About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’m having a problem with an ‘aggressive greeter’. That’s one of those people that makes a point of saying ‘hello’, regardless of your obvious attempts to ignore them completely. This forces you to grudgingly return the greeting, or else continue failing to acknowledge the person’s existence, and feel like an asshole about it later. And I don’t like being forced into difficult decisions like that, dammit. How rude.
Here’s what’s been happening:
There’s a store I go to a couple of times a week. What type of store isn’t important — maybe it’s a convenience store, or a boobie bar, or liquor barn of some kind. Possibly, it’s a pet store where I swallow my pride and take the mutt for ‘doggy daycare’ twice a week. You’d never get me to admit that, but it’s theoretically possible that’s the store in question.
“It’s not a social call; I haven’t stopped by for a heart-to-heart over a cup of joe and a quilting bee.”
Now, my routine in this particular establishment is simple. Get in, do my thing, and get out. It’s not a social call; I haven’t stopped by for a heart-to-heart over a cup of joe and a quilting bee. I’ve got shit to do, and ninety percent of that shit is outside the store, dig?
Besides, I’m only in this store at two times of day — in the morning, when I’m grumpily on my way to the office to nap, and after work, when all I really want is to get home and start shooting tequila. Either way, extra minutes spent in the store is time stolen away from what I’d rather be doing. So I tend to focus on getting in and out without a lot of fuss.
I should also mention that these trips don’t require a trip to the cash register. The actual monetary transactions are taken care of outside the scope of these visits, so there’s no need to interact with the staff behind the counter. At all.
And yet.
Every morning I walk into the store, scurrying head down and blinker-eyed to my destination. Past the displays up front, past the first few rows of shelves, and past… the checkout counter.
‘HELLO, THERE!‘
Every day. Like clockwork. There are at least a dozen people that work shifts in this store, but one woman in particular is there every single morning, afternoon, or evening I walk in. I can switch days I show up — doesn’t matter. I can go early, later, just before closing, whenever. She’ll be there. Perky and smiling and forcing her chirpy salutations down my throat.
‘GOOD MORNING!‘
‘HEY, I THOUGHT YOU WEREN’T GOING TO MAKE IT TODAY!‘
‘HOT ENOUGH FOR YOU, IS IT? HIYA!‘
Some days I want to stuff her full of kibble and feed her to a pack of dingoes.
Now, I know she means well. She’s just one of those cheerful, outgoing, perpetually perky sorts of people. The kind that remind the rest of us why we live far, far away from Katie Couric and Mary Lou Retton, and why it wouldn’t be safe to own heavy blunt instruments if we did.
I just don’t like being manipulated into interpersonal interactions, is all. I mean, just look at me. I have the social skills of a lobotomized poo-flinging rhesus monkey. Why force me into uncomfortable situations that can only end in tears, hurt feelings, and smashed Snausages? I don’t get it.
I do my duty, though. When the lady greets me — from thirty or more feet away, and far out of eye contact — I sigh, choke back a ‘Curses! Foiled again!‘ expression, and say hello. It’s the only reasonable, neighborly thing to do. Could I walk by, pretending the greeting were never delivered and ignoring her completely?
Maybe.
But could I ignore her words, and sleep at night without the nightmares of an angry unrequited ‘hello’ haunting my dreams? I think not.
Still, it’s maddening. It’s a little game I play — Is she out today? Could she be on break? Will she miss me altogether? But I never win. And I’m never going to win — this woman’s there for the long haul. I can see that.
So, I’ll have to change my strategy. Trying to walk by her isn’t working; I need a way to distract her from her mission. Maybe I could dump Cat Chow in the floor, and slip by while she’s cleaning it up. Or add catnip to the ventilation system, to angry up the felines. Start a fire in the gerbil Gymboree, maybe? Seems iffy.
