The past few weeks have been a bit nutty at the Mr. X house. Sick wife, sick son, and now a sick daughter. Mrs. X and Bad News have not been able to quite shake whatever bubonic SARS flu has enveloped them, and now Raven has viral meningitis (which scared the fucking shit out of me, until I realized that it was BACTERIAL meningitis was the really deadly one).
So - I've been playing the heroic single dad the past two weeks. Truth be told, I'm not feeling so hot myself (an annual tradition that happens every time we welcome spring and fall), but I'm nowhere near where my family is. To complicate matters, work has been a raging bitch-goddess during that time, and Bad News, god bless him, has jumped feet first into the terrible twos. Two nights ago, I nearly FedExed him to China. Tantrums, not eating, and being kind of an asshole have been the norm for the last month or so. I know he's just expressing himself and stretching the boundaries of his independence and all that child rearing crap - but truthfully, he's just been a pain in the ass lately.
Last night was fairly typical of what the last weeks have entailed - I got home late from work (after going in early), and was immediately greeted by screaming, tantrums, shouts of "LEAVE ME ALONE!" - and that was just Mrs. X. (Kidding - sort of). Nobody had eaten dinner. Food was everywhere. The house was a mess. Mrs. X was on her last legs (this illness has really sapped her energy), and the kids were hungry and without naps - a potentially nuclear combination.
As I slogged through the household chores of getting everyone to eat, cleaning the kitchen and living room, starting the laundry, giving baths, getting into PJ's, teeth brushed, books read and lights out, I started to imagine the days before kids. The days when I could eat Taco Bell for dinner six nights a week. When "Monday night" in the fall meant "beers and wings with the boys to watch football". When coming home was a calming, relaxing effort.
Finally - five hours after I had gotten home from an 11.5 hour day at work, I sat down to eat my own dinner. Then I heard the footsteps upstairs. Hardwood floors are not conducive to children trying to sneak around out of bed.
I stomped upstairs and "regulated" - which is my term for "either get in bed, or Daddy's going to lose his shit". Both kids were promptly deposited into bed, covered up and charged with the task of going to sleep ASAP.
15 minutes later, I walked upstairs to make sure everyone was asleep - and sure enough, they were. Then it hit me.
I watched my daughter sleep for about 20 minutes. She didn't do anything unusual - she just slept. I'm usually not that sentimental about that stuff, but it just hit me at that exact moment that I needed to take a breath and enjoy them RIGHT NOW - remember the times that they are peaceful and loving and wonderful - because it makes the hard times more bearable.
Even the usually tornadic Bad News was out cold - and had already fallen off the bed (which is the norm). I picked him up and rocked him for a few minutes. He sort of woke up while we were rocking, and I asked him "Do you want me to stop?"
He put his head back on my shoulder and said "No."
Me neither, buddy. Me neither.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The Accidental Strip Club Trip
My buddies from college and I are tight - even though we're spread out across the country now, we still manage to stay in touch, and we also get together about 2-3 times per year. Now that the majority of us are married, and some of us even procreated, these trips are harder and harder to plan.
But back when we were younger, and "hooked up" instead of "got married", we went out a lot. A LOT. Beer was consumed nightly. There was usually at least one "Why am I covered in broken glass, wearing a kimono?" evening a week. And the same bunch of animals I went to college with were the same guys I was doing this with in my early and mid-20's.
Eventually, most of us found someone who was stupid enough to marry us. This lead to a new frontier of stupid and drunken activity - the bachelor party.
I wasn't the first of our group to get married - that honor belonged to my buddy Tiger and his lovely wife. It was also a mistake - one that I will chronicle in a story named "Mobile Century Club" down the road a piece. Here's a quick tip, kids - don't be the first of your friends to get married out of college. Your friends have no money, so they're going to get wasted on your open bar, and 20 of them will go in on a $50 present. Wait until you're 30 - at least.
However, I was the second of our group to get married. At this time, I was living out in Portland, OR, and had a connection to a power player in Las Vegas. So, with me being in love with stereotypes and cliches, we had a bachelor party in Vegas. That will also require another story - probably named "6 Boobs, 1 Dude" or "I was up for 52 straight hours". But my bachelor party started a run of "we have to top this" bachelor party locations and events - which is where this story starts.
My buddy J-Bear was getting married to his beautiful wife - and he gave me the honor of being his best man. I had ALWAYS wanted to be the best man in a wedding, so I took the responsibility very seriously. I gave a bitchin' wedding toast (that was only to be topped by the Flying Baltuska Bros. at their respective weddings), but more to the point, I was in charge of the bachelor party.
After some brainstorming with the groom-to-be, we decided to go skiing. I finagled a great deal at a PIMP cabin in Lake Tahoe for eight guys. This place was amazing - five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a pool table - and a hot tub.
Oh my god, the hot tub. It was late February when we went to Tahoe, so the snow fell daily. Have you ever sat in a hot tub while it's snowing? Quite possibly, one of the coolest experiences of my life. It was also one of the most epic drinking performances of my life, too.
Are you familiar with the term "hot tub drunk"? (Patent pending) It's where you drink about three times your normal limit, because you're sitting in the hot tub, sweating out all of the booze almost as quickly as it goes in. The thing is, you don't feel it AT ALL (the other guys will attest to this) until you get out of the hot tub - and it's like you have 300 cc's of Jack Daniels injected into your heart.
The eight of us went through (and I'm not exaggerating) about 7 cases of beer, plus a handle of Jack and a handle of Capt. Morgan in one evening. It was truly stunning.
We'd go skiing in the morning and afternoon, and hit the Tahoe night life scene in the evening. If there was ever an oxymoron, it's "Tahoe night life". What a depressing city - one casino (which doubled as a ribs joint), and according to Jerry the Alcoholic Blackjack Dealer, no strip clubs.
No strip clubs? On a bachelor party? Unacceptable.
I called around the next day, and sure enough, no strip clubs. Then I found a place called the Sagebrush Ranch.
I called them up to get directions - and the guy on the phone couldn't have been nicer. He asked if we were coming in for a bachelor party, and I said yes.
Sagebrush Ranch: "Awesome! We love bachelor parties! Do you guys need a ride?"
Mr. X: "Wait...what?"
SBR: "We can send a van to get you guys - that way, you can drink as much as you want, and spend your money on the girls, rather than a huge cab ride home."
MRX: "Makes sense to me!"
So I arranged for the van to come scoop us up - and basked in the adulation of my friends.
The van arrived promptly at 8:00, and the driver was professional-looking. We piled in with our beer, and eagerly awaited arriving at the Ranch. Then the driver turned to us and asked:
"Do you guys want to look at some menus?"
My buddy Drew piped up and said "God, yes - I'm starving!" - so the menus were handed around. But instead of mozarella sticks and chicken tenders, there were menu items like:
The Half-and-Half
In and Out
Kitty's Delight
And so on...
We realized for the first time that maybe we were in a bit over our heads. The rest of the van ride was nearly in silence, until we got to the Ranch.
We walked in the front door - and there was a HUGE western style saloon with about 35 women in varying degrees of age and beauty waiting for us in a semi-circle. Then, the lady who looked like Yoko Ono stepped up and said:
"Welcome to the Sagebrush Ranch Brothel! What would you like tonight?"
Let me clarify a few points -
1.) I had no idea it was a brothel. I absolutely had no idea until we walked in.
2.) You have NEVER seen eight randy and rowdy dudes pucker up and pussy out faster than the eight of us did that night.
