Why is this funny?

Wasn’t it Diana Vreeland who wrote “You’d be a fool not to buy a cape this year”? Here in Seattle, one doesn't see a lot of capes. My spin would be, "You'd be a fool not to wear socks with sandals this year." I guess to each his own.

Once, while visiting a gift shop on the coast, I made a snide comment about a bunch of beach rocks with little eyes glued on to them. The shopkeeper, fairly defensive, told me they were her 'bestsellers' and that they 'went like hotcakes'. It all comes down to taste. For example, five years ago I wrote some patter for a woman's club act. Her introductions and her transitions between songs were ‘flat and uninspired’. Her words, not mine. Of course, once I saw her act, they were my words too. We had a long chat right after the show and a few days later, I emailed her a few of my ideas. It was an entire week before she requested a meeting and when I arrived at her apartment she was somber and serious-faced. I just assumed that she didn’t like what I’d come up with but it didn’t surprise me. The bulk of her act involved a Cuisinart, which she wore on her head like a hat. I never understood why and neither did the rest of the audience.

So, she sat me down, held up the printed version of my email and asked, very sincerely, “Tell me. Why is this funny?” Now there is a question no one should ever be made to answer. Like “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kick your ass right now?”, or “What were those pair of pantyhose doing underneath your bed?”

I didn’t answer her. Instead, I found myself thinking about all of the household appliances she might have chosen that would have been more effective. If kitchen headware is your passion, why not go for a sleek inverted colander, or perhaps a garlic press or lemon-juicer strategically positioned and tilted? Then, tie the entire look together with potato mashers on each knee, and perhaps a whisk, caught up in a flurry of silk at the waistline?

But no, she chose a food processor. On her head. Bulky, asymmetrical, and the power cord? Please! That was so 90’s. That sort of headware fashion was meant for another time. That was the era of George Forman grills and the like, worn frivolously and inappropriately to the wrong events. I mean, who wears a Crockpot to a baby shower? Probably the same person who would wear a hand-crank ice cream maker on a first date, after Labor day! Shocking, and with reckless regard for decorum. These individuals may have considered themselves to be frontrunners but they were, in reality, contributors to the decline of appliance-hat fashion.

“I said ‘Why is this funny?’” she repeated.

I didn’t answer her question, but I did offer her a piece of advice.

“You’d be a fool not to wear a toaster this year” I said. End of story.

jenny padilla

I lived in Long Beach California. I moved there with plans to attend Cal State but, because of the cost of out-of-state tuition, decided to work for a year and become a resident before enrolling in classes. I had my heart set on waiting tables at a local Marie Callenders restaurant because, as I remember explaining, it felt all 'countrified and cozy, like an open-faced turkey sandwich on a chilly autumn day'. Months later, considerably disillusioned, I accepted the solitary job of cashier at a Fotomat. Describing the Fotomat kiosk in which I worked as diminutive would be generous. The embarrassing little building was plopped down on the gravelly edge of a Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot - clearly an afterthought. I would spend my long shifts eating chicken and snooping through everyone's pictures, looking for the nudie shots. Once, a lady complained about all of the greasy fingerprints that covered her four year old daughter's face. I feigned ignorance and concern. That was the only good thing about the job. Well, that and not having to worry about getting along with your co-workers - since you didn't have any.

One of my roommates was from Pasadena. He was smarmy, drove a loud Camaro and laughed at everything I said. The other man was kind and quiet. A devout Christian. Not quite twenty, his ex-fiance had recently left him for a woman and he seemed to be in a perpetual stupor because of it. The apartment building was the quintessential Southern California - u-shaped, three level, pool in the middle - type of complex. People used the walkway railings to dry clothes and there was seldom a time when some baby wasn't screaming. Radios and stereos constantly competed and there was a motorcyle at the bottom of the pool, submerged. I remember thinking it was hilarious no one ever commented on the motorcycle. Even on hot days when the pool was crowded. Everyone just swam around it and over it. It was like something you might see in a tragic water slide park. The manager was mean and scary so no one would complain about anything. I'm pretty sure he was an ex-con, with his tank-top wardrobe, cigarette mouth, tattoos for days and his shiny sunburned skin. I'm guessing it was his motorcycle. There was a great story there, but he wasn't talking and I wasn't asking.

