April 27: Bad Mood, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

For various reasons, I'm in a really bad mood this afternoon.  Little things that usually don't bother me are like fingernails on a chalkboard today.  I'm talking little things.  The way people chew food.  Commercials on TV.  The sound of my wife drinking water.

It doesn't help that I'm incredibly tired and have tons of grading to finish.  I'm cranky, so I'm trying to keep my mouth shut.  If I say anything, I will hurt somebody's feelings.  Silence is a better choice.  Silence and work.

Today's Classic Saint Marty comes from the year of A Christmas Carol.  It first aired in 2012.

April 24, 2012:  Poor Excuse, Carrying the World, Free Goose
 
"You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Scrooge.

"If quite convenient, Sir."

"It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's not fair.  If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill-used, I'll be bound?"

The clerk smiled faintly.

"And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think think me ill-used, when I pay a day's wages for no work."

The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

"A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December!" said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin.  "But, I suppose you must have the whole day.  Be here all the earlier next morning!"

This passage is one of the most famous in A Christmas Carol.  It encapsulates Scrooge's incredible ego and greed.  Scrooge literally takes Christmas as a personal affront to himself and his bank account.  If you really want to boil Scrooge's issues down to their core, they all hinge on the fact that he is an incredibly self-centered man.  Christmas takes away money from Scrooge.  Therefore, Christmas is some kind of left-wing conspiracy to bleed him dry.

As a worship leader at church and as a college professor, I deal with a lot of people like Scrooge.  People who seem to think their problems and their lives are of utmost importance to everyone.  They carry the world on their shoulders.  Over the last day or so, I've been navigating a Scrooge situation.  Like Bob Cratchit, I have learned to keep my mouth shut and let the Scrooge in my life vent his particular brand of venom.  It's easier that way.  I have learned that you can't win an argument with a Scrooge.  Scrooges know best.  Always.

That doesn't mean that I agree with my Scrooge.  That means that I'm not going to battle my Scrooge.  I will do things the way I think they should done, no matter what.  I just choose to ignore my Scrooge's rant, the way Bob does in the above passage.  Bob gets to take Christmas day off, and Scrooge gets to browbeat his clerk.  Everybody's happy.

Don't get me wrong.  I can be a Scrooge, wrapping myself up in my own little counting house.  Most human beings have their Scrooge moments.  It's what you do after the Scrooge moment that counts.  I choose to look beyond the narrow limits of my money-changing hole.  I choose to walk along the crowded paths of life, embracing all human sympathy.

Be kind to the Scrooge in your life.  Listen to him.  Let him crab.  Let him bitch.  Let him browbeat you a little.  Be Bob Cratchit.  Show your Scrooge kindness and understanding.  In the end, you may end up with a free goose dinner.

That's what Saint Marty's hoping for.

It's free!

 Confessions of Saint Marty
 

August 1: Human Sympathy, Nuts, Bad Mood

But what did Scrooge care?  It was the very thing he liked.  To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge.

Everyone familiar with A Christmas Carol knows this little passage from the beginning of the novel (except maybe the "nuts" part, which never makes it into the stage or screen adaptations).  It describes a man who has a hatred of humanity, who sees fellow human beings as annoyances.  Scrooge is a hater.  He hates all people.

I'm with Scrooge today.  Yesterday, I was in a great mood.  That great mood lasted all day long.  When I got home last night, I went for a two-and-a-half mile run.  Then I gave my son a bath, put him to bed, watered my pumpkins, and sat down to watch the Olympics.  Yesterday was sepia.

Today is verging on Hitchcock noir.  A friend recently shared this bit of wisdom with me:  "I used to be a people person, but people ruined it for me."  That pretty much sums up my feelings today.  I don't want to deal with anyone.  I call these kinds of days "cave days," as in I just want to crawl into the deepest, darkest part of a cave and stay there.  Maybe I should start calling them Ebenezer days or Scrooge days.  Anyway, I just don't want to deal with people.

I'm sure my mood will improve as the day progresses.  I won't need ghosts to aid me with that attitude adjustment.  I just need time.  And food.  Maybe some caffeine.  And a healthy dose of sarcasm.

Saint Marty doesn't hate all people.  Just stupid ones.  And annoying ones.  And whining ones.  And loud ones.  And quiet ones.  And...

Nuts to people

February 6: Bad Day, Bad News, Bad Mood

Bad day.  It started out bad.  I could not wake up this morning, despite an infusion of Diet Mountain Dew and some dark chocolate M&Ms.  Mondays are usually slow in the medical office where I work.  It wasn't slow.  The phone.  Add-on surgeries.  The phone again.  Faxes.  More add-on surgeries.  Phone.  Phone.  Phone.  Missing equipment.  Phone.  Surgeries.  Phone.  Phone.  Friggin' phone.

Bad news.  About 10 a.m., I received an e-mail saying that I had to pay nearly $400 in taxes.  By next Tuesday.  I wanted to put a bullet in my temple by this time.  On top of the phone and the surgeries and the phone and the missing equipment and the phones, I had to figure out where I'm going to find $400.  I checked all my orifices and came up empty-handed.

Bad mood.  I'm in a terrible mood.  I've been in a terrible mood since about, oh, 10 a.m.  That's over twelve hours of bad mood.  I still have not arrived at any four-hundred-dollar plan.  Can't sell my blood (diabetes).  Can't sell a kidney (no connections).  Can't sell a story or poem (not from lack of trying).  That leaves me about $395 short.

