I Embrace Randomness

I find myself walking east on a busy sidewalk while everyone else and their dogs are walking west. I'm tempted to reverse my course, to fit in, but I must buy myself a shirt as the wind chill is bracing to say the least.

You are swimming in the lake, wondering how the experience would be different if the lake was deep enough to demonstrate the synchronized swimming techniques you were forced to learn as a child.

I am roasting winter vegetables. It is the middle of the summer, but I am just so hungry.

You are travelling to Japan attempting to buy a really large tuna to make a huge sandwich for the company picnic. That will teach them to make fun of your tuna salad sandwich making abilities.

I am playing a new game I invented where I pretend that I am trapped inside a block of ice just waiting for it to thaw. Some days, the ice melts quickly and other days I am stuck inside this ice block for hours forcing me to order in.

You have just bought 20 lbs of fresh, baby spinach and have decided to cover yourself in a big pile of dark green, leafy goodness. You are little upset that no one you know is even slightly surprised.

I am making my bed and I keep having to straighten the sheets as I am attempting to mentally solve simultaneous algebraic equations at the same time and they always make me twitch.

You are excitedly eating carrot stick after carrot stick in an attempt to "get to" that annoying, know-it-all bunny I gave you for your birthday. 

I have decided to cut my hair, only this time as an ode to Escher.

You are utilizing increasingly more symbolism in your speech to the point where we are all pleading for a little bit of realism.

I long to return to the jungle.

You spend hours drawing silly, round, cartoonish faces on a large piece of white paper on the floor only taking a short intermission to go online to mock your friends for having silly, round and cartoonish faces.

I have decided to police the police.

You have made a resolution to do more glazing, especially, but not limited to, cakes.

I have opened the door to the outside, I pause momentarily and, after looking back one last time, I cross over to the other side. What a view!

You have finally decided to pay your fees to the club and now we have nothing left to talk about aside from your ridiculous love of turtleneck sweaters.

I will admit it, I'm addicted to that feeling I get when I have just finished a long run, and have come home and have an awesome shower and then I change into some nice clean clothes and then I go downstairs and eat all of the chocolate I can get my hands on and then I get "the shakes" from too many sweets and then I have to drink tons of milk and finally I lay down on the couch and watch some crappy reality TV. That feeling. 

I will only blow bubbles on Fridays adding to my father's considerable amount of shame.

You have harvested the pumpkin from your garden and make an incredible pie that is enjoyed by all. After the guests have all gone home, you sit at the table looking at the crumb-filled empty pie pan,  slowly caressing the stem that was once attached to the pumpkin and you sigh. Never have you felt so alone.

I have made it my goal to quench as many people's thirsts as possible without having to go too far out of my way. I mean if they are near by or want to come over, but aside from that they can get their own cold drinks. I mean what am I, a mobile, refreshment provider?!!?! What's that you say? My business card says that I am? Fine then, just don't expect a large variety of drinks or a smile.

You are itching my back and laughing like a little school girl the whole time. Another win win experience for both of us.

I am wearing old ratty clothes and haven't bathed or brushed my hair for days. You, on the other hand, look marvellous. You're welcome!

You are suspiciously cute.

I wish that I could go back in time, sneak up on you and tickle you. I guess I could just tickle you now, but for some reason I long to tickle you in the past as I regret passing up on that opportunity when it presented itself.

You drive like a madman in the middle of the night, nostrils flaring, eyes ablaze, looking like a crazed wolf-man and screaming at the top of your lungs about your love of butterflies and tulips.

I am steaming cauliflower, mastering the art of origami, and straining my hips while attempting an extreme yoga position all in an attempt to woo you.

You are collecting shells and seaweed from the local beach as your master has commanded. You have many concerns and questions about your master and his grand plan, but the free roast beef is too good to walk away from.