A young girl lived three doors down. She was probably eighteen. We used to swing dance in my apartment. I don't remember how we met but, like myself, she had big dreams. She 'knew everyone in the industry' and was going to be famous one day. Remember, this is Long Beach. She said that her stepfather 'basically owned Paramount studio' and she was, at that very moment, being considered for a featured role in a new television series called The Dukes of Hazzard. Jenny Padilla lived in the apartment directly below mine. A petite, elderly hispanic woman, she had Multiple Sclerosis and some other condition that made it impossible for her to turn her head. Most evenings she would play her Lowrey drum machine organ. Cole Porter's 'Anything Goes' was her favorite tune and I would toss out compliments whenever I walked by her window. Jenny and I became friends. Since I had a car, I would drive her to doctor's appointments and make weekly trips to the grocery store. Eventually, she allowed me to play the organ. On rainy afternoons, we'd watch All My Children and Ryan's Hope while eating Top Ramen, the only thing I could afford to eat at the time.

One day, Jenny announced that she was moving in with her son in Bellflower, a small community about thirty minutes east of Long Beach. Sadly, there was no room for all of her possesions so she was forced to give some away. The night before the move she called me and asked me to come down to her place. I sat on her couch while she told me how much I had meant to her, how she could never repay me, and how she wanted to do something really wonderful for me. My eyes darted around the small apartment to the few possessions I would choose if offered. I was pretty sure she was going to give me the Lowrey organ or the television set since I had, on several occasions, expressed interest in 'getting something just like that' one day.

Jenny grew teary as she spoke but I knew that her tears had more to do with leaving her home than saying goodbye to me.

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned holding a blue, enamel plated colander. She proudly pushed it at me and said 'thank you for everything'. I wanted to ask her what she was going to do with the organ, but instead I thanked her for the colander, saying 'I really needed one' and 'how did you know?' The next day, we loaded up my Dodge Colt and made the trip to Bellflower. I dropped her off, hugged her, thanked her again for my colander, then drove back to Long Beach.

I didn't make it the entire year in California. One night, some 'mysterious illness' forced me to the emergency room. When the doctor urged me to check into the hospital for tests, I packed my bags and drove back to Washington state. The day after I returned to Seattle, the mysterious illness was gone and never returned.

Even though I was a bit disappointed at the time, looking back I'm glad Jenny didn't give me the drum machine organ. Here it is, three cities, thirty-nine apartments, four relationships and twenty-nine years later, and I still have that colander. In fact, I used it last night.

ignorant

I'm a slow learner, but it took me years to realize that baiting people for compliments is a slippery slope. It never achieves the results you're looking for.

I would dangle the line and hook and say: 'I wish I had a better singing voice,' 'I'm not as attractive as he is...' You know, that crazy stuff? Two years ago, I was riding around in a car with an extremely smart friend of mine. Her verbal skills seem effortless and she is embarrassingly well-read. That would be embarrassing for me, not her. I'm a stacker. You know? I buy new books, stack them by my bed, and seldom read them. Craziness. Anyway, one might get the feeling that my friend is unaware of her intelligence and hyper-aware of it at the same time. She was using 'smart-person speak' to comment on something that happened. I can't remember the exact gist of it, but it went something like this: "I don't understand his editorial principles without coming to terms with his lexicographical tenets, his capacity for labor, the degree of his knowledge, his sense of his own capacities, and his tendency to inconsistency." Ok, to be fair, it wasn't even close to being that pedantic, but that's how it seemed at the time. There was a moment of silence. I flipped on the blinker and made a right hand turn. After a bit, I said something stupid like "Wow, I wish I was that smart," or something just as pathetic. She turned to me and said "You're not unintelligent, Scott. You're just ignorant."

After a moment of silence, I think I said “Thank you,” even though I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. To be fair she was right, for if you look in the dictionary, there it is: Ignorant - lacking information or basic knowledge.

