a deus ex machina is still an ending

We all have our crazy. It is the sort of thing that, when dropped on a first date, you immediately regret. Across the table reflects back at you the sort of quizzical expression that openly reads “I am not going to call you later, but I will tell my friends about you in a story that starts with three words: so, funny story.” Typically, our crazy is the sort of thing that people learn to appreciate once they get to know you and already have fond feelings for you. You know, like that car you had with the weird door handle or the missing volume knob or the sunroof that only opens halfway. If you were choosing this car new, you would hardly find it appealing. But once you’ve spent ten thousand miles with the gal, you come to appreciate the fact that the glove box pops open when you hit the brakes too hard. Don’t worry, you reassure new passengers, that’s just her way of saying hello!

This crazy is not like racism or kleptomania or Teabagging (hehehe). Nor am I talking about the sort of crazy like a familial history of alcoholism or the fact that you once hit a neighbor’s cat with your car and kept driving. Not the sort of crazy that makes you a menace to society. I am talking about the kind of crazy we all have and we all can typically keep in check.

Ever since I was a young kid, I have never liked people to be able to predict my behavior. One specific story that comes to mind comes from first grade. I was coloring some thing that they make you color in first grade, and because I was 6, I was coloring it rainbow colors. Because when you are 6, that is what you do. I colored the first section red, the second section orange and, while reaching for the yellow crayon, an older boy sneered. “Yellow, green, blue, purple,” he said mockingly. Little Jesse looked insulted. “No,” he said incredulously and picked up the blue crayon. (It was a very adverbial conversation).

Since then, it has realized itself in a weird but not life-threatening manner. I get uncomfortable looking at the same display case as other people as I don’t want them to know which shirt I am going to choose or which shampoo an ad on TV convinced me to buy. When I grocery shop, I sometimes get myself into trouble. I don’t like the cashier to be able to predict what I am going to make. Like, I would not like to buy a box of brownie mix, a bottle of oil and a dozen eggs. You know, because Grocery Store Cashiers are the arbiters of culture and couth. The problem that occurs is that I often find myself not wanting to buy complete meals, lest the cashier recognize that I am going to make a lasagna or a meatloaf tonight (and judge me accordingly). Instead, I buy an array of food and am faced with a conundrum at home. I mean, I guess I get what I want, as no cashier will be able to guess what I want to make with half a dozen sweet potatoes, a box of cereal, a jar of salsa, two cans of beans, yogurt, butter, lettuce, frozen peas and carrots, and a box of microwave popcorn. Sadly, neither do I. Which leads to some interesting meals. Beans and popcorn! My favorite!

I also get into trouble because I don’t like to be difficult either. So, much of my energy is spent trying to find some real estate between unassuming and unpredictable—not exactly a low-rent neighborhood. Hi, I’ll have whatever beer you have on tap but I don’t want to be a light-beer-guy or a imported-draft-guy or a domestic-draft-guy or a beer-snob or a beer-fool so what do you suggest but don’t take too much time or energy I don’t want to be a burden or be too picky. Take your time. Serve that guy first if you want. I’m not in any rush.

Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere.

Guy in front of me in line: Hi, I’d like the exact X that Jesse wanted.

Jesse: Blast!

Cashier: What can I get you?

Jesse: ……………..Y.

Cashier: Great!

Jesse: Goddamnit.

I don’t want her to think I heard that guy’s order and thought it sounded good and got the same thing, or that my order is so common that everyone likes it and I have no original thoughts. But also, I don’t want to take too long to pick something new. So, here I am, eating the third item from the top on the menu, whatever it turns out to be.

Like so much of our crazy, there are days when it is fine and in check and I am a fully functioning member of society. And then there are days when it flares up out of nowhere.

Say, at a restaurant:

Jesse: I’d like the salad…(oh god, I ask for dressing on the side it’s like oh trying to lose a little of that tummy there, tubs…but if I don’t it’s like I’m one of those people who thinks that just because it has the word salad in it, it is somehow healthy despite the bacon, cheese, and ranch dressing…but then I don’t want him to know that I think that I am fat and be that guy who only thinks about how fat he is…but I don’t want him to think I don’t know I’m fat…but I don’t want him to think that I am fat and unhappy because that is just sad…but come on, fat and happy might be worse…wait, what were we doing?) …

Waiter: …

Jesse: …Thank you.

