not quite right

Jun 062012
 

So the other day, I was told by one of my favorite people that she has Hodgkin’s Lymphoma—fortunately for her, it’s Stage II, which means they caught it early enough that, with proper treatment, it has a 90 percent cure/survivability rate. She is facing chemo and radiation, and she’s going to lose her hair (among other side effects) but she has a terrific attitude, and seems to be ready to deal with it as if it’s nothing more than a minor annoyance.

Of course, after she told me about her situation, I nodded gently, put my hand on her arm, looked her in the eye and said, “Well, if you think having cancer means that I’m going to treat you nicely, I can assure you, I won’t. I’m going to make fun of you just as I always have.”

Sorry, but that’s just the way I roll, as they (the chicken people?) say. As long as I can remember, when Very Serious Things happen—sickness, death, loss, etc.—my initial reaction is to try and find the humor in it. (I think the professionals call this “a coping mechanism,” which may be psychobabble code for “he might be broken.”) Since I can’t help myself, I’ve become the go-to guy for making comments that are best described as “irreverent,” although that doesn’t quite seem to cover it.

How about “just wrong”?

For instance, about a year ago, my friend Bobby had cancer in his bladder, which fortunately, was caught early and successfully treated. His recovery has been so good—it helps that he’s a great athlete and has stayed in terrific shape—that he was able to participate in our annual Black Saturday football game last November.

During the game, Bobby was open in the endzone, and our friend Higgy zipped in a pass to him for what should’ve been a touchdown except Bobby couldn’t hang on to the pigskin. When he came back to the huddle with his head down, I tried to help him through the moment with a little humor—you know, being the sensitive friend I am and all.

“Let me guess,” I said loudly for all on the field to hear. “It was the cancer’s fault you dropped the ball.”

Reaction was mixed. A few of my friends who …. well, let’s go with “Don’t have the same exact sense of humor,” stifled any reaction in fear of being struck dead on the spot by their god. A few others laughed, including Bobby (although he wasn’t exactly slapping his knee). Personally, I thought the timing and delivery were perfect …

Come on, if you can’t laugh about cancer almost killing one of your best friends, what can you laugh about?

Funny you should ask. I may not be the person with whom you want to attend a wake. I’ve been known to put the “fun” in fun-eral.

Maybe it’s because of my obsession with death, but I just don’t sit there and weep with the others. Don’t get me wrong: I have absolutely cried and mourned the loss of loved ones, but I’ve also laughed and joked when the moment is … well, as “right” as it’s going to be. It’s not like I’m going in there with a joy buzzer and shaking the widow’s hand or doing a stand-up routine—although there’s a part of me that wants to be stuffed and mounted, and filled with animatronics so could greet people with a handshake at my wake and say, “Glad you can make it, sorry I’m dead,” which might be a good spot for a joy buzzer. Regardless, I’ve had my moments when I’ve said things in what might be classified as “inappropriate” in an attempt to lighten a moment.

After my grandfather died, my sister and parents were talking about how while making arrangements the next day, my grandmother wanted a well-sealed casket for her husband of nearly a half century. “I don’t want the worms to get him,” she had told them.

“Come on,” I said when they relayed her comments to me later that day. “It’s not like trying to keep a casserole fresh!”

Too soon? Possibly. Even though my father didn’t outwardly react to the suggestion of his father being preserved like yesterday’s leftovers, I *think* he was laughing on the inside. Or at least chuckling.

While writing this, I asked my wife Sue if she could think of other specific examples. “You know, my answer should be, ‘Do you have a notepad? Sit down,’ but right now, I’m drawing a blank,” she said. “But trust me, there have been plenty of times.”

When my work wife Moosey’s husband died unexpectedly last year, I was obviously very, very upset, but that “wrong” part of me would not be contained. For reasons I’m still not clear on, someone at work decided to pass around a card for all of us to sign individually with our condolences—and knowing that Moosey’s a sick-and-twisted freak like me, I truly wanted to write, “Hey, his Jazzy is all yours now!”

I knew it’d make her laugh (which she desperately needed), but I also realized that many of my prim-and-proper co-workers would be quite upset if they saw it, so I wrote something innocuous like, “Well, at least he wasn’t caught in bed with a mound of coke, Wilmer Valderrama and three Indonesian she-males.”*

[*It also could’ve just been “Sorry.” At my advanced age, the details tend to blur a scooch.]

It really bothered me—not only that we were passing a card around like it was a birthday or a shower (“Good luck on being single again!”), but I censored myself, and at a Very Serious Time, too. GRRRR….

