Inside Jokes

Small, thin cow. “Hole” Foods. Klokora Rrrrrovel. Fortuna’s Wheel (that wench). Rojo Pony. Desmond. Paul Robynson.

I love inside jokes. They bring depth and creativity to a relationship. They are pieces of absurdity that no one can understand, other than those who have shared in a particular experience. There is a sense of freedom with this type of humor. Who doesn’t love taking the liberty to say something to a trusted friend that would be deemed completely unsuitable for the rest of society to hear? Inside jokes provide us with hysterical laughter, countless conversations that start with, “Remember the time when…,” and unique ways for people to deal with things in the context of their own relationships.

The words at the beginning of this piece may seem random and nonsensical to you, but to me, they mean everything. For me, each statement makes sense because I am one of the keepers of the inside jokes to which they are attached. Lately, I have been thinking a lot about those stories, and I smile to myself. The smile turns into a giggle. The giggle turns into an urge, which turns into a strong physical craving to talk to the other keeper of the jokes. There is but one person in the known universe who would understand the hilarity of the “small, thin cow.” If I tried to explain any of these stories, I’d probably be caught in that awkward moment of an amused look, followed by the statement, “I guess you just had to be there.” What happens to the inside jokes and the stories when one of the keepers is gone? I think about this often because on April 30th, 2012, this particular collection of private humor was, all at once, suspended in a space where perhaps only unused inside jokes can float around. The warden of the “small, thin cow” (and many others) was Paul. When Paul died in 2012, I carefully hung up our jokes and stories, and I didn’t start taking them out again until very recently.

Paul’s death was hard on me for a ton of reasons. We spent a lot of time in a parallel process of growth-- recovery from things we had been through, and learning how to manage our lives differently than we had before. We worked on this mission alongside each other, with the light falling upon us differently, and sometimes, not at all. One morning in April, I lost my journey partner when Paul ended his own life. He did so in a way where he could protect himself from anyone having to interrupt his objective (because I had tried so many times before), and in a way where he could protect me from having to agonize that he wasn’t doing better this time (although I never stopped worrying about him for a moment). I will always remember the last text that I received from my Paul: “It’s a beautiful day. Using coping skills. Love you Blu J.” Two days later, I woke suddenly, my brain racked from a terrifying early morning dream. A frequent and intense dreamer, I distinctly recall sitting in bed, thinking how it was the worst I had ever had. The panic of what had disturbed my sleep hung around through my waking hours, despite my efforts to peel it off entirely. I had not experienced anything like this before. Two days later, I would learn that this horrific dream took place around the same time my dear friend had ended his life. Partners, we were. Connected, I suppose, even in living and dying.

There are better things to remember Paul by. Of course, I experienced anger, devastation, sadness, and guilt. There was confusion, forever questions without answers, and more anger. These feelings, although not meant to be minimized, are obvious byproducts of a suicide, and are not the reasons why I wrote this piece. Because there are better things.

I work in a field where, sadly, I have seen suicide attempts, accidental overdoses, and completed suicides. I have also lived a lifestyle that has allowed me to develop close friendships in the recovery communities of substance abuse and mental health. Unfortunately, when you collect enough of those friends, you almost inevitably end up seeing some sadness on the other side of the people you have had the fortune to know. Every single one of those lives is so much more than the reason, or the manner, in which they left this world. Because there are better things.

Paul bought me my first pair of running sneakers, and even some super sporty highly ventilated socks to go with them, just because I said that I thought about running. He also knew me well enough to know I would probably never follow through on that particular ambition. We routinely hit up the Whole Foods buffet for takeout, which we would eat at his apartment. He would arrange the items in his container in a fairly organized manner, while mine was disaster of foods that do not go together. We were regulars at the “The Last Drop,” a coffee shop that we refused to acknowledge by it's proper name, preferring our own name, “The Lost Drip.” Most street corners in downtown Philadelphia remind me of him, of us. I always felt safe and comfortable around him, and that is the reason he was so special to me. I have forever struggled with having relationships that feel genuine. Historically, it has been difficult for me to feel that I can just be who I am, in any given situation. For me to come upon that type of a friendship, as I did with Paul, is an extraordinary occurrence. To lose it, is incredibly difficult. I thought that Paul’s death would be a reason for me to shut down-— a kind of confirmation that there is no point to opening myself up to such relationships if they are going to be painful, and ultimately, lost. Instead, it is his living that taught me that I am capable, and willing, to continue to build relationships with depth.

Paul’s struggle with suicidal thoughts was no secret to those who were closest to him, and they were evident throughout our entire friendship. It came up in our conversations, emails, and texts. Sifting through my old emails between us, I found one dated 7/29/11, in which I had written, “I’m glad you want to live. It would suck if you were dead because then we couldn’t be friends.” I did not know that nine months and one day after this, this would be a world without Paul. However, I was wrong about something. You see, Paul and I would not, could not, cease being friends, if he was to die. It would be impossible. I know that now because I have finally figured out where the inside jokes go when one of keepers is no longer around. I found that we still get to hold them between us. They never disappear, and no one ever takes them away. I know that, because Paul is forever the keeper of the other half of our inside jokes.

In memory of Paul R. 4/13/1964-4/30/2012
Philadelphia cannot possibly be the same city without you in it.
I hope, that wherever you are, you are looking down in disbelief, and laughing at me when I jog. I think of you each time I do it.  Your presence is with me in all that I do.

“Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.”

From “Desiderata,” Max Ehrmann

Kids, Fire, and Suicidal Goldfish

I never liked kids too much. If you know me, you may think this concerning, as I live with two of them. I was never focused on having any, figuring there would only be a small percentage of a chance that I’d be even slightly fond of my own child. My ex-husband and I did not have any children together. He liked them even less than I do, and I doubt they would have enjoyed his company much at all. One time I saw an elderly, sick cat get up and leave the room when he walked in. That should tell you enough. Ironically, I ended up dating a man who has two kids. We have been together for almost four years now. From the beginning, I knew that if I wanted to have a chance with him, I could continue not liking kids, just as long as I didn’t dislike these two in particular. We are now a family of four humans (and by the way, it turned out that I love the kids to pieces), plus three parrots and two elderly goldfish who experienced some type a miracle by being restored to health after “resting” on the bottom of the tank for one week. By the way, they tend to do that now, every couple of weeks. They convene at the bottom left corner of the tank for a few days, and then start swimming normally again. I believe they are plotting something huge, and it makes me nervous. Their former tank-mates had become ill, and then dead, right before the current fish began staging their first sink-in at the bottom of the tank. Those deaths ended with two separate occasions of hearing boyfriend in the bathroom: “Thanks for the fun times. I love you. Goodbye,” followed by the flush of the toilet. I wasn’t sure what these fun times entailed, but I didn’t bother to ask.

