I have a problem.
No, it's not with alcohol, and it's not a bitch. It's with romantic comedies.
Stop judging me for my effeminate movie tastes, we all have guilty pleasures. The problem is that this guilty pleasure causes me more pain than it does enjoyment. They are all predictable; I know that by now. Guy and girl meet under some awkward circumstances, one of them is already involved with someone, person they're involved with turns out to be an asshole, guy and girl hook up, guy and girl dramatically break up, one of them dramatically runs to the other's side to get the other back and all of it ends happily ever after. Every time. I think that might be where the problem starts.
Under normal circumstances, I'm not naive enough to think that that stuff actually exists. But by the end of the rom com of the day, when my brain is a gooey mess and my face is buried in my coat with that signature warm-and-toasty feeling, I start to think.
Where the hell are these people in real life? All writing has to be based on some fact. Some guy, somewhere in the world, must have existed at some time to set the standard for the romantic comedy heartthrob. At least one, right? The human imagination isn't that powerful. It can't create things from scratch like that... can it?
Then I need an espresso shot and a targeted mass of carbohydrates to set my mind straight.
It just isn't a good combination. My mind, hopeful, impressionable, and at its deep roots, even optimistic, depends on concepts like that. By that time, it's hopeless; Paramount Pictures has punked me again with a textbook frothy box office sweetheart.
I always leave the movie theater and remain completely taciturn on the ride home, not necessarily unwilling to speak but unable to find any words to say or any reason to say them. The reason for this, in reality, is not because I'm depressed; it's because my mind is scoping out my entire viewing area, planning to pounce on the next spotted moving object that resembles Ashton Kutcher.
Even if the resemblance is a stretch.
...A big stretch.
Oh christ, Valentine's Day is in less than a month. God help me.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Lenguas
About a year ago, when I applied to work at the friendly neighborhood grocery store, the application wanted to know what languages I spoke at the time. I checked English instinctively and then saw the next check box down, "Spanish," and a wave of pride and self-congratulation large enough to make me check that box as well washed over me. I had dreams of telling customers where the bathroom was and that the juice was in aisle 1 while my coworkers stared at me, jaws dropped, in awe of my bilingual skills.
Tops did not want me, so I never got to live out my dream of locating the juice for los hispanohablantes, but that was probably for the best. I did not realize the mistake I had made until much later.
I have not made my knowledge of Spanish a secret. It's something convenient to brag about, and most of the time, just saying a basic sentence like "Me gusta tu mochila" is enough to satiate people. Of all of the people I've shamelessly boasted to, the person who is undeniably most impressed is my mother, so I take every possible opportunity to speak Spanish when I'm speaking to her and relish the fact that A) she can't understand me and B) she doesn't care, because it proves to her that her son can do something she considers exceptional.
Yesterday, when I was in a Greek restaurant with her, I told the waitress that I wanted a side of tzatziki with my spanakopita. My ability to say these words impressed my mother beyond explanation (I didn't have the time to explain to her that I could only pronounce them because my friend works at a Greek restaurant and she taught me) and, somehow, in my mind, this translated to an opportunity to speak Spanish. My sentence was simple -- "Puedo hablar lenguas diferentes" -- and the chance for making a mistake was minimal.
Nonetheless, when my mouth opened to deliver the punch, I choked a little. I said the sentence so fast that it sounded like one word and my face turned rojo. Instantaneously, I started freaking out, looking around me to see if anyone surrounding me was speaking Spanish and trying to determine if they had heard me. My embarrassment was massive.
I thought about it for a while and determined that I was probably embarrassed because, at the end of the day, I feel fake. I know that my Spanish is tinged with a hint of my awful Western New York accent, and even though I take care to pronounce all of the vowels correctly, I can't do that fancy stuff with "t" or "rrrrr" and that gives me away. I have a nightmarish image in my mind of saying something in Spanish and looking behind me to find an entire family that was on vacation from Spain staring right back at me, coldly, judgmentally, forever exiling me from the group of people who are allowed to speak Spanish and shielding their children's ears from the horror of my speech.
