T.G.I.F.

I think one of the saddest parts of being a grown up is how much time we spend just telling other grownups what day it is. 

Almost everyone already knows what day it is, but we still walk around and say things like, “Well, thank God it’s Friday!” or, “Well, we made it to Wednesday!” or, the saddest of them all, “Monday, huh?”

Just, that’s it… “Monday, huh?”

What is the response to that even? What can I say back to that statement that doesn’t make us both sound like complete idiots? “Yeah, I know it’s Monday, Todd. Saw that on my calendar just this morning. Wasn’t sure, though, so thanks for clarifying. Tomorrow, I’m going to assume, will be Tuesday, and then Wednesday, and then we’ll be able to talk about how this hellscape of a week is half over.”

Whose life is that bad in this country that they seriously can’t wait for the weekend? If you have a job where you even have a weekend, you’re doing all right. Shut up. 

You think homeless people walk around telling other homeless people what day of the damn week it is? It doesn’t matter. There is no day of the week when you’re homeless! Those are the people who should actually be telling other homeless people what day it is, because they don’t have a calendar.

Children know better than to talk like this. Children would never, ever, say to another child, “We made it to Wednesday, Carl. Thank God we’re halfway there because I haven’t had a cookie all week!”

No. Children talk about actual interesting things, like superhero movies or their pets throwing up on the carpet or where they went over the summer. Not calendar dates!

Stop telling other grownups what day it is. We all have calendars in our pockets. No more days! 

Besides that, when you’re a grown up with actual kids in your house, there is no such thing as a weekend, anyway. That’s your job, the kids. Making sure the kids are fed, driving them to swim meets, yard work, house work, telling them to get off their IPADS. That’s the work. Don’t tell me “Thank God it’s Friday,” because I’m not.

No, the reason we say things like, “Welp, one more day,” is because we’ve already said “Good morning,” and it’s not time to leave yet. When it’s time to leave, we can say things like, “See ya’ tomorrow,” or “Have a good evening,” but it’s that middle-of-the-day meeting in the hallway or the break room or whatever that throws us, you know. It’s that gray conversation area, because we don’t have time to have an actual conversation, but we don’t want to be a jerk, so we just spout out random days of the week.

“Whooo. Thursday, huh?”

Seriously?

We’re smarter than this, though, right? We’re adults. We don’t need to be so lame.

So, I propose a solution. After “good morning,” when you see someone at work, instead of telling another grown human what day it is, you say the name of an actor or actress. Then that person has five seconds to respond with the name of a movie or television show that the actor or actress has been in.

If they respond correctly within the allotted time, they get a thumbs up. That’s it. No need for chit chat, small talk, we’re all busy, keep moving. Just a thumbs up.

If they get it wrong, or they can’t make it in five second, you give them a thumbs down and tell them they need to try harder. That’s it. Keep moving. 

No more days of the week. We got this.

 

Pension

 

Dear MCU,

We love your programming, thanks. Countless hours have been spent in our home these last few years just not talking to each other, all enjoying the same show. However, I do have a question about how finances work in your imaginary universe. 

So, to clarify,  Earth’s mightiest heroes, the Avengers, who have saved the world—repeatedly—basically function as a volunteer fire department?

The training, the equipment, room and board, are financed by Stark Enterprises, but there is no paycheck? There is no pension? They get a per diem while abroad, but nothing to put in the bank?

Steve Rogers—who helped saved humanity in not one but two different centuries—can barely afford an apartment in Brooklyn?

Sam Wilson—who was snapped out of existence for a half decade and then immediately returns to action at significant life and limb—cannot borrow enough money to save his sister’s business?

That makes me sad. 

Sincerely,

Someone with Too Much Time on their Hands

O

I have O blood, which basically means I am a borderline superhero…when I share. It had been awhile since I’d donated, though, but today was the day I was going to help save not one life or even two, but three entire lives. (I have no idea how this math works but it sounds good on paper.)

I scheduled myself a 3:45 appointment and spent the day keeping well hydrated and nourished and even scarfed down a bag of M&Ms on the way there just to be safe. I had my temperature checked, answered all the appropriate questions—“No I did not get a blood transfusion while visiting the Falkland Islands between 1980-and last week,”— and passed my iron test with a respectable number I can't remember. Another temperature check and we were ready to go.