I would really like to continue with this entry as I had planned it, but now know that I need to write about the time when our largest goldfish committed suicide. It was December of 2012, right before I officially moved into the boyfriend’s house. I had been staying there a lot, but didn’t have my own key yet. I had my very own dresser drawer, which was lovely and exciting, but I was more comfortable spreading out my belongings in every available space of every single room in the house. That’s how I knew I almost lived there. The morning of the suicide, I locked the backdoor from the inside, as I normally did, and left for work. On the way there, I became paranoid that I had left my flat iron on. I was extra nervous because I was so close to officially moving in with boyfriend. I felt like burning down the entire house might work against me. I had to make sure it was unplugged. I went to his parents to get the spare key for the back door, which ended up not working. This led me to have to climb through a window in the rain. Once I finished breaking into the house, I ran upstairs to shut off the flat iron, in order to save the house from burning down. Naturally, I found that I had never left it on in the first place.

On the way to the front door, I noticed something orange on the floor in the dining room. I stopped to take a look, and to my horror, found that our largest fish, Mr. Roy Halladay, had jumped to an untimely death. I immediately started panicking. Of course, I called boyfriend; my first thought being that he could somehow fix the dead fish situation from work. I now know that this was the dumbest move I could have made. At the time, I did not anticipate that he was going to tell me to pick up the fish. Dead fish just give me the “creepy-crawlies” (one of my mother’s favorite terms), and having to relocate a dead fish is one of my worst nightmares. Angel directed me to scoop the fish up into the green net that we keep for these purposes, and then dispose. To my dismay, I noticed that the fish, while very near death, was still breathing slightly-- not enough to have survived if I had put him back in the water, but still breathing, nonetheless. There was no way I was going to be able to endure this task. I presented boyfriend with the following argument of logic, while crying on the phone: It was about 10am on a weekday. Normally, no one would be in the house at this time, given that the kids are at school and we both work. I reminded him-- if I didn’t think I had set the house on fire, I wouldn’t have had broken in through a window, and I would never be where I was standing, at that moment. I would have been at work, just like any other day. He would have gotten home before me, and fish disposal services would have been his responsibility. My closing remark: ‘Why interfere with a situation that we wouldn’t have known about on a normal day?’ Boyfriend did not agree with my rationale, although I thought my argument was pretty solid. In fact, I was pretty pleased with myself for having come up with such a strong case while panicking at the same time. “But you are home, and you did see it,” he kept saying. “You can’t just leave a fish on the floor.” I was still crying, but now I was mad at him, too. Why couldn’t he see that avoiding the situation and pretending that it didn’t happen, was the best option? I realized that he wasn’t going to let this go, and I didn’t want our relationship to end over a suicidal goldfish.

I picked up the net that we keep under the fish tank, and considered the task. The handle was only like one foot long, which was completely unacceptable. It would place my hand no more than 12-inches away from the fish. There was just no way. I decided to invent a device for people who need to pick up dead fish at more than 12-inches away. I figured this could be a very marketable product, and I would have felt quite proud of myself, if not in the throes of a crisis.
I taped the handle of the net to the end of a long broom. This put me at several feet away from the fish, which was still not ideal, but better that what I was dealing with before. Scenarios began to run through my mind. I imagined that when I touched the fish with the net, he would start going psychotic. Also, we have hardwood floors now, but at the time we had carpeting. My next image was one of attempting to pick the fish up, but inadvertently smashing it into the carpet because I couldn’t get the correct angle on the net. My further attempts to correct this would only make it worse, further smashing the fish until the carpet fibers were mixed with mashed goldfish. I took a deep breath and with my eyes nearly closed, I guided the goldfish into my Dead-Goldfish-Picker-Upper invention. It went smoother than I expected. Then I laid Mr. Roy Hallady on top of the trash, which I had pulled can in from the kitchen to the dining room, so I wouldn’t have to parade around the house with a dead fish. After that, I left the house as quickly as possible, not caring if it did go on fire, or even if it completely exploded two minutes after I left.

Rest in peace. I would also say "thanks for the fun times," but there really were none.

My Boyfriend and I Have Been Together for Almost 18 Years

If you know me, you know that I have been with my current boyfriend for three years, so maybe you are wondering what I'm talking about. Maybe you don't give a damn.

Well, I'm talking about my other boyfriend, the one I met in September of 1996, when I was 15. Our actual "date" is September 14th. We are still together, making this my longest lasting relationship ever. I'll tell you how this happened:

As I mentioned, it was September of 1996. Bush, Pearl Jam, Oasis, and Smashing Pumpkins all had number one hits on the Billboard charts that year. My boyfriend and I met the very same week that Tupac Shakur died, and even more importantly, the week that Alija Izetbegović was elected president of Bosnia and Herzegovina in the country's first election since the Bosnian War. I was 15 years old, and in the 10th grade-- not quite grunge, but not quite goth. I had tossed my flannel shits, but it would still be a couple years before I was dressing in vinyl. I was a total fashionista-- for my first day of 10th grade, I wore a Radiohead t-shirt, black wide-leg jeans that I cut on the bottoms, imitation Vans, a wallet chain that was so heavy that my pants were actually in danger of falling down from being pulled by the weight, black Robert Smith-like eye makeup, and green lipstick. The place to be that year was Roosevelt Field Mall-- not to buy anything, but just be cool-- not that I needed any validation of my coolness.

So, back to that legendary week in the middle of September-- there was upheaval in the world of hip-hop, history was being made in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and I met my boyfriend in the Sam Goody music store at the mall. He was everything I wanted in an 18 year old man-- straggly chin-length blond hair, reminiscent of the late Kurt Cobain, six feet tall with the build of a female waif, and ill-fitting clothes, obviously purchased from Pacific Sunware. He also had a wallet chain. I knew we were meant to be together.

Our initial courtship was intense, but divine. He told me that he loved me in the parking lot of the East Meadow library after we had to evacuate due to a fire. It was my first mature relationship. I had to hide in the backseat of his car while we drove past my house because I wasn't allowed in a car with a boy.

As the one month mark approached, I began hearing from my boyfriend less. I sensed his interest dissipating. I would beep him my phone number, or call the alpha text lady to have a message sent to him (remember-- it was 1996), but he would not respond. I was distraught. I did the only logical thing I could think of-- I made out with his best friend. Still, nothing. Our relationship fizzled, but a portion of the spark clearly remained, as he never actually broke up with me.

Our 18th anniversary is approaching this year. I have desperately tried to be a good girlfriend over the years; however, the amount of space and freedom that he was so liberally taking, did begin to affect me several years after we met. As such, in 2001, I began dating a man who I eventually married in 2005. That didn't work out too well, and the marriage ended in 2010. At the time, I reevaluated my relationship my boyfriend, and I reached the conclusion that he is most likely still taking some time to figure things out. Therefore, I met someone else in 2011, and we have been together ever since. There are times, though, when I feel I owe it to my boyfriend to let him know of the developments and changes that have occurred since we first got together. Undoubtedly, there many specific questions that that are worthy being asked, such as: Where did you go? What happened?

