Everywhere Sucks

Hillary is from England, just one foot off of the proverbial boat. We go out for lunch to celebrate her moving to America, and, after circling the mall parking lot for a bit, we end up Baker's Square. I justify our bland choice by stating that nothing is more American than apple pie. Never mind that we end up ordering French silk and German chocolate cake for dessert; as a true patriot, I tend to choose deliciousness over the flag any day.

Hillary and I are engaged in conversation, and I can't help but repeatedly think how stupid I must sound. Her British accent is so beautifully proper, and every word coming out of her mouth reverberates as if originally penned by Shakespeare, or at least Nick Hornby. I, on the other hand, feel as if every other thing I'm saying sounds like it ends in an apostrophe. Walkin'. Talkin'. Stinkin'. Drinkin'. My abbreviated words are mixed in with all of my "likes" and "you knows" as to add to my disgracefulness. I'm just an American bum with American slang and a dollop of whipped cream dripping sloppily from my chin.

For all I can tell, Hillary might be speaking rubbish. She could be babbling incoherently about her favorite pasta shapes or wondering aloud why salami is always round. It doesn't matter; either way, it sounds like pure poetry. This makes me think of all those marketing mantras that state the idea is not the message- how it's delivered is the message. You can sell birth control pills to a nun- a male nun, even- if your voice is soothing enough.

Our waitress at the old Square falls in love with Hillary for this reason; that dang accent is so pleasant that you barely notice this is the fifth time she's sending back her beverage due to having irregular shaped ice cubes. Hillary tantalizes me by reading aloud from the menu and marveling at our portion sizes. Then she explains that she's not used to all the tipping we do. "Americans seem to tip for everything, and in excessive amounts as well," she sings harmoniously, to which I respond that she's clearly never met my Uncle Bert. I take a small amount of pride in knowing that Bert, among others in my family, are even less cultured than little old me. At least I know enough to drop my spare change in the tip jar after ordering at Starbucks. On the other hand, I've also been known to spit my gum in there.

Hillary's been all around the world. Although England has been her home for the majority of her life, she has also lived in Tokyo and France. She's seen the Sahara Desert, and I am very ashamed to find out she has seen more of the United States than I have. I imagine Hillary forging trails through all of our cities and mountains and steakhouses, private citizens fainting to the ground with pleasure as she opens her mouth to ask where one might find the loo. In my own country, I will never be adored as Hillary as been adored. I would have to travel to rural Southeast Asia before anyone would even take a second glance at me. It's a shame I've never had the time to get a passport or learn any number of Southeast Asian languages.

"I must find a proper job eventually," Hillary sighs, watching with disdain as I slather my freedom fries with ketchup. "I don't know what it is I will do."

"Radio deejay," I suggest, "Or you can record books for the blind. Anything with a microphone, really. Do you know anything about monster trucks? Try saying 'Sunday, Sunday, Sunday.' No, do it with a real sense of urgency. Yeah, that's perfect. You're going straight to the top, I can tell."

I have lied to her face. Her "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday" is awful. I feel a little better about myself, and Hillary and I talk some about the other major differences between England and America. What else are we going to talk about? She clearly has no working knowledge of monster truck rallies.

At the end of the meal, Hillary offers to pay with her brand new American dollars, crisp slips of green that to her have as much meaning as Monopoly money. She lays out the cash carefully, then wrinkles her brow while trying to work out the tip. After a bit, she questions aloud, "A dollar? Would that be a sufficient tip?"

I laugh at my new English friend. "A dollar is not a very good tip for a thirty dollar bill," I chastise her gently, like a mother hen teaching her baby hen how to calculate fifteen percent. "We Americans tip excessively," I remind her, and I make a big show out of taking a single dollar from my wallet. "We'll leave her two dollars."

Hillary is grateful that I have saved her from embarrassment. As we walk out, I wink at the waitress, only slightly bitter that she kept taking Hillary's beverages back for more regular shaped ice while ignoring the fact that my fork had had a booger on it the size of an American dime.

