the Community is Suffering

A note left in the suggestion box at my job:

"I protest the discontinuation of frozen onion rings. I come here to buy a steak and onion rings. If no onion rings, no steak!"

This is maybe a week after a woman demanding organic rotisserie chickens with herbs said without the aforementioned chickens "the community is suffering". This is obviously a person that has never experienced suffering or doesn't know the meaning of the word.

These are the same people that characterize the absence of their favorite flavor of Halo Top as an "outrage". Human trafficking is an outrage. An out-of-stock Salted Caramel gelato is a minor inconvenience, at best.

Retail is more challenging than people think. It takes every fiber of my willpower to hold my tongue sometimes.

I wake up at 6AM and lay in bed wondering if this is really my life or if I woke up in someone else's body. There is a paper plate with corn chip fragments on it and a glob of congealed cheese dip. No, it's definitely my body.

I hit snooze until I can't hit it anymore. Perhaps a meteor will hit Earth today and I won't have to go in. I turn on the TV while I brush my teeth. A mattress ad comes on Hulu, and it says I spend approximately a third of my life in bed. I wonder how much of my life I spend at work, but the thought is too depressing so I start to run the shower.

First the cleanser, then the exfoliator, then the trance. I close my eyes as the hot water runs over my body. Other than bed, this is my favorite place to be. I scrub my body with a whipped soap that smells like an oatmeal cookie and for a moment I feel good. I realize that time dissolves when I'm in here with my fancy soaps and my scented oils and soon I have to leave the comforting warmth of the hard water. Toner, serum, moisturizer. I look better than when I woke up, but I still feel the same. I smile in the mirror, practicing for later when I'll have to do this over and over again even though I don't mean it once.

Things are sure to get better. I just need to be patient. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Keep smiling. Keep smiling.

Tomorrow is another day.

Papa Poopagain and other tales

I have been labeled "the odd man out" because I'm one of the few people in my life that doesn't like Taco Bell. It goes through me like shit through a goose. It has also, on a number of occasions, caused me to involuntarily vocalize during a bowel movement. I don't know about you, but I don't enjoy eating and then twenty minutes later running to the bathroom to bellow loudly whilst evacuating.

I am already frequently visited by Papa Poopagain. He is basically like the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny; a specialized imaginary character with a limited scope. Did you just poop five minutes ago and now suddenly you have to go again? Papa Poopagain. Did you literally just flush the toilet and pull your pants up only to realize there is still more to come? Papa Poopagain. I only recently revealed my belief in Papa Poopagain to my significant other to which he replied, "You are my favorite person."

There isn't any intact mythology surrounding Papa Poopagain. I haven't really thought about it much, to be honest. My gut tells me that he's an eternal being that has always been with us. There is no way to appease him. We are all slaves to his whim.

*

I'm watching Season 11 of RuPaul's Drag Race: a show I enjoy mostly because I hate it. All I will say at this point in the season is that no one has grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed "I'm your favorite!" in my face. No one is wowing me. I'm thoroughly underwhelmed if that counts for anything. The writing is worse than ever, underscored by the larger-than-life production value (a budget they clearly aren't spending on writers or Ru's dresses).

All tea, all shade.

*

The music at my job has been trapped in the 90's for weeks. Most people seem unbothered and "just block it out", but I am not able to do so. My mind hyperfocuses on the Hootie and the Blowfish song and it becomes torture. This is not helped by the fact that my employer (a nameless multi-billion dollar corporation) seems to have only purchased about fifteen songs that play over and over again at the same times every day. So Hell, basically.

There is never a good time for a Sugar Ray song. How about two in one day? How about we add a couple of Smashmouth songs to that and follow it up with some Hanson? It makes you wonder who is making these decisions and whether or not they deserve to continue living among us.

*

Also, as I find it difficult to motivate myself, if you have anything you'd like me to write about please post it in the comments below. I have a lot to say about most things, and I find most things disagreeable to some extent. Don't be shy.

Sweet and spicy, just like grandma...

I know a thing or two about grandmas. You might say I'm a grandma expert.

Hello, my name is David, and I'm a Male Grandma. I feel better already.

My special abilities are thoughtful gifts and soup. I am beloved of animals and babies. I know my way around a garage sale. I strongly believe that food solves most problems. I require hugs to maintain my magic. Grandma Magic.

What does any of this have to do with the McDonald's commercials other than repeated and deliberate use of the word "grandma"? I won't answer that or any of your other questions, Becky.

I've often been described as motherly. At first, I was insulted by this. My latent masculinity programming would automatically go on the offense. Motherly? Excuse you? The Masculinity Protocol doesn't allow for comparisons to any female characteristic, least of all that of a mother. As I grew and matured, I came to realize that being compared to a mother wasn't an insult. The people that were saying it were people close to me, so their intent was not to ridicule or emasculate me. I'm caring and empathetic like a mother. A compliment. Never been good at taking those. Where was I going with this?