I may have the ability to say "el jugo está en el primer pasillo", but I'd probably run away first. Especially if the people asking have cold, judgmental eyes and children.
Tops did not want me, so I never got to live out my dream of locating the juice for los hispanohablantes, but that was probably for the best. I did not realize the mistake I had made until much later.
I have not made my knowledge of Spanish a secret. It's something convenient to brag about, and most of the time, just saying a basic sentence like "Me gusta tu mochila" is enough to satiate people. Of all of the people I've shamelessly boasted to, the person who is undeniably most impressed is my mother, so I take every possible opportunity to speak Spanish when I'm speaking to her and relish the fact that A) she can't understand me and B) she doesn't care, because it proves to her that her son can do something she considers exceptional.
Yesterday, when I was in a Greek restaurant with her, I told the waitress that I wanted a side of tzatziki with my spanakopita. My ability to say these words impressed my mother beyond explanation (I didn't have the time to explain to her that I could only pronounce them because my friend works at a Greek restaurant and she taught me) and, somehow, in my mind, this translated to an opportunity to speak Spanish. My sentence was simple -- "Puedo hablar lenguas diferentes" -- and the chance for making a mistake was minimal.
Nonetheless, when my mouth opened to deliver the punch, I choked a little. I said the sentence so fast that it sounded like one word and my face turned rojo. Instantaneously, I started freaking out, looking around me to see if anyone surrounding me was speaking Spanish and trying to determine if they had heard me. My embarrassment was massive.
I thought about it for a while and determined that I was probably embarrassed because, at the end of the day, I feel fake. I know that my Spanish is tinged with a hint of my awful Western New York accent, and even though I take care to pronounce all of the vowels correctly, I can't do that fancy stuff with "t" or "rrrrr" and that gives me away. I have a nightmarish image in my mind of saying something in Spanish and looking behind me to find an entire family that was on vacation from Spain staring right back at me, coldly, judgmentally, forever exiling me from the group of people who are allowed to speak Spanish and shielding their children's ears from the horror of my speech.
I may have the ability to say "el jugo está en el primer pasillo", but I'd probably run away first. Especially if the people asking have cold, judgmental eyes and children.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Eight, Eight, Before It's Too Late
Yesterday, as I was fumbling for the fast-forward button on the remote to skip the ads in a DVR'd episode of The Suze Orman Show, an ad came on for a local gym. People were smiling unrealistically wide for the camera while using treadmills and watching what looked like the morning news as a cheerful female voice boasted the gym's early open time.
I'm paraphrasing, forgive me:
"Yeah, it's really great that the gym opens so early. Most of the people who are in here get up at 5 and are in bed by 8 so this is the only chance they have to work out."
Getting in bed by 8 is what elementary schoolers and really old people do. The only other excuse is mononucleosis. It is not what functional, normal, middle-aged people do. My brain insisted upon this repeatedly as concrete fact.
Then I thought about it for a second and realized that I know little about middle-aged people, less about normal people and nothing about functional people. The time I go to bed is determined by the time that my eyelid droops to the point where I can no longer see the top of the computer screen. This does not ever happen by 8 PM and would probably not be considered by many to be the behavior of a functional person.
I just can't get past the idea of how boring that life would be. How do you do anything? How do you watch The Suze Orman Show? You don't. Unless you DVR it, but that's not as fun, because Suze's brand of insanity is much more satisfying when it's late enough for you to laugh at just about anything.
I have to wonder, though, if that's the reason for the unrealistically wide smiles in the advertisement. Does getting more sleep make a person happier? There are a lot of things I might do if I got more sleep -- I'd get to school on time, I'd be less cranky in the morning, and I'd spend less time writing blog posts about sleep. Maybe I'd do my homework earlier, work out more often, eat healthier, find a cure for cancer, save the world, invent the Presto Change-o Gay Ray I've been dreaming of for so long and fire it at Joseph Gordon-Levitt and be happy for the rest of my life. None of it matters because I am not physiologically permitted to go to sleep before my eyes begin caving in.
