I’m not a big eater, generally speaking. Sure, I enjoy the occasional sandwich or salad or slice of pizza, but I don’t go overboard with it. You won’t find me snout-deep in a bowl of soup or snarfing down a whole box of Oreos. I’m the very picture of appetitive restraint and mealtime moderation.
With one exception.
“Besides not sharing my unhealthy Asian appetites, my wife is also a little bitty tiny thing. She could live for a week on three grapes and a packet of Equal.”
Every man has his weakness, and my culinary Waterloo comes in the form of the fast-food Chinese restaurant buffet. Just typing the words drives my intestines into a tizzy, the memories of oily egg rolls and Szechuan sauces boiling up like… well, like Szechuan sauces and oily egg roll innards. It hurts — but it’s the good kind of hurt.
I can’t explain why Chinese buffets drive me into a full-on food-funneling frenzy. I don’t go so gaga at other all-you-can-eat eatery establishments. Endless pasta? Eh, all right. A bottomless bowl of ice cream? If I have to, I guess. Pizza-till-you-puke? Meh. I can puke it or leave it.
But drop me in front of a sterno-heated array of glistening wontons and chow mein noodles, and I go cuckoo like some Cantonese Cookie Monster. It’s all I can manage to deal with the host and stake out a table:
Host: Hello, sir. Welcome to the Happy Dragon. Would you like smoking or non-sm–
Me: ME WANT KUNG PAO CHICKEN!
Host: Ah, very good, sir. If I may just seat you.
Me: LOOK! CRAB RANGOON! MMMNNNGGGHHH!!!
Host: I see you’ve… found your own way to the buffet. If there’s nothing else–
Me: *chomp* *slurp* TEEEEEAAA! GREEEEEEEN TEEEEEAAA! *smack*
Host: Yes, sir. I’ll tell your server. Could you take your head out of the hot and sour soup, please?
Me: I HAVE MU SHU DOWN MY PANTS!
Host: *sigh* Jiang, bring a bib for table three. The roundeye jackass is back. Again.
Three hours and nine plates later, I find myself lying in a soy-soaked food coma, twitching and bloated and sweating MSG. I can’t eat a damned thing for the next three days, and I can’t even look at a bowl of fried rice for at least a week. But a few days after that, I’m ready to get right back on the hoisin horse and do it all again.
Of course, my wife doesn’t let me indulge all that often. And for her part, she barely indulges at all. We’ve been to Chinese buffets together up and down the eastern seaboard. Some of the cheaper ones were practically free, and yet she’s never gotten her money’s worth from a single one, if you ask me.
It’s not her fault, really. Besides not sharing my unhealthy Asian appetites, my wife is also a little bitty tiny thing. She could live for a week on three grapes and a packet of Equal. There’s no way she could pack twelve pounds of kung pao into that body; she’d have nowhere to put it. So I eat for two. Or three. Or a small village of sumo wrestlers. Whatever, it’s all good.
Now pass the damned chicken and stand back. It’s Tso time!
Permalink | 1 CommentYou’d think I’d know better by now than to feign interest in the lives of those around me. At this point, it should be obvious that I’m incapable of good advice, unable to offer substantial help, and I tend to wander off for food when I’m supposed to be listening.
Honestly, even if I never learned such things, you’d think everyone else would have. Does no one pay attention any more?
“I just don’t have the right sort of equipment for those maneuvers — what with owning a penis and all. You might as well ask me to breastfeed a toddler while you’re at it.”
Anyway, I had to run by the office today. Thanks to the holiday, most of my coworkers were elsewhere, no doubt enjoying their long holiday weekends. One girl was there, though. And she was obviously not enjoying herself. Obviously and audibly. Not exactly a winning combination.
I followed my instincts initially, and steered well clear. The woman was obviously angry or frustrated about something; for all I knew, she may have even been scorned. And I’m clearly not someone with the capability to talk reason into a female under those circumstances.
I can cause such problems, sure. But prevent, improve, or ameliorate the situation? Sorry. I just don’t have the right sort of equipment for those maneuvers — what with owning a penis and all. You might as well ask me to breastfeed a toddler while you’re at it.
(Please don’t ask me to breastfeed a toddler. The only thing scarier than trying it would be actually succeeding at it.
And I’m a very competitive guy. For the love of god, don’t encourage me.)
For the first hour or so at the office, things went just peachily. I got a few things accomplished, and the girl — well, as far as I could tell, she spent the time sighing loudly and banging on her keyboard. I couldn’t tell whether she was typing, exactly, or practicing some sort of finger-based martial art on her space bar. But she was definitely noisy, in precisely the way that screams, ‘Run away!!‘ to your average red-blooded male.
Still, she obviously wanted someone to ask her what was wrong. And there was no one else there. And I was on my way out the door. What possible harm could there be in reaching out to a fellow human being, to let them vent for just a moment? How, I thought to myself, could that possibly go wrong?
