Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 664

Men are much kinder to one another

A friend of mine is scheduled to attend one of those Tupperware-type parties next week, where someone tries to sell the attendees a kitchen gadget, a styling cream or knitting accouterments.

My question: Why is this strictly a female phenomenon?

Why aren't there parties for men, where tools, golfing gadgets, ties, or other male accessories are sold?

Perhaps more accurately, what would possess a woman to want to gather her friends in her home and subject them to a three hour sales pitch? It sounds dreadful to me, but ladies do this all the time, and most of their friends seem to respond positively to the invite.

And those that don't often attend anyway, out of a misplaced sense of obligation.  If your friend opens a beauty care shop, I'd expect you to eventually stop by.  But your friend wants to bring that goop into your living room on a Thursday night under the pretense of a party?

It's okay to say no. 

But like I said, most women seem to genuinely enjoy these events, or they're doing a hell of a job faking it.  

Does shopping possess so much of an allure that it must be brought to the living room?

I asked this question to a friend recently and she thought that I had hit on a great business idea:

Sales and marketing parties for men.

"Yes," she said (into my voice recorder). "That's a great idea. Tools and ties and stuff like that would be perfect. You might have found a real moneymaker."

Sadly, I had to explain to my friend that hell would likely freeze over before any male friend of mine would attend a party like this.

The reverse crank call

I promised a reader that I would share this story about my experience with Bob's Furniture, a Connecticut-based discount furniture store with several locations throughout the state. 

Fifteen years ago, I had a phone number that was one digit off from Bob's Furniture.  Dial a 0 instead of a final 8 and you would be connected to the office in which deliveries of furniture were scheduled and complaints about delivery delays were received.

But dial an 8 and you would instead be connected to me.  considering the proximity of the 8 and the 0 on a standard phone, this was an easy mistake to make.   

As you might imagine, it was not uncommon for me to arrive home and find two or three messages from irate customers looking for their sofas and coffee tables.  Bob may sell furniture at low prices, but based upon my admittedly small sample size, he is unable to deliver this furniture on-time.

Most of these messages were left by elderly people, which also wasn't surprising.  Dialing the wrong number required that a person miss the 8 and striking the 0, and then for that same person to listen to my outgoing message:

Hi, this Matt.  I can't get to the phone…

…and think that he or she has contacted Bob's Furniture.  Both errors indicated (at least to me) a loss in both motor and auditory functioning. 

Conditions common in old people. 

Sometimes I would receive these calls when I was home, and more often than not, I was forced to spend a minute or more trying to explain to these sofa-less people that I was not the person to whom they needed to speak and that they had dialed the wrong number.  Cutting into their rants long enough to get them to listen to even a single word I was saying was often impossible.   

And in almost every case, it was an elderly person on the other end of the line. 

One weekday morning, I was home from work, recovering from the flu.  I was feeling awful and generally annoyed with life, constantly aware of the work that would be waiting for me once I was feeling better.  I was lying in bed, attempting to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer (one of the finest television shows ever made) when the first call came in from an angry old woman wondering why her new bed had not been delivered the day before.

Angry and annoyed as well,  was suddenly inspired to respond in the following manner:

"I'm sorry, but I regret to inform you that as of yesterday, Bob's Furniture has entered receivership.  The business is in the process of declaring bankruptcy and hopes to reorganize at some point in the future.  What I need from you in your name and telephone number so I can have someone contact you about the likelihood that your bed will be delivered."

"I'm not getting my bed?" the woman asked.

"That's still not decided.  Some of the orders may eventually be filled, but it depends on how solvent the company is after this process.  It could be a while."

The woman went on to yell at me, and I explained to her that I did not work for Bob's Furniture but instead for a company responsible for gathering customer information.  She ranted and raved for a while, demanding answers that I fid not have and finally declaring that she going down to the store to talk to someone about getting her "goddamn bed!"

Though I spent more time on the phone with that woman than I had with any previous Bob's Furniture customer, it was the most fun that I have ever had during one of these calls. 

And I did it three more times over the course of the next two days as I continued to languish in bed, improving on my legal-speak each time. 

It was a grand way to spend two days in bed.   

Once I was feeling better, my angry streak had dissipated to the point that I couldn't bring myself to reserve crank-call these people again.  But for a while, as a virus ravaged my body, making me miserable, I was able to spend a few minutes on the phone making other people miserable as well.

