Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Things That Burn My Biscuits: Workplace Interactions

Welcome to another surly edition of Things That Burn My Biscuits, the series in which I expound on all of the small, mostly benign things in life that make me want to start throwing air punches and never stop. “Workplace Interactions” may seem like a very narrow topic, but according to the spreadsheet I made, it has been the cause of 90% of all my trivial rage (the remaining 10% being caused by superfluous spreadsheets). More precisely, if I take the product of my rage (cells A8:A37) and divide it by the triviality of the source (cells H4,I7,J2,K5), I have enough acute pettiness to rage-paint the Sistine Chapel mural on a grain of rice.

I generally get along with my coworkers, but I find much of my day is spent trying to minimize interaction. Either I’m a reclusive, crotchety employee, or you’ll empathize with these selections and validate the temperature of my biscuits. Or maybe we’re both crotchety employees. You decide.

Morning Greetings

Let me start out by saying I do not hate all small talk, and I realize its significance in human interaction. If you are a friend and we are making small talk, chances are I genuinely enjoy our banter and I'm interested in your response, and I am not secretly fantasizing about poking you in the eyes like one of the Three Stooges. But at work I don't feel it is necessary to have a long morning ritual wherein we volley empty greetings, because I see you five times a week. A simple “hello” or “good morning” or some sort of throat clearing grunt/mumble hybrid are all perfectly acceptable as an acknowledgment that yes, I am arriving for work and you have spotted me.

My boss is the worst offender of this. Just about every morning we go over the same unnecessary and vacant exchange.

Word. For. Word.

Boss: Good morning, Nate.
Me: Good morning, REDACTED.
Boss: How are you?
Me: I am fine. How are you?
Boss: Lovely, thanks for asking.

Sure, it seems innocuous, but over time the rote recital becomes Chinese water torture. I approached the problem scientifically by altering the variables. I tried changing the subject. Steered back to the greeting. I tried not saying 'how are you'. Sarcastically replies that he is lovely, thanks for asking. I tried replacing 'I am fine' with a less embellished 'ok' or 'alright'. Wants to know why I am not fine. So, what I've learned is that THE GOOD MORNING SCRIPT WILL BE DELIVERED AS WRITTEN AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. Drip, drip, drip.

Others are just naturally excited in the morning and greet me with an exuberance that, frankly, I don't warrant. I'm sure I look and act like I just woke up 5 minutes before I walked in the door, which I did, despite the fact that my commute is 20 minutes long. Still, I muster my most enthusiastic veneer of a response, which comes out as an indecipherable mumblegrunt.


“Good m-unghfdb#phw%!”


Break Room

The break room should be a refuge from the storm, a respite from work and all its responsibilities and everyone who might be a part of those responsibilities. It should be a place free from all thought, where a workman or worklady can silently play mind-numbing iPhone games while enjoying a gas station turkey sandwich. Instead, it is often the room where the moment I wrap my face around said sandwich, a flock of coworkers descend and loudly talk about reports while they use the microwave to heat up last week’s sauerkraut and tuna fish soup.

I always approach the break room stealthily, like a lion stalking a gazelle or a particularly vigilant turkey sandwich. If I so much as hear a rustling of napkins I immediately freeze and then scurry back to my cubicle with my tail between my legs. A few minutes later I will sneak up again, peek one eye around the corner, and, if spotted, proceed to mumble something about a plastic fork, shuffle through some drawers, then go sit in my car. I’m not allowed to eat at my desk, even though its horizontal ledge is perfectly suited for keeping my turkey sandwich from falling on the ground. But that’s a bit of rage for another day.


“Turkpf!vym Sandp&kch”


Office Parties

I’m all for a good time. In fact, my nickname in college was Party Pants, a moniker I gave myself and told absolutely nobody about. But being pressured to kill a precious, precious Saturday night with people you already see too much of during the week does not a party make. Sure, you can skip the event, but you are most certainly being judged. And when it comes time for a raise, you better believe it will show up on your evaluation.


“ZzZzZzzzzz…”


Sales Calls

Sales calls embody everything I dislike about workplace interactions, because they are so disingenuous. Both sides have an unstated but obvious agenda. The salesman wants to talk me into padding his paycheck, and I want to bang my head on my desk until I can no longer hear his voice. But he can’t just say “Hello, would you like to indirectly give me lots of money? I have several addictions to feed at home,” and I just can’t say “I have a Spice Girls song stuck in my head, and I’m going to tune you out until the appropriate time that I can hang up and not be considered an offensive crapweasel.”

Often I am on the other side of that coin, however. I strongly believe in being courteous and helpful when dealing with people. I really do. But I don’t like being forced to be saccharine, such as when I answer my office line “It’s a great day at COMPANY REDACTED!” I don’t feign enthusiasm very well. I’m certain I haven’t tricked anyone into thinking it was a great day, and they might wonder if they’ve actually reached the right company, and they may even question what they previously thought about article adjectives and prepositions.


“If you wanna be my lover, ghb$nz mmg h^jnqew hnnnugn…
zig a zig ahhhhh!”


