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Love, Actually, actually is all around

My wife and I have this annual holiday tradition. Every year, she watches Love, Actually on TV, and each time, about halfway through the movie, I come downstairs and start making snarky comments and bad jokes, to the point where nobody’s having any fun at all by the end of the film. Jeez, when I say it like that, I sound like a huge dick. And, I don’t know, I’m not that big of a dick.

But Love, Actually, come on, in which darkest timeline have I wound up where this movie has taken on such celebrated significance? I saw it in the theaters with my wife while we were still dating, and at the time, yeah, I did nice things like that, went to the movies to see romantic comedies. We saw Two Weeks Notice, a bunch of other mostly Hugh Grant movies. As we exited the nine o’clock showing of Love, Actually that night, all I thought was, well, I guess that’s as bad as it’s going to get.

But no, she started watching it the next year, and the year after that. Each Christmas, the TV stations started playing it more and more. Every time I’d hear a significant buzz, groups of people waiting for the subway, talking about how much they love Love, Actually, stuff like, “Oh my God, I just love that movie. It’s seriously probably my favorite movie of all time. Love, love, love, Love, Actually.”

Last night was the 2013 viewing, and I caught more of the movie than I usually do, to the point where some of the stories didn’t ring any bells in my memory. Obviously I’ll never be able to forget the scene where Hugh Grant, acting as Prime Minister of the UK, gives President Billy-Bob Thornton some ridiculous speech about Britain being a small but proud nation, but other subplots, like the one about the office romance hindered due to that lady’s disabled brother, it was as if they’d been blocked from my memory entirely.

Which was probably for the best. If only I had stayed away this year. But I can’t help myself. I hear that ongoing Mariah Carey chorus and I just have to march in and start poking fun. And asking lots of questions. Like, is Liam Neeson that kid’s dad? I mean, I know the mom died, right, but do they address whether or not he’s the kid’s biological father?

To me, it seems as if he has to be the step-dad, like maybe he married this single-mother, and after a while she died, and he’s left in charge with this little kid who he really doesn’t have that strong of a connection with. Because their relationship is so over the top. “You’re in love? Well go get her! Run after her! Right past Mr. Bean, through airport security, go get ‘em!” If that were a real dad, he’d be like, “Hey, do me a favor, all right? Just stop talking for a second. Please. Just one second. I’m incredibly depressed around the holidays, ever since your mother died, it’s just me and you. Stop talking about your little kid girlfriend for a minute, please.”

And you talk about love, right? Half of the stories have nothing to do with love. What about the one where the guy falls in love with his best friend’s wife? First of all, I’m watching this movie and I’m like, who the hell is this guy? Why does he look so familiar? Then it hits me, he’s the actor who plays Rick Grimes on The Walking Dead. And again, I wish I had never watched it this year, because now when I watch my favorite TV show, I’m not going to be able to shake the image of this guy wearing an oversized sweater holding up signs telling his friend’s wife not to make a sound so he can steal a kiss while he’s not paying attention. I’m going to be too focused on scrutinizing his fake American accent. Seriously, how do people do that? If I tried to talk in a British accent, best case scenario, everybody in earshot would mercilessly make fun of me, worst case scenario, I’d get punched, hard.

Or what about the story where the guy is cheating on his wife? I’m not trying to make a moral argument or anything, you know, because a story about a guy cheating on his wife, in a romance movie, you don’t really need some guy like me pointing out how out of place it is. But from a logistical standpoint, it really bothers me. Like, he buys a necklace for his mistress, OK. Why don’t you go shopping for jewelry like on the way home from work or something? Why insist on taking your whole family to the mall, and then making the worst attempt ever to sneak out of their sight for a second so you can buy a necklace? Isn’t that a little reckless? It’s stupid, is what it is. And then, you’re not into your wife, fine, but maybe buy her something a little nicer than a CD to at least pretend that you give a fuck about her not finding out. Doesn’t she even say something earlier, like, “Is it just sex? Or is it sex and love?”

