Dead Lines and Bon Mots

04/03/2017

Jesus Had Galilee, I Have GoodWill

Jesus Had Galilee, I Have GoodWill:
Angels in America(n Eagle)
a.k.a.
a shopping miracle

Benjamin Kissell

insert your own pithy commentary

Look, I realize it's been about two years since I wrote anything new on here let alone anything funny for you to read.

I'm sorry?

At some point [and I couldn't quite pin the tail on the donkey with it] I began to veer away from self-aggrandizing situational humor towards (what editors have told me to call) speculative fiction and fantasy with lots of descriptors and enough adjectives that Tolkien and Dickens worry about my word count [and my editors to bring out the red pen o'doom].

It wasn't that I don't like sharing my life and foibles with you. It wasn't that I disliked sharing details of my forthcoming/came-and-went wedding or the everyday moments with my husband [seriously, two years flew by!]. It's not really that I didn't think of funny things to share with you guys. It wasn't even that I didn't have it in me [I'm pretty sure I could have sat less on the couch eating pizza/casserole/tater tots and more writing OTHER things than faerie short stories and allegory pieces]. It simply boiled down to the classic aphorism:
It's not you, it's me.

You see, somewhere, somewhen, I began to stop feeling all uber-narcissistic towards what I do on a daily basis [read: working some, cooking more, writing in-between kitteh scritches and laundry] and finding it enthralling to detail it in a self-aggrandizing/effacing manner.

Again, I'm sorry?

And then, this [redacted and softened around the edges] photo happened.

[edited out of the picture:
the faces of two random folk and my husband
who also got dragged into posing]

You see:
While it has been pointed out that I would be considered "attractive" in this photo [the word "bear" may have been bandied about]; I felt, when looking at my jeans - my oh so comfy and cherished, favorite leg-lenthening and flattering jeans ... GAH! I felt betrayed and absolutely GAH! towards them. They weren't flattering. No. They were liars (and so was the angled floor-length mirror in our bedroom which reflected my legs look long and lean in these jeans); they were 'leg-chunkening and shortening because they can' jeans. No. My GAH! feeling towards all of this was my own undoing.

From sitting in said jeans and the blurring of the photo for posterity (and promptly discarding them in the laundry bin in lieu of basic black cargo knee-length cargo shorts before walking out the door) my handsome husband and I thence proceeded to the same low-price/up-scale namebrand boutique [cough Burlington cough] where we had procured our wedding vests in the search to procure a new vest for our mildly-similar-to-Newt Scamander-esque vibe to our joint crafting venture. And, for me, to hunt for something that made me feel good about myself.

A pair of miracle ego pants, if you will.

[the vest search plays no part here except that it embedded in me the desire for a specific slim-fit, skinny-leg BRIGHT HIPSTER BLUE jeans that Burlington had, but in sizes too big or laughably far too small]

Scamander-esque and absolutely squee-worthy vests in-hand and my NEED FOR NEW PANTS still burning away, we continued on to my favorite string of thrift stores [cue Macklemore's 'Popping Tags' if you get where I'm going here]:
GoodWill.

Yes, at the first one we found gator shoes (those are blue) and a sweet, look-like-they-were-still-untouched pair of Converse snearkers, but the pants? The 'okay, these have possibility' pants on offering?

No.

Honestly? If I wanted to look like I rolled up into K-Mart's mom jeans section circa 1996, then they would have had me covered.

"Oh look, they come in just my shame ... I mean, size"

The second and third offerings panned out just as successfully for my miracle pants-longing as the first. By now, hungry, angry and frustrated, we agree to hit the last of the chain in the area before nabbing a late lunch at a favored restaurant. [to drown our disappointment in queso blanco? Why not?] While in the past this particular outlet had been rife with great finds, in the last year/year-and-a-half it had waned to more miss than hit; yet, we said "why the hell not?"

Because, when you're hunting for your miracle you'll take ABBA's advice: and take a chance (on me).

As we pulled into the parking lot we realized that the sunshine and Sunday sales drew in a heady crowd of post-Church-goers. Wishing I brought a taser [oh, come on - I wouldn't use it ... probably] and, despite having to resist smacking the grabby 10 year old who felt that he HAD TO TOUCH EVERYTHING WITH HIS SNEEZE COVERED HANDS and wait for the be-mulleted man to sidle away from THE GORGEOUS PAIR OF BEACH CORAL RED SLACKS I WILL CUT A BITCH TO OWN, it was an uneventful beginning. Within a few minutes I had, like before, a full armload of jeans and pants that held appeal and I was willing to take a chance on in the changing room; but, like at the previous stores, I was ready to be disappointed. (For example, the absolutely adorable pair of straight-leg acid-wash jeans that looked to be EXACTLY my style turned out to be 1) ones I had actually donated several months prior and 2) still too damn small as they wouldn't make it halfway up my thighs.)

But, oh, how I whispered a fervent prayer as I eyeballed the seven, I mean five - they only let you take five items into the changing room - pairs of pants on the hanger.

"Please, if you are a kind,just and loving god/deity/Cher, please, let me find at least one pair of jeans that A) fit and B) don't make me look like a "What Not To Wear" promo. Thank you"

And, as I slipped on the I WILL KICK SMALL CHILDREN FOR THESE PANTS red slacks they not only fit past my thighs, they ... gasp ... went about my waist and comfortably zipped! No Moose knuckles for me today, kids! [if you have to ask what a Moose Knuckle is, just urbandictionary.com that shit - oh, and Camel Toe] I was ecstatic! Wiggling my bum in a probably-more-embarrassing-than-its-worth-to-tell dance, I bumped my knee on the small bench before hanging them up in glee.

Would the denim-in-sunset colored slim-cut straight-leg slacks fit, too? Oh joy-of-joys, yes!

A thousand times, yes! They fit! And look! Oh Sweet Baby Ray's how they make my legs look long and lean in this unflattering overhead fluorescent lighting. If I look bangin' in this, I look fantastic. Period.

And now, the moment of moments: will the super-cute, super-Hipster, super-affordable American Eagle skinny-leg, baby blue jeans fit?

Like.

Fucking.

Glove.

