Sarcasm Bites

“Let’s do coffee—I’d love to catch up!” she said as my 10-month old began screaming DeeDeeeeeeDeeeeeee! from my shopping cart. “Oh, he’s adorable,” she offered with a glassy smile. “Seriously, coffee. Facebook me!” she added as she darted away.

This, from a single woman I’ve heard whine repeatedly, at agonizing length, about men being insincere, always promising to call, but never actually doing it.

Let’s get real. Her invitation to “Facebook” was an acknowledgement of what we both already know. We don’t have enough in common to make it through 12 fluid ounces. It would be a grueling exercise in social awkwardness.

Which is simple human chemistry (in this case, of the non-sexual variety). When it works, it can be ambrosia, but more often, the mixing of two or more humans produces a modest stench—a simple fact women seem socially programmed to resist.

And that resistance quickly morphs into hypocrisy. “Men,” I’ve heard her say, “are insincere. I don’t get it. Why promise to call when they know they’re not going to?”

It’s an interesting question coming from a woman who, in a space of eleven, maybe twelve, seconds issued not one, but two, authentically insincere statements.

By “let’s do coffee,” she meant, “I can’t think of what to say,” and by “he’s so adorable,” she meant, “please shut him up.”

All of which is understandable. We’ve all been there, trying not to be rude while mentally plotting the quickest possible exit.

Truth is, women issue insincere statements for the same reason men issue that infamous promise to call—because it’s socially acceptable to do so, because they sense that they’re expected to pretend to want to connect with their ex-colleague/high school classmate/long-ago neighbor, when, in reality, their interest is superficial, at best.

So sure, ladies, you may be from Venus, but it’s time to admit that you’ve touched down on Mars long enough to learn how to work the system.

The next time he promises to call, just tell him to “Facebook you” instead.

Two weeks have passed since I first heard the news, and I’m still struggling to hold down the vomit.

It was a story about “Baby Gaga” ice cream, made from human breast milk, being sold at The Icecreamists shop in London.

As a newer mother who recently stopped breastfeeding, I feel compelled to issue a simple statement on the matter.

What may seem like innocent curiosity about the taste of your wife’s breast milk is in no way innocent. It is, however, a bold step toward lifelong celibacy.

The day the woman who birthed your child becomes your roaming bar tap is the day you begin a new life—one in which you spend your nights on the couch, and your days in intense therapy digging into your lingering “mommy issues.”

Which is as it should be, because the curiosity that begins with breast milk will flourish over time, and infect your relationship like the plague.

Plus, let’s be honest, you’re disgusting.

The headline practically jumps off the screen, taxing my early morning eyes.

“Are You Sitting Down? It Could Kill You”

I look down at my lap, shocked that I’ve begun my day with such deadly behavior. What’s more, I do this every morning. Does this mean I’m secretly suicidal?

I begin reading the article, and learn that even my frequent aerobic workouts can’t save me from my risky sitting habit. As a woman, sitting is particularly venomous—an irony that seems distinctly twisted later that day, as I sit breastfeeding my 3 month-old son.

The study findings provide a modest allowance for daily sitting, which is fortunate because standing all day sounds torturous, and I rarely do my best work when typing while walking/running/doing errands.

As I scan the article, questions flood my mind. Haven’t people been sitting for millennia? Are humans mutating into flamingoes, who sleep standing up? If so, will we be forced to consume whole raw fish, still writhing after being plucked from the sea?

Frankly, I don’t like the direction this is taking. I love walking, but partly because it’s the yin to sitting’s yang. When combined, they complete me.

But as a new mother, I can’t deny that this is an inconvenient time to engage in life-shortening behaviors. Just to be safe, I resolve to spend more time lying, rather than sitting, on the couch. There’s no point in being foolhardy with my health, after all.

Share your thoughts! Are you a serial sitter, like me?

I was one of the last humans in the first world to get a cell phone, so it’s no surprise that I’m just now attempting yoga.

Honestly, the whole hippie “ohm” vibe around yoga really irks me—and, like many solo runners, I approach group classes with extreme trepidation and a fair amount of disgust.