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


Well, I think I've outdone myself in surliness. Is it too late to state that I consider myself a people person, it's just that I value genuine human exchange and the occasional "me" time? Do you think my biscuits are rightfully burned? If so, I hope we can work together someday. Just, uhhh, don't say good morning to me, stay out of the break room, and don't invite me to any parties. See? I'm easy to get along with!

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Bloodlust of the Scarecrows - The Movie

INT. SMALL BLUE CAR – MIDNIGHT

Four friends are driving through rural Southern backroads. They are the only car in sight, and it is pitch black outside. Ominous music plays from somewhere ominously. Maybe one of those songs that’s just a violin bow and a wood saw. It’s raining. Wait, do we have the budget to make it rain?...Oh, we don’t? Ok, I’m sure we can figure something out. Anyways, a handsome man with long hair (preferably played by Zac Efron in a wig) breaks the silence.

NATHAN
Boy, it sure is raining hard on these Southern backroads!

RACHEL
What are you talking about? There’s not a cloud in the s-

NATHAN
Yep, the kind of hard Southern rain that can only be felt in memories, or post-production. Hey Tommy, did you have something to say?

TOMMY
Why yes I did, Nathan. I just wanted to say that we are going to meet our friends at a cabin up in the mountains, but due to some comical misunderstandings, they are not expecting our arrival. Also, we are so far out in the boonies that none of our cell phones have any signal.

NATHAN
Beautifully exposited. Thank you, Tommy.

ELLE
(pointing frantically)
Guys, what’s that up ahead!?

HEADLIGHTS flash across a tall, shadowy figure. NATHAN slams on the brakes, and the car screeches to a halt.

RACHEL
(after a long pause)
That was spooky! There is definitely no need to get out and investigate.

ELLE
Awww, I think it was a puppy! I’m going to rescue it!

TOMMY
Oh, did I not mention this in my exposition earlier? We are driving through Dahlonega, and the locals have a legend that on every 7th new moon after the 7th leap year that an army of bloodthirsty scarecrows come to life and feed upon humans’ tender organs like they’re all-you-can-eat dinner rolls at a steakhouse. So, Elle, I don’t think it would be a good idea if- Elle?...Elle!

The trio realize that ELLE is no longer with them. They jump out of the car, and just as a side note to the sound guy, it would be neat if we could add some Scooby-Doo “startled sprint” sound effects. Thanks.

EXT. DAHLONEGA, GEORGIA – MIDNIGHTISH

RACHEL
(turns on flashlight and waves it around)
Elllllllleee!!!! Where are youuuuuuu?

ELLE
I’m right…..here!

The flashlight’s beam falls on something and Nathan, Rachel, and Tommy react.

NATHAN, RACHEL, and TOMMY
Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!

ELLE
Classic misdirect! That’s a mailbox. I’m actually over…here!

The flashlight’s beam falls onto something else and the gang reacts again. This keeps happening for 27 minutes, because this script is pretty short and I need to fill some time in order to submit this movie to the festival circuit.

ELLE
…No, that’s a sign post….that’s your car….that’s a clump of grass… that’s your elbow….that’s your own face….that’s your elbow again…Ah, there ya go! It’s me!

RACHEL
Whew! You had us scared for a while, Elle.

ELLE
Sorry, I thought the shadowy figure was a dog. But it turned out to just be this stupid ol’ scarecrow.

The flashlight’s beam falls on a gnarled, worn scarecrow. Its head is a burlap sack and its face is a jumble of jagged seams, stitches, and nightmares.

NATHAN
Elle, that could be one of those murderous Dahlonega scarecrows! Step away from him before it’s too late!

ELLE
Haha! Don’t worry, silly. This scarecrow is a gentleman, without even the faintest idea of cracking your head open like a coconut and garnishing its contents with one of those little toothpick umbrellas. Come closer and see for yours-

Suddenly Elle is plowed through with a pitchfork. Her body drops to reveal TOMMY behind her and grasping the handle.

RACHEL
Whoa! Tommy! Not ok, man! What are you doing?

TOMMY
Hmm? Oh, wait, did I forget to mention that part in my previous expositions? Geez, I’ve really got to keep track of all this information. Anyways, after the scarecrows feast on your organs they stuff your cavities with straw and you reanimate as one of them.

RACHEL
But…but…How did you know Elle was one of…them?

The camera pans down to reveal Elle’s body bursting with straw, like a hay bale through a colander.

TOMMY
Whew! That’s a load off of my mind. I was really taking a chance there. Last time I plowed through somebody’s torso with a pitchfork I was not as lucky. Let me tell you, things got pretty awkward.

NATHAN
We’ve got no time to reminisce about the good ol’ days, Tommy. Look behind you!

The scarecrow that Elle found is now walking towards the gang, and the once blank burlap face now has glowing red eyes. The camera pans out to reveal an army of dozens of evil red-eyed scarecrows cresting a hill in the distance and heading towards them.

NATHAN
Quick, everyone run into this cornfield for shelter!

RACHEL
(excitedly)
Oh good, I love cornfields!

