Tell Me About Yourself

No wonder nobody reads newspapers anymore.

I found this article in The Philadelphia Inquirer today. Its title: "The One Interview Question Many Dread." Funnily enough, "Tell me about yourself." isn't a question at all. But we'll let that slide. Because we're so nice here.

The article proceeds to describe the anguish and dread interviewees ostensibly feel when being presented with this bad boy at a job interview.

"Tell me about yourself."

In a series of thoroughly uninspired paragraphs, the writer goes on to advise folks in America who are currently seeking jobs (10.2%, last time I checked) on how to handle this non-question at a job interview, for those people who are lucky enough to land one.

"Be ready with your own personal 'mini commercial,'" the article wisely advises, "The message: hire me."

Well, no shit, brainiac. It's a job interview, not a lap-dance.

I've been on my fair share of job interviews in my life (I wish I could say I've been on more, actually) and I fail to see what is so hard about some dewy, balding prick from HR wearing a wrinkled Today's Man shirt-and-tie combo about yourself. After all, they're not asking you to recount the woeful tale of your first handjob or what you do in the basement at night when nobody else is home. Telling this schmeggegie about yourself is the whole fucking reason you're there, isn't it?

The problem, I suppose, comes when people feel the need to lie. Or "puff up." Or "exaggerate." Or any of the other colorful synonyms for "to lie" that you are privileged to know. Answering questions is only hard if you're not telling the truth. As long as you don't molest cats with frozen garden hoses or shit yourself to keep warm, I don't think telling someone about yourself at a job interview should be such a daunting and cataclysmic event. Get over yourself. You're just a loser like the rest of us, except that you happen to be an unemployed loser.

That's okay, though. I still love you. My little loser-boo.

One thing I am grateful for, though, that I realized after reading this article, is not that I have a job, but that I have a wife. I haven't been on many first dates in my life, but they're pretty unbearable by and large, and the main reason I feel that way is that you have to tell your life's story (edited for time constraints and content, of course) in some dark, noisy restaurant-- and that gets old fast. Like, after three minutes, I'm ready to thrust the salad fork into my adam's apple. Most peoples' lives are an amalgam of at least mildly entertaining anecdotes that have been retold at family dinners and social gatherings and in the local newspaper's police blotter that we tuck away and bring out once again on first dates-- to impress, to amuse, to engage, to prevent mass suicide and to indulge in the ritualized behaviors of "the first date."

You tell me about you, I'll pretend to listen while I look down your blouse.

I'll tell you about me, you'll pretend to listen while you stealthily look me up in the National Crime Information Center database on your Blackberry under the table.

For those of you out there who are still dating: I'm sorry.

For those of you out there looking for jobs: I'm very sorry.

That said, the dumb article I read said that your "personal mini commercial" should be no longer than 300 words. I thought I'd give it a try.

Ready? Here goes it:

Hi.

My name is Mr. Apron, but you can call me “Brotha.” I really want to work here because I am unemployed, and have been wearing the same underwear since last Thursday. I have exhausted my pantry’s food supply, except for a box of raisins, which nobody under the age of 87 eats of their own free will, and I have steadily moved on to raiding the dog food container for sustenance. The dog does not mind, as I ate him two days ago.

I think you should hire me because I make really good Xerox copies and my skin tastes good. Want to try? No? Okay.

See, what had happened was, I was born a long time ago. And my mom is a tree, so that’s kind of cool. Throughout my childhood I used to eat gravel and organize Edwardian costume balls on the playground at recess. In middle school, I got super interested in aeronautics. And synchronized vomiting. Unfortunately, I had to give that up when my parents told me that wasn’t an Olympic sport. I was bummed, but my teeth were rotting out of my head, so I guess it’s good I stopped.

Anywho, after I was excused from high school for coming to my Western Civ class dressed as Herman Goring, I decided to explore some career options. And my navel. I ended up inventing Silly String and the world’s first ever burlap thong panty, (last seen being modeled by Dr. Oz on the Oprah Winfrey Show) and I went on to become the only Methodist-impersonator ever to fly from Alabama to the 213km into the Indian Ocean on a 19th century commode.

I’m proud, also, to claim myself the first person to ever receive teeth-transplant surgery with dentition donated from a recently-deceased Bonobo.