I can't really remember a time in which I wasn't this way. Even as far back as when I had that old creaky wooden bedpost with cupboards that faced the door (I section off epochs of my life based on when the arrangement of my room furniture changed), I used my cheap-o Mad Catz screen light to play Pokemon games on my Game Boy Advance until the obscure hours of the morning. Now I play Scrabble and watch CNBC's late-night programming.
I might always be tired, but I will always have one of the larger vocabularies in the room and I know not to ever take money out of my 401(k) once I have one because Suze told me so. Ever.
I'm paraphrasing, forgive me:
"Yeah, it's really great that the gym opens so early. Most of the people who are in here get up at 5 and are in bed by 8 so this is the only chance they have to work out."
Getting in bed by 8 is what elementary schoolers and really old people do. The only other excuse is mononucleosis. It is not what functional, normal, middle-aged people do. My brain insisted upon this repeatedly as concrete fact.
Then I thought about it for a second and realized that I know little about middle-aged people, less about normal people and nothing about functional people. The time I go to bed is determined by the time that my eyelid droops to the point where I can no longer see the top of the computer screen. This does not ever happen by 8 PM and would probably not be considered by many to be the behavior of a functional person.
I just can't get past the idea of how boring that life would be. How do you do anything? How do you watch The Suze Orman Show? You don't. Unless you DVR it, but that's not as fun, because Suze's brand of insanity is much more satisfying when it's late enough for you to laugh at just about anything.
I have to wonder, though, if that's the reason for the unrealistically wide smiles in the advertisement. Does getting more sleep make a person happier? There are a lot of things I might do if I got more sleep -- I'd get to school on time, I'd be less cranky in the morning, and I'd spend less time writing blog posts about sleep. Maybe I'd do my homework earlier, work out more often, eat healthier, find a cure for cancer, save the world, invent the Presto Change-o Gay Ray I've been dreaming of for so long and fire it at Joseph Gordon-Levitt and be happy for the rest of my life. None of it matters because I am not physiologically permitted to go to sleep before my eyes begin caving in.
I can't really remember a time in which I wasn't this way. Even as far back as when I had that old creaky wooden bedpost with cupboards that faced the door (I section off epochs of my life based on when the arrangement of my room furniture changed), I used my cheap-o Mad Catz screen light to play Pokemon games on my Game Boy Advance until the obscure hours of the morning. Now I play Scrabble and watch CNBC's late-night programming.
I might always be tired, but I will always have one of the larger vocabularies in the room and I know not to ever take money out of my 401(k) once I have one because Suze told me so. Ever.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Home Sweet Home
From as far back as I can remember up until a couple years ago, my mom had a garden craft out on the lawn with a "down-home" style boy on one side, disturbingly domestic-looking girl on the other, and my family's last name prominently displayed in the middle. This garden craft made my efforts to hide the fact that I was a young boy living in a pink house futile, as anyone who walked within a one-mile radius of the sign's black font on wood painted cream white knew who lived inside.
The craft was intended to be a warm object with appreciable sentimental value -- one of those pieces that "makes a house a home." But I never liked it. To my mother, it was a symbol of love, peace, and clarity; to me, it was a glaring symbol of mediocrity. It appeared to me as if an artist sat down one day and pondered how to best capture what it looks like when life gets boring.
A flood happened in my village a couple years ago, and its waters swept away the girl, seemingly permanently. My mother spent months discovering lost garden decorations buried in the garden, some ours and some belonging to the neighbors, but the girl had escaped permanently.
My mother lamented, but I quietly cheered. The girl had moved on. I fantasized about her eloping with a burly garden gnome, or maybe she was alone, trying to rediscover the excitement life had to offer before she got married to a boy in a straw hat and hitched herself to a cream white wooden sign to be ridiculously exhibited in the garden of a middle-class American family.
The truth is that I'm afraid of the phrase I used to give this post a title. "Home Sweet Home" doesn't conjure up any warm images of fireplaces and tree swings. I imagine an endless winter in which the only things to get up for are work and bill payment deadlines. That life terrifies me.
It's enough for many people. Making a family, buying a modest home, covering it in pumpkin-scented candles in autumn and windsocks with pastel blue skies and puffy white clouds in spring.
I can't imagine how.
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