Han-Made Jokes

I’ve always been a soft talker. More often than not, people have no idea what I’ve said, or even if I’ve said anything. I’ll try to blame it on my surroundings, like “Oh this light breeze is super loud, so like, obviously, that’s catching in your ears more than the sound of my voice” or physical things, like “Well, you’re tall, I’m short, and I have a slouch and a tendency to talk to the ground” or I’ll just lie and say I never said anything or that I wasn’t speaking to you. After many years of being accused of whispering (even though I feel like I’m yelling) I’ve developed some tips and tricks to make myself heard—well, except for the obvious of speaking louder. There is just no way that’s happening.

Tilt my face upwards—it doesn’t matter if the person is taller than you are, but I figure that if you shoot the words upwards, they might have a better range and have some chance of making to into the ears of your subjects.

Say the name of the person—this is actually just a very reasonable thing to do. There’s no joke here. Except I hate saying people’s names, so there’s that.   But maybe I could just follow Justin Bieber’s lead and say “baby” over and over and over. That should get some sort of attention, right?

Repeat everything immediately—just go right into it because you assume that you will have to repeat yourself in seconds anyways.  Take a cue from famous pop stars. There are two ways to do this (1) Hey, hey, you, you, (I don’t like your girlfriend…?) and (2) You’re a womanizer, you’re a womanizer.  I’m not sure which style is more effective, but I try each method alternatively and often.

Make eye contact—maybe you’ll have to speak someone who is well trained in the art of lip reading and all your troubles will be solved. Eye contact is hard though. The last time I tried to make eye contact as a last resort to get my thoughts heard, it did not go well. I mean, she heard the words I was saying, she just wasn’t impressed. You see, my car was towed last week because the city I live in declared a snow emergency, which means they restrict parking to one side of the street and tow all the cars that haven’t moved by a certain time. I never heard anything about this nonsense, so I woke up to find that my car had vanished overnight. My roommate suffered the same malady and so, we were forced to go find our cars as soon as possible so we wouldn’t be late to work. When the tow lady took my money I looked straight into her eyes and said “You guys are really cleaning up out there”. She probably didn’t hear me, so I continued on “You know, because you removing cars from the road and taking all of our money, two kinds of cleaning up…?” By now my eye contact was long gone and I realized she just wasn’t impressed with the joke. But, eye contact works, just have better jokes planned.

Turn everything you say into a song—because then you can just pretend you were singing your new favorite song “Yo, where the spice grinder at?” and “How was your day, mine was fine, thank you”. I think they will both be chart toppers shortly. Interestingly, I’ll also just hum randomness after being unheard. I have no idea why I think this is a bright idea, but it probably has something to do with my getting older and really leaning in to the whole weird lady persona I hope to adopt fully in the near future.

Get a friend who is significantly louder than you are and likes to repeat things—these can be hard to find. But once you find one, latch on like the parasite you are and never let go. You won’t always get credit for all the brilliant jokes and wonderful ideas that they repeat for you, but you also won’t get credit for the dumb half formed ideas that are all part of the conversational/comedic process. If you are having too much trouble finding a friend who will do this, go buy a parrot.

My brother and I talk often. More often now because he has graduated and lives alone and has adopted most of the personality traits of a single mid 40s woman, but it’s nice. His past times include thinking about what to cook for dinner and watching HGTV. While he is growing up and developing a career that has potential, I fear that I am growing down. I’m more frivolous than I’ve ever been and most of my friends are skaters, musicians, and/or part-time cooks.

Anyway, I asked my brother what I should write about today. His first and only suggestion was “Write about ground turkey and how delicious it is”. So I said, “Jake, you’ve never even glanced at my blog before have you?” He believes that I write a mildly humorous cooking blog. Little does he know, there’s nothing mild about this blog, it’s at least a medium. But, it was then, I decided, I will write about ground turkey and how delicious it is.

Actually, that’s not true. I can’t do that. Ground turkey is not delicious. Sometimes it can be decent, but it’s only as a result of careful seasoning, or in my case, drowning it in sauces. We have already discussed my complete love affair with mayo, so we will move on before I write an entire novel about the uses for mayo. However, it’s tough. I’m trying. Ok, I can do this. Moving on.

Jake is an interesting character, a rare mixture of being raised by two older sisters and becoming a complete bro in high school and college. We taught him a love for rom-coms and picked on him mercilessly. He has great one-liners “I play because it’s a game”—said while playing Nintendo 64. We made fun of him so much for this that he left the room and came back 20 minutes later with his retort. It was not worth the 20 minute intermission or the walk back into the room, but he learned. His comebacks can be formulated in 10 minutes or less. His success rate is substantially higher than most guys his age (I know, because that’s the median age of all my friends).

He has a strong tendency for hyperbole, which I assume he got from me. A week or so ago he called me at work and I texted him back saying I couldn’t talk now. He replied with a “I need 2 minutes of your time”. I worried and took a break to call him. “Han, I need to know how to make spaghetti pie.” I sighed in relief, admonished him briefly for setting me up to believe he actually needed something and quickly described a recipe that is not really a recipe. I feed into the cycle of him always getting his way.

My brother got his start in cooking at a young age. This is his first recipe:

Bean and cream sandwich

Refried beans

Sour cream

Two slices of bread

Open can of refried beans (we all really really love refried beans and will eat them straight out of the can).  Spread some amount on bread.  Spread equal amount of sour cream on top of beans.  Put on top bread and cut in half.  Now, this is the most important part, stack both halves of sandwich so that you have a double decker.  The only way I’ve seen this sandwich eaten is in this method.

Once he learned to learn to use a microwave, the possibilities were endless. Cold bean and cream sandwiches were out, melty butter and beans were in (and this is how Jake got one of his first nicknames—Bean rollup boy. My sister’s food nickname was the Ketchup Queen. Once again, I was left out of the nickname game).