So, if I was going to make one point, this is what it would be: some words carry a wallop of meaning apart from the dictionary's definition. They do. It's a bit like calling someone fat - having a relatively large diameter, or ugly - being deficient in beauty, or a failure - having a lack of success or even arrogant - having or showing feelings of importance. I mean, I'm certainly not unintelligent - as was made clear by my smart friend - and because of that maybe I understand that labeling someone as ignorant is just a bit of a slam - even though I know in my heart that my smart friend would never dream of hurting my feelings. So how can I know this when she seemed so unaware of it? Maybe I yield a different kind of intelligence, or maybe she simply grew tired of me fishing for compliments. I was trolling for a big shiny salmon and she handed me an old muddy boot. Some folks resent being played. Yeah, that's probably what was going on. Damn those smart people. They're so much more difficult to manipulate. I'll have to come up with a new strategy.

my life as a hooked rug

A friend recently told me that my blog wasn't a 'real' blog. When I asked her to explain, she just said that most blogs were more like diaries, just streams of thought, unedited musings on life and daily happenings. She said that mine was a bit too 'overworked' and 'short story-ish'. Then she quickly added that it was 'really good' and she laughed 'like crazy'.

It's taken me years to finally jump on the blogwagon just to find out that I'm doing it incorrectly. And although that's just a bit unsettling I will admit, I don't want to read anyone's diary and I don't want anyone reading mine. To me, it would be like observing a circumcision or listening to the married couple next door screaming at each other about their financial problems. I drive by traffic accidents without looking. Reality TV shows make me squirm. I respect privacy.

But, more to the point, I'm not much of a joiner. That's why I've seldom kept up with popular fads. Only last year did I finally break down and buy a pair of Earth shoes. I freely admit that I love my popcorn ceiling. Most of my dress pants have pleats and cuffs, my ties are far too thin and my suit lapels are far too wide. I've even been known to wear a 'windbreaker' at special events.

I still love my Carly Simon 'Hotcakes' album and delight dinner guests with Ritz cracker mock apple pies. I've been known to spend evenings burning incense while manipulating jute into macrame plant hangers and, last month, I 'hodgepodged' the Desiderata onto a wooden box lid, then 'antiqued' my bedroom dresser and bookshelf - all in one day!

My life is complicated. I can't seem to let go of the things that make me happy in order to make room for the the latest everythings with unproven track records. And unless I'm given explicit instructions, I don't feel badly when I make a different choice. I have to go now. The oven timer just went off and my Chex party mix is ready.

the quicksand of reason - vanity

This morning I woke up, turned over, and noticed our puppy, Boo, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. My first thought was 'where did we go wrong?' Hey, I realize that every living being must have some curiosity about themselves but, here it is an hour later and I'm still bothered by the nagging thought that my dog could very well be self-involved.

Don't get me wrong, she's a very pretty dog. Maybe I tell her that too often. Perhaps I need to balance my praise with a dose of tough love. Maybe I should require that she watch Animal Planet's 'Rescue', or perhaps visit the nearby dog shelter and 'volunteer' serving meals. I don't want to scar my puppy, just expand her world a bit. If she's looking in mirrors when she doesn't think anyone's around, what's next? Hair gel? Colored contacts? Boo-tox? And what, heaven forbid, if she wants to start wearing my personal dog collars? It's a sobering thought. I'm just glad I caught it early.

not a winner

I once asked my sister what she’d been doing and she said “We were just sitting on the couch and talking about what we’re going to do with all the money when we win the lottery.”

What is it that some folks call the lottery? Oh that's right, 'A tax for people who are bad at math'. I’ve always been the type to put my energies into things more concrete. Hoping and waiting for something to happen by luck or chance? I dunno. But honestly, even as I write this, I suppose the alternative is just as unacceptable. A resignation that nothing good will ever happen, so why try. A person’s gotta keep hope alive somehow. Even if it is a one in ten billion shot at a new life.

I’ve purchased four, maybe five lottery tickets. I thumb-tacked the suckers to my bulletin board and considered the winnings. But when I began imagining friends and family members screaming and throwing their arms around me as they accepted my gifts of money, cars and trips around the world, I stopped myself and shuddered. Why? Because after all the imagined houses, yachts, cars and vacations, one is required to return to reality. Next stop - the hand you were dealt! You rarely make the trip to ‘I won the lottery land’ and back feeling refreshed and electrified about your current situation. There is usually a bit of melancholy, maybe even regret that comes with the deal. Some will disagree with me. That's just how I feel about it.

