10

Terrible People, Part 4: People Who Don’t Realize How Annoying Their Laugh Is

This week has been extremely busy, so busy that I have barely had time to catch my breath and do something as calm as eat a meal peacefully, without needing to do something else.

For dinner tonight, I decided to try The Tipsy Cow; it’s not new, but I’ve always heard good things about it and wanted to try it, so off I went. The ambiance was great and the cod sandwich and fries were even better. The only thing ruining the night?

huck huck huck huck

HUCK HUCK HUCK HUCK

HUCK HUCK HUCK HUCK

Yuck.

A few tables over was a party of about six, and among them was one girl with the most terrible, invasive laugh. It’s been several hours, and I can still hear HUCK HUCK HUCK HUCK in my brain, reverberating. It’s not her fault, but if your laugh is that loud, just please be aware of those around you and maybe consider getting an inside voice laugh.

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27

Terrible People, Part 3: #Hashtaggers

#Annoying.

This blog post has been brought to you by the hashtag, otherwise known as the most annoying Internet trend of the 21st century.

It started on Twitter, as a way of linking posts on common topics. I heard about it then, and thought “gee, that could get annoying,” even though it did serve a purpose. (I do not have a Twitter account, that being one of the reasons). But then, it shifted over to Facebook. And now real life, from advertising to clothing to everyday speech.

And I’ve had just enough of seeing and hearing it everywhere.

It’s lost its original purpose. Now, a hashtag is just an excuse for someone to say more unnecessary things, because we live in a world where everyone a) talks too much, and b) doesn’t value or understand the meaning of silence. Take a break once in awhile, people. You’re not that great, and your multiple hashtagged Facebook posts aren’t helping anyone or anything; they’re just cries for the attention that you probably don’t deserve. You could say the same pointless thing with words with capitalization, punctuation, and correct spelling soidonthavetospendtenminutesfiguringoutwhatthehellyouretalkingabout.

I know it sounds a bit harsh, but here are some of the more ridiculous hashtags that have popped up on my Facebook feed in the recent past (as in the past three hours, capitalization provided for emphasis):

#LevelUp

#CantTouchThisDananana

#TenStaples

#AfternoonWalk

#CrossingTheLake

#TinyBallerinas

#TheResemblanceIsUncanny

#WhereDoWeCashIn

#MaybeDukeNeedsAGirlfriend

#SpookyFaggots

#AiportSwag [sic]

#FlexForChrist (seriously?!?!)

And the absolute worst…

Drumroll please…

The people who hashtag THEIR OWN NAMES.

I really, really wish I was kidding. But I’m not. So far I’ve seen two people do this. The first, a girl hashtagging her rap name to promote her new album, is more on the understandable side but still not quite there. The second person is a guy who hashtags his own name, among a sea of other random hashtags, several times a day. I’m pretty sure that he’s single, but deeply in love with himself.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is what humanity has come to in 2015.

You, sir, are a Terrible Person.

No, not a #terribleperson, but an actual Terrible Person.

7

Terrible People, Part 2: Constantly Chewing Things

This one wasn’t inspired by anything that I saw today, but it’s been on my mind for a little while. So here it is.

Everyone knows someone like this, or has seen someone like that on TV. I know I sure have. It seemed to be all the rage on the most recent season of Survivor; at one point almost everyone was chewing on something, usually like a toothpick. Mike, the eventual winner, was rarely seen without something in his mouth, including during challenges and tribal councils. But that begs the question, where on the island did they get toothpicks? And if they weren’t toothpicks, then what were they? Dirty chips of wood they found on the ground? That seems…nasty.

Survivor Second Chance cast vote results Mike Holloway

Taste like a million dollars, Mike?

I have to admit, sometimes I just need to chew on something, but usually I use some gum or candy. Occasionally, if I am wearing long sleeves, I’ll chew on one of them, and when I was younger I used to chew on paper and cardboard, but it wasn’t all the damn time.