What’s the message here, that true love is all about perspective? That regardless of how bad a situation appears from the outside, somebody might be caught up in true love? That actually sounds kind of legit. Holy shit, did I just figure it out?

I could go on all day, but I’m clearly in the minority here. Love, Actually actually looks like it’s here to stay, and for the long haul too. I can just picture myself as an old man, this movie’s going to come on and I’m going to force myself to sit there and provide asinine commentary, pitching the same lame Love, Actually jokes. Remember when I said before that I wasn’t that big of a dick? I guess I can be kind of dickish, but only when Love, Actually is on. I don’t know, it just brings out the worst in me. It’s a good thing that all of the follow-up imitation ensemble movies always bomb at the box office, like He’s Just Not That Into You, and I think there’s a Valentine’s Day one also, the sister from Seventh Heaven is in it. OK, I’m done. I’m going to be sick. Wait, no, OK, I held it in. Wait, it’s coming back. Yeah, I’m definitely going to be sick. Yep, I did it, I threw up. Gross.

You won a free cruise!

I kept getting the same phone call, over and over again, always from out of state. The caller ID would say Seattle or Orlando or Phoenix. “Hello?” I’d answer, but before I could even finish that one word, there’d be an automatic recording, “Congratulations! You’ve won a free vacation!”

The messages would scroll through the same two or three scripts. “Pack those bags!” and I’d try to hang up before the sentence could be finished. Or there’d be one where a boat’s horn would blare, followed by a, “You just won a free cruise!” I don’t understand where these robo-calls are getting their financing from. Who’s making money off of this? Even if I were gullible enough to fall for a scam like this once, don’t you think it would raise even the stupidest caller’s suspicions to keep winning free vacations, one after the other?

So I just stopped answering my phone, outside of the few known contacts that still took the time to actually dial my number. And this worked, for a while anyway, but the phone gods must have taken notice to my answering habits, because the tactics changed slightly. I started getting random calls from various numbers in Danbury, Connecticut.

Connecticut, huh? I mean, I don’t really have any business in Connecticut, but it’s pretty close, definitely within the tri-state area. And why were they so persistent? It was like every other day, Danbury, Connecticut. Even though I knew that it was probably a junk call, every time I’d see that 203 area code pop up on my touchscreen, my imagination would run wild, I’d start fantasizing about all sorts of out-of-the-blue dream job offers, or some rich long-lost relative who’d somehow left me a large sum of money, but his inheritance lawyer was based out of Connecticut, and if he couldn’t get in touch with me soon, he’d be forced to start looking toward my next of kin. And do I really want to see my brothers and sisters wind up with what should have been my surprise fortune?

So one day when I got out of work I saw the three missed calls, I hesitated for a second before my thumb impulsively pressed the redial button. It didn’t even ring, it went straight to the recorded voice, “It looks like somebody’s ready to claim their free trip!” I was instantly disappointed, not realizing how I’d unintentionally let my long shot Danbury fantasies take up a little too much room in the higher parts of my consciousness.

But right as I was about to hang up the phone, the recording got a little specific, “Make sure you’re at the airport with enough time to get through security. Your reserved seat is in row 21, seat F.” It couldn’t be. Did I really win a trip? A free cruise?

I showed up at the airport on Monday and swiped my ID through the automated kiosk at the terminal. “Please report to agent window.” The agent ran my license through her system, “So you’re the guy who won the free cruise. Well guess what? You’ve been upgraded to first class. Enjoy your flight.”

Things just kept getting better, my good fortune accelerating every step of the way. When the cruise director asked me why I only had a backpack, when I told them that I wasn’t really convinced that I’d actually be traveling on a free vacation, he had a whole new wardrobe sent to my cabin. They unpacked everything, and all of the clothes fit better than my own.

At the buffet that night, I started loading my plate with oysters on the half shell. But one of the cruise workers stopped me, “Hey, you’re the free cruise guy, right?”

