b. May 29, 1949
In the toy store, he presses every single button on every single toy and then giggles like a little kid.
He bakes all the muffins and shortbread cookies. He makes more cookies for Christmas than they would ever need at their Open House. This is to account for the ones that will inexplicably disappear out of the freezer beforehand.
He rarely read me stories. Instead he made up cool adventures about a kid named Bartholomew Snuffenhouser.
When we go for a run, he always tucks in his shirt and pulls up his socks. Then waits for me to say, “You are NOT leaving the house looking like that.” Then he giggles like a little kid.
He always made sure to tuck me in whenever he came home from work—whether it was 10 at night or 4 in the morning.
He only answers the phone if Mom’s not home, no matter where she is in the house or what she’s doing.
When I’m sad or frustrated, he’s the only person in the world that can make me cry just by looking at me.
When I told him I was pregnant, he looked confused, and said “but I’m not old enough to be a grandpa.” He seems fine with it now.
I got a brand new manual typewriter for my 10th birthday. Him and I had daily correspondence for the longest time on a roll of toilet paper. (It was endless and cheaper than paper—he is, after all, Scottish.)
All my friends are jealous of the relationship I have with him. He’s my running partner; he’s there whenever we need him; he’s someone who believes in me no matter what I’m trying to accomplish.
Happy birthday Dad.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Secret Life of Herman, My Beard
To my great surprise, I only became a man in my 26th year of living, when I happened to grow a beard. Until this point, I had been but an undeveloped naïf unschooled in the ways of the world—essentially an adolescent.
Flung suddenly into the adult world, I was ignorant of the ramifications of this facial hair. In my naïve state, I thought it would be a disguise, like putting on a wig and sunglasses. Surely no one would recognize me. “Who is that bearded guy who looks kind of like Joe?” they would ask, at which point I would laugh and say, “Aha! It is me!” And we would all share a laugh about my remarkable disguise and then carry on with our lives. It would be a good trick at parties, and that’s all.
With that expectation in mind, I grew it during a week off of work. Near the end of the week, I was rather disappointed when I ran into a coworker who recognized me immediately without even the slightest hint of uncertainty. Was it me or just a brilliant disguise? Nope, it was just me.
And at first, this was enough—it was just me with a bit of fuzz on the face. There was some consternation amongst relatives (my mother, too passive aggressive to openly voice her dislike of the beard, simply kept asking me why I had grown it, while my father cautioned me that I would find it hot during summer), but the response was generally supportive. The beard was the missing link in my appearance, and I felt at ease with beard related activities, such as thoughtfully tugging the hairs on my chin while reading Dostoyevsky.
But my new facial hair produced unexpected results. The beard opened the door on a whole realm of masculinity previously barred to me. Many of my male colleagues at work began to engage me in beard discussions—fond reminisces of beards long since shaven but dearly missed, rueful confessions of their own inability to grow respectable facial hair, comparisons of grooming methods. Most often, these conversations occurred in the men’s room. Where once were awkward pauses as we passed each other leaving the bathroom, now there were relaxed exchanges on beard related topics (most common remark: “I bet that thing keeps you warm in winter”).
I bore this all with smiling patience, even as it struck me odd that such conversations almost always had to occur in the bathroom. Apparently, it was only in this inner sanctum of virility that we could broach such masculine topics, freed at last from the endless distractions of the women folk, who presumably would interrupt such manly talk with pickle jars that needed opening or shelves that needed leveling or whatever it was that I was supposed to be doing now that I was a man.
The initial awkwardness of discussing shaving techniques with men thirty years my senior gave way to a deeper, more unsettling anxiety. If they were having this conversation with me solely for the sake of my beard, then what did this say about my own worth? Were they talking to me…or to the beard?