I have no way of knowing what's in store for us, but I sure am excited. We have had so much time to grow and mature as separate people. I can only surmise that we are becoming even stronger as a couple.

I am the Biggest Jerk in the History of the World

As I look over my blog, I realize a lot of it is about me being a sociopath. Ruining other kids’ ceramic projects, cutting up the carpet, giving false opinions to people in stores, kicking a hole in a neighbor's Halloween decoration, and tipping over a dresser and making the goldfish fall out of it’s bowl (you will have to read past entries if you want more detail about these things. It’s all in here, trust me). So, I figured it was fitting to add yet another entry about my sociopathic behavior. Then I realized I’m probably not a sociopath at all, if I’m using this blog sort of as a cleansing process. It means I feel bad about the things I have done. However, since I am cleansing myself of my wrongdoings on a public forum, it must mean that I’m actually a narcissist.

I am not the most patient driver. I am a good driver, and a safe one, too. However, some might describe my style as slightly aggressive. I think it comes from all the city driving I have done. Yesterday, I was obviously the one and only person on the road who had somewhere important to go (the mall). Given my unique situation, I had less patience than usual. I was at a red light, and was waiting to make a right turn. There was van in front of me; also with his right turn signal on (I refer to everyone on the road as male. “What the hell is that guy doing? Why is that guy at a stop in the middle of the road? What’s wrong with him??” It could be a car full of women wearing frilly pink dresses. I will still refer to them as one guy.) The light turned green, and the guy in front of me did not turn. I gave it a few seconds, but there was no movement. I decided I was going to do the “gentle reminder” beep that I had practiced. I developed it as a way to decrease the aggressive nature of my driving habits. Instead of slamming my hand on the horn before the person can even move his foot from the brake pedal to the gas, I wait a few seconds, and then with a swift, but light motion of the hand, I beep the horn as though I am gently tapping a tambourine in the middle of a quiet song. That is my “gentle reminder” beep. Unfortunately, the driver ahead of me did not respond to my tender notification that the light had turned green. This time I stepped it up to the “You-are-not-even-paying-attention-not-even-a-little beep.” This beep has undertones of anger and aggravation. After I executed this beep, there was still no movement. At this point, I was getting extremely pissed off, so this time, I really hit the horn. I don’t even have an official name for that type of a beep, except that “beep” is too jolly of a word to describe it. No movement. Muttering curses to myself, I decided that I was just going to go around this guy. Well, unfortunately, since his car was large enough to block any view of what was going on to the right side of him, I was not able to have seen that the reason he wasn’t moving was because he was waiting for a crossing guard to help children cross the street. I felt like the biggest jerk in the history of world, ever, in life (key indicator that I am actually not a sociopath). At this point, I made the choice to completely abandon my original route, cut through the parking lot of CVS, and go on a completely different road. I did this because I did not want to be driving near any other driver who was around me, who may have been a witness to what had just taken place. I especially did not want the guy who was in front of me to end up right behind me, or next to me at a traffic light. I did not want to be driving near anyone who would be thinking the whole time, “Oh, that’s the car of the person who wanted to run over little children and kill them. Yes, that’s the car of the person who has absolutely no respect for the job of a crossing guard.”

The moral of the story is that it was the guy’s fault who was in the car in front of me. He should have gotten out, personally visited me in my car (I would have rolled down my window), and told me that the reason he had stopped was because he was waiting for children to cross the street, and he sincerely apologizes that he purchased such a large car, which blocks important views.

I Had Art-Related Behavioral Problems

Four examples:

1. In pre-kindergarten, I was in art class, and I was pretending that the paintbrushes were actually people with hair, so I sat in the back of the class, giving them "haircuts." I had to stay after class to clean up the mess, which was dumb because usually in salons, the stylist doesn't have to sweep up the hair that drops on the floor from the haircuts-- normally the shampoo person does that.

2. I was at a ceramic-painting party, around the age of seven. I was painting Bart Simpson figurine, and the boy across from me was painting Homer Simpson. For some reason that is still unknown to me, I began painting blue dots on the back of his project. When he finally noticed, he dipped his brush in brown paint, and painted all over my Bart Simpson. He then pressed his fingers into his eyes and cried. Although I started it, I remained emotionally unaffected.

3. I practiced writing the number 9 on the walls inside my closet in my bedroom. I wrote a couple other things, but mainly, it was just the number 9. My house was always well-stocked with paper. I doubt that we somehow encountered a paper shortage just as I had learned to write that particular number. It just seemed more appealing to write on the walls.

4. I was playing with hot pink paint, and I dropped some of it on the tan-colored carpet in my bedroom. I panicked, and tried to wipe it up, which only resulted in further smudging it into the carpet. I came up with the fairly solid idea of using scissors to cut out the carpet fibers that had paint on them. The result was a carpet with bald spots. Looking back on this incident, I wish I dealt with my anxiety in a more appropriate manner, such as blaming my parents. This was obviously their fault, as it was their decision to have light-colored carpeting in a child's room.

Intruder/I Ate Fish Food

You must look back at this entry, to get the full effect of this post. I was off from work today, and went to the mall to get my eyebrows threaded. I am rather obsessive about having my eyebrows threaded every two weeks. I have black eyebrows, and this is exactly what I look like if I don't adhere to my strict grooming schedule:

Once I was finished, I went to grab something to eat. You know how at the food court, usually a bunch of two-person tables will be pushed together to form larger tables? Well, I was sitting at one of those-- I think it was about three tables pushed together. Since it was a Monday afternoon, there were approximately 12 million empty tables in the food court. I was eating, and happily reading a book on the Kindle app on my phone. Suddenly, I felt the presence of an intruder. I looked up, and standing there was this guy with his stupid little lunch, hovering over the table. I noticed he was in possession of food from Sbarro, which is only the worst pizza, ever. Does Sbarro exist outside of malls? I just Wikipedia'ed Sbarro, and found that they filed for bankruptcy three months ago because the company's financial structure was found to be unsustainable. THAT'S PROBABLY BECAUSE THEIR PIZZA TASTES LIKE BLEACH (maybe they wouldn't be in bankruptcy if they had gotten to the root of the problem a little sooner).

By the way, my dad would get so perturbed by my food-to-inedible-substance-or-object analogies. I would say something like, "This cookie tastes like pencils," and he would be all, "That is so dumb. Have you ever eaten a pencil? How would you know what a pencil tastes like?!" Now, if I had compared something to fish food, and he was like, "Have you ever eaten fish food? Do you even know what it tastes like?" My answer would have been "Yes, I do know what fish food tastes like because I have, in fact, eaten it." I did eat fish food (flakes, not pellets) when I was about seven. The flakes taste exactly like they smell, which is somewhat comforting, because at least you know what to expect.

