Work

I don’t want to say much about my current job, lest you think I am one of those people who believes the NASA lunar landings were actually filmed in a Hollywood studio and directed by Woody Allen (with a heavily made-up Diane Keaton playing the role of Neil Armstrong), Alfred Hitchcock (making a cameo appearance as a moon rock), Erich Segal (who so loved the experience he never said he was sorry for engaging in such chicanery), Stanley Kubrick (who repurposed some of the footage from 2001: A Space Odyssey and initially offered Hal a cameo appearance as a moon rock but then had to edit him out because he kept trying to crush the fake astronauts), Bob Fosse (that was the moon landing where a line of chorus girls danced across the Sulpicius Gallus crater), and Francis Ford Coppola (who couldn’t refuse NASA’s offer, which was headed at the time by a close friend of the Corleone Family, and who was “persuaded” to offer Marlon Brando and Al Pacino cameo appearances as moon rocks).

So all I will say is that I have begun counting down the 2,065 days until I can officially retire. And hopefully any suspicions I have that the Department is scheming to disappear me far before that date are as groundless as the rumours that Elvis is still alive and gyrating in the lounge of a seniors’ home in Memphis.

Things I like about myself

1.

[Brief aside: I am not trying to be cute/funny/glib or to elicit outpourings of “Oh, but you’re so xx and xx and xx and xx and really, really xx” (although please don’t dam any such outpourings on my account :) ). I really just don’t like myself all that much.]

That’s what I wrote last night. I was going to post it, and then thought I should sit on it for a bit. So I did—although only figuratively, so you don’t need to worry about where this post has been—and offer these afterthoughts.

A few years ago I decided to try online dating. I never got to the point of actually creating a profile, as a result of a bunch of personality traits I don’t like (namely, timidity, indecision, propensity to procrastinate, and laziness). But before my timidity/indecision/propensity to procrastinate/laziness kicked in, I asked several friends which four adjectives they would use to describe me, from a list provided on the dating site.  

One lost the list and asked me to resend it. I became impatient—something I don’t like about myself: I am quick to impatience—and didn’t bother responding. Another wrote, “caring, generous, reliable and funny.” I was offended (another thing I don’t like about myself: I am easily offended). Reliable??? Why did she choose that over “creative” or any of the other more sexy descriptors on tap??? Another replied, “intelligent, thoughtful, creative, and affectionate.” I was dissatisfied with this set as well (yet another thing I don’t like about myself: I am never satisfied.) Doesn’t she think I’m funny? Yet another responded that I’m creative, generous, intelligent, loyal, articulate, respectful, funny, thoughtful, genuine, reliable, and perceptive. I was frustrated by that friend’s inability to follow instructions (yes, another thing I don’t like about myself: I become frustrated by the silliest things). 

This morning, however, the sight of a woman and child who I pass almost every day on my way to work reminded me of one thing I do like about myself: my kindness. This woman always appears sad, both in her facial expression and in the way she walks. I have never seen her talking with her child or swinging arms with her. The child is young, and seems subdued. I am convinced their life is difficult. I try to look the woman in the eyes and give her a big smile when we approach each other, in the hopes that this makes her feel like someone cares.

Today was the first day, however, that they were walking on the opposite sidewalk. I began to  wonder if my smiling was weirding her out, similar to Simon Cowell’s reaction to this organist (performance starts at about 2:06).(One final thing I dislike about myself, although the list could go on and on: I often feel socially awkward and worry that that makes people feel uncomfortable when they’re around me. It’s probably good this is a virtual community!) 

Old lovers

I had what was supposed to be a dinner-and-movie outing with an old lover the other night. Or at least that was the plan. This old—in the sense of both “former” and chronological age—lover was not where he was supposed to be at 7 p.m. Nor was he at location B (where I suggested we go for dinner), or C (where I originally said I would meet him) or D (the movie theatre). I walked to locations A, B, C and D several times. Finally, I located him at A. After a confusing back and forth about where he had been while I had been at A, B, C and D, I concluded that he had been at B, C, D and A. We went to the restaurant. I resigned myself to the fact that we were not going to have time to both eat and go to the movie.

As we were perusing the menu, he mentioned that he wasn’t very hungry, as he had already eaten dinner. Then he started pulling out the condiments from the hanging shelf by the table and inspected them bottle by bottle, turning each one over and over in his hands. I tried to engage him in a conversation about what he had actually eaten that day, but I could not get him to elaborate beyond “vegetables.”

The first instance when I remember feeling alarmed about his cognition was one morning some years ago now when I woke up, put the kettle on to boil water for my ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL morning coffee, and noticed a sticky note stuck to the exterior of the back door. I went out and read this: “Sorry I missed dinner last night. <name>”

I hadn’t had dinner plans with him the previous night. I noticed his car parked on the road near the end of my driveway. I got dressed, still without having had a sip of my ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL morning coffee, and went over to the car. He was asleep inside it. I knocked on the window. He woke up and seemed utterly confused about our lack of dinner plans the previous night, the note, and why he was parked on the street and sleeping in his car. This may partly have been because he hadn’t yet had any ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL morning coffee, but only partly. 

