There’s a greeting card kiosk across from the counter at work that I’ve had to see a lot of, and there’s one card in particular that’s beginning to bother me. (Well, two actually, but I don’t really want to write about a card that prominently features a crudely drawn asshole at the moment.) This card features a grinning picture of President George W. Bush saying something about not wanting to forget your Birthday. Then one opens the card, and discovers that, to the aforementioned end, the President is going to monitor all phone calls and emails. Ha!

Wait.

I have no qualms about making fun of terrible people and situations both. Dark comedy and satire is a good way to deflate those who would try to assert undue privileges, but there’s a saturation point wherein it becomes counterproductive, and maybe even a little dangerous. I’m not talking about satire, which itself I believe to be necessary for a healthy society and government. Satire reflects and criticizes the world in a way which, while amusing, is also deadly serious. What I’m unnerved by is that joking about the current administration has become de rigeur, a thing done by reflex because it’s what must be done to fit in.

If the erosion of civil liberties and privacy is fit for a carelessly produced and bought greeting card, then it follows that society must be comfortable enough with the said issue to not care. Greeting cards are traditionally the blandest of the bland, reflecting the zeitgeist of a boringly bleak suburbia. Satire and comedy are still valuable tools for making sense of the world, for criticizing and understanding and changing it, all. When that comedic criticism has been boiled down to a pithy reference alongside a Garfield card and a belated birthday card with a turtle on it – that is when meaning has been lost, when the outrages legion are just accepted as part of the background cultural static and written off as just the way things are.

We’re inoculating ourselves. People are joking about the President in the same way they would about a mother-in-law, laughing about the situation and shrugging shoulders because hey, what can you do, you know?

I found an interesting piece on a blog maintained by the Christian Science Monitor, dealing with the order of adjectives and adverbs, the unspoken ordering rules that dictate that one says “the broken red toy wagon” rather than “the toy red broken wagon.” It’s not an academic piece by any means, but it’s definitely an interesting look at some of the constructions we native speakers take for granted.

Don’t even get me started on the Christian Science Monitor itself, though. Trust me.

It wasn’t until Pichette himself had developed the thick and raspy cough that the team realized the Tower’s influence. The core researchers had been gathered around the conference table, rooting about in splayed paper stacks of environmental and seismic data, when Pichette made the connection – he and Amara, indeed all of the workers with the rheumatic cough, had spent more time than the others in the Tower’s shade, collecting data on that pebble of an island jutting out of the arctic sea. 5 or 6 hours seemed to be the tipping point, after which the cough developed.

“There’s nothing there.” Edwin Salazar, the resident biologist, tossed the manila folder of printouts he had been thumbing through back onto the center of the table. He pushed back against the table with both hands, using the pressure to pop his spine against the top of his chair’s backrest. “Even the birds are uncomfortable with that thing.”

Amara, speaking without so much as a glance away from the legal pad she was flipping through, had only a word. “Sterile?”

“Almost. I had to run a PCR to get anything useful, and even then whatever’s there is the same as what we have here.” Salazar took a long drink from his mug, swirling the lukewarm coffee in his mouth before swallowing. “Tabula rasa.”

I have more hours at work now and, while the extra money is nice, it’s a mixed blessing. The only reason for my expanded hours is that there’s no manager on-site, and only two part-time employees working. (Well, three actually, but the third only comes in about once a week so I don’t really count her.) The owner had initially stated that either he or one of his workers from the other store would be in every few days to make sure everything is going smoothly. Restock on supplies, take care of bills and customer queries, that sort of thing.

This, of course, never happens.

Equipment and infrastructure is breaking down, and the owner hasn’t done anything about it. Bills tend to pile up for a few weeks. Customer complaints regarding how account billing is handled are increasing, as are concerns about now-faulty security measures. We’re out of stamps, which is a bit problematic when one of the store’s main draws is that we sell shipping services and stamps.

If the owner is content to allow the store to function at a bare minimum, though, then there’s little that I can or care to do. I am, after all, just part-time.

I’m well aware that there are many overweight individuals who exercise and try to take care of themselves, whether or not they’re overweight due to personal habit or medical reason. My father himself is a bit overweight but still healthy, taking part in a workplace-sponsored health program in addition to folding more regular exercise into his routine. He’s been doing rather well, too. Then there are those who, be they simply overweight or morbidly obese, simply don’t care. Still, it’s their body and their life. They can do as they please, and while it’s human nature to judge I try not to let it influence me in the way I treat others.

