I have nothing at all interesting to say about St. Patrick’s Day. I had hoped to wrangle it into a serviceable column topic, latching onto the timeliness of the whole thing, and then not have to dip into my well of mediocre ideas.

Except that the topic of St. Patrick’s Day is turning out to itself be a mediocre idea.

Sure, as a single woman, I’m sure you’d all expect that I could regale you with tales of debauchery and wild, carefree antics involving wearing inappropriate things as hats, or testing to see if watermelon burns well.

There are many roads that lead to a joyful, drunken stupor. Just a few steps further, there’s a narrow footpath toward suffering the same fate as a Spinal Tap drummer. The majority of these roads begin with the consumption of something much more flammable than watermelon. I’m a disappointment for those looking to have their antics vicariously through me. There’s little to tell. This weekend I have consumed nothing either fermented or green. I’m regretting the “not green” part. I really should’ve at least eaten a vegetable.

With the drinking portion of the holiday a bust, I could try and dredge up all of the other cliches inherent to the holiday for comedic effect, but, I remain unconvinced that there is any new ground to cover here. Is there any such thing as a new leprechaun joke? Haven’t they all been done to death? (The jokes, not the leprechauns. The leprechauns are fine, I’m sure. They’re all protecting their lucky charms and pots of gold, and doing whatever leprechauns do, making shoes or mischief or bad horror movies.)

Maybe I can find some snake-related material. I don’t typically find snakes hilarious, and jokes relating to serpents tend to turn into something less-than-family-friendly. Probably better if I save the handful of family-friendly snake jokes for Whacking Day (May 10). Naturally, if you’re not a native of Springfield, you’re probably thinking I’ve already bid the notion of “family-friendly” adieu.

In general, I’m in favor of wearing green. It’s a good color on me. I am not in favor of the pinching those who forgot to wear green. I suspect this horrible tradition was started by grade-school bullies who wanted yet another excuse to terrorize their classmates. And those rotten kids could really pinch hard. I think they practice all year.

I’m starting to sound like a St. Patrick’s Day grinch. I’ve somehow lost the true meaning of the holiday. I’m probably one “bah-humbug” away from a visit by three Irish spirits, each wearing different whiskey labels. They’ll insist on step-dancing to traditional music, while balancing baskets full of corned beef with cabbage and potatoes on their heads, and asking me about my boxty baking abilities.

I swear I’ve not had a drop of anything all day.

I might’ve underestimated that “nothing” I had to say about St. Patrick’s Day.

I am hoping to get your help with a little mystery that’s been haunting me all week. I’m crossing my fingers that if I share it with you, that it will finally leave me alone.
It started with a harmless trip to the grocery store. As I got to the sidewalk, 25 feet from the entrance, I noticed a scattering of flower shrapnel covering a small three-foot blast radius.

I surveyed the curious litter. The flowers were the sort found in bouquets. A thoroughly tattered stem bent in many angles lay at least a foot from the nearest bloom. Orange lily parts dotted the banks of snow. A smushed white chrysanthemum-y blossom stared at me with its dead eyes, the violent tragedy silently screaming at me from its muddy resting place. Spots of color from no longer identifiable flowers caught my eye from every direction.

I stood there for a few seconds, and moved along, trying to pretend I hadn’t noticed, that I was immune to the horrors of dismemberment. Even with the scene behind me, I couldn’t shake the images. They compelled me to consider the circumstances that led to such carnage.

I tried to make sense of the scene. The remains didn’t add up to a complete bouquet. What if someone had spent their last $20 on the bouquet to brighten the room of a dying friend, only to carelessly pack the car, where it shifted, spilling a few of the exquisite blossoms to the ground? Did he even notice? I imagined the moment when he did notice, and felt his pain that the gift was had been so diminished, with such a keen sense of loss.

As I entered the store, I saw the displays of fresh flowers, happily beaming at me from their racks, ignorant of the fate that befell their cousin a mere feet away. Their joy mocked me.

My thoughts moved to another, more violent scenario, where the bouquet had been wielded like a club against a would-be mugger, or maybe as a weapon in a lovers quarrel.

I tried to put it out of my mind, and succeeded, until, I was passing the spot on the way back to the car. Again, I was overcome by the sadness of the spoilt flowers.