But alas, Father Time is having his way with me, and they tell me yoga will be a magic balm for my creaky joints. With regular yoga, they tell me, I’ll be running well into my denture years. Say no more—I’m sold!

Quietly cringing, I sign up for a 75-minute class, and try to remind myself that patchouli-induced hives are probably a figment of my hippie-hating imagination.

I arrive at the yoga studio the next morning only to realize that I really should have read the class description. Turns out, this is a hot yoga class, so the studio is intentionally kept “hot, but not too hot.” This is clearly feedback from Australian Aborigines who get a violent chill when it dips into the double-digits. Within the first minute, before class has even begun, I’ve deposited a ring of sweat on my yoga mat that contours my entire silhouette, head to toe.

I lie there, wondering how long it’ll be before my yoga mat starts to float in a lake of my own sweat. I seem to be surrounded by yoga regulars, all of whom are breathing in a deep, peaceful way, and none of whom appear to be perspiring. As they sink into meditative oblivion, my mind is abuzz with F-bombs.

I have entered my very own Seventh Circle of Hell, and its name is yoga.

The instructor finally enters the studio, and promptly turns the heat up. As soon as I hear the heating system shift into higher gear, my body flinches in a slight kicking motion as I visualize her face meeting my bony, bunion-plagued feet.

A wave of calm suddenly washes over me. Ohhh, so that’s what they mean about using visualization to relax. I feel mellow but empowered, like Yoda of the Dark Side, and make a quick mental note to do more of this.

Speaking in her yoga voice, which sounds like the verbalizations of a low-battery robot, she instructs the class to move into something like the vinsana-bikramga-nyanga pose. Uhhh… huh? Look, my Sanskrit’s a little rusty. Any chance you’d swing me a translation, given that I’m generating my own rainforest of moisture over here?

Thankfully, she begins to pepper her Sanskrit with helpful tips in English like, “lift your right leg while grounding your left leg into the Earth, then twist and stretch your upper body toward the moon.” A little fruity, but infinitely more helpful in a modern tongue, I find.

As class progresses, and we move from downward dogs to warrior 3’s and the like, I do my best to keep up, but the more poses I do—and then hold while breeeeeeeaaathing—the worse my tight, under-stretched muscles begin to quake. This is no gentle fluttering, but an increasingly violent jolting from side to side.

I get a pitying glance from my annoyingly flexible mat neighbor. Listen here, Gumby … I begin thinking, but am rudely interrupted by a fresh round of Sanskrit. “Moving into the parvosnottsna tanavakrasa, focus on leaning in deeply, really compressing your small intestines to cleanse your colon, improving elimination and enhancing nutrient abosorption.” Her voice lilts up at the end, like the good witch Glinda foretelling the wonders of Oz.

I grit my teeth hard, and somehow manage to keep my vocal chords locked as my inner-voice lets loose. Cleanse my colon??? My ass is extended out above my head, my muscles are vibrating like a jack hammer, my sweat could refill the English Channel, and you’re talking to me about better elimination? Seriously sweetheart, have you NO instinct for self-preservation?

Yoga’s supposed to be all about inner-peace and harmony, but this is just plain sordid.

Eventually, we move into something called corpse pose, which is fitting because I’m still feeling a tad homicidal. To end class, she asks us to take a moment to revisit our intentions and be thankful, which apparently means we’re supposed to mutter Sanskrit while bowing down on the mat. I’m a little behind on the whole routine, so instead I just kneel in my pool of sweat, look around the studio and silently thank everyone for wearing deodorant.

Namaste.

Sit down. We need to talk. This call waiting thing has GOT to stop.

Honestly, expecting friends, colleagues and family, all of whom are as busy as you are, to listen to dead air while you tend to your imaginary popularity? Does it get any ruder than that?

Oh, and by the way, I know you were talking to telemarketers. You gave that away with your annoyed tone and dismissive, “sorry, it was… nothing.”

