Part 9: Wrath

Wrath

I AM NOT WRATHFUL, HOW DARE YOU FOR QUESTIONING THAT![1] I apologize for yelling, but it was the quickest way for me to explain what wrath was to the lay person. Although everyone who reads this is smart, so you knew what wrath was already and now we’re just all upset about the time we’ve wasted over defining wrath!

Wrath is not something I have experienced with much regularity. It may have something to do with being an emotional robot or it may have to do with my bottling up of emotions waiting for the cork to pop in the form of stomach ulcers. One day however the cork popped in a more “I want to punch my friend in the face” kind of way. I wanted to punch my friend in the face but what actually happened was I punched the grocery store fresh steak that was in his hand. For the record, I was aiming for the face. I only missed by 2 and a half feet.

I probably should have started at the beginning and explain why I was so mad.[2] I think I skipped that part because it makes me look irrational, irritable, and insane. It all started when I was hanging out with two of my friends, probably playing video games and drinking chocolate milk,[3] when my mom came home with the groceries. “Let’s go help bring stuff in,” I said. “OK!” said one friend. “Nope” said the other. The rage started to build. The good friend and I went out to the car to help my mother and grabbed a few bags. The bad friend came out and started talking to my mother which means now she’s not doing any work. Rage building! We got all the groceries inside and put away when the bad friend picked up a steak[4] that was thawing on the counter and invited himself over for dinner:

::insert the typed out version of what punching a steak sounds like::

I may have overreacted. That’s wrath for you. Once every 17 years I’m going to flip out and punch my future dinner. On a positive note, once every 17 years my dinner is going to be nice and tender.

As a a neat little wrap up (or should I say “wrath up[5]”) we have gotten over the “beating the meat” situation. Not all parties agreed on calling it that. The bad friend was and is my best friend although I have not talked to the good friend in years…which may make me the bad friend…which REALLY PISSES ME OFF!

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[1] I am wrestling with the idea of writing this one in only in ALL CAPS.

[2] I blame Tarantino.

[3] I was 17.

[4] The steak! It’s all coming together…

[5] Please don’t EVER say that.

Part 8: Diligence

Diligence

The fact that it took me even more time to write this than it did Sloth doesn’t bode well for me looking very diligent. Would you believe it took me so long to write because I was working so diligently in every other aspect of my life? I didn’t think so, but it was worth a shot.[1]

The main evidence that I am indeed diligent probably wouldn’t stand up in court: My favorite characters in Fraggle Rock were the Doozers. “Work the day away, play is for another day”. The diligentry’s[2] anthem. Seriously, was nobody else completely frustrated that the Fraggles were constantly EATING the Doozers’ homes and presumably their places of business?

Other than my empathy to hard working muppets in a kid’s program, diligence is apparent in many aspects of my life. It has to be. Where, you ask? I will tell you, just get off my back. You’re just stalling while you think of an example aren’t you, you say? Yes. Thank you for calling me on my BS.

As a kid, I was known best for being lazy, and second best for having fuzzy hair. But in the summer time something happened that turned me into a diligent worker bee. That event, which happened once a year, was garage sale season. My parents hated garage sales because to them it was a lot of work for very little payoff. Apparently to them, getting a nickel for a stuffed dog was not enough to wake up at 5 in the morning. For me, it was way more than enough reason. It was my chance to run my own little business for a day. I loved spreading out all of our junk in the basement with my multicolored circle stickers in hand. Old clock? Orange sticker, dollar twenty five. Happy Days board game that I played once? Blue sticker, twenty five cents.[3] McDonald’s mini beanie baby? Throw it in the dime box.

One year garage sale season was getting really close but I had heard nothing from the neighborhood organizers about the official date. I inquired about it to my mother and father of whom I had the utmost admiration and respect. With one fell swoop they dashed my dreams

Oh yea, I think we got something about that a while ago. We didn’t sign up

Sabotage! But guess what mom and dad[4] I have a Grandma and Grandpa who want to hire me to do a garage sale for them and they said I can bring my own stuff to sell too. Look at me creating lemonade out of lemons which I can totally sell at the garage sale for a high margin.

Some of you may be wondering how running a garage sale is an example of diligence. Do you know how much work it takes to convince your grandma that her old jars are only worth ten cents? Neither do I, she wouldn’t let me take less than fifty cents for them. So if you want one, they are still in her cellar.

