How to Deal with Other People in All Situations

Did I ever tell you this?

I think the world is so much easier to deal with if you just pretend that everyone else is an alien. I mean, when you go to a restaurant, instead of deluding yourself that you have anything in common with the other patrons, just imagine that you're basically at the Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars.

The regular nightly crowd at the neighborhood Chili's.

It works! I often get frustrated with other patrons. Like, I stare at them and wonder who taught them that it was cool to go out in public in a ratty old Corona tank-top, the kind that show off the rib-cage. You know you love them. Right. Completely. So sexy to see that arm-pit hair. 

Or my favorite is when conversation is impossible due to the nearby table of drunken women talking at the top of their lungs and laughing obscenely at EVERYthing.

But when I pretend the loud strangers next to me are from the planet Skaro, suddenly they're no longer a nuisance. I just laugh and all is well.

 Skaro: Home of the Daleks AND the offensively loud aliens at the neighboring table.

This method not only works for eating at restaurants (where I first learned this Jedi-method), but almost anywhere in public. It's particularly fitting at Wal-Mart, the only place I'll currently buy groceries because of the astronomical savings. What I DON'T love about Wal-Mart is the creeping sense that I'm the only one there from planet Earth.

When I apply my everyone-is-an-alien coping mechanism, I really AM the only one from earth. And suddenly, it all makes sense. This is actually the ONLY time the crowds at Wal-Mart make sense, in fact. They're all aliens. So it's totally normal for people to swipe their carts at you and make snide remarks when you park your cart in front of the apples....because, you're getting apples....and of course they're annoyed. They're Klingons. They get pissed about EVERYTHING.

"No, I will not battle you for twenty Gala apples, there's more over there. It's cool. There's more apples. Put away that bat'leth, please," I find myself saying quite often, and not just about apples, mind you.

I only wish that I'd learned this life-saving trick back when I was going to indie-band shows and other very crowded venues. I would have been so much cheerier, especially when I finally got a view of the stage and some tall dude suddenly positioned himself in front of me. Rather than cursing him out beneath my breath, I would have just laughed and said, "This always happens when Wookiees come to shows," and found another spot.

 And then Han said to me, "You wanna get out of here?" And I said, "Yeah." And he punched the Wookiee in the face and we left. We ended up at a nice little coffee shop where there weren't any Wookiees blocking my view. All in all, it turned out to be a good night because I'd met this gorgeous smuggler. Well, I didn't know he was a smuggler at the time. All I knew was that he looked good in knee-high boots and in those pants with a stripe on the side. And he had this smirk. You know the kind. The kind you want to kiss. All this happened because a Wookiee was blocking my view at the Minus the Bear show. Life is crazy like that. And perfect. Han and I are still together, if you want to know.*

This is gold, this method. Use it. Use it well. And remember, all of us really are from completely different universes.


*"How My Life Was Turned Upside Down by a Wookiee" by Nicole Grotepas

Ding Dong to the Rescue

I can't even tell you how happy I am that Hostess went back to wrapping Ding Dongs in foil. I don't know when they did it, but I remember how upsetting it was when they switched from foil to plastic wrap. I curse plastic wrap. Everything delicious should be wrapped in foil. Gum. Cadbury Creme Eggs. The aforementioned Ding Dongs. And that's everything I can think of right now.

So, after I heard that Hostess was doing the bankruptcy thing two months ago or so (my word, I've been eating Ding Dongs for TWO MONTHS?), I thought I'd do them a favor and buy some Ding Dongs.

I curse that delicious mistake.

Yesterday was hard. Corbet yelled a lot. His naps were too short. I didn't get much sleep the previous night. Turns out he has a cold. But anyway, here's how I coped: 

Beautiful hockey-puck, foil-wrapped dessert.

 Empty foil means full belly.

p.s. No. I know. These photos are A-MAZ-ING. I'm not a professional.

The Problem with Introductions: Saying My Name

After all these years I still feel awkward when telling someone my name. In fact, it doesn't have to be an actual person. I feel just as uncomfortable telling a machine my name, like when the teleporter asks me to state my name and business before teleporting me. Weird, huh?

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's based in the ancient beliefs that a person's name has power. I bet that's it. I bet some primitive part of my brain hears the question, "What's your name," and responds with the urge to cast a hex on the person who's asking. The golem in me hisses and recoils, lashing out with clawed fingers, whispering magical spells of destruction, laughing manaically, prompting me to NOT tell them my name.

The normal part of my brain laughs, though I notice a choked feeling in my throat as I lean forward and whisper the syllables. That never goes over well, of course, because they can't hear me and then I have to say it again. So I've learned (at least I've done that) that it's better to say it confidently and loudly. For the entire room to hear. Usually this approach earns me suspicious glances. But at least I don't have to repeat my name several times over.

