Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. or how one blog entry can highlight my dorkattitude.

I dated this guy once who swore my mother was Yoda. He actually thought this would be a compliment to her. How do you tell your girlfriend’s mother she looks like a 1000 year old puppet with ear hair? Needless to say, we didn’t last very long.

I don’t know why Yoda popped into my head but the last few weeks, I’ve seen enough stupidity and hate that I think I need to buy a talking Yoda doll and keep it on my property.

There was the crazy lady on Trading Spouses that rebuked everything in the name of Jesus. My favorite scene in the episode was when Hippie Dad asked her how she could dislike something that God created. Then there was the neo-Nazi Olsen Twins article I read. Everyday, someone comes up with another way to hate that shocks me.

Perhaps I’m na├»ve but I’ve always had it in my mind that living beings have a predisposition towards good. For example, pit bulls aren’t born mean. I’ve known many a pit bull that was loveable, huggable and an all-around softie. Heck my second dog was a pit bull. His name was King and he was my dad’s dog. Unfortunately, my dad didn’t have the affinity towards dogs that dog owners should have. Dad was like the 8 year old who wants a puppy but doesn’t realize the commitment required of a dog owner. King was a softie that scared the crap out of my mother and all 50 lbs of me. I was and still am the runt. I was the poor schmo that had to sit on the floor Indian style and hold the plaque up that said your grade and teacher. I think I was more scared of the king size poops he produced than his actual size and lanky gait.

Now I’m not saying I walk around like Elle Woods thinking all pink stars and caribou but I’d like to think that the guy on the train next to me drooling on himself and picking his nose is generally a nice guy with synapse disorders. He’s not harassing me or any other passengers. He’s staying to his seating area and his conversation with his imaginary friend is with his inside voice.

My MIL thinks the complete opposite. Her job puts her in the line of many people who have been found guilty by a jury of their peers. She doesn’t live in New York City but she did for nearly 20+ years of her life during the crime laden era. In her mind, NYC equals a soup bowl of evil. She’s forever asking us to leave and move. Apparently crime doesn’t happen in rural towns. I’ve told her time and time again that we’re not moving to a place where our rotting corpses wouldn’t be found for months, maybe even years. If I need to hike a mile to borrow a cup of sugar from my neighbor, I’m staying put. Honestly, I’ve never ever knocked on my neighbor’s door and borrowed sugar. Their door is less than 20 paces from mine and I’ve always walked the two blocks to the bodega. I wonder what the reaction would be from my neighbor if I did knock on his/her door. “Is the bodega closed?”

Truth be told, for a person who enjoys the 20,000 people per square mile aspect of NYC, I really don’t socialize with many of them. The number drops drastically when you discount the ‘Heys’, ‘the hand wavers’ and the dry cleaner, the pizza delivery guy, the mailman and the UPS guy.

When I first moved to our neighborhood, I made a concerted effort to remember names. Honestly I did. I wrote them down with notes and everything. Then I subsequently lost that notepad and have since been doing the, “Hey……. You.”

My favorite people that I meet are the nodders. The nod says, “Hey, I know you but we don’t need to talk.” I’m fine with that except in elevators. For some reason, in my apartment elevator, I feel the need to talk to whomever is in the elevator. Maybe it’s a nervous tick. I sometimes pray the person getting in will get off on the first two floors. The shorter the trip with the stranger, the better. The first two floors allow for the nod from both parties and then a brief stare at the elevator door until their stop.

Once I pass the third floor, I have to say something. I can’t just stare at the door as if the wood paneling is all that interesting anymore. Usually it’s a pithy statement. Yesterday it was “It’s a small priority.” What the hell is a small priority? I meant a low priority but like the ass that I am, I said small priority. In my defense, the gentleman’s floor was coming and I felt I needed to finish my statement before the doors opened which would have forced him to stand between the doors until the conversation was completed. So the pressure got to me.

What was the small priority, you ask? The floor buttons in my elevator are supposed to light up when you press them but for 2 months now the light for my particular floor has been out. So when strangers go into the elevator with me, it looks like I haven’t pressed a button. Some people ask me what floor but others, mainly elderly look at me like I’m some thug who is waiting for the doors to close to mug them. Honestly, I know there are tough Asian chicks but would a 5’3” petite female mug you in Rossi stilettos? Unless we’re in a movie and I’ve handcuffed you to the bed, naked and blindfolded, you won’t need to worry.

The gentleman in the elevator inquired why I didn’t tell the super of the broken light. I could have gone on a rant about how I told the Board President but decided to answer with a short, “It’s small beans.” That’s when my synapses misfired and I said, “It’s a small priority.”

I’ve heard of deals brokered in elevators. I’m not one of those people. I’m the dorkus who loses all verbal skills and leaves the fellow rider with some pithy, unintelligible comment. That’s why I always race to be the first to say, “Have a good evening.” I don’t want to end the conversation with the awkward comment. I need to end it clean. It’s as if I hold my breath when I feel the elevator suddenly stop on the designated floor. I wonder if the anticipation is on my face. Tonight, I have to watch my face in the security mirror. Would that make me appear stranger than I already feel in an elevator?

Courtesy of Pooch Cafe by Paul Gilligan