You’re never too old to get your feelings hurt

Carolyn J. Rose

Over the years I’ve developed a fairly thick skin. Things that once sent me racing to my room in a flood of tears now rankle for a few minutes and merit a philosophical shrug instead of a 14-tissue pity party.

At 5, not being invited to a birthday party was the end of the world. At 15, being dumped by the boy of my (misguided) dreams was emotional Armageddon. At 25, knowing my mother-in-law from my first marriage didn’t care for me was more insult than injury. At 35, disastrous dating experiences were revised from lamentable to laughable within a few hours after the events. At 45, taking unjustified heat from a boss made me disappointed (in said boss) rather than distressed. At 55, rejections slips piling up from agents and editors made me more determined than dismayed.

But, a few months short of 65, I found myself in a snit over the tone of a letter from the government, a letter I received because I was honest and proactive, because I acknowledged ownership of a debt before it came due and arranged to make payments.

You’d think those are qualities that would be recognized and reinforced. You’d think there would be the words “thank you” somewhere among the bold type and bullet points in the letter.

But those words weren’t there.

Not that I could see.

Unless it was in teeny tiny type.

Anyway, here’s what happened. To my surprise and delight, sales of my e-books have been brisk—not fantastic, but brisk enough that I will exceed the earnings limit set by Social Security and have to pay money back next year. Wanting to avoid getting a bill and having to work out a payment plan, I went to the nearest Social Security office and explained the situation, making a point to tell the very helpful man behind the counter that my monthly income was unpredictable and I wanted to set a total for the year higher than I anticipated in order to cover my financial butt and pay homage to optimism and possibility.

VHM did the math and arranged for my next few Social Security payments to be withheld in order to balance my unexpected income. I thanked him and went home, feeling proud of my forward thinking.

A few days later, the letter arrived. “We paid you more than we should have,” it said. “You owe us,” it said. “We must withhold your benefits,” it said. “If you disagree,” it said, “you have the right to appeal.”

Disagree? Appeal?

This was my idea. Did they think I changed my mind? Did they think I’m suffering from short-term memory loss?

I was still ranting when Mike came home. Pulling up a chair, he listened to me vent, keeping a straight face until I concluded with, “I should get a letter thanking me for stepping up.”

At that he stood, adopted his “poor baby” expression, and patted me on the head.

“It’s a bureaucracy,” he said. “They don’t have a letter like that.”

Well, maybe they should.

I'm soooo not laughing !!!

I like to think I have a sense of humor about myself. After all, as a tubby kid growing up in small-town Oregon, I had to learn to use humor to deflect the constant ribbing (bullying in today’s context) heaped on me by my classmates.

My 42-`year profession as an on-air radio personality involved a lot of poking holes in the balloons of the pretentious and (inadvertently) ridiculous. Movies like Waiting for Guffman and the original The Producers leave me gasping for breath, tears of hilarity streaming down my cheeks and into my mouth.

That’s why I found myself wondering why, while sitting through 6 episodes of Vancouveria, Brighton West’s spoof of life in “the Couv,” I could only produce a few wry smiles and a possible chuckle. (This last is in the process of being verified by the National Board of Giggles and Guffaws.)

Was my humor gland malfunctioning,? Did I need to find a donor for a future transplant?

Here’s the primary reason Vancouveria  wasn’t funny. While Portlandia, the spoof of Stumptown, takes the quirks of its downtown hipper-than-thou crowd and exaggerates them for fun and profit, there’s still a tone of fondness in the humor. Sure, some of the people depicted are absurd and hopelessly woo-woo. But there’s still a sense that what they’re doing is motivated by noble intentions cranked up to 11 on the 10-point humor amplifier.  Sure, they insist on eating free-range chicken that has 50 square miles to roam, but still, free range chicken is a life-affirming concept, right? Allergy awareness parade? Sensitivity gone mad, but even if absurd, still, kind of benevolent.  

Compared to Portlandia’s nudge-nudge wink-wink approach, Vancouveria is, in a hyphenated word, mean-spirited.  The people who live across the river from an “enlightened” Portland are hyper-patriotic borderline bigots who fuel their families on a steady diet of Big Macs and “Bloomin’ Onions”.  They delight in the right-wing propaganda generated by the likes of Lars Larson, Rush Limbaugh and Fox News. There is nothing to see and nothing to do in Vancouver. We all drive gas-guzzling SUVs and revel in spewing poisonous exhaust fumes.