Of course, when I saw her at the wake, I immediately couldn’t restrain myself and told her what I wanted to write, which we did laugh over.

Side note: We were just talking about this today, and she told me to mention that the card was the absolute weirdest—and funniest—thing ever! “What the hell were they all thinking?” she asked about everyone writing their own condolences. I *knew* it was a bad idea!! Seriously, if this ever comes up in your office—just send flowers and a “Sorry for your loss” note “From all of us.”

So yeah, *somehow* I encourage this sort of inappropriateness in others at these times.

I am the organizer of our office “Dead Pool,” which, if you’re not familiar with the concept, basically involves betting on the death of celebrities. I knew I was officially on the road to your hell a few years back when I heard that Rodney Dangerfield had died—I immediately threw my hands up in the air as if signaling a field goal had been made and shouted, “YES!”

Hey, he was worth 18 points, and I was in a tight battle for the “King of the Dead” title that year!

Okay, if anyone is still reading, here’s one “final” story, so to speak … it should give you an idea of how macabre I am that someone else felt comfortable enough to make this happen ….

After my grandmother died, while the immediate family was at the funeral home waiting for visiting hours to start, the mortician kept coming up to us, nodding to my preserved grandmother in her casket and saying, “She looks good, doesn’t she?”

For the most part, we were like, “Uh, yeah sure. You know, aside from being freakin’ dead.” Maybe he was just trying to comfort us or show off his handiwork, but it just seemed like he made the comment an inordinate amount of times.

Later, during the formal wake, Sue and I went outside to the front porch to get some air. While we were there, my buddy Bob (not cancer Bobby) arrived and after he extended his condolences, we started talking about how weird the whole concept of wakes are. I eventually mentioned the mortician’s remarks.

“You know what you should do,” Bob said, a wicked smile coming over his face. “Next time he says it, grab him by the lapels, shove him up against the casket and shout, ‘YOU F#@KED HER, DIDN’T YOU?! DIDN’T YOU?!! DIDN’T YOUUUUUU?!!!!!'”

It took us about 20 minutes to compose ourselves before we could go back into the wake. And none of us could make eye contact with the mortician—heck, I’m pretty sure I never even looked at my grandmother’s body ever again.

So yeah, like the old Barenaked Ladies song, I pretty much always laugh at funerals. And now, next time you hear a comment about “how good” someone looks, you will, too.

You’re welcome! See you in hell …

 

 

fizzy lifting freedom

Jun 042012
 

So the other day, you may have heard about how New York City Michael Bloomberg wants to enact legislation that would prohibit the sale of super-sized sodas and other sugary drinks throughout the Big Apple.

From hizzoner’s mouth (courtesy of the New York Times):

“Obesity is a nationwide problem, and all over the United States, public health officials are wringing their hands saying, ‘Oh, this is terrible,’ ” Mr. Bloomberg said in an interview on Wednesday in City Hall’s sprawling Governor’s Room.

“New York City is not about wringing your hands; it’s about doing something,” he said. “I think that’s what the public wants the mayor to do.”

Even though they’ll have to pry the Coke out of my cold, dead hands, I think Mayor Mike is one hundred percent absolutely right.

Never mind that people are *not* going to stop drinking soda or other sugary drinks, and that such a ban on large serving sizes only benefits retailers (who can sell more products), and ultimately, the city by increasing sales taxes collected (maybe the whole plan all along?). Also ignore that this absolutely violates multiple personal freedoms—including the right to incur Type 2 diabetes at whatever pace you desire—or that there’s no bans on the amount of alcohol or tobacco that can be purchased, even though both of those products lead to health problems as serious as obesity. Heck, you can buy beer BY THE KEG, which is not really going to put a crimp in alcoholism or drunk driving.

This well-thought-out mandate is *clearly* a step in the right direction. But if you’re going to let a government further interfere in people’s lives and impinge on their freedoms, why stop with soda? As they say, if you’re going to be a bear, be a grizzly bear!

Here are other things New York City should think of restricting.

