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.

Wearing A Barrel: Stylish?

It’s coming.

Ominous clouds are gathering on the horizon, choking out the sun, and turning the world a sickly shade of grey. A cold breeze is snapping through the trees, whistling eerily through narrow alleyways, and causing wind chimes to play a haunting tune in a foreboding key. Streets and sidewalks are empty. All that can be heard at the playgrounds is the creak of the swings, pushed not by children, but by the wind.

A storm is rolling in. It will soon be here.

Yup, it’s almost time to go clothes shopping again, an event that will surely make my life metaphorically cold and wet. I shudder just to think about it. I’d almost rather have my entire current wardrobe disintegrate with age and then turn to wearing a barrel than buying new clothes.

I believe the last piece of clothing I purchased was a shirt at a Blackhawk concert. Before that, I believe it was a shirt at a Brooks & Dunn concert. I kid you not. However, I’m getting a little long in the tooth to wear concert t-shirts without looking like I’m going through some sort of mid-life crisis.

That means that I will eventually have to saddle up and brave a trip to some type of retail outlet that sells clothing. I usually can shop for clothing for about forty-five minutes at a time, twice a year, but that’s pushing it. This means that I have to be incredibly efficient when I go, or risk having a terrible wardrobe that will haunt me for months on end.

So far, I’ve gone with the terrible wardrobe option, and I don’t see how that’s going to change in the future. I guess that’s the price you pay for limiting yourself to one dressing room excursion per shopping outing.

They should make a clothing store that is empty except for one rack of jeans, one rack of solid-colored shirts, long and short-sleeved, and a selection of no more than two styles of generic hoodies. Then you would not be confused by a seemingly endless array of choices. There could be specials once a year where shorts, khakis, button-downs, and polos are sold. Heck, it could even have a drive-through, where you just order off of the menu like at a typical fast-food restaurant. (“I’ll take the Business Casual Combo please. You’d better super-size it. I hate to admit it, but I’m still carrying a little holiday weight.”)

I would go to that store.

But that’s just a pipe-dream, because I’m too lazy to be an entrepreneur and start one of them up, which means that I’m left with no option but to show up at Kohl’s one Saturday morning, hoping that a mad dash through the men’s section will net me something that is actually wearable.

Shudder. Anything besides clothes shopping sounds infinitely more fun than clothes shopping itself. Especially writing overly-dramatic introductions to blog postings.

“It was a dark and stormy night…..”

The Sandwich Ordering Blues

So I’m wondering just what this all means. In particularly, I'm wondering what it says about me.

How’s that for a teaser intro? That’s called ‘hooking the reader.’ Actually, it may be called something else entirely. Honestly, I’m too lazy to look it up, and I just went with the first thing that came to my mind.

Anyway….

Today I stopped by Jimmy John’s, since cooking would not have fit in with my plans of collapsing after work and doing absolutely nothing but the requisite breathing.

Now, I get food at Jimmy John’s once a week, at most. One of my character flaws is that I get into ruts easily, and so it has become with Jimmy John’s, as I always order the exact same sandwich. (My excuse for this: After working all day, who wants to make even more decisions?)

Today I walked in and noticed that the cute-but-always-seemingly-angry-or-just-emotionally-detached girl was making sandwiches. I had no problem with this, as she makes good sandwiches, and I believe that everybody has the right to be annoyed with, or detached from, their job. Anyway, I was about to put in my usual order when she, totally out of character, suddenly blurted it out, complete with the holding of mayo and adding of onions, all in the form of a question.

Obviously, I had become predictable.

I wasn’t sure if she thought she was being nice or if she was just having fun. Regardless, I nodded sheepishly, suddenly feeling stupid. Then I made a crack about knowing that it would be six dollars, because that’s how I handle awkward situations, with un-funny attempts at humor.

A moment later, though, I realized that I was annoyed. More importantly, I realized that I could never eat at that particular Jimmy John’s again.