The overhead lighting dims and, suddenly, it's like I'm in my own soft-focus Angela Lansbury (patent-pending) lighting. I look sexy. I look svelte. I look ... like I'm only slightly heavier than I was when I met my husband; whom I realize is still on the other side of the changing room's door. And, just as I go to unbutton the not-tight-at-all top button I hear it. Like the silence descending upon the world as dawn breaks, I hear it:

"Life is a mystery / everyone must stand alone ..."

Oh, blessed be Madonna.

And, for a moment, god/deity/Cher with a fantastic sense of humor and timing grants me my little miracle of emporacular proportions.

Are you God?

And that, dear readers, is why I felt the need to share - perhaps overshare - and (even if momentarily) return to give you a laugh or two, too.

Apr 3, 2017 7:58:30 PM | bad fashion, Benjamin Kissell blog, Current Affairs, Dude, c'mon already, EMBARASSING, Humor, Religion, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book, Weblogs

02/10/2015

Desperately Seeking ... Attention

DESPERATELY SEEKING ... ATTENTION
[how many glasses of wine will it take to get this to happen or will I give up before it does]

Benjamin Kissell

Why yes, I assume that mocking Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey is a brilliant
and oh-so-time-appropriate commentary. Right? I'm totally cutting edge, here ...

I've never made a secret of my intense, full-bodied disinterest in Twilight from the get-go [think of an oak-barrel aged Cabernet Sauvignon]. I made pithy, under-my-breath comments about it to its face like some mean girl bitching about 'that' skank in school; penning snark-fueled tweets like I was Taylor Swift after a break-up [pick one - I love the girl, she knows how to write some scathing ex-songs]. As an openly gay man who has a penchant for awesome hairdos, you would think I'd be right there with the rest of the world fawning over Robert Pattinson. But, you would be wrong. In short, I did not like Twilight, its author, most of its actors, its media saturation ... and truth be told, nor was I a fan of its odd effect on the populace.

That is ... except when it came to my paycheck.

When Twilight began baring its fangs with the herds of Twi-Hards (teens and moms) my store - the now, lamentably gone Borders Books Inc. - took note. We saw the rabid fans queueing up outside of the Young Adult bookshelves hunting for copies of Twilight, New Moon and their ilk as well as the as-many-as-possible and the are-you-kidding-me weird concoctions we tossed on the shelves to tie-in to the Twilight brand.

Hell, there are (somewhere) even photos of me in white-tinged make-up and glitter posing with customers (and their mothers) as I played ring-master in our Twilight parties. [Yes, I am aware how hipster it is of me to both mock them and yet partake in their excesses ... in my defense, I'm a narcissist who loves to have an audience (as evidenced by my article "Pavlovian Responses"). ] We all played a part - audience, readers, book-sellers and even detractors - in the media and hype that became the Twilight typhoon of popularity. [How Fraudian is my subconsious; I had to type 'popularity' three times there ... the first two times I misspelled it as 'poopularity'.]

I even tried to make my way through the movies a few years back; my ex-roommates decided we should have a 2-day Twilight-a-thon in honor of the series ending. Between distracting myself with texting my friend John - who would go on to be my boyfriend fiance - and the nigh-criminal levels of wine I chugged to make it through the first 3 films ... well, you'd think I was at Gitmo the way I whined, bitched and moaned. Of course, by the second bottle (and end of the first movie) I was actually - dare we say it - enjoying the movies. I found myself texting John little gems like "drunkety juice makes plot holes disappear" as I got progressively more shit-faced and enjoying the hyper-over-acting and piss-poor rip-off writing [seriously; read Romeo & Juliet, watch Roswell and then compare them to Twilight ... you're welcome]. Of course, I woke up the day-after with cotton mouth and a sense of shame on-par with being dumped by a Kardashian.

Why no, I didn't crash and burn ...
or wake up wondering if I might be Rosanna Arquette.
Eventually I HAD to make a reference to the movie
whose title I'm homaging for this article.

.........................................................

[Random Twilight Reference: If you want a good laugh, check out the wickedly-witty Jen Lancaster's twisted takes on Twilight reenactments (with toys! pets! snark!) on her original site, Jennsylvania]

.........................................................

Twilight is, oh-so-grudgingly-admitted, a cultural phenomenon [of course, so were the Taco Bell Chihuahua and Crazy Town ... so we're not talking the best-of here] and, like any true cultural phenomenon, it spawned everything from spoof books (National Lampoon did it right) to rip-offs and prolific fan fiction. In the rare instance of genuine talent trumping subject matter authors like Cassandra Clare shot into the spotlight - and bestsellers list - when their Twilight Fan Fic writing found its way onto various literary agents' screens [I so heart Cassie - such a sweetheart; I've yet to hear anyone speak an ill word of her].

Of course, just as soon as I'm about to forgive and forget with Twilight and its hellspawn, we're gifted with the oh-so-what-the-f#@k-ness of Fifty Shades of Grey (the ultimate BDSM fan fic of Twilight) and its omnipresent popularity.

Can I just ...

Uhm ...

I mean it's ...

Yeah, no. The tampon thing? Eww. I'll just be over here waiting until the furor over the novel/movie/everything-else-associated-with-it dies down. Go on, entertain yourselves with it - I have a good book and I learned how to wait years ago. [Of course, if wine is involved while I wait, lawdd knows what shitty things I may begin to stop hating ... perhaps even Kanye West? Nah. The amount of sweet, sweet Moscato needed to make that happen would kill me first.]

.........................................................

You know, come to think of it, the rampant narcissist in me keeps wondering if I should start writing Twilight Fan Fic in a get-rich/famous-quick scheme. I mean, I've no qualms admitting that I want massive attention called to my writing - even when I don't always have something deep to say. Ooh! Perhaps, I could call it 'Middle of the Day' and make it about a struggling artist and her creep-tastic stalker-esque anger-management-needing agent-turned-lover ...

Worth a shot, right?

"... and they lived happily ever after."

