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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I’ve got a bit of a dilemma. It involves a greeting card. And my grandfather.
Granddad’s been having a tough time recently. Grandma, too, for that matter — by association, at the very least. The details are… well, fairly important to many of us, but not so much for describing my dilemma. Which is this:
My grandfather is a tough old guy. Wiry. Scrappy. An old Navy man who worked in a steel mill — and not a proverbial steel mill, either; I’m talking the real shit here — for much of his adult life. So although he’s mostly a ‘family man’ these days, he’s not the most touchy-feely geezer out there. Think Andy Rooney mixed with Andy Capp, minus the eyebrows. That’s in the right ballpark.
But like I said, he’s having a tough time of things right now, and I’d like him to know I’m thinking about him. We talk on the phone now and then, but I thought I’d send him a greeting card. One of those non-specific, hand-wavy ‘Hey… you!‘ sorts of cards. The kind that are theoretically ‘good for any occasion’, but are mostly appropriate for no occasion at all.
(And incidentally, the most diabolical, devious, evil card you could possibly send to a member of the opposite sex on Valentine’s Day.
Any other day of the year — fine. But on February 14th, a ‘Thinking of you, my friend‘ card will inevitably unleash that mental maelstrom of:
‘Do they… like me? And do they like me like me? Were they just being nice? Are they finagling their way into my pants? Should I just punch them now?‘
Believe me, I know. Those are the only Valentine’s Day cards I’ve ever gotten. Hell, my wife even gave me one, this year!
For the record, I didn’t punch her. But I think she might like me like me! Homina!)
So, the ‘thinking of you’ card. All well and good in concept — until you need to send one to my grandfather. The retired steelworker, who fought in Korea.
(I’m still not clear this happened during any particular war, mind you. All I know is that he got into quite a few fights. In Korea. And in several places in the Pacific, on the way there. And back.)
Right now, for instance, I’m sitting here looking at a card. My wife bought it for us to send, and on the surface, it’s wholly appropriate to the situation. It shows that we care, and we’re thinking of him, and that we hope he’s doing well. Perfect.
It’s just… that on the front, it has a picture of Snoopy, from Peanuts, holding an envelope up to the sky. Just above, it reads:
‘Okay, sunbeams, into this envelope!‘
Now, I mentioned that the man’s going through a rough patch at the moment… but I’m not so sure it’s a rough enough patch that he wouldn’t drive all the way here to kick my ass for sending him a Snoopy sunbeam card.
Not that he’s ever kicked my ass before, mind you. But I also stopped sending him sappy-assed cartoon greeting cards when I was about four years old.
Hey, I love my grandpa. But the dude poured molten steel for a living. I’m not pressing my luck, yo.
So now, the dilemma. Do I send the card, or not? Worst-case scenario, he gets the card, flies into an apoplectic fit, and has to be medicated into a deep sleep while muttering:
‘Lousy pansy-ass Snoopy-sending sonofa– SOMEBODY BETTER SWIRLY THAT DAMNED KID!!‘
On the other hand, maybe this card is just what he needs. It could give him a purpose, a new goal — take it easy, live right, and feel good enough to rent a car to drive up here and personally beat the living shit out of me. That’d take some planning, too, which ought to take his mind off things.
I suppose that’s the answer, then. I’m sending the card. Maybe grandma will intercept it, and relay the spirit of the message, as opposed to the clingy-sweet letter of the card.
But just in case — I’m keeping the doors locked and the lights off for a few days. This is Snoopy we’re talking about here! With an envelope full of sunbeams!
Jesus. Granddad’s gonna be pissed!
Permalink | 2 CommentsYesterday, the missus went to the grocery store. As is her custom, she asked before she left: ‘Is there anything special you want me to get?‘
She asks because she’s nice like that. Sweet girl.
And I never take her up on the offer, because… well, because clearly, I can’t.