“That’s me,” I said. He took my plate away and came back with some expensive looking China. Now these were oysters, almost three times the size of the ones available for the rest of the guests. When I cracked them open, I couldn’t believe it, but there were actual pearls stuffed inside, just like you’d see in a picture from a high school oceanography textbook. After I finished my meal, the staff took all of my pearls and fashioned them into a necklace, with all of the pearls spelling out the words, “Free Cruise.”

I thought that was a little cheesy, but it was a nice gesture, and it was great way for me to identify myself as the lucky winner. People stopped asking me, “Are you the free cruise guy?” and just automatically started giving me the star treatment wherever I went. My hour-long massage got extended to four. I was playing some blackjack at the casino, I had a nineteen, but when I signaled that I’d hold, the dealer gave me a look and mouthed out the word, “Hit.” And it was a good thing too, because I wound up with a twenty-one, and the dealer drew a twenty. I won like seven hundred bucks.

When I got home, I brought the pearls to one of those pawn/jeweler shops in the diamond district. I can’t believe how much money those things fetched. I mean, I’m no pearl expert or anything, but I would’ve assumed them to be fakes, or at least the manmade kind, the artificial ones that they produce by forcing sand into the oysters’ mouths.

I just got back last week. I can’t believe that I waited so long to take advantage of such an incredible opportunity. I wish I knew who to thank. Unfortunately, I stopped receiving the robo-calls, so it looks like the good luck has moved on to someone else. Still, if you get the call about the free vacation, trust me, it’s not too good to be true, it’s real. Pick up that phone! Head on over to that airport! You’ve just won yourself a free vacation!

I’ll take no for an answer

I’ll totally take no for an answer. No? That’s cool, thanks anyway. Like, I was at the deli the other day, I asked for a pound of peppermill turkey and half a pound of jack cheese. I went home to make myself a sandwich and I opened up those cold cuts. It wasn’t what I had ordered at all. Instead of turkey it was some sort of prosciutto, and the cheese, I don’t even know what this stuff was, it looked like army fatigues, you know, if instead of green and brown they used yellow and white and a slightly less yellow-yellow.

So I went back to the deli, I mean normally I wouldn’t even bother, but the deli is only like a block away from my house. Maybe they messed up my order? Maybe somebody elsen accidentally received my stuff? It was all within the realm of possibility. But when I went to the counter guy, when I asked him, “Hey, did you give me the wrong order?” he just looked at me and said, “No.”

And like I said, whatever, I’ll take no for an answer, I’m easygoing like that, I like being easygoing, I like imagining people talking about me, saying stuff like, “Rob’s really easygoing, never causes any problems.” I went home and made myself the weirdest sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life. Prosciutto, first of all, I’m not like a huge prosciutto guy, but it’s usually sliced very thin.

Really thin, actually, the few times I’ve found myself talking about prosciutto or reading about it, the thinner the better, that’s what I’ve always taken away. But this stuff was thick, like Virginia ham thick. I didn’t even know how to go about building a sandwich out of this stuff. Like, I’ve had prosciutto with melon, prosciutto wrapped around asparagus.

You know, I said that I’m not a huge prosciutto guy, but now that I’m talking about it, I guess I’ve had more experience with prosciutto than I’ve let on. It’s not my go-to deli meat of choice, hardly, but yeah, I guess it’s in a lot more of my diet than I previously admitted. Like when you go to an Italian restaurant, whatever the special is, it’s always something either stuffed with or wrapped in prosciutto. Stuffed veal with prosciutto. Chicken cutlets wrapped in prosciutto with a wine sauce. Always.

I’ve heard you’re only supposed to use one slice, really, because prosciutto has such an intense flavor. But I was hungry, I had planned on making a piled-high turkey sandwich. I went for two, hoping to offset the taste with extra cheese. But even that, the cheese was so weird tasting. It was kind of smoky, but with almost jelly-like overtones. I’d never tasted anything like it.

Finally, I took a bite, and it was like, I couldn’t even chew through the prosciutto, the ribbons of marbled fat proved way too much for my teeth. After sitting there chewing for upwards of a minute, I finally just tried to swallow whatever was in my mouth, and I almost choked.

