Caustically Optimistic

obituary/eulogy

I am teaching some writing and public speaking in my history class. I've been focusing on writing summaries of people's lives in the form of eulogies and obituaries. Before you feign being appalled remember that you always knew I wasn't right.

This is the whole-class practice eulogy/obituary my students wrote about me before writing them about actual important people. I'm so proud I could throw up. I'm horrified that they have found out this much information about me because a great deal of this - too much - is true. I didn't tell them, there must be a mole or a traitor in my midst.

Mr. Spritopias was the weirdest person who ever lived. Mr. Spritopias was a teacher who worked at McDonald’s and ate a lot of fast food. Mr. Spritopias was born at Disneyland, the son of people who played Ronald McDonald and Goofy. This is where he learned his love of fast food, being retarded in public and developed a morbid fear or clowns.

Mr. Spritopias was a dorky kid who wore suspenders, but he was a genius. He wasn’t as good at grammar as Nathan was, however and was constantly teased at Hebrew school for it. He won the Geography Bee every year but went to his grave thinking Jamaica was just a neighborhood in Queens. When he wasn’t picking his nose he spent much of his time in Middle School hanging from the flagpole by his underwear. That was until J.T. told him how to avoid this torture - go commando.

Mr. Spritopias cried himself to sleep every night at McDonald’s University where he studied being Evil, taking a minor in Aqua Turtles. During college he was on the light-saber fencing and debate teams.
After college he went into the family business of character work at Disneyland portraying Mr. Potato Head. Unfortunately he was soon too large for the suit and had to give that up. He then traveled the world, hanging from flagpoles as professional flag pole hanger. After hanging by his underwear fell through, literally, he went to work at McDonald’s. Mr. Spritopias was fired from McDonald’s because he ate all the food.

He then decided to become a teacher. Mr. Spritopias decided to become a teacher so he could be cruel to children and endeavored to become the meanest teacher ever. Some said he taught because he loved children – some children were afraid that he loved to eat children. He claimed to love children, but could never finish a whole one himself. No one was ever confident that he was joking.

Mr. Spritopias’s hobbies included mullet hunting and his greatest accomplishment was being thrown out of Target Greatland of Hartford after catching the rare North American Midget Mullet. Mr. Spritopias nearly died while stalking the even more rare Mexican Pygmy Mullet. Mr. Spritopias will always be remembered for discovering and scientifically classifying sixty-two types of mullets. Besides Mullet Hunting Mr. Spritopias was famous for light-saber dueling and professional nose picking, he even wrote a best-selling cookbook of booger recipes.

Mr. Spritopias was while hunting the evasive mulleted jackalope in the Amazon when a liger mauled him. He was distracted when he was mauled; he was protecting his padawan Nate from Michael Jackson. We will remember him for being the weirdest, most evil teacher ever.

Boo Radley Thanksgiving

When my Grandmother died I accompanied my cousin Alison, under strict orders to protect her from God-knows-what, to the wake. I know Alison, her brother and sister but only have vague, unkind memories of my other cousins. Our fathers’ brothers are not close and we were thrown out with the proverbial bathwater. At our initial encounter at the wake one of the younger cousins asked if Alison was date by saying, “She’s hot is she your date?” to which I replied, “No, she’s our cousin,” and Alison added, “and this isn’t Kentucky.” My sister – who sensed trouble – swooped in briefly to introduce everyone appropriately before leaving again.

After my sister moved on, one of the cousins who is closer in age to me than Alison asked if one of his father’s less charitable assessments of me was true – and it is – before noticing that we are not a close-knit family. Rather than saying something caustic or counter his assessment with one of our late grandmother’s I quipped, “Well, if this isn’t a Boo Radley Moment what is?” Alison replied, “Only you and I know what that means.”

That moment in time is one of our family’s favorites. Alison’s trauma aside, it encapsulated the weirdness (and illiteracy) of our relatives.

This Thanksgiving I was invited by Valerie to spend it with her family, and in September that I assumed she meant her, her husband and their children. I learned two weeks ago this meant her family meaning everyone – brothers, sisters, parents, progeny, and pets – and it would be at her parent’s house on the other side of Phoenix. Over the time I’ve known Valerie I have never met her parents or siblings but I have heard a great deal about them.