See, if you’ve ever been tangled in the web of wedlock, then you know that there’s only one important rule to remember about being married. And if you haven’t been married, then listen up, dammit. This is good shit, and it’ll save you a lot of time sleeping on the couch later on. Here’s all you really need to know:
Charlie’s First Rule of Marriage: ‘At all times, keep the points as even as possible.‘
All couples have a point system. Maybe they don’t talk about it, or even consciously think about tallying up points, per se, but the system is still there. Each person instinctively ‘knows’ whether they’re ahead or behind in the game, and roughly how many points up or down they are. If you’re a guy, then it’s almost certainly ‘down’, and so you need to know how to catch up. But the rules are the same on both sides of the gender coin.
It’s very simple, really. Little things bag you a few points. Doing the dishes, or taking out the trash. Not making that face when your spouse mentions your mother-in-law. Yeah, you know the face — like you’ve just eaten a cat turd stuffed with lemon rind and used jock straps. That one.
Bigger things get you more points. Buying gifts for no reason, for instance — but it really has to be for no reason, or you’ll be in even bigger trouble. Making a nice dinner would work, too. Surprise parties, that kind of thing. You get the idea.
The key is, ‘know’ where you’re at in the relationship, and make sure the points even out. I’ve put know in quotes twice now, because — as we’ve all seen — some people have no clue about their point totals. Which invariably means they’re deep, deep, deep in the hole when they believe they’re not. This is the sort of situation that leads to disagreements. Sometimes involving shouting, or thrown dinner plates, or people with the surname ‘Bobbitt’.
To avoid such unpleasantness, I always assume that my wife has many more points than I do. The fact that she actually does doesn’t really enter into it — all I need to know is that I’m lagging behind. Which is why, normally, I cannot make a ‘special request’ from the grocery store. She’s already shopping for us — now I’m making specific demands? No. I don’t think so.
Sometimes I forget myself, though. Yesterday was one of those sometimes. Who knows what happened — maybe I made the bed, or remembered an anniversary, or actually threw my dirty boxers into the laundry basket instead of on her toothbrush, as usual. Whatever it was, I was apparently giddy and reckless, because I did make a food request when asked. A small one. I’m not one to press my luck, underpantsed toothbrush or no.
I asked for lunchmeat. A specific kind — strips of chicken in a little package, seasoned with lemon and pepper. We’ve had it before. It’s tasty, it’s savory, and it makes plain old bologna taste like week-old ass sweat on cardboard. Okay, ‘more like’. If that’s possible.
The request hung out there in the air for a bit. It’s not a common occurence, and we just stood there for a moment, blinking at each other and wondering what would happen next. Then my wife, secure in her enormous hoard of points, said, ‘Okay, sure‘, and she left.
An hour later, she came back. Bags of groceries, she had. Bags and bags and bags. Milk? Check. Lettuce? Yup. Secret brand underarm antiperspirant? Gotcha. The lunchmeat, with the lemony peppered strips of chickeny goodness? No. What happened, I asked. Her answer:
‘Oh. Sorry, I forgot.‘
Now, that’s just flaunting, dammit. She is so far ahead in the points — and worse, knows she’s ahead — that she can lose a few by forgetting the lemony pepper chicken things. Which is fine — we all forget things, now and then. I completely understand that.
But then she told me she forgot! That’s just not right. I mean, she could easily have lied, for the sake of points, right? Like:
‘Oooh, honey, I looked all over, but I couldn’t find them. Sorry!‘
Or: ‘You know, the store had them, but they were all past the date. You don’t want chicken that went bad last October, do you?‘
Or even: ‘They weren’t in the bag? I know I bought them — you know, maybe the bagger swiped them at the checkout counter. I thought he was just scratching himself, but it’s possible he stuffed your lemony chicken down his pants. Ouch.‘
And I’d believe those things, too! Not because they’re particularly plausible (they’re not), or that I’m so gullible (I am), but I have to believe what my wife tells me — she’s got all the points. If I call her on something and get proven wrong, I’m just that much further behind. Better to take everything she says at face value at this point. It’s just easier.
Still, I don’t appreciate not being lied to. Isn’t pretending you remembered things what marriage is all about? It all goes back to making the points even out. And she lost a few yesterday, let me tell you. I don’t care how far behind I am — I am so flinging my undies on her toothbrush in the morning. That’ll learn her. And I bet they taste like chicken. Delicious lemony pepper chicken!