Feb 10, 2015 9:01:19 PM | bad fashion, Benjamin Kissell blog, Books, Current Affairs, EMBARASSING, Film, Food and Drink, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

11/09/2014

Bless Your Heart

'BLESS YOUR HEART', 'HAVE A GOOD NIGHT' AND OTHER SNARKY TIPS FOR THE RETAIL-MINDED
[in other words ... how to say 'f#@k off' with a smile]

Benjamin Kissell

It's a lovely day in your neighborhood ...
when you can tell that jackass across the street to 'f#@k off' with the sweetest smile.

When you work in the customer-service or retail industries your patience, serenity and good humor are brought into question more often than Amanda Bynes' sobriety. [I'll let the brilliant timeliness of that sink in for a few ... >pause< ... has it sunk in yet?]

Despite the fact that by and far the most prevalent customers you deal with on a daily basis are apathetic at best - neither truly offal [hehe - I crack myself up sometimes] nor wonderful - it is the complete asshat f#@ktards who stand out in your memory. Think about it ... that sweet older lady who said you reminded her of her granddaughter with your cute pixie cut made you smile? Or that exhausted businessman who said you made his day when you were able to snag him an unavailable room at an over-packed hotel gave you warm fuzzies? No, it's the jackass who told you to go f#@k yourself because your coupon-rate was "still too f#@king high" who will dominate your memory of the day.

And that? Is not cool.

It's completely unfair.

And I? Am happy to share with you a few of my hints and tips for taking the sting out of it. [Without going so far as to suggest actions which would land you in a libel-suit or arrested for jamming bananas up ungrateful asshats tailpipes whilst backing away into shadows flipping the bird ala Bitch Pudding.]

............................................

It's true. And "you're so sweet" means 'you're so full of shit you're attracting flies' ...

"Bless Your Heart"
This classic Southern aphorism is a tried-and-true method to passive-aggressively toss a snarky remark at someone while making it seem like an almost compliment (or at least a 'not your fault'). If done correctly, you deliver the stinging barb with such accurate timing and saccharine sweetness that not only does the dickwaffle not realize he's been insulted, but he wonders if it may be a compliment.

"It's my pleasure"
... to help brain-dead asshats like yourself who seem to think the world revolves around you [however, you leave that last part unspoken]. Whenever you have a particularly grating customer-service situation, simply inserting this one-liner into the conversation will both possibly diffuse the custy's inherently piss-poor mood and give you brownie points (especially if they're Chik-Fil-A patrons with any regularity). [However, you lose all brownie points and go back to start when you do this with gritted teeth and a barely-contained snarl on your lips.]

"Have a Good Morning/Night/Afternoon"
Nothing helps deflate an asshat custy quite like the perfectly delivered [with an unironical smile] 'Have a good morning/afternoon/night' as they wind down a "F#@k you and everything about your establishment" rant. Again, this only works when you smile sweetly and innocuously - do not show teeth. To boost the effectiveness of this, I've found it helps to tilt your head in a sympathetic and humble angle while delivering your best Dolores Umbridge impersonation.

Lifetime Movie it
When in doubt, act it out ... in your head. Re-cast the 'situation-giving-you-just-shy-of-ulcer-stress' as if it were a Tori Spelling, Catherine Bell or Nicholle Tom movie-of-the-week on 90's Lifetime (television for women and gay men). Imagine that puffed-out loud-mouth with teased and larger-than-a-labradoodle fried hair, lip-liner in brown-tones, 'nude' eyeshadow and shoulder-pads the size of airport runways and your stress? Will suddenly be passe faster than Caroline in the City.

Accents. Accents. Accents
I cannot stress how much fun it is to slip on an accent and use it as a shield between you and the insane people who populate our customer service industry - whether it is a foul-mouthed custy or dictatorial manager, hiding behind your best Scarlett O'Hara impression or Harry Potter affectation will give you a laugh while they scowl their nasty little hearts out. [WARNING: despite its ease, do not try and use the classic Cockney English accent - you'll just sound like you're auditioning for a local dinner theatre's production of My Fair Lady.]

Go home and read 1) Retail Hell 2) RetailHellUnderground.com or 3) Retail Hell short story collections ... or a combination thereof
I know, I know - completely self-serving, but there you go. The website is a great source of commiserating stories. The memoirs by Freeman Hall are riotously funny and all-too-familiar for anyone who works retail. The collections feature stories from people just like you (and, admittedly, a few of my stories as well).

Nov 9, 2014 10:01:39 PM | bad fashion, Benjamin Kissell blog, Current Affairs, Dude, c'mon already, EMBARASSING, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

10/27/2014

And That's When it Happened ...

AND THAT'S WHEN IT HAPPENED ...
[Despite it All
(and With Profuse Apolgies to Jen Lancaster)
Sometimes Pie IS the Answer]

Benjamin Kissell

My best friend Nate always says ... "Real men have curves"

If Literature is food for the mind and Art is food for the soul what should be food for the body? Well, in my case, it's been microwave pizzas, Old Bay-Crab potato chips, McDonald's and Wawa subs; which explains a lot.

I mean, it really explains a LOT.

As in, I've gained ... some weight.

I've known I'm not the svelte 154 lbs it says on my driver's license for a goodly while [the last time they updated my height/weight on there I was 5'8" and still sporting an unbridled sense of Only In Your Early 20s Entitlement and early 2000's hair]. A big "PAY ATTENTION" clue came when I had foot-surgery two years ago and the amount of local-anesthesia they gave me for my supposed 154 lbs had ALMOST NO FREAKING EFFECT ON ME.

I've grown as a person in recent years and that has gone on to include my waistline (and apparently my ass).

I could go on and on about my occasionally-sugar-heavy diet, my incredibly visceral hate for all-things-exercise and my stress-eating-inducing job ... but, let's face it: whining? Is not funny.

Instead...

DISCLAIMER / WARNING:
THE FOLLOWING ARTICLE IS NOT ME CALLING MYSELF FAT OR ATTEMPTING TO MAKE YOU FEEL PITY FOR ME
(OR BAD ABOUT YOURSELF) ...
IT'S SIMPLY AN ARTICLE ABOUT MY STILL-RATHER-RAMPANT NARCISSISM AND NOW MILDLY RAMPANT BACKSIDE AND WAISTLINE.

................................................................

"Oh gawdd - not another whining-about-being-chunkier article. How creative ..."