Kind of defeated, I eventually just went back to the deli to have them make me a sandwich. Yeah, I felt kind of silly just throwing my money away, but hey, I don’t want to cause any problems, there are so many people just trying their best, going about their days. Who am I to cause a problem?

It was the same deli guy, I told him what I wanted, he didn’t say anything, he just went right for the meat, right over to the slicer. “Hey man, you heard me say peppermill turkey, right? Not oven-gold, right?” But there wasn’t any response, he put way too much mayo, even though I said, “Easy mayo, please.”

But it was fine, you’re not going to catch me whining about a sandwich. Maybe I’ll grow to like mayo even more after this sandwich. I’m just waiting to get really hungry before I take that first bite. I mean, right now, it looks a little unpalatable, but I’ll get there, sooner or later I’ll be shaking, everything will look tasty. And is that really such a big deal? So I have to wait a little longer to eat. I should have such problems, right? Because I’m not looking for a fight, I’m trying to be easygoing. Where everyone else causes a stink, just don’t worry about me, I’ll totally take no for an answer.

Sleeve me alone

As the oldest of six, one of my favorite pastimes growing up was tormenting my younger brothers and sisters. Obviously I can’t get away with any of this stuff as an adult. Not as much anyway. It’s one thing for a bunch of little kids to run around the house screaming and crying, but when I try pulling any of these stunts now, things can get heated, nothing ever ends well.

But I was just thinking about this one incident, I was maybe twelve or thirteen, there was nothing going on at home and so, bored out of my mind, I focused all of my attention toward my little sister Emily. For something like five years straight, she would watch Disney’s Beauty and the Beast on VHS, over and over again, to the point where one of the tapes actually had to be replaced due to excessive playback.

So I started teasing Emily. Over what? I have no idea. It was the kind of incessant poking and prodding that, regardless of how patient a little kid might try to be, I was more patient, I’d sit there all afternoon, repeating word for word the lines from the movie, but in a really annoying voice. Or even worse, I’d start reciting the dialogue thirty seconds or so before it played on TV. Like I said, this movie pretty much ran nonstop on our TV, so like it or not, I have the entire film committed to memory.

It didn’t take long. Emily started fighting back, “Stop it Robbie, sto-op it!” which was all I needed to let me know that it was working, that maybe things might escalate to the point where my mom would get so annoyed with all of our fighting that she’d turn the TV off completely, uninterested in hearing anybody’s arguments as to who started what.

But what happened next, I couldn’t have anticipated, a gift from the heavens bestowed upon me through the desperate whines of my sister. She blurted out, “Leave me alone!” Only, the way she said it, she must have misspoken somewhat, because it didn’t come out like, “Leave me alone,” it sounded as if she said, “Sleeve me alone!”

You might think that a minor mispronunciation isn’t really anything to laugh about, let alone something to use as the basis for a never ending series of taunts, but in my family, even the slightest slipup was considered fair game for a merciless assault.

So now I had an entirely new avenue of attack, and just in time too, because I would have eventually grown pretty bored of just repeating Beauty and the Beast. But now, sleeve me alone, this new material was enough to sustain me for a whole day, weeks even. I mean, I’m still talking about it, so it never really wore out, not like the tape on that busted VHS Beauty and the Beast. Seriously, how do you watch a movie that many times?

It wasn’t long before I recruited the rest of my brothers and sisters, a very are team-up, the setting aside of our individual differences to make life acutely miserable for just one. Thanks to our collaborate taunting, pretty soon Emily was reduced to tears, curled up in the fetal position on the living room floor, while the five of us marched around her in a circle, chanting in unison, “Sleeve me alone! Sleeve me alone!”

Like I said, it stayed fresh for a good while. It’s not even totally out of the question for a sleeve me alone chant to start up today, we’ll all be hanging out at our parents’ house, there will be a lull in whatever conversation we’re having, and someone might bring it up, totally unprompted, “Sleeve me alone!” and we’ll all start chanting.

