one of my favorite things, even with strangers.
And for the record, I give good hug. This is largely thanks to two unique physically attributes of mine: A) my incredibly long arms that allow me to wrap Reed Richards-like around even the largest of hugees and 2) my soft, uncooked dinner roll of a torso is crafted for ideal cuddling.
***Though less awkward than the conversations that would ensue if she read anything else in my blog.
For whatever reason, I’ve been strangely emotional lately. Other than an incident a year ago when I was watching Spider-Man 2 on DVD, I don’t really remember the last time I cried. But for the past week or so I’ve been ready to crumple at the drop of a hat. You know that feeling where something terrible has happened but you’re in a place where you can’t let yourself fall apart so you buck up and as long as everything is normal, you’ll be fine, but if anyone so much as puts a hand on your shoulder as a sign of affection you’ll be reduced to a sobbing wreck? I’m finding myself in that place more and more these days and I’m not really sure why. Maybe its menopause. *
Anyway, it was in one of these deeply, unpleasantly emotional states that I tried to call my mom. I wanted to tell her that I loved her, that I was sorry for not saying it more often and for never letting her know how proud I was of her, how much she meant to me and what a wonderful mother she was. I imagined trying to choke back my emotions as I talked, and ultimately failing like a hurricane wracked levy as she too started to cry. It was a mother/son moment worthy of the sappiest, crappiest Hallmark movie and I wanted it for us.
As is typical of our relationship, I couldn’t actually get a hold of her right then. We usually play a pretty good round of phone tag before catching each other—usually when I’m at work and she’s about to go to bed.
The next night, we caught each other. By this point I was feeling momentarily less emotional and kind of embarrassed by the touching family moment that hadn’t happened. We talked for a while about this and that, how Grandpa and Grandma were doing, her job, my job search etc. Then I saw my opening. I started by telling her about my friend, the things she’s going through and how eerily similar they were to our experiences years ago. She was moved, expressed empathy and offered to help.
It was then that I told her why I had really called. How I wanted to thank her and apologize to her for not being appreciative enough in the past. “Thank you,” she said, “but you don’t have to do that.” This wasn’t just humility: she was trying to cut me off. And it’s not out of coldness that she wanted to cut me off before I got all weepy, it was out of discomfort.
My family, as a rule, does not express positive emotions to each other. Anger? Irritation? Pain? Frustration? No problem! But when it comes to saying something nice we are woefully ill equipped. We say “I love you” through shared derision and sarcasm. I know my family is really unhappy with me when they’re not making fun of me, my hair, my clothes, my diet or my beard. We never, ever hug. Both my twin sister and I are working on introducing hugs into familial gatherings, but it’s still pretty awkward for everyone involved.**
By calling my mother to offer sincere, straightforward thanks I had broken a cardinal rule, a fact which she illustrated in a story. “A few months back,” she said, “I did something like this [expressing emotions] and I wrote a letter to my mom and dad just to say . . . y’know. I didn’t need or want them to respond, I just wanted to say some things in writing so they would know. I talked to my dad a few times after I knew he had gotten the letter and he didn’t say anything about it, of course. Then a few days later he said ‘We got your letter. You didn’t need to do that.’ I could tell it made him uncomfortable but I’m sure he appreciated it.”
The more I think about it, the more it amazes me just how much that story and her telling of it says about my family. There is such a level of discomfort with positive emotional expressions that she had to use a parable to tell me that. I guess in a weird way I really respect that.
And yet, flying in the face of all that, I will here and now proclaim that I love and appreciate my mother. Hopefully she’ll never actually read this, because that’d be really awkward . . . ***
*Menopause, Menopause the Musical!
**Because I work in theatre I’ve been thrust into the world of hugging. Initially that was terrifying to me, but now I’ve really come to (pardon the pun) embrace it and have become a big hug advocate. It’s actually one of my favorite things, even with strangers.
And for the record, I give good hug. This is largely thanks to two unique physically attributes of mine: A) my incredibly long arms that allow me to wrap Reed Richards-like around even the largest of hugees and 2) my soft, uncooked dinner roll of a torso is crafted for ideal cuddling.
***Though less awkward than the conversations that would ensue if she read anything else in my blog.
14 June 2008
The Old Folks Home
I live amongst the elderly. Living in a condo surrounded by retirees has a few advantages. Probably my favorite is the fact that someone else mows in the summer and shovels in the winter. While I don’t wholly despise physical exertion (in that I’ve done it in the past) mowing and/or shoveling are easily my two least favorite things to do outside. I’m not even really sure why, as they are not necessarily either the most exhausting or even tedious activities one could be asked to do. I do, however, hate them. So at least I don’t have to do that. Also, since our neighbors have nothing better to do than be nosey*it means our house is always secure because there’s usually at least a dozen eyes watching our condo. Now granted, they are deeply cataract eyes attached to minds of dubious lucidity, but at least they’re watching.
Of course, living in the Old World is not all butter scotch and Dentu-crème. There is also a very bothersome and, at times, horrifying side as well. One of the most irritating little quirks is the laundry room situation. You see, we have a communal laundry room which in itself is not a huge issue for me. We can only use the laundry room from 7:30am to 9:30pm. Often, folks’ll start a load of laundry at or even before 7am (myself included). Not a big deal, really. And that means something coming from me because, it should be noted, the laundry room is next to our bedroom. The washing machine is one thin wall away from the head of our bed so if anyone is going to be bothered by early morning laundry, it’s going to be us. And by “us” I actually just mean me because my wife can sleep through pretty much anything. But y’know what? It’s cool. Occasionally we’re in there a little bit after 9:30 (especially when both of us are working during the day) so I don’t make a deal if people want to start at, say, 6:30am (thank you Janice).
