I Can't Wear Wool

By Kim Märkl

I Can't Wear Wool is a collection of humorous essays capturing the drama, dilemmas, and follies of everyday life. Kim Märkl transforms even the most ordinary topics into entertaining narratives with her unique blend of insight and wit. Whether she is traversing the landscape of social media or unraveling the torment of wool garment

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atlantic Crossing
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9783946968177

Kim Märkl

Kim Märkl, born in Cleveland, is an author, composer, and clarinetist. Her stories and music have been featured in audiobooks, and performances of her works, including two plays, have taken place throughout Europe. She is the founder of Atlantic Crossing Records, a label known for its unique fusion of words and music. After receiving a Fulbright Grant, she settled in Germany, where she lives with her husband and two children. I Can't Wear Wool is her debut book of essays.

Book preview

I Can't Wear Wool

Kim Märkl

Copyright © 2024 by Kim Märkl

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

ISBN 978-3-946968-17-7

Second Edition

Cover photograph by Raphael Märkl

Author photograph by Raimati Märkl

www.kimmarkl.com

For Key, Raphael, and Raimati

Contents

Follow Me

Doorbell Lady

Wedding

Kitchen Timer

Subway Mutiny

Weight Loss Forever

Crime in Bavaria

School

Marten

Retail

Salted, Sugared, Fried

Trees

Say Cheese

The Pond

Brassiere Almighty

Courage

Credit Cards

Flat Earthers

The Exhibit

Public Places

It’s That Time of Year

Planet Jackpot

Peek a Boohoo

Introducing the Kitchen

Bon Appétit

Sleep

Cutlery and Friends

Cold Sheep Days

Folly

Excuses

Tricked by Age

Odd Jobs

I See You

Do It Yourself

On the Road

Cord to Camera

Flying

Diagnosis

Dog School

Not So New Jersey

Schadenfreude

Follow Me

When I joined the three billion users on Facebook, I felt like an outsider crashing a party in full swing, a middle-aged wallflower lost in a prodigious outpouring of autobiographical material, and a loner traversing an unfamiliar landscape.

Friends are the hood ornament of every social media profile. With that in mind, I uploaded a buffet of data for the ads algorithm, then searched for playmates in the world’s largest playground. Friend bingers paraded hundreds, even thousands of friends, and users with a low friend count presumably forfeited friendships with strangers. Facebook was as bewildering as my wedding; family, friends, acquaintances, and people I had never met, all hanging out in one place. An abundance of real-life friends would exhaust me and paralyze my life, but digital pals en masse, why not? Amazingly, moments after establishing my account, Facebook sent a list of people I might know. Big Brother was right on the money, and I had a friend count within minutes. Though I prefer the term pen pals since I’ve never met a good number of them.

After several weeks of regular visits to the platform, I realized that Facebook adores record keeping. There’s a good chance they have one of the most extensive libraries on the planet. Every post, comment, like, follow, and share is archived. At the end of the day, you can delete the jellied moose nose recipe from your page, but just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s gone. So, think twice before posting. We’ve given social media a terrifying amount of power, and they aren’t wearing halos.

Facebook, the world’s ultimate stage, is humming with comedy, absurdity, romance, and tragedy twenty-four hours a day. Mark’s creation brings out the best and worst in us. Had the Bard (what a great username) had access to social media, he may have posted, All the world’s on Facebook and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, their posts, and their comments, and one man in his time plays many parts. Big like for you, Will.

The nuances of human emotion are enthusiastically expressed through emojis. The most popular icons include the heart, thumbs up, and four disembodied heads. Emojis are gifts and make no mistake, this show of solidarity is reciprocal. Moreover, there’s no better way to vitalize a relationship than with an ego-boosting like. And let’s face it, if you want to be liked, you too must click like. Fortunately, Facebook cannot discern the genuine from the perfunctory like.

One day, I noticed my son was not reciprocating my likes, so I called him.

Why don’t you like my posts?

Because I never like anything on Facebook.

But I’m your mother. I made you, can’t you like me?

Sorry, I never click like. I just don’t.

You are forsaking all conventional social media behavior. Then again, you never have to pretend to like something you don’t.

That’s right.

Negative and venomous comments are on my no-go list. Politics is also an uncontrollable demon and is best avoided. Not to mention, conflicting political views make people not like each other. Political posts, like volatile oil, catch fire quickly, spread out of control, and leave a trail of smoldering ashes in their wake.

Relationships can be polished or tarnished on Facebook, and that’s why I hide offensive posts. Who needs more contention in their life. Blips and bleeps announcing updates, a new profile picture, or the end of the world disrupt my day; therefore my phone thwarts them.