Back to the food court situation. So I glanced up at the eater-of-bad-pizza who was standing at my table. "Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked. I was in disbelief. There is a universal rule (or so I thought) that if someone is sitting at a big table in the food court, made up of smaller tables pushed together, that you ONLY sit at that table if ALL OTHER FIRST-LEVEL SEATING OPTIONS HAVE FALLEN THROUGH. First-level, by the way, refers to being able to sit by yourself at any large-sized table in the mall. If every single large table is already occupied by one person or more, and no small tables are available, then first-level seating is no longer an option, and one must move to seek second-level seating. I would rather eat my food on the floor, than have to seek second-level seating. Now the problem here is that eater-of-pizza-that-tastes-like-bleach was seeking second-level seating when first-level seating was plentiful. My reaction to this guy was quite similar to my reaction to the guy on the train (again, you must read this post to understand what I'm talking about). I grabbed my stuff and got up before this guy could even put his bleach-pizza down on the table.

When I told my boyfriend this story, he immediately said that the guy wanted to hit on me, so that's why he sat down at my table. I disagree, as he didn't even attempt to speak to me (although I did get up pretty quickly). I just think he was another clueless person, with zero social boundaries, unaware of the rules of the universal, multi-level seating system. I think that if you enjoy eating bleach disguised as pizza, while seeking second-level seating when there is no viable need, then you really have to take some time to get your life together.

You Make Me Sad: Disappointment of the Day

My favorite movie of all time is "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." One of my favorite parts is when Graham Chapman, as King Arthur, is trying to recruit the Black Knight for the Court of Camelot. The Black Knight refuses to respond, and eventually, he tells the Knight, "You make me sad." I thought this would be a good platform for discussing disappointments.

A couple nights ago, the boyfriend and I went out to dinner. On the way to the restaurant, I spotted a Rita's Water Ice. It wasn't just the normal stand; it was one that allows you to go inside. The only time I have been to one like that, was on the boardwalk in Wildwood, NJ, and it is like THE GREATEST RITA'S EVER because they have approximately 93287432472397429347329423048230 more flavors than the average Rita's. After dinner, we drove over there. I was beyond excited. "This is just like the one at the beach, only there is no ocean and no sand!!!" We got inside, and as I stood at the counter, I saw a sign with, like, six measly flavors. One was the sugar-free peach, so that doesn't even count. And one was cherry, so that doesn't even count, because it's only the most generic flavor, ever. So basically, it was like zero flavors. THEY DIDN'T EVEN HAVE WILD BLACK CHERRY. Suddenly, there was a glimmer of hope, as I scanned the short, pathetic list. Watermelon! No, not just watermelon. Watermelon chip. "Are the "seeds" in the watermelon made of chocolate chips?" I asked the girl at the counter, who looked like she would rather be involved in waterboarding, than working at Rita's. She confirmed that the watermelon "seeds" where, indeed, chocolate chips. I can understand the logic. It seemed that the Inventor of Water Ice Flavor (IWIF) thought it would be cute and adorable to make the watermelon water ice look like actual watermelon, by adding "seeds." What IWIF failed to consider, however, was that watermelon and chocolate do not go together.

I ended up getting the blue cotton candy water ice because I am a mature adult with refined tastes.

I just realized that this is not my first post about frozen treat disappointment.

You make me sad, Rita's. You are the Disappointment of the Day.

The Rabbi who (Probably) Performed my Wedding Ceremony

I got married in September 2005. By 2010, that was over, but that's not actually important for this story, other than understanding why I am referring to him as "now ex-husband." When the wedding planning was going on, it was my job to me to figure out who was going to marry us. This is a sample of some of the feedback that was provided, by various family members, regarding this challenge:

Me: I think that regardless of our (non)beliefs, it would be best to get both a rabbi and one of those guys from the church.
Mother of now ex-husband: How about we just get a rabbi? Jewish weddings are always so nice... and fast!
Now ex-husband: We can get my friend Bob to marry us.
My Dad: Why not just live together and not get married? It's faster, cheaper, and easier!
My Mom: Heh?

Until 2010, I had never stepped inside a synagogue. Although things would later change, at the time of my marriage, my knowledge about Judaism involved getting presents on Chanukah and deciding which knish was better-- square or round. I grew up on Long Island, with two Jewish parents, had never been to Hebrew school, and had never celebrated Passover or Rosh Hashanah. Basically, I had very limited, nearly non-existent, information to go on. I also identified as an atheist during that period. Not knowing where to begin, I executed a brilliant plan-- I opened the phone book to the "rabbi" section, randomly chose a name, and accidentally called an orthodox rabbi to conduct an interfaith ceremony for two atheists on the night of Shabbat. In hindsight, this was stupid. Maybe even beyond stupid. To an orthodox rabbi, I had basically come up with a combination of the most offensive elements in Judaism, and then formulated them into a request. But in my pathetic defense, trying to chose a name from the 92,392 names of rabbis in a Long Island phone book is a daunting task, especially for someone had tried to memorize the Chaunkah blessing for 23 years in a row and was still saying it incorrectly.

I eventually came upon a nice, reform rabbi who would later marry us. He was unfazed that, admittedly, the only thing my now-ex knew about Judaism was that "Well... I know that Robyn is Jewish." The rabbi was fine with marrying us on a Friday night. He even teamed up with a nearly deaf minister, relieving me from the responsibility of having to find yet another person to participate in the ceremony.

As I mentioned, all this occurred in 2005. In 2009, some stuff happened, and then in 2010, more stuff happened, so it ended up that I began to learn that Judaism is more than delicious deep fried dough, filled with mashed potato, in either a circle or square shape. I became connected with a Reform synagogue, and decide to enroll in an "Intro to Judaism' class. The class was largely made up of individuals from interfaith couples, getting ready to get married in the next year. Quite a few of these people were on the path to conversion. One of our sessions was focused on Jewish life cycles, so of course we spent a great deal of time talking about the Jewish wedding and all of the customs and traditions. Somewhere in one of those third sessions discussions, I casually mentioned how my (now ex) husband and I had been married by a lovely rabbi with a great sense of humor, and that our guests had really enjoyed the ceremony. Now I know that I should have just kept my mouth shut.

Next week, in the restroom, where unwanted exchanges always occur, one of the women from class asked if I could refer her to the rabbi who performed my wedding ceremony. I became very nervous, and was too ashamed to tell her that not only did I select my rabbi from a phonebook, but that I have absolutely no recollection of his name. I sort of bypassed this by saying that I would be happy to refer her to this rabbi, but I would have to find his contact information when I got home because I didn't have it on me (doesn't everyone carry their rabbi's complete contact information on them at all times?) and then email her. This was a bad move on my part considering I had no idea where I would obtain this contact information.

