You'd Think I'd Have Learned

Some things never change. Other things don't change even though we wish they would. Today's missive falls under the category of the latter.

Since Mom and I are both home during the afternoons, we've had to become accustomed to each other's habits. Me, I like keeping to myself. I'll run errands in the morning, but when it's afternoon, I want to sit my fat ass down and apply for jobs, fuck around on the Internet, watch TV, read, and write. It's me time.

Mom's version of me time consists of watching TV on the big screen in the living room. And while she is more than entitled to do so, it becomes somewhat inconvenient because Mom's hearing ain't what it used to be. So she watches TV loudly. Really loudly.

Which is fine if she's watching Mystery Diagnosis or Little People, Big World or afternoon baseball.

Not so much if it's A Baby Story.

The other day, I heard screams coming from that TV the likes of which I'd never heard before. And, like an idiot, I went out to see what all the ruckus was about. So I opened the door of my room, turned left, and stared directly at the largest TV in my house.

And what did I see? Why, a baby crowning, of course!

Naturally, I ran screaming back into my room, which my mother just couldn't understand. Quoth her, "You're going to see that eventually someday!" Exactly, Mom. Someday. When it's my wife, and my own flesh and blood protruding from her loins. Not some crazed stranger who consented to be on TV, and an unwilling newborn half-hanging out of her mercifully pixelated cooch.

All of which confirmed for me that it's best if we leave each other be in the afternoons. That is, until this afternoon, as I was playing poker on my BlackBerry and getting my ass handed to me. In my frustration, I naturally swore a few times and got the rage out of me, but my mother overheard me and asked me what was wrong. I told her she'd laugh if I explained, but she insisted, so I again left my room to go tell her.

And after I told the story, what was the first thing I heard from the TV? "This will involve dilating her cervix so that the doctor can use this needle to puncture the amniotic sac and break her water."

GAH!

All of which has me convinced that when it is my wife, and it is my flesh and blood entering the world, the first thing Daddy's gonna do is hire someone else to work the video camera.

The Customer Isn't Always Right

I know for a fact that the Starbucks Coffee Company will not live or die as a result of the three dollars they just received from me--three dollars for a Caramel Macchiato, sitting in a cup right next to my laptop right now as I sit waiting in their E. College Ave. location. Nevertheless, I felt exceptionally good about the money I spent on this drink, for a reason you might not suspect.

Having worked in food service and retail for approximately six consecutive years in my teens, I understand that it is an unforgiving profession. Whether you in your travels want to admit this or not, the people behind the counter or register are, occasionally, trying to serve you as best they can. Sure, they can be cold and rude and unhelpful on occasion, but if they really were that ineffective or foul-tempered all the time, they wouldn't be employed for very long. What I'm trying to get at here is that sometimes, the clerk's shitty mood is actually the fault of the customer--perhaps not you, but someone behind you that has left an indelibly crappy mark on his or her day.

Case in point: an older woman (perhaps in her 50s or 60s) came up to the counter and asked the clerk something in a voice I could not hear clearly. He responded that they only do samples three times a day, but that the cookies are available for purchase if she was interested. The woman proceeded to launch a passive-aggressive tirade explaining that she would never come back to that Starbucks again. She even went so far as to tell the children that were accompanying her that the store was "stingy," and when stores are that cheap, they don't deserve her business. She proceeded to take her drinks and leave.

I was intrigued by the exchange, and particularly by the manner in which the clerks and baristas handled both themselves and the situation. They were professional, straightforward, and polite--all while simultaneously remaining unwilling to kowtow to the rude and unreasonable requests of this snarky woman. I was, as I typically am, thrilled to see people refuse to acknowledge those who believe they are, for no good reason, more deserving or privileged than others.

All of this I observed while seated at the very table I am at now. I'd been here for about a half hour, and was sitting waiting for Darrell to arrive and help me pass the time while Karen defended her Master's essay. I had bought no drink and was simply planning on mooching the free Internet and killing time in peace while spending no money. But the interaction between the staff and the woman was such that I couldn't keep out of my chair.

I went to the counter and ordered a Caramel Macchiato. Then I asked the barista making my drink what had happened. Turns out she was a "regular" whose orders were exceptionally demanding and complicated, whose children left messes at all the tables they used when they came in, and whose sensibilities were apparently incensed by the clerks refusal to give all her children a sample of one of the cookies. Upon hearing the entire story, I told them in no uncertain terms that the only reason I'd purchased my drink was because of how marvelously they had handled the situation--right down to the clearly sarcastic but absolutely deserved "Have a wonderful day, ma'am!" the barista delivered as she left.