Oh, but I do. The cafe where I spend my lunches has a surprisingly high turnover. Over the past few years I'm sure I've shared my name with enough people to rival only my years in college. As we all know, the most common questions heard around a university are "What's your major?" and "What's your name?" The former never felt so awkward to answer. A major is merely a shirt you put on every day, while your name is as good as your underclothes. Sharing it, you might as well be handing over the last bit of your dignity.

"Oh, you want to know my name? Here, why don't I also tell you about the time in elementary school when my so-called friends de-pantsed me on the playground. While I'm at it, let me describe the horror of having my love poem about Mark Smith read to the entire fourth grade class*."  

I know, I know, telling someone my name isn't as bad as getting pantsed at school. It shouldn't be anyway. I'm simply using it as a metaphor to express the vulnerable feeling that comes over me any time I'm asked to share it.

I'm thinking about hiring someone to follow me around, an entourage if you will, who can chime in any time someone asks me to tell them my name. They will speak for me when necessary.    
"What's your name again?"
I nod over my shoulder, cueing my entourage.  
A chorus of voices, "Nicole. Her name is Nicole." They could even say it kind of sing-songy if they want, like the choruses of the ancient Greek tragedies.
I smile confidently** and wink. The person who's just been bludgeoned with a chorus singing my name blinks repeatedly, dumbfounded at the large entourage of robed actors behind me (notice how my entourage continues to swell and transform more and more into a Greek chorus. Soon they'll be wearing strange makeup and sharing secrets to help the audience understand the drama and inner workings of my soul.)   

It would be so fantastic, you know, to never ever have to introduce myself again. I know the obvious answers to my problem are to never meet anyone I'm not already familiar with or to begin wearing a name-tag. Another solution would be to become extremely ridiculously famous OR infamous, whatever comes first.  

But I'd rather have a Greek chorus following me around.  I might even discover some newfound confidence about how awesome my name is due to hearing it sung as I stand in the midst of a large mass of chanters.

The chorus would come in handy in so many settings, like when I'm trying to order food in a noisy restaurant. That way I also wouldn't make embarrassing mistakes like accidentally ordering the shrimp when I hate shrimp. This happened--I must have been thinking really hard about what I didn't want. As in, I hate shrimp. Why would anyone order shrimp. It's horrible. Never. Never EVER will I EVER order shrimp. "And for you?" the server asks. "Um, I'll have the shrimp."

If I had a chorus with me, I'd merely have to nod at them when the server arrives to take my order. They'd know all my desires, being privy to my thoughts, and most likely they wouldn't accidentally order the shrimp (thought they COULD since sometimes I think of fanciful things I don't really want, like an entire cheesecake).  

A chorus would also be really perfect in a conflict. I imagine they'd chip in when it began to look like I was losing, and then I'd win.  

The possibilities are limitless. And this is what comes from struggling to share my name with people: I end up with a Greek chorus trailing me. Beautiful.

*This never happened.  Mark Smith is a generic name I made up.  
**Confident because I didn't have to say my name, which always weakens me a little.....            

The Corruptibility of the Macbook Pro and How to Deal with It

Want to launch me into an apathetic reverie?  Let me get a new Macbook, let it coax me into a false sense of security ("What could go wrong now? I have this PERFECT machine!  It's the answer to all my problems!" :-D), then enthrall me with the wonder of the Apple corporation and their customer service, the flawless design and engineering of their products, THEN make iTunes not recognize my iPod touch.  

At that point I'll be so low at the futility of everything, the corruption of all earthly goods and the chaotic nature of all matter that I'll disintegrate in a puff of whimpers.  Why go on? I'll ask the cold, unimpressed Universe.  It won't answer, and I will float away on a gentle, teasing breeze.  But the breeze won't make me laugh.  Or smile.  I'm a puff of air, after all.  

Puffs of air have no need for Macbooks, so I imagine that eventually one of my coworkers will discover that I've imploded and they'll realize I'm never coming back for it.  They'll take it, and they can have it, for all I care at that point, being disembodied and most likely already beyond Jupiter (I've escaped, why stick around? Never mind that air can't leave the atmosphere, OK, I'd do it, so help me I would!) on my way somewhere INTERESTING, and preferably sans laws of corruption.  

  

Edit 4-29-10: It was the UPDATES.  User error!  Stoker fixed it for me that very night and he didn't even have to try.  It's good having a hero around for this sort of thing, you know, like pickle jars, bookshelf assembly, hanging drywall and building retaining walls--the usual issues.  He's the greatest.