Caustically Optimistic

of course we were willing to pay

I am not a nice person. I am a lackluster friend, a terrible son, and worse brother or cousin. Today, however, I did my annual good deed for my sister – the renowned Chaos Bean – I prevented a terrible, horrific disaster and possibly saved my sister’s life and the lives of many other people.

I will soon be going for job interviews and this means that I need to do a great deal before hand – study the organizations that will be interviewing me, having my clothing dry-cleaned, and I need my hair cut so that its manageable for the interview. I usually get the worst haircuts ever: I have a head the size of a small moon with three cowlicks and its as bumpy as the surface of the moon. I only speak English and Seventh Grader; Chaos Bean is important to this process because she is fluent in over six million forms of communication – including hairstylist.

However, this wasn’t my only reason for bringing Chaos Bean with me or allowing her to pick the stylist we went to. Chaos Bean is the good friend, daughter, and cousin and thus allowed our mother to cut her hair. I think something else in the Department of Making Mom Happy happened between Chaos Bean’s last haircut and Mom being near her with scissors and that may be an important part to the story that you’ll have to get from Chaos Bean. The important thing is that something horrible had happened to Chaos Bean with the passage of time and her stylist was needed to help her; I brought her in.

Chaos Bean’s hair was in danger of growing into a mullet. Indeed she was already starting to resemble Senator Clinton and her faux mullet. I have a faux hawk; a faux mullet while faux is still a mullet. It is not okay. I had to help her. She needed an intervention and I didn’t have time for Stacy and Clinton or any one else from TLC. I had to do it myself.

At first when I confronted Chaos Bean with the fact that she had a mullet growing on the back of her head she thought I was teasing her. She thought I was being a pig. There are definitely things that I tease Chaos Bean about, I would list them for you but if you were to mock Chaos Bean then I would throw you under a bus. The stylists, being licensed in the Commonwealth Kentucky, are bound by law not to mock a mullet whilst on duty and it took me a while to get someone to agree with me that she had a mullet and it needed to be fixed. It’s against the law for someone in a professional stylist position to imply or profess that there is anything wrong with a mullet.

Chaos Bean was distraught to learn that her haircut had turned into a mullet. I’m glad she agreed to have the mullet removed (its called a mulletectomy) because had she waited and the mullet had taken the procedure for removing it would be very similar to what they do to rabid animals. Also, had the mullet taken to Chaos Bean and attached itself to her head then she would have had her awesomeness revoked and they would have confiscated her Long Island accent.

Chaos Bean’s preemptive removal of the mullet was fortuitous because a mulletectomy is expensive and painful; they also rarely work and are only short-term solutions. Everyone agreed that the new hairstyle was superior to the Mullet and was very cute. Also, there will be no mullets in this family. I would have drown her.

food network star

I didn’t have television in Phoenix or Hartford so being back at my parent’s house has been an adjustment. I always forget how much I enjoy watching reality television – especially the shows that detail the lives of celebrities passed their prime.

I have also become a fan of food television, or is it the slow fat kid channel? I’m not sure what it’s called but we have been watching a lot of programs that show the cooking and eating of food. This has worked out brilliantly for me since that is what I tend to be doing while watching television.

I watched a show about a restaurant that I used to frequent when I lived in Phoenix and that made me want pancakes. There were other shows after that on pancakes and how different places make them. This inspired me to make pancakes for myself instead of my original impulse to have McDonald’s or Cracker Barrel make me pancakes. My parents are away at the family reunion so, while we do a lot of our own cooking, we’ve become too lazy to do anything.

Making the pancake batter was surprisingly simple. I have made pancake batter before – its not rocket science but this one show used their Kitchen Aide to make sure the batter was perfect, which I did as well. Then, following their advice to cook the pancakes I made breakfast for Chaos Bean and myself.

Of course, this didn’t go as planned. First, the Food Network shows you how to make something but it doesn’t condescend to describe cleaning up after the cooking. So while I had followed their directions to the letter and eventually enjoyed the pancakes cleaning the mess took twice as long as the preparation and eating did together. Also, one batch of pancakes shouldn’t make that much mess because I used the Kitchen Aide but my father is a chef and the Kitchen Aide on our counter is the size of a Volkswagen. We have others but I have no idea where in the equipment pantry they are or if I can lift them.

I also cooked the pancakes using the wrong frying pan, and thank Jesus (or whatever demon you worship)* that Chaos Bean realized this before I washed this – not realizing that some pots and pans, while mixed with the pedestrian pots and pans are not for everyday or untrained use. These same pots and pans also need to be washed with care. These same super pans burned the pancakes because, well, they’re magic. I’m Lutheran; we don’t have magic, free well, or predetermination. We do have Oxford Commas, chips on our shoulders, and an engrossment with bar-shaped desserts and cookies but no magic. Chaos Bean was gracious and said they were, “too brown,” which would have been like saying that Hiroshima had experienced urban renewal.

If I hadn’t used the wrong pan the pancakes would have still been terrible. I know this because when I realized how I was making them wrong I adjusted how I was cooking so that I could give Chaos Bean a breakfast of pancakes that didn’t look like so many denizens of Long Island and Phoenix have been in the sun too long. Chaos Bean has an awful job, I know because she hired me on part-time, and she deserves a good breakfast because that’s the only good thing that may happen in her day.

My point is this: I used special flour for baking special breads and this flour is very salty. My uncle is talented in making pancakes and has pioneered methods of putting fruit in them without burning them or the pancakes being disgusting. My friend, who writes Suburban Island, makes the best reservations for breakfast that you’ll ever take someone up on. I have pioneered a new pancake: the Pretzel Pancake. So, beyond making a mess of the kitchen and being over-cooked they were salty. I was really disappointed that I hadn’t gotten good pancakes out of the deal and had to face an enormous mess as a result of my efforts. I wonder if this was some sort of rare kitchen karma.

