Pride and Perplexity

Some time ago, I was walking into Dunkin Donuts and the girl behind the counter goes "I see you in here a lot, what's your name? I said "Mark." She goes "Oh, OK, you kind of look like a Sebastian." I remember that so clearly because it was the absolute most random thing coupled with a very uncommon name. So, I didn't see that girl again for a couple of months, but this morning the iced coffee making identity guesser was back. Thinking it would be funny, the second I saw her, I went "Unda Da Sea!" She looked at me as if I was some kind of crazed crustacean, clearly not remembering that special moment we had shared. This was astounding to me for two reasons. Firstly, it completely ticks me off when a joke doesn't work, although this is a feeling I have somewhat gotten used to :( Second, if you've known me for any length of time, I've probably introduced myself to you on more than one occasion. I'd be willing to bet all of the money in my steadily growing retirement fund that you've never used the phrase "Let's ask Mark, I'll bet he remembers." So there I was, standing amidst a mixed bag of emotions. Feeling proud of the, if very brief, rejuvenation of my recall ability, but also confused as to where to take the conversation after referencing an inside joke that the other person no longer remembers. However, this feeling of awkwardness and joy has come to encompass my entire existence and has led to a working title for my eventual autobiography, Pride and Perplexity

Ask My Wife

Scuba diving is a great hobby. I was never much of an artsy person, but there is something about the underwater environment that leaves me absolutely awestruck. The combination of sea life, coral reefs and my buffoon of a brother tugging on my regulator takes my breath away. Unfortunately, despite the beautiful landscape and exciting experience, I can safely estimate that only a minority of the population will ever strap a tank to their back, throw on some fins and give it a shot. A lot of people I talk to immediately jump to questions like "what if you run out of air?" or "what if you see a shark?" to which my responses are respectively, "keep an eye on your gauge" and "dive with someone who is more 'rounded off' than you because predators of the sea tend to go for the buffet over the snack. psychological self psych outs such as this are the result of people immediately jumping to a negative. This is the kind of thinking that kept me off the dance floor in middle school, I thought "if I ask her to dance, statistically speaking, there is a 50% chance I will be disappointed. Here's a freebie, if your inner monologue about asking a girl to dance with you involves the words "statistically speaking", STAY HOME! As I've grown older. I've realized that this train of treacherous thought is ridiculous, no one ever refuses to drive because an idiot acquaintance might slug them if they see a Volkswagon Beetle or they might throw up from seeing someone driving a Nissan Juke. It might happen, but that's just a calculated risk people need to mull over in their mind.  I would strongly encourage anyone to try scuba diving at least once.

Aside from the aesthetic benefits, diving has also given me the opportunity to travel and meet a lot of new people because dive boats usually take out between ten and twenty people or more at a time. Other people may be from different states, countries or continents and may barely even speak the same language, but the moment we set out on that diving boat, we can already communicate from a point of at least one commonality.

During my most recent trip to the Caribbean, my family sat next to a particular gentlemen and attempted to exchange petty pleasantries and some sort of pre-dive dialogue. We learned where he was from and what he did for a living, but after that the conversation got the whole "first and last date" vibe really quick. We asked him where he was staying and he said "I don't know, I'll have to ask my wife, she's out shopping."

"How long are you here for?"

"My wife has really been keeping track of all of that, I don't really know."

"Are you guys doing anything else while you're here?"

"Not sure. I'm going to have to check with my wife."

"Have you two eaten anywhere that you'd recommend?"

"She wrote down a couple of places that she wanted try so we are going to check those out."

"Are you guys headed anywhere else or just staying on the island?"

"My wife wants to see if there's anything close by so we may or may not make another stop or two?"

"How long have you been scuba diving?"

"I've been diving a few other times, but my wife would rather shop."

"Do you have any kids with you here?"

"My wife may have brought one or two of them down, but she would know that better than me."