But my very favorite thing about the laundry room (and by “very favorite” I mean the thing that perplexes me and frustrates me so much that I’m likely to put my head through the thin wall between the laundry room and our bedroom) is this rule: No laundry on Sunday.
Yes, Sunday. The day that, y’know, I’m home. The day that non-retired people actually have the time to do laundry. No laundry on Sunday. Why? Because laundry makes baby Jesus cry. Really. That’s the only possible justification I can come up with for disallowing laundry on Sunday. This is the same kind of backward thinking, archaic rule that means I can’t buy liquor or get mail on Sunday. And may I just say: How goddamn ridiculous is that? And not just because I don’t care if the baby Jesus cries. My mother, lovely god-fearing woman that she is, does laundry on Sunday and doesn’t worry that it might be a sacrilege. Even if some biblical passage has been dredged up that says: “Thou shalt not wash thy linens on the Sabbath anymore than thou shalt have the butt sex with men folk” it should not affect condo policy. This isn’t a church sponsored condo association. I am calling for a separation of church and condo association.
And while washing on the Sabbath is my longest-standing and most bitched about irritation with my living situation, it is not the only one. There are other small pleasures like the refusal of any of my elderly male neighbors have a single ounce of shame and put a shirt on over their hairy, saggy man-boobs. There’s the fact that I can only own one cat, thus leaving the Grendel without a four legged-companion. There’s the fact that Janice, next door, owns only one record—a slow moving polka tune that she routinely plays just loud enough for us to hear through the thin wall between her living room and ours. There’s the fact that the condo newsletter is crammed full of terrible Jesus poems written by the old and infirmed. And there’s the fact that neither my neighbors nor their guests seem to understand how to use a driveway, garage or parking lot.
These are all long established issues, though, and not the thing that forced my blogging hand this morning. Here’s what happened: Once a week, we get a paper delivery. Not because we ask for it, not because we want it. It’s not even a full paper, just the ads and the “Home” section. Just another small irritation. So anyway, this gets dropped on our doorstep. If the neighbor next to us sees that it’s sitting on our doorstep, y’know, a good place for a paper to be, he picks it up and sticks it in the handle to our outer door. This drives me crazy. Not so much the fact that it’s in the door as the fact that someone is bothering to put it there drives me crazy.
I’d pick it up if it were just on the doorstep, but if he puts it in the handle I take it out and put it back on the doorstep. This is a little battle we have. I always, after the second or third time, will take it inside and place it immediately in the garbage.
This morning, I was doing some laundry. When I went to switch the laundry the paper was in the handle. I took it out. When I went to retrieve the laundry from the dryer, it was back in there. I took it out. A few minutes later, the door bell rings. I usually ignore the doorbell as no one I would want to talk to would ever come to my house without letting me know they were doing so. It rang again. I opened the door and there stood my little gnome of a neighbor.
Thrusting the paper at me he said: “This is yours.”
I said, “I know.”
“Well, please pick it up,” he said, barely masking the deep seated hatred he has long held for me.
“Sorry.” I took the paper, “Please, though, do not put it in the handle.”
“Why don’t you just pick it up?”
“I will. I always do, just please, don’t put it in the handle.”
“You’ve been in and out several times this morning, why don’t you take it?”
“Well, I had my hands full with laundry and I don’t really want it anyway.”
“We’ve called to tell them to stop delivering it, maybe you need to.” He said, now seething with rage at both me and the irresponsible newspaper people who won’t stop delivering something that a neighbor requested them to.
“I will try,” I said.
“And pick up that box!” he barked as though a box of human feces were sitting on our doorstep.
Completely confused I asked “What box?”
“The box of weeds!” I then remembered the small cardboard box that my wife had used while gardening the other day. She mentioned that she forgot to throw it out, but by that point it was raining and neither of us was about to go out and take care of an inoffensive box of pulled weeds in the rain.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said, really meaning it. I mean, not like I had hit his puppy, but we had meant to pick it up and had forgotten so far. Its 9am, by the way, the day after she did it so it’s not like it’s been sitting out there forever.
“It looks like crap!” he said in acceptance of my apology.
Now, feeling less apologetic, I said “I’m sorry” again.
“You bet you are!” he growled as he stomped back into his condo. Was that a threat? Is Cap’n Gnome gonna bring the hurt if my widdle box of weeds doesn’t get picked up? Are he and his older brother John McCain gonna gang up on me? Is going to *gasp* write an angry letter to the condo association?!
I wanted to say to him “Mind your own goddamn business, old man!” Maybe I’ll just paint it on our front door. See if he thinks that looks like crap.
And you know what? Even though I got all the laundry done today, I’m going to throw in a load on Sunday. Take that, condo association asshats.
*I’m not trying to make a general slam on the old here: This is true of all of our neighbors in our building and the three closest buildings to it. Many old people have lots to do. Some of them even sing.
Of course, living in the Old World is not all butter scotch and Dentu-crème. There is also a very bothersome and, at times, horrifying side as well. One of the most irritating little quirks is the laundry room situation. You see, we have a communal laundry room which in itself is not a huge issue for me. We can only use the laundry room from 7:30am to 9:30pm. Often, folks’ll start a load of laundry at or even before 7am (myself included). Not a big deal, really. And that means something coming from me because, it should be noted, the laundry room is next to our bedroom. The washing machine is one thin wall away from the head of our bed so if anyone is going to be bothered by early morning laundry, it’s going to be us. And by “us” I actually just mean me because my wife can sleep through pretty much anything. But y’know what? It’s cool. Occasionally we’re in there a little bit after 9:30 (especially when both of us are working during the day) so I don’t make a deal if people want to start at, say, 6:30am (thank you Janice).