I didn't buy the drink because I thought Starbucks desperately needed my three dollars. But I felt good about spending it because I understand how difficult the situation must have been for them, and they handled it with aplomb. Little Miss Demanding was entirely in the wrong, trying to take advantage of the outdated mantra that the customer is always right. What most people these days fail to realize is that the expression, while generally true, does have its limits. And when you ask a place of business to just give you something for free, they are well within their rights to refuse--and when they do, it is you, and not them, that are wrong.

So kudos to the men in black and green for defusing the situation well. They've been laughing about and discussing it for the past fifteen minutes, and it's been great to overhear them because even now there's no malice, just disbelief and frustration. It's a nice reminder that they're not just obnoxious douchebags who want nothing to do with you--they're flesh-and-blood humans with a job to do who only want to do it as easily, effectively, and quickly as possible. And sure, we're all pretty jaded when it comes to service and retail because of the Clerksian notion that just because they serve you doesn't mean they like you. But how much of that do we bring on ourselves because we selfishly think we're entitled to something special because they're the server and we're the customer?

If I learned anything from my time at Trader Joe's, it's that good retail is not a one-way street: it's an exchange. A clerk's attempts to serve you well only succeed if you are willing to give a little bit back too. That's not some radical, brilliant notion either--just good old fashioned common sense and human decency. Wouldn't it be great to see those things making a comeback?

The Brave Little Toaster

My family has had a long, illustrious, and somewhat infamous history with toasters. Yes, toasters. Not toaster ovens, for those are far too complicated for us to handle with any kind of competency and, though we may not know much, we at least know our place. Besides, if we can't handle "adjust the setting, push the button," I doubt we're ready for such an upgrade.

But our other problem is that, for some reason, we have historically never purchased toasters new. Rather, we have inherited them "gently" used from other locales. Our current toaster, for instance, was once my grandmother's, and after she passed away four years ago, we took it to replace the one we had, which was (unsurprisingly) on the fritz. For four years, it has served us admirably well.

It does, however, have one interesting quirk: if you adjust the setting mid-toast, it does not take kindly, and will erratically elongate or shorten the toasting cycle at its own mechanical discretion. And since I do not like my Eggos to resemble hockey pucks, I am forced to watch my waffles diligently and pop the button whenever I feel they are at the peak of their warm fluffiness.

This morning, however, in an act of appeasement, I let the first two waffles toast to the end of the cycle. Sure, they were a little crisp, but at least I had the prospect of my third waffle to satiate me. As I ate, I placed the third waffle into the slot, depressed the button, and went to enjoy my pucks.

No more than ten seconds later, the button popped my waffle up. Alarmed at how quickly it finished, I went and felt the waffle thoroughly. (I'm sure you're giggling right now. Trust me, I am too.) Sure enough, warm at the edges, but cold in the middle. Back in for more, I declared! Once more, I depressed the button.

I didn't even sit back down again when the button popped once more. Only this time, my insolence had clearly angered the toasting gods.

For my waffle was not sitting in its slot, awaiting my approbation. No, it had been flung completely free of the toaster, and was sitting a foot and a half to the left of the enraged appliance.

So naturally, I just sat back down with the waffle and ate it quietly and contentedly. Was it perfect? No.

But holy shit, I do not want to piss that toaster off again...

Merging FAIL

I have defended New Jersey drivers for quite some time. I'm not about to risk my credibility by saying we're the best drivers in the country, but a) we're a hell of a lot better than Maryland drivers (who suck...A LOT), and b) we drive crappily, but we drive crappily better than any other crappy drivers out there.

Despite this, New Jerseyans do have an issue with one particular driving maneuver, and I've never understood why.

Merging, contrary to popular belief in the Garden State, is not that fucking hard. Really now. It's like a zipper--one at a time, just like they taught us in elementary school--and the farther behind the merge that you begin to "zip up," the less of a bottleneck the merge itself becomes.

Today, while driving east on I-80 coming home from State College, I experienced one of the most abysmal merges of all time. The highway already had a solid white line between the left and middle lane, and most traffic was in the right two lanes. One mile before, a large orange sign indicated that three lines would be reduced to one. Thinking ahead, I switched into the right lane. My job was done.

But since most of the driving public isn't as smart as me, they took the impending merge as an opportunity to spread out further, from two lanes into all three. So now, when the first lane merged over, where it had earlier been empty, it was now a disaster in and of itself. Awesome.