The answer, it turns out, is that it could go wrong more or less like this:
Me: Um, hey, Carla. How you doing?
Carla: Oh… *sigh* Fine, I guess.
Me: Okay, well, I guess I’ll just be go–
Carla: It’s just my boyfriend. Boys are so stupid.
Me: Yeah. Look, this seems like a bad time. I should really g–
Carla: He just thinks he’s god’s gift to women. How can he act that way?
Me: I’ve really never met the g–
Carla: It’s not like he’s so perfect. Because he’s not.
Me: I’m… sorry?
Carla: You know, the sex isn’t even all that good.
Me: Whoo! Look at the time! I have really got t–
Carla: You know how, with some guys, making love is like a symphony? There are rhythms, and subtleties, and a final, overwhelming, swelling, crashing, crescendo.
Me: I’m really not sure I can–
Carla: Well, sex with him is more like an ad jingle.
Me: An ad jingle?
Carla: ‘His baloney has a first name; it’s O-S-Cee-eee-eee-ungh! It was good for you, right, baby?‘
Me: …
Carla: And don’t get me started about that ‘size doesn’t matter’ bullshit.
At that point, I ran. I just ran. Down the hall, through the fire door, and down three flights of stairs. Maybe she was done talking, and maybe she wasn’t. All I know is that I didn’t need to hear any more. And I would’ve slept better if I’d heard a whole lot less.
But no. I had to try to be ‘sociable’, as though I could possibly help. And what did it get me? One exquisitely awkward conversation, a coworker I can’t look in the eye any more, and a wiener commercial that’s either going to make me nauseous or turn me on next time I hear it. And possibly both.
Next time I decide to show concern for a fellow human, could someone beat me over the head with something large and heavy? It’d just be simpler for everyone involved — and I wouldn’t have to give up hot dogs. Yow.
Permalink | 1 CommentBeing a fumbling, socially awkward doofus isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, I make it seem effortless — even glamorous at times. But there are certain social pitfalls that are difficult for me and my fellow floundering fools to avoid. Chief among these is the issue of ‘appropriate bodily contact’.
Nothing strikes fear in the heart of an intrepid introvert trying to play nice with others more than the question of how little — or how much — touching is called for in a given situation. No other means of interpersonal interaction keeps us lying awake, fretting and sweating, like the anxiety we harbor over appropriate bodily contact.
(Unless maybe it’s anxiety over inappropriate bodily contact. Or usually, the lack thereof.
But that’s a different post altogether. One pitfall at a time.)
“Maybe our parents never hugged us. Or hugged us too much, or too hard, or too soon after a large starchy meal.”
I’ve personally had my share of sleepless nights, stressing over the finer points of social protocol. I’ve stumbled through nightmare scenarios involving ‘The Goodbye Hug’, ‘The Job Interview Handshake’, and that dastardliest doozy of them all, ‘Greeting the Father-In-Law’.
(Do you shake the man’s hand? Hug him tightly? Loosely? Pat him on the ass and tell him, ‘Good job?‘
I’ve never entirely figured that one out, which may have strained the relationship with my own father-in-law a bit. Mostly because I try something different every time.
Last time I saw him, I punched him in the arm and made raspberry kisses on his tummy. Man, was that an awkward Thanksgiving dinner.)
Who knows how we gawky and graceless geeks got this way? Maybe our parents never hugged us. Or hugged us too much, or too hard, or too soon after a large starchy meal. Maybe we were shunned by the other kids during our formative years, or stuffed in one too many lockers, or dropped on the ‘interpersonal skill’ bits of our brains while our skulls were still soft.
Whatever the reasons, we’re left to play the hands we’ve been dealt. And sometimes, that involves touching people. And I don’t mean people with whom we’re rooming, are married to, or have just paid fifty bucks to behind the dumpster at Denny’s. People in those categories, we know how to touch. Namely, ‘gently’, ‘never’, and ‘for only the next twenty minutes’. Not necessarily in that order.
But what to do with the rest of the population? How to navigate the perilous straits of daily interaction with friends, family, coworkers, teammates, teachers, clients, and overzealous Starbucks baristas? If you touch too little, you’ll be seen as cold and aloof. Touch too much, and you’ll be ‘clingy’ and ‘suffocating’. Or tossed out of the coffee shop, before your grande mocha is ready. What’s a bewildered budding extrovert to do?
That’s where I come in.
I’ve performed extensive research in many areas of interpersonal interaction. I’ve observed hundreds of ‘normals’ in the wild, and taken copious notes on their methods of greeting, grasping, and grooming each other. Based on the data I’ve collected, I can now offer solid instruction to the shy and awkward souls of the world about what to do — and what not to do — in just about any social setting. For instance:
Visiting Grandma
You haven’t seen your ‘Nana’ or ‘Grams’ or ‘G-Mo Dawg’ for a while. Maybe it’s been months, or even longer? What’s the right way to show your special matriarch you love her, without rubbing off too much of that ‘old person’ smell?