Bean rollup

Refried beans

Butter

Flour tortilla

Open can of refried beans. Spread some amount of beans down middle of tortilla.  Shave off slices of butter and put on top of the beans.  Microwave for no longer than 15 seconds, so beans are sort of warm but butter is melted.  Rollup and try desperately not to leave a trail of butter through the house or on your clothes.

Eventually, he mastered the toaster and a frying pan and developed this revolutionary dish:

Jake’s breakfast sammie

Eggs

Butter

Ham (or whatever deli meat is handy)

Cheese (usually American)

Bagel (usually onion, but any kind will do)

Mayo

Ketchup

We are both right here, so close, but also incredibly far away.  As far as you are concerned, I’m probably not even here.  I don’t know why I continue to try, but here I am anyways.  Because, I continue to be an idiot.  I’ll keep on living with the false hopes of someday requiting this unrequited crush.  And deep down, I know it’s foolish.  That I keep glancing and hoping that this time it’ll be different, while you are possibly oblivious and thinking about someone else.  Laughing at things I don’t understand, never realizing that all I want is your attention. That all I want is for you to ask about my day and tell me stupid stuff about your life and not force me to do all of the asking.  That all I want is you.  

That’s dumb though, right?  See, my conclusion—I am an idiot.  Err, I guess that wasn’t a conclusion, it’s more like the thesis.  I prefer to think of myself as a hopeless realist though.  Or maybe, realistically hopeless.  I know I’m wrong, but I still can’t talk myself out of it.  Because occasionally, you’ll give some small hint that maybe it’s different this time.  An almost dead ember on a piece of dried wood.  No wait, that’s not quite right.  That would suggest that there was once a fire.  Instead, it’s more like there was a fire over there, and it’s basically out, but here I am, all the way over here.  And like, it hasn’t rained in a super long time, so just the tiniest spark or flicker or even a strong magnifying glass, will set everything ablaze.  But I have to continuously carry around a massive 5 gallon bucket of water, because I can’t just start a fire based on false subliminal messages and misconstrued suggestions propagated by an overactive imagination.  Fires should be shared by two people, and it just won’t do to have one on your own.  It’s not safe, someone will almost certainly get hurt, and there is no one to rein in the other side.  Before I know it, it’s out of control, but no one realizes that I am in danger of breaking my own heart once again.  Because I snuck off into the woods on my own, following a trail that never truly existed and thought, here, I’m ready for you—you will be the one that changes everything.  You are the one that might’ve known the direction, but you don’t have a trail map, or a compass, and you’ve never even really looked at the stars. 

It’s February 2nd, it’s sunny and 45 degrees outside, and I’m on the edge of a low grade panic attack. Not for any reason that normal people have panic attacks, I’m simply overwhelmed with the idea of missing out on the beautiful weather. I’m one of those people that loves the sun more than almost anything and knowing that I have to work 11 hours inside with no windows today is enough to make me question my lifestyle choices. I have an air for the dramatic. One of the last times I jumped over the edge of panic, I set myself up for a potentially freezing night of adventure.

Feeling a severe case of FOMO, I texted my sister early a random Sunday morning in mid-September (read, late Saturday night) "What are you doing?" She responded "Working".  To be fair, she didn't respond until 8:30 the next morning, because otherwise I would have called her a liar.  But her follow up text gave me hope for a surprise getaway trip—“I have Monday and Tuesday off."  Little did she know, I had plans and she had just agreed to them.  Or, well-formed ideas.  Or, passing thoughts.  Ok, ok, I had recently watched Wet, Hot, American Summer, and thought, I haven't been camping in a while, that could be fun!  And the plan was hatched! Or, layed!  Or, a gleam in a rooster's eye? It was all very up in the air still.

We gathered her camping gear. She used to go backpacking in northern Minnesota with her friends in high school, so she is moderately well prepared for an excursion.  I, on the other hand, have a sleeping bag I found in a garage.  It comes up to about my armpits and has holes in the inner lining that I constantly get tangled up in.  I was hopeful that this time would be different! I decided, mind over matter! I won’t freeze to death like those other times! (The number of times I’ve died is countless).  

We set off for Franconia State Park early Monday morning.  Actually, like mid-day. It's really wonderful there, at the park that is.  We used to go a bunch when I was little, but never on the real hikes. We arrived around 2:30 or so, set up our tent, learned about bears, and went on a little hike.  I saw some woman's entire naked self because she and her family were swimming in the river we were hiking along.  I was aghast, to say the least.  Not about the nudity—it was a barely over 60 degrees, and I would imagine the water was 40, but probably less. I'm a terrible judge of temperature, but here this insane family was swimming and looking to be enjoying themselves!  This isn't some publicly sanctioned polar plunge! Absolutely crazy.

We got back to our campsite and built a fire.  This time we were prepared, we brought a lighter and money to buy firewood and scrounged for sticks until we were ready. The last time we went camping we brought—nothing. I had to beg our neighbors for a lighter and then we attempted to light palm leaves on fire. It was a fruitless venture.  Meanwhile, it was getting colder by the minute, so I started layering early.  By the end of the night, I was wearing two shirts, two sweatshirts, two sweatpants, socks, and gloves. For sleeping, I had the tiny sleeping bag and two blankets. I was so warm!  I actually even sweat a little bit! But then again, I regularly have night sweats because I often layer way too many blankets in the beginning of the night and then overheat in the early morning. But, it was amazing.

We cooked a dinner of hot dogs and beans and had a fun time laughing until we cried, because we are both incredibly funny people (although there is an incredibly good chance my sister would say I am not funny.  Actually, it's not a good chance, she has said it and will say it again.  What are sisters for?).  Because we had just learned about the parks propensity for bear sightings, we had a long running nervous joke about all the things we would have to lock in the car because we spilled food on them.  