Finally, my buddy the Senator broke the ice and told Yoko that we were just going to have a few beers to start. We moved as a group over to the bar, and stood back to back in a circle (I shit you not). It was hysterical trying to talk over our shoulders to each other.
"You dumb ass! This is a fucking brothel!"
"I'm not fucking some whore!"
"I didn't know it was a brothel, fuckface!"
And other such mature and informed commentary.
We were then offered the opportunity to go into one of the "V.I.P. Rooms" - alone - with one or more of the girls to discuss our evening.
Fuck that.
All EIGHT of us piled into one room - and the brothel (wisely, on their part) sent us in with Yoko and a beautiful (and I mean achingly beautiful) girl. After some negotiation on their part, this sentence came out of Yoko's mouth.
"You can watch us have sex for $2,000".
Mine was the first response -
"What do WE get for $2,000?"
"You get to watch."
"Fuck that."
I went up to the manager with some trepidation - you have to remember that we are out in the middle of fucking nowhere, and none of us know where we are, how we got there, or how we're getting home. Also, they gave us a ride - so they could leave us stranded, kick the shit out of us or rob us. I was betting on all three.
After some surprisingly civil conversation, I informed the big guy that we were just eight midwestern kids who were looking for a strip club - and that we were in completely over our heads here. He understood his audience and led us into an underground tunnel (which had the red light rooms on either side) into a honest-to-goodness strip club - featuring some of the best looking women in a nudie bar I had ever seen.
Now that we were back in our element, we came back to life. Shots were flowing. Beers were abundant. $20's were thrown with zero remorse. I was retelling our story to Buckles, the lovely little diva dancing on stage, and she dropped the line of the night.
"God, I would never have sex for money! That's so degrading!"
I agree, honey - now here's a $20 - stick your face in the groom's crotch again.
p.s. - we did convince them to give us a ride home, too.
But back when we were younger, and "hooked up" instead of "got married", we went out a lot. A LOT. Beer was consumed nightly. There was usually at least one "Why am I covered in broken glass, wearing a kimono?" evening a week. And the same bunch of animals I went to college with were the same guys I was doing this with in my early and mid-20's.
I wasn't the first of our group to get married - that honor belonged to my buddy Tiger and his lovely wife. It was also a mistake - one that I will chronicle in a story named "Mobile Century Club" down the road a piece. Here's a quick tip, kids - don't be the first of your friends to get married out of college. Your friends have no money, so they're going to get wasted on your open bar, and 20 of them will go in on a $50 present. Wait until you're 30 - at least.
However, I was the second of our group to get married. At this time, I was living out in Portland, OR, and had a connection to a power player in Las Vegas. So, with me being in love with stereotypes and cliches, we had a bachelor party in Vegas. That will also require another story - probably named "6 Boobs, 1 Dude" or "I was up for 52 straight hours". But my bachelor party started a run of "we have to top this" bachelor party locations and events - which is where this story starts.
My buddy J-Bear was getting married to his beautiful wife - and he gave me the honor of being his best man. I had ALWAYS wanted to be the best man in a wedding, so I took the responsibility very seriously. I gave a bitchin' wedding toast (that was only to be topped by the Flying Baltuska Bros. at their respective weddings), but more to the point, I was in charge of the bachelor party.
After some brainstorming with the groom-to-be, we decided to go skiing. I finagled a great deal at a PIMP cabin in Lake Tahoe for eight guys. This place was amazing - five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a pool table - and a hot tub.
Oh my god, the hot tub. It was late February when we went to Tahoe, so the snow fell daily. Have you ever sat in a hot tub while it's snowing? Quite possibly, one of the coolest experiences of my life. It was also one of the most epic drinking performances of my life, too.
Are you familiar with the term "hot tub drunk"? (Patent pending) It's where you drink about three times your normal limit, because you're sitting in the hot tub, sweating out all of the booze almost as quickly as it goes in. The thing is, you don't feel it AT ALL (the other guys will attest to this) until you get out of the hot tub - and it's like you have 300 cc's of Jack Daniels injected into your heart.
The eight of us went through (and I'm not exaggerating) about 7 cases of beer, plus a handle of Jack and a handle of Capt. Morgan in one evening. It was truly stunning.
We'd go skiing in the morning and afternoon, and hit the Tahoe night life scene in the evening. If there was ever an oxymoron, it's "Tahoe night life". What a depressing city - one casino (which doubled as a ribs joint), and according to Jerry the Alcoholic Blackjack Dealer, no strip clubs.
No strip clubs? On a bachelor party? Unacceptable.
I called around the next day, and sure enough, no strip clubs. Then I found a place called the Sagebrush Ranch.
I called them up to get directions - and the guy on the phone couldn't have been nicer. He asked if we were coming in for a bachelor party, and I said yes.
Sagebrush Ranch: "Awesome! We love bachelor parties! Do you guys need a ride?"
Mr. X: "Wait...what?"
SBR: "We can send a van to get you guys - that way, you can drink as much as you want, and spend your money on the girls, rather than a huge cab ride home."
MRX: "Makes sense to me!"
So I arranged for the van to come scoop us up - and basked in the adulation of my friends.
The van arrived promptly at 8:00, and the driver was professional-looking. We piled in with our beer, and eagerly awaited arriving at the Ranch. Then the driver turned to us and asked:
"Do you guys want to look at some menus?"
My buddy Drew piped up and said "God, yes - I'm starving!" - so the menus were handed around. But instead of mozarella sticks and chicken tenders, there were menu items like:
The Half-and-Half
In and Out
Kitty's Delight
And so on...
We realized for the first time that maybe we were in a bit over our heads. The rest of the van ride was nearly in silence, until we got to the Ranch.
We walked in the front door - and there was a HUGE western style saloon with about 35 women in varying degrees of age and beauty waiting for us in a semi-circle. Then, the lady who looked like Yoko Ono stepped up and said:
"Welcome to the Sagebrush Ranch Brothel! What would you like tonight?"
Let me clarify a few points -
1.) I had no idea it was a brothel. I absolutely had no idea until we walked in.
2.) You have NEVER seen eight randy and rowdy dudes pucker up and pussy out faster than the eight of us did that night.
Finally, my buddy the Senator broke the ice and told Yoko that we were just going to have a few beers to start. We moved as a group over to the bar, and stood back to back in a circle (I shit you not). It was hysterical trying to talk over our shoulders to each other.
"You dumb ass! This is a fucking brothel!"
"I'm not fucking some whore!"
"I didn't know it was a brothel, fuckface!"
And other such mature and informed commentary.
We were then offered the opportunity to go into one of the "V.I.P. Rooms" - alone - with one or more of the girls to discuss our evening.
Fuck that.
All EIGHT of us piled into one room - and the brothel (wisely, on their part) sent us in with Yoko and a beautiful (and I mean achingly beautiful) girl. After some negotiation on their part, this sentence came out of Yoko's mouth.
"You can watch us have sex for $2,000".
Mine was the first response -
"What do WE get for $2,000?"
"You get to watch."
"Fuck that."
I went up to the manager with some trepidation - you have to remember that we are out in the middle of fucking nowhere, and none of us know where we are, how we got there, or how we're getting home. Also, they gave us a ride - so they could leave us stranded, kick the shit out of us or rob us. I was betting on all three.
After some surprisingly civil conversation, I informed the big guy that we were just eight midwestern kids who were looking for a strip club - and that we were in completely over our heads here. He understood his audience and led us into an underground tunnel (which had the red light rooms on either side) into a honest-to-goodness strip club - featuring some of the best looking women in a nudie bar I had ever seen.Now that we were back in our element, we came back to life. Shots were flowing. Beers were abundant. $20's were thrown with zero remorse. I was retelling our story to Buckles, the lovely little diva dancing on stage, and she dropped the line of the night.
