The Irony Of This Post Is Not Lost On Me

The following post is brought to you by Parent Bloggers Network. I mean, I wrote it and all, but they played muse and what not. They do me solid like that, especially after I've been hanging upside down all weekend and can barely come up with ideas for breakfast let alone a blog post. Enjoy!

Ah, Spring!

That time of year
for wee spotted deer,
and new camping gear,
and buds appear,
and kids look forward to the end of the academic year.

Okay, I rhymed “year” twice.

And the scansion gets pretty sloppy toward the end there.

But that’s me. It’s my writing style, part of my charm. It’s why you come here for your blogging entertainment instead of visiting my husband’s blog more often. Sure, he writes in full sentences instead of random clauses and phrases, sure he is loathe to toss around comma splices with my reckless abandon. And sentence fragments that begin with “and” and end in a period. And lots of slang and dialect and rhetorical grunts and giggles and blah-blah-blahs.

Sure his blog is well-written and hilarious and has photos of babies and pandas. Although, it could probably use more baby pandas.

But I’m quirky. And you like quirky, right?

However. (<--See! That’s quirky!) Sometimes reading quirky writing is exhausting. It’s exhausting the way that spending a weekend with your friend who thinks he’s Robin Williams is exhausting. Sometimes, you just want to sit still and have a conversation with someone who's sitting still, and not feel as if you have to be a thankful and willing repository for all their wowzee-wowzee-woo-woo cleverness. Sometimes, you just want a sentence that reads like a 3rd grade Language Arts textbook example on how to write strong declarative sentences.

No, no! Don’t stop me. Don’t tell me that I’m wrong or try to cajole me out of my artistic self-chastisement! Let not this important post in self-discovery become nothing more than me with a fishing pole sitting alongside the compliment pond waiting for all my loyal readers to leap up like so many perch and chub to tell me “Oh, no! We really love your comma splices and your funky way of writing in stops and starts and dramatic, cutesy pauses. Please believe us because we are talking fish!” Really…I do know I’m the bees knees in oh so many ways, so don’t let my sudden onset of grammatical piety lead you to believe that I’m bleeding from a mortal wound in my metaphorical and linguistical hip waders. But do allow me sit with myself for a few minutes and marinade in my own bouillabaisse.

(Mmmm! Perchy!)

For you see, I’ve just read this book - Raised By Wolves, by Christie Mellor - that has, essentially, put me in a room with myself for a weekend.

First off, I do love this book the way I adore every single word I just wrote on this post alone. (Let’s be honest here: writers make their stuff public because somewhere deep down, they think they’re swell.) (And that’s okay.) (Says me.) Raised By Wolves made me laugh. It made me smile and enthusiastically nod my head up and down in that commonly understood gesture for “Yup, right on, you wily goofball!” It made me giggle some more and then sigh out loud in devout admiration of a well-placed non sequitur and the mention of Green Goddess Dressing.

Oh, the stream-of-consciousness writing style! Oh, the conglomeration of divergent topics, from why the only aftershave any man should wear is Creed to why one should own a fat separator! Oh, the pulling together of instructions on the proper and environmentally friendly method of washing dishes, with a mini-lesson on the Bill of Rights, with a “how-to” on dealing with your employer’s peeing-and-talking at the same time…and just really making it all congeal as a thematic concept!

Good golly, but I’m Christie Mellor is swell!

But, good gravy…what an exhausting read.

Really. Reading an entire book of this kind of conversational, herky-jerky, exclamation-strewn style of writing was like being clobbered over the head with my own ellipsis-enamored computer monitor.

Now, to be fair to myself - oh, and Christie Mellor (this review is supposed to be about her book, after all) - reading a few hundred words of giddiness on my blog might actually be more comparable to grabbing a whipped cream canister out of the fridge and squirting it into your mouth, along with a little extra nitrous oxide: in other words it’s fun in blog-sized doses, but you couldn't make a meal out of it unless you wanted to permanently walk sideways with your brain dribbling out your ears. (Obligatory Warning: Nitrous oxide is bad, kids.)

So maybe I did Christie Mellor myself Christie Mellor myself wrong by reading this entire book in one sitting. It’s probably better digested in little bites.

“Hmmmm…how does one poach chicken or make the perfect cup of coffee? Let me consult Ms. Mellor’s fine tome on How To Be A Hip, Young Adult Without Being A Boor, A Bore, or A Brat.”

(Note: This book is geared toward twenty-somethings, but it would work reasonably well for anyone between the ages of 21 and 89 and who still has no idea how to, say, be a gracious house guest or build an Astro Weenie Christmas Tree. After 89, I‘d have to agree that new socialization tricks are a bit harder to learn, so you're off the hook if you’re 92 years old, visiting my home, and you decide to use my new, fluffy white bath towels to clean your car. I'd even say that the book is a good gift for graduating high school students, even though there is a chapter on how to booze responsibly. Hey, you might be European, right?)