There are times, however, when I can’t help but cringe, e.g., the woman I just helped at work who, in leaving the store, managed to set off the door chime twice while walking through it. She was pleasant enough of a woman to work with, but I can’t help but be amused that the door sensor detected her as two people.

I think that might make me a bad person.

On a whim I bought some salt and vinegar flavored potato chips. “They can’t be that bad,” I thought. “People eat these all the time.” I didn’t actually try them until later that evening. The first chip went in my mouth and, though initially tasty, left a strange and chemical aftertaste in my mouth. Not entirely pleasant, that was, and I looked down at the package in my hands and decided that I should either give them away or through them out or something.

Instead, I ate another. It was just as strange as the first, and made my face pucker slightly. It almost stung, or rather tingled as if there were an active ingredient other than flavor. Picture me standing there, in front of the cupboard, asking with each chip just why I was subjecting myself to this. They were horrible! And yet I ate. Abominable! I had another. Each bite was accompanied by a silent questioning of my very existence. Why was I doing this to myself? Oh god, oh god.

Ten chips in and I realized that existentialism tastes like a salt and vinegar potato chip. I’ve yet to come to terms with this.

The house I’m in is on one of those pseudo-main roads, a supposed shortcut around the traffic lights that takes longer than the alternative. I was washing the dishes the other night, listening to the traffic drive by, when I notice something from the other side of the kitchen.

Skritch. Tap tap. Skritch.

I glance over and see nothing until I drop my eyes to the ground. There, paws pressed against the glass, is a 1 to 2 year old calico named Bijou. It turns out she was one of the neighbor’s cats, which meant I got to play with a well-behaved kitten for a little bit before walking her back over. Being allergic this probably wasn’t the brightest of things for me to do, but c’mon. Kittens. They’re like tiny little cynical, yet curious people with fur.

The longer I work at this third-party shipping store, the more accurate my rule-set regarding the nearby population has become. Here are some of the things I’ve encountered lately.

• There are individuals who do not know how to address a letter for mailing. I’m talking about people who have lived here their whole lives and regularly complain about foreigners, and not members of the sizable immigrant population.
• The number of genuinely crazy religious nuts per square mile is far higher than casual observation would predict. Mana from heaven.
• Do not Google the regulars. You’ll end up discovering that some of them run BBW appreciation and escort sites on the side.
• Certify or register all important mail. I’m in San Diego, and our store has received bills and letters bearing out of state addresses.
• People are psychic. This is the only explanation for why some people come in to hold up a piece of paper and point at it, expecting me to just know that it’s to be photocopied, notarized, and overnighted to rural Texas.

I’m tired of talking about the store so much, but I’m here for something like 34 hours a week while pursuing real jobs. It’s only natural that one’s job becomes a point of conversation, as depressing as it might be. Maybe I should just take a few weeks off and drive to New Mexico or something.

I have this theory that people who are out and about before 11:00 am, at least in this neighborhood, are crazy. The longer that I’m working retail the more first-hand evidence of this I collect. Want an example? Not two minutes ago I was waiting on our software to finish loading so I could scan in a customer’s package drop-off and get her a receipt. Most people would either make small-talk for a few minutes, or do their own thing until the receipt printed. Rather than any of the tried and true methods, this particular woman went over to our cards and asked me “what card is funny for man?”

Then she started bringing cards up to the register, one by one, and read them to me.

I try not to judge people who come into the store, seeing as how I don’t really have data points to work with save for our brief interactions, but occasionally a customer is particularly chatty. Usually I get nothing more than mundane details about somebody’s life or comments about the news, but the other day this woman came in who I decided was crazy. Not crazy in a psychotic, random fashion, but subtly so.

She was making copies of a fitness article for her husband and we ended up talking about health in general, how little decisions every day can add up. There was an earnestness to her that unnerved me, though. She seemed to be almost too single-minded, devoting everything she had in that head of hers to the conversation. Eyes a little too wide. Leaning in just a bit too close. It wasn’t until she started fixating on just how young she thought I looked that those tiny little warning flags began to rise. She leaned in and with an unnecessary intensity emphasized to me how, in the end, it was faith in our lord Jesus who is also the Christ that can keep us healthy.

I guess Jesus provides a good cardiovascular workout, but the only way I can imagine somebody being responsible for said workout is a bit blasphemous.