If the US is famous for anything, it’s for being a country of extremes and contradictions: the Mojave Desert right next to Los Angeles, a democracy ruled by religious fanatics, the filthy rich and the wretchedly poor, the sins of Las Vegas and the purity of the Quakers. And now a recent study conducted by the US Department of Agriculture adds one more extreme to that list: a country overstuffed with both the obese and the starving. America’s penchant for pudginess is common knowledge throughout the world: According to the American Heart Association, 65.1% of us are overweight and a gut-busting 30.4% are obese – nearly one in every three.

That’s hardly shocking news from the land of fast food, SUVs and television. What is shocking, however, is that our gluttonous behavior isn’t quite practiced by everyone. An equally embarrassing and alarming 38.2 million Americans – among them 14 million children – “suffer directly from hunger and food insecurity” according to the USDA analysis, accounting for 13% of the population (article here).

Chew on that for a while; it’s hard to swallow.

It is Tuesday. Katrin and I are meeting with friends at a bar for happy hour. This is not typical for a Tuesday, but these are our fun friends, so we can not say no. We arrive late. We always arrive late. They are at the far end of the bar, seated at a cozy, round table with two empty chairs. When we walk in they are laughing very hard. Stefan sees us and waves. I wave back.

Cocktail #1: We think this is a great idea, this getting together in the middle of the week. Why must we wait for the weekend? One cocktail on a Tuesday evening – We are young! Yes, we are still young and we can handle a cocktail for half price on a Tuesday evening. After all, what is the alternative? TV and then to bed? Never! Sebastian is inspired, “Hey, Side Door has happy hour every Wednesday.” “And Aqua Lounge every Thursday,” Susi says. We lift our glasses, “To happy hour!”

Cocktail #2: We are in the middle of a weighty discussion about The Situation of The World Today. Just then, a young woman carrying a bulky shoulder bag approaches us. In her hands is a stack of contest entry forms. “Would anyone here like to win a brand-new sports car?” she asks cheerfully while passing out the forms. Ina is incensed at her insensitivity to The Situation of The World Today. “Are you crazy?” She throws back the rest of her Raspberry Debonaire. “Not at these gas prices!”

Cocktail #3: I now love everyone. I love my friends, who find the hour as happy as I do. I love Katrin, who, because she is driving, has had no cocktails but still finds happiness in hot tea. I love the other patrons, who have been thoughtful enough to play the role of lively-background-atmosphere – and have done a commendable job of it. I even love the waiter, who, despite a full house, has not missed a beat, seamlessly replacing freshly emptied glasses with new, full ones. For this reason, it is easy to forgive him for not hearing Katrin order another tea as he returns to the bar with our orders. She stands to tell him, but I stop her, “No, let me go,” I offer chivalrously. “I am filled with love for him.”

I go to the bar. The waiter sees me and comes to me. “Hey,” I say all casual-like, because in my world we are already friends, have already bonded over the course of three magnificent cocktails. His face is stern but pleasant. I bet he has a good sense of humor. We should hang out sometime, exchange one-liners over a few pilsners. “Could you put a tea on that order, too?” and then take a load off and have a drink with us ol’ buddy, my white-Russian muddled mind almost makes me add. I wait for the acknowledging wink-and-a-nod reserved for all regulars and close friends – you betcha, Chris! – but it does not come. Instead, his brow furrows. “Tea?” he asks, clearly puzzled. “What kind of tea do you want?” His tone indicates that we are not friends. What kind of tea? “Oh, I don’t know,” I say, keepin’ it light, “an herbal tea is fine.” He doesn’t respond immediately, but his head begins to jerk about in spasmodic, bird-like motions – Data from the first season of The Next Generation. “Just an herbal tea?”

Oh, no.

“How am I supposed to understand just an herbal tea?”

Here it comes. I brace myself, gripping the edge of the bar for support.

“We have twenty kinds of herbal tea in this establishment, each one vastly different from the next. Your vague request doesn’t tell me anything in the least. What do you want? Should I prepare twenty cups of tea, place them on a tray, bring them to you and wait for you to make a selection? You have to understand, dear guest, that the family of herbal teas is quite complex and….

It’s too late. I have fallen into the trap once again. I have mistaken his courteousness for friendliness, his efficiency for a desire to please. And like so many times before, I have reached out only to be rejected. When will I learn? He has no interest in getting to know me, takes no pleasure in creating an enjoyable atmosphere; it is simply his job. I forgot this once again and am now paying for it. The waiter is in full lecture mode. In fact, he is no longer a waiter at all, but has morphed into a university professor right before my eyes. It is a phenomenon I have witnessed countless times since I’ve been in this country, yet have still not figured out how to prevent or stop once it’s begun. I can only stand there, white-knuckling the edge of the bar, as Herr Professor Dr. Tea holds a doctoral-level lecture on the finer points of herbal tea. When he is finished and looks down upon me triumphantly over the rim of his reading glasses, I am completely deflated.