But seriously, it’s unattractive and gross to watch half-masticated pieces of wood rolling around between your teeth. It doesn’t make anyone look tough; it just makes people look stupid, like they had a popsicle and forgot to take the stick out of their mouth once they finished it. It’s like, are you that dumb that you don’t know when the popsicle’s finished and you’re just chewing on cold, potentially-tongue-splintering wood? And a tongue splinter would probably really hurt.

Stop it, you’re not that great.

I don’t have much more to say on this topic, but people, we’re not beavers. Stop chewing all the damn time.

Unless you are a beaver, in which case, hi there literate beavers! How’s the dam coming along?

23

Go Check Yourself Before You…

Finish that sentence however you would like to, but there’s something that I’ve just got to get off my chest, something people do that for some reason really, really irks me. It’s kind of small and probably not at all inappropriate, but for me, at least, it sounds incredibly patronizing, especially when you begin to hear it…all the time.

“Can I get a rain check?”

First of all, that is one of the stupidest, tritest, most cliched phrases ever. It makes no sense in 99% of contexts. The original concept of the phrase (yes, I’m irked enough to look it up) comes from a baseball idiom that originated around the turn of the twentieth century. It referred to when a game was rained out (this is before the era of enclosed stadiums, obviously), and those who bought tickets were entitled to go to another game sometime in the future on a day when it does not rain. That actually makes sense. The term eventually expanded to include other outdoor ticketed sporting events or outdoor events in general, such as concerts. These days, however, people just throw around the term even when there is no ticketed event or precipitation involved.

For example, if you invite someone over for dinner or out for coffee or something, and they cancel with that phrase, it makes me feel like I’ve entered into some sort of unwritten social contract with them. As in, since for whatever reason they cannot or don’t want to accept my invitation, they assume that I am going to ask them again in the future, which may or may not happen; in fact, if you ask for a rain check, it is probably less likely to happen. Again, I don’t know why, but it just feels like another way of saying “Umm…I really don’t want to hang out with you, like, at all, ever, and I’m saying it in the nicest possible way it sounds in my head,” or “Well, okay, we can do it another time, but when it’s more convenient for me and obviously less convenient for you.”

Second of all, the more you hear it, the worse it gets. I find that there’s only so much I can handle of that damn phrase. I once had dinner plans that went on for three whole weeks with someone. We were going to have dinner together on a Wednesday night, which was the only night both of us had free time at that point in our lives. The first time, it was actually raining really hard that day (or possibly snowing, since it was in February), so I didn’t mind it that much. The next week, the text came like this “I have a family thing that just came up, can I get a rain check?” A little more annoying, but I said OK. The next week, maybe an hour or two before we were supposed to meet at the restaurant, I got a text saying “rain check 4 2day.” As in, I don’t care enough to text using full words, and since we’ve done it the last two weeks, why not a third? (Apropos of nothing, but the next Wednesday, which we were trying for a fourth time, I didn’t get a text or call, but instead went to the restaurant and waited two whole hours with this person pulling out excuse after lame excuse for being “give me a half-hour” or “just ten more minutes.” Needless to say, that friendship ended that night and I ended up going downtown to a party that was happening that ended up triggering some awesome things for me, but that’s another story).

The absolute worst is when you get it as a response to an open invitation. As in, posting something on Facebook like “Hey, I don’t have dinner plans tomorrow night, who wants to come over?” or “Who wants to go do karaoke tonight?” For the former, someone actually responded with the audacity of “rain check?” Basically, what that says to me is “I would like to take advantage of you and your generosity, but, once again, when it’s convenient for me,” and “I guess this means you owe me now, so I can call you anytime and cash it in and come over and you’ll have pasta with meat sauce hot and ready for me by the time I arrive.” Seriously, if you care that much, either a) ask me if I can do something similar at another time/date, like “I can’t today, but do you want to do something next Tuesday?” or b) cancel whatever you’re doing and actually take up the damn invitation.