Portlandia comes across as local folks poking fun at themselves. We’re laughing with them. Vancouveria feels like a Portland hipster (West?) scolding the sullen masses who dare to oppose plans to build an iconic bridge across the Columbia and foot their fair share of someone’s high-concept vision.

Vancouveria feels mean-spirited and snide. At no point do you sense fondness for its subject matter. I could have overlooked this if one important criteria had been met. It needed to be funny and, with the exception of a few moments, it wasn’t. The jokes were badly crafted,  the punch lines half baked, and the situations reeked of cheap-shot cologne.

Vancouver is still fair game for satire and even ridicule. But simply basing a skit on ugly stereotypes that are, for the most part, not true, aren’t the material of belly laughs. 

Fuh-gedda-bout-it, Inc.

When you’re retired, and living on a fixed income, you’re always looking for an angle to make a few more bucks. Carolyn and I have stumbled on what we think is the perfect scam—er, um, opportunity—to get someone to pay us for our unique talent.

We discovered this talent during a conversation about the cancellation of the television show Harry’s Law. I, and my partner in crime-writing and co-parent of the world’s thickest dinky dogs, loved this show. Kathy Bates played an irascible, rude, brilliant, and funny lawyer named Harry Corn, who walked away from big money doing civil litigation to assemble a legal firm stacked with misfits, head cases, and windmill tilters who took on lost causes and bizarre legal challenges. CJ and I found the show thought-provoking, dramatic, and often laugh-out-loud hilarious. So, of course, NBC gave it the axe.

After sifting through our past, we discovered a common thread. Most of the television shows we thought were high quality and worth setting time aside to watch never saw the light of season two.

Firefly, Joss Whedon’s tongue-in-cheek space-adventure show combined unforgettable characters with witty dialogue and intriguing plots. Fox decided 13 episodes were plenty, thank you very much.

Slings and Arrows, a Canadian Broadcast Company show about a wacky repertory theater troupe in a small Canadian city was snort-cola-through-your-nose funny. Apparently few people like having bubbles stream through their proboscis because it bit the dust after a season. At least we don’t have to feel bad about torpedoing it by becoming viewers. It was already gone by the time we got tipped to it and rented DVDs.

Other shows we’ve liked enough to put on our viewing calendar, but didn’t last long include Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip, Black Adder, from Britain, and the Americanized version of Prime Suspect.

Here’s where the financial opportunity comes in. Since Carolyn and I have an unerring ability to pick shows that are doomed to end quickly, we could save the networks a ton of money. We’ll set up a consultancy called Fuh-gedda-bout-it, Inc.

For a reasonable yearly retainer (We’re thinking something in the neighborhood of $50,000), we’d offer the networks a chance to send us television pilots and/or early episodes. We’d watch and make a list of our favorites. We’d then email this list to the networks and they could cancel those shows without shelling out the millions more it would take to produce an entire season. Our $50,000 would be chump-change compared to what they’d spend in production and promotion costs.

For another small fee, we would agree to tell them which shows we truly loathed, so they could focus their advertising dollars on those productions.

Fuh-gedda-bout-it, Inc. is number 4567 in a series of 5000 of can’t fail get-rich-quick schemes. For only $39.95 we’ll send you a complete list. (The list itself is # 4568)

JOBS--LOVE THEM OR (WISH YOU COULD) LEAVE THEM.

By Bubba and Max

 

 Max: I heard Dad say he’s glad he’s retired. What does that mean?

Bubba: It means he doesn’t have a job anymore.

Max: Oh. So that’s why he’s around the house so much. (Scratches his ear) What’s a job?

Bubba: It’s, uh, something you have to do.

Max: Like go outside and chase the squirrel? And do tricks? And poop?

Bubba: Uh, I think there’s more to it, but I heard Dad say that at some jobs you get pooped on.

Max: (Pulling back his lips) Eeeewww.

Bubba: (Rolling her eyes) Not with real poop, you dope. Mom calls that a figure of speech. It means that bosses make you do stuff that you don’t like or that seems like a waste of time.

Max: What are bosses?

Bubba: People who are in charge and tell you to do things.

Max: (Jumping on his hind legs and twirling) Like Mom tells me to dance like this so I can get a dog cookie?

Bubba: Show off!  But people do things bosses say so they can get money, not dog cookies.

Max: What’s money?

Bubba: (Sighing and curling into a fetal ball.) That green paper stuff and metal stuff in Dad’s pocket. He uses it to pay to for our house and electricity and food and dog chews.