Moral of the story: I woke up before dawn, put hundreds of stickers on junk, sat outside in the heat for hours negotiating on items that were already marked for pennies, and did it all for approximately 40 buck. Diligent? Check.

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[1] If there WAS one person who believed I was being diligent elsewhere, I just ruined it with that concession.

[2] Diligentry: (noun) a people whom exude the qualities of diligence, totally not a made up word

[3] Bought it the year before at a garage sale down the street for ten cents. Profit!

[4] Not capitalized for a reason!

Part 7: Sloth

Sloth

I learned what the word apathy meant around the age of 12. My mentor finally pinpointed a word that described me to a T.[1] Throughout my childhood I have typically been very good at doing things, but never bothered much to actually do them. In 8^th grade I had a lock on making the school basketball team. I knew the coach, he liked the way I played, and I had new basketball shoes that really made it feel like I could jump higher. The bad news though was that I got sick the day before tryouts. I was told I could stop by practice and tryout later which is the easiest make up test I had since missing a 3^rd grade spelling test.[2] It was SO easy that I decided to just not show up. I didn’t care enough to be the new Lebron James before Lebron James even existed. I decided it was much easier to just come home after school instead of running laps.

Although I have many examples of apathy and slothdom, choosing the best example is simple: I once slept for 23 straight hours. I’m not even sure sloths do that. Take that sloths, I beat you at your own game. I don’t really remember the circumstances that lead to the marathon nap, although not knowing many details has never stopped me from telling a story before.

As far as I know I was not sick, nor did I stay up the night before for some sort of rager. Although I was prone to the occasional rager as a 14 year old. I was very cool. Always partying. However this day was just a regular, sitting on the couch watching classic Looney Tunes, kind of day. I probably made macaroni and cheese for lunch, by which I mean my mom probably made me mac & cheese for lunch with some sort of item on the side to make it ‘balanced.’ I would have made it but that wouldn’t be very sloth like.

I remember that nothing very good was on tv so I closed my eyes circa 1 pm. I didn’t fall asleep with the intention of not waking up until the next day but greatness is rarely achieved on purpose.[3] The day then passed by around me while I rolled around, sound asleep, probably sleep passing gas, on the couch.

1:00pm-5:30pm was very easy. I slept like a baby, but like a really mature baby who doesn’t suck at sleeping. Somewhere around 5:30 I admit I woke up to turn off the tv. I don’t count this as cheating, I count it as an act of commitment. I didn’t need that tv distracting me from my dreams. I may have also went upstairs to grab a sandwich which added some cardio to my sleep adventure. This all took place in under 5 minutes, which in the world of sleeping means it doesn’t count as waking up. There were no more disruptions until noon the next day when I woke up to finish my macaroni and cheese and live out the rest of my life not caring about stuff.[4]

On a final note on being a sloth, it took me over 4 weeks to write this entry. It doesn’t look good for me.

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[1] If I was described to a Tee, I would hope it was short sleeved.

[2] I probably can’t spell any of those words correctly now. Thanks a lot spell check.

[3] The light bulb was the result of Thomas Edison dropping a box of parts into another box of parts.

[4] I think at one point my mom came down to check if I was alive. I was, at least on the outside.

Part 6: Charity

Charity

I just started thinking about this piece and I already know it’s going to make me look terrible. I have given money and time to many charitable causes including diabetes fundraisers, church childcare, and whatever those kids selling candy bars are raising funds for. I’m a sucker for a $1 door-to-door Nutrageous. I wouldn’t give to that kid unless he gives me candy for it, that’s the part that makes me look bad.

That’s the key to my charity contributions, something in return. It might seem like looking for a return on charity negates any good intentions. However, I would argue that the good intentions are doubled, maybe even multiplied by 3.2[1]. The charity gets my money or half a**ed volunteered time and I get a warm fuzzy feeling, or a girl to be impressed.

Things I’ve gotten “for charity”:

· Candy

· Cookies

· A concert ticket

· Executive Producer credit

· A “Beer Job”

· In a golf cart accident

· Dressed as a woman

· Suckered into singing Christmas Carols in an old folks home.[2]

Clearly I don’t care what I get in return as long as it’s SOMETHING. I think the hardest form of charity has to be giving change to the homeless. Part of it has to do with how tight jean pockets can be, but it mostly has to do with having to choose which homeless people will get your money. It’s impossible to give it to them all, but a few will see you when you decide their buddy Saul deserved your 38 cents and not them.[3]

It’s never just one homeless person asking you for money, there are always three to four staggered along the sidewalk . You have to do your market research. I usually step off the metro, count the change in my pocket, and look each one in the eyes (or eye depending on the street). I become like a middle school girl when choosing, that is, very shallow. If the homeless person hasn’t taken the time to make a cardboard sign, or learn how to drum on a garbage can, I’m probably not interested.

