“Oh, come give daddy some sugar,” I crooned while standing near the coffeemaker today.
“What?” asked a surprised co-worker.
In a bygone professional era when asses were grabbed and heavy objects unashamedly lifted, this kind of exchange would’ve been kosher, certifiably pareve, blessed by an enrobed rabbi in a real synagogue on a tree-lined street.
Such an era has thankfully passed, not that it matters, of course, because I was speaking to a gigantic cookie. Man! You should’ve seen the number of curves on this baby, which I suppose was infinity because that’s what enormous circles of sugar and chocolate do. And thick? Don’t get me started. We’re not talking, you know, Wheat Thins thick. We’re pulling Toaster Strudel here.
Lent is over, for those of you partial to summaries, and someone brought in a huge biscuit covered with frosting and candy. I shit you not. Do you remember the witch in Hansel and Gretel? Trail of carbs? House made of treats? Yeah, the pastry would’ve been a small window. According to your local supermarket, this–along with the Cadbury Crème egg–is approximately why Jesus went to the cross.
Believe it or not, I only ate a small chunk of cookie. During my supermarket run yesterday, I made a grab for Kellogg’s Cinnamon Swirlz and stopped, opting for oatmeal instead. Even two packets of apple cinnamon, however, proved too sweet. I felt sluggish, duller, and at the same time thrilled and strangely disappointed that maybe, maybe I’d stick with some iteration of a sugarless existence. As soon as I finish off my pantry, it’s back to the market for some corrective shopping.
What about the true meaning of Lent and Easter? By no means am I holier or any more learned, dear reader, especially when you consider how legions of poisonous frogs still follow me. Dead giveaway, wouldn’t you say? Or is my black pestilence showing again? I will say this, though. I thought over things. Read the Bible, even, and was relieved it didn’t sear my flesh or cause me to emit spectral yelps of anguish. Dare I conclude I’m not possessed, as a few fellowshippers used to think, perhaps needed to think? Sacrifice. Compassion. Selflessness to the point of death. Worthy things all, and they came to mind because I temporarily relinquished a stupid suburban item. It just doesn’t compare.
Remember when gas went for $0.75 per gallon and how your parents, upon discovering a price hike into the verboten boundaries of $0.80, would tsk and shake their heads and offer dire warnings of ravenous locusts? Yeah, neither do I, probably because all my memories freeze whenever I bask in Indian winters, desperately trying to decide whether to splurge and get three gallons instead of two.
The Gas Game, and I imagine some of you play it, is a test of reflexes. Can you stop your fingers quickly enough to purchase an even dollar amount of fuel? Time was, you’d win the game and purchase $15.00 worth of fuel, yet you’d lose because the stuff would overflow from your tank and soil your pants. These days? You encourage the schmo at pump 12 to play the Gas Game, preferably to $30.00, and then you reward him by washing his car and–oops!–siphoning $25.00 worth of gas from his ride.
In my mind, gas is similar to bananas and Microsoft Office because we should get it for next to nothing. And then I snap to my senses and realize, yes, petroleum isn’t exactly the kind of substance you grow. It’s not like a Chia Pet, you know? You can’t smear a secret mixture onto a surface and will stuff to appear. In fact, it’s like a Chia Pet that consumes money and raw flesh. The solution, clearly, is to discover alternative fuels.
My car? It runs on mirth and goodwill.
The laundry room regularly crash lands in my kitchen sink, dear reader, and during these moments I tally the remaining days in my lease. 98, in case you’re wondering. I’m not sure what precisely causes my sink to fill with waste water from the washers upstairs. The planet’s axis needs to tilt just so, a string of people must consecutively wash their clothes, someone on a street corner sneezes, and all these factors intersect at a tender coordinate. On a weekly basis, apparently.
No place is perfect, that’s for sure, and in truth this is a good apartment, far better than the craphole of a place I used to rent. What’s interesting is the tension between reality and the marketed. The walls are concrete and virtually soundproof, declared my agent, yet they’re thin. It’s safe, yet residents have reportedly found their belongings missing. Maintained, yet burnt-out bulbs stay extinguished for days at a time.
If you ever find yourself in the baggage claim at Midway airport, look up at the monitors and you will see a colorful montage of Chicago’s best side, complete with theme song. Unrealistic? Perhaps, but it’d be foolish for the marketers to show, say, a drive-by shooting or a filthy El car.
The grittier scenes definitely stand in starker relief, however. Guess what I saw at Target the other day? An obese woman sniveling, crying wretchedly because she couldn’t extract a DVD lodged in the shelf. I mean, geez, you look at a scene like that for too long and you start counting all your bathroom tiles and labeling them with crayon. Or how about the trail of dog droppings on the sidewalk, broken by the occasional footprint? Heavy mist after a slushy snowfall? Zoloft can’t hold a melted candle to this kind of thing.