I got to the car, and told myself it was beyond ridiculous to get emotionally involved in a bunch of flowers, and put them out of my mind.

Until I realized that I had failed to get several items on the list I hadn’t actually made. Probably, I was too shaken by the tragedy that only existed in my head. This happens more often than I’d care to admit.

Once again, I had to stop at the store, and again I had to pass the scene which haunts me to this very day. The white mum-y bloom was in the same spot, affected by another 24 hours of decay. The orange lily shards had blown away, but the stem remained, broken into additional parts, scattered by more foot traffic. New scenarios filled my brain, each more horrible than the last.

There are days when I am jealous of people who can ignore the mysteries and inspirational story material lurking around every corner. Today is not one of those days. Because, although I have probably been more bothered by the ruined flowers than the person who bought them, I admit that I was grateful to have something to put in this week’s column.

 As you might be aware, the Oscars are today.  In general, I’m in favor of celebrating the contributions of people who lie for a living, my sister pointed out there are almost as many awards shows for makers of movies as there are makers of movies.

With so many opportunities for Hollywood to pat itself on the back for making millions of dollars, it reminds me of the neighborhood pet shows where every pet, and its proud owner, gets a prize.  “Awww, did Rusty stay awake for the whole show? Here’s a medal!”

You are probably thinking that I’m only saying this because of some sort of misplaced sour grapes. And, you would be right. If I had manage to produce anything that resembles a movie.

Instead, I’m thinking of all the people who don’t get awards shows to pat them on the back. The people who manage to drag themselves out of bed on a cold and snowy morning, shovel a foot of show down 20 feet of concrete, drive three hours to work, and still arrive on time. These are the people that stay all day at their posts, and then drive 3 hours back home. These are the people who deserve a shiny, gold, naked guy on their mantel.

Where are the awards for those that excel at the Cubicle Arts?

They don’t sound glamorous, but, I suggest that the reason they sound so mind-numbingly drab is because they don’t have their own awards show, complete with red carpet and snarky commentators.

I can see the Memmys, awards granted by the Academy of Office Arts and Sciences for achievements in the field of office work, start to gain momentum and a following among the aficionados of office trades.

I can see many important categories, like “Best Presentation,” which allows nominations of any meeting, team building exercise, or proposal in which none of the attendees fell asleep, let their attention wander, or disappeared in a flurry of mass non-attendance by virtue of fake dentist appointments, looming deadlines, and/or suspicious eruptions of dead relatives.

Other potential categories include “Best Workers” in both supporting and lead roles, and “Best CEO.”

For those that are more talented with behind-the-scenes contributions, there could be awards for achievements in memo writing. Perhaps separate awards for “Best Original Memo” and “Best Adapted Memo.”

Once the Memmys get established, I expect there will be new awards shows to honor all sorts of skills and talents. Finally, people who don’t make millions will be recognized for their contributions.

The downside here is that there will probably be awards shows every weekend. Inevitably, there will be true award show fatigue, and with everyone getting an award, even if they’re spectacularly mediocre, no one will feel much like it means all that much anymore.

That’s sad.

Okay, new plan. Only one new award. This one is for “Best Short Weekly Humor Writing by a person whose name rhymes with “Fate Warns.” Gold naked statue and a truckload of cash is an acceptable prize. And you all will totally get thanked in my acceptance speech.

There are many times when I want to blame a weeks worth of procrastination on my not getting a column written until the deepest hours of Monday morning on the slate of good shows that all happen to be on Sunday night. (Shhhhhh… not late, it’s still Sunday if I’ve not gone to bed yet.)

I find it hard to cope with a world where the worst night of TV is now the best.Well, after Wednesday. And maybe Monday. Have you been following “The Following?”

Sunday used to be about Hallmark movies with ushy gushy saccharine sentimentality. It was appointment TV — if you count making an appointment to do anything else. There was also Wild Kingdom, and The Wonderful World of Disney, which punches all nostalgia buttons, but really doesn’t do anything on the must-see-o-meter.

Now it’s filled with a wide range of good stuff. There’s Downton Abbey and zombies and racing around the world and Disney-ified fairy tales. There is too much goodness for such a small night, and too few options for time shiftiness. They probably waited until I had chosen Sunday as my column deadline night, and then scheduled all their best content for that night.