But my very favorite thing about the laundry room (and by “very favorite” I mean the thing that perplexes me and frustrates me so much that I’m likely to put my head through the thin wall between the laundry room and our bedroom) is this rule: No laundry on Sunday.
Yes, Sunday. The day that, y’know, I’m home. The day that non-retired people actually have the time to do laundry. No laundry on Sunday. Why? Because laundry makes baby Jesus cry. Really. That’s the only possible justification I can come up with for disallowing laundry on Sunday. This is the same kind of backward thinking, archaic rule that means I can’t buy liquor or get mail on Sunday. And may I just say: How goddamn ridiculous is that? And not just because I don’t care if the baby Jesus cries. My mother, lovely god-fearing woman that she is, does laundry on Sunday and doesn’t worry that it might be a sacrilege. Even if some biblical passage has been dredged up that says: “Thou shalt not wash thy linens on the Sabbath anymore than thou shalt have the butt sex with men folk” it should not affect condo policy. This isn’t a church sponsored condo association. I am calling for a separation of church and condo association.
And while washing on the Sabbath is my longest-standing and most bitched about irritation with my living situation, it is not the only one. There are other small pleasures like the refusal of any of my elderly male neighbors have a single ounce of shame and put a shirt on over their hairy, saggy man-boobs. There’s the fact that I can only own one cat, thus leaving the Grendel without a four legged-companion. There’s the fact that Janice, next door, owns only one record—a slow moving polka tune that she routinely plays just loud enough for us to hear through the thin wall between her living room and ours. There’s the fact that the condo newsletter is crammed full of terrible Jesus poems written by the old and infirmed. And there’s the fact that neither my neighbors nor their guests seem to understand how to use a driveway, garage or parking lot.
These are all long established issues, though, and not the thing that forced my blogging hand this morning. Here’s what happened: Once a week, we get a paper delivery. Not because we ask for it, not because we want it. It’s not even a full paper, just the ads and the “Home” section. Just another small irritation. So anyway, this gets dropped on our doorstep. If the neighbor next to us sees that it’s sitting on our doorstep, y’know, a good place for a paper to be, he picks it up and sticks it in the handle to our outer door. This drives me crazy. Not so much the fact that it’s in the door as the fact that someone is bothering to put it there drives me crazy.
I’d pick it up if it were just on the doorstep, but if he puts it in the handle I take it out and put it back on the doorstep. This is a little battle we have. I always, after the second or third time, will take it inside and place it immediately in the garbage.
This morning, I was doing some laundry. When I went to switch the laundry the paper was in the handle. I took it out. When I went to retrieve the laundry from the dryer, it was back in there. I took it out. A few minutes later, the door bell rings. I usually ignore the doorbell as no one I would want to talk to would ever come to my house without letting me know they were doing so. It rang again. I opened the door and there stood my little gnome of a neighbor.
Thrusting the paper at me he said: “This is yours.”
I said, “I know.”
“Well, please pick it up,” he said, barely masking the deep seated hatred he has long held for me.
“Sorry.” I took the paper, “Please, though, do not put it in the handle.”
“Why don’t you just pick it up?”
“I will. I always do, just please, don’t put it in the handle.”
“You’ve been in and out several times this morning, why don’t you take it?”
“Well, I had my hands full with laundry and I don’t really want it anyway.”
“We’ve called to tell them to stop delivering it, maybe you need to.” He said, now seething with rage at both me and the irresponsible newspaper people who won’t stop delivering something that a neighbor requested them to.
“I will try,” I said.
“And pick up that box!” he barked as though a box of human feces were sitting on our doorstep.
Completely confused I asked “What box?”
“The box of weeds!” I then remembered the small cardboard box that my wife had used while gardening the other day. She mentioned that she forgot to throw it out, but by that point it was raining and neither of us was about to go out and take care of an inoffensive box of pulled weeds in the rain.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said, really meaning it. I mean, not like I had hit his puppy, but we had meant to pick it up and had forgotten so far. Its 9am, by the way, the day after she did it so it’s not like it’s been sitting out there forever.
“It looks like crap!” he said in acceptance of my apology.
Now, feeling less apologetic, I said “I’m sorry” again.
“You bet you are!” he growled as he stomped back into his condo. Was that a threat? Is Cap’n Gnome gonna bring the hurt if my widdle box of weeds doesn’t get picked up? Are he and his older brother John McCain gonna gang up on me? Is going to *gasp* write an angry letter to the condo association?!
I wanted to say to him “Mind your own goddamn business, old man!” Maybe I’ll just paint it on our front door. See if he thinks that looks like crap.
And you know what? Even though I got all the laundry done today, I’m going to throw in a load on Sunday. Take that, condo association asshats.
*I’m not trying to make a general slam on the old here: This is true of all of our neighbors in our building and the three closest buildings to it. Many old people have lots to do. Some of them even sing.
17 May 2008
Daniel Waving Good-bye
I’ve been estranged from my father’s side of the family for almost exactly as long as I’ve been estranged from my father. That’s because in the midst of the turmoil caused by him running off with a chambermaid, evading his taxes and failing to pay our mortgage, his mother (my grandmother) informed us that Dad had prayed for forgiveness—God had forgiven him and so should we. Yes, he closed his eyes and spoke to his imaginary friend and because of that we should over look the money he stole and the fact that he left us homeless. His family couldn’t understand why that was a problem for us.
There’s been very little communication with any of them for almost ten years. In that time I’ve moved, gotten married and even changed my name. Since none of them was invited to any of those events, I don’t expect them to be necessarily aware of them (in fact, one of the ideas behind the name change was that it would prevent them from getting in contact with me—that and it would help prevent my father from committing fraud against me like he has with the rest of my family).