Never before had a feature of my personal appearance defined me. Prior to my bearding, no one discussed my glasses with me, nor my hair, my chin, my cheeks. Friends did not come up to me and ask to feel my face, but they were eager to stroke the new beard. Naturally, I felt a bit jealous. I now realized that before the beard I had been essentially faceless and formless in the eyes of others. If I were to rob a liquor store now, the description on the six o’clock news would make prominent mention of a bearded man. The police sketch would likely show me in a hoodie with the single defining feature of the drawing being the dark beard scribbled in charcoal. But if I had robbed a liquor store in my clean-shaven state, I would have been effectively anonymous. “I can’t explain it,” the confused clerk would have told reporters. “Some clothes floated into the store and emptied the till and then disappeared.”
A colleague repeatedly insisted that every beard should have a name, and so I obliged him and half-jokingly declared that the beard’s name was Herman (my inspiration was the prodigious beard of Herman Melville). But the joke also underlined the sad truth of the matter, which was that my beard was becoming its own self—it was the popular one, while I was the quiet hanger-on, milling about in the background as everyone talked about it. At parties, people were excited to see the beard, and then as an afterthought greeted me. It wasn’t that I had grown a beard, but rather that the beard had seemingly grown me, like some gangly awkward tail it had to drag everywhere.
Had I become enslaved to my beard? Had it come to define me to such a point that I was nothing without it? This sounded like the premise of a ridiculous cheap horror film, or even worse, a wry existential French drama filled with ennui and loathing. But there was a ring of truth to it as well. If I were to shave off this beard, I would be perceived as somehow less of a man than I once was. To shave it would be akin to chopping off an arm (or some other appendage), and people would naturally shun me out of disgust for my self-mutilation. We were chained together, and there was no breaking the bond now, even if I wanted to.
People say never trust a man with a beard, but I say never trust a beard with a man. Who knows what nefarious plots are hatching somewhere at the base of those dark bristles? They resemble a forest at night, where vile schemes can be concocted under the cover of the canopy, where even the brightest moon cannot penetrate to the rotting leaves and dead skin far below. And more than any other reason, that is why I hold on to this beard, my Herman, despite all of these conflicted feelings I have towards it. For if it were not on my face, who knows what trouble it might get up to?
Flung suddenly into the adult world, I was ignorant of the ramifications of this facial hair. In my naïve state, I thought it would be a disguise, like putting on a wig and sunglasses. Surely no one would recognize me. “Who is that bearded guy who looks kind of like Joe?” they would ask, at which point I would laugh and say, “Aha! It is me!” And we would all share a laugh about my remarkable disguise and then carry on with our lives. It would be a good trick at parties, and that’s all.
With that expectation in mind, I grew it during a week off of work. Near the end of the week, I was rather disappointed when I ran into a coworker who recognized me immediately without even the slightest hint of uncertainty. Was it me or just a brilliant disguise? Nope, it was just me.
And at first, this was enough—it was just me with a bit of fuzz on the face. There was some consternation amongst relatives (my mother, too passive aggressive to openly voice her dislike of the beard, simply kept asking me why I had grown it, while my father cautioned me that I would find it hot during summer), but the response was generally supportive. The beard was the missing link in my appearance, and I felt at ease with beard related activities, such as thoughtfully tugging the hairs on my chin while reading Dostoyevsky.
But my new facial hair produced unexpected results. The beard opened the door on a whole realm of masculinity previously barred to me. Many of my male colleagues at work began to engage me in beard discussions—fond reminisces of beards long since shaven but dearly missed, rueful confessions of their own inability to grow respectable facial hair, comparisons of grooming methods. Most often, these conversations occurred in the men’s room. Where once were awkward pauses as we passed each other leaving the bathroom, now there were relaxed exchanges on beard related topics (most common remark: “I bet that thing keeps you warm in winter”).
I bore this all with smiling patience, even as it struck me odd that such conversations almost always had to occur in the bathroom. Apparently, it was only in this inner sanctum of virility that we could broach such masculine topics, freed at last from the endless distractions of the women folk, who presumably would interrupt such manly talk with pickle jars that needed opening or shelves that needed leveling or whatever it was that I was supposed to be doing now that I was a man.