Do: Give gummy old granny a hug, and a hello kiss. Whether that kiss comes on the lips, forehead or cheek depends on several factors — the quality of your relationship, the current bushiness of her ‘grannystache’, and whether or not the old bird’s already been hitting the sauce today.
Don’t: Squeeze too hard, lift her off the ground, or apply a ‘welcome noogie’. We know you love your granny, but she’s a little fragile these days. Handle with care.
Also, no matter where you move in for that kiss, remember, under no circumstances — no tongue. If anyone’s going to be licking grandma’s dentures, it’s grandma. Or possibly grandpa, but it’s best not think about that. Ever.
The Hearty Handshake
Regular, everyday handshakes are one thing. But how should you react when some overeager wristwaggler comes at you with one hand aimed at your palm, and the other ready to grab your wrist, elbow, or shoulder for good measure?
Do: Shake hands as you normally would, Ignore your assailant’s second hand, and hope the exchange ends quickly, without undue molestation.
Don’t: Slap at or brush away that second hand. For one thing, it’s unfriendly. For another, you might end up accidentally interlocking fingers, and suddenly you’re not shaking hands any more. You’re waltzing, or playing a game of Mercy. Leave the pattycakes to the toddlers, and take your handshake like a man.
Also? No tongue. It’s kind of a universal rule, really. I can’t stress this enough.
Celebrating the Home Team’s Touchdown
This one is particularly important, with the Super Bowl looming. If you’re watching the big game and your squad punches it into the end zone, where should your celebratory machinations draw the line in terms of maintaining appropriate personal space?
Do: High-five. Chest-bump. Shake hands, touch fists, and clap your chums on the shoulder. Your team’s goin’ to Disneyland!
Don’t: Embrace. Do ‘the bump’. Slap ass, jump on someone’s back, or lock arms to form a Rockettes-style kick line. Leave that nonsense for the overpaid jackholes who just scored six. If they go too far, it costs them fifteen yards; if you do, it’ll cost you your dignity. And maybe your ride home.
And remember, above all else, under no circumstances — no tongue.
I hope these words of advice will help you to avoid the social pitfalls — and possible restraining orders — of ‘appropriate bodily contact’. If only someone had told me about these things, I would’ve avoided an awful lot of trouble and embarrassment.
Also, I might still be allowed in Grandma’s house. That poor, traumatized wet-cheeked old woman.
Permalink | 5 CommentsI got called into the boss’ office last week. The big man thinks I should be more assertive. Apparently, it’s not enough to just show up to group meetings and sit in the back sighing loudly. He says it disturbs the others.
I asked whether it’s any better when I crawl under the conference table and weep softly. He said that’s better, but it’s still not good enough. Clearly, he’s not interested in meeting me halfway on this one. Damn.
So, I had to show some assertiveness. Our weekly meeting was this morning, and I had a lot to learn. You don’t just wake up one morning and decide to assert yourself.
(I tried that once with the wife. It got me a sore jaw and a week sleeping on the futon. She gets awfully grumpy when someone asserts all over her first thing in the morning.
Evidently.
Moving right along, then.)
The point is, you can’t just hitch up your petard and become assertive at the drop of a hat. I brought this up to the boss.
Okay, technically I whispered it to a coworker and asked her to bring it up to the boss for me. Seriously. Not so assertive.
“The stunned silence in the room — and the water that Sarah spewed across the conference table — told me I was on the right track.”
He relayed back a useful bit of advice — try a role model. Find someone who has their assertive mojo working, and emulate them. Study their moves. Learn their tricks. Use your role model to slingshot yourself into assertive nirvana.
Fair enough. So I did some thinking, and came up with someone who’s the very epitome of ‘assertive’. He’s clear and direct, he isn’t afraid to speak his mind, and he nearly always gets what he wants. In other words, a perfect role model. I chose Samuel L. Jackson.
With my sensei of assertion selected thusly, I began my studies. I rented Pulp Fiction. I went out and caught Snakes on a Plane. And I started watching Afro Samurai.
(I left out the Star Wars movies. Jedis are cool and all, but they’re hardly ‘assertive’. Yoda couldn’t assert his way out of a big green alien paper bag.)
Over the course of these viewings, I think I learned a lot. I lived Samuel L. I breathed Samuel L. By meeting time this morning, I’d graduated from Samuel L. U., and I had become Samuel L. I was ready to assert the shit out of those fools.