Picture it; Sicily, 1914 ... wait. I'm not that old. Nor - discounting family-by-marriage - am I anything even remotely close to Sicilillian [I'm about as Sicillian as Wallace Shawn in The Princess Bride ... which is to say, not at all] ...

Picture it; Fredericksburg, 2014 ... After yet another oh-so-ridiculously-long day at work sans break [Hello OSHA! *waves*] I'm homeward bound. Instead of coming home to our still-bare-from-prepping-for-vacation pantry and coercing my loving boyfriend fiance into magicking another culinary masterpiece [the man channels The Food Network and I? Shan't gainsay that], we've agreed that I should pick up dinner. Having spent the last several hours at work fighting hunger pangs and the urge to punch people coming in with delicious-smelling food I realize that dinner is a must-get-fast deed tonight.

Let's face it, there's only so much of my bitter, bitter black coffee I can drink that will curb the beast that is my stomach.

By the time I've clocked out, my stomach is practically threatening to hire scary guido-types to kneecap me if I don't get some damn dinner already. I know I could walk the half-block from our building to McDonald's [don't judge], but as 1) it's cold and raining, 2) I intend to get a decent amount of food and 3) I don't want to carry our hot dinner back to my car through the cold rain [and my aforementioned loathing of exercise] I opt to drive.

Of course my driver's side window once again doesn't work so walking into the lobby is my only option [well, cooking some random assortment of pantry-items is another ... but, no]. So, it is with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart (and possibly my stomach, too) that I pull up, park and begin to get out of my car.

And that's when it happened ...

I heard it as if it were in one of those Riddley Scott/Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Drag-Queen-style slow-mo scenes.

The sound I hadn't heard since I was a child in the late 80's when I would climb trees in sweatpants.

The sound every grown adult with any awareness of their expanding ass fears:

*SHRRIIIIPPPPPP!*

As I extend my left leg out of the car my pants decided that they've had enough: the fabric slicing cleanly apart mid-thigh in what looks like a run-in with Freddie Kreuger. I've gained enough weight that my thighs have decided to slasher-flick (literally) my pants - this is awful.

I'm embarrassed.

I'm chagrined.

I'm devastated [these are adorable American Eagle slacks from 2007 which make my legs look long and lean].

I'm ... still hungry and there is zilch chance I'm gonna be able to go through the drive-thru.

Gathering my dignity (and my pants-leg), I boldly step out of the car and into the lobby; I queue up and wait through the annoying hipster teenagers [Kids: it's 11:30 on a Thursday night - there has GOT to be somewhere more interesting than a McDonald's to hang out at] vacillate between McFrappy-crappy drinks and "I don't know - what do you think?" vapidity as I stand there and weigh [heh] whether to try pseudo-healthy or our tasty stand-by ...

All of this - from the awareness of my stomach's hold over me to my standing-in-public-with-shredded-pants - makes me pause and ask:
*Am I happy and comfortable with my weight gain?
*Am I ashamed or dismayed that I am no longer the twig-thin and "size-small t-shirt thank you" person I was from my mid-20's through early-30's?
*Am I happy with myself?

By the time it's my turn [finally] I confidently lean forward and order - who cares if a little bit of leg shows? It's a ruddy McDonald's for crying out loud.

..............................

Also? Yes, I will have apple pie to go with our double quarter pounder meals, thank you. Because pie? Is never wrong. And I am okay with me.

[ For an awesome update on Jen Lancaster, check out the fantastic podcast interview "The Big Questions" from Oct 24th, 2014: INTERVIEW HERE ]

Oct 27, 2014 12:57:44 PM | bad fashion, Benjamin Kissell blog, Current Affairs, Dating, Dude, c'mon already, EMBARASSING, Food and Drink, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

09/28/2014

Love and Marriage

LOVE AND MARRIAGE
[a.k.a. the war at home]

Benjamin Kissell

"Mawwiage is what bwings us togevver"

Love:
-Lifts us up where we belong.
-Will keep us together.
-Is a many splendoured thing ... even when it's brought into the harsh and unflattering light of everyday reality.

Marriage is, indeed, what bwings us togevver [thank you The Princess Bride for that most awesome of wedding scenes]. Whether you're getting married in the conventional sense [SQUEE!!!!! APRIL 2015!] or living in sin with a safety pin waiting for him to put a ring on it, marriage is the true-bonding of a household.

Having found the man I intend to spend the rest of my life with a whiles back, we decided to move in together last summer and began what could - charitably - be called "a f#@king insane" amount of packing and merging:
You see, we're both consumate packrats [read: not quite hoarders, as we only have the one cat who is quite alive and not squished under a box somewhere, thank you ] who've yet to meet a vintage action figure, series of humor/sci-fi/fantasy novels or X-Men comic book we didn't like.

We lived to tell the tale despite having enough boxes to fill a warehouse and being the stereotypical idiots who decided to RENOVATE the apartment while we were in the process of moving in [why yes, I realize the irony of me mocking and calling the people on Property Brothers who go through the same thing "wussies"]). Thus we ended up with what is affectionately called "Comic/Bookstore Geek Chic" for our place. Warm greys and blues accenting off-white/"antique-bone" cabinetry; aqua/teal love seat and small cerulean wingback chair and comic books, 'geek' posters and action figures as our tchotchkes help the whole apartment feel cohesive and ... well ... "us".

Of course, getting there was only half the battle ...

................................................

"Chores? I'm so thrilled I could scream ... oh, wait ..."

You see, despite our being 'the same person', John (my loving boyfriend fiance) and I had a few differing opinions on things when it comes to what makes a household run. And, thus the war was born on multiple fronts and a sweeping conclusion had to come ... Win or lose, the battle was chosen.

Over Vs Under: the toilet paper siege

I don't know about you, but there is only one PROPER way for toilet papr to hang: OVER, so that a simple tug will provide you with endless bounty of soft tp instead of requiring you to do the hand-crawl-of-awkwardness as you search and grope for that elusive edge so you don't end up that miserable "Not a Square to Spare" victim [Hrmm, look at that - 2 Seinfeld jokes in just as many articles; what's up with that?]. This battle can also spread to the paper towels and will spoil any goodwill in the kitchen if you don't catch it in time.