I love mindlessly wandering in a grassy expanse. I love reading dictionary entries while working on my biceps. I love flapping my arms like wings and gaily leaping up and down in front of my house, forcing all passersby to quickly cross to the other side. I love sitting by myself next to a nice warm bath. I embrace randomness.

Why Did We Leave Our Banjos At Home?

We are on a beautiful and relaxing walk in the nearby forest.
You comment that in many ways we are very similar to the trees that surround us.
I have to fight back the overwhelming desire to push you down and yell "timber".
You reveal that in moments of frustration you want to metaphorically chop me into kindling.

We are in our backyard on a beautiful summer's day doing some weeding in the garden.
I remark that in another life we could have been cute little puppy dogs.
You laugh and start to bark loudly, which is funny initially and then considerably less funny when it passes the 10 minute mark.
I finally get you to stop by smothering your face with long, deliberate, yet frisky licks.

We are preparing an amazing brunch, with you scrambling the eggs as I am toasting the bread.
You indicate that in a certain light we could pass for human-sized jars of dill pickles.
I am not sure how to take this but I instinctively turn my hat around and around trying to tighten it so you can't try to reach inside.

You wait until I am asleep before filling my water glass on my nightstand with a mix of vinegar, water, dill, garlic and salt and then placing my hand in it to begin the pickling process.

We are boarding a bus headed for Mexico.
I think that with the proper head wear we could easily pass for monarchs.
You turn slowly and regally towards me and silently indicate that you expect me to kiss your shoe.
I turn on my smart phone and start researching methods of regicide.

We are searching for wild rabbits to feed, all-the-while clutching pieces of carrots and celery in our hands.

You tell me all about an idea for a science fiction novel you thought of where large, dinosaur-sized bunnies try to feed wild humans scraps of vegetables.

I am quite surprised both by the thoughts in your head and also that I nearly dislocated my eyebrows as a result of those thoughts.

You stand there for a few moments, bemused by my reaction, before slapping me silly with a stalk of limp celery.

We are spending a rainy Saturday afternoon eating popcorn and watching movies.

I murmur to myself that I wish it was a sunny Wednesday and that we were eating peanuts and watching a magic show.

You bite your tongue to stop from saying something insensitive, after debating biting my tongue instead.

It is moments like this that make me wish you were a rubber tree and I was a plantation worker needing to extract your valuable rubber latex.

We have decided to repaint all of the rooms in our house.

You strike a particularly intimidating pose while wielding a brush.

I shrink away from you scared in equal parts by the pose and the brush itself.

To lighten the mood you shave off my carefully groomed and highly restrained mustache and delicately paint on an elaborately comical one in its place.

We are instituting new rules around the house that more closely agree with the laws of physics.

I wish that we could somehow bend the laws to make us significantly more attractive.
You make plans to cover yourself completely in magnetic tape.
I decide to carefully arrange the multiple prisms I have on hand to attempt to refract you.

We accidentally purchased 50 pounds of apples at the local farmer's market as we thought we saw a decimal that was just a pit.
You suggest that we bake a huge apple pie and, after it cools down, we hide in it and freak out your sister.
I get a horrible headache after 30 minutes of attempting a look that combines squinting, furrowing, and lip pursing all the while peeling apples for this pie.
In the end, you change your idea to just giving her a card and out of frustration I dump 20 pounds of peeled, cored and sliced apples on you, but decide to take the cinnamon and brown sugar home with me to use next time.

We are playfully playing tag in our bare feet on the sand at the beach.
I yell out to you that I love you despite the sheer amount of seaweed caked to your back.
You stop playing tag, cease smiling, slowly peel away the seaweed never once breaking eye contact with me.
Why did we leave our banjos at home?