"Oops, can't wear this sweatshirt in the tent, spilled hot dog juice on it!"

"Bummer! Can't bring the bag of pretzels in!  Spilled hot dog juice on it!"

"Not again!  This hot dog is so juicy!"  

What can I say, hilarious. I began to become slightly worried that the bears were going to show up because we were having such a good time.  After Tamara had spilled hot dog juice on almost everything we owned, I asked, what are you going to wear now?  She said, don't worry about me, I've got my beer jacket on!  Then I started thinking about bears with beers and beer jackets and bare(ly there) jackets and laughed at my own jokes until I was crying yet again.  She was not nearly as impressed as I would have hoped. I’m sure if the bears had shown up they would have loved the jokes.

You know, I spent most of my childhood wishing I could have a nickname like almost everyone else I knew. Hannah just doesn’t shorten to anything very well. Sure, you can go by Han or Hannie, but that seems like something reserved for siblings. And there are mean nicknames, like Hamster, Hambone, and Porkchop. But these aren’t things you would every introduce yourself as. Remember when kids would play those games where they would call everyone by their names backwards? Yeah, I never understood the allure. In fact, for a longer time than I would like to admit, I wrote my name backwards. The way my teachers and parents noticed was because my “n’s” were backwards as well. How embarrassing.

I worked with someone once who insisted he pronounce my name with a long “a”. I never corrected him because I was so pleased.

I couldn’t even turn to my middle name as a last resort. Because it’s a word, and one that hardly fits my sardonic personality. When I tell people what it is, they usually laugh, and I say, “Well, at least it’s doing its job.” with as straight a face as possible.

Because my middle name is Mirth.

Which, in case you are unaware, means happiness and joy. It seems like a cruel joke.

It’s a family name, sort of. My grandfather had it as his middle name and I’m sure someone else had it as well.  I don’t know who it originated with, because there has never been an overly jolly person on that side of the family. I did inherit some strange trait from that grandfather though. A love for fatty condiments.

I love mayonnaise. And butter and sour cream and cream cheese, but mostly mayo. I used to be ashamed to admit it, but now, it’s so serious (this love affair) that it’d be a lie to deny it any longer. I’m not the only one in my family, but it’s certainly the most severe in my case. My brother and sister and I love mayo so much that we have invented and adopted a lifestyle known as the “Rainy Day Mayo”. We’ve even gone so far as to seriously consider getting sibling tattoos of mayo packets to declare our love and let everyone else in the community know we are as committed as they are.

The Rainy Day Mayo (or RDM as it shall now be known, not in this post, but maybe a future one) is an important part of any mayo lovers purse/backpack/coat pocket/roller bag/camelbak. Because you never know when you will come across a sandwich that has been undercondimented, you need to be prepared at all times. This is the real reason behind the Boy Scouts motto. To do this, whenever you find yourself in a situation that has mayo packets just lying around unprotected, you take as many as your greasy hands can hold. (I say greasy because they are almost definitely covered in your last mayonnaise attack. But hey, mayo is a great moisturizer—especially in the winter months!) You stick all of these packets into whatever carrying case you have (I should probably invest in a fanny pack so they are accessible at all times) and wait until your next opportunity arises. Because someday soon, you will be presented with a sandwich, or bowl of rice, or Cheez-Itz, that requires a bit more eggy/oily goodness to make it palatable, even though you asked explicitly for a healthy amount of mayo on your sandwich.

What if?

               What if you are the one to text me first? What if the next time I see you I just ask?  What are we doing? Are we hanging out with a greater goal or just because it’s fun to hang around with you?  I think it will be fine either way.  I mean, I’ll tell myself, I’ll be fine either way.  But really, I just need to know.  Because I’m needy and slowly, I mean, rapidly sprinting towards a near and distant future that includes you.  Because I’m slowly and completely losing it when it comes to you.  I’ll accidentally fall in love with you and you won’t even realize what you’ve done.  

               What if it’s actually everything?  That eight hours of just talking about nothing could actually be everything? Everything that I wanted and needed and hoped for. And also, everything that I didn’t realize was even a possibility.  But first, I need you to do it.  Something. Anything.  Reach a little.  Let me know. Because I’ve tried more with you than with anyone.  But I won’t, I mean can’t, I mean, I’ve never wanted to look like a fool.  For you though, maybe it’ll be worth it.  No, no, no.  You won’t make yourself a fool.  You can’t push so hard for something that doesn’t exist. But, what if? What if it is currently existing?  What if it’s just different than you imagined?  Because there’s no way for you to know.  You just don’t know.

Some advice: Don’t get your wisdom teeth taken out without dental insurance.

I mean, sure, you won’t plan on it. But you’ll hit 27.5 years old and one day you will wake up with the slightest twinge of pain in your lower jaw.  And you’ll think, well, this is annoying, but it’s probably nothing. These teeth just move around occasionally, that’s what wisdom teeth do when they are insisting that they arrive in a mouth that is too small. You will ignore it, for a variety of reasons, but mostly because you just don’t want to deal with it.

               A few days later, and the minor twinge has turned into a full on attack. It feels like someone punched you repeatedly in the face. You can’t be sure, because you’ve never actually been in a fight, but you have you assume. You take ibuprofen and Tylenol and Aleve and worry constantly that there is a raging infection threatening to take away what little good looks you have while also worrying that perhaps you are only making things worse by overdosing on over the counter pain medications. So, you suck it up and make a dentist appointment. Which they promptly reschedule and you say “My teeth cannot wait until Monday! I’ll have to trek to Tufts Emergency Dental Clinic!” Which is run by students, so you are hopeful they will be helpful.