“Oh, say! I really don’t want to be the irritating, drunken jackass at my friend’s next party! Tell me how to achieve that goal, Ms. Mellor, and don’t mince words! How can I drink responsibly and with style and not be That Guest, the one who doesn’t pick-up on the host’s cue (e.g. vacuuming around my feet and yanking my vodka-and-cigarette-butt martini out of my hand) that the time to leave was three hours ago.”

“Boy, I just seem to have trouble winning friends and influencing people. I wonder whether Christie Mellor's book Raised By Wolves can provide me with a list of conversation topics to avoid so that I don’t constantly come across as a self-centered and/or shallow and/or dangerously insane. And while she’s at it, could she provide me with illustrated pointers on how to properly shake hands with a woman without appearing to be a leering nipple inspector?”

Although, there are other books of this ilk that do this sort of thing - just head to amazon.com and search on “How To Be A Grown Up" or "Common Skills Everyone Should Possess Like Making A Bed Or Boiling An Egg Or Writing A Thank You Note” or “Commonly Accepted Etiquette That Helps Grease Social Interactions Within Our Greater Culture and Makes People Feel At Ease” or “100 Simple Ways To Not Be A Jerk Starting With Putting Down Your Cell Phone While You Are Making A Transaction At A Cash Register” - Ms. Mellor’s book adds that little extra of kooky, humorous narrative that makes any medicine go down a bit more easily.

Just like…why, just like I do!

Awwwww, see that?

Oh self! I knew we’d make up!

C’mere me, you big silly! Give us a hug!

Look! I brought an ellipses for you.

…

And a bouquet of exclamation points!

!!!!!!!!

Let’s never argue again.

And let’s end the blog post right here...

Before the monitor falls over on your head.

NaBloPoMoDay 16: Geek Of The Week

I have eight minutes to post this whole story.

Here's the short version:

Don't come into my place of business and pull the Queen Horse's Ass routine with me, and I won't pull out my red hot GOTW iron and brand your Talbots-swathed butt.

Agreed?

Okay...watch this space and I'll fill in the blanks.

So what was it...full moon tonight? Barometric pressure dropped? Fire sale on poopy-head pills?

Whatever it was, the folks out shopping tonight were in a singular mood. And that mood would be "pissy". A few customers were only mildly snarky, but mostly, everyone was marching around the store as if they had a Lego shoved sideways up their bum.

Let me back up...

I work at a bookstore. A rather large bookstore that you've probably heard of. It would be the largest bookstore on Earth, Jupiter, and Betelgeuse. Yup, that one.

Here are some of my previous posts regarding bookstore employee hijinks and escapades.

A Heartwarming Encounter With A Customer-For-Jesus

Customers Say The Darndest Things!

Another Post about Bookstores In Which I Mention The Barometric Pressure


What fun!

Except, tonight was not fun.

Tonight, a lady customer was a bit of a snot to me.

Let me set the scene:

On this evening, I arrived at work for my seven o'clock shift and was immediately dispensed to the Children's Section. Normally, I absolutely love working in "Kids" (that's bookseller lingo for the Children's Section, if you haven't figured it out.) I usually take a spin around the sales floor, tidy up the one or two books that have slipped from the shelf or were re-shelved backwards and upside-down; make sure all the Thomas The Tank Engine trains are on the table and not on the floor, where I am sure to later step on one and end up skating headlong into the Backyardigans display; and then, I window shop.

It's a living.

It's not difficult.

In fact, my shifts at the bookstore are often very relaxing, and honestly, quite an enjoyable way to spend an evening all while earning eight-twenty-five an hour.

On occasion, a herd of toddlers will run crazy-koo-koo through Kids, pulling books from shelves hither and thither, and making a general mess of things. The adorable munchkins run into the Kids section full-steam, beeline to the first book at eye-level, yank the book off the shelf, plop their diapery butts onto the floor and flip through the pages one-two-three, and then chuck the book over their shoulder where, by now, a jogging parent balancing a venti latte has caught-up just in time to save the book mid-flight and with an impressive one-handed grab. At this point, the parent usually turns to me with a twisted look of apologetic panic and says something like, "Where does this...Tilly, come back! Wait for...where did she...NO! NO! Get off that table!...I'm not sure...this book? Where...?"