The Restaurant: Part 1

This is the first part in a semi-fictional three-part series about my first job. I use the term 'semi-fictional' so I can make the characters and situations even more cartoonishly silly than the really were. This is not to say the actual people and events were boring at normal, just that I love using any liberties I can - that's right, any liberties. I also used the term "job" as it was a job. In my nine years at the restaurant, I was a busboy, dishwasher, cashier, line cook, bartender and assistant chef. I worked with so many really great characters - I could write a play or a book. Instead I have settled on this, mostly as it is an easy and lazy way to tell about my experiences. Now, as I said, all of the stories are true, albeit retold in my unique prose that is often rife with sarcasm and hyperbole. Not that the original stories wouldn't hold up on their own, just that I can't seem to write any other way - that's just who I am. And instead of adopting the common convention of changing the names to protect the innocent, I have decided to not do that. There will be no innocent-protecting here! I mean I need to take at least a small break from protecting things at some point during the day.

I worked at the restaurant for nine years back in the waning years of my youth and into early adulthood. At the time the experience wasn't amazing but it provided a source of money which up until that point hadn't been plentiful. My first hourly pay was laughably small in the standards of those days, and would be criminal today. I could have searched around for a better, more satisfying line of work, but this was highly convenient and filled with mostly easy tasks and responsibilities. The biggest challenge by far was learning to work with such a wide array of characters, mostly in supervisory roles overseeing me and the other bottom-rung folk. At the time, many work days were very challenging- learning to navigate through the demands of superiors, the never-ending orders and being young and lacking both confidence and experience. My current self would tell the younger me that learning to work with people you don't like is reality and it prepares you for the real world and that it will better set me up for being an adult. My young self would tell me that that was all well and good but that I should shove it. My current self would be confused as no version of myself has ever or would ever really say those words- then again this is a pretend conversation I'm having with a no-longer-around me, so I can say and do anything I want. Today, with these days so far in the rear view mirror, it is easier to look back and use perspective. The bad times have blurred and faded and all I am left with are the fun anecdotes, the oddities and the scars (all emotional - relax). And the stories! 

I began my time as a dishwasher. The year was 1987 and I noticed that a number of others had jobs and I figured, what the hell, I can't sleep, eat or play tennis all the time. Plus it would be great to have some money! I know idea that my starting wage would be $4.37 per hour and that it wasn't even debatable if that was fair compensation for what we were expected to endure - it wasn't close. Dishwashers, or the dish pigs or the grunts were the lowest of the low, not even allowed to face the public, like a hideous gargoyle or someone with an embarrassing rash. A dishwasher was everyone's lackey. Need something done, even something gross and demeaning? No worries! The dish pig has to say yes- they have no choice- it's super easy to replace someone with no discernible skills and all dishwashers say yes to everything in the off-chance they receive unexpected recognition and are able to move up to busboy, which is akin to moving from a weed to a slightly nicer weed. The dishwashers were young, untrained and naïve. We were happy to work and had no idea of our rights or how menial our work was. Our parents were happy we were "safe" and learning about responsibility and following orders and we were happy with the illusion of promotion. The busboys were our slightly older friends who got out and we aspired to be them and to have someone, anyone, lower than us.

Our immediate boss was the head cashier. She was a lady named Rose, albeit calling her a lady, even after all of these years just doesn't sound right. Her name was either ironic or a paradox, I'm really not sure. To compare her to a rose should make the speaker lose their right by law to make any future comparisons of any type. She was gruff, surly and only pretty when observed from a far distance where she was often mistaken for a bush, a gruff, surly bush. I also would guess she would have looked pretty good through an unfocused telescope, and I was going to attempt to use one, but it was just to much work lugging it around with me while busing tables and washing dishes. It was unclear to me at the time why she worked at the restaurant as she was obviously unhappy and didn't seem to like people, especially teenage boys. Still day after day she came in, drank her coffee, ate her toast and bossed us around relentlessly and she didn't even appear to gain pleasure from that. I mean if you are going to make other people unhappy at least enjoy it. What is the fun in bossing if you don't even like it? She spent all of her free time smoking on the steps outside the kitchen. She, and the other smokers on staff seemed to have so many more breaks than the non-smokers that it was almost a constant advertisement for smoking. She also followed the horses and spent a good portion of her time looking at and discussing the results with anyone in earshot. I often wondered if she'd like me more if I also followed the horses - it would have given us something to talk about- or if I was an actual horse. During a lull in our working relationship, I briefly thought about dressing up as a horse but just couldn't find a suitable tail. Although she took copious breaks, there was just no relaxing on her watch! I mean we would take our sweet time getting more dressing from the walk-in fridge and be "unable to find" the chicken fingers in the freezer, but those excuses only got us so far. In the end, we all had to answer to Rose. I would call her motherly, but I'm trying to keep this at least marginally factual.