               You’ll wait with other uninsured people and hope that they will just rip out the offending tooth and send you on your way. You don’t realize that these students are awkward, slightly endearing, and still don’t really know what they are doing. You might be lucky enough to find an invitation to a club for people with strange birth defects because you, your dentist, and his teacher all are retaining the same baby tooth. You are almost pulled into a group hug, but have to refrain because you are lying in a chair. So, there’s some sort of silver lining to be found in every situation.

Some more advice: Don’t get your wisdom teeth taken out two days before Thanksgiving.

You find out that there is nothing seriously wrong with your teeth. It just age and time and bad luck slowly working against you. But they suggest that you get all four wisdom teeth removed as soon as possible. Which just happens to be the Tuesday before your favorite Thursday holiday of the year. You feel a strange sense of excitement though. “Look at me!”, you tell anyone who will listen, “I’m such an adult! Taking care of things! Paying for expensive medical procedures out of pocket! Being proactive!” Except you’re so excited, you mix up the words and say things like “Look at my expensive medical procedures pocket! Taking care of my adult proactive!” And they will say, sure, your proactive is clearly working well, your acne is well under control.

               You’ll walk into the appointment with a strange swagger. They might think you are drunk, but you promise you haven’t eaten or had anything to drink since midnight. They prepare the room for a chance of vomiting just in case, but want to continue on anyway. After all, it’s not often that the students get a chance to remove four perfectly normal wisdom teeth from a slightly normal adult female.  You will get six dentists of varying competencies, all male, and one nurse who is the bomb, female. They are awkward and have trouble placing your EKG monitors in the proper place. They will ask the nurse for help, because she is a woman and you are a girl and they are nervous about moving your shirt to touch your stomach. She will say, “Boys, get your selves together. You are doctors. You will need to touch women’s stomachs from time to time.” You will giggle to yourself and blame it on a lack of circulation. Because the dentist in charge of attaching your IV spent 10 minutes flicking your veins and tightening your cuff until finally he just went for it. (Side advice, maybe don’t date dental students, they seem very less than confident).

               You might run out of anesthesia before your surgery is up and will suddenly be overwhelmed by noises and feelings that you never knew existed. Someone is clutching your face with an intensity you’ve only nightmared of. Someone else is holding your hand and you think they might be the nicest person in the world.

               Later, when everyone leaves, you open your eyes to see your sister who is (im)patiently waiting to take you home. She seems excited, hoping that you will start to blather nonsense because you’ve just been injected with copious amounts of mind-altering drugs. Too bad, it’s already long worn off and your mouth is so full of cotton that there is no chance to say anything incriminating. You pretend you know sign language, because you’ve come up with so many jokes in the past 15 minutes that you need to share them immediately. Unfortunately, your sign language skills are rudimentary at best, so you just spell letters into the air. She tells you to stop being a fool. You decide she doesn’t deserve the punchline.

Continued advice: Don’t go to the pharmacy to pick up your own drugs. Send someone else.

They will take too long. You will be sitting there, blood and cotton pooling in your mouth, knowing your face is growing by the second. You will wait for 20 minutes and ask yet again why they haven’t given you your prescription yet. Can’t they see you are seconds away from a total breakdown? That your Novocain is no longer having its intended effect? They will tell you that they have to call the doctor to make sure your Percocet is warranted. Maybe you’ll slam your fist on the counter and yell “This is unacceptable!”. It’s more likely though, that you just shuffle off and try your best not to cry. You go home, take as many pain meds as your sister will allow, and take a nap while clutching your cheeks.

               You’ll wake up briefly to pour some water in your mouth and call out of work for the next day.

Final advice: Just don’t get your wisdom teeth taken out.

She was one of many, but she felt like maybe something was different in her. That even though she might have all the same parts and pieces, someone along the way had forgotten to connect something to its other something.

               She sat in a line with all the others just like her, waiting to be chosen. And she watched each one leave to find the perfect home, job, family, whatever. Except her. Why not her? She was like all the rest. There was nothing visibly wrong. They couldn’t have known.

               Finally, her day came. She was going home, but only on a short term basis, like a rental. He had a space to fill for a while, and she hoped that if she impressed him and did everything perfectly, that he would change his mind. She shifted and changed and desperately updated whenever possible. She added features and deleted parts of her that no longer seemed important. But she could tell, it wasn’t working. She wasn’t herself, and he wasn’t impressed.

You walked me to my car and I was saying goodbye and you said, wait, didn’t you want to talk about something? And I said yes, but I’m scared and this is so nervousing. And you smiled, nervousing, I like that word.

               So, I asked. What are we doing? What is it that you want?

               You said. Honestly? I don’t know. I think that I like you, but I don’t want a full-blown relationship. I mostly just want to make out with you.

               And I died a little inside. And I thought, what is a full-blown relationship? And why and how do you want to make out with me? But I whispered, I like you too. I’m just so nervous. We were standing under a streetlamp and I couldn’t look at your face so I stared at your chest. And I whispered more, I just don’t know anything, because I haven’t done anything and I don’t know how to do…anything.

               You stepped closer, but maybe farther, and said, we can do anything you want. You can call the shots and make the moves. We can go slow or whatever. We can do anything.

               And I glanced up for a second and then back down to continue staring intently at your chest because that’s all I could handle and said, I’ve never been good at sports and this is the only move I’ve ever made. And so, I think the next move has to be all yours.

               Finally, you stepped closer and said come here, but I didn’t move, because I had spent all my energy on talking. You touched my face, which I think hadn’t been touched before, and you leaned closer than anyone had. And finally.

               You pulled back and I apologized. Sorry, I murmured into your chest. For freezing and being unable to do anything beyond stand there completely dumbfounded, I didn’t say.

Everyone always asks “What are your resolutions Hannah? What do we have to look forward to from you this year?”