It wasn't a nice thing to do, and I wouldn't do it again without some serious viral persuasion, but it was a delightful way to pass the time, and I have to say that I was surprisingly adept at it. 

Spontaneous cruelty has always been a strength of mind, as a few of my friends can readily attest. 

Connecticut eccentricities

I've been in Connecticut for seventeen years now, almost as long as I lived in Massachusetts, and long enough to think of myself as a resident of this place rather than a transplant from the Bay State. 

When I first moved to Connecticut, there were many, many things that bothered me about this state. I have learned to overlook most of them.

The ridiculous practice of covering up alcohol under tarpaulins in grocery stores after 7:00 PM.

The paltry state of local television news.

The practice of referring to the Department of Motor Vehicles as Motor Vehicle, as in "I'm going to Motor Vehicle today."

The existence of a one newspaper town.

But there are a few that continue to bother me, and two specifically pertaining to the rules of the road.

First, and perhaps worst, is the presence of a traffic light on route 9, a major north south highway running through the center of the state with an average speed limit of 65 miles per hour. It is possibly the only place in the world where one can be tooling around in a convertible at eighty miles per hour then suddenly find oneself at a red light, waiting in a half mile of traffic.

Stupid stupid stupid.

Connecticut also plants four way stops throughout their towns like dandelions, seemingly one on every corner.  It's impossible to drive for more than five minutes without encountering one. 

In Massachusetts, the presence of a four way stop sign signals the location of a previous automobile accident where a carful of drunken teenagers undoubtedly met their untimely end.

There's something reassuring in knowing that precautions are based upon historical precedent and not just wishful thinking.

Is good food enough?

Elysha and I went to Mo's Midtown this morning for breakfast. 

The food was good, and Elysha actually likes their pancakes a lot, but these are several subtle oddities about the restaurant that had us wondering if we would return any time soon.

Let's start with the name of the place: Mo's Midtown. 

This restaurant isn't even close to being midtown.  In fact, it's actually one street over from the border between Hartford and West Hartford.  It couldn't be farther than midtown.

So why this name?   

Things like this really bother me.

The word restaurant was also misspelled on the menu.  Instead, it reads restorant.

This bothers me as well.    

And that's a lot of issues centering just on the name of the place.

But there's more. 

Elysha and I went to breakfast without cash and were pleasantly surprised to discover that they accept debit cards "for our convenience".  While I think all restaurants (and restorants) should accept credit cards, it's not uncommon for a small diner like Mo's to deal only in cash.

However, after handing the waitress my bill ($15.24) and my debit card and entering my PIN number, she handed me back a receipt and $3.76 in change.

"Oh no," I said.  "This isn't mine.  I gave you a debit card."

"Yes, I know," she said.  "I withdrew $20 from your account for the bill and here is the change."

"I don't get it," I said.

"It's like taking money out of an ATM machine.  I withdrew $20 to pay your bill.  I can only withdraw money in increments of $20."

"So we're essentially standing in a giant ATM machine?" I asked.

"Sure," she said, finding my sarcastic comment amusing.

"Is there a charge for using this giant ATM machine?" I asked.

"Yes.  One dollar," she said.

I eat out quite often, but I have never found myself paying in such a manner.  And frankly, I thought it was a lousy way for the Mo's to avoid credit and debit charges.

For my convenience?  I don't think so.

These issues alone would have been enough to keep me away.

But there's more.

Add to the list the need to explain to the waitress of a diner known for its pancakes what silver dollar pancakes are and then still not getting them for our daughter when the food arrived.  "Sorry," the waitress explained.  "He didn't understand, so he just made one big pancake."

And then there was the lack of fountain soda, serving Diet Pepsi in cans instead, as well as the waitress's inconceivable decision to bring me and Elysha our breakfast a full five minutes before bringing my twenty-month old daughter hers.

Actually, this happens more often than you might imagine.  Is it that hard to understand the mind of a toddler?

As a result of this odd series of eccentricities, we may never return to Mo's Midtown, as much as I enjoyed the French toast and Elysha loved her pancakes.

Sometimes, if you can't choose a geographically accurate name for your restaurant/ATM machine, that's enough to keep me away.

Am I being picky? 

Did we need to see the veins?

My wife and I took Clara apple-picking at Karabin Farms.  I cannot recommend this place enough.  Hay rides, apple cider donuts, farm animals and lots and lots of low hanging apples. 