To add insult to that injury, the networks in their infinite desire to annoy and collect prime ad revenue, put all the special events on Sundays. I’m looking at you, Oscars, Emmys and the Super Bowl.

I wish I could say that I am a disciplined writer who never makes the elementary mistake of trying to write with the TV on. Well, I could say it. In fact, I just did. And because it’s written, it must be true. Unless it’s fiction.

Where was I? Right. Lying about always writing in a distraction free zone.

Lying is probably a slight misrepresentation of my numerous shortcomings.

Do I always write the column at the last minute with the TV blaring in the background? No. Has that been known to occur? I suggest you stop asking questions now.

In point of fact, my immense shame at not getting a new column sent last weekend has sparked a twinge of penitent behavior. I wrote most of this over my lunch break. Long-hand. No TV. No computer. No Internet. No interruptions.

Of course, since I had most of all this written, I didn’t bother to get onto the “sending” portion of the evening until, well, after midnight. Even though I know that things go much better when I don’t procrastinate, I was living comfortably in the little house of confident denial I had built out of my almost finished work, This is the happy place where I told myself I had nothing to worry about, everything was done! Finishing it will take only 15 minutes, and I can go about the business of not thinking about the column. Three hours later, I’m finally wrapping it up, but, with no picture.

Worse? I didn’t even watch the zombies tonight.

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I’ve discovered that a fair number of the top young adult novels are dystopias. You know, on the surface everyone’s happy and well-adjusted, but the cost of these peaceful, happy societies is simple things like freedom and individuality.  Usually, these worlds have grown up out of the ruins of our failures, and grown into well-functioning communities built on the judicious application of mind altering drugs, fear mongering, or strict punishment for any rule infractions.

And, while we’re not supposed to want to live in these horrible places where there are no books, or where everyone’s pretty, and all they have to worry about is parties and what to wear, I admit to being tempted by some of the good things they offer.

Take for example the food.

In all of these worlds, food is not only plentiful, it’s organic, and locally grown. No one is overweight. Even better, in the vast majority of the settings, the food is delivered magically by technology, or by people whose job it is to prepare and deliver the food.  At any hour of the day, warm, flavorful food is just a simple request away.  No one worries about affording groceries, paper vs. plastic, processed foods and chemicals verses fresh ingredients, and no one spends one brain cell on what to have for dinner. Sign me up.

Money is completely gone in these “backwards” societies. Since every member of the community gets fed, clothed and housed, money is irrelevant, which means no more Ponzi schemes, lotteries, taxes or fiscal cliffs.

Then, there’s the convention where the community assigns you your role. That’s right. They give you a job based upon your aptitudes and interests and the needs of the whole community. Awesome! No floundering around trying to figure out what you can do well enough to make a living, and yet doesn’t make you want to peel your own fingernails off. Plus, no job interviews or unemployment, and you are automatically making a meaningful and valuable contribution for the whole society. Sure, you might only get to live to middle age because the community rules “put you out to pasture” at a relatively young age, but, none of your years were spent worrying about retirement, making a difference, or getting a promotion.

And, don’t worry about picking a spouse. Nope. Your community’s got you covered. So long as you don’t have congenital defects, they’ll assign you a suitable mate. None of the inconvenience of dating, the pain of rejection, or lying on your online dating profile, they’ll hook you up with someone compatible. No one has to go through life without someone to help get the stuff off the top shelf, or kill the spiders, or take out the trash.

There’s no use thinking the perfect world is just a cataclysm away, or that it even exists. I’ll just be glad I’ve got books and freedom to take risks and worry about groceries.

Well, at least I’ve got books.

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Adults aren’t supposed to have imaginary friends. I suspect that it doesn’t matter if the “friend” in question was actually a real person. Possibly, that makes it worse. Yes, I’m well aware that there is a fine line between “creative” and “crazy.”

I’m going to tell you about my good friend, Ben Franklin.

Yes, I know he’s been dead for centuries. No, I never actually see him. Yes, I know he’s in my mind. No, I don’t care that he’s not really there.

Ben comes around from time to time, and I show him the sights, or explain to him the miracles of today’s world. I’ve told him all about air travel and explained the concept of “lift.” He asks millions of questions. Should I be concerned that Ben will find out he’s smarter than me? I suspect he already knows this but is using me for information.