Socks: the vicious enemy of the dryer

We both are veterans of doing our own laundry [admittedly, if I could have someone else do it for me before - namely my saintly Mum - I fully took advantage; BAD Benjamin! BAD Benjamin!] and neither is a stranger to the drudgery of hauling our baskets from bedroom to washer/dryer, thankfully, now my machines are not coin-operated and this is spoiling me rotten ... and yet, we still found a conflict: socks. I won't say which of us was the offender [both], but one of the singularly most irritating things I've discovered in the world is having to unroll wet socks so that they are not bunched-up or inside out (to dry more evenly).

Inside the sink or beside it: When dishes clash and clutter

No matter who I've lived with in the past, friend or family, no one has come to a consensus of where and how long it is socially acceptable to leave dirty dishes. In the sink? Beside the sink? For a few minutes? Hours? Days? Early on in our relationship a friend told John the secret to getting me to do dishes: make me angry/pick a fight. [Apparently I only get into the dish-washing zone when I'm pissed off; weird.] Neither one of us has been consistent in this - both occasionally light-heartedly mocking the other for leaving a pile in one such place or the other.

This battle is a draw - you could say we both win, but since this involves washing dishes let's be honest, nobody does.

Board Games: the deadly occupation

I am insanely competetive when it comes to board games like Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly and Mad Gab. 'Nuff said.

My thoughts at the beginning of any board game ...

...............................................

At the end of the day and the small battles - win or lose - I am happy to lean back and muse: for love and marriage; for better and for worse my life and his are tied together forever ... and I? Am very okay with this.

[As long as he lets me win occasionally]

Sep 28, 2014 8:06:18 PM | Benjamin Kissell blog, Dating, Dude, c'mon already, Food and Drink, Games, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

09/18/2014

YOU, SIR? ARE A DICKWAFFLE

You, sir? Are a dickwaffle
[and other observations
on the breaching of the social contract]

Benjamin Kissell

I'm told 'Shut The F#@k Up' is more tasteful
than calling people names ... oh ... wait ...

Some days it doesn't pay to wake up and face a world full of people who believe that the focus and extreme epicenter of all-things is their own narcissistic butt. When in fact, most of these self-centered asshats wouldn't even register on the radar of others if it weren't for their extreme selfishness.

Believe me; my not bitch-slapping each and every one of them is no mean feat ... and I am aware that I only achieve my own part of upholding the social contract by sheer force of will [read: buckets of my bitter, bitter black coffee]. I'm not perfect; although some of my more ... vocal dissentions are from having my patience rubbed raw by f#@ktards whose self-blind runnings often lead me into snarky rants where my naturally-sweet temper is shattered and left with jagged edges [or the occasional profanity-blistered-victim].

*whoops*

The social contract - (that basic tenet of societal norms, responsibilities and manners that were drilled into our heads as children (The Golden Rule, for example) where we had a baseline respect for others as we say 'please' and 'thank you', letting people cross the street without getting hit or respecting personal space and people's opinions) - seems to be not only null-and-void, but thrown out the window in lieu of the vitriol of the internet troll and the safety of its relative anonymity [notice: I have pictures of myself all over the internet - no anonymity here]. Each generation's growing sense of entitlement hasn't helped, either. The idea of affording others the same respect we ask to be given ourselves is horribly out-of-fashion.

*massive sigh*

In the interest of warning/advising/possibly-getting-myself-off-of-a-future-premeditated-homicide-charge, here are a few of my 'favorite' self-centered every-day jackasses.

.............................................................

Asshole Day, Week, Month, Year ... Millenium ...

THE ASSHAT:

We've all been late for something in our lives [if you're me and perpetually want to put off dealing with work, you're almost late ... a lot]. It's a basic fact that 9/10ths of people are in a rush to be somewhere whenever you deal with them. Another basic fact is that they will be impatient (and possibly erratic in said impatience).

Of course, this neither excuses nor alleviates the Asshat whose impatience cuts you (and those behind you) off.

Whether in traffic - and they run up the lane that is clearly marked as ending so you had better sodding merge waaaaay back there like everyone else - or in a queue at your local coffee shop - because they need their triple-sugar-infused-flavored-coffee drink RIGHT THIS F#@KING MINUTE OR THEY WILL EXPLODE IN PIECES OF SELFISH STUPID - these line-cutters are complete jackasses and should be tasered.

On sight.

THE C.A.B.:

Affectionately called C.A.B.s (short for Carbon Arc Bastards), these are the jackasses who not only believe that brighter is better, it is necessary for their very existence. These are the drivers who go around 24/7 in High-Beam mode because ... well, f#@k, if they can see what else matters?

Obviously, it won't matter that your high beams are so disgustingly bright that when you came headlong at me I was LITERALLY blinded so badly I swerved into oncoming traffic taking us both out. Sidenote: at least you saw my little old Honda coming at you, right?

Personally, I don't advocate bashing their headlights in on a regular basis ... but ... um ... I saw Wal-Mart was having a sale on aluminum bats this week.

The only appropriate salute when greeting one of these malefactors.

THE DICKWAFFLE:

These are the jackasses who believe that a conversation via cell-phone and delivered at TOP VOLUME is needed for every possible situation in life; often filling the world in on EVERY SORDID DETAIL of their personal life [like why they can't figure out why they developed a weird rash on their no-no bits] or bitching about the interminably long wait in-line.

Of course they hold up the line as they cannot end said over-share conversation while trying to check out at the register.

When I worked in a bookstore I refused to be cowed by them or awed by their flagrant and dirigible-sized senses of self-worth. I refuse to be admonished for wanting to shove their smart-phones either up their rectums or into a wood-chipper [possibly in that order ... but that might make it homicide - which I, also, refuse to be convicted of].

THE F#@KTARD:

We all remember the Seinfeld epsiode 'Close-Talker' [yes, even I occasionally watched the show] - but, this is no laughing matter.

Daily, more and more people lose the little bit of vestigial socially-conscious-brain-tissue that regulates perception; replacing it with a lump of dead-weight known as the TUMOR OF ASSHOLE-NESS. This tumor completely kills any remaining social awareness and produces extreme levels of smugness [which can create a visual hazard - hence the need for extremely bright headlights!], de-regulates the censorship function and creates a dense lens of f#@ktardary which focuses all of the victim's perceptions into an extremely central image:

The world completely revolves around them.

