A few years ago, I was the subject of a newspaper article about hospice volunteering. To put me at ease—or to blow some smoke up my ass—the writer ventured, “You must be quite a people person to be able to do this.”
Yeah. Whatever.
“Listen, Sherrie,” I said. “I don’t want to write your article for you, but here’s a suggestion: If you value your credibility, please consider a different approach. I am as far from a people person as my hospice patients are from running marathons.”
Poor Sherrie didn’t know what to do with that shit.
C’mon, Sherrie! Each of us is a bundle of contradictions. Embrace the irony and revel in it, baby!
That’s precisely what I did at one of those stupid team-building conferences a client required me to attend. (Note to self: NEVER attend one again.)
The keynote speaker asked audience members to write a headline for their obituary. In addition to our names, we were limited to two nouns that described who we were. The format was: Name: blank, blank. Three blanks, tops.
We were told we would have to use these headlines at lunch as a way to introduce ourselves to our "teammates." (Is there anything more painfully awkward than having to share a meal with a bunch of strangers?)
Blank, blank. I believe the assignment exemplifies exactly what Elder Joseph Brackett had in mind when he wrote that short but ever so sweet Shaker song, “Simple Gifts,” back in 1848. 'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free/'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be…'
Those blanks—a simple gift if ever there was one--would free me attending to the morning’s mind-numbing, touchy-feely crap that makes team-building conferences the mother of all workplace rip-offs. Better yet, the speaker’s simple gift pretty much guaranteed that I would come down where I ought to be: sitting alone.
I thought and thought and thought. Chuckled and chuckled. Considered and rejected. Rejected and reconsidered. [Note to readers: This game is fun. Try it!]
And just like that, like a deer catapulted from dusky shadows, my nouns broadsided me: hospice volunteer, misanthrope.
This blog is dedicated to my nephew, Josh: humanitarian, snob.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Systematic desensitization
I’m thinking about bronzing my Brother-In-Name-Only (BINO)'s shoes and hanging them from my rear-view mirror. Who cares that he is 60 and his shoes are a size 10? He is such a driving force in my life that having his shoes along for the ride just seems right.
BINO is emotionally retarded, which is understandable given the gene pool he swam in. He has more avoidant behaviors than a corpse. We communicate by email only--and only when The Bitch requires our intervention. I am fairly certain I have spoken to BINO by phone only three or four times my whole life. We don't do a whole lot better in person. When my son was in middle school, he and I went to see BINO’s daughter play soccer once. BINO noted our presence but didn’t make a move to sit with…or talk with us. Try explaining that one to your child.
Long story short, BINO married a moron. He considers her "the blessing of his life," which gives you an idea of how badly he was whooped by the loser stick. If his wife were merely stupid, she might be acceptable. But she’s a moron who is convinced she is always right. That it only took 30 years for us to come to blows is miraculous.
She and I are nearing the four-year anniversary of our not speaking. Except for the fact that my mother continues to breathe, it has been a blissful period in my life. The only time anyone misses my sister-in-law is when it is time to do the dishes on Thanksgiving. She always washed them all, and she always washed them well.
Not surprisingly, The Bitch holds me fully responsible for this fracture in her fantasy family. Three months ago, during a moment of insanity--or overcome by some smarmy emotion--I tried to reconcile with BINO and his dumbbell by suggesting that they join my husband and me for dinner.
I can hear you thinking, “Wow. That was nice of her.” Please don’t. My motive was divinely impure. I was hoping the gesture would give me the opportunity to tell The Bitch, “You can go now.”
My brother wrote back that he’d need to take “baby steps” in order to be able to break bread with me.
Baby steps? What the fuck does that mean? Does my poor BINO need some systematic desensitization? Try this, bro. Week one: back the car out of of the driveway. Week two: back the car out of the driveway and proceed to the end of the street. Week three: drive halfway to the restaurant. Week four: drive to the restaurant and park before doing a quick U-turn and heading home. Week five: kiss my ass.
Here it is a quarter of a year since my invitation, and BINO has taken nary a baby step. My 15-month-old great-niece, Emma, takes baby steps with more finesse. In fact, that sweet, beautiful child is a marathon runner compared to BINO.
Normally, I’d be pissed about BINO’s paralysis. But I realized that he has as much chance of taking a baby step as I do of outliving The Bitch. And every time those bronzed, big-boy shoes knock against the windshield, I will be reminded that BINO is still looking out for his little sister, urging her to temper her hopes with reality.
BINO is emotionally retarded, which is understandable given the gene pool he swam in. He has more avoidant behaviors than a corpse. We communicate by email only--and only when The Bitch requires our intervention. I am fairly certain I have spoken to BINO by phone only three or four times my whole life. We don't do a whole lot better in person. When my son was in middle school, he and I went to see BINO’s daughter play soccer once. BINO noted our presence but didn’t make a move to sit with…or talk with us. Try explaining that one to your child.
Long story short, BINO married a moron. He considers her "the blessing of his life," which gives you an idea of how badly he was whooped by the loser stick. If his wife were merely stupid, she might be acceptable. But she’s a moron who is convinced she is always right. That it only took 30 years for us to come to blows is miraculous.
She and I are nearing the four-year anniversary of our not speaking. Except for the fact that my mother continues to breathe, it has been a blissful period in my life. The only time anyone misses my sister-in-law is when it is time to do the dishes on Thanksgiving. She always washed them all, and she always washed them well.
Not surprisingly, The Bitch holds me fully responsible for this fracture in her fantasy family. Three months ago, during a moment of insanity--or overcome by some smarmy emotion--I tried to reconcile with BINO and his dumbbell by suggesting that they join my husband and me for dinner.
I can hear you thinking, “Wow. That was nice of her.” Please don’t. My motive was divinely impure. I was hoping the gesture would give me the opportunity to tell The Bitch, “You can go now.”
My brother wrote back that he’d need to take “baby steps” in order to be able to break bread with me.
Baby steps? What the fuck does that mean? Does my poor BINO need some systematic desensitization? Try this, bro. Week one: back the car out of of the driveway. Week two: back the car out of the driveway and proceed to the end of the street. Week three: drive halfway to the restaurant. Week four: drive to the restaurant and park before doing a quick U-turn and heading home. Week five: kiss my ass.
Here it is a quarter of a year since my invitation, and BINO has taken nary a baby step. My 15-month-old great-niece, Emma, takes baby steps with more finesse. In fact, that sweet, beautiful child is a marathon runner compared to BINO.
Normally, I’d be pissed about BINO’s paralysis. But I realized that he has as much chance of taking a baby step as I do of outliving The Bitch. And every time those bronzed, big-boy shoes knock against the windshield, I will be reminded that BINO is still looking out for his little sister, urging her to temper her hopes with reality.
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