Max: Dog chews! I love dog chews.

Bubba: I know. (Baring her teeth and snarling) You ate mine yesterday when I wasn’t looking.

Max: Well, you shoulda been looking. (licks himself) What happens to people who don’t like their jobs?

Bubba: Sometimes they find another one.

Max: Like I found that dead snake on the road? (Runs in a circle) That was way cool when Mom screamed.

Bubba: (Puts her paws over her ears.) She broke a window in the next block.

Max: And she jumped really, really high.

Bubba: Yeah, who knew a 64-year-old woman could hurdle a hedge Back to jobs. You have to look to find a job. And sometimes there aren’t any.

Max: Like in the winter when I can’t find any snakes because they all hibernate or something?

Bubba: Exactly like that only totally different. Could we stop talking about snakes?

Max: Okay. Wanta talk about frogs?

Bubba: No.

Max: Bugs?

Bubba: No. I wish, for once, you could stay on the topic.

Max: What’s a topic?

Bubba: Hell-oh-oh. The thing we’re talking about. That’s the topic.

Max: Bugs? Frogs? Snakes? Dog chews?

Bubba: No, jobs.

Max: Oh. What about them?

Bubba: Never mind, you’re too thick to get it. (Squeezes eyes shut and sighs)

Max: I’m not thick. Feelth my nothe. I’m feelingth fine.

Bubba: We’re done here.

Max: But I thought you wanted to talk about jobs.

Bubba: Not anymore.

Max: You sure?

Bubba: (Snapping at him) Go away. I'm napping.

Max: Is napping your new job?

Bubba: No. Yes. Okay. Yes, right now it’s my job.

Max: Then what’s my job?

Bubba: Leaving me alone.

Max: But I—

Bubba: Look. Outside.

Max: What?

Bubba: Squirrel!

That's Just Wrong

We are a divided people: Republican versus Democrat; conservative versus liberal; urban versus rural; west versus east versus south versus north; boogie fever versus boot-scooting; real mayonnaise versus Miracle Whip; toilet paper over the top versus bottom of the roll. It seems sometimes that we Americans have very little in common.

As Ben Franklin famously said, at the signing of the Declaration of Independence: “We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.” With that in mind, I propose that there is common ground, if we just put our minds to it and think about the everyday events, people and situations about whom we can chant in unison; THAT’S JUST WRONG.

To put my money where my mouth is (which may entail several visits to the ATM since I have a biiiig mouth), I offer the following suggestions. You’re invited to add your own through the “comment” feature of this blog. In no particular order: 

·       Clothing, hair styling or accessories on dogs, cats, gerbils, snakes or chickens. My wife just had our Maltese, Max, decked out with a “faux-hawk.” hair do, sprayed in place by the groomer. Not only is this freakish, but it assaults the dignity and status of the animal. Already, the backyard squirrels have begun a campaign of taunting that is sure to leave this already neurotic critter with lasting nightmares. Another negative is that the reputation I’ve gained from neighborhood passers-by on our daily dog walks as a closeted gay man because of the little, fluffy white dog on the end of my leash can only be intensified by this “do.” Maybe I should just give up and dress like the leather-clad cop in The Village People.

              Other related no-no’s include matching dog/owner outfits, dog or cat “bling” and spandex bicycle shorts on Irish Setters. 

    

·       Any product that claims, in it’s advertising, that it will “change your life.” Let’s be clear. Digital nose-hair clippers, magic pillows, exercise programs involving bungee cords and salsa music, investment schemes that promise to triple your money with no risk and bringing 12,000 satellite channels into your home for only $39.95 a month will NOT, I repeat NOT change your life. The reason is simple. The only thing truly capable of changing your life is you, with a few exceptions. Those are (a) Getting hit by lightning. (b) Winning a gazillion dollars in the lottery. (c) Having quintuplets. And the life-changing part of those events still comes down to you and what you do with what has been given/inflicted on you.

·       Know-nothing know-it-alls. These include, but are not neccesarily limited to:

                       1. Bloated, smug, white politicians who either inherited wealth or figured out how to play the system to line their own pockets, insisting that all the poor need to do is work harder and everything will be fine.

              2. Any male variety of the above (although this is a multi-racial opportunity) who claim they should have a say in women’s health issues.

              3. Anyone who claims to be an expert based on listening to a  radio talk show, reading a blog or getting their news from only one source. (What to use for an example? Hmmmm. Let’s see now. Oh, I’ve got it. Fox News).