Wait, no, I lied. The absolute absolute worst is when people are just so into themselves that they think they’re doing you a huge favor just by responding to your simple request that they say “I’ll take a rain check.” Um, who said that my invitation was more than a one-time offer? Maybe my brain is just addled, but that basically feels like a giant “screw-you, you unimportant waste of time, you, I do what I want and if I ever want to have dinner with you I will show up at your door and demand that you make me a filet mignon with a side of coq au vin and truffles and your finest cognac.” Seriously, seriously, audacity, nerve, gaul, chutzpah.

The only time it’s a legitimate and non-patronizing excuse, I feel, is if it’s an actual thing that somebody can’t attend because of weather.

In conclusion, don’t take my kindness for granted, and don’t walk all over me, but if you do, walk on my back, because I’ve never had one of those type of massages before and I’ve been dying to try one. Just say something like, “can we do it another time?” or “sorry, I’m not available,” or even just a simple, “I can’t, but thanks for the offer.”

Whew, that took a lot of energy, and now I’m all riled up. Sorry if this made you think that I’m a stone cold bastard, but I just had to yell about it out to the whole world, or at least whoever’s reading this far. I think that a much calmer and tamer follow-up post is due, right about…now.

 

7

LOUD PEOPLE IN RESTAURANTS

So, tonight, my dad and I went out to Great Dane at Hilldale for dinner, and ended up sitting in the corner of the small side-room.

Next to us was a table of nine people: four guys and five girls.

They were very chatty, mostly in normal voices, but one guy had

THE LOUDEST VOICE EVER.

It just boomed and reverberated, even more so due to the small space of the room. And he had the loudest, worst laugh ever. It sounded like a whole unit of army cadets going “HUT. HUT. HUT.”

Basically, whenever he opened his mouth, whichever one of us was talking at my table had to either yell or stop talking altogether.

Whatever happened to “inside voice?”

Don’t people hear themselves talk?

And now, someone in another apartment on my floor must be snoring REALLY LOUDLY because I can hear it with my door closed.

Maybe I should check to see if anyone is sleeping in the hallway.

Oh, and today I welcomed my 21,000th visitor since I’ve had RevolverMaps, so here’s lookin’ at you, Simi Valley, California.

2

All You Nosy People

Yeah, it’s that kind of day; I had to go to J. J. Fad to get a title idea.

Anyway.

So, now, here’s something I don’t understand: what is up with nosy people? I mean, I just don’t understand it…who are you serving? Because if it’s yourself, then clearly you’re ready for the check because…ohmygod, stop.

Okay, context.

A few days ago, my dad was complaining of blurred vision, and wouldn’t you know it, apparently he had a detached retina. Or something like that. I mean, that’s what the optometrist thought initially, but it actually was something similar but a lot less severe. He can still see out of both eyes, but he’s wearing a little clear pirate-shield-thing over the affected eye. He’s been having tests and seeing doctors for the past few days, and today he had surgery, but he’s still doing almost all the normal things that he does, except driving and discovering cures for cancer. Well, not so much the second thing, because he doesn’t have a degree in the sciences. Even though he and my mom canceled their flights to Madison next week (not mine though, thank God) after yesterday’s appointment, he had a surgical procedure done today and he’s cleared to fly; that means he’s doing better than most expectant mothers in their third trimesters.

He’s going to make it.

So, yay for my dad!

After his successful surgery this morning (though it seems like forever ago, with what I’m about to tell you), it was taking a while for my dad to get checked out of the hospital. My mother had driven him there and waited. She was watching the clock because she had to get him home so she could get to her book club meeting at the library, and when she asked the desk how much longer it would be, they said “fifteen minutes.” Fifteen minutes later, they said the same thing to her. Normally, not so much of a problem, but a) my dad was fine, and b) she had somewhere to be, so she called me to pick him up so she could get to the library on time. I get in the car, pick him up, and bring him home; he and my mom have been awake since pretty early this morning, and even though it’s only about 1 PM, he’s just had surgery, so he goes to take a nap.

Maybe a half hour or hour later, the phone rings.