Hire me.

DAMN! 300 words on the dot, bitches. Your turn!

This is Stupid

We interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for a list of things that are stupid.

* Girls, take off your big sunglasses. They looked good on Sophia Loren but, for some reason, when combined with tight white t-shirts, skinny jeans, Uggs and long hair, they look stupid.

* Boys of a similar vintage-- get a haircut. Your Dukes of Hazzard-era wannabeeflowbee bullshit hairstyles look ridiculous and stupid. Males should not engage in the act of brushing hair away from their faces. Ever.

* The Smart Fortwo. It looks like a sneaker, and it looks stupid. And only one of the parts of its name is true.

* Sarah Palin: you are stupid. And, in the words of my 61-year-old Israeli mechanic, you "would have made a good prostitute."

* My sideburns. They didn't look stupid in the 1880s, but, now, they do. Fortunately, once Pirates closes, the sideburns will meet a hasty death at the bathroom sink. At least I'm not under the delusion that trends of a bygone era still look good today-- you know, like the girls with big sunglasses.

* Professional journals are definitely stupid. They are printed to justify outlandish membership fees, they clutter up the houses of educated, professional people, and nobody reads them. Except stupid people.

* "The Today Show" is easily the stupidest show I watch with any regularity. And I watch "Project Runway."

* Waiting periods for handguns as a measure to prevent people from going out and killing each other are stupid. If some motherfucker wants to kill you, do you really think he's going to be bummed out enough by a six-day waiting period to abort his plans to end your miserable existence? No. And, if he's that impatient, he'll go to any number of illegal gun sellers in Philadelphia who operate out of their car trunks or neighborhood ice cream trucks.

* Advertising in newspapers is very stupid. You might as well put a sticker with your company's logo inside your neighbor's basement toilet bowl.

* The Two Party System is stupid. This is America, Goddamnit, and, if you're filthy-rich, you should have a legitimate shot at the presidency even if you're not a Republican or a Democrat.

* Dialogue in pornos is pretty stupid and, frankly, embarrassing. Nothing makes me lose my erection faster than hearing a half-retarded himbo utter some pathetic, cheesemo line in a porno like, "I thought I was here to fix your plumbing, not your love life." Please. Leave the talkie-talkie to David Mamet and Merchant-Ivory.

* I've always thought that lines were stupid. Shouldn't we all be first?

* I kind of think report cards are stupid. My mother recently showed me one of my 1st grade report cards. Apparently, Mr. Barrett, "thoroughly enjoyed my creative writing." I mean, really?

* People who don't read this blog are obviously stupid. We humble few, the members of the My Masonic Apron fold, are the enlightened elite, although most of us are probably psychologically maladjusted.

* Teachers who sleep with their students are pretty goddamn stupid. I mean, Jesus-- get a grip, people. And preferably not a grip on your students' hee-haws.

* The speed limit, whatever the hell it is, is stupid.

* Your boss is stupid. In fact, he's a fucking stinky stupid-head. And you can go right ahead and tell him I said that. Right after you're done reading this blog. At work.

* Bra-closures are stupid. I mean-- come on. Life's hard enough, isn't it?

* Christmas is stupid. Sorry, Jesus Claus.

* Prosciutto and cheese balls/rods are stupid, but I'd eat it anyway.

* People who change lanes on bridges and in tunnels are stupid, and they're totally asking for it.

* My dog is stupid, and his tussie-hole smells. But I love that bastard.

Often... Frequently

The Pirates of Penzance opens tonight.

Since its premier in 1879 (a dual premier in New York City and England to prevent, ironically, piracy) The Pirates of Penzance has had a lot of opening nights, in most countries around the world, whether or not they speak English. Or understand the English and their peculiar, quaint sense of humor.

Sorry, "humour."

Anyway, whenever it is time for another opening night, people invariably ask the question, "Are you excited?" And they always put the emphasis on the word "excited" which, I suppose, would be the logical choice there.

I hate to give the true answer, because it never fails to disappoint the people expecting a resounding "YES!" The truth, though, is that I'm not ever excited for opening night, or any night thereafter. I'm anxious, my bowels are in a state of absolute turmoil, I'm incessantly running through lyrics and tonalities in my head to stave off a spot-lit brain fart, I'm mentally and physically exhausted.