"God, I would never have sex for money! That's so degrading!"
I agree, honey - now here's a $20 - stick your face in the groom's crotch again.
p.s. - we did convince them to give us a ride home, too.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Weigh-In Day
I'm going to let you in on a little secret.
I have no discipline.
Not exactly an earth-shaker, is it? But it's true - I can give up on something that is hard faster than anyone I know. I'll cut so many corners, my project will be a circle when I'm done with it. But sometimes, I get dedicated to something and knock it out - but if I get distracted or overwhelmed, then I'm all about jumping off the Titanic.
Take this past weekend. My wife was VERY ill - leaving me to be single dad to our twomonsters angels, plus the primary caregiver to my nurse spouse. Have you ever taken care of a nurse, or someone in the medical profession? It ain't easy. They know better than anyone what to do (in their opinion, but it's also fact), and they won't listen to anyone about "rest, fluids, sleep, etc.". So - yeah, the thought of pushing her down some stairs crossed my mind once or twice over the past 96 hours.
My kids were another challenge. There was nearly a "Harry Potter Moment" - where they were going to live their formative years in the closet under the stairs. I considered putting them up on Craigslist. I almost started a Twitter account, so I could remember such gems as "I'm going to stuff you in the microwave!" for posterity down the road.
Through all this, I was supposed to be exercising and dieting. Didn't happen. I justified it with "sick wife and crazy kids", and just eschewed doing anything over the weekend.
Today was weigh-in day, and I stepped on the scale with trepidation. Then I opened my eyes, and Charlotte (god bless her, in her tight sweaters and "are they real?" hooters) was holding her fist out for a bump. I looked down.
244.1 - a total loss of 1.9 pounds. 1.9 pounds away from the elusive 20 pound barrier.
Let me quote one of my favorite scenes from "Saturday Night Live" - Will Farrell and Darrell Hammonds on "Celebrity Jeopardy" -
"Despite your best efforts, my friend, you were successful."
I'm not sure how it happened, but I'll take it. I have a boys' weekend this weekend, where the beer will flow like wine, and the women flock like the salmon of Capestrano. I'm not holding my breath on some magical weight loss formula this time, but maybe I'll get lucky twice. I'm sure as hell not disciplined enough to work out while on vacation.
I have no discipline.
Not exactly an earth-shaker, is it? But it's true - I can give up on something that is hard faster than anyone I know. I'll cut so many corners, my project will be a circle when I'm done with it. But sometimes, I get dedicated to something and knock it out - but if I get distracted or overwhelmed, then I'm all about jumping off the Titanic.
Take this past weekend. My wife was VERY ill - leaving me to be single dad to our two
My kids were another challenge. There was nearly a "Harry Potter Moment" - where they were going to live their formative years in the closet under the stairs. I considered putting them up on Craigslist. I almost started a Twitter account, so I could remember such gems as "I'm going to stuff you in the microwave!" for posterity down the road.
Through all this, I was supposed to be exercising and dieting. Didn't happen. I justified it with "sick wife and crazy kids", and just eschewed doing anything over the weekend.
Today was weigh-in day, and I stepped on the scale with trepidation. Then I opened my eyes, and Charlotte (god bless her, in her tight sweaters and "are they real?" hooters) was holding her fist out for a bump. I looked down.
244.1 - a total loss of 1.9 pounds. 1.9 pounds away from the elusive 20 pound barrier.
Let me quote one of my favorite scenes from "Saturday Night Live" - Will Farrell and Darrell Hammonds on "Celebrity Jeopardy" -
"Despite your best efforts, my friend, you were successful."
I'm not sure how it happened, but I'll take it. I have a boys' weekend this weekend, where the beer will flow like wine, and the women flock like the salmon of Capestrano. I'm not holding my breath on some magical weight loss formula this time, but maybe I'll get lucky twice. I'm sure as hell not disciplined enough to work out while on vacation.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Preschool
Today was a big day. Well, not for you guys - but it was a landmark occasion in my house.
My little girl started preschool today. She's four years old, so we had the option of keeping her back one more year - she's a July birthday, so she's either going to be the youngest kid in her class, or the oldest. I was flip-flopping back and forth, trying to decide if she was ready, then she made the decision for me.
I came home from work one day, and she was playing school. This is not an odd event at our house - in fact, it happens six days out of every week. This time was a bit different though.
Usually, she coerces her younger brother (age two) to be the student. Since he will do ANYTHING she tells him to, loyally and obediently, he was sitting at attention, "learning" the alphabet. Then I noticed her other pupil.
Our dog Turner was sitting there, with his head down, tail between his legs, ears drooping. This stance is usually struck after I've beaten him mercilessly for chewing up the blinds or a hole in the wall - but he was in full "crap, when will they stop yelling at me?" mode right now.
Apparently, he "wasn't paying attention in class" and was getting a good scolding from Miss Raven. My son, Bad News, was laughing his ass off at his furry buddy's misfortune. Then I noticed my spouse was standing in the corner.
"What'd you do?" I asked.
"She put me in timeout for talking during class."
Then, Miss Raven finished admonishing our dog and turned her venom towards me.
"Where's your note?! You're late!"
Dumbfounded, I informed her that I didn't have a note. I got detention.
Yeah - she was ready for school.
My little girl started preschool today. She's four years old, so we had the option of keeping her back one more year - she's a July birthday, so she's either going to be the youngest kid in her class, or the oldest. I was flip-flopping back and forth, trying to decide if she was ready, then she made the decision for me.
I came home from work one day, and she was playing school. This is not an odd event at our house - in fact, it happens six days out of every week. This time was a bit different though.
Usually, she coerces her younger brother (age two) to be the student. Since he will do ANYTHING she tells him to, loyally and obediently, he was sitting at attention, "learning" the alphabet. Then I noticed her other pupil.
Our dog Turner was sitting there, with his head down, tail between his legs, ears drooping. This stance is usually struck after I've beaten him mercilessly for chewing up the blinds or a hole in the wall - but he was in full "crap, when will they stop yelling at me?" mode right now.
Apparently, he "wasn't paying attention in class" and was getting a good scolding from Miss Raven. My son, Bad News, was laughing his ass off at his furry buddy's misfortune. Then I noticed my spouse was standing in the corner.
"What'd you do?" I asked.
"She put me in timeout for talking during class."
Then, Miss Raven finished admonishing our dog and turned her venom towards me.
"Where's your note?! You're late!"
Dumbfounded, I informed her that I didn't have a note. I got detention.
Yeah - she was ready for school.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Bitch Next Door
A bit of a sidebar from the diet angle (down to 248.2 after 5 weeks, thank you) - but this one has been hanging over my head for some time now.
Recently, the wife and I bought a new house. After nearly 10 months of living in her parent's basement, I cannot express to you how liberating this is. Not just the "walk around naked" part of owning your own house (though that part is pretty boss) - but just having room, a kitchen, and not worrying if the mother-in-law is going to follow me after I used the guest bathroom.
So, with a new house comes new neighbors. First, let me let you in on a little insight to my personality. I don't like ANYONE right away. I'm not proud of it like some people are (I mean, there are a LOT of people who seem to take great pride in being a dick or a bitch. It's not a badge of honor, folks). It's just my disposition. Now, thankfully, most people prove me wrong in pretty short order, and I come around pretty quickly on most folks. There are some exceptions, however.