Recently, at the library, I spent a good amount of time looking for a book I wanted to read that was not turned into a movie or by an author who had another work turned into a movie because I didn’t want anyone to think that I had only heard of House of Sand and Fog or Chuck Palahniuk because I had seen the movie (even though I hadn’t seen House of Sand and Fog and I hated Fight Club with a passion). Especially since the last few fiction books I had checked out were made into movies. Who is judging me, you ask. The automated check-out machine? The book return slot? The magical gremlin-snob that lives in my room and sees the books that sit on my desk? I don’t know either. But whatever inanimate / mythical thing that is judging me is quite the motivator.

Well, I think this entry might be going nowhere, so I’ll leave you with this. Another problem with the word crazy is that it does not translate well, culturally or otherwise. One time, I made one of my campers cry because of it. He was an odd Japanese boy who spoke limited English and would often shout his own name as if he were a Pokemon. One of the activities at camp was gak-making, which resulted in a series of, well, incomprehensible questions from Kosuke.

Kosuke: Are you from gak planet?

Jesse: What?

Kosuke: Kosuke!!!!!

Jesse: You’re crazy.

Kosuke: *CRY

Jesse: …

Have a nice day.

and of course, i end up being the miranda

When I decided to start blogging, I wanted it to be whimsical musings about the inconsequential and a hyperbolic retelling of the things that happen in my life. Entries were supposed to have a beginning, middle, and an end, as well as a title and a theme. The one thing I did not want my blog to be was the “why didn’t he call me back????????????????????????????” sort of nonsense that plagues the internet—and the minds of people everywhere. “This song speaks to exactly how I feel (which is sad)!!!!!!!!!”

But, I started my blog on a Monday night, and on that Tuesday (also known as, less than 24 hours later), I got laid off. But, it was the holidays and hope was high and on and on. But now, hope is low. The “why didn’t he call me back” applies to every employer in New York City. Like, sure, I would love to come in for three interviews and just never hear from you again. My life has sort of a Sex and the City vibe—living in NYC, meeting up with men and women all over for lunchtime rendezvous, giving strangers my phone number and wondering why no one calls. Except without any of the alcohol, friends or sex. He’s just not that into you, indeed.

Job-hunting is not so dissimilar from the world of dating, except instead of wondering if you are going to die alone, you sit around and wonder if you should give up things like health insurance or dental floss or Netflix (for the record, Netflix would go before dental floss but probably after health insurance). So instead of blogging about iPads and dry cleaners and my Justin Bieber haircut, I only really feel like I think about Corinda (my unemployment specialist), which toiletries I could do without (I’m thinking razors and cotton balls), and what sort of daily activities can I do that are free (go to the library, walk the dog, watch Designing Women clips on Youtube) (Dixie Carter, rest in peace).

So, as much as I try not to be a downer to everyone I meet and everything I touch, it just spills out everywhere like the inside of a jelly doughnut. Go ahead and ask, “So, what’s new?” It begins with an exaggerated sigh, followed by an emphatic “nothing AT ALL.” Then we go through the journey of my last couple of fruitless interviews (he answered his cell phone in the middle!) and new life plan (which are sounding more and more like defeatist get-rich-quick schemes). My apologies to anyone I’ve interacted with since, say, mid-February.

I am sure the grass really is greener on the other side, but I find myself looking at people working and feeling like a street urchin staring in on a glorious Sunday Roast—my face pressed up against the window of a Citibank, looking longingly at the desks and phones and mindless Solitaire playing. Please, sir, can I have an interoffice envelope and a Rolodex?

So, what do we do? Stop by the local Dunkin’ Donuts and offer to take the midnight to eight AM shift? Find a senile heiress and marry her on the quick? Learn how to drive a cab? I mean, I live the life that I assume most people would kill for—I get a solid 12 hours of sleep a night, I read books and watch all the TV I want and have plenty of time to do my hair in the morning (and by morning, I mean mid-afternoon). So, I could be doing a lot worse. But soon enough, something’s got to give.

So, gentle reader, I do apologize for blog as of late. You know what they say about our best-laid plans. I had great ideas (and by great, I mean “not pathetic”) that just never came to be. I do have a couple of things cooking, though. So, stay tuned. I do have thoughts on Tiger Woods and new airline fees and the fact that I am wearing a pair of basketball shorts underneath obscenely torn pants because I’m too poor to buy new ones. You’re all on the edges of your seats, I’m sure.