I notice when people get haircuts. This startles some people, especially men. To the straight male mind, when I say "Hey! You got a haircut. Looks good." that translates to "Yo, lemme get that dick".

I dadsplain more than I mansplain. The difference is intent. Dadspaining comes from a place of love and concern. Perhaps you don't know the proper way to remove an engorged tick. Allow me to dadsplain that process to you, as well as the dangers of Lyme Disease. There is an easier way to complete the task you are doing, allow me to give you an unsolicited tutorial on my superior method because I love you. It's not as bad.

I'm working through a lot right now, mentally and emotionally. My Dad passed away on August 10th. I haven't talked much about it. I don't know that I'm going to. I don't know that anything makes any sense. And that's the one thing I know for sure.

Things get weird for me. I'm sure it gets weird for everyone, but I only know from my own perception how weird it gets. Life feels like a movie I'm watching. I feel like a spectator.

Some days, I don't feel anything. I wonder sometimes if my feelings are only the feelings of the people around me and that when I'm by myself I don't really feel anything.

I'm at the beginning of a two week break. I'm not sure what I want to get out of it other than doing some laundry and throwing away a lot of shit. The head-space I'm in right now is uncharted territory for me. Where do I go from here?

I'm trying to keep it sweet and spicy, like grandma. Maybe a little bit more spice than sugar. I want to be a more authentic me, but I'm not sure what that looks like. I don't recognize myself sometimes.

Control is really just the illusion of control. Keep the plates spinning. Figure it out. Don't stop moving.


Day 1. Rest.

Circus Peanuts

Now with Nutritionally Oriented Clowns!

Circus Peanuts originated in the 19th century in Nebraska. Some dude made them, modeled after a peanut-shaped insulation material used in barns. He distributed them once a year when the circus came to town. Hence, Circus Peanuts. Thanks, Nebraska.

They were originally orange flavored, but now they are predominantly banana flavored (but orange colored). Neither flavor makes sense to me, really. Why make it in the shape of a peanut and taste like a banana or an orange? Make it in the shape of a fucking banana and make it yellow. It's an affront to the delicacy of my nature.

Screenshot from the Circus Peanut wikipedia page. "Academics enjoying circus peanuts"? I'm not buying it.

You might be asking yourself, "Who cares, Dave? What are you going on about?"

I'm obsessed with them. We should discuss this further.

Candy falls into a few categories for me:

1. Granny Candy: Werther's Originals, those strawberry ones with the goo inside, Andes Mints, spice drops, ribbon candy, violets, Mary Janes, Tootsie Rolls, Good and Plenty, Black Jack gum.

2. that Good Good: Butterfinger, Almond Joy, Jolly Ranchers, KitKats, Peanut M&Ms, Reeses anything, Big League Chew, Twix, Nerds

3. Vom-O-Rama: candy corn, the pumpkins that are made of the same filth as candy corn, circus peanuts, those weird dots on the paper strip - what IS that?

It's no secret that I'm neurotic. I zero in on one thing and it's very distracting. Every time I see a cellophane bag full of circus peanuts, something inside me tingles. If I'm out with someone and I see a bag, I will try to get the person to buy them and eat them. No one likes Circus Peanuts, so my gentle suggestion degrades into a dare. To date, no one has ever taken that dare despite relentless goading. For sooth, I seriously doubt anyone actually buys them (Unless you hate yourself or it's a gag gift. Ooo! Christmas idea!) Are candy companies still making them just for the hell of it? Is there a big following for Circus Peanuts? Are these the kinds of things that keep me up on a Wednesday night? Truly. Who likes them? Am I friends with people that eat Circus Peanuts? Closeted Circus Peanut sympathizers? Make yourselves known. I'll be merciful.

Candy Corn is another one. I know that I hate them, yet any time they are made available I will still try one. Like, "I know I don't like these, but maybe I'm not remembering it right. Let me try one just to make sure."

Wash it down with a Kombucha. What is wrong with everyone? Kombucha does not taste good. It tastes like seltzer and apple cider vinegar and yeast queefs. Don't kid yourself.

I thought this entry was going to be about Circus Peanuts, but clearly it has shifted gears and is now just about stuff I don't like. Let's continue.

Water Chestnuts? Why are you doing this to me, Chinese Food Industrial Complex? WHO LIKES WATER CHESTNUTS?! They taste like crunchy nothing! There is no point! Don't try to sell me on the texture. Crunchy. Nothing. Bye.

Lima beans? As a child, my mother left me in a dark kitchen with a plate full of lima beans and I wasn't allowed to get up from the table until the lima beans were done. F*ck lima beans.

Escargot? Never in a million years.

Creamsicles taste like poverty.