Oh, and did I mention I've been defecating at least five times a day recently? Would you be excited about that?

I realize that, in the hundreds of thousands of opening nights The Pirates of Penzance has enjoyed (and I'm sure sometimes "endured"), from music hall to concert hall performances, to professional to semi-professional to amateur to boarding school stagings all over the world, my production will barely be a hiccup in the overall scheme of Gilbert & Sullivan-ism, but it is my opening night.

I just can't seem to get excited about it.

When I was an EMT, random people-- family members, friends, patients, nurses, my supervisors-- would ask me with a smile, "So, do you like your job?" I would always smile back and answer, "No." Of course, looking back on it now, I realize that I really did like my job, and maybe I realized it then, too. Maybe I just like the look of utter consternation that ripples over peoples' faces when you give them the unscripted answers to life's formulaic questions. I don't, though, like opening nights. To me, they are an endless fathom of potential cockups, clusterfucks, missteps, trips, traps, falls, failures, and voice cracks. The chances that everything goes off without a hitch are non-existent.

I know, I know. I'm a pessemist and an alarmist and a nervous nellie and a catastrophist. Thank my mother-- I get it all from her. She'll be at the Saturday matinee-- you'll know her because she'll be the one wearing the HAZMAT suit in case Al Qaeda decides to launch a holy jihad against amateur Gilbert & Sullivan performances.

Well, Deflower Me & Call Me in 3 Days, It's... DEAR APRON Time!

You know why you're here by now: to read moronic letters to Dear Abby and see them get that acrid, slightly cruel, distinctly sexy Dear Apron treatment.

Let's kick it old school, bitches.

DEAR APRON:

Please don't think I'm stupid for asking this, but I need some help. The practice of letter-writing appears to be a dying form because of e-mail and texting -- which I'm good at. But when I receive a nice gift, I know the proper way to acknowledge it is to write a thank-you letter.

Can you please tell me how to do one that doesn't come across as awkward? Christmas is coming and this is hard for me. When I try to get my thoughts down on paper, I am ... STUCK!

DEAR STUPID:

Well, it's difficult for me to offer suggestions for how to say "thank you" for, as yet, unknown gifts. I mean, how do you know you're even going to get anything?

Here's a little secret: there is no way to write a thank-you letter that doesn't come across as awkward. Not even Dear Abby, with her legendary skill and tact can pen a thank-you note that doesn't sound like it was pulled out of a can. Rather, though, then try to extort money from you like she does, ("My booklet "How to Write Letters for All Occasions" offers samples that can be adapted and personalized. It can be ordered by sending your name and mailing address, plus a check or money order for $6...") I'm going to give you a sample of a letter you can use. Just change a few adjectives to suit whatever gift you've received, and you'll be on your way.

"Dear Grammaw,

Thank you eversomuch for "The Accommodator" you bought me for Victoria Day (CAN). It just arrived in its inconspicuous plain, brown wrapping today. I was so pleased when I opened it, but even more pleased once I used it.

The product has lived up to all its claims on the website "Crazy Ass Sex Toys." "The Accommodator" is indeed the best rubber strap-on dildo I have ever worn on my chin. It has revolutionized the way I think about both sex and Pinocchio.

The three Mickey Mouse bum-plugs were also very much appreciated.

It was great to bump into you at the shooting range last Thursday.

Love,

Your Little Apron Boy"

See? That was a brilliantly-composed thank-you note, but it was still a little awkward.

DEAR APRON:

When my husband and I married two years ago, we both wanted children. I am having second thoughts now. We recently discovered that there's a genetic disorder on one side of the family, and it scares me to think we may not have a healthy child.

To be perfectly honest, even if we could have a healthy child, I am also not sure I want to go through the challenge of parenting a teenager. How should I approach my dear husband about my change of heart? -- SECOND-GUESSING IN N.Y.

DEAR SECOND-GUESSING:

You know, you almost caught me feeling sorry for you, until the second paragraph. You should have quit while you were ahead. People-- for Christ's sake-- keep it short. You get into less trouble that way. Any lawyer will tell you that while prepping you to take the stand in a murder trial.

Or so I hear.