And I usually respond, “Well, New Year, new you.” Meaning, maybe it’s time you starting improving yourself, ya lazy bum. But actually, until this year, I thought that that was the saying. That instead of a New Year, new me resolution, it was sort of a “Go you! You can do anything this year!” thing. I’ve only just realized that saying the new you part was kind of offensive. But now, I’ve decided to go for it and make that my resolution. Pushing people to become better by pointing out their flaws. I feel like it’s something I can really commit to.

I do have another resolution though, just in case this one falls through. It’s to learn German, although I have no idea why I choose that language out of all the rest. There’s no real reason, except that Germany offers free college tuition to all of its students and if I ever need a back-up plan for my back-up plans, maybe I can apply to go to school and start all over. Or just delay the inevitable for a couple more years. I've learned two key phrases "The boy is eating insects." and "The bears are reading a newspaper." so I think I'm ready.

In case you are wondering, my back-up plans include: marry rich (but this will be difficult to do, because I don’t know any rich people and I’m not what you would consider a “catch”), audition/get on/have a long running streak/be part of the Tournament of Champions on Jeopardy! (this is also a stretch, because there are simply too many steps to this goal), or win the lottery (this option offers the best odds).

I’m hesitant to make any real goals for the year, because the one I made last year backfired, but in the best way possible. I decided, after being accused continuously of suffering from RBF (although I like to think of it as DIF: Determinedly Indifferent Face) that I would make an effort to smile more often. Or, at the very least, train my face to relax in a more pleasant position. This is incredibly difficult.

Anyways, I was making real strides towards my goal and in October, I was confirmed. I was offered a rare and often sought out break from work, so I went outside to enjoy my ten minutes of freedom and bliss. Little did I know, I would have an experience that could’ve only occurred after months and months of training my face to act differently.

The outdoor options near my job were limited, either an alleyway or a group of benches often taken overtaken with homeless people. I decided to take my chances on the benches, because the sun was out and I hadn’t seen the sun in what felt like days. I watched a woman have a conversation with herself, although it’s entirely likely she was speaking to a pigeon or the bench. I really can’t be sure.

Suddenly, or actually, not so suddenly, because I could hear him slowly getting closer because of the Doppler Effect, a man around my age comes riding a small bike down the sidewalk yelling expletives.  And when I say expletives plural, I really just mean the f word over and over and over.  He's actually basically screaming and I think to myself, “Oh dear, he's coming straight at me, this cannot possibly end well. This is how I’ll die.”

He stops right in front of me and says, "Sir, can I ask you a question?" Now, I know I’m not the most feminine looking of girls, but come on. I definitely don’t look like a guy. At least he was being polite. I look up (because I was attempting to hide in my phone, I keep forgetting that I can’t hide behind 4.5 inches of plastic and metal) and he says "Oh! I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking! You aren't a sir!"

So I blank stare him, because he has yet to ask the question in question, and while I am not a sir, I am regrettably interested in learning more.  He pauses, takes my blank stare to mean continue on, and starts in on his story (he sounds as if he is on the verge of tears, or perhaps that he recently just stopped)

         "My girlfriend, I mean, my ex-girlfriend…I think that's what she is now, oh, God…she thinks I cheated on her…I think she's broken up with me, I think she's kicking me out of our…I mean…her apartment! And she changed the locks so I can't get in!" 

He pauses and I am so overwhelmed at this luck.  Gossip and a break all in one day! This is a dream come true! But still, no question has been asked, so I'm not entirely sure what is expected of me. Do I nod to let him know I’m listening and interested in helping? Do I return to my phone and hope he pedals off to berate some other stranger? All I do know, is that my break was up 5 minutes ago and that I am so invested in the plight of this young man that I don’t care if I ever go back to work. I have so many questions, but he continues on "What should I do?  I mean, you don't even know me, but...what should I do?"

He wails.  And even though I hate drawing attention to myself or having attention drawn to my surroundings, I can't help myself.  "Well, did you cheat on her? (no, he declares) Have you talked to her? (I tried, but she won't answer my calls!, he exclaims and asks again, “What should I do???") And I, having a plethora of relationship advice to give, am ready—"I think maybe you should give her some time, let her cool down, and try to talk to her later."

         "So...you think I should go hang out with a buddy of mine and talk to her later?" Yes dude, that is basically what I just said. But instead, I nod my head once, like “Yes my son, your advice has been administered and all will be right with your relationship”. He breathes in through his mouth and out through his nose, like some sort of drugged out yogi, gets set to bike off, and says "Wow, thank you! You've really helped me a lot, this all means a lot to me!" And I think that if my other back-up plans for a future don’t pan out, maybe there’s a career in relationship advice for me yet. I’ll set up a booth and offer advice for 5 cents (or whatever inflation dictates). Instead I just say, “You're welcome, no problem" but before I can finish, he shakily pedals twice and hesitates. Seeming to remember that he just called me sir, he calls over his shoulder, "You're really beautiful by the way.” I realize that maybe his ex-girlfriend might have reasons to believe he cheats on her. But I love compliments no matter where they come from, so I won’t say anything.

He rides off into the distance yelling the f word every other pedal.  The bookend to a strange Doppler Effect.

In a half-hearted attempt to find something interesting to write about, I started rereading the journal I kept when I was a freshmen in college. And, man, I was so lame. Not that I’m not now—I’m pretty positive I am—but in different ways. Probably. Hopefully? Let’ just go ahead and assume the best.

Anyway, I didn’t find anything of note. Primarily, because I gave up near the end of sophomore year. Secondly, because the things I wrote about were undoubtedly drivel. Like, I went on for several days about my adventures in learning how to moonwalk between classes because I had found a particularly slippery floor. But, like many different hobbies that I take up, this one was doomed from the start. My dancing skills rival that of only a drunken baby. Although, at least the drunken baby has the advantage of being cute and endearing. Any cute or endearing traits I once had are long gone.