Actually, I started this whole piece out flooded by the comforting nostalgia of childhood memories, but now that I’ve typed this whole thing out, now that I’ve read it back to myself, this is actually all pretty mean stuff. Jesus, what was wrong with me that I found such delight in making my younger sister so miserable? Why does that memory still make me feel kind of happy? Am I like a sociopath or something?

Homemade ice cream

My mom gave me an ice cream maker a little while ago, and the other day I finally got to try it out. Someone else had given me this cigar-shaped tube filled with a few actual vanilla beans from Madagascar. I’ve heard they’re pretty hard to come by, although I’ve never actually looked that up or anything, so I’m just assuming, yes, very rare, very special.

I got too excited though, that’s my only possible explanation as to why it didn’t work out like I had imagined. The recipe called for only fresh ingredients, egg yolks, cream, sugar, and it was cool to split the vanilla bean in half and scrape out all of the tiny little beads. And then I actually had to cook it, which, I mean it’s ice cream, I didn’t anticipate having to cook anything.

I started this whole project at like nine in the evening, assuming that I’d be eating ice cream in no time. But after I let everything cook and thicken, I reread the recipe, it said that I had to let the whole mixture cool completely until I ran it through the machine. This always happens. Regardless of whether I’m cooking or assembling furniture, whenever I read directions for anything, I’ll always try my best to pay close attention to what I’m being instructed to do. But I always miss at least one or two steps, every time. It’ll be like, mix all of this stuff together, and then I’ll do it, and then I’ll look back at the recipe and it’ll all of the sudden have said, first mix these two ingredients separately, and then mix everything together, and so everything winds up clumpy.

I waited as long as I could, about an hour or so, but I really wanted this cream to be ice cream. The ice cream maker came with this sleeve that I had to let freeze completely in the freezer for over twenty-four hours. That was like a whole day that I had to try my best to put it out of my mind, the rare vanilla, all of that heavy cream and half and half I bought specifically for the ice cream.

After that hour or so, well, it was almost an hour, it was definitely fifty minutes at least, I stuck my finger in the cream mixture. It wasn’t hot, not even warm really. Could it have been colder? In retrospect, sure, that should have been something to think about, because yes, it definitely could have been colder.

I put everything in the ice cream machine and set it to spin. While I sat down and tried to watch TV, something to keep my mind off of the twenty to thirty longest minutes in my life that I’d have to endure trying my best to wait patiently for what the recipe assured me would be some of the best ice cream I’ll ever eat in my life, I thought about future ice cream plans, that after I’d mastered vanilla, I could go on to experiment with all sorts of flavors, like maybe a bacon ice cream.

But twenty minutes passed and this stuff was still clearly liquid. So I waited another ten minutes, but it hadn’t thickened at all really. I removed myself from the kitchen for another hour, and when I got back, not only had this stuff not turned into ice cream, but the frozen sleeve was starting to melt, I could tell that the entire apparatus was getting warmer by the minute. So I just poured it all into a container and hoped something magical would happen inside the freezer.

I could barely sleep that night, I kept having these half-awake dreams where my homemade ice cream was winning all sorts of international home-cooking awards, like “World’s Great Ice Cream,” stuff like that. When I woke up the next morning, I rushed straight for the freezer and opened up the container.

And it wasn’t really ice cream. I mean, it was frozen, yes. But it lacked that ice cream consistency. That night I came home from work determined to at least try to enjoy a bowl for dessert. And whatever, the flavor was there, if not the texture. There was ice, yeah, and it was made out of cream, OK, nobody’s perfect, right?

I looked over to my side and my dog was staring intently at the bowl. Usually I never give my dog any sort of human food, but I thought, this stuff is pretty good, it’s OK anyway, and I gave myself way too big of a serving. Maybe I should give the little guy a taste. So I spooned off a chunk and put it in his dog bowl. He wolfed the whole thing down, fast, licking up the sides of the bowl for a while afterward.

And then five minutes after that, he walked back over to the couch, he stood at my feet, made a weird neck motion, and then threw up all over the floor. It was mostly dog food, but it was unmistakably streaked with coagulated white cream. My wife looked at me and was like, “Great job, Rob. Clean it up.”