Nathan, Rachel, and Tommy make a mad dash into the dense cornfield and become scattered.

NATHAN
Raaaacheell! Toooommmyy! Where are you guys?

Nathan’s pleas are met with silence. Finally, after another 19 minutes of Nathan yelling to himself in a cornfield to pad the time, another voice is heard in the distance. He runs toward it, but a SCARECROW jumps out in front of him and slashes wildly.

NATHAN
(while flexing)
I’ve had enough of these scarecrows!

Nathan punches the scarecrow right in his hideous scarecrow face. The scarecrow explodes into a puff of hay, seen from multiple angles and in slow motion.

NATHAN
(smugly)
I guess you could say, that was the last…straw!

Nathan whips off his sunglasses - which he had previously not been wearing - for full smug affect. His smugness is interrupted by Rachel’s scream nearby. He runs to her.

NATHAN
Rachel! I found you! Are you okay? Where is Tommy?

RACHEL
I’m fine. Tommy? Oh, he is safe. Just a few cornrows down from here. Here, I’ll take you to him.

NATHAN
(confused)
But, I’ve been calling his name. Why hasn’t he answered?

RACHEL
He’s okay. Trust me. Take my hand, and I’ll lead you to him.

Nathan takes Rachel’s hand, and they start walking. Nathan looks concerned and then suddenly draws back.

NATHAN
You…You’re not Rachel!

RACHEL
(her eyes faintly glow red, and her lips curl into a devilish grin)
What do you mean?

NATHAN
Of course!...It’s all so clear now! Your love of cornfields - the soft, strawlike touch of your hand - the fact that Tommy’s class ring, still attached to his finger, is stuck between your teeth. You…You’re a scarecrow now!

RACHEL
No…not now. I’ve always been a scarecrow!

Rachel’s eyes glow redder as her mouth unhinges. She slowly advances towards Nathan.

Slowly. For 13 minutes. Just as she is about to kill him-

CUT TO:

INT. NATHAN’S BEDROOM – MORNING

Nathan startles awake.

NATHAN
(confused and shaken)
Wha…what happened? I’m in my bed. The scarecrows…it was all a dream! Haha!

Nathan leaps out of bed and runs to the window. He pushes back the curtains to reveal a sunny landscape without a scarecrow to be seen. There is nothing but rows and rows of docile, un-murderous cornstalks.

Which is particularly peculiar, because Nathan lives in Atlanta where there are no cornfields.




FIN

(33 minutes and 27 seconds of credits)









Friday, July 19, 2013

Forget Brilliance! 3 Mediocre Ideas that Will Not Impact the World

Brilliant ideas are a dime a dozen. Harnessing electricity, connecting computers through a World Wide Web, Sharknado, etc, are instantly recognizable as fantastic advancements in society. That's easy. Concurrently, any ol’ goober can have a bad idea. Heck, I can knock ten or twelve of those out while I’m brushing my teeth in the morning.


"I should start a Creed cover band!"


No, I’m shooting for the truly mediocre idea. The kind of idea that threads the needle between those two extremes so deftly that you’ll think it’s fantastic upon first hearing it, but upon further analysis the idea crumbles like a coffee cake and you’re left with the hollow memories of that time five minutes ago when you were basking in its majesty. It’s a subversive kind of brilliance, which you may easily mistake for no kind of brilliance at all, and you’d be perfectly correct for mistaking that. Unfortunately I lack the know-how, competence, and drive to make these ideas come to fruition and be properly monetized, so my hope is that by sending these ideas out into the world, others will take up the execution and send me money.

No refunds, goobers!


A Polite Car Horn

As it stands now, the car horn language consists of a single word – a monosyllabic, piercing bellow that can only be used as an interjection. We are accustomed in English to using words that can possess several alternate meanings, but the car horn only means one thing: “YOU ARE A TERRIBLE DRIVER AND I HOPE MEAL WORMS INFEST YOUR EYELIDS!” Even if that’s not what the driver is trying to convey, that’s what they are saying, because the sound your car makes to politely inform the person in front of you that the stoplight is now green is the same sound your car makes when someone cuts you off in traffic before you follow them home and set their house on fire. And if a person has to make a split decision between ‘polite reminder’ and ‘slanderous insult’ they will choose to be offended. Car horns are always perceived as negative, even when they are used in non-threatening situations.


 
“I WILL CHOP OFF YOUR PIGTAILS AND EAT THEM LIKE TWIZZLERS!
....Sorry, that’s just how I say ‘it’s my turn for the water fountain’.”


The mediocre idea – a second word for the car horn language. I’m imagining a high pitched whistle, perhaps a melodic tweet. It will have to be universally agreed upon by all motorists to have a polite and positive connotation, and will be the equivalent of tapping someone on the shoulder and muttering something with a British accent. “Why excuse me ol’ chap, but I do believe the stoplight has changed hues.” I also envision a day when an entire language of intricate horn pitches and patterns exists to properly represent the breadth of emotions one often encounters while in traffic.