Oh, ho, ho, says I! Not to worry, oh Valued Customer! You just hand me the book and I'll be ever so glad to put it back on the shelf while you wrangle your clever kidlet. I know what it's like to be out and about with little ones, oh boy, but do I. If you want to direct Tilly to the Thomas table, I shall be ever so happy to fetch a chair so you can have a set-down and enjoy your drink while you mind your little poppet.

I'm so awesome like that.

It's the Children's Section. We expect a modicum of low-level mayhem. We know that sometimes a mom might leave a stack of books on the floor whilst making a hasty exit with a suddenly screaming banshee-child. We know that children are touchy-touchy creatures who like to touchy-touchy everything. We’re cool with the odd sticker book being de-stickered because we know how fast those tiny darlings get into just everything even when you are right on top of them every step of the way.

And I’m an employee, after all. It’s my job to clean-up. It’s up to me to help make the experience at our store as pleasant as possible. I don’t want to embarrass anyone, and lord knows, I don’t get paid enough to intentionally make a customer angry. So when Billy Boy stuffs a copy of Goodnight Moon into his frothing Pamper, and dad is at the peak of embarrassment, I step-in to assure dad that all is well, it’s happened before, it will happen again, and that we still would like him to return to our store and buy many lattes and many hardcover bestsellers at 30% off, 40% if you purchase the member’s card, and please don’t think twice about your son’s kinky board book fetish. Because we don’t, either.

Most parents really try, you know?

Except tonight. Tonight, the Talbots lady customer did NOT try.

She did not try at all.

When her five-year-old pulled a huge stack of hardcover picture books onto the floor, she did not try.

When her five-year-old pulled a second stack of $19.95 hardcover picture books onto the floor and then tap-danced on the spines while pulling a third stack of hardcover picture books onto the floor, she did not attempt to redirect him.

In fact, she wasn’t even in the Children’s Section at the time.

When I gently pointed out to her adorable child that pulling books onto the floor might damage the books, she was not there to confirm this fact.

When I firmly but kindly asked him to help me pick up the books, and he flat out told me “No. I don’t want to pick up the books”, she was somewhere else entirely.

When he started to climb up the bookshelves by using a row of Dr. Seuss books as a foothold, and then began tossing more books from the upper shelves, it was then I began yelling “WHO IS THE PARENT OF THIS WEE, DELIGHTFUL RAPSCALLION. OH BUT WHAT A JOY HE IS. SURELY SOME PARENT WANTS TO CLAIM HIM AS THEIR OWN." The mother was, I later saw, sitting across the store with her thumb up her ass.

And when she finally did deign to grace me with her tweed-tailored presence, it was to gaze down her nose and, with an exasperated sigh, demand to know what on earth could be the matter.

“Well, your son just pulled three stacks of books off the display and began to climb up the bookshelves, and....”

“No, he didn’t,” she stated as a declarative sentence.

“No, he did.”

“No, Leonardo would never pull books from a shelf. My son doesn‘t do that.”

“Actually, Leonardo did just that. And there are the piles of books right there.”

“Sigh. No. He would never do that.”

“Well, I should let you know that I asked him if he would like to help me put the books back on the shelf."

"And?"

"Well...he refused to help.”

“Of course he did. He didn’t take them off. It's not his job to clean them up. Even if he did take them off. Which he would never do.”

“O...kay. I see. You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“ Your child is throwing more books on the floor right now.”

And sure enough, as we were discussing the improbability of Leonardo running roughshod through the bookstore, the young man himself was scaling another wall and knocking entire shelves of books to the ground.

And mom did nothing.

Anyway, long story short, with a swish of her hair and a sashay of her rump, mom finally gathered Leonardo from the lighting fixture, and they exited the store.

By way of a parting gesture, she set her empty, lipstick-stained latte cup on top of a collector’s edition of Le Petit Prince…and left it there.

So yeah…maybe she’s no Hugo Chavez in the way of being an obnoxious jerk, but Leonardo’s mom gets my vote for Geek Of The Week.

Not for being a bad parent.

Not even for her kid making a powerful mess.

She gets this award for simply being an insufferable boob.

Congratulations.

Welcome to Planet Earth

The following quotes, excerpts and exchanges are all 100% true and are not in anyway Frey-ed to enhance the entertainment value. Names have been changed to protect the employment status of the not-so-innocent.

*********************************************************

Bored Bookstore Cashier: Dum-dee-dum. Two more hours till my latte break.

A middle-aged woman with a very festive scarf in her very enthusiastic hair and wearing long, beaded earrings plops a stack of books at the register.

Cashier begins scanning books and ringing-up sale.

Cashier: (deciding between hazelnut or almond latte) Your total is $95.48. Will that be cash or credit?

Customer: Excuse me?

Cashier: (deciding on hazelnut latte) Your total is $95.48. Is that cash or credit?