Personal space? Non-existent. Awareness of others as legitimate thinking/feeling/needing people outside of self? Don't make them laugh. These are the people who make the zombies on tv and in movies look most considerate.

......................................................................

Of course, if one occasionally slipped a foot out in front of one of these dickwaffles as they walk by zoned-out-staring at their tablet/phone/ipad BECAUSE THEY CANNOT POSSIBLY EXIST IN A WORLD NOT CONSTANTLY ENTERTAINING THEM EVERY BLOODY MOMENT OF THEIR LIVES and tripped a nascent carrier of the F#@ktard TUMOR OF ASSHOLE-NESS? Well ...

*whoops*

Sep 18, 2014 12:55:39 PM | Benjamin Kissell blog, Current Affairs, Dude, c'mon already, EMBARASSING, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

07/10/2014

Something to Take the Edge Off

Something to Take the Edge Off
[i.e. coping with another birthday]

Benjamin Kissell

These little f#@kers SOO aren't going for .99 apiece on eBay these days ...

To declare a simple truism [and homage my love for Jane Austen wit]:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a person in possession of a looming birthday must be in want of a cake or party. However little known the feelings or views of such a person may be on his or her first entering the birthday month, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding friends and families, that the birthday is considered the rightful property of some one or other of themselves.

... That is to say: whether I like it or not, my 31st birthday is here and whether I'm ready or not, we're celebrating it.

...................................................

Keep in mind, there is a ridiculously high standard set by the bar of last year's birthday (my first with my amazing boyfriend fiance John); an 80's cartoons themed all-day costume party. We co-hosted as Skeletor (him) and She-Ra (me) - with decor in various shades of neon and crepe, vintage toys and books scattered around the living room and friends and family alike attending in costume. We had the Mario Bros., a Treestar, Rainbow Brite, Miss Piggy, Care Bears and Carmen Sandiego (from the game cartoons in the 80's). It was amazeballs. It was stupendous. It was ... a lot to live up to.

Like ... a f#@king lot.

I didn't even try to compete with it for John's birthday this year and was completely okay/very happy to let my 31st birthday slide by quietly - accepting the occasional gift and Facebook or Tweet well-wish. Of course ... well ... you knew it couldn't be that easy. Instead, I am facing down my 31st birthday [trust me, 31 is actually not that scary at all ... except that it firmly entrenches me in my 30s and I can no longer claim that I am 'just out of my 20s'] and having a dual celebration Pizza Party/Arcades of the 80's themed birthday party shared with one of my best friends. Full-on mocking the idea of maturity going hand-in-hand with age.

Because that? Is how we roll.

.....................................................

If you were curious, yes I was Jerome ... sans the class, skill and bow-tie.

Why a pizza party?

One could assume it's because (in theory) pizza parties are more affordable to throw than a traditional birthday party - of course, one would be wrong when said party is thrown at home [between decorations, food and recovery-from-last-minute-cleaning-via-online-shopping]. It's because we had our childhood heydays in the 80's and both my amazing boyfriend fiance John and I have rather fuzzily-warm-and-friendly memories of just these sorts of parties. Also? What was a more fan-f#@king-tastic way to have a birthday circa 1987 -88 than a pizza party at Pizza Hut?

Go on, think about it. I'll wait.

*waiting*

*still waiting*

See? Nothing. Told you - there wasn't.

And because we're not about to put the sheer awesomeness of a bunch of 30+ year old friends and family celebrating like it's 1988 on-display in the mess that has become Pizza Hut [I'm sorry, but their little Wing Street re-launch? No thank you. Give me a darkened pseudo-Italian wannabe pizza restaurant steeped in grease and unfettered teenage angst for authenticity any day] we're doing the apartment up in red-and-white checkered tablecloths, crepe paper, and as many vintage tchachkes as possibe crammed in the kitchen, living room and sun porch.

And no, before you ask, despite the fact that I MAY friggin' resemble a hipster AND I am over 21 there sure as shit isn't gonna be a giant ice chest filled with PBR or cheap wine [although the sheer pathetic-ness of an ice chest full of PBR would be in-keeping with the theme ...] we prefer to take the edge off of this birthday thing not by getting blitzed, but by celebrating it. By actively engaging it. By taking its fangs out at the roots as we mock it.

... Although, if there were to be booze, my Trashcan Blue Mopeds would be APPROPRIATE.

uhm ... yeah ... pizza party ... yepp.

[PS - if I can ever find my f#@king The Land Before Time puppets, you can bet your bottom quarter that I will have some vintage authentic shit up in this joint.]

[PPS - a Trashcan Blue Moped: Monster + cheapest-brand-of-white-wine-you-can-find + Blue House Brand Fruit Punch ... you're welcome.]

Jul 10, 2014 1:33:39 PM | bad fashion, Benjamin Kissell blog, Current Affairs, Dude, c'mon already, Food and Drink, Games, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

07/02/2014

The Mirror Has Two Faces

THE MIRROR HAS TWO FACES
[or at least I hope it does, otherwise ... yeesh]

Benjamin Kissell

Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody - Hell, I can't do it

Sometimes, it doesn't pay to take my head out of my ass and actually listen to what's going on around me.

"You know who you remind me of?"

"Y'know, you're just like ..."

"Ooh, did anyone ever tell you you're very similar to ..."

"Hey, aren't you ..."

Growing up with a successful older sibling, I'm sure, would have enured me to comments like these and I wouldn't cringe occasionally when well-meaning people approach me with them. However, I was raised as an only child and as the comments didn't begin until I was 18 ... well, it's taken the better part of a decade-plus to roll with them.

You see, ever since I was 18 comments like the above have been an almost-daily event and they aren't unkind in their intent. These comments are, in reality, compliments as the person is likening me to someone impressive - someone who not only is the life of the party wherever she goes, but is also an award-winning presenter AND Jeopardy! Champion. In case it wasn't obvious, people compare me to my Mum.

[seriously, read the articles ... how cool is she?]

.........................................................