Here an old man demonstrates how to say “Yo, girl! You smell like biscuits! I think I love you!” without having to leer outside your car window.


My studies have shown that if just the polite car horn is implemented it will result in 3,769,172 fewer road rage induced homicides. And if all those people whose lives I just saved would like to send me a dollar, I would promise to not follow them home and bathe in the ashes of their house.


Diet Milk

I love everything about milk. The way it feels between my toes. The way it cascades over cereal like a soothing spring waterfall on a hot day. The way it sits in my refrigerator like a loyal pet waiting for me to return upwards of six months later. And especially the way it tastes. If it were up to me I would drink milk all day everyday until concerned friends held an intervention and forced me into a clinic to be weaned off of it.


This isn’t the idea I’m getting to, but maybe it should be...


Sure, what and how much of something I put into my face is technically up to me as a quasi-grownup (actual recent quote from a friend: “Why does Nathan refuse to be a functioning adult?”). But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be subject to the consequences, which is gaining 300 pounds and constantly smelling like cottage cheese. Before biology’s crackdown on my metabolism, I ate at least two bowls of cereal a day and regularly washed meals down with a large glass of whole milk. Oh how I miss those days! If only someone could think of a mediocre idea to rectify this First-World problem!

The mediocre idea – zero calorie milk flavored drink. Diet sodas are big nowadays, and although tasty, they are terrible on Frosted Flakes. Why can’t someone use that same beverage technology to produce an artificially sweetened milk-flavored drink? It wouldn’t have to be exactly like milk, but just milky enough to fool my taste buds when poured over some Cap’n Crunch. I realize some low-calorie milk substitutes exist, but they are still about 70 calories per 8 ounce serving and generally taste like cardboard puree. A big company with the resources to properly market and launch this product, like Coca-Cola, should jump on this opportunity, and in return for my idea all I humbly request is one hundred million dollars in unmarked bills, a getaway chopper, and my own island in the Pacific Ocean. Because I want to be long gone by the time they figure out what they’ve done.




Reverse Suspenders for Men

In my professional career as an Office Chair Occupant I have to tuck in my shirt. And as I’ve pointed out before, it is awful. My shirt often wrestles itself away from my pants as if it had gained sentience and needed some air. How can I be expected to write silly blogs while I’m at work if all I have time for is playing Whack-a-Mole with my rogue shirttail?

The mediocre idea – suspenders that connect your shirttail to your shoes to keep your shirt taut.

[EDIT: Astute reader Bryan has informed me that these already exist and are being marketed as "shirt stays". The fact that I did not know this and they did not show up in my 20 seconds of internet searching is a testament to their mediocrity. Just, uh, keep reading this entry as if I didn't tell you this. Thanks.]

A quick Googling of “Reverse Suspenders” reveals that this idea is actually an up-and-coming trend for women to keep their mini-skirts below their butt cheeks by attaching them to leggings which are also very close to their butt cheeks.


All the benefits of butt-high socks, none of the benefits of a mini-skirt


I suppose my mediocre idea is actually to re-appropriate this technology for men and any other gender who may wish to tuck in their shirt because gender equality. No longer would I have to be afraid to reach for something on the top shelf without my shirt escaping! No longer would I have to worry about my boss catching me mid-tuck and explaining why my hands are down my pants! No longer would I be subject to the tyranny of….uh…..of….What was my problem again?


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



Y’know, on second thought these are all pretty terrible ideas. Especially that last one. Suspenders down your pants? Yeesh. Anyways, surely I’m not the only one with ‘mediocre’ ideas! Leave yours in the comments.



Wednesday, June 12, 2013

My Kingdom by the Sea


I found myself perched peculiarly atop a peninsula of pointy boulders in the Gulf of Mexico armed with only a kayak, a paddle, and my wits - the very same stupid wits that marooned me there in the first place. Maybe I should resign myself to living here, I thought while surveying my rocky, oceany kingdom. Maybe I can be the new lighthouse keeper. Or, since there is no lighthouse, maybe I’ll yell really loudly at boats.


"Hey...Hey boat! Turn around boat! There are rocks! Hey!
.......I'm so lonely."


But first, the beginning of the story. Some friends and I loaded into Blues Traveler on Friday morning and departed for Panama City Beach to spend the weekend at a large Mormon retreat swimming, camping, and significantly lowering the per capita blood alcohol level. It had been two years since I last saw the beach, and I was ready to unleash my paleness like a kraken on the shores of Florida.


“I AM THE DEVOURER OF SUNLIGHT! THERE WILL BE NO SURVIVORS!”


We arrived at our destination late that afternoon, set up our camp at St. Andrews State Park, and then went to a nearby church building for a dance. I had never been to a Mormon dance so far away from home, but it was nice to see that dances, just like the Church, are the same everywhere. I Cupid Shuffle’d with the best of them. I Cha Cha Slide’d my face off. I Cotton Eye Joe’d so hard that the local congregation wrote of my athleticism in sacred scrolls. The song choices might seem perplexing, but Mormons are suckers for line dances. Maybe we like the conformity.