Permalink | 2 CommentsPeople often ask me: ‘How can I become a smartass like you?‘
Not in so many words, of course. Often they ask: ‘Why the hell are you such a smartass?‘
Or: ‘You think you’re so cool, don’t you?‘
Or even: ‘You know the restraining order says one hundred feet! Would you get out of my panties drawer?!‘
But the intention is clear — they want to be a smartass, just like me. And in the interest of sneering petty snarkophiles everywhere, I’m going to tell you how.
Being a smartass is very simple; there are only two rules you need to follow.
(The South Park fan inside me wants very much to add: ‘3. Profit!‘. To which I say:
‘What the hell is this South Park fan doing inside me? You know the restraining order says one hundred feet!!’
That’s a ‘callback’, folks. It’s one of those comedical techniques you read about in the books. No extra charge for that.
This time.)
Those two simple rules are all you need, really. With a bit of practice and some loving encouragement, even a child could become a serviceable smartass .Hell, a monkey could do it. Maybe even a telemarketer — though Darwinism dictates that we really shouldn’t interact with their kind in any way that doesn’t involve heavy blunt objects. And possibly a taser.
The key thing to remember about being a smartass is the turning point between ‘sugary sweet’ and ‘brutally honest’. It’s crucial to be polite and helpful, right up until the key word comes out of the victim’s mouth: ‘Really?‘ Then, all bets are off.
Let’s see the rules in action, shall we? We’ll need a patsy for this — a clueless sort, naive and oblivious to the gathering stromclouds. So I’ll make up a rube, our smartass foil du jour — we’ll call her ‘Jilly’.
Now, imagine Jilly out there trying on pants somewhere. Possibly in a mall. You, the budding smartass, have somehow been roped into tagging along. You’d much rather be doing something else. Maybe there’s football on TV, or garbage to take out, or fresh poodle plop to rub in your hair while you sing ‘I’m a Little Teapot‘. Basically, anything to get away from yammering Jilly and her shopping-spree shenanigans. So, when she emerges from the dressing room with a pair of capris stretched around her frame, straining and groaning at the seams, you could play it thusly:
Jilly: Do these pants make my butt look big?
Smartass: No, not at all. Really, they’re quite fetching on you.
Jilly: Really?
Smartass: No, not really. They’re squishing your enormous ass like an oversized pressed ham. Maybe if you’d tuck the bottom of your cheeks into your socks, that would be better.
See how easy? And after that exchange, you’ll never have to suffer through another trip to the mall ever again. Trust me.*
(* Technique not recommended for use on wives, steady girlfriends, women who carry mace, ladies with canes, ‘foxy boxers’, or large black women prone to saying ‘Oh no you di’n’t!!!’.)
So, that was an easy one. Let’s try another.
Say you’re over at Jilly’s house, helping her out. She’s not the wiggliest dildo on the nightstand, remember, so you’re trying to do your civic duty and assist the less clueful in the neighborhood. Maybe you’re there, opening her mail — because otherwise, she might stab herself in the eye with the letter opener, or lose her virginity to one of those AOL CDs they’re always sending around. In this scenario, she might see you opening a ‘Publisher’s Clearing House‘ letter, and say:
Jilly: Ooh! Ooh! It says I may have won! I may have won! Did I win? I bet I did.
Smartass: Why… yes! Look at this — you won! It says right here, eleven million dollars!
Jilly: Wow! Really?
Smartass: No. You didn’t win, and you never will. And if you do, they won’t give you any money. Ed McMahon will come to your house, pee in your orange juice, and leave. You’re a moron. Now put down that AOL CD, and for crissakes, put some pants on.
See, that’s public service, there. Making idiots more realistic about the poor, sad, lonely, peed-in-breakfast-drink kind of life they’re likely to lead. Being a smartass is not only loads of fun, it’s also good for society. We’re, like, doctors or therapists or strippers or something.
And you don’t have to wait for an opening to be a smartass. Oh, no. You can pull smartassery out of thin air, in most any situation. Say, for instance, that our friendly rube Jilly can’t find her cat. She’s lost it, or eaten it, or squished it under those capri tents she’s wearing — who knows? But you’ve been recruited to help find the finicky feline; what better time to practice your smartass lessons? To wit:
Smartass: Oh… hey! I think I found it! I found your cat!