I could go on, as he did, but I think you get the point. This man seemed to be the living inspiration for the Jimmy Buffet song "Escape" because as we got to know him and his very limited vocabulary a bit more, I was not entirely sure that he and his wife were down there together on purpose. He seemed to have little interest in obtaining information on establishments that provided the necessary nourishment to continue this sad story he called his life.  Also, judging by his lack of knowledge with regards to the identities and whereabouts of his own children, I began to think "Is this guy here to abduct kids?" We continued to be cordially conversational and he continued his metamorphosis into some kind of Whipped Wishiwashi as he appeared to only know how to repeatedly use a singular phrase.  It was absolutely astounding, as if eHarmony had agreed to give him $1,000 for every time he mentioned his wife in conversation. There's a definite difference between having love and lordship over someone  and it became increasingly clear that, aside from ourselves and his wife, the only other person he had probably ever had to answer to was the pastor that asked him "do you take this woman as your wife?" Even then, he may have diverted the question to her out of fear of expressing the ability to think critically for himself.

The craziest part is, after spending almost an entire afternoon with this guy, we learned very little about him or his warlord of a wife. I can't give you any personality or backstory information off the top of my head Mrs. Mystery Mussolini or her frightened, forgetful foot soldier. I couldn't even tell you this guys name. There are kids that beat me up in elementary school whose names I knew. Virtually the first bit of information I would learn about someone in a social setting is immaterial in this instance. However, I did accidentally learn one encouraging piece of information about credit card carrying, Prada purchasing point of intersection that concluded each of our introductory inquiries. She was a thoughtful, kindhearted woman who stayed up to date on what the weather was going to be doing because, although it would have been our sole savior in adding an identity this this emasculated individual, given the sweltering heat we experienced that day, the tan-lines around the neck left by his name collar would have been awkward.    

Iguana Get Outta Here

Breakdown of our time at the iguana farm: 2 minutes spent learning the physical differences in identifying male and female iguanas

20 minutes spent learning about the federal and financial ramifications should we choose to feed, flirt with or fight with the iguanas.

It was kinda like going to McDonald's and eating a small burger and then having some doctor make you watch "Supersize Me"

Two Truths and a Lie

Two Truths and a Lie is an introductory icebreaker game where someone will offer up three statements about themselves to a group, two of which are true and one is a lie, because there's nothing that makes you warm up to someone quite like having them say "Hey, I just met you and this is crazy, but here are some things about me and some dishonesty maybe." The object of the game is for the group to figure out which statement is the lie. The thought process here is to make each statement interesting and entertaining, but one of the things shouldn't quite be there, it's kind of the "Matrix Trilogy" of meeting someone. Again, it's a good way to get to know people and learn some things about them. Unfortunately, given the technological barriers between us, if you and I were to play this game, I would have no way of telling you if you correctly guessed which statement was the lie, but I'd still like for people to get to know a little bit about me, so I've come up with a "Mark Modified" version of the game where I am going to share three things about myself, but much like the ending to any romantic comedy, you will be able to tell exactly how this is going to end long before I am finished. So, in the words of Jigsaw "Do you want to play a game?"

Truth #1: I Once Had A Pet Tarantula

When I was in third grade, my family took a trip to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon and visit one of my dads' friends from college. We enjoyed the long flight and sticky humidity very much. No, the natural beauty was breathtaking and I've never seen a night sky quite like I did out there. It's kind of like when you watch a football game with surround sound for the first time at a friends house and then try to enjoy the game the next week on your TV, because I appreciate a starry night as much as Vincent Van Gogh, but these dimly lit downtown Nashua dawns just don't impress me anymore. Along with some new celestial sightings, I also saw some animals I had never seen in the wild back in New Hampshire. As we walked the rugged terrain, we saw a tarantula scurry into a nearby crevice. My brother eyed that thing like a fat guy in the food court and was determined to have it. To say I was a part of the apprehension of this arachnid is like saying a line judge took the championship at.Wimbledon. Was I there for it? Yes. Did some of my decisions that day get us to a point that made that event a possibility? Absolutely. However, while my brother was perfectly content picking up frogs and snakes, I was more into picking video games and my boogers so I was involved from a strictly observatory standpoint. "Oh my gosh, that's a really fat spider, I'll be over here if you guys need me."

