KUDOS & KVETCHES
In an attempt to wipe the slate clean before the new year, the wrongdoers at K&K continue its series of weekly atonements and apologies for the many sins and egregious errors in judgment over the years.
. While we were growing up, our younger brother would sometimes have to go to the hospital because he suffered from croup. We're sure it wasn't pleasant for him not to breathe properly, but we were always jealous when he had to stay overnight at the hospital encased in a clear plastic tent. From what we could tell, a hospital sleepover meant two things: Jell-O and presents. And we received neither. So it wasn't long before we resented our sibling for his ill health and sulked whenever he got to stay overnight at the hospital - not because we were worried about him, but because we wanted to stuff our chubby face with Jell-O and get a pile of gifts that we felt we rightfully deserved.
Sorry, younger brother, for being insensitive to your poor health as a child.
Sorry, own body, for wishing ill upon you just so we could receive gifts and fill you with delicious Jell-O.
Sorry, croup, for never taking you seriously as a health concern, although we suspect it partly has something to do with your wussy-sounding name.
. Whenever the phone rings and the caller I.D. indicates its our father-in-law or mother-in-law, and our significant other is indisposed or not home, we will let the call go to answering machine. Of course if we picked up the phone, it would be a great opportunity to bond with our in-laws and forge a healthy and adult relationship with them by sharing personal anecdotes, asking them about their lives and generally being a caring, interested, fellow human being with a modicum of social skills. But that does not happen.
Sorry, in-laws, for ignoring your calls in order to avoid the five minutes of awkward small talk that, we'll admit, is at least 20 per cent our fault.
. Last year, we blew a fuse in our apartment. Since the fuse box is located in the downstairs tenants' suite, we have to go outside, knock on their door and politely ask them to flip all the fuses on and off. It is not a pleasant experience since the basement neighbours are not the friendliest of people, and usually just grunt to acknowledge our request before slamming the door. Thus we have nicknamed them The Trolls. On this particular occasion when we went to knock on the Trolls' door, we rounded the corner and ran into one of the Trolls' relatives as he was about to enter the apartment. We began to explain our blown fuse situation, but he cut us off by waving his hands and then handing us a pad of paper and a pen. He was deaf. So we wrote out our instructions to please flip the switches on the fuse box. Then for some stupid reason, we decided it would be a good idea if we signed the only bit of sign language we knew from elementary school: "My name is.." The Trolls' relative then lit up with a smile and began rapidly signing back to us, to which we responded with several nods, as if we understood everything he had just said.
Sorry, deaf relative of our troll-like neighbours, for leading you on and attempting sign language when we only know four words, and then nodding when you signed back to us. We should have just stuck to the pad of paper and accepted our deficiencies rather than pretend we were somehow well-versed in sign language when all we really needed was for someone to flip the fuse box so we could watch TV and reheat something in the microwave instead of going to the gym and working out.
Twitter: @KudosKvetches