Now I like to give someone the benefit of the doubt, as it makes me feel better about myself and that is important. So maybe she really was a warm, caring woman on the inside, but that perspective became harder and harder to maintain as I was belittled, insulted and ordered around the way someone would treat a small mammal, especially one they were considering flushing down the toilet. Okay, that's a bit harsh- and small mammals can't even defend themselves! If she was warm and caring on the inside, then I must applaud her ability to keep the inside hidden. The most annoying aspect about her was that although we worked together for four summers, Rose didn't even know my name! She always called me "dishwasher" when she wanted my attention (usually to point out another mistake I had made) which always led to confusion - was she referring to me or the machine? Often she would bark out an order without even turning around or making eye-contact and a long pause would follow it from her perspective, as I was unclear that she was barking at me, since I typically didn't respond to "dishwasher" in my regular existence. After being called "dishwasher" so many times combined with actually spending so much time with the dishwashing machine, it was fortunate that I was raised well and had my head on straight and didn't confuse myself with the machine, although we were close I have to admit. I spent so many hours, opening and closing it, pushing in racks of dirty dishes and pulling out racks of hot and steamy clean ones, pressing the power button, spraying water and (when no one was looking) hugging it and caressing it. There were many quiet, lonely, rainy nights where the kitchen was filled with an awkward silence and only Rose, the cook and  I were still there. I'm not sure of the seminal moment when we started developing feelings for each other above and beyond our working relationship, all I know is a line was crossed and it was wonderful.

Now at some point I transitioned to busboy, which in the restaurant world is a distinct level above washing dishes. I'm not sure how or why I was given the opportunity to take one small step out of the gutter, but I must have worked hard (it's possible), been reliable (maybe), or found out where the bodies were buried (shhhhh!). Unlike dish washers, who are usually adorned with unkempt, greasy hair and wearing mismatched socks and dirty, untucked shirts, busboys must be presentable enough to be seen by the paying public. Busboys also need to be able to string together one and two syllable words into basic sentences in case a confused patron wanted to ask a question. But busboys knew that even though they were freed from their "cage" in the back of the kitchen and were given actual uniforms that needed to be mostly clean and pressed, they were still without any real voice or power. They were still essentially slaves and needed to jump if anyone asked for anything. I still remember the omnipresent smell of glass cleaner as I tried to keep the tables streak free. I also recall carrying huge bus-trays full of dirty dishes and the smell of full ashtrays before the city thankfully outlawed smoking at restaurants. I enjoyed getting out of the kitchen and being away from the eyes of Rose and the cooks, but it was more exhausting work with no chance of receiving any appreciation from anyone. In fact, the only recognition a busboy received was from within. I held weekly awards-type shows in my dreams where I was lauded for my incredible busing techniques and these accolades, though not real, propelled me through the next punishing week. 