A few days passed by and it became obvious that I had to come up with something before I had to face her during the next class. After some time of thinking hard, the word "apple" came to me. I became obsessed that the word "apple" was part of the rabbi's last name. I began furiously searching the internet, putting together every viable combination: appletree, appleseed, applebaum, applestein, appleberg. Nothing. I tried combining various search terms in Google, such as : rabbi + long island + apple. This is what I came up with:

Guided only by desperation, I seriously considered giving her the contact information for Rabbi Steven Moskowitz and his Apple Jacks. A few moments later, a name popped into my mind. It seemingly came out of nowhere, but I was (mostly) sure it was the name I had been looking for, the name rabbi who had performed my wedding ceremony. I found his contact information online and even found a reference to him on a Long Island wedding-message-forum-board-thing-- you know the ones where girls post things like: "OMG only 9298 days left until the Big Day and I can't decide between chocolate or vanilla icing... PLZ HELP!!!!!" Anyway, I clicked on the link, which led me to some girl's "report card" of her wedding, in which she had used the rabbi who had (most likely) performed my ceremony. True to Long Island bride form, she had posted one photograph for every movement that was made on her wedding day. I got out my wedding album and compared her rabbi to mine. Glasses? Check. Beard? Yep. Mustache? Got it. There were some differences, but I chalked them up to the passage time. I emailed my classmate the information.

Feeling quite proud of myself, I looked forward to Tuesday's Intro to Judaism class, knowing that I could face my classmate confidently. My first contact with her was in the bathroom (again). The following conversation took place:

Me: So, did you get in touch with the rabbi? How did it go?
Classmate: Yes, I called him... and I wasn't sure if I should tell you or not, but...
Me: Uh oh, wrong number?
Classmate: No, it was the right number. I know that you said you didn't know him well anyway, so...
Me: Ah! If he said he doesn't remember me, I'm not offended. I told you, I didn't even know him prior to getting married. So, he said he doesn't know who I am, right?
Classmate: No, actually he's dead.
Me: Oh.

The worst part is that it wasn't like he died three minutes ago or anything. Apparently he died a couple of years ago.

I gave my classmate the name of a dead rabbi who most likely, but not definitely, performed my wedding ceremony.

I'm out of the event planning business for good.

House-Hunting in South Philly

I moved from New York to South Philly in 2005, with my then-fiancée/almost then-husband/now ex-husband. We rented a house for two years, and then decided that we liked South Philly enough to want to purchase a home there. It took a very long time to select the place that we would call our home. My ex-husband isn't exactly a handyman, so we wanted a house that had already been renovated. One time, he put together an Ikea bed. After he put it together, he realized that the bed frame was actually upside down. He felt that it didn't matter because it really wasn't noticeable. He was right. It really didn't matter-- for about a year. What happened after that year, was that I came home from work, and I flopped down onto the bed. Unfortunately for me, the entire bed caved in. This is why we were seeking a house that, at the most, required us to hang our own pictures. Wanting a renovated house meant that I did not want a house with someone's old carpeting, which would most likely possess one or more of the following qualities:

a) had been excessively walked on by former owners.
b) had been walked on by dogs, cats, hamsters, horses, lizards, etc.
c) has had food and/or drink spilled on it, and is now deeply embedded in the carpet fibers, much like the vomit in quality "d" below.
d) has been vomited on.

An avid shopper of vintage items and an artist of found objects, I am somehow intensely freaked out by other people's old crap. It's fine to buy someone's old crap and slap it on a canvas or wooden board, but I don't want to live in a house where people were dying and throwing up all over the carpets. If a house hadn't been entirely gutted out and renovated, I wanted nothing to do with it. This lead to a long, labored house hunt, lasting several months.

In South Philly, it was difficult to find houses that don't have:

a) at least one mirrored wall
b) a ceiling that looks like a board game because it's made up of many squares.
c) a statue of the Virgin Mary, or some other religious representation.
d) a carpet that is purple or green.
e) more pointless, waste of space knickknacks than a store on Antique Row.
f) a large dog, drooling all over the carpet and furniture.

Here are some other things that we came across in the search for our first home:

a) A house with a urinal in the basement.
b) A house that caused my ex-husband to say "It smells like a bunch of old people died in here!" upon opening the front door.
c) A house that was so cluttered we had trouble walking. The owners apologized-- "Sorry! We still haven't finished putting away these Christmas gifts yet!" It was almost February.
d) A house that was so clean I was afraid to move because I didn't want to create a dust particle. I would have licked the ground of the outdoor space in the back of that house. It looked cleaner than my dinner plates.
e) A house on a safe, quiet block that had a security system with a camera. There wouldn't be anything odd about that if the owner of the house hadn't been sitting in the basement watching 24-hour footage of the street.

The next few are from when we originally moved to Philly and were looking for a place to rent, but I'll throw them in anyway:

f) A house that was falling apart so bad that when the owner shut the front door, a piece of it fell off. That same house was so worthless that the owner was actually using those ugly horse posts that you see on some South Philly sidewalks as a unique selling point. The sad part was that he really looked as though he believed in it.
g) A house with a kitchen that was so dilapidated that when I opened the refrigerator I had to ask, "Hey, why is the toaster oven in the fridge?" That same house also had an oven that looked like it was used to make lunch for the soldiers in World War I. I asked the owner when he was planning on replacing the stove. He looked horrified and offended that I would ask such a question. "Replace it!? IT WORKS!"

Professional Geese Chasing

A few weeks ago, I saw a vehicle advertising "Geese Chasers," and as it turned out, this is real thing. I was very curious to find out what it was all about. When I was a child, I would ignore the sign in Eisenhower park that said, "DON'T FEED THE FOWL." Naturally, I would feed the fowl. The problem was that the fowl never understood when I would say, "All gone." Then, they would aggressively chase me around the park. I had a feeling this was something very different.

I did some research on this fascinating and important issue, using www.geesechasers.com, and learned that Border Collies are used to professionally chase away unwanted geese. In fact, this is how it is described on the website:

The Geese Chasers™ Solution
Geese Chasers™ will visit your site daily at random times during the first several weeks. Each visit reinforces the message of danger to the Canada Goose population; soon they will relocate to other areas.

Maybe they should change that part to:

Soon, you will no longer have a problem with geese. This is very fortunate or you. Unfortunately for someone else, an area that previously did not have any problems with geese, will now inherit a rather significant problem."

So that's it. Geese Chasers, LLC, the #1 name in professional goose control. I can now fall asleep easier, knowing that there is nothing unprofessional about chasing geese.

I am such a liar.

I was in the store "Ross," trying on a pair of black, peep-toe flats. As I was checking them out in the mirror, I became aware of a lady down the aisle who was also trying on shoes. I heard a couple sounds, and to my horror, realized she was trying to get my attention. I pretended to be deeply fascinated by my shoes, hoping that she would go away. She called out to me again. I feebly answered, "Yes?" knowing what was about to happen.

