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Scandinavian Furniture – 30/10/2017

A certain Scandinavian furniture store, which I probably cannot name on a public blog post, is the last train stop before hell.

Many people like it. “It’s great value”, they say, “so many practical things and so affordable. I get a sense of accomplishment from assembling the furniture I just bought”. This is willful delusion.

Every minute spent in that store is an admission of failure. None of us choose to be deep in the bowels of the labyrinth with glassy eyed kids melting down all around us. We are there because we cannot afford to be somewhere else buying furniture that we actually like.

Each purchase is an exercise in compromise: you know it is bad quality, but we buy it because we have to. Sitting in our home, it reminds us that we just spent $200 on lacquered particle board and ate meatballs made from horsemeat. And then it breaks.

Products are named by cleverly rearranging letters from the Scandinavian spelling of only three words: “underachiever”, “futile” and “self-esteem” (which is actually two words). Fake accents are then thrown in to give products their mysterious Euro-allure. This is the furniture equivalent of Häagen-Dazs.

The company motto should be: “Where Relationships go to Die”.  Couples enter the store with dreams of the future they will build together. They end up seething in the check-out lanes, their ankles gouged from the person with the extended cart in line behind them, craving a $1 hot dog despite being vegan. This is followed by the silent car ride home and furniture assembly with the little allen keys: a guaranteed relationship-ender.

Guess where my wife and I just spent our afternoon? Thankfully we have plenty of humour and whiskey to regain our perspective. And no doubt we are soon to return, drawn by the meatballs like a moth to hell’s flame.

 

NB: Image credit to Reddit User dionysage

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Town Council – 23/10/2017

My first presentation to Town Council took place in the “open concept” library of our local elementary school. The furniture in the library is made for little kids. The Council meeting resembled a gathering of circus bears, as we all perched like giants upon chairs made for Hobbits.

I was transfixed by the involuntary arm movements of one Councilwoman. As the Town business droned on her arm would randomly shoot straight up in the air, like some fascist salute, before returning slowly to her side. This went on all night. Only later did I observe that she was, in fact, knitting. The exaggerated arm jerk was her pulling fresh strands of yarn from the huge ball at her feet. She was Knitler.  

Finally my turn came. I had just begun my pitch to Council when some boys playing basketball in the adjacent gym crashed through the door. They dribbled basketballs down the hallway towards us while keeping up a steady patter of profanity. Council fell silent as the boys swarmed like a pack of wolves around the water fountain. They finally saw us and froze, silent, unsure what to do next. The Police Chief, rising unsteadily from his tiny chair, walked over and respectfully ushered them all back into the gym.  

I resumed my overview, only to be interrupted again. This time from the English-as-a-second-language group meeting in one of the rooms beside the library. The class of mostly Latino students was learning how to pronounce the letter “V” in English. As they practiced aloud, each student would exclaim, “I llluubbb America. I lllluubbb it here.”  The Police Chief, who had not yet returned to his tiny chair, walked across the library to their classroom and gently closed the door.

The final interruption came courtesy of the janitor. He was pushing a floor-cleaning-zamboni machine while pumping gangster rap through his headphones. Oblivious to our presence, he was doing some suggestive dance moves. He even spanked the Zamboni at one point. He finally looked up, and his eyes widened in horror as he locked on to the assembled Council staring at him. It was exquisitely uncomfortable. The moment was made perfect as Knitler’s arm shot into the air. The shamed janitor zambonied away as quickly as he could, leaving a strip of shimmering floor in his wake that made my Canadian blood race.

Moments like this make me proud of my community. Immigrants trying to make it in a new land. Neighbours voluntarily giving up their evening to carry out the tedious business of a small town. A school left open at night to contain unruly boys. A Police Chief who treats everyone with respect and grace. Despite its manifest problems, there is still so much to lluubb about America.

NB: Photo credit to www.heyuguys.com

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The Interviews – 16/10/2017

I was once offered employment by a naked man in a public shower. This is pretty typical of my career, which mostly consists of jobs for which I am unqualified and interviews that do not follow a script. Let me explain before you come to the wrong conclusion.