Customer: I’d just like to check these out.

Cashier: (changing mind, thinking almond would be nice) I’m sorry. You just wanted to…look at these?

Customer: I’d like to check these out. How do I get a card?

Cashier: (shall I get whipped cream?) A card? A discount card?

Customer: A library card. I’d like to check these out.

Cashier: (decaf or double espresso?) A…uh…this is a bookstore.

Customer: Okay. Can I just borrow these?

Cashier: (triple) Well, you see, it’s a bookstore. You have to buy the books to take them home.

Customer: Oh no! I don’t want to do that! I just need a new card to borrow them for a few weeks.

Cashier: (with alcohol) Okay. There is a library down the street…

Customer: Okay…

Cashier: …where you can get a card and borrow books…

Customer: Uh-huh.

Cashier: …but we’re a bookstore.

Customer: Yes.

Cashier: We sell books. We aren’t a library.

Customer: But the library doesn’t have these books.

Cashier: Hmmm…well, the individual libraries are each part of an entire system. Maybe another library has the book you want to borrow.

Customer: When did you start selling books instead of loaning them?

Cashier: Well, we’ve always been a bookstore….

Customer: Oh no, I used to come in here all the time and borrow books.

Cashier: Uh…okay…

Customer: I know you used to be a library.

Cashier: Wellllll…we aren’t anymore. Now we sell books.

Customer: That’s too bad.

Cashier: Yes. It is. Would you like to buy these books?

Customer: Oh, I don’t know. Does the other library still loan books or do you have to buy them there, too?

Cashier: I have to go on break now. My head hurts.

Customer: Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll come back later for a new card.

Cashier: (forgets coffee and just needs Tylenol) Okay. By the way, you have very exciting hair.

Customer: Thank you! You’ve been very helpful.

Cashier exits and weeps.

************************************

Cashier: My feet hurt. Wait…only my left foot hurts.

Large man with no neck and small eyes tosses two Sunday papers at cashier.

Man: Hey! You know you’re out of the Pittsburgh paper again!

Cashier: (I fear you.) Oh. I’m sorry. Today’s the Super Bowl, so all the papers are selling out.

Man: (with clenched fist) No! It’s not just today! Every Sunday morning I come in here and the Pittsburgh paper is sold out! Who is in charge of ordering the papers?

Cashier: Oh yes! I’ll get him over here right away (so you can smash him with your enormous meaty mitts.)

Cashier dials the in-store magazine and newspaper guy. His phone is busy.

Cashier: (with much fear) His line is busy. Let me ring up your purchase and then I’ll call him again.

Man: (with red face and some foam in corner of mouth) So! Why don’t you have enough papers! You’d think someone would figure out that you are selling out and that you need more! The customers want more papers! Why don’t you have more of the Pittsburgh paper! You could be making money on this!

Cashier: (with much peeing in pants) Honestly, from what I understand, we don’t make much money on the papers.

Man: (with large gesture that almost takes cashier’s head off) OF COURSE the store makes MONEY on the PAPER! Do you THINK they would have the paper HERE if they didn’t make MONEY on it!

Cashier: (uncomfortable in wet pants and now losing patience, but dialing frantically) Hmmm… the newspaper guy still isn’t answering his phone. I hate him now.

Man: (leaning far over counter) Why would a store sell something they weren’t making money on! That’s just not how businesses are run in America!

Cashier: (feeling warm around the throat) Well, I think that we carry the papers to bring people in the store. Once the people are here, the thought is that they’ll buy more product. But, sometimes, that doesn’t always happen.

Man: (another large gesture toward café) OF COURSE they are buying more PRODUCT! You have a café FULL of people drinking COFFEE and reading PAPERS!

Cashier: (a small spark of pissed-off bravery) Well, you aren’t buying anything else. Just papers. See?

Cashier: (offers girlish smile)

Man: WHY DON’T YOU BRING IN MORE PITTSBURGH PAPERS! I WANT TO BUY PITTSBURGH PAPERS AND YOU NEVER HAVE THEM!

Cashier: I’m sorry. It’s a corporate decision (i.e. name, rank and serial number)

Man: YOU NEVER HAVE PITTSBURGH PAPERS AND I ALWAYS COME HERE LOOKING FOR THEM!

Cashier: It’s a corporate decision. I’m sorry.

Man: OKAY THEN! I AM CALLING CORPORATE! THIS IS NO WAY TO RUN A BOOKSTORE!

Cashier: It’s a decision. I’m corporate sorry.

Man: CORPORATE! PITTSBURGH! BOOKSTORE!

Man grabs papers and storms out of bookstore.

Cashier exits and weeps.


