When Cheerfulness Goes Bad

One thing I’m not a fan of is forced banter. For example, I don’t see any use in the dentist asking you if you’ve planned any vacations a moment before he sticks a giant needle into your mouth. First, there’s no way you can answer, because there is a giant needle in your mouth. Second, what is the dentist trying to accomplish, anyway? Being your friend? Sorry, but when you’re sticking a giant needle into somebody’s mouth, that’s how they’re going to remember you, not by your friendly chatter.

Not that you should expect anything more out of a dentist, anyway, which is why you don’t leave them tips. (“Here’s an extra five for actually using enough Novocain this time! Awesome job!”)

With this in mind, it should come as no surprise that going to the bank is a horrible experience for me that I try to avoid as much as possible. Luckily, with such wonderful inventions as direct deposit and ATMs, I rarely have to step foot inside my bank of choice. (Think stagecoaches and the Pony Express.) However, when I do, it’s always an exercise in trying to retrain myself from strangling the teller, since they are under direct orders to engage all customers in frivolous, yet awkward, conversation.

Take my last encounter. The teller I wound up with had roughly two pounds of makeup on, and I wouldn’t have been surprised at all if she’d used a trowel during its application. In addition, her eyebrows were entirely drawn in, and let me tell you that eyebrows composed of only two dimensions are amusing, and I had to work hard to restrain myself from giggling. (I know that this has nothing to do with my chosen topic, but I don’t care. It needed to be said.)

Anyway, after taking my information, the teller cheerfully asked, “So, Isaac, do you have any weekend plans?”

For those of you who don't know, my name is not Isaac, which means that she couldn’t even read my account information correctly. Still, I managed to restrain myself and wound up in a lame conversation with her about the weekend, as she continued to work on my deposit, which must have had to pass through roughly eight-thousand satellites uplinks based solely on the time that it took to process.

When this was finally finished and I’d brushed away all of the cobwebs that had formed on me, she frowned and asked, “Do you know that you only have a free checking account with us?” This is another game they play; acting concerned and friendly, but really just trying to push more services onto you.

I wanted to say, “Yes, I am aware of this, because I was there when I came in and opened it,” but I instead took the polite route and somehow managed to circumvent the conversation before she could rope me into getting a fixed-rate mortgage or something.

Meanwhile, the next nearest teller, who was going for the Johnny Depp/John Mayer poofy hair look, was asking the elderly lady in his line, “So Mildred, do you have any plans for today?” (Her name may or may not have been Mildred.)

“I’m going shopping,” the old lady said.

“Is that why you need all of this money?”

Johnny/John then burst out into a forced laugh so loud and annoying that made me want to knock a few of his fillings loose. (Keep in mind that I’m usually not a man inclined towards violence, which should tell you something.) Also, I secretly hoped the lady would let loose with a drop-kick, but alas, it was not to be.

This is why I propose there should be a “No Small Talk” line in the banks. In this line, the tellers would not be allowed to make any small talk, and their only goal would be to turn over customers as fast as possible. In a perfect scenario, the customer would state their business, the teller would grunt once, and no more would be said as the teller proceeded to work as fast as possible on performing the transaction. Awkward but blissful silence would be the name of the game. In fact, I think that if the teller in the No Small Talk line accidentally tried to be friendly, the customer would be allowed to do something to them, such as slap them in the face or give them a wedgie. (Huh. Maybe I'm more violent than I thought.)

I would use that line all of the time. In fact, I would even consider paying a fee for the privilege to use that line.

But enough about me.

So how was your weekend? Do you have any special plans? Any vacations on the horizon? What about this weather? Don’t you wish it was warmer?........

The Literature vs Cinema Brouhaha: Taking Sides (Kinda)

Don’t you get annoyed by those snooty, uppity people who always claim that, between a book and a movie, the book is always way better?

You know the person. You’ll mention to them that you like the movie ‘Shooter', and they’ll immediately ask if you’ve read the book it was based on. When you tell them no, they’ll frown at you and shake their head sadly, as if you’re nothing more then a genetic accident who is so far beyond having the ability to form an intelligent thought that there’s no point in extending the conversation beyond what is considered polite and proper. Then, with an all-knowing-and-extremely-condescending look in their eyes, they’ll say, “The movie was good, but the book was better.”

We get it. You can read. It makes you sophisticated and intelligent. We’re so happy for you!

Okay, now that we’re all on the same page, it’s time for a shocking plot twist: I’m one of those snooty, uppity people!

Well, most of the time. I will admit that there have been times when I've liked the movie better. Take, for example, The Lord Of The Rings, where the books are filled with millions of characters with ridiculous names that can’t be spelled or pronounced, like Isildur. This leads to you constantly thumbing back to figure out if the person you’re currently reading about is just being introduced or if that happened fifteen pages back, although it doesn’t really matter because they inevitably will end up having no discernable impact on the plot whatsoever.

So I guess I’m not quite one of those people, and, in the interest of full disclosure, I should say that my philosophy is as follows: given the choice, I’ll always read the book first.