"Do you think these are ugly?" The lady was about 40-years old, and had a heavy European accent. She was trying on a pair of four-inch heel, peep-toe ankle boots. They were tan, had little square-shaped cutouts all over them. They were the ugliest shoes I had ever seen.

"I love them," I told her. "They are really nice."

I had lied, and I felt bad. A terrible cycle happens each time someone asks for my opinion about something that looks awful. The only way I know to cope with this is to go even further, rather than walk away, in an attempt to compensate for how bad I feel, and how much I don't want to tell the person the truth.

"Really?" she asked.
"Of course," I answered. But more importantly-- are they comfortable?"

I should have stopped here, given I had already taken this too far. Unfortunately, when this type of situation occurs, I continue to dig myself into a deeper grave. It is a vicious cycle-- the more I lie, the worse I feel. In an attempt to manage my own feelings, I make up more lies about the item(s) in question.

"They look like they could be uncomfortable, but if you are able to walk comfortably, then I say-- go ahead and get them! I love them."
"Yes," she replied. "They are comfortable."

As I continued to fail at managing my own discomfort, I shamefully took it to a another level-- I began volunteering additional reinforcement-- questions and opinions outside of what the lady asked of me in the first place.

"Are you going to wear them with a dress?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "I'm planning on wearing them with a dress."
"Good, because that's what I was envisioning," I said. "I think they would look great with a dress. In fact, if it was a bit of a shorter dress; a little above the knee--well, that would just look perfect!"

I had a similar occurrence a few months before this. Incidentally, it also happened in "Ross." Anyway, a woman was trying on a dress. She said she was planning on wearing to a wedding. It was a metallic blue color, had a thick strap that went across one shoulder, and was pretty short. It looked horrible. It just didn't even come close to fitting her. She asked for my opinion, and I told her that it looked beautiful. Once again, I also went further with additional comments that were unnecessary, telling her that the color was just right for her skin tone, and "I especially love the cut of the dress," which is something my mom would say.

Days later, I began to worry. What if she purchased the dress as a direct result of the positive feedback I provided (lied about), only to wear it to the wedding and be shamed and humiliated by harsh family members and so-called friends, inevitably leading to a severe mental breakdown, and eventual involuntary commitment to a state hospital?

I should probably stop going to "Ross."
I should probably learn to shut the hell up.

The end.

Ringtones for a Funeral

Making the news recently, was a story describing how, during a performance by the New York Philharmonic, a man's cell phone alarm rang for three or four minutes. The conductor subsequently put a stop to the performance-- the orchestra came to a complete silence-- until the phone's alarm ceased.

This caused me to think that somewhere in the world, there must have been at least one occurrence (probably more), in which a cell phone has gone off during a funeral, particularly during a eulogy. Many people have songs as ringtones, which caused me think of the worse possible ringtones to make an appearance during a funeral. I have have put together a list of the results. Here is what I came up with:
(Each song is linked to it's YouTube video, in case you need a reference).

"Celebration" by Kool & The Gang
(Familiar lyrics: "Celebrate good times-- C'mon!")

"Another One Bites the Dust" by Queen
(Familiar lyrics are self-explanatory, as they follow the title).

"Everybody Have Fun Tonight" by Wang Chung
(Familiar lyrics: Everybody have fun tonight! Everybody Wang Chung tonight!)

"(I Just) Died in Your Arms" by Cutting Crew
(Familiar Lyrics: "Oh! I just died in your arms tonight... it must have been something you said...)

"I'm So Excited" by The Pointer Sisters
(Familiar lyrics: "I'm so excited! And I just can't hide it!")

Second Only to the Air-Conditioner, Was the Television

My parents actually had this exact television in the 70s and early 80s.








In my house, second only to the air-conditioner on the list of priorities, was the television. Here is a run-down of the television situation in my house when I was growing up:

Living room: television.
My bedroom: television.
My parent's bedroom: television.
The kitchen table: television.
My sister's bedroom: television.
The guest room: television.

Despite this large accumulation of televisions, indicating that no one in my family actually wanted to talk to one another, I currently don't watch television very often. I have no knowledge about current shows. I thought "House" was a reality show about a bunch of people living in a house. In 2000, I thought "Seinfeld" was a new show, only to find out that it ran from 1989-1998. I have never seen "Sex in the City," but that's probably because I have no interest in watching four women from New York discuss STDs and tampons, or whatever it is that women talk about these days. I haven't seen "24," but I heard people talking about it, so I think it's about a bunch of terrorists, but I can't be sure.

Also, I haven’t seen a lot of movies. People ask me, “Did you see [insert name of movie]?” When I answer, “No, I haven’t,” they tend look shocked and offended, as if they produced and directed the movie themselves.

There seems to be an inordinate amount of shows where a bunch of people do stuff, but then the people on the show that do the crappiest job of doing stuff get voted off, one at a time. Eventually, the person who does stuff the best emerges as the winner. America never hears about this person again.

"Stuff" includes tasks such as: eating rats and spiders on a remote island; losing 183 pounds in six days; attempting to replicate Mt. Rushmore in the form of a cupcake.

When I do watch television, I enjoy watching non-fiction crime shows, such as "Forensic Files" and "I Almost Got Away With It." I have learned valuable information, such as never to burn crime scene evidence in a forest because forensic geologists and botanists can study the growth rings in a tree, in an effort to aserctain when the fire actually occurred. Consequently, they can determine the time frame of the crime. Eventually, incarceration ensues. The end.

My Mother's Air-Conditioning Checklist

Air-conditioning is a major priority in my family. We are New York Jews, and we do not deal well with discomfort. We had a big, 327894628374294082034 BTU air conditioner in the living room, and one summer day, it stopped working. We quickly purchased a new one and put it in the den-— there was no way we were going to wait for a repair man in the heat.

When it gets very hot, my mom likes to run down what I like to call "The Air Conditioning Checklist." It goes like this:

Mom: So, how's the air-conditioning working at home?
Me: Good! Nice and cool.
Mom: Oh good. You have central, right? (She asks every year).
Me: Yup, central! A nice, balanced spread of coolness in each and every room. I’m forever grateful for my central air!
Mom: Ahhh, I bet that feels nice. What about at work? Do you have central air at work?
Me: Nope, the house is too old. Air conditioners were put in all the windows before it got hot out, though.
Mom: But they work, right?
Me: Yes. They are all up and running.
Mom: Boy, I bet it must be miserable walking to the subway in the morning. Do they have air conditioning on those trains?
Me: The trains are kept nice and cold, but the platform is very hot.
Mom: Oh boy, that must really be miserable.
Me: It's pretty uncomfortable.
Mom: How far do you have to walk to get home from the subway stop? It must feel like an oven out there!!
Me: It takes about five minutes.
Mom: UGH!! You must be sweating by the time you get home! Miserable!!