Except, I did remember I was once an extra in an opera. I’m pretty sure all I did was run onto stage and pretend to die. I did not do a good job. I never learned to fall with style or make a fake fall look believable. I am not a good liar. Fortunately, I’m not hoping to do that for a living (lying or falling or dancing), so there’s still hope for my future. I really hate falling. Like, it’s super scary and why I don’t do a lot of things. For instance, ice skating, skipping down hills, biking (until very recently). I think it’s one of my more irrational fears, because I’m not very tall and falling from my height really wouldn’t cause that much harm. Alas, it’s just how I am.

I have many irrational fears. Some are more embarrassing than others, and some I have only recently grown out of. I used to be entirely sure (and terrified) that the branch scraping on my bedroom window was either a dead man hanging off the side of the house or a vampire coming to collect me. And this was way before Twilight and the vampire craze, so I only knew of scary vampires, like Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise. I was also adamant about not walking over sewer drains—not because I thought I would fall in or get my foot caught in it or something more reasonable—but because I was sure there would be a dead body staring up at me from the depths. This fear originated from an episode of something related to Law and Order that I accidentally (sneakily) watched when I was in 1st grade. I was scarred for life.  It was terrible.

While living in Worcester with one of my college friends, we found a balance that allowed us each to relish in our irrational fears. She is absolutely terrified of flying objects (particularly flies and ladybugs) and is slightly scary when cooking, while I insist on never making phone calls or dealing with strangers. This agreement was working out perfectly fine until one pivotal night. As we were lounging in our house clothes (read—sweatsuits) watching Jeopardy!, our doorbell rang. This was incredibly alarming for a number of reasons, but largely because we hadn’t realized we had a doorbell. We both looked to each other in abject horror and froze. We dropped to the floor and started army crawling throughout the apartment so we wouldn’t be detected by whoever was causing our heartrates to skyrocket. We lived on the second floor. And the blinds were closed. But reason doesn’t account for much when there is the threat of human interaction at your door.

The doorbell rang again and I truly felt like I was about to throw up. Kristina started making movements (think silent military signals. Lots of pointing towards the door, miming walking downstairs, swinging a baseball bat around, kicking the body violently to make sure he never gets back up, curb stomping) that we should both go downstairs and check who was outside. I immediately started whisper yelling that there was no way that I would be going downstairs. We had an agreement and I had signed a lease stating that I would never be the one who would have to deal with situations like these! Why couldn’t we just ignore it and go back to getting quizzed by Alex!

And then. The doorbell rang a 3rd time. We heard the door open (because the outer door didn’t lock) and footsteps coming up the stairs.

I may have screamed, “Dear Alex Trebek, please save me from this misfortune!” But it’s more likely that I calmly stated, “And this is how I’ll die.” I’ve always known that I would accept my fate with grace and humility.

Do you have certain stories where you have felt particularly wronged by a parent, but in a humorous way that you bring up at every available opportunity? I do. In fact, all of my siblings do.

One of my brother’s go to anecdotes is about food. Actually, all of his memories are about food. My mom was preparing an ice cream sandwich for my brother and dropped the ice cream on her cutting board. Thinking nothing of it, figuring Jake would never notice if his ice cream had come into contact with a surface beyond container, spoon, and cookie, she continued on and slapped on the top of his sandwich. Half a bite later, Jake screamed out, “What did I do to you?! Mom! You peppered my ice cream! Whyyyyyy?!” She hadn’t realized that earlier she had spilled some pepper in the exact location of where that ice cream would later fall. I think he was 7 or 8. He remembers and brings it up often. He has an incredible memory when desserts are involved.

Mine is slightly more traumatizing, but I love it because it makes me seem way cooler and tougher than I am. I was in 2nd grade and riding my bike (!) by myself (!) to my friend’s (!) house. It was early spring and I was cruising down the massive hill we lived on when suddenly I hit an ice patch right at the bottom. I sailed over the remainder of a snow bank and landed on a rock. Luckily I had my helmet on, but I got a massive bruise on the inside of my thigh and I broke my wrist. My friend and her brother came to my rescue and walked me back up the hill to my house. My mom thought that I was a chronic exaggerator (I was) and complained too much (I did not!) and didn’t believe that I could have broken my wrist when everything else seemed fine. Two weeks later, gymnastics was starting up again and I said, “Mother dearest, I cannot attend the lesson, my wrist is still broken, even though you do not take my words as truth”. She said “Do a cartwheel you little whiner!” I attempted a cartwheel and crashed mightily to the floor. I don’t actually remember if it hurt that much, but I’m a great actor and I wanted a cast more than anything–to up my cool game obviously. Luckily, the doctor agreed and I got a purple cast for 4 weeks. Which means my wrist was only slightly messed up at that point, but I finally had ammunition for future arguments with my mom. I think that’s 100% the reason the doctor agreed. And I milked that cast for all it was worth, and am still milking the memories for any remaining droplets of parental regret.

And slightly unrelated, here’s a list of other things I have broken:

My tooth, twice. Actually, three times.

Many finger nails.

Plates.

Glasses.

Records.

A jar of salsa (last week, I was crushed).

Hearts (just kidding, I don’t want to be a murderer like Rihanna)

Ice (I’m super good at making people feel at ease in new and awkward situations, actually I think it’s because I’m increasingly awkward in new situations so others think “Man, I’ve got to be pulling this off better than her…”).

Stereotypes (hmm, maybe not, I probably play right into any stereotypes that fit me).

Stereo types (boomboxes, Sony, lg, surround sound).

My middle finger.