Here’s why.

I understand that I’m predictable. I’ll admit that I like knowing what’s coming. I don’t consider that to be a bad thing. However, I do have a problem when I’m basically accused of being predictable. It’s pretty much the same as saying I’m boring, and who wants to be known as Mr. Boring Guy? I mean, you never hear girls swooning over a guy and saying something like, “He wears the same shirt every Thursday! Oh my!”

As for never going back to that particular Jimmy John's, you’d think I'd have other options, but I really don’t.

If I went back and changed my order, I would essentially be admitting that I was boring, which would mean that I was desperately trying to change myself, just to gain the approval of others. Not an option.

If I went back and ordered the same thing, with the mindset of I should do whatever makes me happy, I would then be proving just how boring I am, and Same-Shirt-Every-Thursday-Man would gain just a slightly tighter grip over me. Also not an option.

So now I can’t go back, ever, ever, ever, not unless I wait for the entire staff to turnover, in which case I could start again with a clean slate.

There’s no room for debate. It’s just how it is.

Now, I realize that this whole thing is quite ridiculous. Still, I’ve already made up my mind, and I don’t think it’s going to be changing anytime soon, which is why I’m wondering what this all says about me.

Am I being petty? Should I eat whatever I want, whenever I want to, even if I’m branded as the guy who never changes his order? Long live Mr. Same-Shirt-Every-Thursday-Man!!??

Or am I justified in my anger? Should I not have to put up with insinuations of my level of boring-ness? Should I take my business elsewhere, and let pure economics take their toll, as that particular Jimmy John’s would then start to lose six dollars a week?

Or should I just quit whining about frivolous stuff and cook more?

It’s a lot to think about, and it’s going to take some time. All I know is that I won’t be thinking about it over Jimmy John’s. Those days are gone.

Gimme, Gimme!

I remember as a kid going to the Copper Country Mall with my family. Each time, I assumed that I was going to get something out of the deal; namely, a toy, purchased by my parents. I also remember the first time that it didn't happen. I was crushed, going home empty-handed, as the world as I knew it had changed. It was now crueler and more hash. There may have even been a tear or two shed on my part.

High school can be so rough.

Ha! Just some misdirection age humor there! Not original, I know, but always effective.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is about windshield wipers. Really. Let me explain.

Sometime before Christmas I decided that I needed a good pair of boots for the Minnesota winter. It was a snowy Saturday, and I braved the slippery roads to drive a few dozen miles to a Fleet Farm. There were approximately eight million people milling about, all placing themselves in the most inconvenient of spots, in a conspiracy whose only purpose was to drive me insane, but I pushed through them to the footwear aisle, arriving there only slightly deranged. Unfortunately, I came away empty-handed. The only boots I wanted were not stocked in my size.

Conventional logic says that I would have just left after snapping my fingers and saying, “Oh, shucks!”

However, this is when I turned back into the kid at the Copper Country Mall who always needed a toy. There was no way I was leaving that store without purchasing something. Not after driving through the snow and slush just to get there.

So I bought windshield wipers. The problem is, of course, that I didn’t really need windshield wipers. The ones on my car were not great, and an upgrade was not the worst idea in the world, but they were still functional.

So, as you can probably guess, I never installed them. To this day they are still sitting in the backseat of my car. Sometimes I notice them out of the corner of my eye and wonder if it's sad or funny. Probably a bit of both.

I could always install them, just to try and save face, but it’s probably too late for that. Plus, my current wipers are doing okay, so the effort involved doesn’t seem to be worth the reward.

It’s getting to the point where I’m intrigued as to how long they can sit in my car before I actually use them. Six months? A year? Even longer?

As a mature adult, I feel like what I did was irresponsible, not to mention a terrible investment. However, the kid in me is smiling happily from ear to ear, because he got to take something home.

So who wins? Easy. The kid. No regrets!