Back in those days, the restaurant was nothing more than a glorified cafeteria and glorified is definitely a misleading word choice. The menu featured so little actual cooking outside of frying an egg, or toasting some bread. Everything was either microwaved frozen food or it came directly out of a bag or a can. Eventually management figured things out and the menu was vastly upgraded upon the hiring of an executive chef. Before that there were two cooks - Ed and James who manned the kitchen. Neither was exceptionally good at cooking nor were either passable at interacting with other staff. These two stone-like pillars of the restaurant were as challenging to work with as Rose, and though they weren't management, if you messed up even a small amount or didn't look as if you were working your hardest or gave some small bit of attitude they reported you to the management. It was as if they saw their job as half cooking and half prison guard. Neither spoke English as a first language and this meant that they easily misunderstood what you said all the time. This led to many, potentially comical situations where a busboy would emerge from the walk-in cooler with a head of lettuce and be reprimanded for being stupid when in fact they wanted some eggs. Unfortunately, no one dared laugh, as neither Ed nor James ever saw any humour in anything. They also always mistook our being tired or unexcited by the endless stream of menial tasks as attitude. In their minds, all busboys were crappy at their jobs and needed constant observation and reprimanding. That may have a large shred of the truth to it, as it was a crappy summer job after all, but their rudeness, abruptness and lack of any common niceties made it that much worse. I always wondered - "would it be so hard for you to smile or say please when you asked me to scrub the pots and pans?" to no avail. I also thought that a nice backrub or shoulder massage would have been awesome as well. 

Although the two cooks were similar, they weren't the same. The kitchen took on a significantly lighter tone when Ed was cooking. He allowed a small, highly confusing grin to cross his lips from time to time and he spoke with heightened emotions and with overly cartoonish exaggerated facial expressions which made him fun to watch. He wasn't as bad to work with as James, but he was far more unpredictable. James was always sour and dour and gruff, while Ed was impossible to read. One moment a hint of a laugh, the next he was screaming for more cabbage and the next he appeared to be actually concerned for your lack of intelligence. If he was a lion and you were his prey, he may give you false hope by helping remove the sharp quill from your paw and cleaning you before eating you for lunch. The irony is that I was concerned for his intelligence as well, or at least his emotional well-being. His emotions would run the gamut from happy to sad to angry with many stops between all within a shift and with no real obvious indications what was coming next. The trick. as we all learned, was to lap up the good times and to hide during the bad. Staying out of eye-shot worked wonders as Ed would lay into whomever he saw regardless of whose responsibility the error it was or wasn't. To get away we would often go to the outdoor storage and hang out to avoid collateral damage of Ed's flipouts only to emerge when a sufficient time had elapsed. One time I went to the outdoor storage to hide and one of the other busboys thought it would be humourous to lock in me in there. I was trapped in that room for an hour, subsiding solely on bottles of sparkling apple juice and ice cream bars. Finally I was released and, upon returning to the kitchen, instead of being greeted with any concern for my well-being or even a question about where I had disappeared to, I was subjected to a totally incomprehensible tirade from Ed. Despite moments like this, I often felt sympathetic towards him. He didn't seem like a totally bad person inside and I can't imagine that getting up day after day and coming to flip burgers and open bags of premixed salad was too exciting. 

James' daily demeanor always fell somewhere between grumpy and nasty, with the occasional morsel of bitterness tossed in for good measure. I don't think I ever saw smile, let alone unfurrow his brow. I imagine that the muscles in his upper forehead were of near-Herculean strength as they were working all day long. James was gruff with everyone: kitchen staff, management and customers. Looking back on this now, I applaud his consistent, communist approach to life. Why should anyone feel special, let allow happy or appreciated? Why should any of us see our work as anything but a bleak set of routine tasks to be completed with a total absence of joy? Clearly, appreciation and joy are totally overrated and would just have gotten in the way of the running of the kitchen. To his credit, no one ever slacked off on his watch and everyone did things as by the book as possible so as not to draw any attention of any kind towards themselves. Every once and a while a new busboy or dishwasher would come in without an understanding of how hard you they were expected to work and also of the unspoken rules of interacting with James, and a look would become plastered on his face. It is hard to capture it using words, but it was a combination of bewildered, furious, constipated and a slightly happy. The happiness made me most scared of all. It was a happiness absent of any of the usual components of happiness. It is the sort of happy I would feel if I was actually really unhappy and then forced at the threat of harsh reprisals that I had to demonstrate minimal happiness. Sometimes I would imagine James during his time away from work, before "putting on his mask" and becoming his character once again. I could imagine him as a pouty, cross-dressing performer or as a chain-smoking, hard-drinking, money-burning poker player or as a little sensitive boy with his cute dog playing at the stream with his mother watching near by. What happened to that boy, James? Where did he go? I would have loved to get to know him, or even the cross-dresser or the poker player. 