So, they lure this thing into a jar with a sweet Siren song or they just asked it nicely, I don't know, but we got it and are now headed home on a plane. Again, given my lack of involvement I say "we" in  the same way people do when they're talking about their favorite sports team, because I knew how I wanted this to end, but I had no effect on the outcome. I just really did not want to go to prison. So we get the thing home and we put it in a large glass container with a heat lamp, some sand and a cardboard cutout of a cactus to make it feel a little bit more at home. After finding out that tarantulas like to eat crickets, we went to the pet store and bought a large box of chirping chewables for our furry friend. In a tragic case of ignorance, we did not account for the incredible vertical ability these little guys possessed and only about 2/3 of the critters made it from their little box to the heated Hell where they would meet their end. The insect escapees scattered throughout the house and I can honestly tell you, there is no combination of bedhead and morning breath that compares to the a.m. anxiety of that combination of eyes and antennas looking at you while you sleep. Anyway, with this addition our family felt whole and we couldn't wait to take the Christmas picture that year. I'm not sure whose idea it was (which means it was probably mine), but like a hotheaded housewife. someone decided that the tarantulas surroundings needed some changing and rearranging so a small bowl of water was added in the all-inclusive enclosure so the tarantula could drink or bathe or whatever the heck we were thinking. Unfortunately, we woke up the next morning to find that he had opted to use it for scuba diving. The sinking feeling of finding a dead tarantula in the bottom of a water bowl we had provided was unlike anything I had felt before. You know that feeling when you go to hold a door open for someone and they still give it a little push on their way through or they go through a different door completely? You're left standing there like "I try to do something nice for someone and look what happens!" This is kind of a dead animals version of that. I think we will be sticking with cats and dogs from now on.

Truth #2: I Played the Trombone

By the time I entered the 5th grade, I had already cancelled any reservations I had for sitting at the cool kids table by making decisions to establish myself as a solid student and top notch member of the Cross Country team. However, that Spring, I took the final step in achieving the Triple Crown of Chastity by joining the school band as a trombone player. Setting aside the fact that the instrument weighed more than I did and extending my arm to hit some of the notes practically threw me off balance, my music teacher was absolutely insane. He was one of those guys that was so in to what he was teaching, he was determined to make sure that every last one of us 11 year-olds had a recording on the Boston Pops Kidz Bop CD. There's a fine line between passionate and psychotic and this guy was a straight up John Philip Psycho. He acted as if we had no other options out there other than pursuing a career in music and as a reward he gave candy to the kid that could hold the longest note. I think that we can all agree that there is absolutely nothing okay about a grown man looking at a young boy and saying "Hey, if you make yourself almost pass out I'll give you some treats." On a note that seems to be simultaneously more and less creepy than that, this guy also had the weirdest sweat patterns I'd ever seen. He sweat profusely from his head despite the fact that he was completely bald and if he wore a fire engine red dress shirt to class, by the end of our time together, severe strokes of sweat had completed their painting of perspiration and turned the material located by his armpits, upper back and around his belly button for some reason, a deep shade of maroon.

However, it took more than a restricted reach and a sweaty schoolteacher to put my trombone playing days in the past tense. My curtain call came the day after the bands' first concert. I, along with every other member of the band had spent several months preparing for the winter concert we were going to put on for our friends, family and given the poor structural standing of Pelham Memorial School, anyone within a ten mile radius of the building. Unfortunately, all of the natural-born musicianship in the world can not account for one thing, common sense. As we arrived at our seats, I was informed that the two other players in the trombone trio had forgotten their sheet music and they would need to look on with me. Listen, as far as a bad memory goes, I'm in no position to lecture anyone. I've misplaced my phone, I've lost my wallet, but to forget your sheet music for a band concert?! So I spent that entire evening trying to bob and weave my head around the two slides that slipped in and out of sight every two seconds. Eventually, I just decide that I am going to Louis Armstrong Lip Sync my way through the rest of this show and just call it a night. This gave me a chance to mentally withdrew a bit and really listen to the collection of clamoring that my classmates and I were trying to pass off as music. I realized then that, had this performance been recorded, the only album title fitting for such an abomination would have been New York City Traffic Jams. Looking back, I realize now that there was in fact, a praiseworthy performance that took place that night, because following the concert as I was walking out to the car with my parents, they looked me right in the eyes and said "Honey, that was beautiful." I proceeded to take that compliment and shove it back in their face, explaining to them that I had had it with our sweat drenched director, my bad memory band mates and that if I ever had to enter the band room again and move a closed fist back and forth for 30 minutes, it would not be because I was practicing on my instrument, but because someone in there was getting served up a nerdy knuckle sandwich.