Cookie is an exception. Cookie is my next door neighbor - and I place her age roughly between 55-1,000,000. I honestly have no idea how old she is. Within three minutes of meeting her on the day we moved in (and that's not an exaggeration), she casually mentioned this:
"We had agreed with the previous owners to cut down one of the trees in your back yard, because the roots are threatening to pierce the lining of our pool. It costs about $300 - do you want to pay for it and we can split it with you? Or we can have someone come over right now and do it and you can pay us back. Because, you know, $300 is a lot cheaper than $40,000, which is what it would cost to replace the lining in the pool."
Now picture this scene. I am sweating my ass off, holding a box of crap that we don't need. I'm on approximately 4 minutes of sleep the last three days. There are my dear friends and family that are helping us move, asking me where stuff goes. My children are driving me batshit crazy, asking me to get their toys and books out and stuff. And then - Cookie.
Read what she told me again. My god - politicians aren't this prepared for national debates! What an ambush, too! And who the FUCK has a $40,000 pool?
The thing is - the tree in question is like 30 feet from her pool. There is no way the roots could pierce the lining of their Kardashian-esque pool. And it provides some valuable shade in the afternoon for our backyard and deck. Hell, one of the reasons I bought the house was BECAUSE of the trees in the back yard.
Amazingly, I was polite and told Cookie that we would discuss it later. Undeterred, she has brought it up with me EVERY SINGLE TIME I see her. She brought it up with my wife. With my mom. With my father-in-law. Anyone and everyone who crosses her path gets asked about that tree.
Well, you know what, Cookie? There is no fucking way I'm EVER cutting down that tree. Unless God herself (yeah, I said it) blasts that tree out of the ground with a bolt of lightning, it will remain there.
Cookie is also a bit of a gossip. Actually that's not true. Calling Cookie a "bit of a gossip" is like calling Abe Lincoln "a little bit dead". My Christ - this woman has dirt on EVERYONE on the street -and if you listen to her, we live on Wisteria Lane from "Desperate Housewives".
My favorite was how she said the guy across the street (nicknamed "Mr. Perfect") is a drunk and had papers served to him by the divorce court - but she and her equally bitchy friend across the street from me "just happened to find the papers blowing around" their yard. I'm sure it was more like Cookie tackled the process server and beat him to death with her cigarette case until he coughed up the papers.
I've met Mr. Perfect a couple of times, and his lovely wife. They seem happy enough. Never seen him drink, either (though he's seen me...plenty). You might be surprised to hear this, but Cookie just might be full of shit.
So - now I have to outlive Cookie. I'm pretty sure she's lonely. She lives with her husband Tom, who's never home (can't imagine why) and her sister - who I don't think is right in the head. I may be wrong, but it sure would explain why she was wearing two kimonos in the middle of summer. But man - Cookie is my least favorite type of person - a gossipy phony who will spread stories and rumors just to give her something to do.
God know what she's said about us already.
Recently, the wife and I bought a new house. After nearly 10 months of living in her parent's basement, I cannot express to you how liberating this is. Not just the "walk around naked" part of owning your own house (though that part is pretty boss) - but just having room, a kitchen, and not worrying if the mother-in-law is going to follow me after I used the guest bathroom.
So, with a new house comes new neighbors. First, let me let you in on a little insight to my personality. I don't like ANYONE right away. I'm not proud of it like some people are (I mean, there are a LOT of people who seem to take great pride in being a dick or a bitch. It's not a badge of honor, folks). It's just my disposition. Now, thankfully, most people prove me wrong in pretty short order, and I come around pretty quickly on most folks. There are some exceptions, however.
Cookie is an exception. Cookie is my next door neighbor - and I place her age roughly between 55-1,000,000. I honestly have no idea how old she is. Within three minutes of meeting her on the day we moved in (and that's not an exaggeration), she casually mentioned this:
"We had agreed with the previous owners to cut down one of the trees in your back yard, because the roots are threatening to pierce the lining of our pool. It costs about $300 - do you want to pay for it and we can split it with you? Or we can have someone come over right now and do it and you can pay us back. Because, you know, $300 is a lot cheaper than $40,000, which is what it would cost to replace the lining in the pool."
Now picture this scene. I am sweating my ass off, holding a box of crap that we don't need. I'm on approximately 4 minutes of sleep the last three days. There are my dear friends and family that are helping us move, asking me where stuff goes. My children are driving me batshit crazy, asking me to get their toys and books out and stuff. And then - Cookie.
Read what she told me again. My god - politicians aren't this prepared for national debates! What an ambush, too! And who the FUCK has a $40,000 pool?
The thing is - the tree in question is like 30 feet from her pool. There is no way the roots could pierce the lining of their Kardashian-esque pool. And it provides some valuable shade in the afternoon for our backyard and deck. Hell, one of the reasons I bought the house was BECAUSE of the trees in the back yard.
Amazingly, I was polite and told Cookie that we would discuss it later. Undeterred, she has brought it up with me EVERY SINGLE TIME I see her. She brought it up with my wife. With my mom. With my father-in-law. Anyone and everyone who crosses her path gets asked about that tree.
Well, you know what, Cookie? There is no fucking way I'm EVER cutting down that tree. Unless God herself (yeah, I said it) blasts that tree out of the ground with a bolt of lightning, it will remain there.
Cookie is also a bit of a gossip. Actually that's not true. Calling Cookie a "bit of a gossip" is like calling Abe Lincoln "a little bit dead". My Christ - this woman has dirt on EVERYONE on the street -and if you listen to her, we live on Wisteria Lane from "Desperate Housewives".
My favorite was how she said the guy across the street (nicknamed "Mr. Perfect") is a drunk and had papers served to him by the divorce court - but she and her equally bitchy friend across the street from me "just happened to find the papers blowing around" their yard. I'm sure it was more like Cookie tackled the process server and beat him to death with her cigarette case until he coughed up the papers.
I've met Mr. Perfect a couple of times, and his lovely wife. They seem happy enough. Never seen him drink, either (though he's seen me...plenty). You might be surprised to hear this, but Cookie just might be full of shit.
So - now I have to outlive Cookie. I'm pretty sure she's lonely. She lives with her husband Tom, who's never home (can't imagine why) and her sister - who I don't think is right in the head. I may be wrong, but it sure would explain why she was wearing two kimonos in the middle of summer. But man - Cookie is my least favorite type of person - a gossipy phony who will spread stories and rumors just to give her something to do.
God know what she's said about us already.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Your Move, Fatty
(Originally written on July 13th. It took me some time to decide if I was going to post this or not)
I'm fat.
Maybe not morbidly obese, but certainly heavier than I should be. I used to be insanely skinny - in high school and my freshman year of college I was 6'2", and a whopping 117 pounds. The ass-kicking I took during high school basketball games is almost indescribable. I was nearly stuffed through the hoop when Derrick Hood, who had signed with the University of Arkansas, decided to practice his drop-step move and I thought it would be wise to try to stop him.
I just kept growing in high school and college - I finally stopped at 6'5" - and it didn't matter how much I ate back then. My doctor put me on a Michael Phelps-ian diet that was about 6,500 calories a day. Didn't work. I used to eat two footlong meatball subs from Subway in a single meal. Didn't matter. My mom used to buy those HUGE chicken pot pies from Costco - and she'd cook one for me (caloric intake - about 4,200 with roughly 5,233,971 grams of fat) and one for the rest of the family. Didn't matter. I used to eat an entire loaf of peanut butter sandwiches at night, because I thought that it would stick to me better overnight. No such luck.