(Note: In other variations on this scene, the cashier is told that she is the “face” of the bookstore, and so is paid to bear the wrath of the customer while on the front line, to which the cashier responds that for $7.50 an hour, her sole duty is to call the manager who makes tons more money and thus can afford the cleaning bills after having shit thrown at her.)

********************************************************

Information Desk Attendant: Can I hit the lights with a rubber band?

Teen girl with very clear skin, turned-up nose, and sporting local private high school attire approaches desk.

Info Gal: Can I help you?

Teen: I’m looking for a book.

Info: (with fun-loving jocularity) Oh, then you need the gas station across the street.

Teen: (blank stare)

Info: I’m sorry. What are you looking for?

Teen: I have, like, a paper due that I, uh, have to write and so I need some books on what I need to write about.

Info: Okay, do you have any titles?

Teen: No. There’s this one book I saw online. It has a blue cover.

Info: Okay…any words on the cover? Author? Subject?

Teen: It’s about politics.

Info: Hmmmmm. We have a lot of books, ehm, about politics. I’m not sure about the blue cover….

Teen: Well, I need ten books for the bibliography, so I need more books than one.

Info: Yes. It would seem so. What is the topic of your paper?

Teen: I need to compare, like, all the political parties and what they like, stand for.

Info: Huh.

Teen: So, like, do you have any books that do that, that like tell you about the political parties and stuff.

Info: Yeeessssss….uhhhhmmmm…well, let’s take a walk over to Current Affairs and History.

Teen: And, I don’t like to read a lot so nothing too long. Do you have like a bunch of those Cliff Notes things?

Info: Uhhhhh…when is your paper due?

Teen: Next week. It has to be fifty pages. It’s my senior term thing.

Info: I see. I hope I’m not butting in here, but I think you’ve set yourself up for a challenge. Fifty pages is a lot.

Teen: Really?

Info: I mean, it can be done. With a lot of espresso. And plagiarizing.

Teen: I don’t know what that means.

Info: Good. Don’t listen to me. Okay, let’s look at this section here.

Teen: (picking up The Savage Nation) Here’s one on political stuff. Like this one?

Info: Okay…well…yes, I suppose that's one side of it….

Teen: (flipping over book and looking at price) Whoa. This is a lot. Are all the books this expensive? I can’t spend that much on my mom’s credit card. I just bought shoes.

Info: Have you checked out the library?

Teen: (blank stare)

Info: There’s one down the street….

Teen: Can I just, like, copy a few chapters from this book?

Info: You mean…like…take notes?

Teen: No, I mean like, can I just use your copy machine and copy a few chapters? I don’t need to buy, like, the whole book.

Info: (blank stare)

Teen: Don’t you have a copy machine?

Info: No. We...do not.

Teen: Okay, then could I, like, just buy the book and then I’ll go copy the chapters and then I can return it, right?

Info: Is that a question?

Teen: I can just copy it and return it, right?

Info: Let your conscience be your guide (i.e., name, rank, and serial number)

Teen: So, I’ll just, like, grab a few of these books and then just copy what I need and then return them.

Info: Let your guide be your conscience.

Teen: Do you have any books with chapters on how to write term papers?

Info: No. No we don’t.

Teen: Bummer.

Teen randomly grabs books from shelf, twirls with much perk, and leaves.

Cashier exits and weeps.

Merry...Merry...

In children's section at local bookstore.

Lady Customer With Tight Face: I’m looking for a book that explains God to a child.

Bookseller With Sore Feet: Sure! What age is the child?

Lady: 18 months.

Bookseller: 18 months?

Lady: 18 months.

Bookseller: So, a book that explains God to an 18-month-old.

Lady: Yes. Do you have anything like that?

Bookseller: So, like, a Barney book?

Lady: No.

Bookseller: Boobah?

Lady: No. I want to teach an 18-month-old about God.

Bookseller: Sure. Right over here in the religion section. Here’s a Golden Book about God. And it’s a board book so, you know, if the child gets zealous and tries to eat the book….

Lady: Oh, this is nice. (glancing through book) This is perfect.

Bookseller: I like the illustrations. Eloise Wilkin. But then, of course, it's Eloise Wilkin. I think this was originally published in the 40’s or 50’s. A lot of blonde-haired blue-eyed kids.

Lady: Oh, that’s perfect! Just like my granddaughter!

Bookseller: Oh sure! I’m not saying blonde-haired, blue-eyed kids don’t exist…

Lady: But maybe…

Bookseller: Yes?

Lady: Maybe this book is a little “too much”.

Bookseller: I see.

Lady: Too many words. It might be confusing.

Bookseller: I have the same problem with the Bible.

Lady: Excuse me?