So, the real issue here is that you're not concerned that you're going to have a child with webbed eyelids or fingernails for nipples-- you just don't want to have to deal with parenting a sweaty, pimply, horny teenager-- either some sluttly little tramp who gets pregnant at thirteen and wears more mascara than Marilyn Manson or a randy little bastard who fantasizes about being a pro-football player, humps his pillow and ejaculates into old gym socks.

I knew from the start this letter didn't have anything to do with deformed genes. I mean, in this day and age, it's almost a certainty that your kid's going to be Aspergian anyway.

While I completely understand and identify with your reticence on the subject of having potentially beshmoigied kids, you're still a mean, selfish little bitch. You know what you need? The Accommodator.

DEAR APRON:

I'm a 14-year-old boy. I went to a party last weekend and some people pressured me to do some uncomfortable stuff. Can you advise me -- and other teens -- how to handle peer pressure? -- ASHAMED IN ILLINOIS

DEAR MOM-IMPERSONATING-HER-14-YEAR-OLD-SON:

Hey-- don't fucking bullshit me, lady, I know what the fuck is going on here. Your kid goes to a party and tells you his buds tried to stick some Mary Jane up his ass, and you think THIS is the answer? Writing a phoney-baloney piece of shit letter into Dear Abby so she can offer some lameass, Reagan-era "Just Say No" scat on that cat?

Sorry, honey, but no fourteen-year-old male alive and operating in this century uses the phrase, "Can you advise me--and other teens-- how to handle peer pressure." Furthermore, there isn't a fourteen-year-old boy in America who knows who Dear Abby is, and, if he did know who she was, he wouldn't be caught dead writing her a letter. Nope. Sorry.

If you want Dear Abby (or Dear Apron, for that matter) to parent your delinquent children, then drop them off on our doorstep in a Moses basket, ring the bell and run away-- but don't pull on my pud and write letters pretending to be acne-ridden masturbators when really you're just tired Midwestern haus-fraus with saddle-bag eyes and pocket-book asses who want to look for an easy way out of dealing with teenage drama.

DEAR APRON:

I am a 38-year-old business woman. I was single for many years until I met and fell in love with "Rory," who had been a long-time client. We were married a year ago.

Rory and I love each other, but we have a problem -- or, should I say, I have one. Rory has a penile implant and an insatiable sex drive. I can't keep up with him. He demands sex every night and sometimes a couple of times during the week at lunchtime.

I don't know what to do because above all I don't want to hurt my husband's feelings. Have you any advice for me? -- TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

DEAR TOO MUCH:

Well, I guess you and Rory won't be needing that Accommodator I bought you for Christmas this year. I hope Crazy Ass Sex Toys accepts returns.

The Party

"The Party" is the title of a 1968 movie starring Peter Sellers in the pre-political-correctness role of Indian actor Hrundi V. Bakshi, who plays the sitar, is extremely polite and clumsy and, oh yeah, wears swaths of dark brown body makeup. In the film, Hrundi is mistakenly invited to a swank Hollywood bash where feeds a parakeet "birdy num-num," a runaway elephant gets a bubble-bath, and the police are summoned.

This blog post does not refer to that party, but, rather my sister and her new husband's party, celebrating their marriage and the birth of my nephew-- both events happening at approximately the same moment.

This festive do took place on Saturday evening and, miraculously, my wife and I were able to attend, in the one moment of our lives that was not consumed by a "Pirates" rehearsal. My mother, whose neuroses are reaching new and teetering heights with the appearance of her first grandchild, hired a Registered Nurse at some ungodly hourly rate to babysit the child while we all went off to the party to enjoy ourselves.

Or, did we?

My wife and I drove my mother and my other sister to the party, which was held at a nice-ish restaurant. We had the second floor to ourselves. I pulled our car up to a sign that said "STOP: WAIT FOR VALET." No valet was there, so we waited. The man who eventually showed up knocking on the driver's side window and almost giving me apoplexy was not a valet, but a valet-in-training: my father.

"Mummy! Leave the keys in here! Go in-- have fun! I'll take care of this!"

"Where's the fucking valet?" I asked, knowing he was paying for one.

"Sveetie! Don't worry, you worry all the time. Leave the car with me," he cooed, stroking my cheek in that patronizing way of his as three other cars lined up behind mine.