After the dance we returned to St. Andrews State Park and walked the beach before heading to our campsites. I had borrowed a two-person tent from my brother, and it would have been perfect had there not been three of us. I was the last to retire, and not wanting to be the piece of ham in a man-ham sandwich, I opted to sleep outside the way St. Andrews, the Patron Saint of Mosquitoes, intended. I spent the night alternating between being an open bar for bloodsuckers and being completely covered by a blanket to the point where the heat from my body was showing up as suspicious activity on North Korean spy satellites.

The next day was beautiful, and it made up for the terrible night’s sleep. I had a great time throwing frisbee in the surf and walking down the beach with friends. The ocean was pleasant, the sand was fine, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky or enough sunblock in Panama City to prevent my legs from turning the exact shade of red as the warning flags flying all along the shoreline. We heeded the flags’ advisory to avoid swimming in the ocean because of strong currents, but those flags didn’t mention nothin’ bout no kayaks! (I hope the previous sentence is one day used in court, verbatim, to establish a pattern of negligence in a case against the State of Florida).

We set out in a small flotilla from where the island comes to a rounded end, and we paddled left to head towards another island in the distance. I was surprised at how suddenly the calm waters turned aggressive as we left the shore, but I found the up and down of the rolling waves exciting. I tried to catch up to my friends, though they had started to scatter. After a few minutes I noticed we were pretty far to the right of our launching point, closer to the open expanse of the unending Atlantic. I called to my friends and paddled to correct course. And paddled. And paddled harder. “Haha, hey guys, I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” I said to whoever could hear me.


“Hey Frank, did you hear that? Kid said he’s not going anywhere…”


I looked over my shoulder to see that a few of my friends were now a football field behind me. We were definitely being sucked out into the ocean, away from both St. Andrews and our island destination.

I feel I should note here that I was never in any mortal danger. There were enough people and boats around that I could have yelled for help, but being the prideful man that I am, I was hoping to get out of this with minimal embarrassment. Still, I confess to a certain amount of anxiety.

Buckling down, I thrashed with my paddle against the current. After a couple of minutes I was not even an inch closer to the shore, but I was growing tired. To the left of me there was a jetty - a long barrier of giant rocks - and I knew that on the other side was a calm lagoon. I was able to cut diagonal across the current to the wall, steady my kayak, and rest as I looked for my friends. I could no longer see them.

I hopped out onto the bottom rock and started the slow, arduous task of portaging up the mound of boulders. I had to be very careful where I placed my bare feet on the rocks for grip, lest I found myself wedged in a jetty crevice wearing a kayak like a hat. Finally, I pulled my kayak to the crest and saw a fisherman standing below me on the other side of the jetty. We locked eyes, and I stood motionless as he tried to put me and my kayak into context. Civilizations rose and fell during our stare down.

“Hi.” I broke the silence like a middle school kid introducing himself on the first day of school. He continued to stare at me.

“Where’d you come from?” he asked in a deadpan. I pointed off in a vague direction and mumbled something about getting sucked out into the ocean. “Well,” he replied, not breaking eye contact, “do what you gotta do.” And with that he returned to fishing. It was as if I had climbed a mountain summit and he was the all-knowing guru, and the answer to all of life’s questions was “Do what you gotta do.” At that point I would have settled for a little help.


“Do what you gotta do….unless you’re trying to drag a kayak across a jetty. 
Then you should probably just give up.”


I bumbled down the rock slope, taking great care not lose my balance or my kayak in the process. By this time my friends Signe and Janessa were on the lagoon side, and they helped steady my kayak as I jumped back into calmer waters. It was smooth sailing from there. I learned that a couple of my friends had been picked up by boats and returned to the beach. “What about you guys? How’d you make it back?” I asked Janessa.

“We paddled around the jetty and into the lagoon.”

Oh. Arooooound the jetty. That would have made much more sense.


‘Around’….’over’……’portage’. These words are confusing.


Despite my stupidity, and the bug bites, and the sunburn, and my stupidity, it was a fantastic trip. I am looking forward to next year when I bring a larger tent, industrial strength albino-grade sunblock, and a motorboat. Until next time, Ocean!


My friends and I in front of Panama City Beach's world famous "Tow Away Zone" sign.



Thursday, May 30, 2013

How to Tell if You're Dating a Mannequin


There you are at dinner, pushing your SpaghettiOs forlornly around your plate while your lover sits in silence across the table. You search for words to break the awkward tension. "Say anything", you think to yourself. "Tell her how beautiful her eyes are. Lie if you have to." You look up only to meet a cold, icy stare. Her dead expression pierces you straight to your failing kidneys. "How did this happen?" you wonder. Maybe you’ve been emotionally distant and the detachment is finally settling in her gaze. Maybe the longing and passion that once filled her eyes has been replaced with the same apathy you showed when the two of you were looking at paint swatches. “Moose Lips isn’t a color,” you had said. “And even if it was, for the thousandth time I don’t care what color the toaster is.” Or maybe, just maybe…that loveless, unblinking face is because you’re dating a mannequin.



