Mickey Hadick

I was driving past the entrance to a Target the other day, and I was annoyed. It was my intention to go past the Target to a different store, and was not interested in parking. However, I had to wait for the foot traffic to clear, and for the cars in front of me to choose the lane in which they would seek a parking space. It lasted approximately three minutes, but it felt like an eternity. I could have soft boiled an egg, typed 180 words, or been half way to orgasm, in that amount of time. With planning, I could have done all three.

When, at long last, I approached the crosswalk, a woman emerged from the store to delay me yet again. She pushed a stroller with a child in the stroller. It was the sort of stroller with the pram-like top that swivels to adjust to the elements, and the child's legs stuck out from the stroller. I noticed that his shoes were clean, black, patent leather oxfords. His socks matched his little trousers, and his trousers matched his mother's jacket. It was all just darling.

What is more, the shade of brown matched that of the suit worn by the Mr. Fox in "Fantastic Mr. Fox." The level of detail was actually what popped that movie into my thoughts, as the whole film depended on the use of detail aimed at subtle suggestion of story. I happen to enjoy that immensely, and so I thoroughly enjoyed "Fantastic Mr. Fox." It wasn't perfect, mind you, as Wes Anderson's quirky story telling provides wonderfully funny situations, but rarely offers a punch line to the jokes. You hardly know when to laugh. I tend to laugh at all kinds of stuff in those movies, much to the annoyance of those around me.

Which brings us back to my annoyance. The woman and her son, dressed impeccably in matching outfits, pushing a stylish pram, paraded before me along the crosswalk. There was dirty slush along the road, and it was a perfectly funny situation. All that it needed was a punch line to the joke, such as the woman being splashed by snow, or one of the other shoppers slipping on the ice.

I realize that it sounds cruel, but I'm telling my version of the story. If I had slipped on the ice, that would have been a tragedy; but if someone else had slipped on the ice, especially someone making me wait, then that would have been comedy. For the record, I was perfectly happy that the woman and her son advanced to her car unharmed, unsoiled, and sans punchline.

It's my own fault. If I was really in need of a punchline, I should have driven past Walmart.

Labels: story

I have a new Christmas letter up on the web site. If you're into Christmas letters, mine is not as offensive as most, or so I think. What is interesting is that, after twelve years, I can crank one out in a single sitting, whereas I used to struggle with them for days at a stretch, and argue with my wife about the content. Now I need to be reminded of a couple of things that happened during the year, but otherwise I just write it down.

Does that mean I'm good? No, I think it means I'm in a rut. I may try to write this next year's Christmas letter before the end of January. Meanwhile, read it here.

Labels: memoir, story

As is often the case at the beginning of the year, I am confronted by my messy basement. I made an off-hand remark on Facebook about it, and it generated the most comments I have ever had about a simple status update. This confirms, anecdotally, what I have often encountered (also anecdotally) throughout my life, that the vast majority of people have a room in their house that is the dumping ground for all the miscellaneous things in their life that they can't otherwise organize, file, or place. It's part of the human condition. Maybe it's particular to modern America, especially among the middle and lower classes, but still, it's familiar to many of us.

I spent two hours in my basement to clear some space. Things were totally out of hand, so I stacked things. I concentrated many of the boxes in one corner, building my version of The Great Wall of Crap. It's totally oppressive and I don't like to think of how we'll ever deal with it. I just want it to go away.

These things have been lingering long enough that none of it matters to me anymore, and I'd rather give it away. Maybe someone else can benefit from the time, money, and effort we squandered in collecting those things. But we are a family, and it's not just my decision. It's times like this that I wish I was a little bit more like Dick Cheney, which is to say that I was a fascist dictator and that I would issue orders to clean the basement, and any resistance would be met with ruthless punishment. "No reality TV for you!" I'd scream. "That includes the new season of American Idol. Now go to your room, and do not interfere with my plans for decluttering the basement."

What saddens me is how cat hair and dust combine in the corners and crannies around the boxes so that, as they are moved and stacked, the dust bunnies literally explode around my feet. I spent an hour stacking and arranging, and then an hour sweeping and vacuuming.

Once done, I felt a brief moment of pride and relief. It was somewhat presentable. We had friends over to bring in the new year, and we played Table Tennis in the basement. The people had fun. They had fun in a space I had made for them to be welcoming. It makes me really want to clear out the junk, throw up some cheap paneling and decent shelves, and lay down carpeting. I'll get a foosball table, install a bathroom, and get a television.

The junk doesn't clutter only the basement, but also my mind. The junk messes with me so much that I actually admitted to wanting to be like Dick Cheney. If this continues, I'll begin to fantasize about Sarah Palin. Don't get me wrong: it wouldn't be a sexual fantasy; I would probably want to just go moose hunting with her, or take over the free world with a twisted view of religious fundamentalism. I don't want that to happen, so I'm really going to work on the basement this year.

Labels: mistake, personal growth