But as maddening as it is, waiting for you to answer all those survey questions, I am learning a lot about you. Sure, you’re self-centered—everyone knows that. But what’s really interesting is that that you’re so careless with money.

And in 2009, there simply is no juicier gossip than money mismanagement. I mean, haven’t you heard? Sleeping with your married boss is nothing compared with buying Starbucks every morning.

Confused? Of course you are.

Next time you get a moment away from your fictitious celebrity, glance at your phone bill. Note the monthly fee for voicemail. You remember what that is, right? Goes something like, Hi, it’s Suzie, and I’m away from my phone right now, so blahblah… beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Look, I know this sounds condescending, but it’s obvious from your inane call waiting addiction that I need to spell this out for you.

You see, the whole reason you pay for voicemail is that it catches your calls when you’re say, in the shower, or, I don’t know, ON THE PHONE WITH SOMEONE ELSE.

Is this starting to make sense?

What’s saddens me is that you’re so irresponsible with your hard-earned dollars that you pay a voicemail fee plus a second fee for call waiting when all you need is voicemail.

Look, I’m trying to pretend not to judge you, but the fact is, you’re a financial shipwreck. While you’re at it, why not buy an American car, “forget” to pay your taxes, and then deposit all that money at yet another troubled bank? It’s hopeless, so why pretend, right?

But don’t feel rushed or anything. I’m still hanging out on your other line, hoping you can charm the pants off that telemarketer before my next conference call starts.

It was a late August afternoon and the heat was so thick, I was sure I was melting. Panting audibly, I popped into Starbucks®, paid my $1.84, and took a long gulp of cold water.

As the cool slid down my throat, I walked to a comfy chair and plopped down. Staring at the for sale items on the shelf, I wondered if Howard Schultz would ever forsake his investment in coffee mugs for ex-yuppie soccer moms. After all these years, it seemed a sad omen.

As my intellect gnawed on this and other important issues, a host of high-pitched cackles invaded my ear canal. A tad early for Halloween, I commented quietly.

Just when the clamor faded, a squeal sliced my eardrums like a blade. “Oh, and the fake Italian shoes weren’t the half of it! He drives a… Lexus!?!” High-pitched gasps were followed by another, even louder, round of cackles.

Visibly annoyed, I stood up, intending to glance at these she-monsters en route to the exit. But the second I turned around, my body froze in horrified amazement. Wondering if they were actual humans or human-like cartoon characters, I jiggled my head quickly, hoping to shake off the horror.

Elvira would look girlishly pretty next to you four, I remarked to myself.

Everything about them looked off, starting with their heads, which appeared huge—I’m talking really big—perched atop skeletal necks that had no business bearing all that weight. To add to the mayhem were lips that bulged out so far, they seemed to be trying to jump off their faces. And all of it was partially cast in shadow, thanks to eyelashes the length of your typical feather duster.

As the shock wore off, my eyes began jumping around like a pinball, fixating first on their cheekbones, which looked like steak knives sawing through what thin facial epidermis remained; and then on their Fembot breasts, fastened to their mid-sections like missiles preparing to blast through my eye sockets.

Next time, try the plastic surgeon who finished med school, I silently suggested.

Shuttering in fright, I began weaving through tables, almost looking forward to the sauna awaiting me outside. I mean sure, I’d seen Janet Dickson on her reality TV commercials, but in the flesh these surgically “enhanced” women spooked a person to her very core.

As I walked down the street, one thing was clear. Halloween would never be the same.

It’s a perfect early August morning topped off with a big blue sky and a cool ocean breeze.

I’ve just finished a relaxing beach walk, and am headed toward my car, enjoying every last ray of bright yellow sunshine. With my car in tossing distance, I press the remote unlock button, hop in, and flip on the radio.

A reggae song is playing, and the uplifting, easygoing beat mirrors the day’s mood to a T.

As soon as the song ends, a radio ad starts with “Don’t you hate knowing summer’s over?”

OVER? I say out loud. Summer? What are you talking about?

Bliss on sale... only 2 cents!