Since surfing on my mobile is about as comfortable as wearing thong underwear, I log into Facebook from a dated iMac. Usually, this ritual occurs in the evening, accompanied by a glass of wine. Also, I never frolic for more than five or ten minutes. My news feed flashes onto the screen, and images of cherubic offspring prettify the landscape. Ads for the frying pan I recently ordered on Amazon are nestled between an adorable puppy and vacation photos. The puppy has many admirers and receives oodles of hearts and smiley faces, which obviously delights the owner because he thanks his audience with an abundance of warm and fuzzy symbols. Naturally, I give the puppy a thumbs up. Another friend discloses his worldview, and an irritated user rejects it. A heated debate follows. Regardless, I have moved on to an amusing video of a chicken running ecstatically into the arms of its owner. Occasionally, I rant at the screen, and once in a while, I post something that is not particularly revealing. One evening, inspired by Warhol, I was tempted to post a picture of a box of frozen spinach, but my courage failed me.

Over time, Facebook lost its allure, so I decided to say goodbye. The algorithm interrupted the process and asked, Are you sure you want to break up? Why don’t you deactivate your account and put it in the attic for a while? You may return one day.

That seems like an attractive solution. Now, hold on a second, you’re manipulating me. I’m deleting my account and scattering its binary remains in cyberspace.

Your loss, loser, I mean, user.

Doorbell Lady

Jogging with our King Charles Spaniel, affectionately known as Beethoven, is exhausting. His leash is wrapped around my right hand, which prevents me from swinging my arms and impedes the rhythm of running. Not only that, the animal yanks my arm every time he lurches, which is often. Sure, I could jog alone, come home, harness the dog, and lope around again. Or I could call my pet products sales rep brother for advice. After listening to me whine, he says, You need a dog-jog belt. It’s a great gimmick. The hands-free leash attaches to a belt around your waist. I’ll send you one.

The package arrived, and I tethered our high-strung sixteen-pound pet to my torso. I am woefully slower than this canine classified a toy by the Kennel Club, and feel like a large bouncy parasite chasing its host as we barrel down the road. Frankly, his strength is a mystery to me, given that he has four carrot-like limbs jutting from his tiny body and is endowed with more fur than muscles. Should you happen to see us, you would think his name is Bubbles or Peanut. Just imagine his mother’s womb, twenty-four unwieldy legs poking that poor bitch in the ribs. Thank dog gestation is merely two months.

After we get to the woods, I cut the rope, and the animal zigzags around the forest. His neurotransmitters must be playing pinball in the olfactory region of his brain because bells ring with each whiff of enticing excrement and pee-pee. According to my husband, he’s reading the newspaper. Once, the dog ran into the adjoining field, picked up a tractor-flattened field mouse, and pranced around with his trophy, pretending to be a hunter. What’s next, big boy? Are you going to bring Mommy a garden gnome?

One day, I was running with the dog when an old woman stepped out of her front gate, waved me down, and said something incomprehensible. I wondered whether she needed medical assistance, so I crossed the road, straining to hear her. Her plea for help flicked on the dog’s barking switch, and it’s anyone’s guess how to turn it off. After ten years, we still haven’t found the mute button.

I’m waiting for a delivery, and my doorbell is broken, she said fretfully.

Sorry, but I don’t know anything about doorbells. I’ll send my husband over when he gets home from work.

I can’t wait. The delivery man is coming this afternoon.

I’m not sure how I can help.

The yapping escalated, and the frenetic animal danced in erratic circles around my legs, yet Doorbell Lady seemed unaware of my predicament.

Can you have a look at it? she pleaded.

I guess so. Although looking is not the same as fixing.

Reluctantly, I followed the woman up the front path to her tidy home. I was already apprehensive about repairing the bell, but how could I accomplish the task with a neurotic animal affixed to me?

Once inside, the wound-up pooch yanked me in every direction and completely ignored my sit, stay, no, and down commands. I was more uptight than my mother when she ran out of cigarettes. In any case, Doorbell Lady’s helplessness had a firm grip on me. Maybe we’re hardwired for altruism, even when there’s nothing we can do to help.

The old woman pointed to a doorbell mounted near the ceiling. Despite my trepidation, I asked for a stepladder and a screwdriver. Surprisingly, she brought me a chair ideally suited to the job. Then again, how I could examine the doorbell, I wondered, without strangling our simple-minded pet? I wrestled with the yellowed plastic cover and felt relieved when it came off without cracking. Inside was a little silver bell and an enormous square battery, so either the battery or the wiring leading to the outdoor button was on the fritz.