              4. Anyone who starts a conversation with; “It’s none of my business but . . .”

·       Gluttony masquerading as a sport. Let’s be honest. Do you really believe someone who can eat 72 bags of Cheez-doodles in 8 minutes or guzzle a gallon of hot sauce without hurling in Technicolor, is an athlete? This is near the top of my “I don’t get it” list. The only explanation I can come up with is that people watch to make themselves feel better about sneaking out to the refrigerator in the middle of the night and inhaling enough calories to feed the people of Yemen for a week.

·       Pharmaceutical products whose legally-mandated side effect warning takes up more than half the television commercial. You know the one, with the happy couple strolling hand-in-hand on the beach while the deep-voiced announcer-person rips through the drug’s hazards as rapidly as possible, hoping you won’t notice. “Phlegm-o-phex, mildly effective for treating annoying underarm clamminess. May cause dizziness, fainting spells, projectile vomiting, painful rectal itch, blotchy skin, hair loss, warts, gum disease, sudden kidney failure and a plague of locusts. In a few isolated cases, depending on your definition of isolated, instant death may occur. Ask your doctor, who may have already have deposited our check in his son’s college fund if Phlegm-o-phex is right for you."

·       Twitter. Okay, okay, I know millions of people twit. Or is it tweeting and the people who do it twits? I get so confused. But here’s what it looks like from the outskirts of Twitsburgh. People who tweet are either:

                  (a) Self-obsessed. They truly believe an anxious world wants to know they had peanut butter and jelly for breakfast, bought butter lettuce instead of iceberg or are waiting in line to buy a ticket to a Lady Gaga concert.

                  (b) Totally without the vocabulary skills that would allow them to speak aloud to another human being, or

                   (c) Afraid to not jump on whatever new high-tech fad that some smirking celebrity tells them they need to be though of as “hip.”

·       Fashion models so skinny they can bang their shoulder blades together. Not only are they truly unattractive, they’re like silent spokespersons for anorexia, bulimia and other eating disorders. C’mon, have a cheeseburger and move up to a size one from your current size negative two.

·       People wheeling oxygen tanks around the smoking section of Indian Casinos. Not only does it cancel out the benefits of the oxygen, the multitude of people flipping their Bic might spark a tragic case of spontaneous human combustion that could make the slot players look up momentarily from their own addiction.

Okay, let’s wrap this up before I move to the top of someone else’s “That’s just wrong,” list. Here’s my final rant for today.

·       Anyone incapable of thinking of other people in any other terms than stereotypes. African-Americans don’t all have a sense of rhythm, girls aren’t all bad at math, Muslims aren’t all suicide bombers, geezers aren’t all cranky and people in Alabama aren’t all racist rednecks. Conservatives aren’t all heartless greedheads and liberals aren’t all patchouli-wearing business-hating woo-woos. The more we can think of each other as unique individuals, the closer we are to finding solutions to our common problems. 

Can you think of more examples that are JUST WRONG? Fire away. 

RUNNING FOR A JOB AS A WRITER--PART THREE

 In my final posting on whether I’d run for a job as a writer if that was required, I’ll look at my attributes, assets, and the dirty little secrets that might be revealed in the course of a campaign.

First, assets and attributes.

# 1  I’m honest.

Well, I’m mostly honest. Okay, I’m honest most of the time with most people. But, let’s face it, there are times when honesty just won’t cut it. For example, when someone asks, “Does this make me look fat?” or when the police officer who pulled me over asks, “Do you know you were going 53 in a 25 zone?”

# 2  If I make a promise, I keep it.

Actually, if I make a promise I try to keep it. Most of the time. Generally the promises I break are to myself: I won’t eat at my desk, I’ll clean up my office once a week, I’ll use those hand weights five days a week, I’ll rake the lawn tomorrow.

# 3  I balance my budget.

I’m all good on this one. I’ve never bounced a check (except once when a bank teller hit the wrong keys and accidentally wired money out of my account). And, while I’m not as frugal as some of my friends, I’m not a shopaholic—unless you count spending sprees at Goodwill. And, while we’re on that subject . . .

# 4  The trappings of wealth don’t mean much to me.

That doesn’t mean I couldn’t be bought, just that the stuff of barter might not be cash or vacation homes but rather donations to charities that are close to my heart.