Bookseller: How about this book? Sort of a bunch of Holly Hobbies talking about God. In short sentences. In a cute font.

Lady: This is nice. Oh, much more simple!

Bookseller: Maybe I should read it. I get so turned-around somewhere around Leviticus.

Lady:

Bookseller: Here's another that might do. Here’s a board book about Jesus.

Lady: Oh!

Bookseller: Oh no!

Lady: Yes?

Bookseller: Oh…I’m sorry! I didn’t… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed you were Christian. I apologize.

Lady: (tight smile) No need to apologize. Our family is Christian.

Bookseller: Well, I still shouldn’t have assumed. Our children's religion section leans heavily toward Christian texts because when they look at sales in this store...but you know, maybe if they had more books that discussed other....

Lady: (tight shake of head) Isn’t it sad that you even have to apologize.

Bookseller: What do you mean?

Lady: Well, you know…(tight knowing glance)

Bookseller: Jesus…would…understand?

Lady: It never used to be a problem until some people started making it a problem.

Bookseller: The…The Spanish...Inquisition?

Lady: No. Those people. Sigh. This is a Christian country. I don’t understand why people want to come here if they are not going to try to fit in.

Bookseller: Those Cirque du Soleil freaks, right? Always with the tight leotards…

Lady: We are the majority, so I don’t know why people get so angry when we want to talk about Jesus. And you can’t even say Merry Christmas anymore!

Bookseller: Or "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! My car’s been stolen!"

Lady: Yes…right...

Bookseller: (conspiratorially and with sore feet) I’ll tell you who really gets under my wimple.

Lady: Who?

Bookseller: The Zoroastrians.

Lady: Oh, yes! Those Zoro..aro…

Bookseller: …astrians…what with the Tower of Silence and the laying out of their dead to be eaten by vultures…

Lady: Vultures?!

Bookseller: Why can’t they put their dead on display for a day so that everyone can look at them all dead and dressed in itchy clothes for the rest of eternity…

Lady: Yyyyyeesssss…..

Bookseller: …and then dump them in the ground like normal people.

Lady: Okay…yes…

Bookseller: Well, not dump, but you know what I mean…I mean, vultures. Pfft.

Lady: That’s very strange. I’ve never heard of…

Bookseller: God wants us to be eaten by worms, right?

Lady: Is that really…worms...vultures…?

Bookseller: Or those Hindus. Whew! Just try saying Merry Christmas to one of them! Those people get ALL up in arms.

Lady:

Bookseller: And that’s a lot of arms!

Lady: (backing away) I think this book will do fine. Thank you.

Bookseller: Merry Diwali!

Lady: Merry…Merry…(scurries tightly from children's section)

Bookseller: See you in paradise, sister!

Summer of Whirled Peas

Just a warning. This is a long, weird, rambling post that takes a few wicked U-turns and then gets just plain bitchy. I’m way beyond blaming heat and humidity for my mood. My finger is pointing squarely in the direction of the barometric pressure. Let's begin....

Do you ever look back on a summer, any summer, and recall it as all neatly tied up by some sort of theme?

Like, for instance, the Summer of 1976.

For me, the Summer of 1976 will forever be remembered as The Frackville Centennial Summer.

Okay, not much of a stretch in creativity as far as dubbing a theme goes.

But not only was it the summer of the 100-year celebration of the birth of my coal-region hometown. It was, more specifically, the summer during which every able-bodied child marched down Lehigh Avenue every day in at least one parade - or another - this time in uniform as a proud player on the Rotary Little League team, the next day as a somewhat-less-proud representative of Ceramics Club contingent, all dressed in an era-1876 bonnets and long skirts that your mother sewed out of brown and mustard-colored gingham remainders from Woolworth‘s.

That summer when in a fit of communal psychosis, my friends and neighbors were willingly and gleefully participating in all sorts of festive hi-jinx meant to recapture the spirit of the Good Ole Days, back when our town was just a twinkle in God’s eye, back before, I suppose, sanity became popular.

One such act of town-wide giddiness - and sister, help me out here - was something along the lines of being required to anchor your car, the "anchor" being a shoe or a tin can or a live cat or some such thing that you then knotted to your car with length of rope and dropped onto the street whenever you parked in town. I forget what the penalty was if you didn’t drop your anchor. I’m guessing it was something good-naturedly malicious like returning from a dash into Alexander’s Five-and-Dime to find your car’s front seat smothered in butter and onions. Or horse dung.

And for some reason, everyone was quite uproariously taken by a wooden nickel fad. I was in fourth grade that summer, and the wooden nickel thing just bugged me. I didn’t “get” it. Wooden nickels were worth nothing, but the adults all had pockets full and got some weird kick out of handing them to kids.