What’s the adage about everyone needing something to love, something to do, something to look forward to? I suppose we can all reach a place in our lives, when we could come close to exhausting our cache of dreams. When we might lose the belief that we can make great things happen for ourselves. That’s probably when people start partying a little harder, stop taking care of themselves. Maybe that’s when some people start buying too many lottery tickets.

So this week, Mega Millions lottery is up to something like $290 zillion. I was sitting here feeling as though I was missing out on something. (Sidebar: the way I felt the entire time I lived in New York City) So, when I stopped at the nearby FastMart to buy some Propel, I considered purchasing a ticket. Standing next to me in line was a man who looked startlingly like Santa Claus with a full-blown crack addiction. He was about eighty-five years old and had a big grey, unkempt beard. Oh, he had a bad limp, too. I wondered if he'd been, in his early days, a professional tennis player, Olympic skier or Broadway dancer. Anyway, he was standing behind me holding a crinkled-up lottery ticket. It got me thinking about what my life will be when I am his age. Perhaps I’ll teach aqua-aerobics at a retirement village in Sun City, wearing tight fitting Lacoste T-shirts and Hagar expando-matic pants. You know, like Jack Lalanne? Or, maybe I’ll live in a small, basement apartment in West Seattle, living on my savings, making daily trips to the Quickie mart for cigarettes, The Auto Times, bottles of Jeppson's Malört and, of course, my weekly lottery ticket.

The line moved and the old man reached his arm past me, sliding his lottery ticket into the a little machine that automatically reads it.

Too quickly, the words “NOT A WINNER” appeared on the tiny screen.

I looked at the screen, then at him. He looked at me and shrugged as if to say ‘Hey, not like I didn’t know’.

I paid for my juice, walked out to my car, and noticed the man hobble out of the store. He stopped to light a cigarette, then limped over and climbed into a beige Chevy Impala with silver duct tape on the driver’s side window.

I watched him drive away, then I walked back into the store and bought two lottery tickets. I'm not sure why.

god, I don't want to be tan

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t tan. My cousin and I have the same skin color and we used to stand side by side in our family photos. We thought it was so adorable that we looked alike. We’d pose in the same positions, looking like two adopted Syrians in a sea of pasty-faced Brits.

But now, as an adult and even in the dead of winter, I’ve got a bronze tinge to my skin. My sister refers to it as an ‘olive complexion’. If, when growing up, I would have ever gotten a straight answer about our ancestry. ‘We’re English’ is all I ever heard. Although I once overheard my father mention we were 1/16th Choctaw, a fact that I later shared with a member of the Neah Bay tribe in Northwest Washington. Take my advice, don’t ever tell American Indians that you’re 1/16th Choctaw. They don’t like it.

Anyway, I bring up the whole ‘tan’ thing, because recently someone sent me an email. The email read ‘Hey folks! Listen, I just received 10 free visits to a local tanning parlor and since I don’t tan’, (read: I’m far too together and intelligent to bake myself in a tanning bed) I was wondering, since you tan, if anyone wanted them.” Since you tan. The nerve! Me? Tan? Ludicrous!

Why did it bother me? Well, I suppose I don’t want to be thought of as the kind of person who spends an inordinate amount of time lying between two layers of fluorescent bulbs, waiting for your skin to get darker. I dunno. It just seems strange, and well, vain. Not that I’m not vain, mind you. I just think vanity is something that should remain somewhat covert. Go ahead, spend all the time you’d like looking into a mirror, but when you comb your hair, when you tweeze your nose hairs, when you dress yourself, when you coif and cream and dye and powder and shave and pluck, the goal is to make it look like it happened naturally. Right? So tanning. Hmmm. Maybe moderation is the answer. A little tan is barely noticeable. It’s like: two tanning sessions: “Suzie, you look so great. So aliiiiiiive”. Four tanning sessions: ‘Well, someone’s been to Hawaaaaaiiiiiii”. Twenty tanning sessions. “Sir, your face is scaring my children”. In order for a really pale person to remain as tan as I am, they’d probably have to spend oh, ten visits a month in the ‘bed’. But I don’t. I swear. Believe me. I wear sunscreen when I run. I wear hats and sunglasses. But it doesn’t work. I’m still tan. God, the injustice!