When he asks me something I don’t know or can’t remember, I just put in a bunch of authoritative sounding technobabble, “Yeah, those flaps are where they put the phlebotinum they found in the unobtainum mines of Pandora. It makes the double isopropyl diaphoniscope rotate the lift generating oscillation elevator to propel the plane forward.” That worked great until he asked me to give him a demonstration.

I’ve told him all about the practical applications of electricity, and all the things we use it to do. I figured he’d love knowing the places his experiments led, because if I’d invented something, I’d want to know, even if I was dead. Besides, maybe one day, when he’s soaked up our technology, he’ll slip me a brilliant idea I can pass off as my own and make into millions.

He’s never fearful of new ideas, and he never argues with me that these things could never be. Not like that jerk Nathanial Hawthorne. He says I’m lying and that my life of comfort and sloth is the work of the devil. He doesn’t visit any more.

Just last week, Ben showed up and demanded I tell him about computers. He had found out about the Internet from some other imaginary people, and felt hurt that I hadn’t told him about it before. He said, he thought we were friends, and that I’d been holding out on him.

I sighed.

I told him I wasn’t sure if he were ready for the Internet, and wasn’t sure if he’d be all that interested. He told me that he’d be the judge of that.

So, I told Ben Franklin all about computers, and networking and applications. I glossed over social networking and didn’t tell him about Nigerian spammers, “naughty pictures,” and trolls. There was a long digression about phones, since I’d also failed to mention these simultaneous voice transmission modules, or that distance no longer mattered for instantaneous communication. Talking with Ben is exhausting.

I often learn a good deal from our talks. Ben has taught me more than almost anyone on the planet, and I hope he’ll still speak to me after I let slip the plot of the first National Treasure movie. He was pretty offended about the whole thing. I can’t say I blame him.

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On Thursday, a new reality show premieres on TBS, and it fills me with worry.

I am worried about the consequences for the nerd-adjacent geek subcultures, which are, as you might have gathered, near and dear to my heart.

While the distinctions between “nerd” and “geek” can be blurry from the outside, there are important distinctions. These are not important for understanding my concerns, in fact, the tendency for people to confuse the two is at the root of my anxiety.

Back to the show. It’s called “The King of the Nerds,” and sets a group of self-identified nerd types against each other to compete for this title, which, I’m not certain is an honor.

The contestants seem to fit the worst notions of nerd-kind. They are socially awkward and interested in obscure and easily ridiculed hobbies.

Like the not-so-real housewives, or the unfortunate Boo Boo, this show’s entire premise is built around the audience feeling superior to the collection of oddities parading in front of them, like caged creatures at the zoo. This attitude sustains the images of the geek (or nerd) as circus sideshow act, biting heads off of live chickens or displaying atypical anatomical characteristics. It’s time to bury those connotations.

Sure, I like to gawk at car crashes as much as the next person, but, I am far too committed to the cause of geek-rights to see this contest as a positive step for geek/non-geek relations.

There have been great strides over the last few years. Superhero movies have become decidedly mainstream, as have vampires and hobbits. This thawing of cold-war hostilities between the once constantly ridiculed fans of board games, or comic books, or fantasy and science fiction has made me feel hope that one day, all the geek flavors will be able to live in harmony not just with each other, but, with the people whose pastimes and affinities don’t earn them so much as a raised eyebrow when mentioned in public places.

This new show looks to be a one-way ticket back to the bad old days when the geeks and the nerds suffered for their unorthodox affinities. With each promo, the nerds of the competition are profiled, and my heart hurts for these people who seem unaware of how awkward they appear, or how the show is playing that for laughs.

In addition to the title, there is a cash prize of $100,000.  Is that worth trading your dignity and the rising acceptance of nerd-kind in the wider world?  Shouldn’t we demand more from those with whom we share a common bond of odd hobbies and public humiliation? Shouldn’t we expect each other to have our collective backs, and not try and compete amongst ourselves?

Is this a bad time for me to point out that winning a contest with such a small nerd sampling hardly qualifies the winner as King (or possibly Queen) of anything? For the title to mean anything, it should be much more rigorous than that. Will the non-contestant nerds acknowledge the title as valid?  Does pointing out these flaws move me from the ranks of geek to the crowds of nerds?