When I was talking to my mom the other day, she informed me that a letter had come to her house intended for my siblings and me. It was an invitation to an upcoming family reunion. Yes, it’s absurd that these people have so little grasp on reality as to think that my brother, sister and I would be interested in such an event (we never even liked that side of the family when we had to spend time with them). And yes, it is absolutely insulting and infuriating that my mother, who was better to that family than my father ever was, was purposely omitted from the invitation (divorce is a sin) which was mailed to her house. That alone would be reason enough for me to boycott the reunion if a myriad of other reasons didn’t already exist.
The most remarkable thing about this invitation, however, trumps those other things. The invitation was addressed to: “E.J., Jane and Daniel” (emphasis mine).
Yes, I’ve changed my name. My last name. I am not now, nor have I ever been a ‘Daniel.’ If you’re sending out invitations to your family and you can’t quite remember someone’s name apparently the thing to do is just guess. Don’t look it up or anything. Don’t call Aunt Alice and say, “What’s the name of Jim and Sandy’s quiet, pudgy son? I know his twin sister is Jane, but what’s his name? . . . Daniel? Are you sure? . . . Well, if you’re not sure I’ll call a few other people to verify so that I don’t end up looking like a complete mutherfucking idiot when I send out the invitation.”
Am I just that forgettable? I’ve been called a lot of things, but I’m not sure that “wallflower” is a label that would stick. Or quiet. Or hell, anything short of loud, obnoxious and intrusive.
It’s funny, too, because the only other place where people constantly struggled with remembering my name was the church where I grew up.
After every service, we’d file out and shake hands with the people assigned to door duty. Invariably, it would go like this: “Good to see you, Julie. That’s a very pretty dress, Jane. How are you Sandy? Jim. Hello . . . uh, Champ. Hey, EJ, how’s school?” Substitute “Sport,” “young man,” or “Tom?” for “Champ” and you have an accurate idea of my exit from church every week for the first 13 years of my life*.
I’m now thinking that the only reason I’m estranged from the family and the church is because neither group could remember my name. My ego, my sick need to be in the spotlight wouldn’t allow me to bother with those who refused to acknowledge my stardom.
Then again, maybe my abandonment of them had something to do with the fact that my dad’s family is a group of cattle ranching bigots and the church is a group of bigoted cattle.
Hard to say, really.
*After that point it stayed pretty much the same for the next seven years, but every few years we lost someone from the line-up. You’d think the novelty of that alone would help make me memorable, but alas, no.
There’s been very little communication with any of them for almost ten years. In that time I’ve moved, gotten married and even changed my name. Since none of them was invited to any of those events, I don’t expect them to be necessarily aware of them (in fact, one of the ideas behind the name change was that it would prevent them from getting in contact with me—that and it would help prevent my father from committing fraud against me like he has with the rest of my family).
When I was talking to my mom the other day, she informed me that a letter had come to her house intended for my siblings and me. It was an invitation to an upcoming family reunion. Yes, it’s absurd that these people have so little grasp on reality as to think that my brother, sister and I would be interested in such an event (we never even liked that side of the family when we had to spend time with them). And yes, it is absolutely insulting and infuriating that my mother, who was better to that family than my father ever was, was purposely omitted from the invitation (divorce is a sin) which was mailed to her house. That alone would be reason enough for me to boycott the reunion if a myriad of other reasons didn’t already exist.
The most remarkable thing about this invitation, however, trumps those other things. The invitation was addressed to: “E.J., Jane and Daniel” (emphasis mine).
Yes, I’ve changed my name. My last name. I am not now, nor have I ever been a ‘Daniel.’ If you’re sending out invitations to your family and you can’t quite remember someone’s name apparently the thing to do is just guess. Don’t look it up or anything. Don’t call Aunt Alice and say, “What’s the name of Jim and Sandy’s quiet, pudgy son? I know his twin sister is Jane, but what’s his name? . . . Daniel? Are you sure? . . . Well, if you’re not sure I’ll call a few other people to verify so that I don’t end up looking like a complete mutherfucking idiot when I send out the invitation.”
Am I just that forgettable? I’ve been called a lot of things, but I’m not sure that “wallflower” is a label that would stick. Or quiet. Or hell, anything short of loud, obnoxious and intrusive.
It’s funny, too, because the only other place where people constantly struggled with remembering my name was the church where I grew up.
After every service, we’d file out and shake hands with the people assigned to door duty. Invariably, it would go like this: “Good to see you, Julie. That’s a very pretty dress, Jane. How are you Sandy? Jim. Hello . . . uh, Champ. Hey, EJ, how’s school?” Substitute “Sport,” “young man,” or “Tom?” for “Champ” and you have an accurate idea of my exit from church every week for the first 13 years of my life*.
I’m now thinking that the only reason I’m estranged from the family and the church is because neither group could remember my name. My ego, my sick need to be in the spotlight wouldn’t allow me to bother with those who refused to acknowledge my stardom.
Then again, maybe my abandonment of them had something to do with the fact that my dad’s family is a group of cattle ranching bigots and the church is a group of bigoted cattle.
Hard to say, really.
*After that point it stayed pretty much the same for the next seven years, but every few years we lost someone from the line-up. You’d think the novelty of that alone would help make me memorable, but alas, no.
09 May 2008
Fletch's Rules to Live By
I am no role model nor would I like to be considered one. But, there are a few habits and practices of mine that should, nonetheless, be adopted universally. I've compiled a list of a few of these universal maxims.
I am not the only one who does these things, but I am the one who is about to list them for you so the history books will one day give me the credit. I beat you to it, so there.