A leg (I mean, I’ve wished people luck before a play. In marching band, we used to say “Do good, don’t suck” which is nice. It’s not an overwhelming goal and quite achievable).

I was going to title this the time I touched an armadillo, but then I realized that was a lie. I’ve touched many an armadillo, it sort of comes with the territory of being a zoology major. Actually, that might be the number one reason people go to school for zoology–the chance to touch armadillos. Because who wouldn’t want to? They are smooth and strangely leathery on top, and soft and strangely luxurious on the bottom, and they are so cute, and smell kind of like tortilla chips. Which, interestingly, is a common smell of wild animals. Or at least, bear cats and armadillos.

First though, a short side story. Whenever my dad used to tell us bed time stories, he would start them the same way.  Literally every single time and regardless of the subject matter of the story.  “A long, long, long…(dramatic pause)…time ago.  When daddy was just a (higher pitched) liiiittttllle baaaabbbbyyyy (back to normal and dramatic) boy…” and then the story would start.  It didn’t matter if he was even a character in the story, or even take place when he was a little boy, but they always started this way.  This will help make sense of future stories, because this is how I start many a story as well.

Anyways, a long long long time ago, when Hannah was just a little college student, I learned about this magical place called Cumberland Island. I can’t remember how I came along this island, I may have been researching sea turtles and subsequently researching many of the islands along the coast of Georgia and South Carolina and this brought me to Cumberland Island. It’s a relatively small island, a short ferry ride away from St Marys, GA, which is practically in Florida. I have no clue why this island, of all the islands in the area, stood out to me, but I decided, I. Must. Go. And so, I filed it away in “places I should visit if and when I have the chance”. It’s a long list.

The chance came along during one of my spring breaks in college, probably my junior year. My sister and I thought it would be fun to drive down to Fort Myers, FL (you know, where all the cool kids go to celebrate spring break, with all the elderly that flock there in the dreary late winter months) and I insisted we stop at this island along the way. Actually, I didn’t have to insist much, each of my siblings has a very specific role in our siblingship–my sister is in charge of concepts and pressuring to make sure things happen, my brother is the “idea man” (his words), and I’m the planner. Once they give me one or both of these things, I can fill out the rest. So, Tamara says, we are going to visit Nana and Grandpa for these dates, and I’m in charge of figuring out times and routes and stops and gas prices and ferry times. This is what taking after school math and being accused of being a mathlete prepares you for. Money and time well spent!

We drove down, likely without stopping for more than gas and bathrooms, took a nap in the parking lot by the ferry, and by the time they opened, we were ready for adventure! I mean, we were overtired, but I was pumped. A combination of all the things I loved! Boats, and oceans, and islands, and animals! As my brother would say, “If I were any more pumped, I’d get a flat!” We arrived on the island and I had a brief moment of panic–what if this island is not as great as I think it is? What if it’s actually a huge bust and waste of our time? What if it’s cold and infested with horrible bugs and we don’t even see any cool animals? But it wasn’t, it turned out to be one of the best days in one of my favorite places on earth.

By now you should know, I don’t lie. So, you can take this declaration as complete truth and you should probably add Cumberland Island to your list of “places to visit if and when I get the chance”. However, I do often speak in hyperbole, so I suppose you should be slightly hesitant to take my statements completely to heart, but not in this case. Granted, I haven’t been many places in the world, but I have traveled extensively throughout the east coast and midwest, and this is easily top 3 in my list of places I love, and one of the few that I think about going back to often. It’s incredible. The island is a combination of 4 or 5 completely different ecosystems (which might be a lie, but whatever, I did really poorly when I took ecology), and it is so cool.  You start out in a typical south coast beachy tiny port/slightly crappy dock where they drop you off. Then you follow the trail and you are suddenly in one of the US’s closest thing to a tropical rainforest, and it’s beautiful. They even have the remains of a castle (I mean, plantation style house?, but it looks like a castle). You continue on to a marshy zone with a boardwalk through brackish waters. Then you happen across sand dunes (with raccoons and wood storks) which leads to a beach that was littered with washed up jellyfish (I really dislike jellyfish, but once they are washed up, all fears are gone and I like poking them and whatever else is typical of overzealous 5 year olds who will become zoologists). We took a nap in the sun on the sand and I accidentally got a sunburn in my armpits. A dream come true. Later, we went through a more typical style of North American forest where the armadillos bumble around doing whatever armadillos do (side story, later in this trip we stopped at the DC zoo and some Spanish speakers were talking about gorillas except they read the ll as a y, as they do, so that led my sister and I to rename every animal with double l’s with y’s instead. So every time I write out armadillo, I’m actually saying armadiyo. Something to keep in mind when you are reading this yourself. Also, goriya, ayigator, yama). They are extremely easy to sneak up on and don’t even really react when you touch them, another thing to keep in mind. They can’t really bite, so they are a good animal to bother, although the zoologist/wildlife rehabilitator in me says don’t bother wild animals! the 5 year old says, yeah yeah yeah! let’s poke it with a stick! (except I’ve moved on past the stick because I have a rabies shot (that is likely no longer effective, but this is the excuse I use to touch things I shouldn’t)). Beyond the forest of armadillos, there are fields where wild horses live (leftovers from whoever lived in the castle), and if you go far enough, there is a different type of beach where you can sometimes see loggerhead sea turtles, manatees, and dolphins. I spent pretty much the entire day in a state of exclamation, except for the nap, although I can’t be sure. Sometimes I talk in my sleep.