So - when I finally stopped growing, I just kept eating. I "ballooned' from 117 to 185 in two years. Unlike most people who gain a shitload of weight in college, it looked good on me. Then, reality set in. You know where this is going, right?
I finally topped out at about 205 when I graduated. I played tennis all four years of school, and did other athletics, so I wasn't heavy. I wasn't the most in-shape fella around, but I was hardly the moving land mass I am today.
I won't bore you with the details, but I slowly kept adding pounds, and rationalized every single step. Once I got to 220, I thought "This is it - as long as I don't go over 220, I'll be okay". Then I hit 230 with the same rationale. Then in the past year, things went plaid in terms of stress levels.
My wife and kids and I moved from everything and everyone I know from Kansas City to Omaha. I started a new job. We were trying to sell our house in KC in the worst housing market in the history of the world (or pretty close to it). We were living in her parent's basement - 33 years old, and I was living in the basement of my in-laws. It's amazing that someone didn't find me with my head stuck in the oven one morning.
So, to compensate, I ate the shit out of everything that was put in front of me. To make matters worse, my employer has the ONLY Chick-Fil-A in the state of Nebraska IN THE FUCKING BUILDING where I work. Chick-Fil-A is my kryptonite in the morning. Pepsi is my Achilles' heel, too. I drink 3-5 per day. I know it's bad for me - but then again, smokers know that cigarettes aren't exactly prolonging your life expectancy, either.
Then I went to the doctor, and the first thing his nurse says is "step on the scale". I hesitated. I bargained with her. I offered to wash her car. I threatened to kidnap her dog. Nothing worked - she wanted me on that scale, and by God, I was getting on that scale. So...I stepped on.
262.5.
I nearly cried. No shit. I almost broke down and started crying.
How the FUCK did this happen? Holy hell - really? 262.5, Shamu? How did you go from "homo sapien" to "orca" in a year? Jesus - if I had a hot brunette in a red and gold bikini, I could've gone as Jabba the Hutt for Halloween this year.
So - here we are. On a mission to regain who I once was. This won't be hearts and angels and feel-good stories. This will be swearing and anger and sweat - but I am determined to lose weight. It's embarrassing to sweat while you sleep. It's awful that I hate bending over to tie my kids' shoes. My pants don't fit, and my belt is on the last hole. My wife - God bless her - will never say anything, but I'm certain she's noticed. I would notice if she had puffed up like a wasp had stung her.
Why am I writing this? I'm not sure yet. Maybe as a measure of accountability on my part - god knows there hasn't been any in the past 3-4 years. If I write about how I'm doing, maybe it'll make what I'm doing a little more tangible. Maybe it's to take my mind off dieting (that's probably most likely). Whatever it is, don't expect a lot of inspirational quotes and stories - this will be more along the lines of a strip club/construction site/car crash - but a goal is at the end. We'll see how we do getting there.
I'm fat.
Maybe not morbidly obese, but certainly heavier than I should be. I used to be insanely skinny - in high school and my freshman year of college I was 6'2", and a whopping 117 pounds. The ass-kicking I took during high school basketball games is almost indescribable. I was nearly stuffed through the hoop when Derrick Hood, who had signed with the University of Arkansas, decided to practice his drop-step move and I thought it would be wise to try to stop him.
I just kept growing in high school and college - I finally stopped at 6'5" - and it didn't matter how much I ate back then. My doctor put me on a Michael Phelps-ian diet that was about 6,500 calories a day. Didn't work. I used to eat two footlong meatball subs from Subway in a single meal. Didn't matter. My mom used to buy those HUGE chicken pot pies from Costco - and she'd cook one for me (caloric intake - about 4,200 with roughly 5,233,971 grams of fat) and one for the rest of the family. Didn't matter. I used to eat an entire loaf of peanut butter sandwiches at night, because I thought that it would stick to me better overnight. No such luck.
So - when I finally stopped growing, I just kept eating. I "ballooned' from 117 to 185 in two years. Unlike most people who gain a shitload of weight in college, it looked good on me. Then, reality set in. You know where this is going, right?
I finally topped out at about 205 when I graduated. I played tennis all four years of school, and did other athletics, so I wasn't heavy. I wasn't the most in-shape fella around, but I was hardly the moving land mass I am today.
I won't bore you with the details, but I slowly kept adding pounds, and rationalized every single step. Once I got to 220, I thought "This is it - as long as I don't go over 220, I'll be okay". Then I hit 230 with the same rationale. Then in the past year, things went plaid in terms of stress levels.
My wife and kids and I moved from everything and everyone I know from Kansas City to Omaha. I started a new job. We were trying to sell our house in KC in the worst housing market in the history of the world (or pretty close to it). We were living in her parent's basement - 33 years old, and I was living in the basement of my in-laws. It's amazing that someone didn't find me with my head stuck in the oven one morning.
So, to compensate, I ate the shit out of everything that was put in front of me. To make matters worse, my employer has the ONLY Chick-Fil-A in the state of Nebraska IN THE FUCKING BUILDING where I work. Chick-Fil-A is my kryptonite in the morning. Pepsi is my Achilles' heel, too. I drink 3-5 per day. I know it's bad for me - but then again, smokers know that cigarettes aren't exactly prolonging your life expectancy, either.
Then I went to the doctor, and the first thing his nurse says is "step on the scale". I hesitated. I bargained with her. I offered to wash her car. I threatened to kidnap her dog. Nothing worked - she wanted me on that scale, and by God, I was getting on that scale. So...I stepped on.
262.5.
I nearly cried. No shit. I almost broke down and started crying.
How the FUCK did this happen? Holy hell - really? 262.5, Shamu? How did you go from "homo sapien" to "orca" in a year? Jesus - if I had a hot brunette in a red and gold bikini, I could've gone as Jabba the Hutt for Halloween this year.
So - here we are. On a mission to regain who I once was. This won't be hearts and angels and feel-good stories. This will be swearing and anger and sweat - but I am determined to lose weight. It's embarrassing to sweat while you sleep. It's awful that I hate bending over to tie my kids' shoes. My pants don't fit, and my belt is on the last hole. My wife - God bless her - will never say anything, but I'm certain she's noticed. I would notice if she had puffed up like a wasp had stung her.
Why am I writing this? I'm not sure yet. Maybe as a measure of accountability on my part - god knows there hasn't been any in the past 3-4 years. If I write about how I'm doing, maybe it'll make what I'm doing a little more tangible. Maybe it's to take my mind off dieting (that's probably most likely). Whatever it is, don't expect a lot of inspirational quotes and stories - this will be more along the lines of a strip club/construction site/car crash - but a goal is at the end. We'll see how we do getting there.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
My Little Monster Man
My son is turning two soon - and truth be told, I'm amazed that he's made it this far. Either he was going to kill himself, or I was going to do it for him. Never in my life have I encountered such an enigma - a loving, loud, terrible, wonderful, cranky, hilarious entity that pulls my emotions in every direction. I once described him to my lovely spouse like this:
"I didn't know you could hug a tornado."
You want to know something, though? He's just like me. He's funny (he's hysterical, actually). He loves sports. He stands with his hands on his knees during crucial moments of games that we are watching on TV. He's a bit of a showoff, just like his old man. I make fun of him (a lot) for being a little "off", or "simple" - I told my friends I envision his career path involving being shot out of a cannon.
