Thanksgiving Tips

Mark Woonton’s Thanksgiving tip for the day: remember to sit at one of the ends of the table. This way you’re eating is less likely to be interrupted by someone asking you to pass something and thus your piggishness can be far more productive, you have an easier exit route to the bathroom and getting up to get seconds, thirds, fourths and fifths because you aren’t having to slither your way out from between two people like you’re trying to parallel park a Panzer tank and you aren’t getting caught in the crosshairs of a quadrillion conversations and can have the kind of intimate interactions that come with sitting at the end of the table. Plus, people sitting at the ends of a table are inherently viewed as more important individuals. Remember “please” “thank you” and whoever brings up politics first does the dishes. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

The Classics

This morning I was flipping through the radio on my way to work and a crescendo of chords on the classical station managed to capture my attention. Before I knew it, Mozart guided me through a musical journey that had me absolutely lost in my car and not lost in my usual sense of automotive amnesia like “OH MY GOSH, THIS IS A ONE WAY STREET!” No, simply lost in the instrumental of emotion. I pulled into work feeling refined and sophisticated, while also thinking “I can never let anyone know about this.” Cuz how often do you pull up next to someone and hear them bumpin’ some Bach? Then I realized that my demeanor and dress probably leads people to a first impression that is something to the effect of “Here’s a guy who drained his emergency savings to follow the London Symphony Orchestra around Europe.” Luckily, I have the kind of ensemble of acquaintances in my life who may have thought that on a million occasions, but they have managed to play the most compassionate version of the Quiet Game of all time and I love you all dearly for that.

Pencil Wise

 On an annual basis, I walk into CVS and buy a quantity of pens and pencils that probably leads the person behind the counter at the store to believe that I am prepping to become Mark, the misbehaving medical student who is being forced to write "I will not tell patients that they have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis because I think it is funny" 100 times.

The reality is that despite the infinite number of writing implements I seem to start the year off with, some get left in pockets and go through the washer, some get loaned out to Pencil Public Enemy No. 2 who has no intention of returning them and others simply get lost in the Ticonderoga Triangle and are never seen or heard from again.

By this time each year, I always seem to be miraculously minimized to one or two pens or pencils in my possession. I don't know where they go to on their pencil pilgrimage, but I hope they are happy and also, I will find them and I will write with them.

Identity Theft

I recently went through the traumatic experience of having my identity stolen. Not in the traditional sense like when someone steals a credit card and makes a bunch of fraudulent purchases. No, no, no. This was far more sinister. This person looked me right in my face, served me and then proceeded to make a false assumption about who they thought I was as a person without making any sort of information-gathering inquiries whatsoever!

Now, before I go any further, allow me to inform you that I, Mark Woonton, am about to complain about something that I probably have no business being upset about, like when a teenager complains about "the struggle" of having a cell phone on 1% battery life or not having anything good to eat in a fridge and pantry full of food.  

I recently had someone at Starbucks spell my name with a "c."

And I get that given the fact that there's only one way to "misspell" my name I should count my blessings and shut the heck up, but you and I both know that that's not going to happen.

When it comes to spelling Mark, can we all just admit that K is the right way? (a great slogan for this campaign).

Mark is a book in the Bible, Mark is how Mark Wahlberg spells it. My problem isn't so much with any Mark who happens  to spell their name using a letter that is a copycat and counterfeit as much as I take issue with all that "C" stands for. People need to remember that every kiss begins with "K." Whereas "C" is responsible for starting off the  relationship death sentence "Can we talk?" "C" is also the first letter of the word that someone will use as an excuse to end things in a relationship when you are clearly  not the problem, this ex-creating excuse being the busyness of their Career. 

The letter "c" leads us into the worst kind of words like crime, calculus and colonoscopy. Whereas "K" kicks off awesome things like Kraft macaroni and cheese, Karate Kid and Kayak.com, your one stop shop for travel pricing. 

The letter "c" isn't even sure how it wants to sound and if you don't believe me just check for crap on the ceiling.

And I know, I know, I KNOW the letter "K" can sneak up on us like a knight with a knife but more than anything it just bothers me that he didn't take a second to come down from his cloud of caffeinated craziness and ask me how to spell my name.

Again, I'm aware that I have no right to complain given the pronunciation Powerball of odds that some people go through with more unique names and spellings, but because this is such a rarity for me, the impact hit twice as hard. While I will never be able to fully understand the pain of inaccurate identification, i can know empathize with care, compassion, but most importantly of all, kindness. 

House vs Home

Growing up in my parents house, it got to the point where I could navigate my way on a trip to the bathroom with the speed and stealth of a navy seal on a night mission, without the use of any light. Unfortunately, because my place is still drowned in darkness, I have been forced to play the role of the powerless prodigal son and take refuge there once again. Remembering my abilities of old, I quickly and confidently cruised toward the crapper only to plow right into my father's proud paint job like some kind of Tom Clumsy character and then feel my way around the wall as if I were a point guard defending an inbound pass. The pain and paranoia of not being able to locate the lavatory brought on feelings that every parent eventually longs for their kid to have. While I know I will always be welcome in their home, this place was truly no longer my house.