I suppose I’ll just do what I’ve done every time so far. I’ll walk in, take my ‘HOW ARE YA?!‘ like a man, and get the hell out of there. After all, how else could you deal with one of these ‘aggressive greeters’? They’re diabolical!
Permalink | 2 CommentsOne of my friends is a graduate student. He’s in a PhD program, and he’s defending his thesis next week.
In case you’re unfamiliar with the ‘thesis defense’ process, I’ll tell you — it’s a grueling and inhumane ordeal. I know, because I watched my wife go through it a few years ago. I could see the gruelery. And oh — oh, the inhumanity.
“She’s more of an ‘I know how to read DNA, and I will kick your everloving ass at Scrabble’ sort of doctor.”
And if you’re wondering — yes, that makes her a doctor. Not an ‘open up and say ah’ sort of doctor, nor a ‘drop your pants and cough’ sort of doctor. She’s more of an ‘I know how to read DNA, and I will kick your everloving ass at Scrabble’ sort of doctor.
She doesn’t really use the title much, though. For one thing, many people she works with have advanced degrees, too, and who wants to spend the first ten minutes at the office every morning sounding like a Marx Brothers sketch?:
‘Morning, Doctor.‘
‘Hello, Doctor.‘
‘Coffee, Doctor?‘
‘No thanks, Doctor.‘
‘G’day, then, Doctor.‘
‘See you, Doctor.‘
Without Harpo honking the horn in the middle of all that, it’d just get damned tedious. So none of them worries too much about titles. Mostly, she uses it to dissuade telemarketing weenies:
Her: Hello?
TeleWeenie: Hi there! How are you? Me, I’m fantastic! Is this Mrs. Charlie?
Her: This is Doctor Mrs. Charlie, yes.
TeleWeenie: Oh. Doctor, eh?
Her: That’s right.
TeleWeenie: You’re probably too smart to buy sixteen subscriptions to ‘Llama Fancy’ over the phone, then, aren’t you?
Her: Quite. Good day, then.
TeleWeenie: Good day. Any chance you could forward me to a trailer park, or retirement home nearby?
*click*
Awfully handy.
(Oh, and I apologize if my shortening of ‘telemarking weenie’ into ‘TeleWeenie’ has given you the same queasy mental image I just got of some sort of bastardized perverted TeleTubby clone.
That wasn’t my intention, really.
I’d pitch it to Spice, if any network execs are out there reading, true. But that’s not where I meant to be going with that. So sorry.)
Now, where the hell was I? Ah, right — my friend, the graduate student. Peachy.
So far, my buddy’s survived the first of the three-pronged virtual colonoscopy that is the academic thesis defense: he’s written the thesis. One hundred and twenty pages of it, last I heard. You’d think that would be enough, that the profs would say, ‘fine, you’ve written a novel-length bit of work that most people couldn’t read, and many more wouldn’t want to; congratulations, you’re in the club!‘
But no. The writing is just the beginning.
Actually, I suppose the five or six or nine years leading up to the writing is the ‘beginning’, technically. But that doesn’t really count. The early parts of that time involve sleeping through classes, and there’s a murky haze of drudgery, desperation, and doozy hangovers clouding the rest. Graduate school is not for the faint of heart, the timid of spirit, nor the weak of liver. But none of that really counts towards the ‘defense’.
So, here’s how it goes: when the writing’s done, the beast of a manuscript is handed in for review. That gives the thesis committee a couple of weeks to really sink their slavering fangs into it. What else could have been done? Shouldn’t there be a comma in the ninth sentence on page forty-one? Why, in this experiment, did you blithely assume that the force of gravity would be present that day? How lazy can you get?
Meanwhile, the victim student prepares for a presentation. If the actual paper is ‘the dogs’, that still leaves ‘the ponies’ in the show to be accounted for. So right now, less than a week before his big date, my friend is feverishly slapping together PowerPoint slides, pasting in pictures and data and fancy bulleted lists.
Will the presentation appease the committee? Will a sufficiently silvery tongue and a wily waltz of hand waving keep the academic wolves at bay?