“Mint.”

“Of couse. Right away.”

I return to the table. I have no more love to give. For the others the good times keep rolling, but my hour of happiness is up. The waiter sets our drinks on the table, treating Katrin’s tea with demonstrative care. “Your mint herbal tea,” he announces politely, and I hate him for it.

As has become my habit of late, I decided to take the shocking news from Katrin while sitting wet and naked in the bathtub. The shocking news, whether good or bad, must always be conveyed over the telephone, which I take with me into the bathroom when showering in case someone calls with a job offer. But I have yet to receive a translation offer while sitting wet and naked in the bathtub. Instead I learn things: Katrin has been offered a job on the spot during one of countless interviews in Dresden; my father, on his 70th birthday, underwent emergency surgery and almost died; The Typing Chimps will not be awarded the “Website That Makes Us Smile” prize once again.

I had just soaped up and was about to rinse all the suds and dirt down the drain, when the phone sitting on the hamper next to the tub rang. I set the shower head down and answered. It was Katrin. Won’t she get a kick out of this when I tell her I’m wet and naked in the bathtub. Won’t she laugh hard with me when I paint the picture of her poor husband sitting in the tub with a phone to his ear (it’s wet!) and soap in his eyes. Boy, won’t we laugh. Won’t she laugh.

Won’t she?

“Where are you?” she asked.

Ha ha, here it comes! She couldn’t have set it up any better. I couldn’t have expected a better intro to the killer line that’s coming next. We’ll bust a gut over it, she and I, and then I’ll act like my situation is far more desperate than it really is. I’ll shiver. I’ll tell her my eyes are burning and I’m freezing, sitting here like this on the phone, and we’ll think it’s so funny.

I paused a few seconds – for effect – and then let her have it: “Who, me? Oh, well, you just – ha ha – you just happened to catch me in the – of all places – in the bathtub!”

Let the hilarity ensue! I set the tone with a super-charged burst of laughter to let her know how really funny this whole situation is. Go on, laugh your head off at my expense; it’s okay. Look at me, I’m taking it all in stride – whoa-ho!

Katrin didn’t laugh.

Maybe she hadn’t heard me. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Maybe she-

“…am about to lose my job,” I heard her choked-up voice say, and in that second I decided never to answer the phone in the tub again. Where the hell do I get off answering the phone there in the first place? Does anyone talk on the phone in the tub anymore? I mean, it seems so Dallas – J.R. sitting in a bubble bath with a glass of scotch, a ten-gallon hat and a telephone - Well sell the stocks and have his legs broken, goddammit, I’m exfoliating!

This was serious. I listened. Serious-Chris listened as Katrin told the whole confused story about the job she’d had for 5 months: politics at work – only a probationary period – boss’s friend’s son needs a job. The actors. The details. The drama.

I could feel the soap suds drying on my back, popping like a thousand little plans we’d made for the future, now that we were together in Dresden again and she finally had a job – had had a job. If I had answered the phone anywhere other than here in the bathroom – in the bathtub of all places – it would have been another software company with a user’s manual to translate; it would have been a friend inviting me to a party; it would have been a wrong number. It would not have been the end of yuppy-class life as I knew it.

I began to shiver. It was getting late. Katrin needed to hear itisgoingtobeallrightwearegoingtoworkthisout, so I said it, thinking wearesofucked. Suddenly I was acutely aware that I had to work in forty-five minutes, and if I was late, I could lose my job too, and then we’d have to start looking for a bridge on the nice end of town with a pretty view and running water.

The suds had completely dried, sealing me in a concentrated scum that practically chipped when I moved. Hadn’t we been talking recently about the possibility of my teaching less to make time for other interests? Wasn’t the word ‘baby’ slipping into our conversations with more frequency – and casualness? Hadn’t we just offered a sacrifice to the life-is-unfair gods in the form of a two-year, long-distance marriage?

Sick sick sick! Her boss let us sweat for a week wondering if she was going to have a job next month or not. Then, in a five-minute meeting, she was informed that she would not lose her job and they were extremely pleased with her work. If I ever see that guy on the street, I’m gonna… I’m gonna give him a look so dirty, he’ll have to shower for a week to wash it off. Uh-huh.

Okay, fine. Maybe I should sell some of the Duran records. It’s just so hard to let go! Especially when I went to such pains to collect them. But I suppose they could give joy to someone else now. They could give me joy, too, by ensuring that I can pay my heating bills.