Jilly: Omigawd! I thought I’d never see Mr. Fluffers again! Really?
Smartass: No. Not really. Your cat’s probably in somebody’s moo goo gai pan by now. Hah!
Mean? Yes, I suppose. But really, should the morons of the world be trusted with pet ownership in the first place? I think not. That’s how yappy lap terrier rats and crazy cat ladies get started. Why not nip the nonsense in the bud, with a well-aimed verbal jab or two?
I hope these lessons have helped you see that just about anyone can be a smartass. Why, with a little hard work and practice, even the nicest and most unassuming among us can make a contribution, and become a smartass. Hey, maybe even you!
(Did you just say, ‘Even me? REALLY?‘
Sheesh.)
Permalink | 19 CommentsMy workplace has computer monitors. Extra monitors, apparently, just lying around not… ah, monitoring anything. They asked whether any employees would like to have a monitor.
I, being an employee, said, “Yes, I would very much like to have a monitor.”
They said, “Great!”
I said, “How much will I owe you for said monitor?”
They said, “Nothing! They’re free! Take whatever you want! One thing, though — they’re used monitors.”
“Oh,” I replied. “So they’ve had coffee dumped onto them, or a large hairy IT guy’s been humping them or something?”
“Nothing like that,” they said. “They’ve just been used, as computer screens. They’re fine.”
“Great! I always like to be the first large hairy guy to hump a monitor. I’ll take one, please.”
“We’ll ignore that ‘humping’ thing,” they said, and they did. “One other thing, though — the monitors weigh eighty pounds.”
“Eight?”
“Eighty.”
“Thirty?”
“Eighty. And we’re not helping you carry it. Or for that matter,” they added, “hump it.”
“I see,” I said. “Can I wuss out now, then?”
“No. We’ve already put your name on the list. Come pick up a monitor at four o’clock.”
“How heavy could eighty pounds be, anyway? Football players in the NFL can lift almost that much, probably. Surely I’m stronger than them, right?”
So, I did. I made my way to the uber-secret basement-level storeroom they specified — I called it the ‘Monitor Bunker’, but they didn’t seem to appreciate that. I asked whether all the monitors in the building are carried down there for protection, in case of a nuclear bomb drill. They ignored me.
When I got there, a girl from the IT group was waiting.
(I know, I know — a girl! In IT! What’s next — male nurses? Women voters? Latvians in the NBA? The whole world’s gone topsy-turvy!)
So, this IT person — nice girl, with a very distracting diamond nose stud; I bet it shoots across the room when she sneezes, because that would be cool — met me in the Monitor Bunker, buried deep far below the Earth’s crust. And clearly, the IT group was serious about their ‘no help with the carrying’ policy. If the monitors weighed eighty pounds, then she weighed maybe sixty dripping wet. Skinny little thing. She could live inside a hollowed-out monitor, probably.
Along one wall of the room were thirty or so monitors, stacked and ready for vertebra-snapping lifting action. I considered several models on the second and third stacked tiers, thinking the lugging would be less laborious from a waist- or knee-level start. As I moved in for the grab, the girl said:
“That one over there’s the best one. I’ve got one just like it at home.”
“But,” I protested, “that one’s on the floor.”
“Yeah, but it’s really good quality. Those other ones go bad all the time. Plus, this one’s a really cool-looking black color.”
Defeated by her bullet-proof fashion logic — and mesmerized by her bejewelled shiny honker — I took her advice, and chose the ‘good quality cool-looking black one on the floor’. I took a deep breath, bent at the knees, slipped my arms underneath, and lifted. How heavy could eighty pounds be, anyway? Football players in the NFL can lift almost that much, probably. Surely I’m stronger than them, right?
I stood and waddled the thing in the direction of my car. At that moment, I pictured myself as one of those muscled-up, shrunken-nadded goons from the World’s Strongest Man competition that ESPN plays at three in the morning sometimes. Those guys are always moving rocks or cars or small Eastern European countries around, to prove that their brand of Stairmaster really is better than all the other brands. Or something.