To ward against this happening again Chaos Bean and I went to the place where restaurants buy their food and stocked up on things you throw in the oven and then take back out. Sure, it’s not nutritious, delicious, or in any way something you should ingest but so far its not been burnt or tasted the way it should not so we’re going with what is successful.

*Spritopias: now 33% more inclusive and fortified with your daily serving of political correctness.

fresh out of batteries, but still making noise

Summer Fever is right, spend too much time away from your blog and you don’t know where to start writing again. You’ll prattle on like, well, Spritopias about everything and nothing at all.

Do I start with being pulled over, without current registration or proof of insurance because the police officer ran my plates wrong? Chaos Bean and I were on our way to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to get sheets for my bed because the sheets Mom had were feminine – God forbid I sleep on those (even one night) and get in touch with my feelings; it’s bad enough I support Obama. Luckily for Chaos Bean and I, it was ninety degrees out with a side order of humidity because with gas over four dollars a gallon I cut the engine while we waited for the police officer to tell us what was going on. In the meantime too more cruisers show up with the one who pulled us over, causing us to really worry about what we had done. It didn’t help that the cop thought I tried to slip him a bribe because there were a couple ones in my wallet. Know the truth: I drive like your grandmother and hadn’t broken any traffic laws. We really started to worry when the police officers started to laugh because as open-minded and progressive as Chaos Bean and I can be we’re still Connecticut Yankees in Boss Hog’s Court so we’re a little leery of rural police. We’ve heard The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia; we know what goes on down here. Finally the other police took off, and the original police officer came and told us – laughing to himself – that he had run our plates wrong and that’s why he pulled us over.

I could tell you about the bed the sheets were going on, an adventure from IKEA. IKEA is basically LEGOS for adults, LEGOS soaked in evil. I think that IKEA is really a test for families, friends, and marriages to see how strong they are. You know your marriage is fine if you can throw together a dining room set without sticking a wrench in someone’s eye. I know that Casey and I are friends forever because we constructed the Leaning Tower of IKEA in my living room three times and didn’t kill each other. We put the bed together without error or argument, and we did it in record time. I knew something was wrong. Mom had forgotten to buy a piece. This wouldn’t be a problem in Phoenix or Harford – where IKEA is a half hour away, but in Louisville we make a day trip to Cincinnati, so I had a bed frame in my room but I couldn’t sleep in it for a week.

Then, my car got a flat tire. I got the flat tire after a stunning display of state bird knowledge (New Jersey’s) and am assigning the flat tire to karma. Chaos Bean and I do not believe in karma while on the converse we are living examples of bad, bad karma. Sometimes, I feel like I must be working off a really bad past life like Hitler, Stalin, or Judy Garland. We called Triple A, who sent someone that let me change my own tire using his tools. I am sure there is something wrong with that but my dad who didn’t see my jack being broken as an impediment to changing a tire so I changed it to show him that I could. At the same time this was going on two other cars had broken down in the same spot I had, one of them burst into flames. The worst part of this whole ordeal should have been that everyone in my family – at some point in the debacle – yelled at me for what was going on because I had obviously done this to ruin their day but it turned out that the worst thing was that it was the day that Chaos Bean and I decided to wear our Summer Uniforms (matching Threadless T’s featuring Polar Gardening) and presumably looked like idiots. We get matching T’s every summer to wear when our mother drags us on ‘field trips,’ and if we believed in karma this would be our karma for not only knowing the New Jersey state bird but for torturing our poor, old mother.

That’s where I’m starting. Hopefully, I stay around

I’m not going to say, “I told you so.”

Coming home was an experience, which I will serialize and sell in dollar stores when I run out of money. Being home is an experience as well. My parents moved here when I was away at university and this is the first time I’ve come here and thought of it as coming home. This is the first time that I’ve come home to family, friends, and this is the first time I’ve come here needed.

I’ve enjoyed spending time with my parents and faux-grandmother - she was the first person I visited since being home. I have even enjoyed mowing the lawn. I was a little disturbed that the first friend that I talked to since being home needs a heart-transplant (I don’t have one, or you know I’d give her mine), another friend is getting married and a third is having a baby. I felt really old until a friend from middle school, who has recently moved here as well, called me to talk some fierce shit about another friend. It’s the first time I’ve come home and felt like a part of the population.

It’s also the first time I’ve come here unemployed.

My unemployment is the cause for hand wringing on my part and unsolicited advice from others. I’m a teacher. This will work itself out. I will have work before I run out of time. I shouldn’t worry. If I told you that I was not worried I was lying. I’m one part Hebrew, worrying is what we do. I should stop worrying because everyone else is doing it for me and for Chaos Bean. I feel like the only thing outnumbering my boxes in the guest room is the pieces of unsolicited advice.

Before I could ever hope to complain about the fondness for giving advice unasked for I would have to stop doing it myself. I love it. I am always and forever telling Marie how to parent her children and run her marriage. I don’t have kids, I’ve never been married, I hope to keep it that way but until then I am going to tell Marie how to live her life. The same goes for Chaos Bean who, while gainfully employed in something she is good at and enjoys, is going to hear about what jobs she should apply for and why. She does the same for me, but I apply for the jobs. I’m getting so used to rejection that I’ve started asking random women out on dates just for the thrill of the, ‘no.’

When I realized this I started to tell people, “I won’t tell you, ‘I told you so,’ but I will talk a fierce line of shit about you on the Internets.” I also gave myself the advice to stop giving advice and to stop putting my fingers in my ears and singing when someone was giving me advice.