I knew a professor at college who was really into running. I am really into not running. Yet for some reason we found ourselves showering next to each other at the Athletic Center one morning. He asked if I wanted to be his Teaching Assistant while he lathered with shampoo. I said yes while I soaped my armpits. We maintained strict eye contact with one another throughout this exchange, because if there is one thing for which I am categorically unqualified, it is to be naked in a public shower.

In another instance, I was interviewed by someone who had just arrived that morning on an overnight flight from China. He kept falling asleep during our interview. When he would momentarily roused himself, I would continue answering his original question until he dozed off again. We only got through three questions in 45 minutes, which I credit with getting me a job for which I was woefully unqualified.

During another interview, I was asked how I felt about working for Jews. Seriously. I was so caught off guard by the question that it’s one of the few times in my life I have truly been at a loss for words. I must have stammered something affirming because the interviewer offered me the job. I learned later that he was a rabbi – who knew?

I was once asked by a friend to interview for a job I didn’t want but for which, for a change, I was actually qualified. During the proceedings she asked me to identify “the most creative tools” I use when communicating with others. With nothing to lose (except our friendship, perhaps), I decided to really go for it with my response. I slowly stood up, fixed the panel with a steely gaze, took off my suit jacket, and said without a touch of irony: “Interpretive. Dance.” Then I dialed up the uncomfortable with a few choice moves. Despite these heroic efforts I was offered the job.

Perhaps the most memorable interview was for my first “real” job. I was so unqualified for this one that I had to borrow my roommate’s suit, since I did not own one at the time. I can still recall the moment I entered that intimidating office foyer, ringed by racks of promotional material. I tried to exude managerial competence as I strode towards the interview panel assembled across the room. Instead, the trouser cuff from my roommate’s borrowed suit caught the corner of a pamphlet rack, spinning me off balance. I careened headfirst into the adjacent rack, pulling it and all the resources down upon me with a crash. I lay there, winded, as pamphlets scattered into the air like a thousand paper snowflakes. Agonizing Silence. Agonizing Shame. Eventually, mercifully, one of the interviewers exclaimed, “What an entrance! I mean, HE NAILED that landing!” Somehow, I got the job.

And so, after procrastinating by writing this story, I go now to interview for yet another job for which I am unqualified. I’ll let you know how it goes. If all else fails, I may simply revert to showering in public.

 

 

Photo credit goes to www.tes.com

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The International Incident – 09/10/2017

I was inadvertently the cause of an international incident during a trip with my wife to Venice, Italy. The cause of the incident was gelato. While in Venice we were on a pretty strict three-gelato-a-day regimen. Occasionally, we fell off the wagon and had a fourth. 

One evening, after stopping for gelato, we went to see a classical concert in an ancient stone church. Uniquely, the floor of the church sloped down to form a sort of bowl at the front where the small orchestra was setting up. Having arrived early we settled into seats mid-way back and watched the musicians unpack their instruments.

I was struck by the first violinist. He was a slender, older man with long silver hair and an air of authority befitting his position. He unpacked his violin with flair and then warmed up with some intimidating scales. He was every inch the Italian artiste, with flowing white scarf and thick, green-rimmed glasses.

About this time there came from my mid-section an ominous rumble. I locked eyes with my wife. We both knew that such a sound could only mean (a) the gelato dam was about to burst, and (b), soon. I began to perspire as I hastily arose and made my way towards the restroom, located down a passage at the front of the church behind the orchestra.

The lavatory was a small cell with ancient stone walls two feet thick. The only aperture was a tiny keyhole window, obviously designed for light rather than ventilation. But I did not have time to luxuriate in my surroundings. Evil comes in many forms. That day, it came in the form of vengeful gelato performing some sort of digestive exorcism. In the interests of propriety I will refrain from further detail. But I will add that the ancient lavatory architecture served as a pressure cooker to magnify the entire, awful experience.

Then came a knock at the door. This was accompanied by desperate pleas in Italian from someone needing to use the facilities right away. I had no options. I weakly replied “uno minuto” and began to wash up.  Then, steeped in my own shame, I slowly opened the door.

There stood the first violinist. Our eyes locked. Then his arty glasses fogged up as he encountered The Gelato Death Cloud. Taking advantage of his temporary incapacitation, I lowered my head and motored past him as fast as my weak knees would carry me.