It’s not my mom, obviously, because she’s at her book club; it’s probably not my sister, who’s working; and I wouldn’t call the house phone just to talk to myself, but I pick it up anyway to stop it from ringing. It’s not a doctor or someone from the hospital, so guess who it is. Actually, don’t, because you’ll be wrong, but you could probably guess what he/she said after the greeting.

“So, how’s the patient?”

Uuugggghhh, really?

I wasn’t really in the mood to expound at great length on my father’s condition to one of my mother’s nosy friends, so I gritted my teeth and said something like, “he’s fine, he’s had a really rough morning though and he’s trying to rest.”

The response? “I was just asking, you don’t need to be so touchy.”

My response? “I’m not, I’m just telling you that we just got home from the hospital, he’s been up for a while and he’s trying to get some sleep, is there anything that you need?”

“No, I was just asking how he was.”

“He’s fine. He’s asleep. Can you call back later?”

“Sure, okay.”

::hang up::

If you couldn’t already sense it, my face and my palm got very chummy at that moment.

Let’s back up for a minute.

Part of the problem is my mother, telling every person she knows every detail of our lives, because that’s what she does, but that notwithstanding, I get the fact that you’re trying to show that you care, you mean well, you’re trying to be nice…but obviously, you know that my dad was in the hospital this morning. That’s the whole reason you called, isn’t it?

But think about it for a second.

You’re calling the house of someone who has just had surgery done this morning. Unless you are an immediate family member or a doctor, there is no reason that you should be calling at this juncture, even if it’s just to “check in.” Because chances are, you’re disturbing someone, either the person who had the surgery or their family member. Surgery is tiring. Hospitals are exhausting places, whether you’re undergoing surgery, sitting in a waiting room, or, you know, working. No one ever leaves a hospital bouncing up and down like Tigger, eager to share every intimate detail of their hysterectomy. Especially with someone who does not fall in the category of close family or primary care provider. This might not be true in the case of someone like Kate Middleton, but most of us are not her, and you are not the editor of Star.

So, give it a rest. Give it some thought before picking up the phone that very same day of the surgery. In fact, give it twenty-four hours worth of thought, and call then, if something else hasn’t taken your attention. There should be some sort of grace period for these things. Leave people alone for a day to recover, and then continue to barrage them with questions and ask for every excruciating detail. I mean, isn’t that why they don’t allow cell phones in maternity wards? I may or may not have made that last fact up, but seriously, my mother has some nosy friends, because I had the above conversation no fewer than three times today, and my parents fielded a few as well, although probably with more patience than I did.

But honestly…who needs to know, that badly? Do you have that little of a life that you must know everyone’s business, every minute of every hour of every day, and if you’re not the very first person to get all the details, you will explode in a mushroom cloud of nuclear anticipation?

If we wanted you to know, we would call you and tell you ourselves, and just because we did not report to you within the hour doesn’t mean we’re having a secret “let’s-tell-all-the-gruesome-details-of-the-eye-procedure” party that we’re not inviting you to, although that would be fun. Or, on second thought, I could look up the name of the procedure and do a dramatic reading of the Wikipedia entry on how it’s done. “Well, since you asked, after sedation, the doctor took a tiny chainsaw and made an incision into the eyelid, and after wiping away the excess blood, inserted a small device behind the eyeball, and…” Bet that venti soy latte tastes super right about now, doesn’t it?

Oh, and one final thing. That line, “so, how’s the patient?” Wow, original. You are so clever! I can’t believe it, it’s like you’re pretending to be a doctor, but you’re not! Kind of like they did in that movie that one time! Classic medical humor. This is not 1862, we’re not in a tent at Antietam, and we’re also not characters on Scrubs, so act normal or you’re looking at a pretty big malpractice suit.

I don’t care if you do have a clipboard at the other end of the line.

2

Tick, Tick…Oy.

I’d like to return to my current read, Elana Maryles Sztokman’s The Men’s Section: Orthodox Jewish Men in an Egalitarian World. I’m still about halfway through, and while Sztokman is dealing with a limited perspective of mostly Israelis, some of the larger concepts about Orthodox Jewish men that she tackles in the first half of the book (Chapters 1-5) are, for the most part, true. Some of those reasons are why I feel the way I do about things, why I’m annoyed at Orthodox Judaism today, and why I continue to identify as Orthodox in spite of all those feelings.