"You going to take care of all these sonsofbitches, too?" I asked, pointing to a white SUV that, whoops, contained my 85-year-old step grandmother.

"Sure!" he cried.

Sure. Why not? He's the Bionic-Jew. He can park your cars, grill the hors d'oeuvres, uncork the bubbly, and clean up afterwards without breaking a sweat.

Oh, yeah, and he's also really good at yelling at everybody behind the scenes while maintaining an unflappable facade. He could have been Head Maitre d' at the Four Seasons. You know, if he wasn't Israeli.

I was very interested in consuming heavy quantities of succulent-looking hors d'oeuvres (yes, they were probably made by my father in between scrubbing the lavatories and applying fondant to the cake) but I was monopolized by a totally bizarre woman with stringy brown hair who introduced herself to me as the woman who "used to make me peanut butter sandwiches."

For a millisecond, I was scared to death that I had just met my real mother.

Fortunately, she was the mother of my first friend, who lived a few doors down from us back in the old days. She had a daughter who was my sister's age, and they played together, and I played with her son until they moved away when I was around six years old. The daughter came bounding in later, proudly displaying her gigantic new husband and her gigantic new breasts, which were careening out of her black lacy top.

"What the hell was that nutcase from our street doing with her tits on display like some Victorian prostitute?"

"She just bought them-- her mother has a new set, too," my mother told me on the phone the next day.

The silicone might have been flowing freely at this shindig, but the mixed drinks were not-- unless you paid for them, that is. This was a huge bone of contention for my brother-in-law's mother, whose family, um, likes their alcohol wet and constant-- through an IV drip, if possible. I was shocked that my parents, both teetotallers and tightwads, even sprung for free beer and wine at the bar. My father was all prepared to make an apologetic speech about the situation to everyone when my oldest sister convinced him to shut the fuck up, which is not an easy feat to accomplish.

Believe me, I've tried.

As for my side of the family, I was fortunate enough to be seated next to my alcoholic aunt, who was already H.O.A. (Hammered On Arrival) so paying for mixed drinks didn't seem to bother her very much. I have no doubt that she had a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a funnel in her purse anyway. She's the one who rather infamously prepared for my dry wedding by dressing in a sari and consuming some unknown, fetid liquid out of a hip-flask in the bathroom.

My thoroughly inebriated aunt hissed and slurred into my right ear for two-and-a-half hours straight, and the topics of conversation roamed haphazardly from her opinion of my long-deceased grandmother ("Biggest snob in the world! When she was diagnosed with lymphoma, she decided she wanted a mink. Your fucking grandfather bought her a mink AND a chinchilla!"), her taste in music, ("I've got Emilie Autumn on my iPod-- she's a punk violinist. Suicidal. A goddamn genius. She was institutionalized several times so she had a lot of time to practice violin."), and her thoughts on male sexuality, ("Your sister should be on top of that handsome young kid at the table behind us. After 18, their semen gets all fucked up.")

I don't want to seem like an exaggerator when I say that she talked to just me for two-and-a-half hours straight-- she graced others with her presence and charming perspicacity as well, forcing my family to make apologies for indelicacies other than just the cash bar debacle.

Maybe I would have had a better time with a different seating arrangement, but I don't think so. The party was celebrating a dubious marriage and a kid who was being babysat by a nurse, harkening back to the way my parents rolled back in the old days, when my mother had a nurse for the first six weeks at home after each of us was born. I suppose, in that and other respects, some things never change. My aunt is always inappropriate. My parents are always apologizing. I never get to eat as much as I want. The best boobs are always fake. And the one thing people really care about is whether or not the drinks are on the house.

Show Week

Yes, it's show week. "Pirates of Penzance" opens Thursday, with much jollity and Victorian gayness. Consequently, My Masonic Apron is going to be a bit of a quieter place than it normally is, until we get back to regularly-scheduled programming on Monday.

And I lose the rampant sideburns and the sleeping ferret under my nose.

Yesterday, my wife and I were at rehearsal from 10am until 11pm, and I think it's safe to say that I've only ever worked that long continuously once in my life, as an EMT, when I did two eight-hour shifts in a row as a favor to some shithead who probably didn't even know my first name from my last name.

