Free Doughnut Day!

My brother is here and we were up at the tile store all the way in Dunwoody, which we crawled through traffic to get to.

I happened to mention that it was free doughnut day, because we like doughnuts and hey, free doughnuts!

But he didn’t seem moved about it, so I dropped it.

We went to dinner and we’re back home now.

So I was sitting in my pre-casket and he was sitting on the couch and I said, “Now I want my free doughnut.”

And here is what he said, “I thought you were lying about the free doughnuts.”

Now why the hell would I lie about free doughnuts?

Puzzles

I had three friends several years ago and things went sourish.

Actually, it was just one of them that went sour, but she took the other ones with her, and, well, you know how things are.

Every now and again, I wonder what the tipping point was because we were good friends, or at least (as it turns out) good acquaintances – normal friend things: grilling out at each others’ houses, movies, dinner, that sort of thing.

A week or so ago, I was sitting at the red light at the corner of Piedmont and Monroe, watching the people at the gas station there, coming in and out of the little store, and it all became clear to me.

The day it all went south, we had had a tennis match. It was hotter than the hammered-down hinges of Hell, and we’d been out there from 10 until 4, and we’d all had three-set matches. We were planning to go directly to IKEA afterwards.

On the way there, we stopped at that gas station, and sour girl said, “does anybody want anything from in there?”

I piped up from the back seat and said, “Yes. I’d like a Three Musketeers and a Coke in a can, please, and whatever anybody else wants,” and handed over a twenty.

I remember distinctly that this caused some consternation, because she said, “Seriously? You want something?” and I said, “Well, you asked, and I’m hot and thirsty and a little low.”

She went in and got it, but she was pissy about it.

So I guess it was a courtesy offer and I was supposed to have the courtesy to decline. But I am not a mindreader, despite the fact that I have brown hair and brown eyes.

And anyway, I did not know it was bad manners to take someone up on an offer.

I do not understand courtesy offers and courtesy invitations, though I am aware that people make them all the time. As far as I can tell the people you don’t want to say yes always do.

Now that I’ve figured it all out, I’m right tickled with myself.

You should read this post.

I have no idea who this woman is, but you should read this post.

The beauty of the Internet

On Monday, someone set off some bombs at the Boston Marathon.

Now it is Friday, and thanks to the wonders of modern telecommunications, I and 300 million of my best friends are all watching together as the Boston PD, the Massachusetts State Police, the FBI, SWAT, and various other agencies are on the verge of arresting who we hope is the second suspect in that bombing.

A man is hiding in a boat in a backyard. He’s in there and he’s alive. Scott Pelley just asked (more or less), “We’ve been watching this for about an hour now. Is it safe to say if this were nothing, we wouldn’t still be here?”

The first time I remember this happening – this overwhelming feeling of we are all in this together apart – was back in 1990, during the Persian Gulf War, which we all called Desert Storm.

I remember that I was sitting on the floor in my closet, sorting my shoes, talking on the phone with my friend Michael, and we both had televisions on and heard, simultaneously, George Bush proclaim, “The liberation of Kuwait has begun.”

And just like that, everything was different. He came over and we sat and watched the war on television like it was a baseball game. Everybody did, every day.

Of course, we didn’t have the internet then, so we didn’t know what our friends across town were thinking, let alone people around the world.

Now we do know, and it’s overwhelming, coming at me all day, every day. The grief is unspeakable, the horror unimaginable.

Things move so quickly now that as soon as suspects were named, there was a statement from their father, in Chechnya.

Boston was shut down in a matter of seconds because social media allows that.

And then the old-fashioned door-to-door search began.

I and people all over the place are watching on television and computers and iPads and phones what’s going on.

Earlier today, police asked that people stop tweeting their locations, because the remaining suspect might be using the information to elude them. We take in information faster than we can regurgitate it, it seems.

Now we are all transfixed on a Google Maps image of a boat with a cover on it in Watertown, me and all my friends.

We are all in this together apart. 

Strange days, indeed

The thing about knowing that you’re not going to have a job is knowing that you’re not going to have a job.
One day. Not today, or tomorrow, or next week, but, you know, one day.

It’s kinda like circling the airport for hours and hours and hours, waiting to be cleared for landing – you know you’re going to be, eventually, but meanwhile, the little light is on that says you have to stay in your seat and you’re a little panicky about maybe having to go to the bathroom.

I’ve been doing some things to prepare for my upcoming vocational dislocation – sensible, practical things, like working on refinancing the house so my monthly note will be considerably lower, getting a homeowner’s warranty because the refrigerator is making a noise that doesn’t sound good at all.

I’ve also been working on my resumé. I have friends who have looked at it and told me things like, “that sounds old-fashioned,” and “couldn’t you find a better way to say this?”