# 5  I’m organized.

Fortunately, there’s wiggle room there. Everyone has a different definition of organization and a different method of achieving it. I know where my stuff is. Most of the time.

# 6  I’m disciplined.

Fortunately (again) there’s wiggle room here, too. Compared to a member of an elite military unit, not so much. Compared to most two-year-old kids, I’m the personification of self-control.

# 7 I don’t require a huge staff.

Okay, that’s mostly because I’m not good at delegating, but I’m still counting it as an asset.

# 8  I don’t mind public speaking.

Well, I don’t mind it as much as I mind a root canal or a mammogram. It all depends on the group, the venue, and the topic.

# 9 Multitasking is practically my middle name.

While I’ve been writing this I’ve also been checking my e-mail, talking to my aunt, making a grocery list, and eating chocolate-covered cranberries.

# 10  I have cute dogs.

They’re ready 24/7 for photo ops and a chance to show off their tricks in exchange for dog cookies. Cute dogs might distract reporters and constituents from the tough questions.

# 11 My husband is photogenic.

Mike has a great smile and is ready at all times to talk about golf and deflect those aforementioned tough questions.

Now, let’s get to what we’ve all been waiting for, my dirty little secrets. Prepare to be disappointed. Most of these aren’t secrets and they aren’t dirty—at least not by today’s standards.

# 1  I have no tact and plenty of opinions.

My friends have standing orders to step on my toes or tell me to shut up when I run off at the mouth.

# 2  I hate meetings and “process.”

If being a writer involves serving on committees, then forget it.

# 3  Compromise doesn’t come easily . . .

. . . unless that was my idea in the first place.

# 4  I came of age during the 60s.

I’m sure some things happened back then that I wouldn’t want to hear about now. My hope is that if I can’t remember, no one else can either.

But, since it would be the job of reporters to question my qualifications, reveal my secrets, and dig up any dirt they could, I’m delighted that I don’t have to run for this job, that I can forget about campaigning, appoint myself, and get on with the writing.

RUNNING FOR A JOB AS A WRITER--PART TWO

 

I’m continuing my look at whether I’d be a writer if I had to be elected to the position. Previously I reviewed the benefits and drawbacks of the job; now I’ll consider the term of office and job performance standards (defined as the number of books I could write during a term of office), and take a look at my constituents and how I’ll reach them.

Supreme Court Justices serve for life or until they’re fed up with attorneys arguing and with having to defend decisions plenty of people don’t like. Then they retire. But those folks are appointed and confirmed by high-ranking office-holders, none of whom would be likely to appoint or confirm me—to the high court or any other post. So I’d have to run for my office.

The question is: How often do I want to do that? What are the pros and cons of a 2-year, 4-year, or 6-year term as a writer?

I called together a focus group at a Hawaiian restaurant noted for its low-priced happy hour adult beverages. Long after dark we emerged with several damp and ink-blotched napkins. Two days later my vision cleared and I was able to decode them and write out the pros and cons in more legible form.

2-year term

As members of my focus group pointed out, it takes me about a year to write a novel. Two years equals two books—not exactly the greatest job performance on record and not a huge body of work on which to base a re-election campaign, especially since I’d need to begin that campaign before I completed the second work, and especially since said campaign would eat into my writing time.

4-year term

If I kept up my pace, I could have at least three books written before I had to hit the campaign trail. That would give me more time to build a larger platform, do more marketing, and reach more members of my constituency.

6-year term

This would give me even more time to write before I had to run. But wait. Do I have enough of an idea backlog to write five novels? (Picture me counting on my fingers. Picture the thumb standing alone. Picture me deciding that four years would be just fine.)

But this leads to another question: Where the heck would my campaign trail lead? How large is my constituency? And where is my constituency?

Well, with internet marketing and ever-increasing sales of e-books, even if you’re with a small press or an indie publisher, you have the potential to reach a national audience—add the UK and other European nations that audience is international.

Yikes.

My budget barely stretches to a long weekend at the coast. How can I afford to campaign across the entire U.S. and Europe?

Wait a minute! I forgot that key word—internet. There’s no need to press the flesh, kiss babies, or wave signs except in a virtual way. My friends—all way better at social networking than I am—might pitch in to come up with slogans and increase my positive name recognition (now limited to a few square blocks of Vancouver and about a hundred people who took my novel-writing class and are still speaking to me without gritting their teeth).

But what will I stand for? What will I promise to cut or do away with? What are my assets? And what are my dirty little secrets?

I’ll look at that next time.