1. Pay at the Pump
Welcome to the 21st century, ladies and gentlemen! We have a lot of amazing things here in the 21st century, not the least of which are credit cards and gas pumps that take them. Truly, inserting one's plastic into the slot of a pump and quickly withdrawing it is nothing short of capitalist intercourse. There is no reason why one should ever have to leave one's car sitting at the pump while one goes inside to pay. There are, in fact, only two reasons why anyone should ever enter a gas station: a. to use the restroom during a long car trip and 2. to purchase cheap candy to smuggle into the movie theatre. And when doing either of those things, one should pull into a parking spot at the gas station, not leave one's car sitting at the pump.
2. Reusable Bags
Yes, it's ecologically responsible and blah blah blah but really the best reason to do it is because nothing quite beats the feeling of superiority you get when you go through the checkout with reusable bags. Regardless of what you are purchasing, people will actually look up to you for using reusable bags. Even if you're purchasing nothing but a tray of sushi and two silk ties (true story) they will think you are a good human being. I'm fairly certain that you could purchase a stack of porno mags, a case of batteries and a box of Toaster Strudel while using cloth bags and the cashier would still say "How responsible of you!" And, of course, you get to look down on everyone who isn't using them*! It's awesome. You may be inferior to them in every other way (as I usually am) but when it comes to the grocery checkout lane: You are officially their better if you are using reusable bags.
3. Donate
I don't care what it is: money, time, blood, other bodily fluids . . . Whatever. Just give something you don't have to** to someone you don't know.
4. Listen to Radio Lab
This isn't a matter of opinion here, people. I'm not just trying to tell you that this is a good show. It can actually be objectively proven to be the best show ever created. I mean, I really like This American Life but that's an opinion. It is a scientifically verifiable that everyone in the universe should be listening to Radio Lab.
5. Do Not Turn In To The Center Lane
Turning in to the center lane does not solve any of your problems, it just delays them. Having a hard time turning onto the street? That sucks. But you know what sucks even more? Trying to merge into busy traffic from a dead stop with the potential of someone going the other direction coming into your lane at any moment. Just don’t do it.
6. Take a Course in Logic
Why is Gym Class required but Logic optional? And sure, PE has its merits but I truly believe that if everyone took a course in Logic the world would be a much better place. Think of how much better equipped people would be to deal with difficult problems if they had a background in Logic. This should be a core class along with Science, English and History. Middle school, high school, college . . . people should even have to take a test in Logic when applying to work at a video store.
7. Make an Ass of Yourself
I don’t expect everyone to take to it quite as well as I have, but I do think that everyone should do this at least once a day. It doesn’t have to be a large scale “Mission Accomplished” kind of self-ass-makery, it could be something as small as using the phrase “self-ass-makery” in a blog. At any rate, the world would be a better place if everyone made an ass of themselves from time to time.
So there you go. These are seven rules that I live by and, though I would not recommend living as I do under any other circumstances, if everyone were more like me in the above ways the world would be a better place.
*I realize that if this were universally adopted the feeling of superiority would be moot. That is why it is ever so important that you start this practice as soon as possible, that way the early adopters will always be able to rub that fact in the noses of all the Johnny Come-Latelys. And for the record, I beat you to it, so there.
**Giving to a church, while technically a donation, doesn't really apply for this particular rule since the threat of damnation for not giving is an act of coercion and therefore it's not really giving something you don't have to.
I am not the only one who does these things, but I am the one who is about to list them for you so the history books will one day give me the credit. I beat you to it, so there.
1. Pay at the Pump
Welcome to the 21st century, ladies and gentlemen! We have a lot of amazing things here in the 21st century, not the least of which are credit cards and gas pumps that take them. Truly, inserting one's plastic into the slot of a pump and quickly withdrawing it is nothing short of capitalist intercourse. There is no reason why one should ever have to leave one's car sitting at the pump while one goes inside to pay. There are, in fact, only two reasons why anyone should ever enter a gas station: a. to use the restroom during a long car trip and 2. to purchase cheap candy to smuggle into the movie theatre. And when doing either of those things, one should pull into a parking spot at the gas station, not leave one's car sitting at the pump.
2. Reusable Bags
Yes, it's ecologically responsible and blah blah blah but really the best reason to do it is because nothing quite beats the feeling of superiority you get when you go through the checkout with reusable bags. Regardless of what you are purchasing, people will actually look up to you for using reusable bags. Even if you're purchasing nothing but a tray of sushi and two silk ties (true story) they will think you are a good human being. I'm fairly certain that you could purchase a stack of porno mags, a case of batteries and a box of Toaster Strudel while using cloth bags and the cashier would still say "How responsible of you!" And, of course, you get to look down on everyone who isn't using them*! It's awesome. You may be inferior to them in every other way (as I usually am) but when it comes to the grocery checkout lane: You are officially their better if you are using reusable bags.
3. Donate
I don't care what it is: money, time, blood, other bodily fluids . . . Whatever. Just give something you don't have to** to someone you don't know.
4. Listen to Radio Lab
This isn't a matter of opinion here, people. I'm not just trying to tell you that this is a good show. It can actually be objectively proven to be the best show ever created. I mean, I really like This American Life but that's an opinion. It is a scientifically verifiable that everyone in the universe should be listening to Radio Lab.
5. Do Not Turn In To The Center Lane
Turning in to the center lane does not solve any of your problems, it just delays them. Having a hard time turning onto the street? That sucks. But you know what sucks even more? Trying to merge into busy traffic from a dead stop with the potential of someone going the other direction coming into your lane at any moment. Just don’t do it.
6. Take a Course in Logic
Why is Gym Class required but Logic optional? And sure, PE has its merits but I truly believe that if everyone took a course in Logic the world would be a much better place. Think of how much better equipped people would be to deal with difficult problems if they had a background in Logic. This should be a core class along with Science, English and History. Middle school, high school, college . . . people should even have to take a test in Logic when applying to work at a video store.