This Thanksgiving was awkward for all new reasons for me – I knew everyone by reputation and they probably knew me by reputation as well. If Valerie had brought her family to my parent’s house for Thanksgiving I’m sure it would have been the same way. However, unlike other Boo Radley moments in my life I am sure that someone besides Alison would have known that meant at this gathering.

Valerie reads this and is probably expecting me to expound upon the weirdness of her family upon meeting them. Perhaps something weird did happen. I know I made awkward conversation and laughed at my own joke like a dork. I had meant and rehearsed behaving normally but I was stressed from the pre-game show of getting lost, ringing the bell at the wrong house and arriving late and was so busy matching people with stories that I forgot myself. I did at one point almost blurt out, pointing at her brother (my mouth full of food), “OMG (send)! Is he the one that [insert bizarre story]?”

I did share with everyone what I was thankful for, and I will share that with you now as well. I am thankful that this year I may be the teacher who has been called a kiss-up, an unprofessional jerk, a pompous ass and be accused of doing the bare minimum at work but the kids LOVE me (and the science teacher) and think everyone else is a jerk. So what if a group of teachers doesn’t like me? When the kids think fondly of a teacher they’re thinking of me, not them. I am also thankful for other things; I have a great life and could write for days about the wonderment around me, but who wants to read that?

I also was called upon to share the motto that Sarah and I developed, being “we’re not here to help – only to observe and pass judgment,” along with a short explanation of my occupation as a satirical journalist but was more interested in my green bean casserole than I was in being clever so I left everyone hanging.

Green bean casserole is actually the reason I went to Valerie’s family over flying out to Denver or El Paso. Valerie’s family is from Iowa and nothing says “Iowa” like a casserole and green bean casserole is the great American equalizer. No matter how fancy you think your family is, having a dish of green bean casserole on your table exposes you as garbage de blanc. It doesn’t matter how fine your china and stem wear are. It doesn’t matter if all the other dishes were fit for a Bourbon prince. If you have that on your table you have exposed your true nature. My friends in Colorado and Texas don’t feature those dishes – and also had work-schedule complications that kept me with the Phoenicians this year. As much as I missed them I was glad to spend my time with the people I did especially since they had that casserole.

The best part of this Thanksgiving was the brevity of it all. Before I could embarrass myself, or Valerie, she packed us off to our next stops during the day. I thanked everyone for having me over and allowing me to intrude upon their holiday. I also thanked God I left before sharing my theories on any number of offensive topics, asked for clarification on any of Valerie’s stories or did something else equally tacky. In fact, come to think of it, I’d bet that Valerie had planned things so I wouldn’t be there too long and only circled the block when we left so I wouldn’t realize that the day wasn’t actually over. Yes, I think this is what she did.

Being thankful or having gratitude is a survival skill and out of all our secular, commercialized holidays this is my favorite. I’m glad I was able to spend it with nice people and that to my knowledge I didn’t offend anyone or ruin anyone’s day. And Valerie, I hate to break it to you: your family is normal. There was nothing weird about them at all and if I know one thing, I know weird.

1 I have picked up the eighth grader’s bad habit of speaking text lingo and following that with “send.” I started doing this to be annoying and now it has become a habit.

thanksgiving

Is it Thanksgiving already? I can’t believe that it has snuck up on me this quickly. One of the problems with living in the land of eternal summer is that I have no idea that holidays are coming. I am also staying here for Thanksgiving and going to a coworker’s parent’s house with them for the holiday. Why? Because friends are God’s way of apologizing for your family.

I didn’t tell my coworker this but my own family doesn’t have me over for holidays. There is a reason I spend so much time in El Paso and Denver. It has something to do with my stellar personality and unparalleled (lack of) people skills. My God Mother once had a second Thanksgiving so I wouldn’t be left out but also wouldn’t have to be included. I get along with my relatives; not at all.

Being at your own family’s Thanksgiving can be awkward. In my mother’s house there is a plan. This plan includes where people will sit, how the table is to be set and how the food will be cooked. Dad may be trained as a chef but the rest of believe firmly in the Gospel according to Betty Crocker – there will be no Martha Stewart tomfoolery at our table. No matter how old you are, you are subject to being ordered around “go see what people want to drink,” “entertain your troglodyte cousins,” or “take Bubbe to the store.”