Anyway, I recognized the things that were happening to me from watching those shows. The wobbly knees, the bulging forehead, the ‘Outta the way, pregnant woman coming through!‘ walk — even the unintelligible-but-unmistakable ‘HIIIYYYARGGHHH!!!‘ that internationally translates to ‘I have valiantly given my all in this battle of might and will; now can someone with unruptured biceps please pull this thing off my chest?‘
So bellowing, I dropped the electronic beast and took stock to see how much further it might be to my car. “You should take a break before you try getting that thing out the door again, champ,” the IT girl offered.
Apparently, I’d miscalculated when I decided not to park my car in the hallway outside the Monitor Bunker. Not cool.
Finally — and with no life-threatening injuries, I’m happy to add — I managed to lug the behemoth to the car and wrestle it into the back seat. Which turned out to be the easy part, given that my house lies no less than thirty-nine stairs above street level. I briefly considered calling the dog down to the car, strapping the monitor to her back, and leaving a trail of snausages up the steps. I soon rejected that plan because:
So, in the end, I hauled the monitor up the stairs, into the house, up another flight of steps, and parked it, exhausted, in the office. As I lay there, panting and aching and badly broken, my wife poked her head in, looked around, and said:
‘Another monitor? Jeez, what do we need another monitor for?!‘
Need? Silly thing, there is no ‘need‘. There is only ‘get, because it’s computer hardware, and I got it for free‘. What is this ‘need‘ you speak of? Clearly, she’s never going to work in an IT department. She’ll probably never ever pierce her nose. Not intentionally, anyway. Poor girl.
Now can somebody with unruptured biceps please pull this thing the hell off my chest?! I’m begging you.
Permalink | 3 CommentsI was looking through some old yearbooks the other day. It seems that even reformed geeky teenagers are susceptible to nostalgia, from time to time. Either that, or I’m not as ‘reformed’ as I think I am, and those really were my ‘good old days’.
Holy mother of three-knuckled noogies, please let it not be that. I ditched the braces, the acne, and the Coke-bottle glasses; surely I’m not the same old awkward nerd underneath. Surely!
(That’s a rhetorical statement, by the way. Any of you smartasses comment on that, and I’ll see that you get pantsed at the next student assembly. That’ll teach you know-it-all nerdly types, always answering peoples’ rhetorical questions.
I bet you were in band, too, weren’t you?)
It was an eye-opening experience, looking through these old books. There’s nothing quite so humbling as seeing a picture of yourself ‘striking a pose’ in a twenty-year-old yearbook, with an expression that says:
“Look, ladies, it’s the next Don Johnson. What’s your ‘Miami Vice’?”
…while wearing a piano tie and Members Only jacket that scream:
“Hey, females, Balki‘s ready to make you disgusted and uncomfortable with his lack of knowledge about your customs!”
No, I was no Don Johnson. I wasn’t even Philip Michael Thomas. Or, for that matter, Anthony Michael Hall. Even in the beginning of his movies, when he couldn’t get laid — I could outdork him. Easily. With one retainer tied behind my bicuspids. Or words to that effect.
And now, with the painfully graphic yearbook pictures to remind me, the memories of those teen years have come flooding back. The shy conversations when I couldn’t make eye contact, the awkward pauses when I didn’t know what to say, the nervous giggling with hands shoved into my pockets… and that was just when I took my tray through the cafeteria line.
(Though, in my defense, you try telling our lunch lady Eunice that you want more of her relish on your hot dog. And don’t even get me started on her tater tots.
I had to phone in ‘sick’ whenever they served ‘pigs in a blanket’. I just couldn’t face her.)
Seeing the old yearbooks has gotten me thinking, though — if we’d known then what we know now, what might’ve turned out different? Besides the stupid ties, and haircuts based on Human League videos, obviously.
(‘Don’t You Want Me, Baby?‘
‘Not When Your Head Has Apparently Been Shat On By a Flock of Seagulls, No — No, I Don’t‘)
One thing I think I would’ve changed was the ‘Senior Awards’. There are all sorts of accolades listed in these books:
“Most Likely to Succeed”
“Biggest Cut-Up”
“Most Artistic”
“Nicest Smile”
Awww. Aren’t those nice? ‘Nicest smile. Gee. And seeing the girl who won my senior year, I wonder if that helped her at all when she dropped out of college and wound up taking a job making Icees at a K-Mart outside of town? Because I saw her there once a few moths later — and she wasn’t smiling. No.
