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Authors: Matthew Norman
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That’s what Doug does—he worries. He’s got like eleven kids.”
“Is it about the . . . economy ?”
Anna is as helpless as I am when it comes to exactly what it is that’s put the world in its current state. At least one of us really should have majored in something legitimate. Our daughter is standing in front of the fridge like Vanna White, presenting her work. “Do you like it, Mommy?”
Anna tells Allie that it’s a beautiful picture, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“We’re gonna be fine,” I say. “I’ve survived three rounds of layoffs this year alone. I’m untouchable, like Eliot Ness.” I flex my biceps, but no one seems impressed. Recently I’ve begun imagining that other people in my life write formal complaints about me and submit them to imaginary HR departments.
Dear HR:
My husband, Tom Violet, thinks it’s fun to mask his anxiety over our potential financial ruin with a series of lame jokes. It’s clearly a façade to make me think that everything is going to be OK, but, in reality, I know that we are profoundly screwed. Attached is a long list of the many men I now regret not marrying before I met this smiling fool.
“Grandpa said he’s taking me for a ride in the Porsche. He said he’ll go super fast, too—way over the speed limit because the cops can’t catch him because they all have sucky, American-made engines.”
I tell my daughter how fun this sounds, and then I take two beers from the fridge. If this were a different era, the sixties maybe, I’d pour a couple of giant glasses of scotch. But I guess light domestic beers will suffice for now. “So he’s still here, huh?” I ask Anna.
She stirs the bubbling pot still. “He’s upstairs. I think he’s writing.”
I open the door and find my dad sitting at my computer desk staring at his laptop and casually smoking a joint. The window is open and he’s turned on the ceiling fan, but the entire upstairs smells like the inside of a VW van, and I have to actually wave a plume of smoke out of my face.
“Nice, Dad. Just make yourself right at home.”
He coughs and snaps his computer shut with a loud thwack . From the sleepy, stoned look on his face, I can’t tell if he’s been writing or napping.
“You know, there is a child in the house, right?”
He holds the wiry little bud out, offering me some.
I look out into the hallway for signs of Allie or Anna and then close the door. “All right, but I’m doing it under formal protest.”
“I’ll make sure it’s noted in the official ledger,” he says.
I take a quick toke, hold, and then exhale. I read somewhere that smoking pot is way worse for your lungs than cigarettes, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. The inside of my skull loosens a notch, and I hand it back to him. “You shaved,” I say. “Looks good.”
He rubs his chin as if reminding himself. “Allie demanded it. She told me I looked old.” He’s wearing the same pants as last night and his tweed jacket over a T-shirt. Although he looks better than before, he’s still pale, slumping in my IKEA chair.
I hand him one of the beers I’ve brought with me. He takes a sip with his nonjoint hand and smiles at me. Beer bottles are excellent props for men who don’t talk as often as they probably should.
“Your wife called earlier.” I say. “She left quite a message.”
“I heard it. Ashley’s a passionate girl. She swears a lot when she’s feeling vulnerable. It’s a classic defense mechanism. Her parents are horrible, horrible people . . . or so I’m told.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to feel sorry for her when she shows up to boil the dog on the stove.”
Curtis giggles. He’s artfully stoned in a practiced, fully functioning sort of way. He’s one of those aged pot smokers who kept at it while everyone else gave it up and got jobs and started quietly voting Republican.
“How’s the writing going? You getting some work done?”
“A little. The men upstairs are
“Is it about the . . . economy ?”
Anna is as helpless as I am when it comes to exactly what it is that’s put the world in its current state. At least one of us really should have majored in something legitimate. Our daughter is standing in front of the fridge like Vanna White, presenting her work. “Do you like it, Mommy?”
Anna tells Allie that it’s a beautiful picture, but her eyes don’t leave mine.
“We’re gonna be fine,” I say. “I’ve survived three rounds of layoffs this year alone. I’m untouchable, like Eliot Ness.” I flex my biceps, but no one seems impressed. Recently I’ve begun imagining that other people in my life write formal complaints about me and submit them to imaginary HR departments.
Dear HR:
My husband, Tom Violet, thinks it’s fun to mask his anxiety over our potential financial ruin with a series of lame jokes. It’s clearly a façade to make me think that everything is going to be OK, but, in reality, I know that we are profoundly screwed. Attached is a long list of the many men I now regret not marrying before I met this smiling fool.
“Grandpa said he’s taking me for a ride in the Porsche. He said he’ll go super fast, too—way over the speed limit because the cops can’t catch him because they all have sucky, American-made engines.”
I tell my daughter how fun this sounds, and then I take two beers from the fridge. If this were a different era, the sixties maybe, I’d pour a couple of giant glasses of scotch. But I guess light domestic beers will suffice for now. “So he’s still here, huh?” I ask Anna.
She stirs the bubbling pot still. “He’s upstairs. I think he’s writing.”
I open the door and find my dad sitting at my computer desk staring at his laptop and casually smoking a joint. The window is open and he’s turned on the ceiling fan, but the entire upstairs smells like the inside of a VW van, and I have to actually wave a plume of smoke out of my face.
“Nice, Dad. Just make yourself right at home.”
He coughs and snaps his computer shut with a loud thwack . From the sleepy, stoned look on his face, I can’t tell if he’s been writing or napping.
“You know, there is a child in the house, right?”
He holds the wiry little bud out, offering me some.
I look out into the hallway for signs of Allie or Anna and then close the door. “All right, but I’m doing it under formal protest.”
“I’ll make sure it’s noted in the official ledger,” he says.
I take a quick toke, hold, and then exhale. I read somewhere that smoking pot is way worse for your lungs than cigarettes, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. The inside of my skull loosens a notch, and I hand it back to him. “You shaved,” I say. “Looks good.”
He rubs his chin as if reminding himself. “Allie demanded it. She told me I looked old.” He’s wearing the same pants as last night and his tweed jacket over a T-shirt. Although he looks better than before, he’s still pale, slumping in my IKEA chair.
I hand him one of the beers I’ve brought with me. He takes a sip with his nonjoint hand and smiles at me. Beer bottles are excellent props for men who don’t talk as often as they probably should.
“Your wife called earlier.” I say. “She left quite a message.”
“I heard it. Ashley’s a passionate girl. She swears a lot when she’s feeling vulnerable. It’s a classic defense mechanism. Her parents are horrible, horrible people . . . or so I’m told.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to feel sorry for her when she shows up to boil the dog on the stove.”
Curtis giggles. He’s artfully stoned in a practiced, fully functioning sort of way. He’s one of those aged pot smokers who kept at it while everyone else gave it up and got jobs and started quietly voting Republican.
“How’s the writing going? You getting some work done?”
“A little. The men upstairs are
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