Thursday, July 30, 2009

Today M. is grumpy.

I ask what she wants to hear people say about her when she is globally famous.

"I don't give a flying bird what people say about me." she replies. "I don't care."

Perhaps M. is grumpy because I mentioned that men and women generally think differently. M. strongly disagrees. She believes people have different layers, regardless of their sex, and she does not think men and women use their brains to process information differently from one other. She has a valid point.

We let the issue drop.

One of our co-workers was interviewed on the news last night so M. re-classified her as a "famous" person. The co-worker was also an extra in a film.

M: "She is famous, Jake. She was in a movie."

Me: "Does that make you famous for knowing her?"

M: "Yes! I am almost as famous as Paris Hilton's friends." (She smiles really big!)

Me: "Is that how it works?"

M: "Of course that's how it works, Jake. When you go to Vegas and win millions of dollars on Poker, you'll remember me because we're friends. I'll be sitting in my living room like this" (she leans back in her chair and puts her feet on the desk) "because I'm recovering from liposuction, and I'll ask myself, 'What should I do first, watch TV in the bathtub, or sit by the fireplace?' (She snaps her fingers) "'The fireplace!' Of course, I hope it's winter, otherwise I'll be really hot."

M. is so pleased with this thought that she instinctively attempts to give me the Psychology Today magazine. (It never gets old.) "No thank you, M." I tell her. "I would read it, but it smells like it's been down someone's pants."

M. practices signing autographs to herself. She takes a red inked felt tip pen and writes frantically on a small pad of white paper.

M: "I'm going to be original and write, 'To M. with heart,' instead of 'To M. with love."

She scribbles in exaggerated circles for several seconds then finishes with a hard tap of the pen against the pad before showing it to me. Before I see anything, she jerks the pad back and hides it like buried treasure. Then she reads it aloud. "To M. with heart!" She kisses the tip of her finger and touches the paper. "Some famous people kiss the paper, but I am original so I do this." She kisses her finger again and touches the pad. "See?"

She shows me the paper. It is very impressive. M., however, scrutinizes the way she signed her name. "I don't like that signature." She stands up, walks to the paper shredder and disposes of her work. She sits back down and starts afresh.

M: "I need something more... JAKE! How does God sign his name?"

Me: "On TV he signs his name with a lightning bolt."

M: "Haha! Hey... you are onto something!"

She signs her full name with a lightning bolt in place of where the "s" should be. "Yes!" she exclaims. "Check it out. Huh? Huh?"

When I see it, a strange sensation sweeps over me. Typically, I feel one of two things when M. and I goof around like this.

1.) I'm 8 years old.

2.) I'm part of the Carol Burnett Show.

For some reason just then, I felt both.

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