The second part of the merge was even better, though, because with two lanes of impatient motherfuckers trying to get one inch ahead, I should have expected the worst. But I didn't. So when I saw cars shifting quickly into the shoulder just ahead of me, I was alarmed.

Then I noticed why. Someone had rear-ended another person. But it wasn't someone merging in who got hit. It was two people who were in the same lane the whole time. Someone merged in, the car in front stopped, the car behind didn't.

Now, for a little deductive reasoning. If we examine the rules of merging above, we have to conclude that the person who failed was either a) the one who merged in when they shouldn't, or b) the guy who wouldn't let someone else merge in appropriately. So who's the only innocent one? The guy who got rear-ended. There's no justice.

Sure, I got a road-raging laugh out of it, but it's kinda sad too. It's not really that hard, folks. Just remember: it's like a zipper.

I'm Proud of My Lower Abs

I know what you're thinking. He's fucking with us. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell he's got body-image issues. He doesn't really mean this, does he?

I hate to break it to you, but I do mean it. But not because of their amazing definition (which is nonexistent). No, I'm proud of their resilience.

As part of my summer of self-improvement, I've taken to long walks on a (mostly) daily basis, and I've been trying to work some kind of muscle-building exercises in as well so that I can build lean muscle--which will, presumably, also make me less fat.

Two weeks ago, I decided to start with some abdominal work. I had a relatively simple routine that I'd read about a while ago, and I decided to kick it into gear and see how I felt. I started with the upper abs, then the obliques, the middle abs, and the lower abs. On the first set, I got through 50 reps, so I figured 50 across the board would be no sweat.

BIG mistake.

Because after 200 crunches, which were relatively straightforward, I got to the lower abs. Muscles that, I'm almost positive, I've never used before in my life. So color me surprised when the first 10 hurt more than the other 200 combined. But I persisted. No pain, no gain, right?

Well, I sure as hell hope I gained enormously because by the time I was done, I was in a lot of fucking pain. Oh, sweet merciful heavens. I could barely move. I was sore for days.

But after I was able to move again, I got back on the horse. Knocked the reps down from 50 to 30 (baby steps, after all), but I've been at it for well over a week now, and whenever I do those lower ab reps, they don't hurt nearly as badly. I can get off the floor on my own! I'm capable of hopping right back in two days later! Amazing! Boys, I'm really proud of you!

Now, if we could just work on the spare tire, the love handles, and the man boobs, we might be getting somewhere...

An Exchange for the Ages

Me (1:20): and i will say this right now
Me (1:20): i will be in Canada tomorrow night
Me (1:21): and if i can't find Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final in Canada...
Me (1:21): i will lose ALL FAITH IN HUMANITY
Me (1:21): TV DON'T FAIL ME
Karen (1:21): yeah... that just wouldn't be right
Me (1:21): i may go over the Falls in a bucket on Saturday morning if that happens
Me (1:21): just warning you
Karen (1:22): please don't
Karen (1:22): the snakes at the bottom will kill you if the fall doesn't
Karen (1:22): but the fall will
Karen (1:22): so the snakes will just attack your dead body
Me (1:22): but will they skip across the water to reach my bloody carcass?
Me (1:23): thereby creating...wait for it...
Me (1:23): ...snakes on a hydroplane?
Karen (1:23): Jesus H. Christ, you went there.

(What's really sad is that almost anyone who actually reads this blog knows I was working on SOME kind of Snakes on a Plane pun from the moment that second message hit my screen at 1:22. And it didn't take very long, did it?)

My Man-Up Moment of the Day

No one ever likes admitting that they're wrong. It doesn't matter if it's a minor detail or a substantial, life-changing matter, changing one's mind too often is made to feel like a sign of weakness--we often judge ourselves by our stringent adherence to that which we believe.

But today, I had a revelatory moment. One that was so earth-shaking, that so devastatingly impacted me to my core, that I can't ignore that I've been changed forever. And I need to share this with all of you, so that I can get it out in the open and begin to move on.

Here goes...

...I don't hate Kohl's anymore.

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.

I know! I was shocked too! But there's an explanation. See, I've been tagging along on errands the past two weeks for lack of much else better to do, and I find that tagging along usually entails some kind of personal benefit.

In the past, I've been reluctant to go to Kohl's because, as a fat dude, I've found trying clothes on is like Chinese water torture. I submit because clothes are, you know, a pretty important part of daily life--as I noted to my mother during this very trip, "It's socially unacceptable to walk around naked, and it's personally unacceptable to walk around unfashionable"--but it never feels good trying to squeeze into something that slips on effortlessly at home but feels more like a sausage casing in the store. (And the worst of all is shopping for pants. Self-esteem FAIL.)