7. Make an Ass of Yourself
I don’t expect everyone to take to it quite as well as I have, but I do think that everyone should do this at least once a day. It doesn’t have to be a large scale “Mission Accomplished” kind of self-ass-makery, it could be something as small as using the phrase “self-ass-makery” in a blog. At any rate, the world would be a better place if everyone made an ass of themselves from time to time.
So there you go. These are seven rules that I live by and, though I would not recommend living as I do under any other circumstances, if everyone were more like me in the above ways the world would be a better place.
*I realize that if this were universally adopted the feeling of superiority would be moot. That is why it is ever so important that you start this practice as soon as possible, that way the early adopters will always be able to rub that fact in the noses of all the Johnny Come-Latelys. And for the record, I beat you to it, so there.
**Giving to a church, while technically a donation, doesn't really apply for this particular rule since the threat of damnation for not giving is an act of coercion and therefore it's not really giving something you don't have to.
03 May 2008
The Conclusion
When I was in eighth grade, my classmates and I were given an assignment in English class to reflect on our lives so far and write about those significant events and people who made us who we were. It was important for us to do this, she argued, as we drew close to such a crucial event in our young lives: 8th Grade Graduation. The paper was called: “The Conclusion.”
Yes, “The Conclusion.” As if graduation from middle school was the startling finale of the chapter book of our lives. And at the time, of course, it felt like it. The eight grade graduation ceremony was filled with talk of “going out into the world,” images of climbing mountains, allusions to “Oh the Places You’ll Go” by the prolific Dr. Seuss, pledges of eternal friendship and a lot of melodramatic tears*. Given that 95% of our graduating class was enrolling in the same high school the following fall, it was all a bit much.
At the time the move from the comfortable and familiar confines of the school that most of us had attended since pre-school to that brave new world of High School felt like a milestone worthy of a grand Conclusion.
One of my greatest regrets is that, unlike my twin sister who has never thrown out so much as a grocery list that she’s written, I didn’t hold on to any of my school work until I was in college. I wish now that I could look back on “The Conclusion” that my fourteen year old self wrote. Yes, it would doubtlessly be horrifying, but I think it would also be good for me to see where I came from and probably give me some insights into the students that I’m now teaching.
Taking a cue from Mrs. Knoll’s eight grade English class, I’ve decided to take a little time to reflect on the “conclusion” I’m currently marching my way towards.
In a matter of hours, I will be (for the second time) a college graduate. I will forever be done with my undergraduate studies. As of 10:30am yesterday, I am done student teaching and I have completed the first of two exit interviews. (What’s more conclusive than an “exit”? And how does one exit twice without re-entering in between?)
Doubtlessly, the graduation ceremony will include cliché imagery and allusions to Dr. Seuss—only this time, my classmates and I really are going places. Of course for most of my fellow English majors those places will include a paper hat and the phrase “Would you like fries with that?”** In the age of Facebook, friends departing to new lives across the globe is only slightly more dramatic than my eighth grade class spending a summer apart before all starting as ninth graders at the same high school, but still . . . I won’t be able to walk around campus and just bump into people anymore. I’ll have to go out of my way to stay in contact and, frankly, I’m not sure that I have the time, energy or interest for a whole lot of that. So, this is the end of all of that.
I started at Aquinas College with a pretty good sense of self. I was no wet-behind-the-ears freshman out on his own for the first time, trying to find his place in the world. I was old. Married. And I was less worried about finding my way as I was focused on paving the road I had already mapped out. And yet, my three years at AQ ended up being incredibly significant.
While my six years at GRCC (seriously) helped change me from a miserable, confused Christian Reformed Republican into a happily overly confident theatre-loving Liberal Humanist, my time at Aquinas was not quite as dramatic but it was equally as significant. GRCC rough-hewed me, AQ honed me. Rather than becoming someone else, Aquinas showed me that I liked who I was. It was there that I found the causes I wanted to speak out for and was given the tools and the opportunities to do so.
I’ve made some friendships while at Aquinas, but far fewer than I would have liked. Because the social aspect was secondary to the educational aspect of college (heresy, I know!) it was often neglected altogether. I’m suddenly noticing how sad that makes me. I may be the only person in the history of higher education to say: “I wish I had spent more time being social and less time studying in college.” I think about my wife and how many great friends she made in her time at Aquinas and I realize that I don’t have that. That I’ll never get to have that. Because it is simply . . . over.
By this time tomorrow, I will have gone from being a college student to just being unemployed. No longer a student, not quite a teacher. There’ll be plenty of student loans, of course, to remind me of my time as a student for many, many years, but I can no longer honestly use my student ID to get a discount at movies (don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to do it for as long as I possibly can, but it won’t be honest).
As melancholy as this reflection has inadvertently made me, I am incredibly happy to be done. This is something I’ve been working towards for almost a decade (even though for large portions of that time it seemed like I wasn’t working towards much of anything). It took a long time, a lot of effort and even more student loans to get here. Most importantly, though, it took a lot of help. Those of you who have lent that help (my family, my theatre family, my heathen family, my in-laws and especially my wife): I am forever in your debt and I love you all.
Now, all I have to do is find a job and buy a house and I’ll have covered all of the prerequisites for real adulthood. That’s a horrifying thought . . . perhaps, though, if I avoid having children I can stave off really real adulthood forever.
Speaking of good reasons why not to spawn, I’ve been working with 9th graders for the last few months. One of the lessons I’ve tried to impart to them is that their writing needs to have transitions. And while that’s a prescriptive lesson in writing, it’s a descriptive lesson in life. Though this is the end of many things for me, I don’t want to think of it as “The Conclusion” of anything. Instead, this is “A Transition.” It’s a big transition, it’s an important transition but that’s all.