I do not begrudge Chaos Bean being at home, fending for herself during this holiday gaiety. She enjoys drinking the spiced apple cider Mom insists that everyone drinks and prancing around like a waitress is apparently fun for her. Sometimes I think they live in some Little House on the Prairie Holiday Special and I didn’t get a script. If I never see a glass of spiced anything it would be too soon. I would like you, as my guest, to make yourself at home and make your own drink. It would not only be helpful to take Bubbe to the store but to also leave her there before she starts criticizing everyone.

I realize that these things are a part of what makes holidays special for some people but it strikes me as artificial; I can’t stand it. I enjoy going to your Thanksgiving. Someone else worries if the table is set the same way it has been since Oma inadvertently bequeathed it to us. Someone else is filling the drinks and, God willing, it is you getting a can of Diet Coke yourself. Someone else’s grandmother is saying something cruel, someone else’s uncle is thumping the Bible and someone else’s aunt is drunk. If I am wearing a reindeer sweater that matches someone else’s it will be an accident and not something that has been planned for weeks.

So, off to the coworker’s family Thanksgiving I will go, my Social Anxiety Disorder in full-effect. If I offend these people we can comfort ourselves with the idea that we’ll never see each other again and we’re not sharing genes. If they do wacky things as a tradition – perhaps sharing something for which they are thankful or holding hands when they pray – I can beg out as a guest. If I do something truly retarded then I can just claim it is a tradition at my house and didn’t know that everyone didn’t do it that way. If I don’t want to eat something I can beg out claiming that I’m diabetic, hypoglycemic or allergic – which ever works at the time – without drawing the ire of my father who plans the food around my health.

I’m sure on some level I will miss my family. I like the way my father cooks. Its important to hear all your faults cataloged for you by people who ‘love’ you. Its important to know exactly why condoms were invented and why everyone should use them and not unrelated to that, why drinking to excess is a bad idea. I will miss being around other people who believe that pumpkin pie can be skipped, real potatoes cannot and I really do not want the drumstick. However, I will choke down your pumpkin pie and your boxed potatoes as long as I don’t have to choke down my tongue from all the responses held back.

I hope everyone has a happy holiday, and if you can’t, I hope it’s full of fiascos and hilarity.

comes in threes

Chaos Bean has a theory that if it weren’t for bad luck, she’d have no luck at all. I don’t believe in luck, in fate or in the universe doling out justice. This week for me was bad and I am glad to see a new one starting.

The week started out wrong when I did something profoundly unprofessional; I sent a nasty email out. I prefer to communicate via email because if something wanders into my brain it wanders right out of my mouth. My mother calls this verbal diarrhea but this causes me to worry about my breath being worse than it actually is. Normally, but not in this case, I can catch myself before I say something over email. I can filter my written comments a great deal better than I can my verbal ones. You can filter some of the comments some of the time but you cannot filter all of the comments all of the time.

Accordingly, I was informally disciplined for this and I should have been. However, before the meeting when I was about to have breakfast with my team – a Friday tradition I am starting with the help of the good people at Wendy’s – Doug pointed out that I had ripped my pants and he could see my underwear. I would make an tactless comment about Doug’s motives, but he and Valerie are taking me to church in hopes that someone qualified will perform an exorcism and even made Mark sit by me this week to put the kibosh on my shenanigans. Between homeroom and my meeting I had to run to Target and get a new pair of pants; this happened fortuitously on a day we could wear jeans and a day when they were on sale.

At this meeting I took my lumps; there is no way I can say that I didn’t deserve everything that was said at that meeting – except for one thing. Before this meeting I had never been offended, truly offended, in my short life. There is only one word that hurts my feelings when it is directed at me and before this I’ve been galled, annoyed, slighted, mortified, or indignant but I have never been personally offended, hurt or insulted by anything. I have the emotional hide of a rhinoceros, and perhaps as much emotional depth. I spent the rest of the day, not quite cogent and very much adrift. What was said to me was so baseless, lacking any basis in fact or reality, and went to the core of who I am professionally. I wrap my whole person around who I am as a professional and while what I did was unprofessional this comment had nothing to do with that comment.