Usually, at this point in the conversation, my mother has satisfied her need to ensure that all aspects of my environment are adequately cooled.

Whole Foods and Rita's Water Ice: A Colossal Disappointment

This is a two-part issue. Here is the first one:

My friend and I visited Rita's Water Ice. I was feeling joyous and free as I selected one of the two brand new flavors. "Honeydew!" I declared, eager with curiosity and wonder, as this would be my first time tasting this particular flavor. "I'm sorry. We are out of honeydew," the Rita's employee, who looked barely old enough to legally scoop water ice, told me. Although I felt slightly crushed, I recovered quickly. "Cantaloupe, please," was my next request. By the time the cup of cantaloupe water ice was handed to me, I was happily devouring it, honeydew a distant and unimportant memory. "Boy this cantaloupe water ice is good! I'm going to eat this everyday for the rest of my wretched life!" This is when a man sitting on a nearby bench, who we will refer to as "Damper #1," had to insert his unsolicited comment into the situation: "Well, Rita's closes in September." As things quickly began to deteriorate, my friend, who we will refer to as "Damper #2," felt the need to add to this debacle: "I see a flaw in your plan already," he commented. What had started out as a beautiful day, filled with butterflies, unicorns, and water ice, had disintegrated into a black hole of despair.

And here is the second part:

There are certain things that I like about Whole Foods. They certainly have some products that I really enjoy, that I can't seem to find elsewhere.

Let me start over.

There is absolutely nothing that I like about Whole Foods. However, I did go in there tonight to get something for dinner. I was pleasantly surprised to hear "Whisper to a Scream," by Icicle Works-- one of my personal favorites from the 80s. I did a nearly-covert, yet slightly noticeable dance, in the frozen food aisle, as I was pleased that my shopping experience now had a soundtrack. I ended up dancing my way over to the ice pops. I was overwhelmed by the many shelves of frozen treats. I wasn't sure what I wanted, but I had no doubt that I'd find it there.

I opened one of the freezer doors, and almost passed out with excitement-- mini ice cream sandwiches!! When I noticed that these were available in mint, it became clear that I was going to have to ask someone to call 9-1-1. Just as I was about to ask nearest employee for the cardiac defibrillator, I noticed that these treats were dairy-free. Anguish and sorrow washed over me, as this was my second frozen treat disappointment in three days.

As I took a moment to practice my coping skills, I realized that there were still additional freezer doors to open. I opened Door #2, anxious to see what prizes were awaiting me. I peered into the freezer, and saw the word "coconut." I threw open the freezer door, ready to grab the box of coconut-whatevers, and run the hell out of that obnoxious/overpriced/organic/vegan/vegetable/dairy-hating store. A closer look at the box informed me that these were not coconut-flavored ice cream bars; rather, they were made with some coconut crap, and did not include any dairy products at all. The next few moments were nothing short of horrific-- I went from freezer to freezer; shelf to shelf-- and saw words and phrases like: "Vegan!," "Made with Real Almonds-- Not Milk!," and "Organic!" I began to feel dizzy and suffocated by all the fake dairy products.

This entry will now end. The ending will probably be different than most endings that you are used to. Read on-- this is from a Gmail chat conversation that was taking place as I was trying to figure out the ending. I had asked a friend for advice.

Me: I'm having difficulty ending my blog entry. It's like a crash landing.
G: How so?
Me: Well, it just ends. There's nothing funny about it; nothing cool. Just ends. It's just like, “Eeeeeerrrrr... PLOMP.”
G: Not everything has to end funny or cool. Did it reach a logical end?
Me: I guess, but should I just write "Eeeeeeerrrr... PLOMP" to end it??
G: I like "eeer plomp" as an ending
Me: Really? Should it be "eeeeeeeeeeer" or "eeeeeaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrr?"
G: That is really up to the artist
Me: This is a tough decision.

The end.

One-Up

An exchange that occurred between me and my friend on Gmail chat. It showcases my neurotic need to want to be better than everyone else.

Me: I have a mosquito bite.
G: I have a piranha bite
Me: I have a shark bite.
G: I have an alien from the movie 'Alien' bite
Me: I was eaten by a shark and I'm typing on my laptop from inside his stomach.
G: Really? There's an electrical outlet in a sharks stomach? Nice try.
Me: No, there isn't-- but the shark also ate an electric eel, so I'm sitting here with my power supply plugged into the eel's mouth.
G: That didn't happen
Me: You don't know that.
G: Alright, I am going to step away from the computer now. Night night.
Me: Goodnight. I'll just be floating here, in this shark. Talk to you tomorrow.

My Mom Said...

In April, I began to write down some of my most memorable exchanges with my mother. These have been written down verbatim. They have not been altered in any way.

Mom: You know who I can't stand?
Me: Who?
Mom: That Arnold Schwartzendigger.
Me: Schwartzendigger?
Mom: Oh, I mean Schwartzenberger.

Me: I went to the gym at 10:15pm last night.
Mom: 10:15??? I certainly hope you drove there at that hour!!! Well??... did you drive, or were you walking the streets???

Me: There are no male staff at my job.
Mom: At least there's nobody for you to flirt with.
Me: What? You have nobody to drive the forklift?

Mom: Good luck tomorrow. Call me to let me know how it goes, but not between 8pm and 10pm because "Dancing with the Stars" is on.
Me: But mom, I have the seder after work.
Mom: I know. You can call me on your lunch hour or around 5:30pm. Good luck. I love you. You will do great. I have faith in you. Just don't do anything stupid.

Mom: What are you doing tomorrow?
Me: Volunteering for Jewish Federation of Philadelphia-- doing yard work for elderly people who can't do it themselves.
Mom: Jewish people?
Me: I don't know-- why?
Mom: I didn't think Jewish people needed volunteers to do that-- wouldn't they just hire a lawn service?

Mom: Soon you will be discovered by a talent scout.
Me: Doing what?
Mom: He will say-- "You can have any job you want."
Me: I think you got "talent scout" confused with "genie."

Mom: Today is in the past.
Me: No, mom. It's actually in the present.
Mom: Well, you know what I mean.

"The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People"-- Revised

When I see someone reading on the subway, I do my best to look at the title of the book. I get especially excited when I find that it's a self-help book. If you're anything like me, and you like to stare and people and then pretend you are having an ocular seizure when they catch you doing it, then you probably find yourself frequently asking the question, "What's wrong with this person?" Well, when you are privileged enough to encounter a person reading a self-help book, you can simply take a look at the title, and your answer is right there. Tonight, I was riding home on the subway, and there was a woman sitting opposite me, reading. Luckily, she was so engrossed in the book, that I was able to openly stare without having to fake a seizure. The book was entitled, "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People." Immediately, I became aware that I was in the presence of a terribly ineffective person. The longer I sat near her, the more I could feel her ineffective energy sucking the effectiveness right out of me. In order to explore what this is all about, I decided to research the book, which is written by Stephen R. Covey.