The worst decision I ever made was walking back to my apartment, I spotted a homeless poet who was a shoe in to get my 75 cents that was leftover from my trip to the beef jerky aisle of 7-11. I did not notice however the 2 other homeless folks I was about to pass. I got caught off guard when they asked for spare change that I said “sorry, I don’t have any.” I had some. It’s the easiest way to get out of giving monetary help to people who need monetary help. If you’re into that kind of thing. I forgot though, that as soon as I give Hobo Robert Frost his money that the other two would probably realize that I was a jerk. But hopefully they realized they should just learn a marketable skill. America!

One time I gave a guy a couple bucks without looking at him first and then realized he was wearing nicer clothes than I was. He had on a nice pea coat and scarf, with boots that looked like they were from J Crew. I had on a hoodie from 2003 and flip flops because I forgot real adults wear socks in February. In hindsight, he might have just been waiting for the bus to go home after work. Well done on finding a job, hobo joe! But poor form not giving me my money back. How about a little charity for CT the cold toe hobo?

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[1] There are no numbers involved in good intentions. It’s all very subjective.

[2] The Figgie pudding was not worth it.

[3] Saul actually sounds like a well off guy, I’m not good at making up hobo names. I’m no John Hodgeman.

Part 5: Greed

Greed

Apparently greed is one of the 7 deadly sins. Who knew? I thought it was written into the Bill of Rights as an American virtue. Something to look forward to after working hard to become successful or at least after your credit card application is approved.

As a kid I didn’t really know the extent of what was considered greed. I did know that I wanted the new Stretch Armstrong and I wanted it now. I would have gotten ninety Stretch Armstrongs if I could have. But I couldn’t because my parents would continually forget to pay me an allowance. It worked out though because I would continually forget to do any chores until there was a shiny quarter in my palm. If you think that’s rude, then I suggest you take your pro-slavery attitude elsewhere.

Stuff was THE coolest as a kid. It was not important what the stuff was or if the stuff was any fun to play with. Had to have that stuff. Fill my closet to the brim with stuff. Especially if that stuff had stuff that stretched way further than a normal human being’s stuff.[1] All kids love stuff, but the truly greedy kids collect. And I collected. Not something nerdy like butterflies, bottle caps, or some other lame thing that starts with b. (Barbie dolls? Beanie Babies? Barnacles?) I collected Baseball cards. The king of “b” collectibles. Baseball cards are the perfect function of greed. Not only are they considered to be “stuff” but they also appreciate in value earning you future dividends.

“I’m skeptical about their true value” says Nancy Naysayer. “Aren’t they just shoeboxes full of cards that nobody will buy” states Nancy’s husband Nedward. I’m telling you the truth, there is money in cards and if you have shoeboxes full of crap you are bad at collecting (or rather good at collecting if quantities of crap is your end game). I am good at collecting. At the age of 12, I sold one single baseball card for $250 dollars. At 12, earning $250 is like at the age 24, winning 3 months of free 6 packs of 12oz beer or its cash equivalent.[2] I was saving money to buy a 13[3] inch TV/VCR combo. Needless to say I quickly spent all my money on stuff. Probably on Playstation games I had to play on some poopy tv that didn’t even have a VCR built in.

My parents did not support my greed habit very much. They either already knew greed was a deadly sin or they just didn’t like “shoeboxes full of cards nobody will buy.” But one time my mom came through for me. We hopped in the car, allegedly going to go run some errands. Errands running was a favorite activity of mine so she did not have to twist my arm to go along with her. When we stopped at a hotel and not the beauty supplies store I knew something was up. We got out and my mom dropped the good news: She had heard there was a baseball card convention in town and it was in the hotel! A special trip for her special boy. I was giddy with excitement. And then it got even better. She handed my several crisp, clean, freshly minted twenty dollar bills. I thought I was dreaming. Could this get any better?! “You have to pay me back whatever you spend.”

That’s pretty greedy mom.

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[1] I know what you’re thinking but it IS healthy to love Stretch Armstrong this much

[2] I’ll cut down on the use of numbers now. I’m not a math class.

[3] Sorry, last number, promise.