“Next summer is many long, cold months away,” the ad continues, “but don’t worry, because our incredible back-to-school deals are HERE!”

Before I can take my next breath, that feeling of pre-winter dread starts oozing into my consciousness. Yeah, like two-cent pencils are going to make up for you killing my summer buzz in the wee hours of August, I mutter.

In an attempt to salvage my stellar mood, I try to focus on the beautiful surroundings, but by the time I’m home, am thoroughly irritated. Honestly people, it’s 2009, and enjoyment is at a historic low. Is this really the right time to depress people en masse? I think.

Moments later, I’m just plain bitter, tempted to give into the mounting urge to hurt someone. I glance around, but am disappointed to see there’s no one in my reach I can reasonably deem disposable. So instead, I sit down and write this letter:

Dear Back-to-School Retailers,

Can we talk?

Just wondering… were you even sober when you approved this year’s depressing back-to-school ads?

I mean, do we seem too happy to you? Like we’re so enjoying the hellacious 2009 economy that you must strip us of our warm weather glee?

Sure, those bleak “summer’s over” ads you run every August worked profit wonders in the past, but it’s 2009 now. Haven’t you heard? Unemployment’s so high, and our home values so low that clinical depression is, like, the new It bag.

It doesn’t take a genius to see this year’s back-to-school retail season was a prime opportunity to make us feel like we’re high on Prozac and gumballs, like we’re so smart, we can actually see all the carefree tomorrows around the bend.

But that kind of fresh thinking is hard for you, isn’t it?

So instead, you mastermind the plan to run the same ads you’ve run for the last decade. Seriously? Because, what, stripping us of our last hope would make us want to shop?

If we’d known you were that stupid, we’d have boycotted your stores years ago.

The sad part is, some of us actually were willing to open our wallets a bit wider this back-to-school season. But then you came along, all “heheh, no more summer fun for you,” and bam! Before we could even find our car keys, we were paralyzed by fear, dreading even the possibility of more bad times to come.

So stop whining about this year’s soft back-to-school sales—you brought this on yourselves.

Oh, and by the way, if you hope to have any success this holiday season, you’re going to need to find your happy place.

Because—news flash!—depression is oddly unmotivating. And this year, all your “same old, same old” is simply not going to cut it.

So attempt a few new thoughts, k? Maybe make us laugh in spite of ourselves or something. Really, it’ll be better for everyone.

Think you can handle that?

It’s that single-serving Saturday morning when I get to sip strong coffee in bed while diving into a fresh pile of unread magazines. I’m awake, but in a joyful trance that blocks out pesky irritations like cell phones, calendar reminders, not to mention the dog’s untimely cry for a walk (spouses should be useful for something, no?)

Flipping through my first magazine, I come across a health & nutrition column written by a well-known MD. One inquiring, if a tad obsessive, reader asks if there are nutritional benefits gained from eating green bananas, as opposed to riper yellow ones.

The doc answers her question by elaborating on the minuscule variations in vitamins and minerals in each stage of ripeness. He comes to the obvious conclusion that bananas, indeed all fruit, make for excellent food choices, regardless of hue and maturation.

Then he has the gaul to congratulate her on her healthy habits.

And just like that, my Zen morning is over.

Gee, thanks for the textbook detail doc, but way to completely ignore the issue!? I mean, what ever happened to choosing your food by taste?

Because let’s be serious, NO sane person with functional taste buds wavers in the green vs. yellow vs. yellowish brown debate. You either retch at the site of green bananas, or you lunge at them like a whore to the crack pipe.

With bananas, you choose your side young and bare witness to your fate, whatever the consequences.

No offense doc, but all that science is drowning your brain. You’ve forgotten the guiding principle we call Human Nature.

Sit back and I’ll enlighten you, k?

Truth is, humans don’t ignore something as essentially homo sapien as their taste buds unless they’re in intense distress.