So, it’s hard to come up with a best Christmas story, because when you move to Minnesota at a young age and your parents divorce shortly after, holidays are usually not that much fun or made into a big deal. Extended family is too far away and my dad wasn’t a great planner or a great cook and my mom rarely got the honor of having us on the big day. Sure, we could work the system and get a few smaller Christmas celebrations, but it generally was a chill affair. We rarely put on real clothes and once we figured out we could go to church at midnight and not have to wake up to join the one time a year churchgoers, we believed we had it made.   Snacks and movies and pie and presents were our big plans, and my dad is a master snacker (Currently, since he has no children at home, he snacks with the dogs, “Two crackers for me, one for Taz, one for Sid, one for Lucifer (except he has diabetes so maybe not) and one for Helios.” And this will continue on until he runs out of snacks).

But, one year does stand out.

It was 2003, but it could’ve been 1947, 1966, 1983, 1989, 1990, 1994, or 1998. Christmas tales tend to be timeless.  All my brother wanted for Christmas was a BB gun (we lived in the Midwest, this was a common request), my sister wanted an angel to get its wings, and I wanted a boy to knock on the door and declare his love for me via a series of awkward signs. Not because I wanted to be in actual love with him, but simply because I love flattery in all forms and I’m needy). Anyways, our chances for success were low because the way we went Christmas shopping involved our dad dropping us off at the mall with a handful of cash and a time limit. It’s hard to one stop shop all of those items, even in a Super Target.

Even though the odds were stacked against us for acquiring our perfect gifts, we still had hopes for a Christmas to remember. Usually the night before the big day, my dad will set us up with snacks on snacks on snacks, but this year he decided to go all out and make a meal fit for Thanksgiving. Which never made sense to me, but we went along with it. Unfortunately, he set the turkey completely on fire and had to use a fire extinguisher to prevent the house from burning down.  My brother tried (unsuccessfully) to make him feel better, “It’s ok Dad, the turkey just has a little hair on his chest!”

With no back up plan, we went to a diner and met a lovely older waitress named Judy and had a nice time. We returned home and all cuddled up in my sisters room to await the arrival of Santa. Sometime in the middle of the night we heard a great clatter and something that sounded like a fat man falling off the roof, but it had snowed a ton that year so we assumed it was just snow settling in for a long winter’s nap.  We didn’t realize it at the time, but our father was about to undergo a series of dramatic lifestyle changes, including a sudden love for hot chocolate, shaken not stirred. Obviously.

The next morning, we crept from our rooms to check what Santa had left us and much to our chagrin, everything had been stolen! Just kidding, we didn’t live in Whoville, we lived in Greenfield, and even though we had several dogs to choose from, we never affixed antlers to them and forced them to pull a sled. Mostly because they are all incredibly lazy. We knew we had bribed Santa successfully, because there were only crumbs of cookies left behind and the tops of carrots thoughtfully nibbled by reindeer. Or maybe the other way around, I’ve never thought to set up a camera to make sure. The tree was hardly visible behind the piles of presents and the stockings were packed with Christmas breakfast which consists of the four main food groups—candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup.  And we set out to get as sugared up as possible.

This, unfortunately, was one of those years we had to go to mass with the masses; however going to Christmas mass is not the worst time to go, even considering the influx of non-committed Catholics. There’s generally an awesome choir and a play that reenacts the birth of Jesus (although this year was a strange time for the play–our church had too many children who had dreams of being actors and so new parts were invented because “each child should have the opportunity to shine like the star that led the three kings to baby Jesus”. So this edition included a child dressed as an octopus among other sea creatures who had no business in Bethlehem). And if you’re really lucky, you can spend some time in the eaves with the pigeon lady; she seems scary, but she is actually a huge softy. I’ve heard if you give her a turtle dove ornament, you’ll be friends for life. Or maybe it’s only if you give her the “ST ENDS” segment of your best friends necklace. I’ve never met her, but I have noticed a soothing cooing during the part of church where you have to kneel uncomfortably and appear to be deep in thought. I think they call it praying, but I’m easily distracted. Finally it was over and we trundled back outside to go home and get our day of relaxation started. My brother had so many clothes on he couldn’t walk properly and fell over into a snowbank. We left him behind. My sister foolishly licked a metal pole and part of her tongue is still there with a plaque commemorating the event

On the way home we passed a road race of men in Santa suits led by a super cute “boy next door” type who looked worn out but on a mission to make it to the finish line or his home, whichever came first. We didn’t ask any questions.

We made it home, but just barely. We had just cozied up to the fire for a nap after a rousing game of pass the ball (pass the ball is a game where each person in your family sits in different corners of the living room and passes the ball to the next person. The ball is any sports ball you can find, soccer ball, basketball, lacrosse ball, beach ball, and you just keep passing until someone misses. It doesn’t seem hard, but that’s because you didn’t realize that when I listed the types of ball, I meant that we used all four at once. And you had to pass as quickly as possible so you could be ready to catch the next ball while also evading the dogs who were all desperate to steal the ball. It’s like a very elaborate game of monkey in the middle that you play on couches and only on commercial breaks) when suddenly we heard a terrible noise outside. An RV with what appeared to be every estranged member of our family pulled up expecting a warm and inviting home for Christmas dinner! We hadn’t planned for this at all! We didn’t have nearly enough sports balls or spots on sofas to include everyone in pass the ball!

Somehow, my father unveiled what can only be described as a Christmas miracle–a beautifully cooked turkey. I worried it was the same as the night before and was covered in potassium bicarbonate so I decided to become a vegetarian at the very moment. Fortunately, everyone else was also saved from ingesting copious amounts of fluorocarbons because as dad began to carve the turkey, it exploded in a way completely unprecedented and only seen before in ridiculous films. But this was no film, it was real life. Crazy Uncle Lewis told my sister that every time a turkey explodes, an angel gets its wings. Which actually makes sense, turkey wings are pretty sturdy and I would imagine them useful to carry around an angel. Then our cat (I didn’t even know we had a cat) chewed through one of the light strands and set himself and one of our prized pass the ball couches on fire.