Be Prepared

Too often I’m caught off guard in conversation; not anticipating what the other person will say. I fumble and stumble through my side of the dialogue, and instead of coming across articulate and witty (my hope), I come across bland and possibly sounding like a seven-year-old (I like popsicles!). To alleviate this problem, I like to rehearse potential friendly banter that might actually occur in my life. Today, I had an imaginary conversation with Dule Hill. It went like this:
Me: Whoa! You’re Dule Hill
Dule Hill: Um, yes. (Looking for the exit)
Me: Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a whole “celebrity stalker” vibe there. Just surprised to see you. I’m Zach.
Dule: (Shaking hands) Nice to meet you.
Me: I really like your work. Especially the dynamic between you and James Roday.
Dule: It’s pronounced Roday. And thanks.
Me: So what are you doing in the area?
Dule: I’m working on a period piece about the early years of the steel boom. We’re filming close to here.
Me: That sounds cool. How long are you shooting for?
Dule: The next month or so. Hey is there anything to do around here?
Me: Well…uh…Do you have kids with you?
Dule: No. Why?
Me: I was going to suggest you could go to the Crayola factory in Easton. Actually, it still might be cool to go by your…probably not though. You know what? You’re like an hour from Philly, you should just go down there.
Dule: How close is New York?
Me: New York? That place sucks. Don’t go there.
At which point Dule excuses himself to take a phone call and I have to use the bathroom. When I come back, he’s gone.
Now as long as neither of us veer off-script I’ll be fine. Otherwise I might end up telling him how much I like popsicles.

Home Bound #2: Relationship Deal Breakers

I have a number of things that, yeah, there’s just no way I’m going to date you. They include (but aren’t limited to):
1. I won’t date a woman who drives a Pontiac Grand Prix or Grand Am. This has since expanded to the entire line of Pontiac cars. On the plus side, with the announcement a few months back that Pontiac would be shutting down, in the near future I might be able to cross this off the list.
2. Studded belts. And on a related note, I own a t-shirt that states, “I see a white belt and I want to paint it black”.
3. Ugg boots. Really, I don’t like them at all, but have considered revising my stance on this. Can’t fight for everything, right?
4. Women who wear pajama bottoms outside the house. This is as bad as men wearing sweatshirts and mesh shorts. It’s two in the afternoon, why are you just getting out of bed?
5. Women who run funny. I had forgotten this was on my list, and found it while reading some of my older writings. Which means, yes, I’ve talked about this list before. Many times.
My friends might point out that as long as most of them have known me, I’ve never had a girlfriend, and perhaps it has something to do with this list. The truth is, I don’t actually believe in the list.
It was like my party trick: “Zach, tell everyone again about the things you’re not looking for in a relationship.” The list is just a stupid thing I did with too much time and not enough dates. And while a person who stands on principle is admirable, sometimes he also has to know when to fall on his own flawed sword. It’s impossible to predict what you'll like in another person. I told a girlfriend over and over how much I hated horses, and then the next girl I dated owned a horse. What does that say about me? It says that somehow I found one of the few girls in the area who had a horse.
It’s time to retire the list. I’ll keep in my back pocket; maybe recite it at a party once a year, but desperates can’t be choosy, right? Except for the pajamas thing. Honestly, go get dressed.