  • The number of buildings under 50 stories tall—it’s THE BIG APPLE, not The Moderately Sized Apple With A Few Pieces Sticking Out. Go big or go home, as they (the chicken people?) say.
  • The number of Major League Baseball teams in town; since the National League is the older entity, it only makes sense to keep that entry and do away with the American League representative so the city could properly get behind one team.
  • The number of winged garbage-eating rats. Seriously, 7 million, with each producing over 25 pounds of crap a year? It seems as though you could—literally—kill two birds with one stone, and then feed them to the homeless and hungry. Ditto the gray rats with bushy tails and actual rats.
  • The number of minorities. Melting pot, smelting pot—pretty sure there’s at least two of each race, creed and religion on the planet by now crammed into the five burroughs. Let those coming here from foreign lands enter via a new port … actually, how about through Newport! What says “Welcome to America” better than staying your first night at The Breakers or Rosecliff?
  • The number of boys named Jayden. Maybe change a few hundred over to RAYden, right? Just sayin’.
  • The number of God-loving virgin backup quarterbacks that have enormous fan bases and seemingly unlimited media presence and support. Because honestly, one seems like too many.
  • The number of overweight, pompous, know-it-all afternoon sports radio talk show hosts. Again, even one seems like way too many.
  • The number of buildings and other entities that Donald Trump can name after himself. Look, we get it—The Donald has named all these skyscrapers after himself not because he cares about “branding” but because despite his vast wealth, he’s got bad hair and has a tiny penis. Enough already.
  • The number of self-serving mayors who like to change the rules solely for their own personal gain.

the friday five: hunting & gathering tips

Jun 012012
 

Being the OCD-inclined freak that I am, I often have volunteered to do the shopping. As a mater of fact, I’ve been hunting and gathering since I was young.

Here’s a pic of me in action getting dinner “back in the day,” as the kids like to say.

You may not be amused, but my son is giggling over this picture—it's great to be 13, ain't it?

I also spent a few years working in a ShopRite during my college years, which I would recommend to my sons as a first job—the work is simple, the hours aren’t usually all that crazy, it’s always air-conditioned in the summer and there’s usually lots of young female cashiers. A win all the way around, as I see it.

As such, I’ve learned a great deal about the fine arts of hunting and gathering.  Being the generous sort, I thought it might be worthwhile to share some of wisdom—

Five Tips For the Grocery Store

1. The fresh stuff is always on the bottom or in the back. It’s called “rotating the stock,” and every store does it. The freshest bread, chicken, milk, peaches, cheese, bird food, etc. is always put below or beneath the old stuff in the hopes that those not paying attention will ignore the “Sell by” date and just grab whatever is most convenient or closest. Which is what pretty much happens—the store doesn’t have to take a loss on expired stuff while the customers can’t figure out why what they have is half-rotted or stale by the time they get home.

2. The most expensive stuff is always the easiest to reach. See #1. If you don’t believe me, pay attention to the “unit prices” on the shelf labels. The ones that are the best bargains are usually on the bottom shelf, and again, that’s no accident.

3. Don’t return bottles and cans on the weekend. You know, unless you like standing around a sticky, stinky vestibule—usually not heated in the winter or air-conditioned in the summer—waiting while everyone in the tri-state area is also trying to return their empties. If you really want to test your patience and stamina, try doing it the first weekend day after major holiday weekend (like tomorrow)!

4. Beware generics: You get what you pay for. Aside from the price, chances are you’re not going to notice much difference between generic fabric softener and name-brand fabric softener, but when it comes to things where quality counts—like in toilet tissue or razor blades—buying the real thing matters. Actually, when it comes to buying the Real Thing (aka Coke), buying the Real Thing matters. No one wants to drink Kola-brand cola. Ditto eating Chip brand chips or Kookie brand cookies. But bread, milk, sugar, flour or basic ingredients—have at it!

5. When picking a check-out line, look for two things over line length: a young cashier and single men shopping. A young cashier, either male or female, will always go faster than an older person for two reasons: 1.) unlike older cashier “lifers,” the younger ones want to get you out of the way so they can get back to texting their friends or flirting with the opposite sex cashiers/baggers; and 2.) single men shopping almost never write checks or use coupons, two line-slowing activities. They also never check their receipts and are unlikely to question prices, change their minds on items or have the cashier call a manager over to explain why they can’t get the sale price on 70 cans of Friskies cat food in their cart when the flyer says Whiskas cat food is on sale and they both end in “s” and aren’t they the same and can’t they get the sales price anyway because even though they don’t have their store card they’ve been a loyal customer shopping there for the past 26 years and their kids used to go to the same high school together even though they are two years apart and now my Klondike bars are chocolately puddles after listening to this and the manager still says “No, sorry, the Friskies are on sale” even though their cat can only eat Friskies because that’s what the vet told them since they had the kitty c-a-n-c-e-r and oh look, there’s a cleanup at register six where I’ve slit my wrists . . .

Now go forth and shop, my friends!

 

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