Lie #1: My name is George

I have to imagine that naming a child is the first frightful feeling of responsibility a parent has. Our very identity is tied to our name, it's oftentimes the first piece of information others will learn about us. My family has unanimously agreed that my father stood his ground on two pivotal parental power struggles, the most recent of these being my moms' aversion to my brother and I attending an Aerosmith concert with my dad. Despite her initial objections, the three of us went out and saw Motley Crue open up for Aerosmith, this was my first concert and it became a night I will never forget. The second mom and dad debate that my father considered a "must win" involved my naming. My mother really liked the name Clark, a choice she defended by stating that this name was carried with honor by both my grandfather and the Man of Steel, Superman. My mother was also quite fond of the name Montgomery, which is of course the most important city in Alabama, but being the most important city in Alabama is kind of like being the smartest kid in the dumb class, you can dress it up all you want, but in the end, it's nothing to brag about.  

As I was preparing to begin third grade, my family and I attended a new church in our hometown. My parents went upstairs where I'm sure they were discussing adult things like Anselm's Ontological Argument, whereas I was sentenced to Sunday School downstairs. Out of the six kids in my class, the only person who knew me was the daughter of the pastor at the time, so I decided I was going to have a little fun. The teacher in our classroom began taking attendance and I decided to establish myself as the church class clown. I turned to my friend, Alex, and said "Hey, just go along with this, okay?" She shook her head. The fact that my last name starts with a "W" means that, more often then not, I bring up the rear of an attendance roll call, so as the teacher called out my name, I raised my hand and said "Excuse me, but there must be a mistake, because my last name on there is correct, but my first name is George." Without so much as a second thought, my teacher offered a sincere apology and with a few swipes of an eraser, a legend was born. I gave Alex a silly smirk at the innocent and infinitely tiny prank I had just seemingly pulled off. Her and I had a good laugh and that was going to be it.

Unfortunately, as I would later learn from a Veggietales episode entitled Larry Boy and the Fib from Outer Space, once you tell a single lie, it tends to fertilize itself in falsity and grown on its own, because like an Herbalife of Dishonesty, once the class let out, the six kids that I had just introduced myself to as George introduced me to members of their family by saying "This is my friend, George" which is an introduction that I remain extremely ashamed of and impressed by to this day. On a personal level, you need to understand something before I continue, am I "proud" of the fact that my most memorable lie begins with the phrase "this one time, in Sunday school?" No. However, in my past, stretching the truth had never been a strength of mine because I didn't enjoy hurting people's feelings and remembering a lie was always just too mentally exhausting for me. I don't even mean "big" lies either. As an example, if a group of friends and I are planning a surprise party for someone and that person happens to walk by like "Hey guys, what's up?" The rest of the group could play it off cool as a Clooney cucumber, whereas I turn into the Botox Boombox and just stand there and yell "NOTHING!" So, as King Georges' kingdom continued to grow in Sunday school, the angel on my shoulder was saying "OK, you've had your fun, now it's time to tell everyone the truth." Contrarily, the red robed rascal on the other side was saying "Wow, you are actually pulling this off!" This went on for weeks and then months, but eventually had to be shut down when my parents repeatedly noticed kids calling the house asking for "George."

There you have it, I am an arachnid assassinating, instrumentally annoyed young man formerly known as George. So, tell me a little about yourself.

Fresh Brat

Dear parents,

Please stop referring to a misbehaving child as being "fresh." This causes irreversible damage in the ever-absorbent mind of an infant. They will forever associate "fresh" with bad. Here adults wonder why kids won't eat their fruits and vegetables, we've scared it out of them! Listen, fresh children were not an okay idea when Jonathan Swift suggested them as an alternate food source in the 18th century and it's not okay now. Thank you!

Sincerely,
"Who the heck is this kid to lecture me about parenting?!"

Red Light Distraction

As I was pulling up to a red light, the main chorus of Katy Perry "Roar" kicks in on the radio so I figure I'm okay to rock out for a second in safety and seclusion. I made the mistake of looking to my right and there's some dude in a truck wearing shades with a beard down to his gas pedal, he looks at me, shakes his head and then faces forward to never make eye contact again.