That's Saint Marty's day in a nutshell.  Long on bad.  Short on cash.

October 25: Busyness, Greek Myth

All day, I've been slowly putting together my midterm exam for my mythology class.  I register a patient, put togther a chart, then assemble another set of exam questions.  I answer the phone, then write one more true/false or multiple choice.  It was a long process, but I finally finished it a few minutes ago.  I think it's fairly straightforward, but I know my students won't find it that simple.

I don't have a whole lot of wit at the moment, and not a lot of time to work up any inspiration.  I'm slightly annoyed with the way this afternoon is turning out, but that has a whole lot to do with my attitude and some dysfunction with a sibling.  Those two ingredients have placed me in a pretty foul mood.

But I won't talk any more about it.  I've always tried to use this blog to promote understanding and peace.  At least, that's my goal.  I don't always succeed, but it's what I shoot for.

Saint Marty needs to get to class now.  Be kind to yourself tonight.  Nobody else will.

Somebody's gotta do it!

October 7: The Worst Father in the World

I am the worst father in the world.

Last night, I got home late from work.  Around 6:40 p.m.  My wife was going out to dinner with her girlfriend, so I was the bather, feeder, put-to-bedder for the evening.  I was cranky.  Actually, I was more than cranky.  I was in a downright foul mood, for no reason other than I was tired and hungry.

My wife was outside with our kids, who were playing in the backyard.  My ten-year-old daughter was barefoot and covered in mud.  My three-year-old son looked like he'd had a close encounter with the Swamp Thing.  I must admit, in the back of my mind, I was harboring the hope that my wife had already fed and bathed my son.  She hadn't.  And I got pissed.

I helped my wife capture my wild son, who was running down the alley, trying to escape the inevitable bath.  In the process, I stepped in a pile of dogshit.  There I was, screaming child under one arm, school books under the other arm, dragging my foot through the grass to remove the excrement, walking to my front door.

When I got inside, my mood, if possible, was even worse.  My daughter was trying to complete some kind of experiment with dirt she'd been conducting in the backyard, and my son was yelling at full volume for my wife not to leave.  Then I had to sit down and figure out how much money was left in the checking account for my wife to go out to eat.  Well, when I realized that our cash situation was grim, to say the least, it just about pushed me over the precipice.

I grabbed my wailing son, started to strip him out of his clothes.  He kicked me, repeatedly, in the stomach.   My daughter was in the kitchen, doing something.  I told my wife, "Just leave.  He'll be easier to handle once you're gone."

She left.

I finally got my son naked.  I left him crying "mommy, mommy, mommeeeeeee" on the living room floor.  I went into the kitchen.  My daughter had managed to cover the kitchen counter and top of the clothes dryer with dirt and mud.  I lost it.

I yelled her name.  "Really?!" I steamed.  "Get in here and clean up the mess you made right now!  Move it!  How can you be so piggy?!  I don't have time to clean up after you, too!  You're old enough to know better!"  As I said this, I stormed into the bathroom.

There was my daughter, sobbing, holding a plate with two Little Debbie Zebra Cakes on it.  She lifted the plate up to me and said, "Happy birthday, Daddy."

I stood in front of her, stunned and ashamed.  I started to cry.  "I'm so sorry, sweety," I said.  I hugged her.  "Daddy's so sorry.  He shouldn't have talked to you like that."  Of course, I could barely speak.  "I'm so sorry.  Thank you.  I'm sorry.  Thank you."

Then she gave me a card she'd made for me.  Inside, this is what she'd written:

Dear daddy,

I am sorry this has to come late.  I really just wanted to tell you something.  I really, really, really, really, really love you.  No matter how old you get you're still the best dad in the world.  No matter what.  I may be the oldest but I am still your little girl.

Well, that did it.  I felt like the worst father in the world.  I still feel like the worst father in the world.

My daughter managed to change my whole attitude in a matter of seconds.  She lit the candles she'd stuck in the Zebra Cakes, and she and my son sang "Happy Birthday" to me.  I gave baths, prepared snacks, sang lullabyes.  I watched The X Factor with my daughter.

This morning, Saint Marty doesn't believe he's the best father in the world.  But Saint Marty does believe he has the best daughter in the world.

The best daughter in the world

September 8: Attitude and Honest Friends

My friend Wonder Twin told me this afternoon that I need to stop complaining in my blog.  I believe her exact words were, "Ever since you got back from vacation, you've been very negative."  She even suggested I may be going through male menopause.

My first reaction was knee-jerk.  I wanted to defend my recent attitude, attribute it to exhaustion or overwork or financial worries or Republicans.

My second reaction was remorse.  I didn't realize my recent posts have been so...so...whiny.

My third reaction was acceptance.  Yes, having reviewed some of my recent blogs, I admit it.  I've been a little down in the dumps, and dragging all of my disciples into the pit of despair with me.

My fourth (and current) reaction is a vow to change.  I promise to make an effort to be more positive in my outlook and posts.  I will try to keep my bitching to a minimum, and, if I feel it necessary to bitch, I will temper said bitching with a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor.  My natural character tends to be a bit on the dark side.  I will have to keep a very close eye on myself.

Hopefully, I have not turned too many people off blog.  Stay tuned for a definite change (even though I hate change).  It won't be all puppies and rainbows, but I will guarantee something a little lighter every once in a while.  Maybe puppies and compost.

Saint Marty is going to try to turn over a new leaf.  Just in time for autumn.

Let's blame my bad mood on her