I had returned to my seat but an instant when a murmur began to ripple through the orchestra. To my horror, I realized that The Cloud was not exiting via the small keyhole window, but was rather being propelled out of the pressure cooker and into the church. Moreover, it was settling into the sunken orchestra bowl like mustard gas in a trench.

The muttering grew in intensity until the first violinist returned, his white scarf now hanging limply. What followed was an outpouring of accusation from the orchestra. The violinist responded with indignation and, though I do not speak Italian, I clearly caught in his reply the words “grande Americano”. I forgave him this slight, given the circumstances. How was he to know I am Canadian?

As the orchestra began tuning their instruments amidst gasps for breath, my wife suddenly arose from her seat. Being pregnant with our second child, she too now had need of the facilities and wanted to go before the concert began. I tried in vain to stop her but, too late to intervene, she made her way to the aisle and turned to go down the sloping floor towards the front of the church. She had gone but a few steps when she was stopped in her tracks by The Cloud. Her eyes widened. She turned her face slowly towards me, her countenance a mixture of disbelief and, dare I say, awe. Perhaps, and this may be a stretch, even perverse marital pride in a husband who, with the mighty power of gelato, had rendered an orchestra pit and the first 10 rows of a church uninhabitable.

I honestly don’t remember much about the concert. But afterwards, I do clearly remember stopping for one more gelato as my wife and I strolled arm in arm along the winding canals of Venice.

 

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Ocean City – 02/10/2017

I am in Ocean City for a conference that begins tomorrow. It is late in the evening. I am sitting in my undies smoking a cigar and sipping Thera-flu on the balcony of my seaside hotel. I can see distant fireworks from the boardwalk and the offshore lights of a trawler, but the only sound is the beautiful waves crashing on the shore below me.

I arrived here late and, starving, set out to find a restaurant. I came across an all-you-can eat seafood buffet called “The Way of the Whale”. With a promising name and, my wife not being with me, I went in. What can I say? I am a sucker for a seafood buffet which frankly requires her to be elsewhere.

I was greeted by the smell of Old Bay and a waitress that looked like Steffi Graf. I deduced that the entire staff was imported from the former Soviet Union. The clientele, however, was all American.  It took but an instant to appreciate the sheer girth of the average “Whale” patron: we were the heaviest clientele per square foot anywhere outside of Iowa. I was ushered to my seat next to the soft-serve ice cream station and knew I was in for an epic evening. I missed my wife acutely.

Tucking into my tater tots and rubbery buffet tuna, I observed an alarming number of children in sleeveless undershirts with missing teeth and mullet haircuts. They were being parented halfheartedly by sunburned moms and tattooed dads, one of them sporting a t-shirt three sizes too small that said “Free Hugs”. I was not tempted.

The highlight was the soft serve machine itself. I was seated so close that everyone who used the machine – and that was everyone in the place – had to put their bum in my face in order to dish out their soft serve. They would then shuffle to the adjacent “toppings table” with maraschino cherries, various syrups and some liquefied marshmallow topping. The exhaust fan for the soft-serve actually came out the front of the machine, with a force like a public bathroom hand dryer aimed right into the crotch of each soft-serve seeker. This elicited giggles from most patrons but also a few Marilyn Monroe skirt-blowing moments which, given my earlier description of the Whale clientele, did little to aid my digestion. The highlight was two bearded Coptic priests in full black robes and big silver crosses who made no fewer than four trips apiece to the soft serve. Perhaps they were drawn by the liquefied marshmallow topping. Perhaps the exhaust fan. We shall never know. All part of life’s rich pageant swirling about me with its butt in my tater tots.

I waddled back from the “Whale” along the twilight beach and paused near an abandoned lifeguard chair to call my wife. I soon discovered this location happened to be the rendezvous point for gay men out cruising after sundown. As I chatted with her on the phone, several buff Latino lads approached the lifeguard chair in the fading light, only to be repulsed in wide-eyed horror as they got closer. I assume their reaction was to me. Perhaps it was to the lingering scent of Old Bay. Regardless, they moved on quickly.  

And so, I retired without event to my balcony to sip Thera-flu and smoke this cigar. I do so in clear violation of the hotel’s “no smoking” rules, the warnings on the Thera-flu pack, as well as general decency and common sense. If I am discovered dead in the morning wearing nothing but my undies with this note as my epitaph, I do truly love you, darling. And I recommend the soft serve.