With my newfound voice of authority, I asked the woman whether she had a replacement battery. She rummaged through her junk drawer. Most of the batteries in our junk drawer are dead, yet this woman presented me with a brand-new package of C cells. I disconnected the square power cell and handed it to her. This is what you need. I’ll take it with me and pick one up, but it won’t be here in time for your delivery.

Just a minute, my son recently bought an extra battery.

She went into another room and returned with the correct power cell. While I replaced the battery, Beethoven thought it might be fun to howl.

Let’s see if it works, I said.

The lady stepped outside and pushed the button. Fancy that, the bell tolled. But for whom, oh yeah, the delivery guy.

Glad to be of help, I said, shaking her hand.

We sprinted home, and the worn-out dog turned in circles before curling himself into a doughnut on the kitchen floor. You’d think that dogs would have kicked the bed-building habit after twelve thousand years of domestication, especially when napping on ceramic tiles.

Without the dog underfoot, I loaded boxes into the car for a trip to the donation center. Doorbell Lady was on my mind as I pressed the close button on the garage door remote. Alas, the trunk was open, and the sound of the door crushing our car’s yawning hatchback turned my stomach. Frantically, I pushed another button, and the door squealed to a halt, fusing the trunk lid to the garage door. Afraid of causing further damage, I waited for my husband to return.

When Key got home, he put the car in gear, pushed it forward a few inches, and released them from their steely embrace. Fortunately for us, we drive an old, banged-up Corolla, and at some point in the life of a car, you say, one more dent, so what. Come to think of it, that’s how I feel about myself.

I can only say this: my good deed did not protect me from misfortune, so I have never jogged down that street again.

Wedding

The wedding whisperer entered the kitchen carrying her clipboard, then sat down at the table and declared, I have been dreaming of your wedding since the day you were born. That decree safeguarded my mother’s position as the master of ceremonies and fulfilled her unbending need to run the show. I looked up from the comic section of the newspaper and blinked. Honestly, my mother was not infringing on my dream because I never had a wedding fantasy. All the same, I yearned for a low-key event.

Mom, why don’t we have a subdued ceremony followed by lunch with a few guests at a local restaurant? My proposal was pooh-poohed because it was god-awful. Instead, my creator craved an elaborate sit-down dinner at a venue with a dance floor. This wedding was her epic poem, and from her pen flowed dresses, bouquets, menus, and limos.

I looked at my mother, knowing very well that she would pretend to consider my ideas and then use her decades-old dream to legitimize her inherent right to take charge. She unclamped several sheets of paper from her clipboard and handed them to me. Do you want to have a look at the guest list? At least she packaged it as a rhetorical question. I skimmed the names and sighed.

Mom, Key, and I don’t know many of these people. Who are they?

Our friends! They would be terribly hurt if we did not invite them.

Frantically, I pointed at more unfamiliar names.

And who are they?

Those are your father’s colleagues, and he wants them to be present. In fact, it means a lot to him.

Are you sure about that? Does Dad even like them?

Yes, he does. We have attended several of their children’s weddings and given generous gifts. It would be embarrassing if we did not invite them. And there it was, the crux of the issue; gifts are reciprocal. To give is to get. Even better is to give a discounted item and receive a full-priced one in return.

She turned back to her clipboard and sighed.

Have you chosen your bridesmaids?

My sister will be my bridesmaid, and Key’s brother will be his best man.

She had to nibble on this before consenting. A large procession was undoubtedly parading down the aisle of her dream, yet she pacified me and didn’t kick up a fuss. Huh, no fireworks today?

What will your sister wear as the lone bridesmaid?

Her inquiry rode on a wisp of sarcasm.

She could wear one of her old prom dresses. In fact, she can wear whatever she wants.

My mother mentally browsed the dress rack in the attic.

Let me think about it.

Ho, ho, ho, that is simply not true. You will not think about it. Instead, you will pick up the phone and spend hours contemplating the dress situation with your sisters. No guidelines existed for a pre-worn bridesmaid’s dress, and all the nuances had to be clarified. They would chew the cud on this one.

Have you thought about your bridal gown? I know this wonderful little boutique in Pennsylvania.

I thought I could wear your wedding dress, Mom?

Oh yes, she said, smiling, I would like that very much. We genuinely connected with the dress.

My veil is in bad shape, so we definitely need to get a new one, she said.

I knew that opposing the veil was pointless. Had I, for