“Here you gooooooooo… wink-wink, nudge-nudge

“...here’s a wooden nickel...” giggle-giggle

"...why dontchya go buy yourself…” snicker, snort

“..a Chief Crunchy Bar! BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"

Why is this funny? What was the source of the humor? It was lost on me. I mean, I get that I’m being given something which is not money - which is, in fact, fake money - and am then being given the directive to spend the fake money. But heck, if I’d have given my Uncle Stosh a toenail clipping and then told them to go buy a case of Yeungling beer, yuk, yuk, yuk, I’d again have thrust my way one of those “Kid, you’re funny-strange, not funny-ha-ha” looks that adults so often gave me whenever I opened my mouth.

I suppose I thought of wooden nickels the same way I now think of Three Stooges episodes. I understand that there exists a sort of comedia vulgaris and a certain audience (cough my husband cough) who gets a hoot out of watching portly men poke each other in the eyes. I’m just a bit more…well… highbrow in my comedy leanings. I go for stuff like...

Q. Why do Polish names end in “ski“?

A. Because they can’t spell toboggan.


Knee-slapper! Funny Ha-Ha!

Anyway. I just made-up that Latin up there.


Then there was the Summer of 1984: The Summer of the Fake I.D.. Or, alternately, The Summer of Beer. I’m assuming there’s no explanation needed on that one.

And of course who can forget 1991: The Summer of Women Rugby Players? Ah yes…the summer that began with me moving to South Philly and taking up residence in a house full of very athletic women, and which ended three years later in 1993: The Summer of More Beer, Table Dancing at Rugby Birthday Parties, and Losing a Friend at a Rugby Birthday Party Because the Team Molested Her Boyfriend and Gave Him Full-body Hickies.

I still don’t understand how I was singled-out as being the one responsible for the molestation, by the way. After the table dance, I was nowhere near the guy. Nor have I every touched a rugby ball.

It just seems to me that if you’re a dude and you’ve had waaaaaaay too many Jello shots, you shouldn’t go around taunting a group of drunk and feisty female rugby players with lines like

“Mahhh girlfrien izzzzz moreofa woman then all uhv youz puttugethuh. Plus thuh Indigo Girlz. Annnd by thu way…k.d.Lang stinkzzzz.”

Because, man, it just gets ugly after that.

But I digress….


Not every summer has an obvious theme. I’ve lived through many summers which just sort of faded from spring into fall with no outstanding feature other than for three hot months my armpits smelled worse.

But this summer…this is summer is definitely beginning to be pulled together by a theme. And I don’t quite have my finger on it yet, I don’t quite have the theme in sharp focus; but, I’m betting it’s going to coalesce to look like something very close to

2005: The Summer of Jerk Offs

Sorry…my little misanthropy monster just snuck out. Let me try again.

2005: The Summer of Giving-up on the Hope of Peace-On-Earth

And it’s not what you think. Really.

(But hold on, because here is where the topic veers-off sharply.)

It’s not about The War or The Terrorism.

It’s not about Torture or Child Labor or World Famine or any of the evil-doings that headline the front page of Amnesty International’s Website. It’s not even about my current pet peeve/paranoia, Peak Oil, and the massive wastefulness and extravagance of certain citizens of a certain country in using more than their fair-share of the planet’s non-renewable resources. (And I won’t mention any names, but to give a hint, these people are citizens of that same certain country where it is brashly held that the sport in which you don't use your hands is called - nevermind what the rest of the world thinks - is called soccer. And, believe me, I’m including myself in that particular loathing. With both the non-renewable resource usage and the soccer thing. I mean, just say the word football. It so obviously hearkens to big men in tights.)

Nope. I’ve given up on world peace simply because...well... forget about hoping that two nations can get along and not, on occasion, engage in acts of bad manners, genocide, or other etiquette faux pas to the point of millions of people getting very upset; my hope has been shot in the knees after witnessing, on a daily basis, any two random people placed face-to-face and who still can’t make nice.

And again, I’m not talking about two illness-stricken, hunger-crazed, heat-stroked humans living in a Sub-Saharan country forgetting to say “please” when asking for a Dixie Cup of milk from the Oxfam workers.

I’m talking about this guy



Yeah, that’s right.

The healthy, happy guy enjoying the air-conditioned comfort and soothing celadon tones of one the world’s largest bookstores. The guy standing mere feet from a café stocked with more varieties and permutations of coffee and tea and boutique hand-squeezed-by-vestal-virgins tropical juices than he could ever dream of sampling, even should he attempt such a feat by selling his Toyota Corrolla and then begin to purchase beverages, two ventis at a time, with the proceeds. The guy who just picked-up a copy of “What Do I Do With All My Money and Good Looks?”, flung it toward the cashier-shaped blob behind the counter, and never once looked that shape in the eye - let alone removed the cellphone implanted in side of his head long enough to say, “Hiya" or “Eat me” - then flung the American Express merchant-copy receipt back toward the cashier-blob, and all without missing a beat of his cellphone conversation to whomever about how his liposuction was more painful than his penis-removal.