But I’ve learned to live with it. I have an entire set of retorts to “Gee, you’re tan. Where have you been? Mexico?” or “You should really consider using sunscreen”, I just say. “My family is from Damascus” or “It’s spray on’. “Wow. It looks so natural.” “Yes, you should try it and ask them to adjust the spray nozzle to the country sliced bacon setting. That’s what I use.”

But, I do feel like somewhat of a hypocrite and I have to confess that, yes, I went to tanning parlor once. I had planned a trip to Hawaii and I was urged, by a good friend to get a ‘base tan’. I know. It’s in our vernacular. Even little kids know what a ‘base tan’ is. So, I was told by a good friend that my natural skin color was ‘not sufficient enough to withstand the sun’s harming rays’. I now know that this friend is one of those people who not only watches commercials, but believes them. So, I called up Sudden Tan. I love that name. It infers that you'll become tan almost... accidentally. Like being stung by a hornet. Anyway, at the time of the appointment I approached the front door and made the decision to plan my entrance so that no one could get close enough to me to see me actually walking in. I started down the street and spotted a couple walking in my direction. Hmm, if we both continue moving at this speed, we will pass in direct proximity to the front door. Better stall. Ah, a movie theater, what’s playing? Hmmm. Let me look at this poster…. Ah yes…. been meaning to see the new Reese Witherspoon feature.…. Oh, and look there’s…ok they’re crossing the street. Time to make a dash. I’m thrilled that I’m able to make it down the remaining two hundred feet and to the door without passing anyone. Yes! I’m in. (This next part has been dramatized a bit so the real person won't hunt me down and kill me.)

Now I’m standing directly inside the front door and face to face with an old friend who happens to deliver for UPS. Hey! How are you? Great. You? Good to see you! What’s going on? Nothing. What’s happening with you? Oh. So on and so on…. interval of silence. Small sigh. Ball of foot, rubbed on ground in front of me in circles. Then I hear myself say…’ Well, I’d better get going. I’m meeting someone for coffee at Pony Espresso. Oh! Hey wait. This isn’t Pony espresso! It’s a tanning parlor! That’s nutty. We both share a laugh and he says “Yeah, I was gonna say. You certainly don’t need a tan.” “Tan?” I say. “Yeah right. Like I’d tan?” We laugh again and I back out onto the sidewalk. We say our goodbyes and I duck into Pony espresso. There I am, standing in the doorway, blocking the entrance as people are trying squeeze past me but I’m not moving. I’m keeping an eye out for my UPS friend. He crosses the street and disappears into another store. Time to make a dash for it. I run out of the coffee shop and into the Tanning parlor. ‘I had an appointment’ I say. Yes. Your name would be?” Door opens behind me. “Hey I found one more parcel for….” I hear the voice and my blood runs cold. It’s my UPS friend. This time, I don’t turn around. I don’t even acknowledge his presence. I’m frozen. Hopefully, but not likely, invisible. I’m hoping that he’ll just think I’m another guy, of exact height and weight, with a red ball cap and an orange ‘Beat Bush’ sweatshirt standing 2 feet from him. He leaves finally after 70,000 years and I make the mistake of discretely glancing back to see him at the very moment he not so discretely glances back toward me. We see each other. I am everything I never want to be. A liar. A loser. A tanner. I couldn’t go through with it. I felt so awful. I had the prevenient sense that that my lie would change the experience with guilt and would, most likely, affect the outcome negatively. I just walked back to my car, base tan-less. I didn’t even try to exit the shop secretively. I just tramped out, in a stupor of shame. Ran into three more friends in on the sidewalk. Hey. Hey. How are you? Tan. I mean good. Nice to see you. Nice to see you, too.

It’s the cross I was meant to bear and something I didn’t choose for myself. But I know that I need to love the ‘tan’ me. People may judge me but that’s about them. It’s their journey, their story. At least that’s what Oprah says. I may start a support group or write a self-help book. If that doesn’t work, I’m moving to Damascus.