True, we do look alike. As I've commented elsewhere, our humor is the same. Creepily, our handwriting is almost identical [and no, I didn't try to forge her handwriting in school ... tho', now I wonder if I should have tried]. The way we comport ourselves and deliver casual or caustic wit is ... well, the same. Hell, whether I want to own up to it or not we even do the same little 'groove' dance. Whether you can cite Nature or Nurture, I am undoubtedly her son.

And, nine-times-out-of-ten I am flattered when this comment/compliment is tossed my way. It took a few years (after all, at 18 who wants to be compared to their mother?) but I not only came to peace with it, I began to revel in it. Why not? We make an adorable Mother/Son pair [tho', don't get me started on the 'ick factor' regarding the times we were asked if we were brother/sister or husband/wife ... EWW. EWW. EWW. I'm sorry, but the word Oedipus is not tattooed on my forehead]. Hell, back in 2012 we won a Mother's Day jewelry contest due to our AWESOMENESS (and photogenic-ness).

Pearls (hers are white, mine black), hair dye-tinted (hers a hint of purple, mine ... black)
and we've both left our glasses somewhere
(hers purple and mine ... black ... are we seeing a theme here?) [July, 2008]

However, when the next step is taken, that's when I glance askance at the mirror hoping to see a different face.

You see; we have always said that my Mum is her father in looks as well as brains and temperment [he often tells the joke that they had to hunt through a lot of Gypsy children on doorsteps to find one that looked like him] and ever since I grew into my face [big headed kid, let's just say] I've stopped definitively looking like my Da and, instead, I heavily favor Mum. So, if my math is correct (and no one ever claimed I was a Math-spert) and A = B = C ... then ...

OHMIGAWDD OHMIGAWDD OHMIGAWDD

I'm my grandfather.

>take a moment of silence to digest this, please - I know I shall<

Okay - now that I've crawled out of the fetal position and back to the keyboard, I think I can begin to piece this together. Why did it take until I'm practically in my 30's to put this together? [Okay, so I AM in my 30's, but, doesn't it sound less depressing/insulting to insinuate I'm not there yet when I put this together? Well, fine - go with the truth, then.]

My high school graduation (June 2001):
Mum and Grandpa flank me - 3 generations of the same person
[and yes, I am aware of the absurdity of my hairdo and goatee, thank you]

Please don't take this as me commenting negatively on my Grandpa - I've already probably done irreperable damage calling out my Nana for her WASP-y behavior. I love him. He was and has remained the strongest constant male figure in my life. He was Navy and Pentagon after excelling in every Physics class offered in college [again, I am no math-spert ... what's up with that?] and helped raise 2 generations of our family. He cares deeply about us; treating my Mum, her brother and myself as his three kids. We've bonded over working on my various cars over the years. Hell, he's the one who endured the most insanity while I was learning to drive in the first place.

So why the ennui? The angst? The not-quite-abject-horror at this realization?

Because I'm not yet ready to become my Grandfather. I'm happy to be the younger, gay male version of my Mum, but I'm not quite ready to grow up that much and take on the level of dependence or responsibility towards others that he has. I like being a little bit selfish (although I'm fine with maturing past the raging narcissism) and spending some of my money on impractical toys instead of a mortgage.

Can't I stay just a teensy-weensy bit immature still? Or is that too Peter Pan of me?

..................................................................

Gratuitous parting shot :
Mum and I struck a pose on my 30th birthday. Dayumn, we look faboo!

Jul 2, 2014 6:25:26 PM | bad fashion, Benjamin Kissell blog, Dude, c'mon already, EMBARASSING, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

06/25/2014

Pavlovian Responses

PAVLOVIAN RESPONSES
[are some of the best responses]

Benjamin Kissell

Trigger + me = ... wait, I didn't get a treat - those other guys got a treat, why don't I?

It has been said that into every life a little rain must fall. Trials and errors will be endured and - hopefully - one will pass muster and do so with flying colors. One must endure to ensure. Trial to triumph. What do these trite little sayings have to do with anything I am actually writing about ... um, I couldn't tell you.

And why is that? Well, it's because, even though I'm writing this, I'm not really paying all that much attention as it's been several minutes and three interrupting conversations since I wrote my own name on the top of the page and ... um ... my focus has drifted.

Um, that isn't a good thing methinks. Perhaps this is a new depth of narcissism that I need to look at.

...............................................................

Early on in our friendship, before the notion of falling in love even flitted through our minds, John joked that he had to either A) say my name every 30 seconds or B) say my name every 5th sentence so that my focus would remain on whatever it was we were talking about. He said this in humor. He said this with a wry grin and completely dry tone.

He said this not realizing just how true it was.

Benjamin

I'm aware that we all live in our own worlds where we focus on ourselves and how the outside world's interactions impact us - The World According to You theory. Not a tough concept, nor a new one. However, I fear that I've taken this to a rather unhealthy extension. A hipster-like extension. A Julia Roberts-like extension - and let's be honest, that? Isn't good for anyone in a five-mile radius.

In fact, I'm pretty sure that if push comes to shove, you could describe me as a Raging Narcissist these days. Why? Let's examine the evidence:

I don't like to read other people's Facebook posts - unless they're commenting on me/something I said/something I'm likely to comment on/something a friend may comment on involving me. Although I receive quite a few people's Twitter feeds as text messages (and they are all people I like/love/respect/cherish), my likeliest response is "F#@k one more thing to delete" unless they are tweeting something that pertains to me/Direct Messages me/mentions me in the tweet/retweets me or my postings about these articles. [You get the picture here, right?]

[Also? Can more of y'all retweet or tweet about these articles? Facebook "LIKE"s are also welcome. Please and thank you.]

Benjamin

[Double-also - seriously, Instagram? I'm sorry, I just don't get you. Instagram feels like Facebook's attention-defecit cousin who doesn't want you to invest any actual time in producing anything, instead spending hours cruising someone's SUPER NARCISSISTIC POV with shiny GIFs - at least I make you guys work for the GIFs I use: there's words surrounding them.]