Here is what I found:

Basically, there's a bunch of crap about how you can't be effective if you depend on other people to do shit for you, so you have to cut that out, and start playing nice with others. Pretend to be a team player so you can actually get something accomplished for once.

I don't understand why a book had to be written for people to figure this out. That being said, let's break it down and look at each individual "habit." I will provide my assessment, along with a revised approach to the concept of effectiveness.

Below are Stephen R. Covey's "7 Habits of Highly Effective People"

* Habit 1: Be Proactive
* Habit 2: Begin with the End in Mind
* Habit 3: Put First Things First
* Habit 4: Think Win/Win
* Habit 5: Seek First to Understand, Then to Be Understood
* Habit 6: Synergize
* Habit 7: Sharpen the Saw

Apparently, the first three habits are supposed to assist you in moving from dependence to independence.

Habit 1 (Be Proactive) is obvious: get off the couch for once, and go accomplish something.

Habit 2 (Begin with the End in Mind) and Habit 3 (Put First Things First) are rubbish. How can you begin with the end while still putting first things first? Why does "first things first" follow beginning with the end? (Important side-note: if you fail to stay in the moment, you have a greater chance of getting caught).

Moving right along... (By the way, you are now a fully independent person).

Habit 4: We'll just drop this one. It doesn't make sense, so it's basically non-existent.
Habit 5: Irrelevant. Gone. Next--
Habit 6: I like this one. I would just change the way it's presented. In the context of all seven habits, it would look better like this:

* Habit 1: Be Proactive
* Habit 2: Begin with the End in Mind
* Habit 3: Put First Things First
* Habit 4: Think Win/Win
* Habit 5: Seek First to Understand, Then to Be Understood
* Habit 6: !!!$$$****SYNERGIZE!!!!!!!****$$$!!! YESSSS!!!
* Habit 7: Sharpen the Saw

Finally, we arrive at Habit 7 (Sharpen the Saw). This is good, but additional habits are needed to prevent incarceration and/or appearing on an episode of "Forensic Files." I have added:

* Habit 8: Wear Latex Gloves
* Habit 9: Burn the Weapon, Don't Bury It
* Habit 10: Hide the Body. Hide it Well.

Below is the revised list. I was going to change the title of the book, too, but I decided against it, not wanting to rearrange every little thing that Mr. Covey came up with. That's just disrespectful.

"The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People"

* Habit 1: Stop Acting Like an Invalid
* Habit 2: ----
* Habit 3: ----
* Habit 4: ----
* Habit 5: ----
* Habit 6: !!!$$$****SYNERGIZE!!!!!!!****$$$!!! YESSSS!!!
* Habit 7: Sharpen the Saw
* Habit 8: Wear Latex Gloves
* Habit 9: Burn the Weapon, Don't Bury It
* Habit 10: Hide the Body. Hide it Well.

Finally, forget about being a team-player. Do what needs to be done, and do it alone. The last thing you need is a team of witnesses.

Good luck.

The Reenactment

I went to see my doctor today. You know how some white people are just really white? Extra white, even? My doctor is one of those people. His resemblance to Dick Cheney happens to be striking. He could easily pass for Dick's younger brother.

I have never seen Doctor without his little American flag pin on the left lapel of his suit jacket. Do you remember years ago when it became fashionable for men to wear a pale pink dress shirt underneath a suit jacket? This style is still widely accepted, and it is one that my doctor decided to engage in today. The only problem was that he decided to pair his shirt with pink socks that were about 82 times brighter than the pink shade of his shirt. Overall he's a nice guy. It's not his fault that he has almost no personality... or that he's just so white.

Our sessions are usually cut-and-dried; solely focused on the task at hand, which is medication management. Very rarely do we deviate from this task in our conversations, except for the one time he mentioned that he has no understanding of abstract art, so I took it upon myself to begin teaching him. This proved to be as effective as the time my father tried to explain football to me-- he ended up just telling me to leave because he couldn't take it anymore. So, other than the abstract art lecture, our exchanges are very dry, and very practical.

Imagine my surprise today when the following exchange occurred:

Doctor: So, how have your moods been?
Me: They have been pretty even.
Doctor: What about your attention and concentration?
Me: Same. Not improved. Frustrating.
Doctor: What else?
Me: I still struggle with feelings of emptiness; always trying to fill a void.
Doctor: Well, what things can you use to feel more fulfilled?
Me: I can work on art, spend time with friends... I can write... I can continue being active in Jewish life... stuff like that.
Doctor: So, if you've identified those things, then why don't you do them?
Me: Because I like the quick fix. You know, like spending money-- it feels really good, really quickly-- but then I end up feeling awful and empty again.
Doctor: (Suddenly looking uncharacteristcally enthusiastic) Well, sometimes you just have to realize that a cracker is a cracker!!
Me: (Nodding my head with an interested look, so that it appears that I wholeheartedly agree with his statement even though I have no idea what the hell he's actually talking about).
Doctor: Did you ever see that Eddie Murphy skit?
Me: No.

At this point, Doctor launched into a full-blown reenactment of the following skit: You may watch it here. I'm pretty sure that he brought up this reference to illustrate that that sometimes people try to fill a void with things that they think are exciting quick-fixes, but they really are just regular things.

Doctor really went all-out for this one-- he even imitated Eddie Murphy's cracker-eating hand movements. The worst part, however, was when Doctor made it to his grand finale, which is when Eddie Murphy says: "Hey-- I just got them regular 'ol crackers." My ultra-white Doctor tried to say it as though he was black. The entire thing was just painful to watch.

I was interested in seeing this Eddie Murphy skit for myself, so I looked it up on YouTube. Doctor neglected to tell me that the title of the skit is "The Best Pussy," and that it's about a man's distorted view of sex after he had to wait for it for five months.

It's a shame that I've wasted so much money on insight-oriented therapy when I could have just taken a minute and-a-half of my wretched life to watch "The Best Pussy." I get it now. I get everything. I really do. Thanks, Doctor.

Mrs. Anderson said...

..."ask three, then me."

Mrs. Anderson was the computer teacher at my elementary school. She had this motto that just popped into my head: "Ask three, then me." Upon initial consideration, this seems like a plausible suggestion. The glitch? We were in first grade. Why the hell was I going to waste my time asking three other first graders about a computer issue? What was Mrs. Anderson trying to teach us? How can I approach her lesson in non-judgmental way that allows me to make it relevant to my adulthood? The answer: I can't. If, for example, there is a designated person at work who will know the answer to my question, then why would I spend time asking three people who may or may not know the answer? Also, if the first person I ask happens to provide the answer that I am searching for, do I still have to continue by asking two more people? Personally, I think Mrs. Anderson was lazy and/or she knew nothing about computers, and was attempting to deflect our quest for knowledge by any means possible.