With that in mind, I’ll end this arduously nostalgic, painfully self-involved rant not with the words “The End,” but with the question: What’s Next?
*For my twin sister and I, at lot of the tears were inspired by the unanticipated and unwanted guest appearance made by our older sister who had just recently run away from home and sent our family into new levels of pain and drama.
**What am I, Garrison Keillor? Geesus, I’m a freakin’ hack already.
Yes, “The Conclusion.” As if graduation from middle school was the startling finale of the chapter book of our lives. And at the time, of course, it felt like it. The eight grade graduation ceremony was filled with talk of “going out into the world,” images of climbing mountains, allusions to “Oh the Places You’ll Go” by the prolific Dr. Seuss, pledges of eternal friendship and a lot of melodramatic tears*. Given that 95% of our graduating class was enrolling in the same high school the following fall, it was all a bit much.
At the time the move from the comfortable and familiar confines of the school that most of us had attended since pre-school to that brave new world of High School felt like a milestone worthy of a grand Conclusion.
One of my greatest regrets is that, unlike my twin sister who has never thrown out so much as a grocery list that she’s written, I didn’t hold on to any of my school work until I was in college. I wish now that I could look back on “The Conclusion” that my fourteen year old self wrote. Yes, it would doubtlessly be horrifying, but I think it would also be good for me to see where I came from and probably give me some insights into the students that I’m now teaching.
Taking a cue from Mrs. Knoll’s eight grade English class, I’ve decided to take a little time to reflect on the “conclusion” I’m currently marching my way towards.
In a matter of hours, I will be (for the second time) a college graduate. I will forever be done with my undergraduate studies. As of 10:30am yesterday, I am done student teaching and I have completed the first of two exit interviews. (What’s more conclusive than an “exit”? And how does one exit twice without re-entering in between?)
Doubtlessly, the graduation ceremony will include cliché imagery and allusions to Dr. Seuss—only this time, my classmates and I really are going places. Of course for most of my fellow English majors those places will include a paper hat and the phrase “Would you like fries with that?”** In the age of Facebook, friends departing to new lives across the globe is only slightly more dramatic than my eighth grade class spending a summer apart before all starting as ninth graders at the same high school, but still . . . I won’t be able to walk around campus and just bump into people anymore. I’ll have to go out of my way to stay in contact and, frankly, I’m not sure that I have the time, energy or interest for a whole lot of that. So, this is the end of all of that.
I started at Aquinas College with a pretty good sense of self. I was no wet-behind-the-ears freshman out on his own for the first time, trying to find his place in the world. I was old. Married. And I was less worried about finding my way as I was focused on paving the road I had already mapped out. And yet, my three years at AQ ended up being incredibly significant.
While my six years at GRCC (seriously) helped change me from a miserable, confused Christian Reformed Republican into a happily overly confident theatre-loving Liberal Humanist, my time at Aquinas was not quite as dramatic but it was equally as significant. GRCC rough-hewed me, AQ honed me. Rather than becoming someone else, Aquinas showed me that I liked who I was. It was there that I found the causes I wanted to speak out for and was given the tools and the opportunities to do so.
I’ve made some friendships while at Aquinas, but far fewer than I would have liked. Because the social aspect was secondary to the educational aspect of college (heresy, I know!) it was often neglected altogether. I’m suddenly noticing how sad that makes me. I may be the only person in the history of higher education to say: “I wish I had spent more time being social and less time studying in college.” I think about my wife and how many great friends she made in her time at Aquinas and I realize that I don’t have that. That I’ll never get to have that. Because it is simply . . . over.
By this time tomorrow, I will have gone from being a college student to just being unemployed. No longer a student, not quite a teacher. There’ll be plenty of student loans, of course, to remind me of my time as a student for many, many years, but I can no longer honestly use my student ID to get a discount at movies (don’t get me wrong, I’m still going to do it for as long as I possibly can, but it won’t be honest).
As melancholy as this reflection has inadvertently made me, I am incredibly happy to be done. This is something I’ve been working towards for almost a decade (even though for large portions of that time it seemed like I wasn’t working towards much of anything). It took a long time, a lot of effort and even more student loans to get here. Most importantly, though, it took a lot of help. Those of you who have lent that help (my family, my theatre family, my heathen family, my in-laws and especially my wife): I am forever in your debt and I love you all.
Now, all I have to do is find a job and buy a house and I’ll have covered all of the prerequisites for real adulthood. That’s a horrifying thought . . . perhaps, though, if I avoid having children I can stave off really real adulthood forever.
Speaking of good reasons why not to spawn, I’ve been working with 9th graders for the last few months. One of the lessons I’ve tried to impart to them is that their writing needs to have transitions. And while that’s a prescriptive lesson in writing, it’s a descriptive lesson in life. Though this is the end of many things for me, I don’t want to think of it as “The Conclusion” of anything. Instead, this is “A Transition.” It’s a big transition, it’s an important transition but that’s all.
With that in mind, I’ll end this arduously nostalgic, painfully self-involved rant not with the words “The End,” but with the question: What’s Next?
*For my twin sister and I, at lot of the tears were inspired by the unanticipated and unwanted guest appearance made by our older sister who had just recently run away from home and sent our family into new levels of pain and drama.
**What am I, Garrison Keillor? Geesus, I’m a freakin’ hack already.
22 April 2008
Off Season Rant
It’s been a long time since I blogged. Sorry.
I recently found something I had written down in a notebook a while ago . . . and by a while, I mean either last December or a year before that. I’m not really sure. Anyway, I’m sure at the time I intended to do something more with it, but in rereading it I was pretty happy with it, so I’m going to leave it how it is. Enjoy.
