the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: insecurity (Page 2 of 2)

Make Me Insecure Friday

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In the tradition of Poetry Tuesday and Sunday Scribblings, I’d like to welcome you to the hottest blogging craze — Make Me Insecure Friday!

Yes, it’s Friday.  You’ve worked hard all week.  But before you go home and have a relaxing weekend, why not sit back while I tell you what a loser you are.

Today’s topic is:  Numbers.

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Numbers. 

Is there anything that makes us more insecure than numbers? 

The Top 10.  The Big 5.   The Technorati 100.  Hah Hah, I’m sure you’re not ANY OF THOSE!  

Have you looked at your blog stats today?  The numbers are down… way down!

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By the way, what exactly is your net income?  Is that ALL you make for doing that?

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Ooh, is that the Infiniti M35 you’re driving?   Nice, but NOT as nice as my Infiniti M45!

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Are you really a man who is under six feet tall?  What woman is going to date you other than Linda Hunt?

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Jeez, are you a woman with only an 32A cup?   Is your father Flat Stanley?

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And you’re over 35 and still not married?  Crazy woman, crazy woman!

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You’re not partner yet?  What kind of man are you?  You should be making twice as much as your father!

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My friend Trish is a size 4 and laughs at the big women who are size 6 and 8.   I have news for you, Trish, the laughter is over.  Nicole Miller is coming out with sizes that are LESS THAN ZERO.    That’s right — NEGATIVE ZERO clothes.

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Let’s make believe you’re a condom manufacturer in Japan.  You’re coming out with a new brand made specifically for men who want a condom that is, uh, of average length and narrower than others.  What would be a good name for this condom?  Let’s see… how about Beyond Seven! 

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Imagine the happy woman who sees you take out your Beyond Seven condom, and then…

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This is Jiro Okamoto, President of Okamato Industries, maker of Beyond Seven Condoms.  He sure looks funny, doesn’t he? 

I also bet you he makes 100x money than you will in a lifetime.

I hope you’ve enjoyed Make Me Insecure Friday.  Make sure you come back next week for another installment!  

Have a great weekend!  I’ll be cleaning up the house, and being insecure.

The Negative Effect of my Vons Club Card on my Sex Life

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I lied to you on my last blog post — the one about that Forbes article, “Don’t Marry Career Women.”  I made it sound as if I’m a super-cool feminist guy, the type of evolved man who doesn’t mind one bit that Sophia “wears the pants in the family.” 

I lied.  I wanted you to like me.  I wanted you to respect me.  I wanted you to say, “Neilochka is so much more of a feminist than macho bloggers like PaulyD and Kapgar.  I’m only going to read his blog from now on.”

The truth is, yes — I do get insecure.  There is a lot to be insecure about with Sophia.  She makes more money than I do.  She is smarter than I am.  She has a better sense of humor than me.  She can easily beat me in Ms. Pac-Man.  And she looks better in her underwear than I do.

But these items are not what really bother me.  I’m cool with her inherent superiority.   They don’t make me feel any “less” of a man.  My Achilles heel, if we can call it that, revolves around something else entirely — the use of my Vons Club Card in the supermarket.

Let me give you some history:

As an innocent young boy in Queens, New York, I remember the supermarket as an unpleasant place, a world of chaos and anger.  The aisles were too small and customers were always smacking their shopping carts into each other — sometimes on purpose, as if we were in the middle of some sadistic urban demolition derby where people actually enjoyed seeing boxes of Cheerios flying onto the filthy supermarket floor.  Many New Yorkers did not have cars, so this is where all aggression was released.  They had “shopping cart rage.”  Back in the old days, no one ever said, “excuse me.”  If your cart was in the way, someone would rudely push it aside.  It was a Hobbesian world of shopper eat shopper.  No employee would ever help you.  Once, an old woman died on Aisle Seven of my local Waldbaum’s and the employees closed the store later, just leaving her there.  The underpaid checkout girls hated their jobs and never let you forget it.