Whatever he will end up being, he'll do it full-on, because that's how he does EVERYTHING. Meals are not eaten so much as they are attacked. He doesn't drink his milk - he chugs it like Napoleon Dynamite after learning some dance moves. Stairs are not climbed - they are assaulted. I admire him for not doing anything half-assed - he is full-assed from the moment he wakes up. Even sleeping is approached with hair on fire mentality - he doesn't toss and turn, and lie awake for hours like I do. He'll hit the mattress and be asleep before the sheets stop rustling.
My boy makes me shake my head every day - sometimes in wonderment, and sometimes in a "maybe the nurses mixed him up with another baby at the hospital" type way. At church, we've had to leave before Father Shane could even make it down the aisle. I've said the words "Please God - fix my son" more than any others in the past 24 months.
Once, my sister-in-law watched him for a few hours and remarked "He's going to be a gymnast, I think." Apparently he attempted approximately 629 somersaults in the three hours they spent together. Hey - as long as it knocks whatever it is that makes him the way it is back into place, I'm all for it.
But - there is part of me that misses my baby boy, too. He was a cuddler - much more so than his sister. He still is, actually. Every morning, he requires a shoulder to lay his head on when he gets out of the crib (the cheese-eating surrender monkey of child containment, by the way) - and he'll stay there for 5-10 minutes, and it's the BEST part of my day, bar none. It seems like he went from womb to walking in 20 minutes - I barely remember infant Z-man.
Still - I can't wait to see what he becomes. He's a good looking kid (thank you, my wife's genes), and he's got some brains to him, too - now if we can only steer him to work for the powers of good, the world will be a better place. I hear other dads talk about their sons in sports, or school, and wonder what will become of my little monster man. I call him "Bad News" as a term of endearment - but he's one of the best things in my life.
"I didn't know you could hug a tornado."
You want to know something, though? He's just like me. He's funny (he's hysterical, actually). He loves sports. He stands with his hands on his knees during crucial moments of games that we are watching on TV. He's a bit of a showoff, just like his old man. I make fun of him (a lot) for being a little "off", or "simple" - I told my friends I envision his career path involving being shot out of a cannon.
Whatever he will end up being, he'll do it full-on, because that's how he does EVERYTHING. Meals are not eaten so much as they are attacked. He doesn't drink his milk - he chugs it like Napoleon Dynamite after learning some dance moves. Stairs are not climbed - they are assaulted. I admire him for not doing anything half-assed - he is full-assed from the moment he wakes up. Even sleeping is approached with hair on fire mentality - he doesn't toss and turn, and lie awake for hours like I do. He'll hit the mattress and be asleep before the sheets stop rustling.
My boy makes me shake my head every day - sometimes in wonderment, and sometimes in a "maybe the nurses mixed him up with another baby at the hospital" type way. At church, we've had to leave before Father Shane could even make it down the aisle. I've said the words "Please God - fix my son" more than any others in the past 24 months.
Once, my sister-in-law watched him for a few hours and remarked "He's going to be a gymnast, I think." Apparently he attempted approximately 629 somersaults in the three hours they spent together. Hey - as long as it knocks whatever it is that makes him the way it is back into place, I'm all for it.
But - there is part of me that misses my baby boy, too. He was a cuddler - much more so than his sister. He still is, actually. Every morning, he requires a shoulder to lay his head on when he gets out of the crib (the cheese-eating surrender monkey of child containment, by the way) - and he'll stay there for 5-10 minutes, and it's the BEST part of my day, bar none. It seems like he went from womb to walking in 20 minutes - I barely remember infant Z-man.
Still - I can't wait to see what he becomes. He's a good looking kid (thank you, my wife's genes), and he's got some brains to him, too - now if we can only steer him to work for the powers of good, the world will be a better place. I hear other dads talk about their sons in sports, or school, and wonder what will become of my little monster man. I call him "Bad News" as a term of endearment - but he's one of the best things in my life.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Madeline Albright Story
I assume the statute of limitations has run out on this one, so it's now safe to share with the world. This happened between the summer of my junior and senior year of college - and it is 100% true.
At the end of my junior year of school, I won an internship out in Washington D.C. to work for some pretty hoity-toity alums, the Taggarts (doin' fine!). The Taggarts were lobbyists for pretty much EVERYONE - they were equal opportunity marketers. If you needed an opinion swayed, let Bill and Judy Taggart go to work for you. The internship was barely a step above unpaid, but I also had to foot all the expenses myself. Needless to say, I would not be living in the lap of luxury all summer.
Undeterred, I went to Washington D.C. I had arranged to stay on campus at American University, which had the following:
* easy access to the Metro rail line
* a McDonalds right across the street
* the nicest homeless people in our nation's capital
* a rule that prohibited alcohol on campus
That last one was what eventually led to the greatest story of my life. But it takes a few minutes to get there.
One of the benefits to living on campus was that there were several other students who were serving their internships around Washington well. My first roommate was named Leonardo, was a full-fledged Cajun (I could understand about 9% of what he said), and an absolute ass magnet. This guy scored more chicks than KFC. He was also polite enough to go back to their place most of the time, as our 15x15 dorm room was not conducive to putting the moves on the hussies he picked up.
Our dorms were also co-ed - which was a HUGE shock for this small-town Catholic school attending kid from Missouri. We were barely allowed to have girls in our room during visitation hours - and we had to keep at least a shoe in the door to keep it open. Swear to God. If you got caught with a girl in your room and the door was closed, you were busted. So, I was a little surprised when the beautiful (I mean BEAUTIFUL) Sarah Zygata came strolling out of the bathroom in her barely-there towel while I was headed to take a shower. Sarah was...uh...proportionally-incorrect. She was stunning, and built like Barbie. She was the highlight of my day every time I saw her. Unfortunately, she's not involved in this story any longer.
Down the hall, there was a guy named Hassan. Hassan was a BIG dude - like 6'7", 320 pounds. He was from Iraq, and had the dark skin/light eyes look that made him popular with the ladies as well. One of the guys at Hassan's office, Jeff, (he worked for a Congressman from Pennsylvania, but I can't remember his name) was throwing a party. At his townhouse. In Georgetown. All the food and drink were being provided.
Hassan asked me if I wanted to go. Now remember, I'm making $6.25/hour living on a dry campus - and I just got asked to go drink free beer, eat free food and hobnob with some of Washington's power players. When Hassan asked me, all that was remaining was a smoke outline of my body as I ran down the street in delight.
We went to the party, and it was phenomenal. I got a little "over served", but apparently made a good impression on Jeff, because he invited us to crash at his place that night. Georgetown isn't that far from American, but I was happy to save cabfare, as all Washington cabbies should use a gun and ski mask when they drive you around - that's how much they rob people.
After a while, Hassan and I decided to walk to the Georgetown bars (it wasn't far - about 2-3 blocks). We closed them all down, and decided to head back to Jeff's. Then the wheels came off.
Have you ever been to Georgetown? Have you seen the townhouses? They kinda look like this - all stacked together, and they look eerily the same. You can tell where this is headed.
As we walked back, Hassan realized that he wasn't sure where Jeff's house was. Since alcohol makes me smarter, funnier, richer and a better dancer, I announced to pretty much the entire District of Columbia that I knew where we were supposed to go and walked down the street.
We got to the house, and all the lights were off. I started ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door, yelling for Jeff to wake up and let us in.
The next thing I know, I am face down on the ground, and I can feel a foot on the back of my neck. I try to move and hear the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. I stop trying to move.
"Who are you?!?" bellows a voice.
"I'm Mr. X, and this is Hassan." I say.
"What are you doing here?"
