Caring Is a Zero Sum Game

Caring is a zero sum game, or so some guy in the comment section said.

Every kilowatt of brainpower we spend on the trivial bread and circuses in the world means less attention to the tiny lessons that you know are good for you. Ever tried to care about two things at once? Don’t bother because it can’t be done.

For every atom of attention you waste seeing white and gold or blue and black in that dress, you deprive us of a tear for nine murdered churchgoers. Whenever you speak for justice over underinflated footballs, another Syrian child collapses in a cloud of mustard gas. You cannot care about both at once. The math is impossible and you deserve every scolding you get that echoes off Internet walls.

What a world this would be, they say, if we never lifted our head from studying tragedy to rest our minds with the trivial. And how little tragedy there would be if all that condescending online self-righteousness could power even the smallest change.  

The Jig Is Up

It is with a heavy heart that I announce my resignation as president of the Delaware chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, Transgender and Queer (NAALGBTQ) people. In the past few days, the public has become aware that I have been masquerading as a gay man for several years and so I cannot continue on.

The world has discovered that I am unequivocally straight. As a young boy, I used to use a pink Crayola crayon, not peach, to color my skin in drawings. This subtle but important distinction spoke deeply to how I identified myself.

I may look and act like a gay man but now I am embarrassed to say it’s all a façade. I have used high-end hair gels to make my hair look gay. I have also spent a lot of money on skin care products so my skin looks closer to homosexual. I paid much more attention to fashion than I would have if I lived freely as a straight person.

I have also affected a gay persona, going to clubs and such and expressing affection to my husband (he’s in on it). My gay cultural interests are all a cover for my deception. I actually can’t stand Madonna. Whenever I was screaming at one of her concerts, it was from pure aggravation, not excitement.

Pay no attention to the allegation that while I was a student at the historically gay Elton John University, I sued for discriminating against me as a straight person. This is false.

Again, I apologize. But I will continue to fight for whatever it is I’m fighting for by doing this. 

Incongruous

It is disconcerting. The incongruity of the situation is what strikes me. These first few days, nothing is where it should be.

Little things stick out: speaker cables on the coffee table. A colander on the floor. Paintings in the garage. Cards Against Humanity on the range top. But I've done this before and I know everything will eventually find its right place.

Larger things have been permanently altered, too. Light does not slap us in the face the first thing in the morning, with the new house rotated in a different direction. Couch and loveseat sit on opposite sides as before so now if we want to lie down while watching TV (and when don't we?), we lie facing the other way.

Even the cat knows things are out of whack. She excitedly prances around her new castle, sensing the furniture from before is now somewhere else. The world outside the big bay window is very different.

For now, boxes take the place of any furniture we have yet to buy and inside those boxes are hiding all the kitchen tools and paperwork and knickknacks we search for. It will have to do for now. Soon we will root through boxes and put our new world right. We have all the time in the world to get settled.

Elegy for Elsmere

It’s not like we’re going too far and we’ll still be around working in the garden. We also haven’t sold or rented the house yet so for now it’s a pied-à-terre. Still, with the movers coming tomorrow to take our furniture, this is our last night sleeping in Elsmere.

Steve and I have been referring to the new house as “the house” and the Elsmere house as “our house” or “home.” Tomorrow that will officially reverse.

I’m excited about the new house but will miss the old one. We have had a lot of good memories: Chatting outside with our neighbors, Christmas parties, watching thunderstorms from the deck, having family over for dinner, hanging out with the cats while watching TV. It was a good place for nine years, this house with red and blue and green walls. It will be emotional for me to leave, despite the fact that we are tied there (and will inevitably be back to hardcore clean and work out things with the new people).

Even though we’ve been planning this move for years, it’s still hard to believe it’s happening. What is really bringing it home is that I’ve started taking paintings and pictures off the wall. I had resisted doing that because it’s distracting to see all the bare spots. Now the walls look empty and the house looks bigger and has more echoes. God knows how I’ll feel tomorrow to see all the furniture gone.

The Elsmere house is the place I’ve lived the longest since I lived at home. I still have a lot of memories from my two apartments and it was bittersweet at first to leave them and sleep somewhere different. I remember everywhere I’ve lived with some fondness.