Seriously, how are you supposed to tell?


It’s an all-too-common scenario, so don’t feel bad about it. Sometimes people wear their shirt inside-out all day without realizing it, and sometimes they get in a three year relationship with a woman who turns out to be a mannequin. My personal research has concluded that nearly 4 out of 10 relationships consist of at least one mannequin partner. Unfortunately there isn’t an easy way to discern if your girlfriend is, in fact, a mannequin. Sure, you could ask her directly, but just take a moment to think about how rude that would be. You don’t go up to overweight people and say, “I couldn’t help notice how big your belly is and that you are currently lying on a hospital bed with a baby protruding out of you. Are you pregnant?” If you are incorrect in your assumption, not only would you be embarrassed, but you’d be hurting the feelings of the fat lady in labor. So, in figuring the mannequinhood of a girlfriend, it is best to stay away from mentioning her stoic nature or physical rigidity. Instead, ask yourself the following important questions to help you unravel the mystery.



Did You Meet Her in a Department Store?

The odds that your girlfriend is a mannequin sky rockets if you first met her at a department store or Gap. Statistically, 9 out of 10 women found in these types of stores are made out of plastic, and of those 9 women 7 will be mannequins. Think back to your first interaction. Was she wearing stylish clothing all from the same manufacturer? Or conversely, was she completely nude and didn’t show the slightest hint of embarrassment? These are both telltale signs of mannequinhood, and although not entirely damning, these clues should not be ignored. To test this theory more, invite your partner for a day of shopping. Once you assess her silence as default acceptance, carry her to the store that you first made your shy introduction. If you are immediately greeted by the store manager with “There’s that sicko we’ve been looking for!” and are subsequently arrested for larceny, your girlfriend is probably a mannequin, and there is probably video evidence to support that she has always been one. But hey, you could be wanted for stealing any number of things, so this will not provide you with the concrete answer you are seeking.



Does She Freeze-Up around Your Friends?

If you still aren’t sure if your girlfriend is a mannequin, it may be time to seek answers from your friends. In the likely event that you do not have friends, eavesdrop on a co-worker's phone call until he mentions a party and then loudly announce, “I will be there! And I’m bringing a date, if you know what I mean” while jabbing him repeatedly with your elbow. Once you are at the party, prop your date up against a wall and wait to catch the averted eyes of passers-by. Introduce your date and then study her social skills carefully. Is she lively and engaging in conversation? Or is she frozen in a catatonic state? If she isn’t talkative, it may be a sign that she’s a mannequin and is therefore lacking the vocal cords and motor skills necessary for verbal communication, but it could also mean she is human and simply suffers from social anxiety. Again, this is not surefire proof one way or the other, but it is worth noting. Perhaps a spreadsheet will help you better organize your findings.


 Hmmm.....inconclusive



Does She Like the Movie ‘Mannequin 2: On the Move’?

This is the toughest but most definitive way to determine the humanity of your lover (or lack thereof). Mannequin 2: On the Move is a 1991 movie that features, as its title suggests, a mannequin as a main character. It is widely regarded by film critics and humans alike as inferior to the original Mannequin, but actual mannequins regard the film as more faithful to the source material. 


It's their 'Gone with the Wind'


After a romantic, candle-lit dinner of SpaghettiOs, retreat with your lover to the couch, dim the lights, and pop in your VHS copy of Mannequin 2. As the title screen appears sit back and monitor her response. Here are a few common human reactions to watch out for:

  • Mannequin 2? You said we were watching The Notebook, you SpaghettiO-faced liar!”
  • “Seriously, we’re watching the sequel? Samantha from 'Sex and the City' isn’t even in this one, you SpaghettiO-faced idiot!”
  • Violence


However, if the reaction elicited is that of a gentle, unflinching reverence, it means that she is enthralled by Kristy Swanson’s portrayal of a mannequin in love, and is therefore a mannequin in love herself.


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Now that you have deduced the woman you spent the last three years with was born of a polystyrene mold, you can let her down easy and move on with your life in pursuit of a partner who can biologically bear your children or donate a kidney when you inevitably need a new one. But, should you decide that three years is too long for you to just throw it all away...well, I'm not here to judge. No, that's what society is for, and society says you're a freak. Also, the courts do some judging, so the two of you might want to stay out of Macy's for a while. 

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

The South Will Rise Again: The War of Southern Digestion


The South is known nationally for many things, and let’s face it, none of them are positive. In the eyes of the general public we are all fat. We’re uneducated. We’re incestuous. And, worst of all, we call shopping carts “buggies”. Now, I’m not saying these things aren’t true for a small but loud percentage of the population. But aside from the few obvious advantages (our own flag, being really far away from Canada, etc), the South has many redeemable qualities that are kept generally hidden from the rest of the nation. And, as I've pointed out before, most of them are food.