The initial awkwardness of discussing shaving techniques with men thirty years my senior gave way to a deeper, more unsettling anxiety. If they were having this conversation with me solely for the sake of my beard, then what did this say about my own worth? Were they talking to me…or to the beard?
Never before had a feature of my personal appearance defined me. Prior to my bearding, no one discussed my glasses with me, nor my hair, my chin, my cheeks. Friends did not come up to me and ask to feel my face, but they were eager to stroke the new beard. Naturally, I felt a bit jealous. I now realized that before the beard I had been essentially faceless and formless in the eyes of others. If I were to rob a liquor store now, the description on the six o’clock news would make prominent mention of a bearded man. The police sketch would likely show me in a hoodie with the single defining feature of the drawing being the dark beard scribbled in charcoal. But if I had robbed a liquor store in my clean-shaven state, I would have been effectively anonymous. “I can’t explain it,” the confused clerk would have told reporters. “Some clothes floated into the store and emptied the till and then disappeared.”
A colleague repeatedly insisted that every beard should have a name, and so I obliged him and half-jokingly declared that the beard’s name was Herman (my inspiration was the prodigious beard of Herman Melville). But the joke also underlined the sad truth of the matter, which was that my beard was becoming its own self—it was the popular one, while I was the quiet hanger-on, milling about in the background as everyone talked about it. At parties, people were excited to see the beard, and then as an afterthought greeted me. It wasn’t that I had grown a beard, but rather that the beard had seemingly grown me, like some gangly awkward tail it had to drag everywhere.
Had I become enslaved to my beard? Had it come to define me to such a point that I was nothing without it? This sounded like the premise of a ridiculous cheap horror film, or even worse, a wry existential French drama filled with ennui and loathing. But there was a ring of truth to it as well. If I were to shave off this beard, I would be perceived as somehow less of a man than I once was. To shave it would be akin to chopping off an arm (or some other appendage), and people would naturally shun me out of disgust for my self-mutilation. We were chained together, and there was no breaking the bond now, even if I wanted to.
People say never trust a man with a beard, but I say never trust a beard with a man. Who knows what nefarious plots are hatching somewhere at the base of those dark bristles? They resemble a forest at night, where vile schemes can be concocted under the cover of the canopy, where even the brightest moon cannot penetrate to the rotting leaves and dead skin far below. And more than any other reason, that is why I hold on to this beard, my Herman, despite all of these conflicted feelings I have towards it. For if it were not on my face, who knows what trouble it might get up to?
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Housekeeping
Here are a few things that piss me off as we go into May (and the rest of summer):
-Girl on the Corner (using a flu mask for a helmet)
- Motorcycle noise and the ensuing complaints about it. Yes, the motorcyclists are loud jackasses with no respect for your nervous puppy, colicky newborn or near-death grandma. (They probably drive Saturns and sport khakis throughout the rest of the year.) But every year -- EVERY YEAR -- the complaints begin escalating from the tame ("Gosh, those motorcycles are too loud") to mild ("Buddy needs to lose the muffler. Seriously!") to spicy ("I am going to take that jerk-face's Hog and ride it up his ass!"). The complaints turn to angry letters to the local newspapers and eventually death threats toward these weekend Hell's Angels, until Joe Blow is going to whip out his station wagon and take one of them down. For the most part, the bikes are loud so your dumb, minivan-drivin' ass hears them while they're cruising in the lane next to you before you fatally cut them off in traffic.
- Swine flu. This is a public health announcement: This little piggy went to Mexico. This little piggy stayed home. This little piggy got swine flu. This little piggy got scared. And THIS little piggy went wee wee wee all the way to quarantine. We can't stop idiots from charging Speedo first into Mexico, but please just wash your hands before, during and after everything you touch. At home and away.
-Girl on the Corner (using a flu mask for a helmet)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