But I'm a bit more svelte than I've been in recent years (I used that word loosely, mind you), and while comfort has always driven my clothing choices, I do like looking good. And since Gap, Old Navy, Chaps, and other such preppyish brands are the ones I like most, I've discovered that Kohl's is actually a haven for things that look good and, shockingly, look good on me.

It helps, of course, that three of the five things I purchased were orange. (And before you all have coronaries, the other two have black in them, so at least I was consistent.)

But after buying five articles, and being pretty darn excited about them, I had to confess that I don't actually hate the store anymore. In fact, there was nothing unpleasant about the experience at all. Son of a bitch, I'm changing! How empowering! How exhilirating!

...well, at least until I try to the clothes on. Fingers crossed--I may still hate this place yet.

------------------------

P.S. Happy birthday, Dad!

Shameless Promotion

You may or may not know who the artist responsible for this song is, but that's not really important. There's a story behind the song, which I imagine is pretty darn important, but I don't know it so I can't retell it.

He has a very well-thought-out blog, which you can read here, and it features a whole bunch of links to his other work. He's a rather talented writer, a brilliant thinker, and a not-half-bad photographer.

But if you poke around there at all, you'll figure out one thing really quickly: Adam is one hell of a musician.

And it is with that in mind that I use my little corner of the Internet to second the plea he has Tweeted and Instant Messaged today: "If you have nothing to do for seven and a half minutes, you should go listen to my new recording... Pretty please?"

Click here to listen. It's really quite beautiful, and it might just be the best seven and a half minutes of your day.

Enjoy!

Survivor: Unemployment

I've been home for a week now, and I'm pretty much already sick of having nothing to do.

It seems like I should be living the dream, right? Living at home with very few responsibilities, staying with parents who understand how shitty the economy is and how badly it's crippling my job search, and having lots of free time to work on reading, TV watching, and creative projects. How is that not the life, you may ask?

The answer is that, as I've learned the hard way, when you're used to have some sort of structure for a very long time, it's hard to get accustomed to not having any. No one's making me read or watch or write, so I do it on my own time--which means that, if I'm not feeling it, I'm not doing it. And if I'm not doing that, I'm not doing much else. Thus, boredom sets in right quick.

On the upside, with Mom and I both home without jobs, we have some opportunities to do some fun stuff. (This weekend, we're going to Toronto to see a Blue Jays game--#14 on my list of stadiums attended!) But there's only so far I'll be able to go before I start feeling the monetary pinch, and I wonder what'll happen when I have to hedge my desire to start a fulfilling career with my desperation to make some cash and eventually move the hell out.

So if anyone has suggestions for how to make the most out a day where you have zero plans and expectations, I would love to hear from you. I'll be here waiting--not like I've got much else to do anyway.

Since We're On the Topic of Terrible Ideas...

...who the hell thinks it's a good idea for me to have a BlackBerry?

Apparently, my parents.

See, when I got my Master's, I didn't really want to make a big deal out of it. Sure, it's a great accomplishment, but I didn't want anyone to think I was just having another celebration because I wanted some gifts or recognition out of it. That just ain't me. But my parents wanted to do something nice for me, and far be it from I to stop them.

Originally, the plan involved making sure the repairs to my car were completely covered without me having to put out any money out of pocket. But since my body guy rules and Progressive is a fine, upstanding, easy-to-deal-with company, that isn't likely to be an issue either.

Then the cell phone bill came into town. Fortunately, I was in Princeton at Reunions when it arrived--otherwise, my dad would have called and ripped me a new asshole for running a $113+ text messaging bill. Ouch. So as soon as I got home, heard the news, and got the odor of smelling salts out of my nose, I decided the best course of action was to head to the AT&T Store post haste and upgrade my plan to unlimited texting. Because let's face it: $120 a year beats $120 a month any day of the year.

Upon arrival, Dad immediately started ogling the BlackBerries. I had to laugh a little because, if you know my dad, you know he adores technology, but I just couldn't see what he would actually need a BlackBerry for. (Except, of course, because it's cool.) But we looked, we compared, we discussed--man shopping. And just as we were about to go up to the counter to change the plan, he asked me The Question:

"So...do you want one?"

Far be it from I to stop him.

So tonight we went back and got it. And it's the coolest fucking thing EVER. I can't wait for my first experience blogging from my cellular telephone. Or the first time I Tweet from my cellular telephone. Or any more of the amazing things I can now do with my cellular telephone with an unlimited text, picture message, video message, and data plan.

WIN.