It would’ve been more helpful to give out practical awards, ones that might have reflected the real-life situations we found ourselves in. Not the immediate situations, of course — no one wants to be voted “Most Likely to Receive a Chocolate Swirly in the Boys’ Room During Sixth Period on Days the Cafeteria Serves Mexican Food“.
(Wouldn’t have been me, by the way. I stayed home on those days, too.
Come on — I couldn’t ask Eunice for a hot dog; you really think I could sprinkle my cheese on her taco with a straight face? Gringo, please.)
It also wouldn’t have been very sporting to vote someone — like ‘Miss Dimplycheeks’, above, say — as “Most Likely to Drop Out of College and Wind Up Making Icees at the Wal-Mart Outside of Town“.Obviously, it can happen. But you certainly don’t want to see that coming. Not while you’re sober, that’s for sure.
Rather, the awards I have in mind are more subtle — but also far more useful than dreck like “Best Dressed“. Who dresses well in high school? Teachers’ pets and future Hare Krishnas, that’s who. Useless. Instead, let’s see awards like:
“Most Mature-Looking” — Hey, somebody’s got to go out on a limb and buy beer for prom. Why not find a kid who actually looks like they’re twenty-one? Instant popularity!
“Obviously Belongs in Art School” — Every class has that one kid who can actually draw that stupid ‘Tippy the Turtle’ character. But those artsy types are always so wishy-washy and self-doubting, few of them ever pursue their dream to draw cartoon reptiles for a living, or whatever the hell it is artists do. This should give them plenty of encouragement to forget a bachelor’s degree, and live that dream. Sure, most of ’em will end up making Icees with Grinny Girl someday, but at least they tried, right?
“Most Likely to Get Caught Embezzling” — You know the less-principled brainy math kids are going to think of it, some day. Why not show them that people are already ahead of them, and know they’ll crack when the heat is on? They don’t have the attention span needed to cover their tracks; help them out, before it’s too late.
“Best Manipulator” — Sure, we’d all like to marry money, have an affair, make it seem like the spouse’s fault, and make off with a few cool million. But it’s just not in the cards for most of us. Somebody needs to tell those conniving pricks and bitches to go for it!
“Most Likely to Lend Money to a Casual Acquaintance” — In all honesty, this wouldn’t help the recipient at all. But it would sure as hell help everyone else in school. And sometimes, it’s about the ‘greater good’, see?
“Most Oblivious to Own Body Odor” — Frankly, I don’t think this should be limited to high school. There should be a regular award ceremony in every office, school, and restaurant worldwide, right after the ‘Employee of the Month’ is handed out. Because right now — we just don’t know. Maybe it’s us. If it were me, I’d want to know. Wouldn’t you?
“Cutest in Drag” — Look, if you’re seventeen and enough fellow students have seen you in prancing around in lipstick and panty hose to give you an award for it, something’s probably going on there. We’re just getting it out in the open for you.
“Least Well-Hidden Eating Disorder” — See above, minus the ‘lipstick and panty hose’ part. Insert ‘horking Eunice’s meatloaf into the playground dumpster’, instead.
“Dishonorable Discharge Waiting to Happen” — Clearly, not all ROTC kids are truly Army material. Clearly to everyone but them, at least. Somebody needs to tell them, and before the live ammo starts flying.
“You’re Really, Really Good… But Not ‘Pro’ Good” — Positive reinforcement is very important. Make sure that star quarterback or All-State two guard knows that you appreciate their game, and you’ve really enjoyed watching them play. But come on — they’re going to a D-II school; State didn’t even recruit them! It’s time they shelved the dream, and picked up some reading comprehension skills or something. It’s over. Move on.
Look, maybe it’s just me — that’s me, “Least Likely to Ever Bag a Cheerleader, Class of ’88,” by the way — but I really think these sorts of awards would have helped some people in my high school. And I’m not saying that because I had a metalmouth smile, no fashion sense, and a Thompson Twins haircut, either.
…
Well, I’m not just saying it because of that! There are other reasons, too. Honest!
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