My friends don’t know my struggle.
In the past, the best of the three of them has routinely been singled out as the one putting in most the effort in our on-again, off-again writing partnership, so allow me to try on the linguistic hat for size. Saturday, Sunday, Monday – Fourth of July parties. Three days, to celebrate just one. Only problem? Nobody ever brings onion dip anymore.
Or, at least they didn’t, until the “summer of the great overcorrection” made itself known in abundantly clear ways. Now, it may have gotten by my fellow indifferent-to-love sixtysomething bachelor (and bachelorette) pals, but there was no getting a number like that past these lazy day shades.
iMessage-assigned the vague task of “bringing an appetizer, or something” to my newish boss’ Saturday-set festivities, my decades-strong carpool voted 3-to1 against me – like always, what else is new? – to stop at 7-Eleven on the way into the borough. They defied me once more by deciding on purchasing onion dip, of all dips, as if everyone else wasn’t making the same bone-headed choice at their respective 7-Elevens, in their respective towns, at this very moment. Are you telling me, that if we put the rest of the bald, tall with their hair-on-fire, nicely dressed and womanly blessed quartets pulling up to this exemplification of Queens high-living address, that they all wouldn’t have also brought onion dip? That’s as grab-and-go as it gets, and believe me, I know. This ain’t my first Rodeo, Joe. In fact, you won’t believe my thoughts on 2-liter Pepsi- or maybe you’ve heard them already?
What it boils down to is this: it’s like that Yogi Berra proverb my old boss used to quote, back when he was really missing him: “No one goes there anymore, it’s too crowded.” Everyone bought into the belief that nobody bought onion dip anymore, so much so that the pendulum was bound to swing back around sooner or later. And sooner or later happens to be today. Isn’t that something? I rarely say it, but I’ve got a vowel at the end of my last name, so why not, right? Madone!
We walk in, and, so help me, the property’s only square foot that’s not a rain-ruined monsoon is the monsoon of onion dip spread across the table beneath the rent-a-tent. And no potato chips, either, only stale Doritos leftover from the gone like the wind crab dip. And what’s with the spicy nacho flavor going with purple-colored baggage? When I think spicy, I don’t think purple. And when I think purple, I especially don’t think spicy. I shouldn’t think dinosaurs, either, but Barney will do that to ya. Whatever happened to Barney? Hold that thought.
Apparently, my boss’ niece and her not-so-gentile gentile family think it appropriate to behave like it’s Christmas year-round. This crab dip nonsense. You know, I saw Last Temptation of Christ on a date with someone who considered me “more Woody Allenian than she’d hope,” an adjectivized surname you generally want to avoid. Just because you have Catholic guilt does not mean I should be subjected to orange stain-fingered embarrassment in public! And during the three months of the year where the only platonic girl friend I’ve ever had says it’s OK for me to wear white, no less. Bleu cheese and celery now!
They “ran out,” yet have the gall to call me cheap for being the umpteenth person to walk in here with a platter of onion dip overkill. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll take my Storebrand homemade over whatever Lay’s is peddling. I may not be much of a writer, but I do know that apostrophic placement is a little too laissez-faire for my liking [Logger’s Note: the unemployed renegade of our outfit is staying with me as I vocally journal; “you think Lay’s is big business neutral?,” he inquires. “But they are big business! One of the biggest!”]. My eccentric friend, what a wisenheimer you are, and have always been. Truly.
The nerve on my boss and my boss-in-law, right? Where do they get off, as they could have easily gotten this whole shabang catered by a higher-than-a-Michelin star culinary commander who’d make Bobby Flay look like Sugar Ray’s frosted tips. And I don’t know what’s worse: that the hosts desperate to appear temporarily civilian, for whatever reason, didn’t have the foresight to stockpile – always grab more chips than dip, always – or that we’re stuck here with: the aforementioned dip-less Doritos; buffalo chicken dip, but no nachos; Greek Tzatziki sauce, but grass-fallen carrots, RIP; and no spinach and artichoke with rye in sight, either. Oh, curse the rise of a gluten-free society; a movement that’s apparently deadened breadwinners into bread-losers. I need my bread bowl!
When I look out and see all these dips without dipping agent counterparts, I nurse my broken heart. I think back to the school dances where everyone was paired off besides my well-dressed friend and I. Reading an agreement storm thread, recently, had me entertaining a reality where certain groups don’t have entire months devoted to celebrating them – but are instead celebrated every month, of every year, like they should be. I believe Sadie Hawkins dances, and the psychology behind their purpose, should be paramountly coordinated as well. Maybe then I wouldn’t have such high blood pressure, or a compendium of one’s that got away.
Believe it or not, after telling off my boss and subsequently earning the boot – I’m not walking on air. I liked working for him. But my new (and now former) boss didn’t like calzones; he was more of a stromboli guy, actually. Go figure.
Now, I’m unemployed again, and less enthusiastic about it than our job-less mate who can’t fit in our car unless he goes in elbows-first. I told him to invest in elbow-pads, and he promptly public-skated his way into a lump settlement from New York State. One of these days he’s going to have to finally teach me how to live in ways that would make someone as typically skittish and cowardice as me die. But, in this all is wholly lost moment, I’m now partial to thinking this: when you’ve got nothing to lose…
Honestly, this is the most inconvenient thing that’s happened to me in this short decade since I accidentally stormed the Capitol. But that’s a story for another day. Now, if you need me, I’ll be napping under a desk someplace. You should try it, I’m telling ya you’ll love it.
Forever yours,
George