When I moved to California, I was not impressed with the weather or the girls in bikinis.  I had already seen that in the movies.  What shocked me were the supermarkets. 

They were enormous.  They were clean.  Three shopping carts could fit side by side in each aisle.  Kids happily sat and played in their shopping carts while their mommies bought dinner.  Some of these carts were bigger than the playpen I used to have as a child. 

Customers were kind to each other.  They actually went to the “Ten and Under Checkout line” with the ACTUAL correct number of items!  They didn’t argue, like Mary Riccio’s mother used to do – that milk, eggs, yogurt, and ice cream was just one item — “dairy product.” 

Life was like a dream in a California supermarket.  Music by “Air Supply” was piped in on the loudspeakers.  Some supermarkets were so large, you could also buy pots, pans, concert tickets, and even Samsonite luggage right there!

And the employees were always so polite.  Where did they find these people?  They acted less as if they had a low-paying job and more like they just won the lottery.

“Hi there, sir, can help you find the best fresh vegetables?”

“Are you looking for something that I could help you with?”

“Have you see our sale on Bounty paper towels?”

“Do you need any help carrying out that 1/2 pound bag of raisins?”

Now I knew why all these illegal immigrants were moving to California.  For the supermarkets!  

California supermarkets were like heaven to me — until Sophia signed up for a Vons Club Card.

Even though Sophia and I are legally married, Sophia decided to keep her last name –Lansky (what a typical career women!).    She wanted to remain Sophia Lansky, not become Sophia Kramer.  At first, it didn’t bother me a whole lot. 

But then was the turning point.  

One day, as I left my local Vons Supermarket, having just used our “joint” Vons Club Card, the overbearingly-friendly salesgirl shouted out joyfully, “You saved $10.55 today… MR. LANSKY!”

Ugh.  What a strike to the male ego!  And it didn’t happen just once.  Every time I left the store, having used my Vons Club Card, it was the same —

…Mr. Lansky…  Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky…! 

But did I ever scream?  Did I ever say, “I’m goddamn Mr. Kramer, not goddamn Mr. Lansky — you stupid Stepford checkout girl!?”   No.  I kept it bottled up inside. 

I thought of not using the Vons Club Card at all  — but I would feel like an asshole for paying an extra $10.55.  It was a lose-lose situation.

The stress affected me physically.  The symptoms started small.  I began losing interest in sex after shopping at the supermarket.  It didn’t matter if it was for bananas or milk.  Just walking into Vons was a blow to my male ego.   The “Mr. Lansky” line would be pounding in my brain over and over.  What type of wimpy man is known by his wife’s name?

Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky… Mr. Lansky… 

I started shopping at the over-priced Whole Foods for one good reason:  they didn’t have a “club card.”  Unfortunately, the mere passing of the Vons Supermarket across the street would give me the inability to have an erection for 24 hours. 

I became desperate.  I drove to Santa Anita racetrack and bought myself a pair of horse-blinders, to prevent me from seeing any Vons Supermarkets as I drove down the street.  But I always knew the supermarkets were there, close by, mocking me — especially since Sophia’s new GPS system was constantly telling me so.

However, with Sophia away, I was desperate for some love and affection.  I decided to fight my fear.  On Friday night, I went out with my mother-in-law’s chiropractor’s unemployed sister, Andrea.   After a nice dinner at Chicago for Ribs,  we ended back at her place.  We drank some wine and watched some TV.  Soon, we were in her bed.  It felt good to be with a woman again.  I was proud of myself for moving beyond my problem.  We made love for an hour.  Andrea was passionate, screaming things like, “Neilochka, you are amazing!” and “I’ve never been f***ed so good!” 

(note:  This unemployed woman should have said, “I’ve never been f***ed so well!” — another reason to always marry a “career woman,” who usually have a better command of the English language).

The lovemaking grew even more intense.  It felt as if the bed was levitating off the carpet.  Her face grew red, her breathing irregular.  Andrea was nearing the orgasm of her life, when I noticed that the TV in the living room was still on.  It was the end of Conan O’Brien.   There was a cut to a commercial — an advertisement for a certain local supermarket chain:

“This week at Vons:  use your Vons Club Card and get two packages of fresh strawberries for only four dollars!”