I didn’t realize growing up that the food served on my plate at dinner was vastly different than the food served on the plate in front of some kid in California. I knew it was different than what the Chinese were eating, but I just assumed we, as Americans, all had mothers who went to the same culinary school, or wherever mothers learned that stuff. Now that I’m grown and have many friends who are Yankees (people born north of the Mason Dixon line, west of the Mississippi River, or in Florida), I have no idea what they had for dinner when they were young. Judging by their puzzled looks when I try to tell them about a typical childhood dinner, they also have no clue what I ate. They do not recognize my words as English, much less as food.

So here’s a list of good ol’ Southern dishes that apparently the rest of the country has never heard of. And although I don’t personally enjoy all of them, goshdangit I respect them for their cultural significance.

Fried Corn
Let me first state that my mother is a wonderful Southern cook, and that if anyone ever disagrees I will challenge them to fisticuffs, even if the best I could hope for is that they break a knuckle on my mandible. Southern cooks are a dying breed, as evidenced by the fact that one of my favorite dishes my mother serves, fried corn, is hard to find in the region even now. In fact, I only remember having it at home and at my grandmother’s house.

Fried corn does not refer to an entire ear dropped into a deep fryer, although I’d probably eat that, too. It’s very similar to creamed corn except it has been loaded with sugar and fried in a skillet. I think. I’m not actually sure how it’s prepared – all I know is that I want to bathe in it. Although bereft of cleansing properties, I could wear the residue as a mid-morning snack. I would be known as “That Guy Who is Always Caked in Corn”, but I wouldn’t mind. That’s how much I love fried corn.

Buttermilk
Buttermilk is uniquely Southern, and it is also uniquely disgusting. For those who are unfamiliar, buttermilk is regular milk that is slightly curdled, and is therefore thick and lumpy. You can make your own buttermilk at home by leaving your milk jug on the counter for a couple of days or by squeezing the teats of a particularly unhealthy cow with clogged arteries.


97% of all commercial buttermilk comes from this cow


My father loves buttermilk, or at least he pretends to. I’m quite certain he would just drink it at the dinner table to assert his manliness as the head of the household, should any one of his three sons think about overthrowing him. This theory is consistent with the fact that he deemed most meals accompanied by buttermilk as “meals fit for a king”. He’d gulp it down, his milky chalice glistening under the lights, and dare us to try it. It might as well have been wolf’s blood dripping from his lips, but about once a year the three of us would gather the nerve to take a swig.

My father’s household remains unchallenged.


My father at the dinner table as depicted by legend



Salt Pork
Imagine your favorite thing in the world. You’re picturing bacon right now, aren’t you? Well, you are now if you weren’t before. Now imagine that bacon being 5 times as thick, 10 times as flavorful, and with a hard rind, and now you’ve got salt pork. This was considered a rare delicacy growing up, not because it was hard to find or expensive, but because when cooked it tended to fill the entire house with salty smoke that hung in the air and invited attacks by neighborhood animals and sasquatches.  

Salt pork also goes by the name of ‘fatback’, but I will deport you to the North if you use that phrase around me. I can’t think of a less desirable term for something so delicious.


 
 There are many images online I could have used to illustrate my point.
Consider this mild image my gift to you.


Okra
I am not a fan of okra. It came up in conversation around my Yankee friends, one of which had never heard of it before. The best I could describe it to him was that it was a straight, squishy pepper covered in fine hairs, like the upper lip of a 12 year old boy, and that the consistency when chewed is not unlike sneezing in your mouth. If that description sounds appealing to you, then you have many problems, and I’m putting you on a watchlist.



I have a theory that okra is actually pubescent cucumber


Okra is often served fried, which makes it more palatable. My brother Jared loves them pickled, which proves my point that okra can only be salvaged if you cover it 3 inches thick with batter or douse it with acidic liquids. Maybe there’s a reason okra hasn’t swept the culinary industry.


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I’m sure there are many more Southern treats that people from the Union would not recognize. I encourage your entries in the comments, but I doubly encourage you to invite me over and serve me these entries personally. And, as Southern custom dictates, I will bring a carton of buttermilk. Whoever chugs the most keeps your house.


Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Heck's Kitchen


“What’ll it be for dinner, Toodles ol’ chum? Taco Bell or Krystal?” I ask while swatting a week’s worth of Taco Bell and Krystal wrappers off the couch. They rain down on Toodles’ head as he angrily looks up at me with his black, beady eyes.

“For the last time, Nathan, I don’t eat. Stop buying me food!” He motions with his flippers to a pile of uneaten burgers and tacos on the counter, the stench of which hits my nostrils as if on cue.

“Remind me again why you don’t eat? Because if it’s the caliber of food you’re complaining about, I’ll remind you that those were Doritos Locos tacos, buddy. The filet mignon of tacos!” I exclaim, pronouncing each word phonetically.

Mr. Toodles has the defeated look of a man who has to explain calculus to monkeys. “Because”, he says softly in a feeble attempt to quell an outburst, “I am a Pillow Pet.”


That's exactly what someone pretending to be a Pillow Pet would say...


“Wait, I thought you were a penguin? Penguins eat food, right? Because I made a list of animals that don’t eat food one time, and the only thing on it was ‘puppies’.”