Purple flavored anything is for assholes.

I make no apologies.

Spectral Garage

"I don't remember that rotten garage being there before," said David, peering at a dilapidated old stone-and-mortar garage that sat on a hill in the distance.

"It's the Mandela Effect," said Dane without looking up. He was otherwise engaged with repairing his harpoon gun.

"No, I mean it wasn't there a few minutes ago and now it's there. I don't know if that qualifies as the Mandela Effect. And for the record, Nelson Mandela died in 2013, not the 80's."

Dane locked a harpoon into the muzzle of his cannon and fired it into the trunk of a maple tree behind David.

"That's what they want you to think." he said.

David rolled his eyes. "How long has Dylan been gone?" he asked.

"Coupla hours."

David snapped his fingers, summoning his grimoire. The eldritch tome appeared suddenly, floating in front of him. It opened and the pages started to turn themselves rapidly before stopping on an entry entitled Spectral Garages. He read aloud:

"Spectral garages and other menacingly out-of-place buildings are a rare occurrence in the Shift. Though most spectral garages are perfectly benign, one should always proceed with caution as they are occasionally portals to pocket dimensions or storage facilities for unsavory characters. Usually, if you wait long enough they disappear."

Dane sucked his teeth. "You love that book."

The book closed and vanished instantly.

The bushes rustled and Dylan emerged, covered in purple slime. Dane, who a millisecond earlier had been pointing his two sidearms at those same bushes lowered his weapons and laughed uncontrollably.

Dylan's eyes narrowed. He always did this when he felt some kind of way. This earned him the nickname Squintin Tarantino.

"What happened? What is that?" asked David.

Dane continued to laugh.

"Stepped on a caco-fairy nest on my way back. Apparently they explode when electrocuted." Dylan said, squinting at Dane who was now on the ground cackling.

"Looks like Barney bukakke to me," said Dane, grinning madly as he got to his feet, dusting himself off.

David raised his hand, his eyes clouding over, "Purifico!" A small flash, and the slime was gone.

"Thanks, bro." said Dylan.

"Did you find it?" asked David.

Dylan reached into his pack and pulled out something wrapped in rags and handed it to him.

"Wasn't cheap. She wanted twice what we were offering."

David carefully unwrapped the item while Dane and Dylan looked on. Inside the tattered rags was a small wooden sphere. It was a rich mahogany color and covered in etched arcane symbols. This was what they had been looking for.

"How did you get it? I sent you with everything we had."

Dylan seemed distracted by something in the distance. "Uh, guys?"

David and Dane turned around. The spectral garage was gone. In it's place was an inexplicable creature the size of a school bus. It appeared to be composed almost completely of tentacles and a massive solitary eye. It let out a shrill shriek that reverberated through the forest, shaking the leaves above them. Though it had no mouth to speak of, it almost certainly meant to devour them.

(To be continued...)

More Wire Hangers

It was my mother's birthday this week, so I thought it would be nice to commemorate that occasion with a little mommy blog...

The first time I saw "Mommie Dearest", I was hooked. It was inevitable. I immediately changed my mother's contact information in my phone from "the Dark One" to "Mommie Dearest", which it remains to this day.

Being an angsty teen, I naturally tried to draw parallels between my life and Christina Crawford, but failed for a number of reasons:

1. I didn't live in the most beautiful house in Brentwood, I lived in one the crappiest houses in Midland Park.
2. My Mommie wasn't a movie star, she was a waitress (which is still an acting gig as far as I'm concerned).
3. I did not have an endless parade of "uncles" and subsequently didn't have to fix drinks for them.
4. I wasn't forced to clean anything, except for the occasional dish and even then I would always leave one or two in the sink as a form of passive aggression.
5. We were encouraged to use wire hangers because they were free. The only hangers forbidden were the hangers that my Nanny had crocheted fancy sleeves around. They were reserved for Mommie Dearest alone and it was considered a capital offense to misappropriate one of them.

Christina and I did have a few things in common:

1. Both of our mothers made the scariest faces they could muster.
2. Both of our mothers liked to drink.
3. We both knew where to find the boys and the booze.

My favorite scene, and probably the most iconic one, is the wire hanger scene. Joan comes into the children's room looking a fright and discovers a wire hanger in Christina's closet. This naturally sends her into a savage rage, kicking off my favorite monologue of all time. For your enjoyment, this is what that scene would have looked like at my house:

[Mary enters the boys' room, Newport Light 100 in one hand, remnants of a bologna sandwich in the other. She finishes the sandwich and climbs over one of David's piles to the closet. She lovingly looks through their clothes. Heineken t-shirt. Budweiser t-shirt. She stops and glares, briskly sliding the clothes off to one side to reveal a Guinness St. Patrick's Day shirt on a crocheted hanger. She snatches it from the closet rod.]