The day was nearly perfect. 

Except for one thing: 

Adjacent to the cow field was this cute trivia board, where I learned that the average cow produces about ten gallons of milk a day.

But did you notice the udders? 

Did we really need all the veins?

Eww…

You name the state

Have you noticed that the states with the most vociferous pride tend to be the states filled with the most repulsive people?

Bad advice

Slate V produces a regular Dear Prudence video blog in which Slate contributor Emily Yoffe attempts to pass on advice to people in need of help regarding manners and morals.

Naturally, I find this whole setup to be offensive and ridiculous. Though I understand that advice on manners is occasionally required, it is often dispensed by individuals with the most rigid, traditionalist, religious viewpoints known to man.

If HL Mencken or Matt Groening were passing out advice on manners, I might listen. But the only people engaged in this line of work are (have you noticed?) middle-aged, conservative white women.

Ann Landers. Emily Post. Dr. Laura. Joyce Brothers. Amy Dickinson.

And now Emily Yoffe. 

To be honest, the people typically seeking Yoffe's advice come across as the kind of person that I tend not like very much:

Self centered, self involved individuals who are overly invested and indoctrinated by tradition, religion and societal norms and who are under the delusion that their miniscule problems equate to Shakespearean tragedies.

Honestly, what kind of person writes to a stranger with hopes that the public airing of their problem, accompanied by the stranger's solution, will actually prove to be meaningful?

Take the most recent advice seeker who wrote to Prudence about being asked to serve as a maid of honor in a cartoon-themed wedding. The bride and groom, as well as their attendants, will be wearing costumes of their favorite cartoon characters on the day of the wedding. The uptight, self-absorbed maid of honor claims that she is not "horrified" by the idea but is a little uncomfortable about two hundred people staring at her during the ceremony and reception.

"Should I say something or just go along with the bride's wishes?" she asks

Equally uppity Emily Yoffe says that she finds "noxious the trend at turning a wedding into a day-long free pass for the couple to act out their fantasies and corral innocent friends and loved ones into being decorative elements into their tableau vivant."  She then recommends that the maid of honor inform the bride that she is "too self conscious to carry it off" and would prefer to attend the wedding as a guest.

I don't know where to start.

First off, here is my suggestion to anyone who is invited to participate as a member of the wedding party, and especially to those so honored to be asked to serve as Best Man or Maid of Honor:

Shut the hell up and do as you're told. This is not about you. This is a day dedicated to the couple, and whatever they want or desire is acceptable. It's their goddamn wedding and it's one goddamn day.  Deal with it and smile.

As "noxious" as Yoffe may find it, times change. Traditions evolve.  Underwear becomes less constrictive and the formality and tradition that has stifled creativity and expressions of individuality for so long are becoming a thing of the past.  More noxious than a couple of cartoon fans looking to make their wedding a day to remember is a maid of honor who places her own self interest and insecurity ahead of her friend's desires.

And I have a news flash for this maid of honor:

How will she feel when the guests at the wedding see the bride's best friend sitting alongside them in a pretty little summer dress on her friend's most important day of her life, rightly assuming that the bitch wouldn't wear the Daisy Duck costume that her best friend asked her to wear?

How uncomfortable will she be feeling then?

Is she worried that the guests might assume that she dresses like a giant duck every day?

Is she concerned that the guests will make assumptions about her intelligence or character based upon her choice of anthropomorphized fowl?

I would like to assure this woman that the only self-conscious feelings that she should be feeling should be in regard to the opinions that guests will have when they discover that she was too selfish and self absorbed to agree to her best friend's wishes on the most important day of her life.

That might be something worthy of self-consciousness.

As for Yoffe, her advice is par for the course. Safe, traditional, indoctrinated nonsense. And though I know what the phrase tableau vivant means, was this type of erudite language necessary in an advice column?

Yoffe made one other comment that ruffled my feathers a bit. In dispensing her advice, she suggested that the costume might be better than the "atrocity" that most bridesmaid are forced to wear.

Is it true that every bridesmaid dress is horrible, and if so, why do women do this to one another and then spend the rest of their lives complaining about it? And why doesn't Yoffe come down equally hard on all of these brides for sticking their friends in dresses that they hate or make them look like fools?

What's the difference between a pink tutu and a cartoon costume?

Whether it is pink taffeta or a chicken costume, I think that women should shut up and wear what's been chosen without complaint.