And given that little Miss Banana Bicurious is ignoring her own taste preferences, she’s either:

A. In the nut house, slipping her doctor-prescribed “sanity” pills to her pet rat while hallucinating about multi-hued bananas

OR…

B. So obsessed with being “healthy” she hasn’t enjoyed a single bite in a decade or more

Which means, in the unlikely event your fun bag of a banana lover is legally sane, she’s—at best—a human trying to be the world’s healthiest robot. Face it, she’s hosed—and you’re all, “bravo, nut job—keep it up!”

It’s no good, doc. Next time try something like this:

People who ENJOY the many tastes in a healthy diet are far more likely to stick with their healthy choices over the long haul, thus reaping the most health benefits. So be sensible, and eat the banana that tastes best to you.

And doc, if you don’t mind, I’d like add a quick personal note:

Dear Miss Banana Bicurious,

You really must R-E-L-A-X. It’s thanks to freaks like you that unhealthy people think “healthy diet” means “prison term.” So stop all this nonsense about green bananas—seriously now, crunchy and slimy in the same bite? That makes starvation sound appetizing. So get a grip, and have some fun… but somewhere else, k? Cuz you’re boring us to death.

As the self-proclaimed anti-Christ of morning people everywhere, it’s no surprise that 7:03am finds my lips vacuum-sealed to a vat-sized coffee mug, and me grunting only when spoken to, avoiding all but the most mandatory of human interaction.

Peering above the rim of my upturned mug, I sit down at my desk, open email, and anticipate the day’s first rendez-vous with Her Majesty, The Delete Key. So much power in such a small container is hardly a thing to overlook.

Mid-slurp into my second sip of delightfully dark, strong coffee, I’m jolted out of my Trash folder trance by a frightful noise. I quickly glance over at my cell phone to confirm that it’s the source of the irksome clamor, which it is.

Goddamn morning people! I’d put your ass in JAIL for calling at this hour! I mutter. Then I hesitate, and suddenly find myself teetering on the slippery precipice between fear and anger. Wait, is someone hurt? Did something happen? I wonder.

Staring at the number flashing on my phone’s screen, my brain kicks into gear just long enough to link it to a human face. Without thinking, I blurt out “Fuuuck!” at far too high a volume. My husband shoots me a mildly irritated grimace.

“Hey, at least it’s honest,” I respond out loud. A bit lewd, but someone’s got to suffer when I’m being hunted down before my first cup of joe bottoms out.

Not to mention, it’s The Client calling, and as any work-ridden American knows, The Client. Must. Not. Wait.

I surrender my java jug to answer my phone, figuring I’ll at least quiet its high-pitched racket. Before I can even say hello, she screams “Good morning!” in my ear in an obscenely upbeat tone. “I’m SO glad you’re there. Aren’t mornings the best? Don’t you just LOVE how much you can get done before the phones start ringing and everything?” she adds. Look genius, I silently proclaim, you’re only alive because I can’t reach your neck through my phone.

It’s too late to fake a bad connection, so I do the corporate thing and attempt to lie in a professional manner. “Yes, mornings are great! So what can I do for you at this early hour?” I ask. My husband quietly snickers from the other room.

Ignore him, and listen to what she’s saying, I remind myself. But all I can do is gaze longingly at my soon-to-be lukewarm coffee.

Fortunately, Ms. Morning Glory seems oblivious to my stupor. Without even taking a breath, she begins blabbering on about a proposal I sent her back at the dawn of time… or maybe it was last week… Whatever the case, none of what she’s saying rings a bell in my under-caffeinated brain, which promptly bows to its survival instinct by entering a deep and thoughtless sleep.

That is, until it hears “so we’ll need all these dates,” which is followed by a dizzying list of days, times and locations. By the time she says “please just confirm that schedule in an email that I’ll forward to the whole group,” I’ve got a pen in hand, and am staring at a blank page.

Waahaaa? I think, still hoping this is nothing more than the worst nightmare of my thirty-seven years of life. You morning dinkwads are why pink slips happen, I remark to myself, newly a-fume with rage.

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence before she adds “Okay? Sound good?” Suffering the ever-worsening effects of sub-par caffeination, I begin a primitive, though audible, attempt at speech, “uhhhhhh, let’s seeeee heeeere… riiiight…. Okaaaaaaay.”