"More...wire...HANGERS! What's fancy Nanny hangers doing in this closet when I told you no fancy nanny hangers EVER?! I work and work until I'm half dead and I hear people saying 'she's getting old'. And what do I get? A SON! Who cares as much about the Coors Light t-shirts I give him...as he cares about me! What's fancy Nanny Hangers doing in this closer? Answer me! I bring you beautiful beer t-shirts from the bar and you treat them like they were some dishrag. You threw a three dollar t-shirt on a fanny Nanny hanger! We'll see how many you got hidden in here, we'll see! All of this is coming out! Out! Out! Out! Out! We're gonna see how many fancy nanny hangers you've got in your closet!"

Now that I'm older, my mother and I are less like Joan and Christina Crawford and more like Big and Little Edie Beale. I imagine one day we'll be living in a dilapidated mansion infested with raccoons and cats. I'm already bald, so all I need now is a head scarf and revolutionary outfit of the day. Picture me standing next to a eight-foot pile of tin cans talking about the craftsmanship of the banister while my mother lays in bed in a sunhat, warbling to warped records as a cat urinates behind her portrait and the corn boils on the hotplate. A girl can dream.

Happy birthday, Mommie Dearest.

Toys "R" Bust

Beloved toy retailer, Toys "R" Us, is soon to be but a memory.

My brother Dane notified us in a group text message:

*Peenaponatuna is the name I selected for my brother, Dane, when my parents asked me what I wanted to name him. I was 2 and change at the time. The spelling is still disputed to this day.

We ended up going to the Wayne Hills Mall location that Sunday. I had a lot of grand ideas about the items I would purchase while we drove there, passing the brushed silver sign for Toys "R" Us headquarters in Wayne, NJ. I imagined board games and the family game nights that would follow. I imagined rolling around on my bed nude covered in Lego minifigures, like I was Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal (Indecent Legosal, if you will). My mind raced with visions of Mario Brothers plushies and Pop Vinyls. Ninja Turtles and Nerf guns.

The parking lot wasn't as packed as I thought it would be. Not surprising really since the Wayne Hills Mall is all but abandoned, a relic of a time before super stores and online shopping.

Wayne Hills Mall entrance. (Photo credit: goodrob13 on flickr)

Mom taking a picture of the storefront.

My dreams of board games and Legos were immediately dashed upon entering the building. People were rummaging through the aisles which were stocked haphazardly. Obviously, the plan was to get every item out on the shelves as quickly as possible. We approached the board game area which was desolate. But there were plenty of these:

Fig. 1.1 the dreaded Silly Sausage

Fig. 1.2 #pokeme

I can only assume that the Silly Sausage's predecessor was the Bop It. I'm not sure exactly why they made it into a sausage. In fact, I find the transformation rather perverse. See for yourself...

Truly edifying. And horrifying.

We hurried around the corner to the Lego section and the wind was knocked out of me.

Not a single item remained. They must have been among the first things to go. Suddenly we were filled with dread. We all came to the same panicked thought next. Nerf guns!

We dashed through the store and were lucky enough to find Star Wars themed Nerf dart blasters and several packs of 100 darts. These blasters also made the signature Star Wars blaster sound when you pulled the trigger. We had lucked out. This was not good news for my mother, however, as she bore the brunt of most of our Nerf gun attacks.

Moving through each remaining aisle, dodging our fellow vultures picking the bones clean from this once great toy behemoth, I couldn't help but feel sad. It was sad.

We didn't have a lot of money growing up, so when we got to go to Toys "R" Us, it was usually for our birthdays or as a special treat. There was a sense of awe walking through the aisles, seeing all the games and toys, making a Christmas list in your head. Our family made an art out of window shopping. Sometimes we would go to stores just to look at things. People think that's sad when I tell them that, but really it was fun for us. The fantasy of having everything you wanted was better than not having it.

As an adult the feeling was very different, especially given the circumstances.

I am, by nature, overly sentimental - I'll save a scrap of ribbon or a ticket stub if it reminds me of something lovely. In that sense, I'm glad we took our last trip to Toys "R" Us together, and I'm sad to see it go not because of the company itself but because of the wonder that it will take with it. Maybe kids now and in the future will get the same feeling wandering the limited toy aisles of Target and Walmart. Maybe it's being a kid that brings magic to places and not the other way around. Dane was right, it was a funeral, but not for our generation's toy store - it was a funeral for our childhood.

What now?

Armed with their Nerf blasters, the three brothers stared off into the sunset not sure of where to head next. What adventures awaited them in adulthood?

"Are we ready?" David said, plucking the solitary white hair from his beard.

Dane stuck the shovel into the ground having just buried Geoffrey.

They looked at him, slightly younger but already feeling the sharp pain of growing up. They smiled.

"Locked and loaded, bro." said Dylan.

"Cowabunga." said Dane.