Compared to James, Ed was like a fluffy, cuddly teddy bear while James was more like an actual bear just waking up from a long stint of hibernation. Too tired and groggy to attack or expend too much energy, but a bear nonetheless and worthy of our respect and fear. I half expected him to come to work with a whole salmon in his mouth, or at least with hands covered in honey, but I'm glad he didn't, as I would have reacted and then I'd have been scrubbing pots all evening. Ed and James got along really well, but you always sensed that if James felt like it, he could have made Ed go scampering back to his cave in a heartbeat. At least Ed had his lighter moments when the kitchen was slow and things were relaxed and he would often come ask us bizarrely random questions about our lives with this look of anticipation over what weird thing the crazy busboy would say next. Ed rejoiced in our foibles and loved any juicy detail of our escapades. On the other hand, James just never lightened up. He would have made a great general - no excuses on his watch, no crying on his watch, no wasted time or effort on his watch. And he didn't even have a watch! And he wouldn't have even smirked at that lame pun either - he was a black box. This guy was an android and not the kind of lovable android that so badly longs to be human and says and does endearing human-like things all the time making us love him/her even more. No, unfortunately, he was more the kind of android that wants to enslave humanity. 

The funny thing about both James and Ed is that neither could cook at all. And they were cooks!?!?! I guess those were easy interviews. The menu was created to accentuate their "skills" and it included microwaved frozen lasagna, constantly over-charred burgers, and a "chef'" salad that no chef would actually want to be associated with (bagged salad mix, two scoops of cottage cheese and a burger patty). Aside from the regular menu, the kitchen also catered special events, thus rendering them as far from special as possible. I remember one particular evening party that we catered where Ed and James were working together and they made a huge amount of boiled, overcooked red cabbage. It made the kitchen smell like you wouldn't believe and to top it off no one touched a piece of it  -could you blame them? Even if one of the guests showed up with a craving for boiled red cabbage, they would not have taken a single bite. The kitchen reeked of overcooked cabbage and, I believe this shortened the festivities a great deal. Predictably, neither James not Ed could understand the fuss. Convention was for the busboys and dishwashers to eat last and we often got the leftovers - some nights that involved some good protein or pasta, but on this night the only thing remaining was a massive amount of obliterated cabbage. We waited and order a pizza.

The busboys and dishwasher banded together. When we weren't being attacked by Rose or James or Ed, the management would be prowling around seemingly trying to catch us slacking off. As a result, we became close. We watched each other's backs, we supported each other and we felt like a team. As the remaining minutes of a hard shift ticked down, we would clean the kitchen and unwind singing at the top of our lungs to bad 80s music. After work we would eat, swim in the pool and play billiards until late at night. No one was quite sure why we would subject ourselves to this treatment as we were barely compensated for our efforts, but the after work schedule was our routine and we loved it. Looking back on it now, I don't see why I went in day after day. There were far better jobs at far better pay. Maybe I could tell that there would be a chance it would be a great topic for a creative writing piece someday if I ever decided to document my past? Lucky for me, I was one of the better soldiers - I talked back the least, didn't just walk away and was rewarded by being upgraded to cashier when Rose retired. To say that I had big shoes to fill would be completely inaccurate, but I reveled in the new role and I know the other dishwashers and busboys were overjoyed to have one of their own calling the shots. 

Stay tuned for part 2 in this series....

A Pile of Leaves Almost Killed My Dog

Over Thanksgiving weekend we took off on a wine tour, sampling many rare vintages.