“Don’t stop!” yelled the hyperventilating Andrea.  But it was too late.   The Vons Club Card took its toll, and the toll was on me.

I have not heard back from Andrea since then.   And I don’t expect to.

But this tale does not end sadly.   Every psychological problem has a solution, if you are willing to work on yourself. 

Today, I walked into Vons like a REAL MAN and signed up for my very own Vons Club Card. 

Problem solved.

 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  138th Post About Sophia
 

Two Neurotic Bloggers

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One of my father’s biggest faults was his inability to accept gifts.  He was uncomfortable when people did favors for him because he felt pressure to return the gesture.  He didn’t even like getting birthday gifts, which was odd since he was generous with others.  He was always picking up the bill in restaurants, even when others wanted to split the bill.   Rather than finding this quality endearing, I found it somewhat petty and insecure.   But he was the oldest of three brothers, and never grew out of the role of the “big brother,” so I understand where he was coming from.

I’ve inherited some of these tendencies.  Oh, I’m not as bad as he was, but at times, this insecurity just pops out. 

Like this morning.

In the blogging world, there are some special bloggers who go out of their way to make the blogging experience as personal as possible.  These bloggers don’t only write comments on your blog, but send you an email after you comment on THEIR site.  I really find this an endearing gesture.  Of course, I rarely do this myself.

One of these special bloggers is named Abby. (I’m using Abby as an alias to protect the identity of Alison of Ali Thinks).

After writing a typically dumb comment on her blog, I received a humorous email from her.  At first, it made me laugh, but then, immediately, guilt set in, both for writing such a shitty comment to begin with, and for never sending HER an email when she writes a comment on my blog.  Like my father, I didn’t feel comfortable with our uneven relationship. Why should she send me an email when I rarely send her one?

Out of total anxiety, I wrote her the stupidest email I’ve written in a long time.

Dear Abby,

As much as I adore getting emails from you in response to one of my dumb comments, you don’t have to always write back to me.  I won’t be upset.  I know you love me either way!  I just hate that I’m giving you all this extra work.

Neil

A few minutes later, Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

 It’s habit, Neil. And the truth is, sometimes I don’t write back. The funny thing is that as I was hitting send on that last e-mail to you, I thought “He doesn’t want to answer that stupid question you’re writing him, Abby!  Don’t respond to comments with questions!”

If it bugs you, I won’t answer your comments. But trust me, I like to do it. 🙂

Abby

At this point, I was totally embarrassed.  Does she really think it bugs me that she is such a kind-hearted person?  Did I just insult her by saying I hated her emails?  I quickly wrote back:

Dear Abby,

Shit, I should have never wrote you that last email.  I DO LIKE you writing to me.  In fact, I love it!  I was just trying to make it easier for you by telling you that I wouldn’t feel bad if you didn’t.  Jeez, this is so neurotic.  I was worried about you, not thinking myself worthy of your time to write those emails.

Neil

Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

And I was thinking that I wasn’t worthy or your time and attention!  Gah!  Neurotic! Insecure!

Abby

After laughing a bit, I wrote to Abby again:

Dear Abby,

Two people pleasers trying to please the others.  Just like I wrote about in my blog post a few days ago.  But since I’m trying not to be a people pleaser anymore, I’m going to start asking for what I want.  And yes, I do want you to email after a comment.  In fact, I demand that you do it every time!  Or else.

Neil

After I sent off the email, I thought about how this ridiculous exchange would make a great blog post, so I sent her my fourth email of the morning:

Dear Abby,

I might just write a post tonight based on our email conversation.  Wouldn’t that be interesting?  Of course, I won’t mention your name, unless you want me to.  Is it OK?  Again, if you don’t want me to do it all, I’ll understand.  Is this being neurotic?  Email me!

Neil
 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Tribute To Teachers

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