Those were two horrible, horrible things to have happened and bad things always come in threes. I went home that night awaiting the third. A Mercedes nearly hit me on the freeway during my drive home. My dinner date broke plans with me before I could break plans with them (it’s a Friday dance we do). I did my homework and grading without paper-cut or other calamity. I went to bed with no small amount of terror because the third thing was sure to come, and soon.

On Saturday, I went to a party with my friend Cindy’s family. They’re Italian and they were having their annual Sausage Party where they make – start to finish – sausage and then grill it. After wrangling a butcher for a goodly sized pork butt and puttering around looking for a good bottle of Ménage-a-Trios (what better wine for a sausage party?) I found myself at Cindy’s party. I thought that my third bad thing would happen at this party. I was prepared to lose a finger in the grinder, burn myself on a grill or accidentally break a fragile family truce between warring factions. I escaped the sausage party with eight pounds of homemade Italian sausage injury free. I only regret not being able to take better pictures.

After this I went to church with Valerie and Doug – who are still hoping someone will cast these demons out of me – along with their children and Mark, as I’ve mentioned. I though the bad thing would happen on this trip; either I would kill us with my driving or I would say or do something in church that would cause a scandal. Despite being bothered by part of their service and amused that they have Buddhist, Jewish, and Islamic symbols on their altar – accidentally – there were no incidents at church. We event want to Panda Express for dinner and escaped without getting their children grounded or recreating the OK Corral with the other patrons.

When I got home there was a note from my landlord. There was a problem with the water; my toilet was shut off for the weekend. This is when Montezuma had his revenge. The Express of Panda Express kicked in as I read, horrified, about the lack of toilet and where I would have to go to find one that worked. I was doubly horrified to find out that my landlord had to come into my apartment that I had left uncharacteristically trashed while I was gone. Thankfully, this was the third bad thing to happen to me this weekend and since then everything has been excellent.

Hopefully, I will have learned something from this experience. Everyone has a stupid email story involving some fiasco or another from the workplace. Everyone has heard something unkind and absolutely untrue. Everyone has had a broken toilet, but unlike Tyler I had nothing to do with this broken toilet. I just have to soldier on, keep the skin thick and my horn (and wit) sharp.

obituary

Marie, President of the Suburban Island Neighborhood Association, entered immortality Saturday morning after being eaten by a busy, busy life.

Marie was born outside the Capital in Virginia twenty-one years ago. Her father was a boulanger and maintained a steady business; the family lived above the boulangerie. Her mother danced in the Warren Harding Memorial Burlesque in the West Wing of the White House. It was during this time that Marie developed a love of literacy, becoming an avid reader and writer, accomplished in both French and English – although she was also an accomplished dancer and baker. Later in life she studied Library Science at the Sorbonne. Her career put her at the head of many libraries and later a mentor to librarians. Although her storied career was littered with awards and accolades she always felt that raising her children, both wonderful human beings, to be her greatest accomplishments. Unfortunately for everyone she never did teach them how to operate a vehicle.

Marie had many interests of note. She was renowned Internet diarist, maintaining both professional and personal web pages. In addition to writing she enjoyed traveling, Chinese take-out, going for a cup of coffee, and organizing and participating in the Mother-Daughter Burlesque annually at the White House during the first Clinton Administration. His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI, has announced that Marie is to be fast tracked for sainthood – ostensibly to be the patron saint of Starbucks, Suburbia, the Internet and the Google.

Marie is survived by: her two children, an incredibly grumpy husband, and her parents. Margaret at Star Gazer will assume the Presidency of the Suburban Island Neighborhood Association after a long run as the chair of that group’s parent/teacher league. Upon hearing of Marie’s untimely death Margaret, who studied with Marie merely said, “merde!” and threw her coffee at the nearest wall.

A simple funeral, not unlike Ronald Reagan’s, will be held at the National Cathedral for Marie. Instead of being buried she will be digitized and uploaded to the Internet but a large, bronze statue of her will be erected outside of the Vice-President’s preferred coffee house. In honor of the period of morning Starbucks will be lowering all heat protectors to half-mast and will offer a special blend named for her. Donations can be made, in her name, at her favorite charities: Starbucks, Barnes & Noble, Target, iTunes, and your neighborhood Chinese take-out restaurant.

