Shags Like a Minx

I talk to myself.

It's an old habit, occasionally embarrassing -- but probably too far set in to break. I think everyone does it to a tiny extent, reminding themselves of tasks to take care of, or saying something enough times to emboss it into our short term memories.

Not that I'm always sitting around having full-blown conversations with myself (although that has been known to happen), but that sometimes I have a comment that I feel needs to be made, and just thinking it doesn't seem to be enough.

I don't exactly know where this habit comes from -- but I have a theory.

See, I have this grandmother (I should preface this by saying she has done some wonderful things for me and my family in the past) who is completely unbearable to be around. A big part of this is that she has reached that magical age where she feels no need to censor any thoughts that should cross her mind, regardless of how ludicrous, ill-timed, or insensitive they might be. Which would be fine I suppose (that’s just how old people are sometimes) if she weren’t such an insensitive, bitter, and caustic person to start with.

It’s weird to say that about my own grandmother – who like I said has been sweet to me in the past. But the unfortunate fact remains that I simply have far too many other memories of her belittling people who want to care about her, hurting the ones those people care about, and never being able to see past her own front yard at the expense of any and everyone close enough to be affected.

And yet, above it all – she’s still family, and even though sometimes it’s literally like walking through a minefield, I (and a surprising number of my relatives) seem to come up with some excuse or another in order to convince themselves that putting up with her shit is still somehow the right thing to do.

Of course, that doesn’t mean we don’t all find ways to try and make the experience more bearable.

I’ve never known my grandmother without a hearing aid. I’m sure at some point she didn’t need one, but as long as I’ve been alive it’s been there -– peeking out from her ear like some plastic, flesh-colored sentry keeping watch day and night over the flow of ideas and information seeping into her brain.

So if you ever meet my grandmother you’ll learn one thing really quick. If you need her to hear something, you kind of have to shout it at her. But what you realize equally as fast is that if you don’t shout, you can say just about anything you want and she’ll never know it.

When we were little kids there was nothing my brother and I loved doing more than playing "guess which ear works" – a game where we would do our best to speak words like "booger" and "fartknocker" louder and louder to see who could string the most words together before she noticed what we were doing.

I know it sounds cruel, but it was guaranteed giggles in the backseat on those long trips to Tree Hill in the Summertime.

Now before you start looking at me like I’m some sort of villain, you need to understand something -- I’ve spent a the better part of my life watching people engage in two-volume conversations with this woman. Most people start out with a normal tone, patiently repeating themselves while simplifying their messages each time in hopes of reaching an understanding – only to find a few weeks later (after putting up with endless attacks to their body image, lifestyle, political affiliations, spouses, and career choices) that they end up talking to her just like the rest of us do –- deftly mixing personal barbs and profanity with overly loud small talk and agreeable platitudes designed to find out what she wants without somehow inspiring her to once again tell the story of how her tour group went to a restaurant in Germany and the band played Dixie for them.

My poor dad has to deal with her so much that his skills have reached jedi-inspiring levels. It’s not everyone who can make the sentence "Give me a second so I can get a rope and keel-haul you from the back of my bumper" sound so much like "OF COURSE I’LL DRIVE YOU TO WALGREENS, LET ME GET MY COAT" that even you’re not sure you heard it right.

The simple fact is after some of the things she’s said to us over the years – this is the least we can do to pay her back.

The problem is that once you get the hang of it it’s kinda hard to shake the habit. From fast food employees to disrespectful coworkers who believe they have some sort of authority over your free time, two-volume talking is far too tempting a retaliation to leave for family reunions or while you’re helping carry someone’s tray for the fifty-billionth time at Piccadilly.

For example, despite the fact that I have no way to prove their bloodlines are connected, I’ve worked for a number of people in several different states who I’ve referred to openly (albeit quietly) as "Your Royal Assholiness." (come to think of it, you’ve probably worked for one of them too).

Unfortunately, because there are so many motards out there in the world today, simply slinging profanity at them tends to get old. This is especially true when a) You don’t really know who they are and b) you’re only really annoyed at the way they’re dressed, how slow they drive, or just how many gallons of Tag body spray they decided to put on this morning before driving to the DMV.

So what I find developing in myself more than anything these days is sort of a low-decibel running commentary consisting of quotes from old horror movies, golden era cartoons, song lyrics, miscellaneous episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000, and commercial advertising slogan references that only I and like three other people get.

It’s not that I planned or developed this particular style of kung fu after many years of meditation and study, it’s just that when I’m standing on the escalator next to a guy wearing an OJ Simpson football jersey, the first thing that pops into my head is usually something ridiculous and arcane, like

"Hell of a birthmark, Hal"
    -or-
"TK-421, why aren't you at your post?"

I mean, for all I know the guy could be a huge Buffalo Bills fan. Or hell, it could have been OJ himself – tracking down Nicole’s killers – at a mall in Jacksonville, ..wearing his own jersey, ...drinking an Orange Julius. The point here is, whatever his reason for wearing OJ’s jersey, I felt it deserved, nay demanded commentary.

The problem is that out of the three people who might get these jokes -- I’m the only one really close enough to hear me say it. And despite what TV sitcoms try to tell you, no one-liner has the shelf life to survive long enough for me to make a long distance call to Brooklyn just to say "So when I saw her eating her french fries with a fork of course I had to say it’s wafer thin!"

Still, if you're ever out and about and want to entertain yourself for 20 minutes or so – try to find out where I’m walking in a crowd of people and stand close enough so you can listen in on the fun. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll hear me say things like

"I’d Buy That for a Dollar!"
"Just Like Beggar’s Canyon Back Home.."
"Did Anyone Think to Dredge the Lake?"
"Like Eight Bitches on a Bitch Boat!"
"Flawless Victory"
"Look Who’s Doing the Walk of Shame!”
"Boy You Mu’s Sure Know How to Party!”
"Who throws a shoe? Honestly --You fight like a woman!"
"Don’t Be Stingy With Your Love!"

(and these were all from the last time I was at a Starbucks)

I was the kid who used to make up entire stories surrounding the matchbox cars and plastic army men I played with during recess. Those stories involved voice-overs, car crash noises, and of course the inevitable Wilhelm screams that would come when the matchbox cars transformed into robots and slaughtered the pinecone that had somehow been drafted to act as the supervillain halfway through the scene.

I’m pretty sure I’m not the only kid who played that way, but I sometimes worry that I’m the only 34-year old who never stopped.

...And I wonder why I don’t have any friends.

[Listening to: Bad Brains, "Sheba"]