"Just trying to get back into Jeff's house, man. Who are you?" I ask. (Alcohol makes me braver, and stupider, apparently).
"What are you doing here?" repeats the voice.
"Dude, seriously - we're just trying to get into Jeff's house."
"This is NOT Jeff's house!" shouts the voice.
Oh shit....I'm almost afraid to ask the next question.
"Who's house is it?"
"This is Madeline Albright's house!" says the voice.
Double oh shit...
"Secretary of State!" whispers Hassan. Glad to see he's contributing.
Now, as in any drunk group, someone has to be the brains of the operation. I elected myself.
"I know that - shut up!" I say to Hassan. I tell the guy with the size 13 shoe on the back of my neck that I made a mistake, and ask who he is.
"Secret Service! Now who are you?"
My "oh shit" meter has gone to "overflowing septic tank" levels.
I eventually explain to the Secret Service agent with the Glock pointed at my head that we're just two drunk college kids who were lost. I don't know why the Secret Service were guarding Ms. Albright that night, and the agents (all eight of them) didn't seem inclined to tell me. It also didn't help that I had the biggest Arab in Washington D. C. with me, trying to break into a cabinet member's home.
After being questioned....and questioned....and questioned....the Secret Service realized that we were not threats to national security. We were also not threats to walking home (getting federally funded weapons pointed at your head will sober you up REAL quick), but they gave us a ride, anyway. They advised us to stay out of Georgetown for a while, and to have a nice night.
By far, the best story of my life.
At the end of my junior year of school, I won an internship out in Washington D.C. to work for some pretty hoity-toity alums, the Taggarts (doin' fine!). The Taggarts were lobbyists for pretty much EVERYONE - they were equal opportunity marketers. If you needed an opinion swayed, let Bill and Judy Taggart go to work for you. The internship was barely a step above unpaid, but I also had to foot all the expenses myself. Needless to say, I would not be living in the lap of luxury all summer.
Undeterred, I went to Washington D.C. I had arranged to stay on campus at American University, which had the following:
* easy access to the Metro rail line
* a McDonalds right across the street
* the nicest homeless people in our nation's capital
* a rule that prohibited alcohol on campus
That last one was what eventually led to the greatest story of my life. But it takes a few minutes to get there.
One of the benefits to living on campus was that there were several other students who were serving their internships around Washington well. My first roommate was named Leonardo, was a full-fledged Cajun (I could understand about 9% of what he said), and an absolute ass magnet. This guy scored more chicks than KFC. He was also polite enough to go back to their place most of the time, as our 15x15 dorm room was not conducive to putting the moves on the hussies he picked up.
Our dorms were also co-ed - which was a HUGE shock for this small-town Catholic school attending kid from Missouri. We were barely allowed to have girls in our room during visitation hours - and we had to keep at least a shoe in the door to keep it open. Swear to God. If you got caught with a girl in your room and the door was closed, you were busted. So, I was a little surprised when the beautiful (I mean BEAUTIFUL) Sarah Zygata came strolling out of the bathroom in her barely-there towel while I was headed to take a shower. Sarah was...uh...proportionally-incorrect. She was stunning, and built like Barbie. She was the highlight of my day every time I saw her. Unfortunately, she's not involved in this story any longer.
Down the hall, there was a guy named Hassan. Hassan was a BIG dude - like 6'7", 320 pounds. He was from Iraq, and had the dark skin/light eyes look that made him popular with the ladies as well. One of the guys at Hassan's office, Jeff, (he worked for a Congressman from Pennsylvania, but I can't remember his name) was throwing a party. At his townhouse. In Georgetown. All the food and drink were being provided.
Hassan asked me if I wanted to go. Now remember, I'm making $6.25/hour living on a dry campus - and I just got asked to go drink free beer, eat free food and hobnob with some of Washington's power players. When Hassan asked me, all that was remaining was a smoke outline of my body as I ran down the street in delight.
We went to the party, and it was phenomenal. I got a little "over served", but apparently made a good impression on Jeff, because he invited us to crash at his place that night. Georgetown isn't that far from American, but I was happy to save cabfare, as all Washington cabbies should use a gun and ski mask when they drive you around - that's how much they rob people.
After a while, Hassan and I decided to walk to the Georgetown bars (it wasn't far - about 2-3 blocks). We closed them all down, and decided to head back to Jeff's. Then the wheels came off.
 |
| They all look the same, right? |
As we walked back, Hassan realized that he wasn't sure where Jeff's house was. Since alcohol makes me smarter, funnier, richer and a better dancer, I announced to pretty much the entire District of Columbia that I knew where we were supposed to go and walked down the street.
We got to the house, and all the lights were off. I started ringing the doorbell and pounding on the door, yelling for Jeff to wake up and let us in.
The next thing I know, I am face down on the ground, and I can feel a foot on the back of my neck. I try to move and hear the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. I stop trying to move.
"Who are you?!?" bellows a voice.
"I'm Mr. X, and this is Hassan." I say.
"What are you doing here?"
"Just trying to get back into Jeff's house, man. Who are you?" I ask. (Alcohol makes me braver, and stupider, apparently).
"What are you doing here?" repeats the voice.
"Dude, seriously - we're just trying to get into Jeff's house."
"This is NOT Jeff's house!" shouts the voice.
Oh shit....I'm almost afraid to ask the next question.
"Who's house is it?"
"This is Madeline Albright's house!" says the voice.
Double oh shit...
"Secretary of State!" whispers Hassan. Glad to see he's contributing.
Now, as in any drunk group, someone has to be the brains of the operation. I elected myself.
"I know that - shut up!" I say to Hassan. I tell the guy with the size 13 shoe on the back of my neck that I made a mistake, and ask who he is.
"Secret Service! Now who are you?"
My "oh shit" meter has gone to "overflowing septic tank" levels.
I eventually explain to the Secret Service agent with the Glock pointed at my head that we're just two drunk college kids who were lost. I don't know why the Secret Service were guarding Ms. Albright that night, and the agents (all eight of them) didn't seem inclined to tell me. It also didn't help that I had the biggest Arab in Washington D. C. with me, trying to break into a cabinet member's home.
After being questioned....and questioned....and questioned....the Secret Service realized that we were not threats to national security. We were also not threats to walking home (getting federally funded weapons pointed at your head will sober you up REAL quick), but they gave us a ride, anyway. They advised us to stay out of Georgetown for a while, and to have a nice night.
By far, the best story of my life.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Horrible Inventions
 |
| I'll see you in hell. |
They're awful. Freaking horrible. Whoever invented them should be strapped to one and rolled down a mountain. Not only do they suck for regular shoppers, but they suck for the parents as well, because your kid NEVER wants to stay in the novelty cart for the entire duration of your grocery trip, and so they bail out and you're stuck pushing around this long-haul trailer while everyone at the store looks at you like you're an a-hole (and you are). You can't stop your cart anywhere, because then you block the whole side of the aisle for everyone else. Doing a u-turn in the aisle? Not happening. These things are the length of a goddamn football field, and the cart itself is actually much smaller than a regular cart, so nothing can fit in it. It's like the worst of all worlds.
Worst of all, these carts are all filthy and diseased. Everyone else's little snotty kids have already sat in that cart and wiped their germs all over the steering wheel. I hate them. I wish they had never been invented.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Patsy Cline Story
As I get older, I start to realize that the details of some of my stories are starting to get away from me. So, like any good storyteller, I just make up facts at my convenience and worry about the accuracy later. However, this sometimes blows up in my face when someone who experienced the story with me is listening in, and points out my exaggeration. So - I need to get these stories written down. Without further adieu, here's one of my favorites.