“YOU HAVE TO FEED PUPPIES!” Toodles shouts. I reflect silently and regretfully on this new information as he collects his cool. “As I have told you before, I am a Pillow Pet first and a penguin second. It’s true that Pillow Pets do not eat food, and they also do not talk. And you’ve been having a conversation with one, so…” His words trail off, and I can tell he expects me to fill in the rest of the sentence. I stare at him quizzically.

“Soooooo,” I say while looking around the room, stalling for time. “I’mmmmm…..also a Pillow Pet?”

“No, you idiot! You are a human and you’re having another sanity break!” Mr. Toodles sinks his beak into his cottony flippers.

“Oh. That makes more sense,” I assure him, even though there is no cause for assurance. “But I usually have these breaks when I’m stressed out, and things have been really chill recently. What gives?”

Mr. Toodles ponders for a moment and then replies, “I have a theory that this sanity break is actually caused by the fever dreams of a physical illness. Also, I am manifest from the part of your brain that wants help dealing with change and to help you grow as a person. Losing your job, moving to a new city – I’ve been with you for all of that. I think my duty this time is to get you to stop eating terrible fast food so much.”

“Illness? Eating terribly? Why do you think that?”

“Because,” he replies while pacing the floor, “you are currently eating from the moldy taco and hamburger pile.”

I look down to see that Toodles was right, I had been furiously double fisting green beef into my face throughout our entire conversation. “Owf, tha makth thenth,” I mumble, my mouth full of food.

“Come now. We’re going to the grocery store and you’re going to learn to cook real food like a normal human being.” Toodles bats my ankles and I follow as he waddles out to my car. I obediently drive to the grocery store and walk in with him cradled under my right arm like a football.

“Okay, Nathan, first thing’s first. What ingredients do you already have back at home?”

“Well let’s see.” I lovingly stroke Toodles’ head while perusing the produce aisle. I notice a few customers giving me odd looks, and I decide that they must’ve left their Pillow Pets at home. “I’ve got a pile of moldy hamburgers, some expired milk, and a few cans of Coke.”

Toodles scrunches up his face. “Well that’s not going to make a very pretty casserole. How much cooking experience do you have, anyway?”

“Exactly none. Unless you count that time I cooked fish in a George Foreman Grill. But you probably shouldn’t, because it looked and tasted like rubber bands.”

“Well then we’d better start small.” I nod my head in agreement as I scratch behind his ears. I receive more funny looks from people passing by, and I decide that they wish I was scratching behind their ears. “If you want to be taken seriously, you’ve got to start trying harder, though. How is it that you’ve been living by yourself for nine years and you’ve never actually cooked a meal? This skill might come in handy sometime and might help you persuade others to think that you are, in fact, a functioning adult.”

“You’re right, Toodles! What should I cook?”

“Hamburger Helper,” he responds. “It’s like training wheels for your kitchen. You’ll need a pound of ground beef.”

“A real, home cooked meal!” I take off running towards the meat aisle but stop when I see a very pretty woman carefully selecting items from the meat cooler. I run my hand through my hair, tighten Toodles in a more secure hold, and confidently stroll over next to her shopping cart. “Haha! Silly us,” I chuckle while waggling my eyebrows in what I would describe as a seductive fashion. “Our hands just touched while reaching for the same package of beef.” I increase the intensity of my eyebrow waggles. You can never be too forward with your eyebrows.

The woman looks startled, but calmly and slowly says, “No, actually you grabbed my hand while it was resting on my cart.”

“Dangit, I meant to time that better,” I say dejectedly. An awkward pause cuts a hole in our conversation that I desperately try to fill with the ferocity of my eyebrow dance.


Seen here interpreted by a zero gravity performance group


“Um, I’m going to go now,” she says and starts to pull away.

“Wait! I, uh, noticed you shopping for meat. I’m kind of a great chef myself. Well not a great chef per se, more of a this-is-my-first-trip-down-the-meat-aisle chef. Mr. Toodles here is about to teach me how to-.”

She cuts me off mid-sentence. “Is that a Pillow Pet in your hands?” I look down at Toodles, and he discreetly shakes his head.

“What? This? No, this is my…” I am searching for a suitable answer, my eyebrows now gyrating obscenely at mach speed. “…service animal.”

She considers my answer for a moment, but then quickly pushes her cart past me and Mr. Toodles. She does not stop for the cashiers and is running by the time she hits the parking lot. “Whew, I dodged a bullet, Toodles. That one’s a thief!”

Toodles has the absurdly impossible look of a man that has to explain monkeys to calculus. “Let’s just get home so I can teach you how to cook Hamburger Helper. All you do is put the meat in the pan and poke it until it turns brown, then add the noodles. There are all sorts of things you can cook at home, and once you master all of these simple, third-grade level steps, you won’t have to waste your money and subtract years of your lifespan by eating fast food twice a day.”

I proudly scoop up two packages of ground beef. “One for me and one for you. No fast food for us tonight!” I beam as my eyebrows finally calm to their resting position atop my supraorbital ridge.

Mr. Toodles sighs deeply.

I want to shake that hand's hand.