On page 36, Sztokman cites Paul Kivel’s “Act Like A Man” box, and through the remainder of Chapter 2 (and bleeding over into the next few chapters), creates what she calls the “BOMB” or “Be an Orthodox Man” Box. Kivel’s box consists of three concentric rectangles. The innermost contains the things that men try to hide, such as anger, love, and sadness; the middle box contains actions that men do to protect themselves such as yell, fight, and be stubborn; and outside the box are the abuses which men (usually boys) are subject to when they fail to meet these criteria such as name-calling, hitting, and sexual abuse.

So, yeah. Rough stuff.

I can definitely see where Sztokman finds her parallels. Instead of quoting her, however, I can use hers and Kivel’s information to synthesize some thoughts of my own.

Let me start off with a story.

It was senior year of high school, and the junior and senior classes were all going to a pro-Israel rally on the grounds of the Capitol in Washington, DC. It was mandatory, and with the world being the way it was in 2005, everyone was pretty much on the edge about coming back alive. So we loaded ourselves into buses with posters and set off for DC. We got to the rally and it was a lot bigger than most of us expected. High school students had come in by the busload from as far away as Boston, New York, and Atlanta, not to mention all the families that attended. It was also longer, hotter, and sunnier than most of us expected, and a lot of people, including myself, came home that day with horrible sunburns. As anyone who’s been to a rally knows, when the rally ends, people disperse en masse, and this dispersion was of Pamplona-proportions, only with Jews running down the street and not bulls. We were put into groups to make it back to the bus, and hopefully find some cold beverages along the way since those of us who brought water had finished it long ago. I was in one of the smaller groups, about six guys and one of our teachers, who was also a rabbi. Of course, where there are Jews, there are Chabadniks, always trying to engage Jews in conversation at inopportune times and places. As we walk/jog down the street trying to find a 7-11 or something, a Chabadnik pulls aside our teacher – who is a rabbi – and asks if he put on tefillin that morning. My teacher didn’t respond and just kept moving, probably because he was as hot and tired as us students and was wearing a suit, looking very much like a rabbi, which he was.

A few blocks later, when the crowd thinned out and the stragglers caught up, my teacher turned to me and said, “Can you believe that guy? Asking me if I wore tefillin this morning. Just look at me; who does he think I am? Who does he think he is? Bastard.”

Okay, so I added the “bastard” in there for effect (although I’m not entirely convinced he didn’t say it under his breath as we were walking or in his mind) but he was insulted. He didn’t know the guy, but it sat on his mind for several blocks and he felt so challenged that he had to blurt something out to his students. His sour reaction to the event is a good lead-in to the concept of competition in Orthodox Jewish manhood – a topic which Sztokman heavily focuses on in her book.

It’s the truth. Orthodox Jewish men are competitive, from childhood to adult. It’s about how high your education is, how young you were when you got married, how many children you have, how much halacha you observe, how much you pray, how much you study, what you do for a living, what you look like, what you eat, and what you wear. People say that these things don’t matter, but to Orthodox Jewish men, they do. Looking at myself through this “be an Orthodox man” box, my score is pretty low. I am 26 years old with no wife and children (practically “old bachelor” age in the Orthodox world), I don’t wear a kippa every day, I don’t observe all the laws of Shabbos every week, I don’t wear the Orthodox Jewish uniform (white Oxford, black jacket, black pants) 24/7, I never went to yeshiva or did much in the way of Jewish learning/limmudei kodesh past-high school, I don’t go to minyan three times a day, and I got my education in non-Jewish colleges (pretty much anywhere besides YU, Brandeis, Touro, or an Ivy) and I studied theatre. At least I have an advanced degree and am working on my second, I still observe kashrut, and I have a mezuzah on my door; those things should count for something, I guess. Still, if I were to register myself with a shidduch, I’d probably strike out before getting up to bat.