Then, a profound and deafening silence befalls us. Coffee, get coffee. Coffee NOW! I silently command myself.

“Oh, noooo… never mind. Scratch that… it’ssss… offfff” she finally says, drawing out each word before inserting a long pause. “Hold a minute” she adds.

Seconds pass, and still no sign of life. Then she belts out “Not again?!?” into my now bruised ear canal. Seriously, you morning freaks have GOT to get off the mainland! Any more of this, and I’m either going for a machete or an Immodium, I think.

“Sorry, I just got an email” she finally explains “so forget everything I just said.” No worries there! I reply silently. “The bad news is the dates I listed aren’t happening” she adds. Allelujah, I’m saved! My eyes begin brimming over with happy tears when she throws in “but we’ll need to add even more days than I originally thought.”

Panicked at the prospect of yet another schedule tsunami, I slam my mug down on my desk. While fumbling for a pen, I knock over my coffee, rendering my once-blank page a moist and soggy brown. Will this never end? I ponder, overcome with desperation.

“I’ll straighten out the new schedule in our team meeting today and email it to you” she offers as the pool of coffee on my desk waterfalls onto my white shirt.

Just shy of soiling myself, I sit quietly and debate the pros and cons of dipping my phone in my coffee. Pretend it’s a biscotti… I gently coax myself.

See? Mornings really are great.

It was the kitty that put me over the edge. Not that I wasn’t already about to throw myself over at the slightest provocation, but seriously people—½ million of you following Socks, as in, the cat, on Twitter? Look, I get that daily life can get kinda, well, daily, but let’s be honest, you’re a short nap away from walking into an abyss that has no Exit door.

Oh, look! It sleeps, too!

Yes, the economy is a tad sadistic these days, hurting people who had little, if any, hand in creating the whole mess. But by the time you’re openly pursuing Socks’ insanely boring existence, your virtual self has been wandering around unshowered for weeks, shuffling her slippers through Twitter and Facebook, having animated verbal skirmishes with banner ads.

Look, it happens, we all have our rough spots. But take it from someone who forgoes Socks’ and Ashton Kutcher’s inane Tweets for, gee, I don’t know, meeting deadlines, walking the dog, even, hell, shopping for groceries—it is time to GET A GRIP.

It’s basic human psychology—where your fascination with Socks thrives, your self-respect dies a slow and gruesome death. And be real—it hurts, doesn’t it?

“But what about the 499,999 others?” you ask. “They can’t all be pathetic,” you add. Look, I hear ya, I didn’t see this thing coming either, but it’s here, it’s real, and it’s the saddest surrender to life’s curve balls that I’ve ever seen.

Don’t kid yourself—the entire CNN newsroom was smirking when they posted the so-called “story” about your obsessive penchant for the virtual reality of a feline.

But let’s try not to think about that, k? All you need to know is that now—as in right now—it’s time for you to do what your inner voice has been pleading for all along.

So go ahead, take those plants out of the bathtub. Let’s just all admit that you need water way more than they do. Yes, I know how you feel about them, but they’ll be fine. Trust me, there’s this thing called a watering can, and with a little more time away from your computer screen, you’ll be more than able to handle it. What’s more? The miracle of sunlight could befall them, and, if you play your cards right, maybe even you, too.

Now, see if the shower’s still working, because really, standing in a pile of dirt while showering? Not so much. Next, open a new bar of soap because let’s be serious, that bark-like sphere lost its soap creds months ago. And finally, yes, climb in. When that new soap meets water and your skin at the same time, by all means, scrub your little heart out.

It may sound daunting at first, but it’ll be like a rebirth, and you’ll be amazed at how good you feel. There is, after all, a whole world out there. And hey, have you heard? They did this craaazy upgrade a while back. Sure, Web 2.0 is in color and dynamic, but World 1.0 is also in three dimensions, uses all five senses, and never needs recharging.

And to think, I won’t even smell you coming.