Putting this lackadaisical/selfish attitude under the Microscope of Personal Growth recently [nifty name?], after realizing just how close to home John's joke was, I saw the extent of sheer narcissism I exude ... and not always the cute, endearing funny narcissism I joke about. I've begun to accidentally start cutting people off with complete non sequitors segueing into whatever random thing has popped into my head, sans filter, with trademark lines like "Speaking of which ..." True, I grew up in a family where we had to talk over each other (despite it being only the five of us) and that old habit is hard to break ... but when I've begun to preemptively talk over and take over a conversation; automatically steering it over to me and about me?

Um. So not good.

I know that the Pavlovian response trigger - my name - has been how I've conditioned myself as of late to make sure I'm still in the game; my head on the matter instead of musing and rambling on other random thoughts which trigger and flow and just meander wherever my twisted narcissistic self will lead them through.

Benjamin.

I need to wake up, shut up and put up ... with conversations about other things than myself. Pay attention and listen to other people's opinions; opting to actually MULL over what they just said instead of taking the quiet time while their mouths move to think about a cute/witty/funny way to steer the conversation back over to/about me. The first step? Is to actually sit down with someone - say, my wonderfully patient boyfriend fiance - and just listen. Quietly. Not thinking about what I would say/could say/should say. Instead, just listen and pay attention to what goes on in his world.

Who knows, I might just learn something fun.

[And if I don't? I'm sure I can always turn the conversation back to me, right?]

...................................................

[Endnote: How funny is it that the predominant articles and "related posts" to my raging narcissism that Typepad recommends ... well ... are mine?]

Jun 25, 2014 3:33:57 AM | Benjamin Kissell blog, Current Affairs, Dude, c'mon already, EMBARASSING, Humor, ridiculous situations, Stories for my Book

06/17/2014

Smart Mouth in Any Language

I'm A Smart Mouth in Any Language
[i.e. a wicked tongue is fun when you're learning tongues]

Benjamin Kissell

I wonder why I look so angry:
could someone be calling me out on my plaid shirt and torn denim?

Every so often it's pointed out to me that my raging narcissism and snarky tongue have been around far longer than I may be aware of. Recently I was taken to task for the declared self-perception that in high school I was a mildly popular geek instead of a sarcastic, eye-rolling, smart aleck with a filthy mind and foul mouth whose quasi-egocentrism presented a somewhat cocky and yet alluring persona. A smart mouth in any language, so to say.

Huh. Perhaps this warrants examination?

.................................................

Perhaps this isn't the best photo to try and persuade you that I was "cool"?
Please ignore the insane face I am making behind my mother and friends.

In high school I was sure I had "geek cred". Not because of my expansive Star Trek/Wars book collections or penchant for comic books, but because I was a card-carrying member of the school Latin club.

Initially I didn't have much of a say in the foreign language matter [my Mum is a kick-ass Latin teacher, have I mentioned?], but by Junior year I relished it. A good chunk of this was due to having Mum for my teacher - only occasionally awkward because I never knew what to call her (Ms. Kissell seemed too formal since everyone knew I was her son and Mum wasn't respectful enough in a classroom). The fact that I have her twisted sense of humor sealed the deal on the cool factor; put the two of us together and we're practically a small Vaudeville show for you. We entertained the snot (sometimes literally - I'm looking at you, Jeremy) out of my classmates and friends and, yet, we still found time to be educational!

One of the best factors in our two years of upper-level Latin was that our classes were small and tightknit. We all knew, liked and played well off of each other (tho' Mum and I were in a league of our own ... crap, there's that narcissism. Whoops) often breaking the relative dryness of translating Vergil or Caesar with snark [see, I wasn't the only one doing it!]. Frances, Katie, Robbie, Katrina, Sara and the rest of us tossed bawdy translations and ribald jokes with practiced ease ... well, all of us that is, except Zack.

You see, Zack was ... um ... the nice one of us. The polite one. The quiet and properly All-American guy whose humor was straightforward, clean and sweet like apple pie. And yet, despite this, he was one of my best friends.

Go figure.

Between two years of class and Virginia Junior Classical League Conventions we slowly chipped away at his innocent veneer - most especially Katie, Sara and me. We found it our moral duty to help indoctrinate Zack into the sarcastic, mildly-filthy-minded and snarky world we inhabited.

[Okay, I see the point made earlier - I definitely was a smart-aleck and kinda wrong back then ... not the dorky, squeaky clean nerd I thought I was. But, hey: I never went to a high school party that wasn't Homecoming or Prom as I didn't want to lose what few cool points I had by having to refuse beer/drugs. Wow, I just lost them again, didn't I?]

VJCL Convention November 2000 Front row: Sara, Katrina, Frances
Middle row: me, Katie, Zack, Lindsey Back: Jeremy
photo courtesy of Mum and my shitty camera.

Probably the finest example of our corruptive influence - aside from Zack's/my Freshman year in college [stories for another time, perhaps?] would be when we would translate Catullus' love poetry.

Catullus, you see, is a famous (possibly infamous) Roman poet with a wicked wit when it comes to love and - like any good poet - couched his raunch in hyperbole and metaphor. One piece about his lady-love (pseudonymed Lesbia) comments about her stroking/petting his pet sparrow in the stands at the games; his jaunty wobble and hopping into her lap; his loving it when she'd stroke his red head; his deep sorrow when Lesbia leaves him and his sparrow dies.

[You get the picture, right? Your filthy mind is rollicking in laughter, correct?]

Zack's not-filthy mind wasn't in the gutter beside ours.

While Black-Adder-loving Jeremy sniggered in front of me, brawny Robbie rumbled his chuckles beside me, I could see Katie's shoulders heaving with suppressed giggles ahead, and Mum's face open with glee and a quirked eyebrow ... Zack's hand was raised in consternation.

"Guys, it's just a bird - why are you laughing?"

"His pet sparrow is dead - what're you laughing at?"

"Robbie, why're you laughing - it's sad when someone's pet dies. Jeeze."

The following 10 minute conversation as the class teamed up to explain - and prove we weren't just pulling his leg about it - was filled with such wide-eyed innocence on his part it almost made me feel guilty force-opening his eyes.

Almost.

Despite his heated protestations that "it's just a sparrow" we eventually convinced him otherwise. I think.

.................................................................

Yepp ... there is definite merit to this "sarcastic, foul-mouthed" label pre- 20 something.