I was sitting in the lobby of the theater, which is the primary job of a House Manager if all is right the world, when I heard someone trying to get in the lobby doors. This is not untypical, even at a quarter after eight for a show with a 7:30 curtain. What can I say? People are rude and don’t understand how disruptive it is for live theater when someone walks in 45 minutes late. I got up to see who it was tugging on my lobby door, shaking my head with disgust at the rude bastard, whomever it might be and screwing on my “I’m disappointed with you as a human being” face. Through the glass doors I saw an enormous man, easily my height , maybe even taller, in a Santa suit.
“WTF?” I thought to myself.
Behind him stood a middle-aged woman in glasses and frumpy attire. Not frumpy Mrs. Claus attire, just regular frumpy. Not unlike what many of the women who volunteer as ushers at the theater wear.
When the behemoth Santa saw me, he waved one gloved hand while the other clutched a fist full of candy canes. Suffice it to say, I was suspicious.
I pushed the door open the same way I always do when some kind of degenerate is trying to get into the theater and I want to act polite but not inviting. I said, “Can I help you?” And though he could have just as easily crushed me with his massive frame, he thrust a candy cane at me and said “Merry Christmas!”
The way he said it suggested to me that either he thought I thought he was really Santa or he thought he was. Not wanting to burst his bubble and have to deal with an enraged 7ft. tall schizophrenic in a fake beard, I said “What, uh, what’s going on, uhm, Santa?”
He immediately dropped his guise and said “I had a thing at the Kid’s Museum [next door], just stopped by on my way to the car.”
“Ah. Alright. Well, thanks for the candy cane.”
“No problem,” he said waving good-bye, “Happy Holidays!”
Now, ‘Happy Holidays’ is my preferred winter salutation. I’m a card carrying member of the ACLU, I don’t think it’s overly PC to be respectful of the fact that other people don’t necessarily celebrate the same holidays—I think it’s just the right level of PC. But Santa saying it? Santa?! How weird is that? It’d be like Zombie Jesus saying “Happy Pagan Fertility Celebration” on Easter Sunday. But, y’know, like a 7ft. tall Zombie Jesus with a frumpy mute female sidekick*.
The whole thing left me feeling incredibly unsettled, but hey, free candy cane, so who am I to complain?
*It’s been a while since I read the Biblical accounts of the resurrection—does Jesus have a frumpy mute female sidekick?**
**Actually, given the great disparity between the various “gospel” accounts, it’s entirely possible that in Mark Jesus had a frumpy mute female sidekick and in Luke he had a fast-talking midget in leather pants as a sidekick and in John Jesus actually is a fast-talking midget in leather pants.
Seriously people, those of you who actually believe the Bible is true need to read the various resurrection stories and, with a straight face, explain to me how it could be possible that all four of them is true. Really, I dare you.
I recently found something I had written down in a notebook a while ago . . . and by a while, I mean either last December or a year before that. I’m not really sure. Anyway, I’m sure at the time I intended to do something more with it, but in rereading it I was pretty happy with it, so I’m going to leave it how it is. Enjoy.
I was sitting in the lobby of the theater, which is the primary job of a House Manager if all is right the world, when I heard someone trying to get in the lobby doors. This is not untypical, even at a quarter after eight for a show with a 7:30 curtain. What can I say? People are rude and don’t understand how disruptive it is for live theater when someone walks in 45 minutes late. I got up to see who it was tugging on my lobby door, shaking my head with disgust at the rude bastard, whomever it might be and screwing on my “I’m disappointed with you as a human being” face. Through the glass doors I saw an enormous man, easily my height , maybe even taller, in a Santa suit.
“WTF?” I thought to myself.
Behind him stood a middle-aged woman in glasses and frumpy attire. Not frumpy Mrs. Claus attire, just regular frumpy. Not unlike what many of the women who volunteer as ushers at the theater wear.
When the behemoth Santa saw me, he waved one gloved hand while the other clutched a fist full of candy canes. Suffice it to say, I was suspicious.
I pushed the door open the same way I always do when some kind of degenerate is trying to get into the theater and I want to act polite but not inviting. I said, “Can I help you?” And though he could have just as easily crushed me with his massive frame, he thrust a candy cane at me and said “Merry Christmas!”
The way he said it suggested to me that either he thought I thought he was really Santa or he thought he was. Not wanting to burst his bubble and have to deal with an enraged 7ft. tall schizophrenic in a fake beard, I said “What, uh, what’s going on, uhm, Santa?”
He immediately dropped his guise and said “I had a thing at the Kid’s Museum [next door], just stopped by on my way to the car.”
“Ah. Alright. Well, thanks for the candy cane.”
“No problem,” he said waving good-bye, “Happy Holidays!”
Now, ‘Happy Holidays’ is my preferred winter salutation. I’m a card carrying member of the ACLU, I don’t think it’s overly PC to be respectful of the fact that other people don’t necessarily celebrate the same holidays—I think it’s just the right level of PC. But Santa saying it? Santa?! How weird is that? It’d be like Zombie Jesus saying “Happy Pagan Fertility Celebration” on Easter Sunday. But, y’know, like a 7ft. tall Zombie Jesus with a frumpy mute female sidekick*.
The whole thing left me feeling incredibly unsettled, but hey, free candy cane, so who am I to complain?
*It’s been a while since I read the Biblical accounts of the resurrection—does Jesus have a frumpy mute female sidekick?**
**Actually, given the great disparity between the various “gospel” accounts, it’s entirely possible that in Mark Jesus had a frumpy mute female sidekick and in Luke he had a fast-talking midget in leather pants as a sidekick and in John Jesus actually is a fast-talking midget in leather pants.
Seriously people, those of you who actually believe the Bible is true need to read the various resurrection stories and, with a straight face, explain to me how it could be possible that all four of them is true. Really, I dare you.
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