I got to thinking about this when I happened upon a display at Barnes & Nobles where they were selling True Grit. This has just been released as a movie (again) so the book is now being pushed to try and capitalize on the renewed popularity. I’ve been planning to watch the movie eventually, but as soon as I saw the book, I knew that I had to read it first.

This is my thought process behind my choice to start with the book and end with the movie:

1) Reading the book is much more of a time investment, so I’d rather be experiencing everything for the first time when I’m reading it.
2) When you watch the movie afterwards, even though you know basically what’s going to happen, you still get to enjoy the visuals, special effects, and music.
3) I’m kind of snooty and uppity.

Now, there is another category to consider here: When both the book and the movie are horrible and nobody should be exposed to either, unless it is being used as a form of torture to extract information from terrorists. One recently popular book series that has been turned into a string of movies immediately comes to mind. However, since I don’t want to be blacklisted by the entire female population of the earth, I’m going to stop here before I get into too much trouble.

Fitting In, Minnesota Style

I’m pretty certain that I now fall into the category of “poser”.

This is because I recently bought a hockey stick. Now, anybody who knows me is most likely consumed in a raging fit of mirth right now, considering that my hockey skills begin and end with me watching the Red Wings in the playoffs. Up until recently, the only reason for me to buy a hockey stick would have been to fend off vampire bats, although the small chance of that actually happening had kept me from doing so.

However, now I play boot hockey, because that’s what we do in Minnesota. The logic behind this is that when its -10 degrees, what else is there to do but run around outside waving a hockey stick and risking having your sweat freeze, which can then transform you into a living ice statue?

(No, I don’t play real hockey. I’ve never gotten past the “run into the boards” method of stopping while on skates.)

When getting my stick, my goal (har!) was to buy the cheapest one possible. I went down to a sporting goods store and started poking around, doing my best to look like I had a clue as to what I was looking at. Unfortunately, I couldn’t buy the cheapest stick, because it was branded with the name Sidney Crosby. As a Detroit Red Wings fan, there is no way I can be caught with anything that has his name on it. (Another stipulation is that I must always refer to him as Sidney “Crysby”.) So I ended up spending ten dollars more on another stick.

But it was worth it. I like my new hockey stick. It makes me feel like I’m fitting in, and I’m always anxious to show it off. I keep in the backseat of my car, as it is then highly visible, which allows people to know that I do, indeed, play hockey, as is required of every person who resides in Minnesota. In fact, lately I’ve felt like offering rides to everybody, even if I don’t know them or if they’re going somewhere a little out of the way, such as Florida. This is because it enables me to say things such as, “No room in the back. That’s where I keep my HOCKEY STICK!” or “If you casually turn your head to the back, you’ll see my awesome HOCKEY STICK!”

As for playing hockey, let’s just say that I get exercise. However, now I’m always prepared. At the drop of the hat, I’m ready to “forecheck”, go “top-shelf”, “pinch in on D”, or “fall over awkwardly and possibly sprain an ankle.”

Plus, if I ever get attacked by vampire vats, I’m good to go.

It's Gourmet To Me

Lately I’ve been having regular Cheerios every morning for breakfast, in an attempt to eat somewhat healthy. (Unfortunately, long gone are the wonderful days of Fruity Pebbles.) At first, this went fine. It’s not like Cheerios taste out of this world or anything, but that’s the price you pay for a healthy heart, or whatever else General Mills is advertising that their products do nowadays. However, after a week or two, my exuberance towards Cheerios took a severe nosedive, because you can only eat them every day for so long before they start to taste like sawdust.

Flash forward to today. I stopped by the grocery store because I was out of sawdust - I mean Cheerios. I wandered into the cereal aisle, looking for those familiar, big, bright yellow boxes, not at all excited to be doing so. I quickly spotted them, and was about to pick one out, when something else caught my eye, something tantalizing and exciting, something that brought hope to an otherwise dreary moment; a big, bright green box.

Apple Cinnamon Cheerios.

It was like in the movies when the choir sings in the background and light streams down from above as a great treasure is found. I’ve never been more excited about cereal in my entire life, including all of the times when I was a kid and I got the crappy toy inside the box to go along with my breakfast. I eagerly grabbed the biggest green box from the shelf, and by then I’d already decided that's what I was having for supper.

The red lights seemed to last twice as long on my way home. I anxiously tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, my stomach growling loudly. How long had it been since I’d had cinnamon? Too long, that’s for sure! I’m almost embarrassed by how giddy I was to have cereal for supper. Finally, I burst through my front door, and seconds later I took my first bite.

It was as good as I'd hoped for. Two bowls later, I was a happy, happy man.

Now, I understand that Apple Cinnamon Cheerios aren’t as healthy as regular Cheerios, but I also don’t care. I also know exactly what’s going to happen: I’m going to eat Apple Cinnamon Cheerios every day, sometimes multiple times per day, until I get so sick of them that I won’t ever want to see them again. The best part is that even though I realize this, I’m not going to do anything about it, like eating it sparingly so that I don’t burn out on it. Nope, I’m going to go on an apple cinnamon binge, enjoying every moment of it until it blows up in my face and I’m wishing for a nice bowl of sawdust of breakfast.

That’s what I call a plan.

Plus, there’s always Yogurt Burst Cheerios to fall back on.