The Not-So Happy Meal

It's been said that Larry David is an exaggerated caricature of his true personality - his on-screen persona says all the things he wishes he could say in real life. And yet, with very little effort, I'm often accused of behaving just like him, and not by people who know what he's like in real life.

I get multiple emails a week to the tune of, "I just watched Curb and totally thought of you." But what they they're really saying is, "you're an abrasive asshole who's behavior is socially unacceptable. Hah!"

I'm bald, Jewish and perturbed. And I don't live in New York, where this type of description is not only acceptable, it's the master race.

Now for those who know the wife, they just feel sorry for her. Poor girl, as charming and lovely as she is, having to live with a social pariah like myself. But what most people don't realize, is that the wife is a closeted Larry David hereself, as evidenced by two recent visits to Laughing Planet Burritos.

As frequent customers, we are very familiar with their menu and typically order our five-year-old the "kid's bean and cheese burrito." It's a lot smaller and a little cheaper than their standard fare.

But on a recent solo visit, the wife was feeling only moderately hungry and decided to order the kid's burrito for herself. As she sat in the restaurant enjoying the diminutive wrap, the cashier publicly humiliated my dear, sweet wife, letting her know that in the future, kids burritos could only be ordered for kids.

Well, the future came yesterday. The wife went back to the same Laughing Planet and ordered a kid's burrito from the same cashier, who responded with a dubious look. The wife, always quick on her feet said, "It's for my kid. I going to pick her up now from camp and she'll need something to eat. So I'll just take it to go."

Left with no option, the cashier sold my wife the burrito. But she did it with hate.

It probably comes as no surprise, but I whole-heartedly side with the wife on this one. The burrito joint wins by charging only marginally less money for significantly less food and they should support the notion that uneaten beans and cheese won't be thrown away. They should be ashamed of themselves for even instituting such a policy.

Perhaps one day, we can all channel our inner-LD, without shame or indignation. And we'll all be kept a little more honest for it.

Nothing to Complain About

Do you know what the title of this blog post means to a guy like me?

It means, I've got nothing.

Complaining is my life blood. It's what gets me out of the bed in the morning. It's what fills my awkward moments around the water cooler. It's fueled the majority of these less and less frequent blog posts.

That's because these days, I really have nothing to complain about.

I've started a new job that I actually like (and involuntarily lost 10 lbs since I started).

The wife hasn't had any chemical meltdowns of late.

And I don't have time to hate on any coffee shops at the moment (I'm actually writing this from an old favorite and I sort of wonder why I ever left - oh yeah).

Anyway, therein lies the problem. Complaining is my Yoko. Without complaining, I'm a fucking mute. I know, I know. I sound like a real joy to be around. But this, sadly is just how it is.

And then last night, after a particularly enjoyable company outing, while driving the boss back to his hotel, I found myself complaining about something. Something minor and forgettable actually. But complaining just enough to trigger the boss' reaction: "My goal is to see if you can go three days without complaining," admitting that he'd just gotten two for setting me up in a swank hotel.

Apparently, this man, who has only known me on and off for the last three months, deftly identified my entire M.O.

Does this mean I've got it back? Or maybe it never went away. Either way, I hope this renewed sense of general displeasure has some legs. I've been a little lost without it.