“Left arm.” I answered when the nurse asked which one.  I might not be the new faux Captain America, but I was still feeling pretty heroic.

Now, for those who have not donated, the next few minutes, in my opinion, are actually the worst part of the experience. The sterilization, the tying of the arm, the finding of the vein; it’s all so drawn out and a bit nauseating. Once the needle is placed and the blood starts flowing, the experience can be relaxing, in a weird, “I’m losing oxygen” kind of way.

Today was different, though.

Today, the waiting was not the worst part. The worst part, by far, was when the nurse poked the needle into my arm and nothing came out.  Like, not a drop. I watched the plastic tubing, waiting for it to turn crimson, but instead it just stayed…plastic.

I don’t know if she missed the vein or I’m partially dead on the left side of my body, but there was no blood coming out of my left arm.

“Oh, shoot…I am so sorry.”

She called for another phlebotomist, who asked me if I wanted her to try to find a vein that might work on my right arm.

“No…I’m a…I’m going to leave.”

And I did.

Eventually.

But that needle was just kind of sticking out of my arm for another two or three minutes while they canceled everything out.

“Thanks for coming in…feel free to grab some…food and a… a t-shirt on your way out.”

I didn’t, though. I hadn’t earned that t-shirt, or those snacks.

I’ll get another chance though…and five emails a week reminding me to donate until I do.

 

Breaking the Press

 

I had some experiences with my middle child over the weekend that strongly suggest  I need to focus less on conversations based around MCU Easter eggs and more on actual things.

We were removing a pretend telescope from the playset before the neighborhood wasps (not WASPS) had a chance to move in again for the season. The toy was gone, but now remained the screw that had secured it, just waiting to snag someone’s jacket or worse.

“We’ll need to go get the drill to screw that in.”  I suggested.

“Why don’t we just hammer it?”

“Well, it’s not a nail.”

“So? I have the hammer right here.”

“Yeah, but it’s a screw, so we need to screw it, not hammer it.”

“Can I use the drill?”

“Yes.”

Later that morning we were doing some low key pruning, and he asked to use the saw on an already downed branch.

“Sure thing.”

Instead of taking the tool and using it as a saw by, well, sawing, he instead tried to slice the branch in two I guess by just pressing down on it like some kind of martial arts warm up. (I’m still partially convinced this move was designed to mess with my head.) Regardless, I gave him a quick tutorial and the sawing commenced.

It’s my fault, thought. It’s not something they learn in swim practice.

Finally, this afternoon we were watching a debacle of a basketball game on TV, and I lamented the offense’s inability to break the defense’s press.

“Break the what?”

“Their press.”

“What’s a press?”

“It’s a…a defense…thing.”

In conclusion, if your kid doesn't know not to hammer screws or how to break a half-court press, that's on you. 

Nobody said parenting was easy.

Castle Rock

 

We’re finishing up “The Importance of Being Earnest” in my Intro to Lit class, and yesterday we were discussing Oscar Wilde’s thoughts on human nature.

“The more one analyses people,” Wilde writes, “the more all reasons for analysis disappear. Sooner or later one comes to that dreadful universal thing called human nature.”

With a room full of seniors only two months away from graduation but seven months into the weirdest school year ever—hopefully—you can imagine that the conversation was, at times, animated.

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to analyze humans myself over the last thirteen or so months, and I have made it, finally, to about the same spot Mr. Wilde did over a century ago.

What’s the point?

Humans, in general, usually act like humans.

That’s one reason studying literature is so interesting, because human behavior is usually predictable, whether we’re reading about a cursed king from ancient Thebes or a tribe of insane children on a tropical island or a future fireman having doubts about his profession. The setting and plots may change, but the characters are often chillingly familiar.

For example, I’ve been reminded over the last thirteen months that humans have a tendency to take advice from other humans who happen to share the same beliefs.

Humans seem to listen to other humans who reinforce what they think they already know.

And I’m just as guilty as anyone else.

It turns out evidence and reason are rarely a match for tribal allegiance.

Just ask Piggy.