The last time I put my resumé out, there was no internet. Not available to the general public, anyway. I had to type it up on one of the very first Macs and print it out on paper and fax it to people, and then follow it with a “hard copy” in the US Mail, along with a nice cover letter.

This time, because of the internet, I know people all over the place and am able to seek advice and gather information I would never have had access to before. It’s a lot less lonely than it could have been. I’m terribly fortunate to have so many people to call on.

Upheaval

The boss of me has put the company on the market.

It might be a few weeks or it might be several months, but soon I’m going to be loose in the world, untethered for the first time in my whole life.

I’ve been tied to deadlines of the work variety since I was 14.

I am, of course, scared to death. I have bills to pay and obligations to meet.

I am also crazily excited. Publishing, as I know it, doesn’t really exist any more, so I can’t go home again.

I started tending to some grown folks’ bidness today, getting my affairs in order to make the transition as easy as possible, and that felt good and right.

So. There you go. It’s all out in the open and we can talk about it.

Revisionist history and hysteria and outright lies

There ensued on Facebook, which is a seething cauldron of evil, a conversation which I started with a seemingly innocuous remark about the Pope resigning.

I noted the resignation of il Papá because there has not been a papal resignation in 598 years and I figure it’s significant in the scope of things.

I think being the pope is a big damn deal, and I’m not even Catholic. I don’t believe in the infallibility of the pope, I don’t believe in the subjugation of women and homosexuals (which term I shamelessly plagiarized from Lynn), I don’t believe that the body of Christ is to be found in the host when you take communion, and I believe in contraception like I invented it.

Being the pope is like being on the Supreme Court or in the mafia – you don’t just give two weeks notice without it having required a lot of thought and prayer and consideration. But this pope did just that the other day.

Now. There are a lot of people who don’t like Pope Benedict. He looks like the crypt keeper. He’s very rigid in his beliefs. He headed up the inquisition department, for crying out loud. Pope John Paul II memorabilia is still far more popular than Pope Benedict memorabilia. Not everybody can be pretty and popular.

Pope Benedict was a member of Hitler Youth during his youth. As were an estimated 80-90% of other German boys who were indoctrinated into the movement.

I do not intend or mean to defend the Nazis or Hitler. I mean to say that at 14, Joseph Ratzinger had no choice. He was 14, a child.

I certainly did not expect a judgment of his life in a war-torn country at 14.

What I said was:

This on Ratzinger’s affiliation with Hitler Youth: “The German-born leader of the Catholic Church grew up under the Third Reich, and like all boys of his era, was compelled to join the Hitler Youth as a teenager.”

I’m not a fan of the Pope, or the idea of a Pope, or, indeed, of Catholicism.

I’m also not a fan of judging the man for something that he, by most accounts, had no choice about, aside from death for himself and his family. In fact, I’m just not a fan of judgment. I’ve been kind of a shit from time to time myself, just not of the magnitude of being a member of Hitler Youth.

Because, you know, I’m not judgy. I’m a lot of terrible things, but judgy isn’t one of them. I’ve got plenty on my plate without having to sit in judgment too.

What I touched off was an avalanche of poorly thought-out and edited remarks from one (former) friend, one who is the last person I ever expected to get up on her high horse and judge someone else, considering and all.

But that was all I had to say about it, that I didn’t care for the judgy bit. Then Lynn made a comment to her, addressing the historical accuracy of the comments, and how that might affect her opinion.

Other things were said (by me) and then I shuffled off to bed.

I woke up yesterday morning to a shit storm of accusations that Lynn had not done anything to help in her hour of need.

In fact, NO ONE KNEW SHE WAS IN NEED, because she admittedly hid the situation from everybody, acting as though everything was cool.

What touched off the “hour of need” was a series of events that may or may not be true because now I don’t know who’s lying, but somebody sure is.

Which, you know, that’s your business, if you want the world to think your homelife is grand, then go on with your bad self. But if you want the Southern Ladies Auxiliary to help you,  you’d better be letting us know you need us to charge up our brooms.

There was a great deal of ugliness toward Lynn, who was called a pansy.

Lynn is not a pansy. If Lynn is a flower at all, she is one of those giant sunflowers you can stand under for shade and not get melanoma, and if it rains, she’ll make sure you don’t get wet, and she’s pretty. If Lynn had known there was a problem, Lynn would have handled it in a hot hurry.

So bitchery was committed and then deleted.

And I was called judgmental.

And I am here to tell you right now, if I were inclined to pass judgment, I sure as hell could have done it over far more local and immediate things than her opinions on the pope.

So now, it’s Lynn’s fault for not “doing enough” all those years. Part of the whole shebang was that Catholics believe in martyrdom. Well, sister, you’ve got it down pat. Put some wheels on that cross and ride it like a skateboard.

And also, sistah, if you’re reading this, you can bitch all you want to, but you called me.

Good luck in your future endeavors.