Friday, September 2, 2016

Exhaustion and an Endless Campaign

I think of six things to tell you every day. I do. And sometimes, when I hear the same news cycling around again on the radio, I think of the same six things to tell you again, stuff I never get around to telling you in the first place. Then, when I'm finally home and my hands are no longer busy on the steering wheel or chopping vegetables the teenager won't eat or trying to make enough for leftovers when the teenager insists that what I made isn't even going to be enough for tonight. Yet when I'm finally done with all of those things, I can't think of a damned thing to tell you. By that hour, I'm a flake.

Yeah, you're right. I'm always a flake. I forgot to call the neckerchief people again today and I'm still not sure if I need to make 37 blank neckerchiefs so the neckerchief people can silk-screen them by next week. Mike. I blame Mike. He got all het up about it on Sunday and we went out and bought 17 yards of black fabric that he said he'd help make into the blank neckerchiefs. Then, we all went into a coma after I made him calzones. And yesterday and today, I forgot to call the neckerchief people to see if they could actually make the neckerchiefs as well as silk-screen them with our logo. And even if they can, I'm stuck with 17 yards of cheap fabric to make 38 more neckerchiefs than we actually need.

I'm pretty sure, too, that the fact that the neckerchief people didn't call when they said they'd call on Monday doesn't mean that they've got it covered and the neckerchiefs are on their way. I haven't even had a quote yet. That's not good. They might not be able to find the blank neckerchiefs and I might be sitting on a time bomb that'll go off right before we need them next Thursday night. Well, crap.

That wasn't one of the six things I had intended to tell you. Neither was the fact that the theme song from 'The Brady Bunch' kept going through my head earlier and I remembered just how lonely I'd been watching all those stupid seventies sitcoms when I was a teenager in the seventies. I blame my sister. She wants me to write about my dad. I don't want to send her stuff I've written about my dad. The last time I told my extended family that I was writing, it was chaos.

Here's what one person said, "Nobody reads that magazine anyway."

Someone else told me, "People tell me they like my writing all the time. I should write something and send it out to be published. I could be famous."

Another said, "I don't have time to read stuff like that."

And another told me that I had to sign everything I gave her for a while because it would be more valuable that way. She made me sign a freaking birdhouse. I am not kidding you. Keep your eyes open for the priceless birdhouse at Sotheby's. She wouldn't even put it outside so it could have the decency to host baby birds or even rot properly.

It was agony. I'm telling you. Since then, if they ask if I'm writing, I tell them I'm not with a straight face. I lie right through my teeth. I know. I'm bad, lying to my family that way, but I do, so don't say anything to any of them, okay? I may or may not send my sister something I wrote about my dad. I haven't decided yet.

And that's not one of the six things I've been meaning to tell you either.

Here's one thing:

These days I switch the radio to pop music any time NPR is talking about the election for the millionth time. Oh, I hear the worst of the gaffes, and there are many. I've listened to snippets of debates, but I'm so damned sick of it all. The last time I really listened was when Chris Christie dropped out. Man, that was going to be the best movie, Chris Farley runs for President. Oh right. I'm sorry Mrs. Farley. He's gone and can't do that movie. I miss him too.

And I didn't want to bother with the other candidates. It was way too many people! So, I let it go for a bit until it died down. But now, look at the fix that we're in. There has been other news, right? People are still doing other things or have we seriously paused in all relevant world news for this great breath of idiocy we call the campaign trail. At this point, it's as much of an endurance race as taking the Oregon trail only on the Oregon trail, you started in March after the snows and hoped to God you made it to the Pacific ocean by November so stuff didn't freeze and they didn't name a pass after your starving cannibalistic ass. The campaign trail began more than a year ago! We're dead now. The snows have come to the pass and there's no end in sight and the reporters are still going on and on and on, reporting over our frozen and gnawed carcasses. I don't want to hear any more about the campaign trail.

So give it a rest and don't bring it up again until October, okay?

Yeah, that'll work.

Thank you for listening, jb

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