It’s probably a bad sign that I’m really starting to be tempted by that $100,000 prize.  And with only 11 contestants, the odds are pretty good.

I really need to stop thinking about this.

I don’t know about you, but now that the holidays are over, I’m suffering from a bit of post-apocalypse letdown.

Once the initial disappointment faded, I was seized with the realization that I no longer had the end of the world to blame for my failure to get my Christmas shopping completed. The blinding panic of trying to get everything done in a few short days  meant I was suitably distracted from the weight of the soul-crushing calamity of the continuation of the status-quo.

After the flurry of last-minute shopping and task completion stopped, it was the holiday itself. Work was forgotten, and I settled in for a few days of navigating the nuances of family dynamics, and the overly stimulating cacophony of sugar, expectations (some exceeded, others falling short), and underwhelming nostalgia.

And then, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself, and the enormity of the sad continuation of the world fell onto my all-too-squishy head.

I had planned to be happily occupied with re-building society, or securing sources of food and water, and suddenly my schedule was free of patrolling and food collection duties. It was strange and confusing, and required me to completely shift focus.

It is much harder to prioritize your daily tasks when you aren’t starving or freezing from the standard end-of-the world utility loss.

I contemplated the notion of putting together a to-do list for my time away from the office. I am an inveterate creator of lists. My lists have lists. I once listed myself on an informal list of those most likely to make a list, and then made a list of all the rich and famous people who made lists, and wondered if I’d ever be able to put myself on that list.

Legitimately on the list that is. I could easily cheat, and on write my name on there, but, it loses some appeal as a list if it’s not authentic.

While I was contemplating the listing of lists, I sorta dozed off. When I woke in surprise, I sheepishly decided to put “take a nap” on my to-do list.

The to-do list got very long, which is pretty typical for me. I just stared at it. The words looked something like hieroglyphics, and upon reviewing it, they conveyed no meaning to my brain.

Ironically, later, I realized one of the items on the list was “learn hieroglyphics.”

Admittedly, I didn’t get very far on that list. As soon as work started again, I pulled out the list. It no longer looked like the walls of an Egyptian tomb, but it led me to an attack of panic again. It was clear that I was in exactly the same predicament as I was following the failed apocalypse. I was without an excuse for falling painfully, woefully, behind.

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For the single person, New Year’s is the second most depressing holiday. The first, of course is Valentine’s Day, which is old news..

There’s much anticipation about having a kiss at midnight, to welcome in the New Year. I suspect that the champagne bottle is not an acceptable choice. It saddens me, because he’s always available, and looks good in black.

There’s also the part about midnight that’s daunting. You mean, I have to stay up until 12:00? They still have one of those in the middle of the night? Don’t they know I have to get up really early?

It seems like a young person’s idea of a perfect holiday, get dressed up, eat a bunch of almost-food that they will not have to worry about giving them any sort of digestive distress, drink until the lampshade looks like a hat, get sentimentally smoochie at midnight, which is still early, and then make a bunch of noise, light firecrackers, and then sleep the day away.

I vaguely remember the appeal of that.

Now, I’m thinking staying out of the cold, wearing my cozy pajamas, and going to bed at a reasonable hour sounds really nice. Having an array of special, festive snacky things might be okay, too. I could watch a movie. Aside from “special, festive” food choices, this is starting to sound like any Friday night.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I don’t snack too much on Friday nights, festive foods or not. Movies are not typical, either, unless you count having it on in the background while I stare at the computer. Yeah, me neither.

Maybe, I could go to bed at the usual time, and set an alarm for midnight so I can kiss the champagne bottle, and then, roll over and go back to sleep. That might work. I do get to sleep in the next day, after all.

It’s possible I’m getting too old for that, and it wouldn’t do to get stuck doing that again this year. I should mix it up a bit. Maybe find some other beverage to kiss, like maybe some diet soda. Fewer calories, and still bubbly. Cheaper, too. Certainly, something to consider.

Maybe I should be sociable. I could have some friends over, we could break out some board games. Sure, most of them have kids who they have to put in bed before midnight. That’s not a problem, we could have a sleep over! The kids can have sleeping bags in the office, and the parents can crash in my living room, and we’ll all bring in the New Year together!

Nope, not at all pathetic.

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