This brings me, in a sense, to my latest topic. I’m applying for a job. Yes, kids, a real, salaried, has-benefits, grown-up job! It’s even teaching anthropology! In my area! And I don’t need a doctorate to do it! Can you believe it?! Neither can I. Something must be wrong with it. I’ll get in there and they’ll tell me that my students are all bussed in from the Department of Corrections Seriously-Disturbed Serial Killer Ward or something. Well, it is at a community college, which some purists in my field would look down upon because it’s not a “research institution.” Frankly, I’m at a loss as to what all the existential, empowering, knowledge-expanding “research” we supposedly do at my current institution has done for me. I mean, I’m still eating Ramen noodles for dinner. Yeah, I know, I’m an unsophisticated boob for thinking in such mundane, materialistic terms. Boo, me. Oh well, I can live–in a much improved manner!– with the stigma.

Anyway, wish me luck. I always screw up something at the application/interview level, especially when it’s a job I really want.

Look! at the tiny houses! Did I post this already? I don’t think so. I love them, especially the ones down at the bottom of the page: the Bungalow in particular. This is the house I want! With a basement, of course. Yes, it’s small, but you could have it built exactly to your own specifications. Wouldn’t that be nice. Land prices, I’m learning, are higher than you think they’re going to be. Oh well.

Anybody doing anything for Halloween? For the first time I can remember, I don’t have any real plans for a costume or something to go to on Halloween. We’ll have Pumpkin Carving at my parent’s house, then probably watch a movie at Hultgren Haus on the night people get dressed up and walk around downtown. We live close by so people often park at our house and walk down. I like to be able to offer doughnuts, cider, and a cheesy movie to weary travelers. No costume this year. I feel like such a slacker. This is, after all, my favorite holiday. It is far superior to Christmas or Valentine’s Day, certainly.

Finally, my apologies for any spelling errors. Can you spellcheck these things before you post them? I can’t figure it out and years of relying on the unseen hand of Word (which sounds vaguely religious or at least cult-like) have made me a terrible on-the-spot speller.

%^$#@!!! For the second time (that I know of) my roommate has taken it upon himself to drive his car NOT down our driveway and into the street like a normal person, but through the neighbor’s yard. This car is a Grand Marquis, it’s not like it’s a mini cooper or something petite. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I know what I’m thinking. It’s never okay to drive over your neighbor’s lawn! Unless your neighbor is your uncle…AND your dad, if you know what I mean.

STOP THAT!

*sigh* This just isn’t working out the way I’d hoped. Mainly, I’d hoped not to spend my Saturdays constructing crude fences out of nearby tree branches to discourage my roomie from taking the road less travelled.

In other news, should I let go of my teens and finally sell my Duran Duran records? I have a lot of good stuff–I spent a LOT of time and energy building this collection, let me tell you. I have some fantastic rarities, from the Japanese cassette version of Tiger Tiger to the Thank You album on vinyl to the black satin concert jacket from 1983. The funny thing is that when I was collecting, I would just pick up anything that had to do with Duran Duran–whether I actually wanted to listen to it or not. Now, a lot of that stuff that I didn’t care about and pulled out of the dollar bin at good ol’ Used Kids Records in Columbus is worth $25-50. Go figure. The stuff I hunted down and squealed with glee over is worth next to nothing. Damn eBay!

Anf finally, just a word of warning: if, while in the video store, you see a movie called It’s All About Love with Joaquin Phoenix and Clare Danes and think “hmmm, this looks pretty good”…back away slowly. Do not pick it up unless forced to do so by armed guerilla fighter-types who happen to be raiding the local Hollywood Video. Seriously, it’s that bad.

A door slams in the waiting room. A great stir moves among the seated patients.

“Oh my goodness!”

“That wasn’t necessary!”

“Certainly gave me a start!”

After relative calm is restored, The Door Slam, as it is dubbed, is recounted, discussed, analyzed. Those who come in after The Door Slam do not understand the fuss, but are promptly indoctrinated into the traditions and ways of the culture. Soon the event reaches legendary status.

“Were you here during The Door Slam?”

“No, but she was.”

A small, elderly woman sits along the wall. She is wise, a sage, the last of the generation that was there, that witnessed and survived The Door Slam. She is revered by the others, who know only the stories – some true, some not. “It was a madman,” it is said, “a raving lunatic who slammed that door. The glass shattered and two hulking attendants in white had to drag him out over the shards.” The old woman says little, but when she speaks, the waiting room grows deathly still.

“It was not a madman,” her voice a whisper, her words measured. “It was… a strong breeze.”