Notes from Maine - 2022/12/04

Sometimes I have a hard time giving a straight answer to a sincere question. I’m trying to be better. I’ve been working on it for years and years. Todd lived here for ten years and I never grew accustomed to his questions. I would be out in the yard, splitting wood and Todd would walk up while the maul was at the top of its arc. He would casually ask, “What are you doing?”

In that moment, it was impossible for me to give anything but a snarky answer.

I would say, “Oh, you know, trying to get a jump on my tax preparation. I know it’s only fall, but I don’t wait until the last minute like everyone else. Do you use Schedule A for your itemized deductions?”

Todd would stare at me, blinking, and then frown. Before walking away, he might say, “I don’t understand you.”

Ditto. 

When I was a little kid, poking my fork into mashed potatoes, I would turn around to ask Mom, “What’s this black thing in my potatoes?”

My father would answer for her. “Deadly poison. Don’t eat that. It’s killer beetles.”

I figured he was joking because my older brother would be hiding a smile, but I also wasn’t all that certain. In that situation, it was probably best to avoid the potatoes. There was always the chance that Dad wasn’t kidding at all and my brother might be snickering at the idea of my upcoming demise. 

I was a very picky eater. We went to Texas. Everyone had a steak. I had a PB&J. In Maine, my brother would address his lobster by poking out the black eyes with one of the little lobster utensils. My sister would gather up all the lobster into her butter dish, not eating any of it until the whole thing was stripped. I had a PB&J. When we went to McDonald’s in Canada, Mom told me I could eat the hamburger because they didn’t put on onions in Canada. I found the onions, cried, and had a PB&J.

Later, on my own, I would eat anything. I ate snails, tripe, tongue, flowers, bark, bugs, alive things, dead things, fermented things, and several things that were colloquially known as “oysters.” My freshman year of college, I ate a cube of Jell-O that had been stuck to the dorm’s drop ceiling for six days. My hall neighbors offered a big jar of laundry tickets for anyone who would do it. I snatched that thing and swallowed without chewing. It was, like, a year’s worth of laundry tickets, which for a freshman is like three years worth of laundry tickets. I sold the remainder at the end of the year. Now, I’m back to not eating anything again. It was quite a journey.

The one thing that I will eat is anything spicy. If it has “death” in the name or a skull & crossbones on the label, count me in. It’s fun to keep a straight face, shrug, and slightly shake my head to see if I can get anyone else in the room to try it. One or two always do. They always regret it. I do too, often, but I don’t let anyone know that. I think it’s the same principle that I was raised with—never give a straight answer if it’s exacerbating to the people around you to give a crooked one. 

I’m trying to be better.

A boss one time said to me, “When I ask you to clarify, I expect you to do something other than repeat the same answer more slowly.” He was a very nice person, and I was endlessly frustrating to him. I think I said something helpful, like, “I thought all the information was contained concisely in my first answer, and perhaps you just hadn’t heard me.”

That was twenty years ago. I’m trying to be better.

It’s even more difficult now. Half the time, when someone says, “What?” it’s because they were buried in their phone and weren’t paying attention. I put a lot of thought into verbal communication, perhaps because I don’t do it that often, and I can get frustrated when there’s not commensurate effort on the other side of the conversation. I shouldn’t say “verbal” communication. I can feel my father’s disapproving stare from the afterlife. All communication is verbal. I meant, “oral.” (I’m trying to be better.)

Most people don’t like riddles in every day life—especially if they’re trying to do their job. I used to see the same bank teller (Matt) every week. Matt liked a riddle. 

I would deposit a check and ask for three hundred back.

Matt would smile and say, “How would you like that?”

“Seven bills no more than two of any kind.” I think there’s only one way to do that.

Or, I would say, “A mix of large and small—no former presidents.” There are two combinations to fit those criteria. I would have never tried that with any of the other tellers. They all hated me for some strange reason. In my kitchen, if someone asks where the sandwich bags are, I always say, “In the second drawer.”

Looking around the kitchen, there are a million drawers. What does “second” mean? Second from the left? From the right? But I only have one column of drawers. To me, the second drawer is clearly the one that’s second from the top in the column. Most people figure it out without another prompt, but that’s probably because it’s the most obvious place to put sandwich bags. It’s right below the silverware. Where else would one put them? I went to a conference on website usability one time. The presenter put up a photo of a kitchen and asked where we would look for a spatula. Everyone in the audience had the same answer. I think a lot of people share the same kitchen logic.

Cockney rhyming slang is fascinating. Imagine being so bored with communicating that you feel the need to constantly switch things up—substituting nonsense phrases for everyday words. Maybe I’ll start doing that.