Home Bound #1: I Got Dressed All by Myself

I need to learn to shut up. It’s not because I’m a liar. I’m not good at lying, so I rarely do it. No, it’s that I don’t know when to stop talking.
When I first started my job a co-worker complimented me on my shirt and tie. And I responded, “Thanks…” and then caught myself because the next words that were coming out of my mouth were, “My mom bought it for me.” Now it’s not that my mom buys all my clothes. She doesn’t. It’s just that every year for Christmas I get at least one shirt/tie combo. And over the years my mom’s gotten better at picking them out. So instead of finishing my thought I again said, “…Yeah, thanks.” But it was one of those awkward pauses where she could tell I had meant to say something and didn’t.
In high school I would tell people that my mom bought all my clothes. It was funny to me, because at 15 whose mom isn’t buying their clothes for them. Sure, the kid might be picking out what he wants to wear, but he’s not paying for them. It’s not so funny in my late 20s.
Usually, I’m not fortunate enough to stop myself. I once told a woman that my mom buys all my underwear. This was our third date, and after that night, I never heard from her again. Wonder why? It’s just that every Christmas (it’s always Christmas) I wouldn’t ask for much and I would get underwear. Which is what I explained to her. Except instead of offering an explanation I should have just nodded in agreement when she said that women buy cute underwear because it’s cute and guys don’t really do that, do they?
So that I’m not put in that position again, I started buying my own underwear. Problem solved.
My mom has tried to say it’s ok if she buys some of my clothes; after all, she picks out all of my dad’s dress shirts and ties. Yeah, but that’s different. I think that most wives buy clothes for their husbands, figuring there’s no way he could dress himself. Sorry, Dad. I don’t think I should be embarrassed that I get clothes as presents. Heck, I bet that’s what most people get. Maybe I just need to think of better phrasing: “Well thank you. I got this sweater for my birthday. I’m capable of buying my own clothes if that’s what you were thinking.” It needs work, but it sounds better than what I was planning to say.

The Problem with Carrier Pigeons

Let me start off by saying that I’m quite ignorant on carrier pigeons. I can state with absolute certainty that I shouldn’t be commenting on the subject. With that said, I just don’t see what good a carrier pigeon can be. And I’m not talking just because we now have magical tubes that transport our thoughts to other people’s computers. I mean that a carrier pigeon seems like a really limited way to deliver messages. The pigeon has to know where it’s going, and it’s not like you can ask it to make a second stop. “On your way to deliver my bid to build Duke Ellsinghibbington’s moat, swing by Lord Chesterworths’ castle and drop of this Get Well Soon card.” Seriously, you trust a pigeon to remember which aristocrat gets what package?
Say I wanted to feel olde-timey and send a friend a message via carrier pigeon. That pigeon has no reference as to where my friend lives. To get that message, my friend would have to go to the only other place that carrier pigeon knows how to get to, and who knows where that might be. I’d be better off sending the message along with a peasant on the back of a burrow.
It just doesn’t seem worth it. And it doesn’t seem like it could have been worth it back when people actually did use carrier pigeons. “Uh, great, you can get a pigeon to fly from here to my cousin’s and back. But shouldn’t you be mid-wifing for all the pregnant women?”
Forget it. It’s not worth the effort. I’ll stick to smoke signals.

An Open Letter to the Car Driver in Front of Me

Hey guy,
Just sitting here behind you looking at your bumper sticker. “13.1”, huh? You should be proud you ran that half-marathon. I mean, not proud enough to think it worthy of everyone’s recognition. I think you’re a bit unclear on how bragging works, so turn on the BBQ, because I’m about to grill up some knowledge burgers: never brag about something that can be easily bested. For example, a kid on the basketball court doesn’t brag about being able to touch the rim when one of his friends can dunk. See what I’m saying? Yeah, it’s impressive that you ran a race of just barely over thirteen miles, but not when there’s so many people out there running 26.2 miles.
Have I ever done a half-marathon? Of course not. My Saturdays are better spent sitting on the couch eating a Costco-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
But I’m still not impressed by you, particularly if the driver next to you has a “26.2” sticker. Speaking of: if you’re driving and you’re about to pass someone with that full-marathon sticker on their car, do you decide not to pass, knowing that if you were to pass, the other driver’d no doubt chuckle and shake his head the way a father does when watching his toddler try to figure out how a straw works? Or do you pass the other car and curse yourself for ever affixing that sticker in the first place?
Running a half-marathon is like dating the hottest women in her group of friends. But then one of her college friends moves to the area and is hotter. That guy who dates her is the full-marathon runner. And the ultra-marathoner is the guy who dates the woman’s unreal hot cousin who would have been a model but decided to get a medical degree instead, and is super nice to everyone, and even though the other women should all be jealous and catty around her they can’t because she’s just that great. And she cooks. So now you went from being on top to being middle of the pack. How’s that feel?
Sure, you should be proud of your accomplishment, but maybe it shouldn’t be your pickup line. I mean…shoot, I spilled some Doritos.

Sincerley,