Those of you who use Hotmail know what treasures await, the instant you dip in and out of your account. I may speak only for myself, but donating emergency money to more than 65 deposed Nigerian presidents, sometimes deposed on the same day, gives me ample license to feel warm and philanthropic.
“Even though I’m the savior of Nigeria,” I reverently say to myself, “I still have enough time to verify my social security number and other sensitive information with Citibank, LaSalle Bank, Key Bank, Real Internet Bank, Bank of Swaziland, eBay.ru, and– Glory be, a sparkly banner ad.”
Microsoft doesn’t stop the magic there, however, and they continue to shower undeserved gifts on you long after you leave. There is a box filled with beguiling headlines on MSN.com, whose author I genuinely admire. I almost always find at least one headline interesting enough to warrant a click, and there’s a definite craft to inciting curiosity with naught but three or four words. Where these links go is an entirely different matter, a matter that requires your immediate attention.
“Did Tom propose right?” asked the box slyly.
“You’ve catered to my innermost thoughts!” I replied in awe. “I was under the impression he proposed left.”
I clicked and found only disappointment.co.uk. In place of a definitive answer about Tom–or even pictures of Tom eating his hands in shame–were general links about marriage proposals, one of them an authoritative list of 50 examples. I clicked.
And went straight to the eleventh circle of mortal wretchedness. I’m exaggerating a bit, of course, because I’m sure not all 50 were bad and some, dare I use that loathsome word, were probably “cute.” I guess I’ll never know for certain, what with the overwhelming possibility of never skimming it again. These two struck me as slightly disturbing:
“Freeze the ring in a homemade Popsicle, and give your sweet two treats in one!“
I’m no love doctor, let me be upfront about this, nor am I a statistician, but the odds of your “sweet” swallowing the million-dollar ring are just too good. The exclamation mark bookending the example suggests a kind of energy, which makes sense because digging through a goddamn toilet is a certifiable study in verve. Flush me some alimony payments, honey.
“Play Hangman and have the phrase be ‘Marry Me.’“
There is no imagery in human history more romantic than a stick person dangling from the gallows, piece by piece, limb by limb. Hot. I’d propose ditching Hangman in favor of Monopoly, though, mainly because nothing intimates passion and commitment like forcing your fiancée to trade her little metal dog for Baltic Avenue.
“You lose, babycakes. Now stop by my hotel party on Boardwalk. I left your ring in j_il, so don’t pass Go.”
A year or two ago, if you stopped me to ask about cooking, I would’ve blinked and continued walking. Certainly the utility of microwaves wasn’t lost on me, nor was the forbidden craft of toasting barred from my understanding, but the preparation of food never rose above subsistence-level for me.
“What level do you want?” you probe.
I’ve been brown-bagging lunch for a few months now, and today my dish was deemed visually pleasing. My cooking. Verified independently. The compliment rent my mind fertile with possibilities, and I stopped munching on the crayons long enough to plot my rise to culinary power. The modest trajectory I pictured ended with my hands covered in incriminating Worcestershire sauce, my pupils rich with fiendish gleam. I had routed the Naked Chef from his throne of taste and become the Stark Raving Mad Buck Naked Chef, dispensing my delicious will on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7 PM.
I reached a pivotal point in the arc, wherein I was offering career advice to Rachael Ray in 30-minute segments.
“I’m going to tell you the secret to success,” I said munificently. “You know, the fuel for my creative spirit.”
“What is it?” she asked, scooting to the edge of her seat. “Tell me.”
“Even though I’m old and decrepit, I still have the heart of an 11-year-old,” I explained with vigor.
“Oh?”
“It’s in the Tupperware with the blue top, fourth shelf down in the Sub-Zero.”
Julia Child started clapping and then–
And then a bee flew into my head.
I was contemplating all this in a park when someone’s pollination route apparently included my hair. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a more tacit endorsement of Herbal Essences. I mean, I suppose I could rub African violets into my scalp or something, but the convenience just isn’t there, you know?
I’ve got to tell you, however, the bee brought an epiphany. The ultimate goal is to cook a dish that could be considered art by three or more people. It’s damn near impossible because I’m not a born chef and, compared to a trumpet or a cello or an easel, cooking doesn’t immediately contain art. Obviously you can play the cello for shit, yet you’re still holding the means to produce art. That’s why it’s there, and in the back of your mind you know you’re struggling to make what wasn’t necessary into a necessity.
But cooking? Everyone needs to do it to some degree, and by frequency alone it’s liable to grind itself into a rut. It’s kind of like writing. You could produce short stories worthy of Pulitzers, or you could write just enough to fill out forms and do your job. Am I making sense? You need to read and write to process your 401k, you need to cook to feed yourself, but you don’t need to play the violin or perform interpretive dance to do your taxes.
The only thing I’ve baked tonight is a major headache, it seems. The point still stands, though: the vision is to produce a food item that also feeds.
Our discussions don’t boast too many requirements, and as long as you breathe and have a working pulse, well, come sit at the table. Something that’s useful to have, however, is a minimum level of brain activity, which I sorely lack right now.
Ever want to bang your head against the wall repeatedly? No? Maybe I’ve shared too much. On certain days life’s little troubles and trifles crescendo into a miasma of stress, leaving you in a strange state even after it subsides. It escapes words, you know? All I can tell you is the pain from ramming your head into some plaster would lend a kind of clarity to everything. You’d get a fresh start, a new beginning.
Unfortunately, I don’t even have the energy to drag myself to a wall. Let’s try again tomorrow.