No. Not a chance.
Because the presentation isn’t for the committee, you see. That’s the cruel irony of the preparation — you can’t not present your work. Certainly, the committee will be there, in the room, to ensure that.
But they’ve already seen the script — they know what you’re going to say, before your first snazzy slide goes up on the screen. And they’ve already got their probing questions and alternative theories ready for you, no matter what you say in your big moment in the spotlight.
The presentation is for everyone else — the family, the friends, the other students who thought you’d never get out of this place. They’re the ones who pile in to watch the last half-dozen years of your life unfold in the space of an hour’s chat.
(And don’t think the irony of that time-collapsing slice of humble pie is lost on the candidates, either. I think it’s the main reason they get so damned snippy leading up to their defense.
Personally, I don’t see what they’re so upset about. I don’t need anything close to an hour to describe my last six years. Here, I’ll prove it:
Hardly degree-worthy, but at least I don’t have to defend it in front of a group of grumpy judgemental types. Unless visiting the in-laws over Christmas break counts. Meh.)
The real fun of a thesis defense comes after the presentation. That’s when they lock the candidate in a room with the committee, and let them grill the living shit out of him or her. That’s the third and final prong, and usually lasts about an hour, too.
(But not always. It’s like a visit to a mechanic — an hour, more or less, is par for the course. Far longer, or far shorter, and you’re probably in for a lot of pain. Grease guns and jumper cables may well be involved. And it’ll cost you.
Oh yeah, it’ll cost you.)
There’s no real way to prepare for the defense proper. You can’t know what those devious, demented academia lifers might get into their heads. You just have to know your own shit, forward and backward, and hope they don’t throw you a curveball you haven’t considered. All while revising your manuscript, building an hourlong slideshow of ‘What I Did With My Young Adulthood‘, and trying not to cry, throw up, or throw in the towel and move to Tijuana. I don’t envy my friend right now.
On the other hand, he’ll be fine. Soon, it’ll all be over but the shouting and the obligatory tequila bender. I have faith that he’ll nail the questions, quell the fears, and walk out of the room a free and relieved man. Make that a free and relieved doctor man.
Just don’t listen to him if he asks you to drop trou and cough. I don’t care how many people he fools with that stunt — he’s not that kind of doctor!
Permalink | No CommentsOne of the posts I had the most fun writing — and one I often use in my standup act — was written two years ago this month. It listed helpful ways to remember grammar lessons (and spelling rules, as was pointed out by a commenter).
“Am I out there, spelling words like ‘heinous‘ and ‘deceived‘ and ‘sex fiend‘ seventeen times a day?”
I’ve decided it’s time to revisit the idea, and to add a few more lessons to the primer. First, a bit of background to catch you up:
I realized a while back that, after years of English and grammar classes in grade school, high school, and college, I could only recall one lesson on the subject. It’s the rule of:
‘I’ before ‘e’
Except after ‘c’,
Or when sounding like ‘a’,
As in ‘neighbor’ and ‘weigh’.
And it made me wonder — why do I remember that, and nothing else? Am I out there, spelling words like ‘heinous‘ and ‘deceived‘ and ‘sex fiend‘ seventeen times a day? No. Of course not.
I mean, I haven’t written a personal ad in years. So that can’t be it.
I decided it was because it rhymes. I’ve heard that it’s easier for people to remember shit that rhymes. And that’s when it hit me — why not learn all our grammar lessons that way, so we’ll remember them all? Simple!
So, I tested the theory. I came up with mnemonics like:
‘There’s no room for ‘of’
In ‘I could of been rich.’
The correct word is have,
You ignorant bitch.‘
See? I could remember that, I think. So I kept working, and produced more like:
‘Don’t use ‘their’ with an ‘i’
When you mean ‘they are’, or ‘there’.
If you keep that shit up,
I’ll dip your nethers in Nair.‘
Small words, clear message — you could teach that to a four-year-old. I’m just trying to give back, here.