Karaoke for Christ does Too Live Crew

Last Saturday I went to Christ’s Karaoke in the Valley, called CCV here in Phoenix, with my friends from work and their son. I was with my coworkers because I am their son’s irresponsibility mentor and had taken him to a movie earlier in the day. Someone has to help this kid off the straight and narrow minded path on which his biological father set him.

His mother is an English teacher and I had to really think to make sure that last sentence did not end in a preposition. This page ends up passed around between teachers and I intensely aware of the possibility my grammar and usage will be judged. Judge not, lest ye be judged. I used to have a sticky note that from one of them apologizing for correcting my grammar that read, “I hope your [sic] upset that I corrected your grammar. I’m an English teacher and its [sic] my job.” I was going to frame it but I think they took it back. His step father is one of the kinesiologists and at our school; if I know one thing it’s: you don’t tug on superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind, you don’t pull the mask off the old lone ranger and you don’t mess around with a kinesiologist.

Of course, these are the nicest people you could hope to meet and exceptional parents. They had been meaning to bring me to church for some time now because I really need to be on a steady diet of fire and brimstone. CCV may receives a whole heap of bad press from people anxious to say anything bad about any Christian but what they have in population leaves them lacking in what the world usually dislikes in the Church. I have no major problems with CCV beyond only baptizing adults and then only by immersion and then there is the tiny issue of the front and center of attention rock band that is less humble than Dave Groh. As a Lutheran those two things are antithetical to our belief and practice. That having been said, Lutherans are more concerned about other Lutherans and would never deign to care about other Christians.

Their topic for their discussion that night was sex. The pastor and his wife had been conducting a series on their church’s view on human sexuality. I was surprised that it wasn’t the usual fare of gay bashing or the alternate of ‘everything is okay as long as everyone consents to it.” I had on the tip of my tongue what my good friend Jeff said, “I want my heart to be full of peace, love and tolerance – like the Southern Baptists,” himself a recovering Baptist of some flavor, or what Peter says, “like any good member of the UCC I am tolerant and accepting of other people’s ideas that agree with my own and everyone who disagrees with me is a philistine or a bigot.” I have no first hand knowledge of denominational misgivings, due to the aforementioned Lutheranism.

It was all well thought out and hard for anyone reasonable to disagree with; their basic premise was that a sexual relationship should be based on respect and communication as well as love and commitment. To wit: how can you have love and commitment without respect and communication? They really didn’t talk about sexual orientation – unless it was during the parts when I was covering my ears, crying or giggling out of nervousness.

The only thing I disagreed with was their hard line on masturbation and then only because I drove my coworker’s kids home where this topic was what their son wanted to talk about further. I handled this well by swerving to hit the imaginary raccoon in the street to change the subject. Sudden, random erratic driving resolves awkward car moments but I’m not sure anyone noticed my driving as random or erratic. Ashley reminded me that there are no raccoons in Phoenix. There are also no sex talks in my car.

I did take notes and statistics during the discussion. In the later: I wanted to throw up twenty-four times, Tyler twenty-two; I threw up in my mouth three times, Tyler not at all; there were three instances of questionable touching between the grandma and grandpa on the stage. Old people talking about sex is only slightly less disgusting than ‘tweens talking about sex from experience. It’s wonderful that after forty years of marriage they were still actively intimate but I could have lived without details. I especially did not need to know how long it took for people to warm up before exercising or what their ‘signal was.’ One if by land, two if by sea?

While my notes were destroyed in the wash – I had left them in my pocket – I do remember some of the questions and their answers. I take copious notes of the world around me, all the time - "observe, pass judgment, rinse, repeat, report."

Is there anything that is inappropriate to bring into the bed I share with my wife? A good rule to follow is, “feathers good, chickens bad.” The birds of the air and beasts of the field are our friends; leave them alone. Is it okay to have sex before church? No, as long as you don’t block the aisle. What’s wrong with masturbation? Nothing really, beyond talking about it in public or while I am operating a vehicle, it is pretty much okay. Why did someone’s thirteen year old have to talk to me about masturbation? Because you are a bad Karma check just waiting to bounce; have someone ready with a camera or video recorder when your karma is called in.

It wasn’t as bad as I feared and I was actually a little disappointed that it wasn’t worse – its hard to write a story when everything goes well. I need a little mayhem, some shenanigans in my diet – teaching this year is much too tame for the weekends to go as planned.