You felt that the Shiraz smelled and tasted like a 10 year old wine, while I commented that it may smell and taste 10 years old but is probably closer to 15 and that's how it is with a wine of this calibre.

We drove back to the hotel in awkward silence and then you punched me in the nose. 

We spent a rainy evening inside cooking a fabulous lasagna dinner, drinking beer and playing scrabble.

I argue that nothing is better than spending a wonderful evening with someone you love, while you take exception with my liberal use of the words "better", "wonderful" and "someone".

We drink to our health and then you usher me out of your house, slamming the door behind me.

Overnight it snowed and in the morning we were greeted with a beautiful white pillowy blanket covering everything.

The snowman we made reminds me of a shorter, whiter and more serious version of my dentist, while you believe that the snowman looks more like a taller, darker and more jovial version of your doctor but that he could very well be a dentist if he went back to school for more training.

We both shook our heads at each other out of bewilderment for so long that we eventually broke out into "The Robot".

Who doesn't love the circus? It is a wonderful after work activity that can be enjoyed by adults and children alike.

I felt that the big tent was a slight exaggeration and that it was only a tad over medium and that the whole tent thing was a bit of a disappointment. On the other hand, you felt that the tent was not only not medium but also plenty big enough and that it would also make a wonderful set of curtains.

We enjoyed a bit of a giggle over it, then I pinched your cheek until it left a mark.

The morning air was fresh and unseasonably warm on our Sunday pre-breakfast stroll. 

You thought that the relatively balmy conditions were further signs of the worsening environmental troubles confronting all humans, while I preferred to be optimistic either out of spite or as a devil's advocate.

We agreed to disagree, but we did decide to try to reduce our impact on the environment by cutting back on burning effigies of those who wrong us.

Tuesday night we met with our book club and had a pretentious conversation about the themes of the depressingly realistic novel that was this week's reading.

You believed that the true intent of the author was to humiliate the reader, while I was pretty sure that I already felt humiliated, and thus, it was really hard to differentiate between any humiliation I felt as a result of reading the book and the humiliation I carried around with me on a regular basis.

We hugged and went our separate ways but only after you gave me what I would describe as an overly aggressive hug and an obviously condescending pat on the back and, as you were leaving, I swear I heard you mutter some insulting personal remarks.

We both enjoyed the movie and agreed that it was both hilarious and depressing.
I thought that it was a realistic take on the modern times in which we live, while you thought it was either too Kafkaesque or not Kafkaesque enough.
We laughed about it and then you smacked me on the back.

Then there was that time we flew our kites in the park.

You felt that the soaring kites, blowing in the wind, reminded you of two carefree butterflies full of joy. I felt that instead they represented the oppression of the proletariat by the rich bourgeois. 

We exchanged a long, meaningful look before you suggested that this was one major reason why I didn't have more friends. 

That summer we traveled down to California and tried to learn how to surf.
I loved the refreshing time out there on the waves, while you compared the challenge to being tortured, understanding all the while that that was a tad bit melodramatic.
We both agreed, that while the activity was neither of our favourite, your sunburn was something that we would always share.

Fall came and the intricately patterned leaves scattered themselves in the park.

I wanted to collect them and attempt to preserve the more attractive ones as a way of commemorating this period of time in our lives,while you just wanted to burn them all.

We opted to do nothing and instead to go to the movies - the unexpected offshoot of this story is that many years later a pile of leaves almost killed my dog.

Well-costumed kids were trick-or-treating - it was Halloween. 

I felt that you would make a wonderfully scary witch while you stated that I would be but a mediocre ghost or a fantastic linen table cloth.

We laughed about it and I decided to cut your hair while you were sleeping.

The winter festivities are upon us and the house is filled with food, family and holiday cheer.

You wonder aloud if you should consume any more eggnog worrying that you have had too much already, while I counter that that ship had sailed two days ago.

We looked at each other lovingly and decided to attempt to be less obtuse with each other in the new year.