In the years since, I have myself become confused when I try to sort out what is real and what is not. He has (or maybe not) been arrested at the liquor store because he forget to pay for a bottle of wine. He has (or maybe not) caused a flood in his condo because he turned on the shower and forgot to turn it off, and is now liable for tens of thousands of dollars in damage to the units on the floor below him. He has (or maybe not) been banned from at least one restaurant because of inappropriate behaviour. He is (or maybe not) fine to drive and live on his own.

If there is one thing to be thankful for, it is this: the personality changes that I assume are the result of Alzheimer’s—he was diagnosed a couple of years ago—have made him a nicer person. At his cognitive peak, he was often sardonic and disparaging of others. Now he is child-like and curious, and smiles a lot. In contrast, a friend’s father has just been kicked out of the nursing home where he resided because he physically attacked his roommate. He used to be so gentle, she said.

There will be no neat and tidy ending for my old lover or my friend or her father, so I won’t attempt one here.

Murder Most (Faux) Fowl

Early in December I received notice that Christmas dinner was to be a murderous affair. A week later I received a formal invitation by mail, instructing me to show up as Agnes Paige-Turner, the sister of the murder victim and a somewhat eccentric, aging, batty bohemian. I suspect I was being typecast. This feeling was reinforced when I easily procured the suggested costume items—flowery blouse, plain skirt, sturdy brogues, lacy shoulder scarf, and large brooch—in-house. (Well, I don’t actually own a pair of “sturdy brogues,” but I do have Crocs. I have always fantasied about wearing them to dinner and since Agnes was described as the “green-fingered” one of the family, this seemed the perfect opportunity to indulge my fantasy.) [Brief aside: I have never heard the expression “green-fingered”; was this idiomatic confusion more evidence of Agnes’s battiness, I wonder?]

I was under the impression that a murder mystery dinner would take place over dinner. This was apparently a batty delusion of Agnes’s, for this one took place during the preprandial cocktail hour. Unfortunately, the preprandial cocktail hour (actually, preprandial cocktail two hours) coincided with dinner-making hour (actually, dinner-making two hours). So, whilst imbibing gin punch that was made using a recipe from the 1920s—the period during which the fictional murder actually took place—Agnes (I am now in character) had to continually sashay between the cocktail gathering and her “kitchen” in the back room. [Brief aside: Is it actually possible to sashay in Crocs and a plain skirt? If you are in the “nay” camp on this, please feel free to substitute “clomp” for “sashay” in the preceding narrative.]

An additional “kitchen” in the back room was necessitated by the fact that three of the ten suspects were vegetarians, and the tofurkey had to be cooked at a different temperature than the real turkey that seven of the ten carnivorous suspects were to consume (thus putting them at great risk of salmonella, as Agnes repeatedly reminded them). The “kitchen” in the back room consisted of a toaster oven that was large enough—barely—to accommodate a tofurkey. There was no counter space to be had, so the toaster oven was on the floor. There was also barely any light to be had, so rather than rooting around in the dark or relying on echolocation, every time Agnes sashayed/clomped her way to check on the tofurkey she had to take off her felted wool hat with the giant felted wool flower attached—which seemed like something a somewhat eccentric, aging, “green-fingered,” batty bohemian would wear—and put on my ex-sister-in-law’s  bike helmet (I have sashayed/clomped briefly out of character), which has a very bright LED headlight attached to it. All the to-ing and fro-ing and headgear on-ing and off-ing caused Agnes (yes, I'm back in character) to miss out on much of the cocktail two-hour conviviality and suspect grilling, and she was truly clueless as to who might have killed her sister when it came time to out the murderer. 

It also turned out that the toaster oven that seemed large enough—barely—to accommodate a tofurkey actually wasn’t, or at least it wasn’t large enough, barely or otherwise, to accommodate a tofurkey in such a way that the faux fowl wouldn’t become browned to the point of blackness and overcooked to the point of uncarveability (and hence inedibility). (I’m sure—it’s me again—some amongst you would declare, stridently, that tofu is inedible even without being browned to the point of blackness or overcooked to the point of uncarveability. This is a felony fallacy.) 

So Agnes—I’m not sure who I am at this point, due to the over-imbibing of gin punch between this paragraph and the preceding one—the somewhat eccentric, aging, “green-fingered,” batty bohemian, became Agnes, the somewhat eccentric, aging, “green-fingered,” batty bohemian killer cook. And the tale of the tofurkey’s untimely demise became so infamous that the movie rights were snapped up by Netflix—as a result of which an aging, batty PETA is now circulating a petition urging viewers to kill their subscriptions—and there are rumours that a screenplay featuring the infamous character of Miss Marple is in the works and an aging, batty Tom Cruise is being considered for the role, causing Agatha Christie fans (and non-scientologists) everywhere to cry, “Murder Most (Faux) Fowl!”

[Brief aside: I promise that none of my future posts will ramble to quite this extent. And I further promise to severely restrict my use of brief asides.]