I am also very excited about the new house. We’ve finished painting and have some new furniture. We finally got in the pool after the weather cleared and the filter started working. We’re eager to have people see it once we clean up the hurricane of boxes.

I will also be excited to live in one place, rather than shuttling possessions back and forth. My God, we have a lot of crap. Like, a loooootttt.

Kafka's Ikea

Ikea seems like a good idea until you’re actually there. It’s Friday night, the end of a long week, and you’re looking for some shelves and a TV stand.

You wander through the displays and take mental measurements and decide which colors would look better. You try to focus past the yelps of excited kids echoing off the warehouse walls, exasperating their mother. You write down inventory numbers and add up prices. On a couch, a customer naps, unconcerned with common courtesy. You wish you could do the same at home.

The store is closing in 15 minutes so you rush through the showroom’s maze, through kitchens and kids’ beds and weird lamps and finally find the self-serve area.

But there are none of the larger carts to be found. All of them seem to be either abandoned at the end of the aisle by customers who thought better of their purchases or they are piled with merchandise for the staff to return to the shelves. Then one of the pieces isn’t in the aisle where Ikea said it would be. Somebody announces the store is closed.

You finally find the piece you need but it won’t fit in the small cart you settled for. Down the aisle is a larger cart, seemingly abandoned. You dump the boxes on it and race it back to your purchase, then run to checkout.

Somehow it all fits in the car. The back seats have to go down and your husband’s knees are jammed into the dashboard but it fits. You drive home, gingerly but quickly, unload the packages at the new house and collapse at the old one.

What this whole Caitlyn Jenner thing is really about

Me.

Caitlyn Jenner’s coming out as transgender is actually about me.

I need to approve the existence of a transgender woman because this is all about my comfort level and my values and my life. I would have appreciated Vanity Fair giving me advance notice of Jenner’s cover just to have a head’s up on what I’d be looking at for the next several days online. Basically, the way this woman leads her life requires my stamp of approval.

Don’t get me wrong: I think it’s wonderful that she’s happy and I have no problem with trans people. I just think it would be more considerate for Caitlyn and other trans people to take my feelings into account before doing anything in public. Just as a courtesy.

Again, this is about me, in the same way that things like the police protests in Baltimore, campus rapes, the FIFA scandal and the circumcision of infants are mainly about me. I am only capable of perceiving other people’s issues as light reflected through the beautiful, glittering prism of myself.

Anyway, that’s what I think.

Bone Broth and Dad Bod

There has to be a way to monetize the more common aspects of our culture; to give the commonplace new life and make money off it.

Take the idea of bone broth, the new miracle trend in health food. Once avoiding gluten loses its luster, why not guzzle some bone broth to live forever? Apparently there are people out there paying like $9 for bones boiled in water. These used to be called soup bones and butchers would sell them very cheap. This is the same stock I make from a chicken that costs maybe $9 total (for the whole bird) and the work consists of filling a pot with water, turning on the gas and walking away. And of course I make it at home so it’s artisanal, so you are probably now screaming in uncontrollable excitement. Just find people who immediately hop on any health trend, slap some packaging on broth and you’re on your way to profits.

I heard people were feeding bone broth to babies (I guess to rid their bodies of “toxins” because our kidneys are a scam) but experts had to warn these brain surgeon that their kids can’t live on broth alone. That is an extra level of saddening.

There also has to be a way to make money off the concept of dad bod. Recently someone came up with this term to describe, basically, the effect of time and gravity on men’s bodies. This must come from the same impulse that makes people put “man” on common words, because men can’t just wear sandals; they have to wear mandals because it’s clever.

I wish I had thought of this: Coining a new term to describe the concept of flab, which has been around since time began. Maybe I can start a dad bod website and charge a fortune for ads and get rich. It will be a photo collection of middle-aged dads, all former high school athletes, at the beach. Or I can write a bunch of think pieces on dad bod and cash in. Some possible titles: “The Problem With Dad Bod” or “What We Talk About When We Talk About Dad Bod.” You’d pay a ton to read those, I’m sure.

Besides bone broth and dad bod, here are a few other commonplace things I’d like to rename and make a mint: Clearance sales, French dressing, plastic lawn chairs, bras, the way babies cry, flourless chocolate torte, self-adhesive stamps, crow’s feet and mortgage debt. Clever names coming soon.