How Grover Taught Me to Appreciate My Elbows

I like naming my things.

I don’t know when it started, but let’s try to trace it back, shall we?

Like most children, my stuffed animals, dolls, and action figures all had personalities, names, feelings and a favourite side of the bed.

But, I think I went a little further than the average child. At least this is what my friends and family have led me to believe. Or maybe they just enjoy watching my neurosis act itself out. It’s like watching the exact opposite of Steven Wright on catnip, fertilised with speed, laced with the mysterious fairy dust the Gilmore Girls’ producers sprinkled in the set’s communal coffee pot.

But I digress.

When I was a child, my things didn’t need to have beads as eyes for me to give them a name, an identity, or a “good morning how did you sleep?”

My pencils (Rosey, Orangina and Blacky McBlack Black), my shoes (Sandalina, Runny and Tipsydoodle), my hair scruntchies (Schrunchalina, Schrunchette and Schruncharoon), were as personable as Barbie, Mr. Bear and Polly Pocket.

So my stuff had names, birthdays, favourite colours and phobias. My pencils all had personalities of their own: Orangina was funny, Rosey was shy, and Blacky… well… Blacky was a prick. Also, my patent black shoes had a debilitating fear of tuna. Not me though. Just the shoes. However, I do always think twice before trusting the word of a tuna melt.

As I discovered the objects around me has quirks, I began to feel attached to them. For example, I felt bad when I had to pick one shoe from the other (a sign of things to come?) … unless they pinched me, then they had it coming.

Or there was the day I forgot my backpack at school: I came home crying because I couldn’t imagine her having to spend the night alone.

I’m going to go ahead and blame television for my unnatural desire to name things and my constant need to please inanimate objects… what was that Mr. Thomas the Tape Dispenser? You say you’re feeling a little breezy in that corner?

It may have started when Grover asked me through the television set one day, “Have you said hello to your elbow today?”

That’s right. Jim Henson made us talk to our elbows. The 80s were a hell of a decade.

So I thought to myself, “Well, no… I haven’t!” So I bent my arm and said, “Hi Tim.” Then I bent my other arm, “Hi Earl.” Then, I saw this.



THE DUDE LOST HIS ELBOWS.

And come to think of it, half the time, Grover doesn’t have any elbows!

Now, not only do I name my belongings, I check inventory of my elbows and other extremities regularly.

This includes the bendy bit on the other side of both my elbows, Tom and Pearl, and both sides of each knee, Eric, Camille, John and Abdul. My dad was watching a TV special on the Middle East that night. That same night I named my right pinky toe, the one next to Jeremy, Samir.

And so, my stapler is Steve, my monitor is Helga, my mouse is Jimmy and my scissors, Billy. I’m not allowed leaving Steve and Billy together or they conspire to take down Patrick, the Post-It pad.

And finally, for those of you who are wondering: Righty McBoob and Lefty McGee.

Dane Cook Tried to Steal My Essence

The below story gave me some trouble.

So much so I boycotted writing for some time.

You see I had themed that week Dane Cook-apalooza. Dane Cook is a comedian /actor – which you may or may not have heard of who is close to beating Jon Stewart on the people who will marry me but don’t know it yet list. It’s ok go IMDB him, I’ll wait.

Done? Was it good for you?

Every day that week my hours were garnished with a smidgeon of Dane Cookness. Either I listened to his comedy, watched it on TV, or quoted it ad nauseam. You know, there’s only so many times you can say somebody shit on the coats with it still being funny.

Or so I hear.

And because of all things Dane Cook permeating my daily life, while writing the below post, I fought the urge to write about the time I gave Marcus a Snickers bar and then we talked about pens. I had to fight the Dane Cook within, and well that’s what came out, I wrote about my very own Marcus and his knee caps story.

But the problem isn’t Dane Cook. Why would such an obvious problem stop there with me? Yes kids, we are going to dissect my problem until nothing is left but bad puns and reflections on why GOD spelled backwards is DOG.

So the problem is, I have the sponge like ability to withhold people’s mannerism, their quirks and so forth. That’s right I can steal their essence. This means accents, hand gestures, even expressions. I usually loose it after a few hours. Still, if I’m talking to a Brit I suddenly live in a flat with a malfunctioning lift. After watching a Robin Williams comedy special I will feel it necessary to make Elmer Fudd jokes. And when I talk to Cornelius, my born again office mime, no invisible door will remained closed.

I have a pornographic need to apply what I’ve just learnt.

Nevertheless, I have learnt how to consciously fight it, but it’s a battle. And right now, I’ve won. This is it, this is just me. This is my essence. I found my significance. I am an individual who has no idea how to end this post properly. You see I’m terrible at goodbyes.

So I will leave you on this and save you the puns and hippy metaphors:

If you’ve had a bad day, and end up driving home in traffic, look around inside the cars around you. If you're lucky you’ll find someone picking their nose. And there’s nothing like watching somebody elbow deep in nose goblins to make you forget about your day.

And that my friends, is my essence. Snot jokes.

Paperclip Bonanza

“The printer’s making a new wheezing noise, I think it’s trying to tell me something.”

“The printer’s speaking to you again?” said Cornelius.

I’m fresh out of university, and now I’ve just had my first casual conversation about toner.

Living in a cubicle for eight hours a day has changed my life in more ways than one. I’ve learned a few survival techniques only applicable where paper cuts and power points are king and all it takes is a paper jam to ruin a perfectly good day of make-shift paperclips arts & crafts.

A few things I’ve picked up:

- Switching the “m” and “n” keys on somebody’s keyboard will provide hours of entertainment.

- If you’re late for lunch, do not go to the break room. Invariably, your friends will have left and you’ll be stuck trying not to make eye contact with said token creepy guy because you know he’ll start sharing bizarre bits of information with you, like whether or not you knew babies are born without knee caps. Then, he’ll invite you to a private viewing of his human hair collection.

- Don’t make googly eyes at the token office pretty boy/girl – he/she can see you off the reflection of his monitor.

- During a client meeting, after somebody says, “this quarter is going to be a long and hard one,” it is not appropriate to interject, “that’s what she said.”

- It is appropriate to make offerings to the printer gods if you wish to have your work printed on time.

And so here I am talking to a printer.

“I’m sad that my job has reduced me to rubbing a printer inappropriately in the hopes that it will punch holes on the side of the page I need it to.”

And just then, right before a little piece inside of me died a little bit, Cornelius said, “Yes but without this job you would have never learnt that babies are born without knee caps.”

And now friends, you know it too.

F*ck yah.