But perhaps they should also stop choosing dresses so uniformly displeasing.  I can't think of a single circumstance in which men routinely ask one another to do something that is universally despised.

If we did so, we wouldn't have friends. 

Ladies, what gives?

Germans continue to win despite their defeat

A couple of my closest friends live in the town of Berlin, CT. 

That's Ber-LIN.  Not BER-lin. 

I got wondering about why the town's name is pronounced differently than the German capital, and I learned that in response to war against Germany during World War I, the citizens of Berlin changed the pronunciation of their town in deference to the American cause.

What a bunch of pansies.

Had I been a German soldier fighting at the time and heard about this decision, I would've considered this a symbolic victory for my country. Not only did my presence in the trenches change the course of events half a world away, but 80 years later, that symbolic victory remains. The pronunciation of the town remains altered, causing confusion to many.

Can you imagine what would have happened if these Berlin pansies had run the country during the Revolutionary War or the War of 1812?  Half the towns in New England (and maybe more) are named after English cities and hamlets. What if each of those names was changed in response to war with England?  No one would be able to pronounce the name of a single town in New England without instruction.

This is not the only instance of a time when America has chosen to change tradition and ritual and bend to the power of perception in response to an enemy. The Hitler salute, the heil, was a variant of an early Roman salute that was adopted by the Nazi Party in 1933. But similar salutes were used worldwide at the time, including the United States.  Francis Bellamy, author of the original Pledge of Allegiance (the version that does not violate the First Amendment by including God) instructed Americans to salute the flag during the pledge with their "right hand lifted, palm downward, to a line with the forehead and close to it."

Very much like the Nazi Party's salute.

But this salute was abandoned in 1942 when it was perceived to be too similar to the Nazi salute.

What the hell?  America changed the way that it salutes the flag because a bunch of fascists across the pond copied us?  I thought that this is why we fight wars… to preserve our way of life (at least this is why we used to fight wars). Not to change our way of life when lunatics start adopting customs too closely resembling our own.  Why not sail across the ocean, kick those fascists' asses, and take the salute back for ourselves?  Reclaim it as our own, damn it. Don't allow a bunch of fanatics to change our way of life.

I get a little emotional over this subject.

And even though American soldiers kicked those fascist's asses and won the war in a decisive manner, the change in our salute remained. Today, we place our hands over our hearts if we choose to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and every time I do so, I think of it as the echo of a Nazi victory.

I would resume the Bellamy salute in protest of this terrible decision if I weren't afraid of a brutal death at the hands of an angry mob of patriotic fanatics, spurred on by the same kind of fanaticism that propelled the Nazi Party to power in the first place.

This is not semantics

It's bad when you don't know what you don't know.

But it's worse when you don't know that you don't know what you don't know.

The message being humility.

Follow me?

Forgotten past

This evening I spent about three hours cleaning out boxes of old letters, cards and mementos from the past. I threw out a lot (much of which made no sense to me), but in the process, I uncovered parts of my past that I had completely forgotten.

For example, in 1992, I nearly moved in with a girl named Kelly, who I had dated for a while but had parted ways at the time of the proposed cohabitation. She was graduating from North Adams State University and I was about to become homeless, so apparently there were a few months when we intended to move in together on a platonic basis (though from the tone of the letters, the platonic nature of the relationship was questionable at best). Eventually I was accepted to Bridgewater State University (another fact forgotten) and was in the process of registering for classes and being assigned a dorm when life once again interfered, bringing me to Connecticut.

How does one forget something like this?

In fact, the period encompassing fall 1991 through spring 1993 is probably the most well documented portion of my life, since I was living with Mary and Gerry, Jehovah Witness's who had taken me in when I needed a roof over my head. Because I slept on a cot in a room off the kitchen for almost two years, I had no telephone other than Mary and Gerry's house phone, and since I was working two fulltime jobs at the time in order to pay for defense attorneys, the only way that my friends could realistically contact me was through letters. I have dozens and dozens of letters from friends and family from that time in my life.

Which leads me to wonder what other nuggets from my past that I may have forgotten.

Fortunately, I have a sister who literally remembers every moment of our childhood (hence our new back-and-forth blog) and a friend named Bengi who has been in my life since I was sixteen years old. Bengi has a steel trap for a memory nearly equal to my sister and actually told stories about me during his wedding toast that even I had forgotten.

If I'm ever to write a memoir, I'm going to need a lot of help from these two.