Early on, I had my first opportunity. My coworker Sarah was giving a presentation on a new proposal. It’s a project near to her heart, and the excitement was getting to her. She wanted so badly to get her idea approved, she was stammering and sweating through her talk. I decided to assert myself, and give her some friendly encouragement. Assertively.
So the next time she paused, flustered, to take a sip of water and collect her thoughts, I stood up, put a hand gently on her shoulder, and said:
‘You need to ar-tic-ulate the business justifi-ca-tion. Opportunity cost, motherfucker, do you speak it?‘
The stunned silence in the room — and the water that Sarah spewed across the conference table — told me I was on the right track. I was just saying — nay, asserting — what they were all thinking. My boss was right — this was much better than sitting under the table crying.
Later, there was a spirited debate over a proposed improvement that someone suggested. The old me would have never gotten involved. I would have watched from the sidelines, and let the issue sort itself out. But not today. Not Mr. Assertive. I banged my fist on the table, stood up, and made my opinions known:
Me: People, people, peop-le. There is no reason to discuss this any further. This idea is crazy righteous, and it changes ev-erything. I’m talkin’ ’bout a motherfucking shift of a motherfucking paradigm, here!
Coworker Stan: Um… what? We were just talking about whether to move the break room sofa to the other wall.
Me: That’s what I’m talkin’ about, bitches! A motherfucking shift!
Coworker Stan: What?
Me: Say ‘what’ again! I motherfucking dare you. Say ‘what’ one more goddamn time. Bitch, you will KNOW I am the LORD when I lay–
Coworker Stan: Oh, go to hell. You’re probably the one who left that big greasy stain on the sofa, anyway.
Me: Well, check out the big brain on Stan!
I thought the meeting went well. But afterwards, the boss called me into his office again. Now he’s decided he doesn’t want me to be so assertive. Also, I have to apologize to Sarah. And if I quote Ezekiel to Stan again, it’s going on my record. All that fuss, just for following supervisors’ orders.
Sounds to me like some motherfuckers need to make up their damned minds. That’s what I assert, bitches. Oh hell, yes.
Permalink | 3 CommentsWe’ve got it pretty easy in the modern age. Most of us manage to scrounge together enough resources to cover the basic human needs — food, water, shelter, and one of those pens where the girl’s clothes disappear when you shake it up.
But there are perils afoot, even with our twenty-first century wonders. We may not have to dig our own water wells or build our own caves or grill our own hamburgers like the Neanderthals did, but we still have our problems. Last night, I experienced one of the more sublime sources of modern fear, just as thrilling and as frightening as harpooning a mammoth or evolving an oversized forebrain.
I nearly ran out of gas.
Now, to be fair, I’ve never actually run out of gas before. That doesn’t make it any less scary. I’ve never harpooned a mammoth, either, but I’m pretty sure I’d soil my bearskin if I ever tried.
(And yes, for the record, there are those who say I’ve never evolved a forebrain, either. Shaddup, you.)
“Last night, I experienced one of the more sublime sources of modern anxiety, just as thrilling and as frightening as harpooning a mammoth or evolving an oversized forebrain.”
Anyway, there I was — staring down the asphalt jungle of the Massachusetts Turnpike, with an ‘Empty’ fuel light glowing bright orange like the dying rays of a Paleolithic sunset. I was running on fumes, with fourteen miles till the next exit. And the last thing I wanted was to become the jackass with no gas on the side of the interstate. Nobody wants to be that jackass. Even the cops don’t like that jackass.
Cop: Are you having car trouble, sir?
No-Gas Jackass: Um… yeah. Car trouble.
Cop: What happened? Carburetor blow?
No-Gas Jackass: No.
Cop: Crack a piston?
No-Gas Jackass: Nope.
Cop: Bust a tire? Drop an axle? Lose a fender?
No-Gas Jackass: No, officer. I ran out of gas.
Cop: Oh. Ran out of gas. That’s it, eh?
No-Gas Jackass: Yes, sir.
Cop: Nothing else? Sure you didn’t break a nail or something out there?
No-Gas Jackass: *sigh* No, sir.
Cop: You need a blankie? Is it your nap-nap time?
No-Gas Jackass: Um, officer, can I just get back in my car and wait for the tow truck?
Cop: Sure, sure, go ahead. I’m just going to call the other guys to come down and taunt you through the windows, break out the taillights, that sort of thing.
No-Gas Jackass: That, um… that seems fair.
Cop: Standard procedure, sir. Jus’ doin’ my job.
Luckily, I made it to the exit and coasted into the first gas station off the highway. Which means I paid through the nose for my fuel — those guys know when they have a captive, desperate audience. But at least I didn’t have to face Officer Smartymouth and his patrolling squad of wiseasses. Those guys are ruthless, and they rarely have anything better to do out there. Plus, they carry tasers. I think my life is thrill-packed enough, without getting into that.
Permalink | 3 Comments