Are you there God? It's me, MadMad

Dear God:

Hi!
How are you?
I hope you and your family are well.

Um, yeah. Anyway, it's me. MadMad. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You haven't a clue who I am.

Well, yeah, it has been a few years, you're right.

Thirty-five years? Really? Nah, you're kidding, right? No, no, no - I'm sorry. I don't mean to contradict or anything. I'm sure you're right. They say you always are. But surely you've seen this happen before, right? We all get busy, you know. And perhaps instead of keeping such close tabs on me, you could be spending a little more time getting a handle on that whole Middle East thing, you know? 'Cuz that's really kickin' your ass, man.

No, no! Come back, come back! Just kidding!!! You're doing great job. Really. I know, I know, it's hard. Yeah. People do have such strong feelings, I know. And people just don't understand, do they, that there are no quick fixes. I know, I know. It is hard to be you. You are soooo smart. Handsome, too.

Now, um, do you mind if we get back to me, here...? 'Cuz, you know - stuff to do, and you know, pretty sure you do, too.

And it's really just a quick question is all.

OK. Here goes:

I know I wasn't the nicest kid growing up. There was the dumping of trash onto the neighbor's car episode in elementary school, the throwing of food at the social studies teacher in high school (Well, in my defense, he was asleep during the health film, and it was kind of fun... Oh, OK. Yeah. Sorry. I won't do it again.) and a few assorted sassings back to parents, brother fights, etc. But really, nothing major, right? I didn't kill anyone or anything.

And that brings me to my point. I might be close.

BTW, do you happen to know if there's WiFi in prison? 'Cuz that would be the tipping point for me. I already have this fantasy of sitting in peace and solitude in a cell, reading or even just staring into space without the usual stereo background chant Can I have TV-He's touching me Can I have TV-He's touching me Can I have TV-He's in my room that I get around here. And if jail had WiFi and a laptop, and I could just blog away in peace, I'm so in. Definitely let me know if you find that one out.

Anyway, God, as I was saying:

I wasn't a horrible kid. I'm not the most perfect adult, either, certainly not in line to replace Mother Theresa or anything, but mostly I try to be nice, and accepting, and you know, all those fairly good things.

So I'm wondering what exactly I could have done to deserve all this.

Oh, no - it's not Damien Boy this time, though of course, he's always that straw, you know, of camel back-breaking proportions. The other day, after his principal calling home episode, which I'd tell you about if it were more interesting and I had more time, I told him we needed to have a talk. And do you know, God, what that little shit no, that was actually right after all little shit said?

"Is this the 'You love me, not my behavior' lecture, or a different one?"

As you probably know, God, he is just 6. The problem is, he wasn't actually trying to be sarcastic, or rude, or funny. He was very earnest and sincere at the time.

He looked like this:




I am no dummy. I assume that behind my back, there may have been a little of this:



Possibly this:


Anyway, the point is, clearly, you put him here to punish me. And I accept. Let's call it payment for the childhood years.

And my problem isn't even really Girl, who has taken to walking 10 steps behind me at all times. Because that's alright. I remember those days. Perhaps you recall how I once spent a weekend in Buenos Aires walking half a block behind my parents (Apparently they weren't concerned about the kidnapping of Gringos. Or perhaps they were hopeful, who knows?) So I get it. (Though, let's be honest. She's on the chess team, so I'm not sure where she gets off thinking I'm the uncool one, if you know what I mean.)

But again, you clearly put her here to test me, and I accept. Let's call it payment for my adolescence.


But what the hell with 10 days of house guests? Were you just testing out a ride for the soon-to-be-opened 10th Circle of Hell theme park? 'Cuz really. That's just plain ol' unnecessary. And I just can't take it any more.

It's all been a little too traumatic to discuss, really. Plus, no one would believe me. Oh sure, everyone's had house guests, and had to deal with people in their space, touching their silverware with unwashed hands after using the bathroom, or hogging their damn computer when they're trying to blog.

But no one has house guests like these.

This is getting rather long, and I know you have better things to do, so let it suffice to say I was forced to spend FOUR HOURS yesterday in a Wal-Mart. (Yes. Four. Hours. In. The. Wall-Mart.) Say it really slow so that you can understand the full impact of it. Four. Hours. In. The Wall-Mart. Now, I'm pretty sure you don't shop at Wal-Mart, God, but if you did, for whatever reason, you would know you really can't spend four hours in there without contemplating suicide. Or murder. Or mass murder, even, really, since I'm being honest here.

The reason this shopping extravaganza occurred is that my house guests come from overseas and they are deeply thrilled at the chance to be buying all things Chinese American. As much of it as possible. But only after deeply studying each product, and making many, many difficult queries, such as, "What is the difference, MadMad, between Cotton Fresh and Shower Fresh scent?"

So that was a fun afternoon. And then there was the evening. I will spare you the details of the slide show of the wedding pictures, but one of the key lines should give you the gist of the whole event: "Oh, see, MadMad? This is a picture of the cake using a flash on the camera."

Pause for slide to move.

"And this is a picture of the cake without the flash."

Would I lie to you, of all people, God? No! This actually happened, I promise.

Needless to say, I could have flown to Rio de Janeiro and attended the wedding in the time it took to watch these pictures. I hope it wasn't too unseemly when I stabbed a knitting needle into my arm and just started pouring the bottle of wine right into it.

I am coming unhinged, Dear God. Unhinged, I tell you. I am only on day 3, and cannot imagine that there are seven more days to go. It has gotten to the point that instead of being able to be happy about new readers on my blog, I get a little bit gaspy and panicky that I am not going to be able to respond to them and then the new commenters will think I am rude. (See? I am nice, God. Like I was telling you.) I want to be able to read their blogs, God, that's all. Not spend four hours in a Wal-Mart or watching wedding pictures of people I don't know or wrestling with guests for my computer.

So my question is this, God: What exactly did I do - was I Hitler in a past life?

Yours,

MadMad

P.S. Oh, while I have you here, if you have a little extra time, my friend Bossy seems to be having some issues with some Dooce chic. Can you go sort that all out? We don't like Bossy to be sad.