Best of 23/24ths of 2005

I was restlessly flipping channels a couple of weeks ago when I saw that the shows were out. With titles like Wildest Women of 2005, Best Awkward Moments in '05, and The Top 100 Bridge Games That Changed The World in 2005, the yearly wrap up on cable TV had begun. Every year I have the same gripe, and every year I am just barely placated not with an explanation but with, instead, a kindly pat on the arm and a pity offer of the remains of a bologna sandwich. What about all the stuff that happens in the last few weeks of December? Don't those events deserve to be honored on all of the Best of shows of the year? They certainly won't be honored in next year's 2006 show- that would be death for a cable exec.

While loading the dishwasher, I considered a letter writing campaign to hold off all of the 2005 shows until early 2006, when the year could be looked at as a complete whole. Letter writing campaigns don't seem to get as much done as they used to, though, as I can attest after last year's attempt to get my birthday made into a federal holiday. It's a valid point that maybe I wasn't writing to the correct authority figure, but I could have sworn that my neighbor was in charge of declaring federal holidays. It was something shifty in his eyes that made me believe he had the power. Anyhow, after apologizing profusely for cramming his mailbox so full of letters that all of his actual mail was sent back to the post office, and after helping him contact the electric company so they could turn his lights back on, I swore off any future letter writing campaigns. This year, though, I was tempted to fire up the old pen. Instead, I watched an episode of Best New Prescription Drugs in 2005 and fumed silently in my chair.

A number of events can change my life before we hit the New Year in a couple of weeks, and since I have realized this, I've made it a point to try to stay home as much as possible. The last thing I want to do is burst onto the scene now. There is a part of me that aches to do something huge in this world, even bigger than getting my own federal holiday, but the perfect time to execute my great, mostly unformed plan will be sometime in mid-September. This would firmly secure my place on a Best of show. I've already warned my boyfriend: if you see me doing something fabulous on December 27th of any year, tackle me to the ground so I don't disappear into that static-filled oblivion where the ones with the power, the ones with the microphones, will never, ever know I exist. Patience this time of year is everything.

Not only that, but it's way too cold to go out.

There Goes Santa Claus

My co-workers and I were talking about the "Merry Christmas v. Happy Holidays" debate today, and I was surprised at how strongly they felt about saying Merry Christmas. "I'm saying 'Merry Christmas' to every customer this year," Rudy spat out, defiantly jabbing his forefinger in the air. "And if they don't celebrate Christmas, they can correct me. And then they can wish me a 'Merry Christmas,' because that's what I celebrate." He was on a mission to take back the streets from those politically correct blowhards. Of course, he then backtracked to state that, no, he would not wish our customer, Mr. Goldstein, a Merry Christmas. Goldstein would get the "Happy Holidays." When I asked why Goldstein wouldn't be wished a "Happy Hannukah," Rudy just shrugged, and then somehow we got on the topic of gambling, and that was that.

My other co-worker, Horace, decided to wish everyone a "Merry Christmas," regardless of race, creed, or religion. He executed this hilariously at the end of every telephone call this afternoon, quickly mumbling "Merry Christmas!" into the phone and then slamming the receiver down before the caller could respond. I don't know if anyone was truly feeling the Christmas spirit this afternoon, what with all the customers Horace hung up on and all the money that Rudy lost from one of his bookies, but at least the debate killed a few minutes after lunch that would have otherwise been spent making spitballs.

I tend to get annoyed about the sensitivity surrounding the word Christmas, but I still won't go as far to actually wish anyone a Merry Christmas. This is because this greeting (or exit line, depending on how delivered) seems too confrontational and controversial, like, perhaps, wishing a recently-widowed, suicidal old lady with no family or driver's license a Happy Valentine's Day. Not that I'm comparing non-Christians to old women with no cars, but sometimes one has to watch their p's and q's.

This year, I will be celebrating Christmas, not Holidays, with my family by arguing over the fact that I shouldn't have to write out a grab-bag list if nobody is going to follow it. I wish everybody would stop buying me decorative candles. Enough is enough already.