After loading pickup trucks and a trailer with scenery, unloading, doing a three-hour sing-through with the orchestra, and running the show with stops-and-starts for the first time on the actual stage, my brain probably resembles the gunk underneath your refrigerator combined with four-month-old fermented applesauce.

That said, why don't you just scroll down and enjoy the posts from Saturday and Sunday, because today's basically a loss. Fortunately, tomorrow I don't have to be at work until 12:00pm, so you and I can have our fun together then. Chances are, though, you'll be okay with catching up on the weekend's posts, as very few people, I think, read blogs on the weekend, let alone write them.

Thank God for dorks, right?

Kyeeu-pons

My father is obsessed with coupons.

I don't know if they had them in Israel at the time he was growing up-- probably not. And he didn't seem to care about them back in the eighties and nineties, when we dined as a family at restaurants that served lobster and featured large, dead animals on the walls. No, my father's love affair with coupons began maybe three or four years ago.

He calls them "kyeeu-pons." And, if you make fun of either his infatuation or pronounciation, you will die.

Back when I was younger, somebody else was obsessed with the coupon circulars that would arrive at our house on Sunday mornings-- but he didn't live there. Dr. Porter, our elderly neighbor, would waddle over to our house in his wife-beater, torn cargo pants and Depression-era Florsheims with gaping holes in them. He would enter our home, unannounced, and nonchalantly walk into our dining room while our family would be having breakfast, while my sister and I were reading the comics over our bowls of Frosted Mini-Wheats. Dr. Porter was a saggy, very short man who waddled instead of walking. Half of his right thumb was missing, his ears stuck out like a vole's, and his black glasses had lenses that were cut from pilgrim-era church windows.

"Howdy, Sport!" he'd announce, to nobody in particular. He would proceed to ransack our newspaper for the coupons and, with a wave, he'd leave. Nobody ever seemed to find this routine the least bit peculiar.

Dr. Porter is long gone, and it's a good thing because, if he tried that shit today, my father would have exploded him with a home-made booby-trap at the front door. Nobody gets in the way of my father and his beloved kyeeu-pons.

They are all neatly arranged and categorized on a shelf above the kitchen sink at my parent's house. There's a little pile for pharma-related discounts, another for food and toiletry products, and yet another for restaurants. When my wife and I are over for a weekend dinner, my father routinely tries to pawn these off on me.

"Mummy," he'll say to me in a low, conspiratorial tone, "you like Ruby Tuesday?"

"No."

"I have buy one, get one. Dinner. Take it."

"No. I don't want it."

"Come on, you take your wife out--"

"Dad. That's enough."

My wife is a vegetarian. There is nothing for her to eat at Ruby Tuesdays besides mozzarella sticks and napkins. Besides, I don't care for the atmosphere. I'd sooner take her to dinner at the city morgue.

Nevertheless, my father still tries.

"Mummy-- you like Fridays? Free appetizers."

The food coupons he tries to pass off on us are no less absurd.

"Sveetie," he'll say, "you eat... uh... Reeetz crackers?"

"You like Eggo?"

"How about Nastle Qvuick?"

His accent just makes the offerings that much more funny and disturbing. Tonight, we're going to a party for my sister and her new husband, and, last night, he read the menu aloud to us.

"Siddur plunk chicken" was my personal favorite. It's better than it sounds, right?

This obsession, though, with coupons has not, I don't think filtered down to me. Maybe the gene is recessive and delayed. I could maybe develop it at anytime, maybe when I'm 57 or thereabouts. Today, my wife and I were in Rite Aid getting electric razor fluid (I have a fancy-schmanzy Braun Nazi shaver) and there was a coupon for a $5.00 rebate.

"You're going to get that rebate," my wife said to me, in that quaint, no nonsense way of hers. I sighed and rolled my eyes, indicating that I am one of those people who thinks the work and effort required to get five dollars is excessive-- forgetting, of course, that $5.00 was essentially my wage for 1/2-an-hour's work as an EMT.

"Sure," I said.

As I went online registering for an online Rite Aid account and putting all of my personal data in there, recording the transaction and register and store number and purchase date into the little form, I felt like I was taking that one step closer to becoming my father.

Except that he'd have no idea what to do with an online kyeeu-pon.