And now, two years later, I’m ready to give more. So here are a few more ditties to help you learn ‘Grammar, Charlie-Style‘:
‘A lot‘s not one word,
Unless there are things being alloted.
Keep using alot to mean ‘many’
And you’ll end up garroted.‘
Nice talk. Let’s try another:
‘If you don’t know that excepted
Means ‘left out’ or ‘not included’;
It will be widely accepted
That your dumb ass is deluded.‘
Now we’re rolling. Play it again:
‘You should say, ‘I’m not well‘
Instead of, ‘I don’t feel good‘.
The medics might leave you to die,
If you’re misunderstood.‘
And one more for the road:
‘Many grammatical errors
May be excused or forgotten;
But I’ll bitchslap your punk ass
Next time you claim, ‘It has been broughten!’‘
Whoops, there’s the bell. Single-file out the door, kids. I’ll see you back here in another two years or so. Class dismissed!
Permalink | 5 CommentsI’ve come to the conclusion that I’m growing gradually stupider.
The decline was inevitable, I suppose. At thirty-five, my best mental years have been behind me for a decade or more, at least. Soon enough, they’ll fit me for my padded helmet, and feed me applesauce with a foam-covered spork.
“I imagine myself as a fetal genius, doodling differential equations and painting breathtaking frescas on the uterine wall.”
Until then, I’m swimming in that uncomfortable limbo we all reach, sooner or later. I’m ‘out there‘ every day, being mildly productive and accumulating experience in the ways of the world. That’s valuable, certainly. I know far more tax laws and Scrabble words than I ever did at twenty. Meanwhile, I can’t remember my license plate number, and I stand in the shower every morning wondering whether or not I’ve washed my hair yet.
The evidence of my impending stupidity is all around me. At work, I have this conversation a lot:
Me: Wait. Why the hell is [whichever database we’re working with] built like this?
Co-worker: Well, it’s —
Me: I mean, it doesn’t make any damned sense!
Co-worker: Yes, but —
Me: What kind of raving jackass would build it like that?
Co-worker: Um… you.
Me: I… really? I did that?
Co-worker: Yup.
Me: What the hell was I thinking?
Co-worker: Well, at the time, you said [perfectly clear and reasonable explanation for why the database is built the way it is]. So that’s how we did it.
Me: Oh. Right. What I said, then.
The longer ago it happened, the better the ideas get. And the longer it takes me to catch on to what past-Charlie was thinking. I imagine myself as a fetal genius, doodling differential equations and painting breathtaking frescas on the uterine wall. These days, I’m lucky to put on my pants without falling over sideways.
(Oh, and don’t get your hopes up. That ‘longer ago, better ideas’ doesn’t seem to apply to the weblog. The archives are full of nonsense exactly like this. I just spell a little better now, is all.)
The same thing happens at home. I subscribe to a puzzle magazine — because hey, I’m obviously not wasting enough time, right? And I’ll occasionally pick up a back issue to try out one of the brain teasers. More than once, I’ve sat, drooling and stumped by a tricky poser… only to notice the answer, in my own handwriting, scribbled on the side of the page.
It’s one thing to be taunted by a sibling or classmate or spouse who’s smarter than you. But to have your nose rubbed in your mushy brain by yourself, from three years ago? That’s just fucking wrong. I can almost picture me writing it, too, and pointing a jeering finger into the future with a Nelsonesque ‘Ha-hah!‘ That just seems like something I’d do. Asshole.
I suppose I should take my increasing idiocy in stride. It’s happening to all of us — except my wife, she smugly assures me — so why fight it? I’m as smart as I’m ever going to be, and somewhat less smarterer than I was before. So what if I start watching reality TV and need my social security number tattooed on my forearm? At least the writing here won’t change. Maybe I’ll even take a couple of you down with me. Watch out!
Permalink | 2 Comments
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