Okay, that last part I added for effect.

And just to show that I’m an equal opportunity misanthrope - and so as not to tick-off my friend Steve who will chastise me (in the kindest tone possible) that this blog entry all boils down to my subconscious, NOW-fomented hatred of white men (although, I did just dis the Three Stooges, I understand) - not only does this boorish behavior happen at least four times a day when I’m working, but basic lack of civility can be also dished out, as it were, by…



…and…



…and even…



Although, to be fair, the cat was on the line to his vet regarding Thursday’s appointment. Snip-snip and all.

And in the large scheme of things, really, it’s no biggie. I harbor no ill will. There are more important things to worry about, keep it in perspective, we’re all human, forgive and forget, turn the other cheek, let them eat cake, the white goose flies at midnight, and chalk up three Good Karma points for me. (Although, I cashed in four points with the Jerk Offs comment and at least one more with the penis-removal joke.)

And just to dispel any ugly rumors before they begin, I’m not speaking out of envy simply because my cellphone doesn’t work.

But honestly…seriously…

I think what bugged me the most about the buggers with the cellphones who give me the bugger-off is that…well…I know that I do this myself. Not exactly the same thing…but close enough. At times.

To wit: I have seen the jerk-off, and it is me.

No, no…it’s true. Let me have this moment.

I don’t always give people the attention they deserve - not even that they are necessarily asking for - but that they deserve just because they are alive and human-shaped and for that alone are worth a "Please" or a "Cheers!" or, at the very least, a “Hiya!" or the somewhat more affable “Hello there!” Or what the heck…would “Have a good one” be considered too garrulous?

My shiny, happy stuff can get between me and anyone else, even on a good day. Even on a day when I’m wearing my $10 panties that don’t bind. Even on a day when my armpits are cool and fresh and smell like Bath and Body’s Pearberry Deodorant (and what the hell is a pearberry anyway and why should anyone‘s armpits smell like it?) and most people I pass are probably under the general impression that I‘m a pretty swell character.

I don’t always acknowledge the human being in front of me because, well, I’m distracted or, you know, busy with my very, very important…uh…stuff…uh…to think about …like, you know…buying new clothes because I’ve eaten too much halushki and the waistline on the jeans I bought last month has suddenly begun to ride-up oh-so-unfashionably, and then there’s the minivan needing to be serviced before vacation, and jeez, I really don’t feel like going out in this heat to the grocery store so maybe we’ll just order pizza or Thai, and where the heck did I put my debit card? It was right here under Hotel Rwanda and oh crap! I forgot I have to drive to Blockbuster and return this stinking movie before midnight and why is the freaking answering machine blinking that way?! Holy shit-on-a-stick, this is the third machine this summer to get fried by lightening! Now I have to drive to Circuit City anyway so I might as well phone-in an order for Mexican and….

Oh…are you still there?



See what I mean?



***********************


Well.

It’s hot here.

In fact, it’s so hot here that the other day after stepping outside my electrically-cooled, two-story, home in the suburbs, I felt so addled by the face-full of heat that I mixed-up my weather similes and said out loud to myself, “Phew! It’s hot as pea soup!” And then I had a little laugh, because of course what I meant to say was “Phew! It’s hot as pearberry armpits!”

Maybe this is The Summer of Heat.

Anyway…please excuse me for being a tad distractable (which spell check is telling me is not a word, but I like it, so there.)

The truth is, I’m trying my darndest to nudge the summer (as well as this post ) into its own U-turn and give this crazy World Peace scheme another try, at least on a grassroots level. Trying to pay a bit more attention to the people I all but bump into every day. Trying to give them the ole eye-to-eye and a howdy-do: the luddite’s version of “Can you hear me now?”

And hopefully, the guy with the cellphone will do the same.

That would be nice.

The Summer of Nice Customers Who Put Down Their Cellphones for a Second To Say "Thanks"

I think that then, perhaps, once we...me and that guy... put away some of our stuff, you know, just long enough to be nice...to be civil...

to give a real "Howdy-do!"...

then maybe we could eventually learn to put down more of our stuff and give the big Can-you-hear-me-now’s a bit more of attention they are due.


For now, I’m going to hold-off on dubbing this summer.


But if I could swing it, would the Summer of Love sound too hokey?