The Patsy Cline Story
When I was in college, my middle brother was living at home with my parents and I. He was in that mid-20's transition of "I have a degree...now what?" stage of his life - so he was paying the bills by working at Eddie Bauer. That would be fine - except I lived in Bumblef@#$, Missouri, and the nearest Eddie Bauer was about an hour away.
One day, my brother's car wasn't working, so he asked me to take him to work. Now, mind you, this was an hour drive, and an hour back - but also mind you - I lived in Bumblef#@#, Missouri - so what else was I going to do? His girlfriend (now wife) was going to pick him up when he was done, so I only had to make the trip once. With that, I agreed and we got on the road.
The Eddie Bauer he worked at was located in an outlet mall, so after I dropped him off, I noticed a music store. Thinking that Father's Day was coming up, I decided to swing by and see if I could pick up a gift for my old man. We had recently introduced Dad to an invention called "compact discs" - and he was like a kid discovering his first Playboy. I suddenly saw a side to Dad that had never been seen before - one that had interests other than TV and his lounge chair.
So - I decided to get my pop a CD of his favorite artist of all-time. I walked into the store, did a quick scan of the inventory, and failed to find what I was looking for. I headed to the counter to ask for help.
The guy behind the counter....wow. Red hair. Green hair. Black hair. Spiky hair. Braided hair. Oily hair. Seven piercings on his face. God knows how many he had elsewhere. Ratty jeans, rattier shoes. Frayed black t-shirt. Mouth breather. He smelled like Cheech's backseat. You know who I mean. Undaunted, in my ironed khaki shorts and ironed polo shirt, I approached him to help me. His nametag indicated his name was "Meltdown". Perfect.
"Hey, do you have any Patsy Cline albums?" I asked.
Meltdown breathed through his mouth. He didn't move. I mean he DID...NOT...MOVE. Just stood there, staring straight ahead. I was about to ask again, when he finally came to life.
"Patsy Cline?"
I am unfailingly polite in these situations. Almost to the point where I am almost mocking the person. In this case, I was obviously toying with him.
"Yes sir...Patsy Cline. Do you have any?"
Meltdown stared at me for a second, looked around the store, saw that it was empty, then transformed before my eyes. Swear to God - it was like watching Mickey's broom spring to life in "Fantasia". Gone was the dull-eyed burnout - here came Meltdown, the business man.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....Patsy CL-IN-NE!" he said, turning the songstress's last name into a three syllable word. He then came from behind the counter and started walking to the back. I assumed he was going to get a disc from the storage room - but that's what happens when I assume: I make an ass out of me and...me.
He got to the back door and motioned for me to follow. Remember, I'm from Bumble#$@k, Missouri - I help hitchhikers, lost dogs, saggy-mouthed methheads - whoever needs me, I'm there. I walked into the back room, and it was like stepping into Ravi Shankar's wet dream.
There were black lights, lava lamps, incense burners and bongs everywhere. I mean bongs were EVERYWHERE. I think he lived there - no joke. As I was trying to take all of this in (my mind was whirling), Meltdown picked up a fisherman's tackle box. He set it in front of me and popped it open.
Inside was a DEA agent's career bust. Red pills. Green pills. Weed. Cocaine. Mushrooms. Some sort of fish paralyzer. This thing looked like Willy Wonka's Wacky Factory. It was actually kind of impressive.
"So whatta ya want, bro?" Meltdown asks me.
My mind still hasn't caught up with what is happening to me. So I reply with the first thing that comes into my head.
"A Patsy Cline album."
Meltdown says, "I know, bro - what do you want?", indicating towards the tackle box.
"I really want a Patsy Cline album."
Meltdown and I both figure out what is happening at the same time. He has just tried to sell drugs to the world's dumbest buyer, and I was trying to buy music from the world's dumbest drug dealer. A perfect storm of stupidity.
We quickly excused ourselves from the scene, and I made some mumbling promise of keeping my mouth shut and left the premises. I got about halfway home, and realized that I had forgotten the CD. I figured it was okay that I walked away - Patsy Cline is awesome, but she's not worth doing time over.
The Patsy Cline Story
When I was in college, my middle brother was living at home with my parents and I. He was in that mid-20's transition of "I have a degree...now what?" stage of his life - so he was paying the bills by working at Eddie Bauer. That would be fine - except I lived in Bumblef@#$, Missouri, and the nearest Eddie Bauer was about an hour away.
One day, my brother's car wasn't working, so he asked me to take him to work. Now, mind you, this was an hour drive, and an hour back - but also mind you - I lived in Bumblef#@#, Missouri - so what else was I going to do? His girlfriend (now wife) was going to pick him up when he was done, so I only had to make the trip once. With that, I agreed and we got on the road.
The Eddie Bauer he worked at was located in an outlet mall, so after I dropped him off, I noticed a music store. Thinking that Father's Day was coming up, I decided to swing by and see if I could pick up a gift for my old man. We had recently introduced Dad to an invention called "compact discs" - and he was like a kid discovering his first Playboy. I suddenly saw a side to Dad that had never been seen before - one that had interests other than TV and his lounge chair.
So - I decided to get my pop a CD of his favorite artist of all-time. I walked into the store, did a quick scan of the inventory, and failed to find what I was looking for. I headed to the counter to ask for help.
The guy behind the counter....wow. Red hair. Green hair. Black hair. Spiky hair. Braided hair. Oily hair. Seven piercings on his face. God knows how many he had elsewhere. Ratty jeans, rattier shoes. Frayed black t-shirt. Mouth breather. He smelled like Cheech's backseat. You know who I mean. Undaunted, in my ironed khaki shorts and ironed polo shirt, I approached him to help me. His nametag indicated his name was "Meltdown". Perfect.
"Hey, do you have any Patsy Cline albums?" I asked.
Meltdown breathed through his mouth. He didn't move. I mean he DID...NOT...MOVE. Just stood there, staring straight ahead. I was about to ask again, when he finally came to life.
"Patsy Cline?"
I am unfailingly polite in these situations. Almost to the point where I am almost mocking the person. In this case, I was obviously toying with him.
"Yes sir...Patsy Cline. Do you have any?"
Meltdown stared at me for a second, looked around the store, saw that it was empty, then transformed before my eyes. Swear to God - it was like watching Mickey's broom spring to life in "Fantasia". Gone was the dull-eyed burnout - here came Meltdown, the business man.
"OOOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhhhhh....Patsy CL-IN-NE!" he said, turning the songstress's last name into a three syllable word. He then came from behind the counter and started walking to the back. I assumed he was going to get a disc from the storage room - but that's what happens when I assume: I make an ass out of me and...me.
He got to the back door and motioned for me to follow. Remember, I'm from Bumble#$@k, Missouri - I help hitchhikers, lost dogs, saggy-mouthed methheads - whoever needs me, I'm there. I walked into the back room, and it was like stepping into Ravi Shankar's wet dream.
There were black lights, lava lamps, incense burners and bongs everywhere. I mean bongs were EVERYWHERE. I think he lived there - no joke. As I was trying to take all of this in (my mind was whirling), Meltdown picked up a fisherman's tackle box. He set it in front of me and popped it open.
Inside was a DEA agent's career bust. Red pills. Green pills. Weed. Cocaine. Mushrooms. Some sort of fish paralyzer. This thing looked like Willy Wonka's Wacky Factory. It was actually kind of impressive.
"So whatta ya want, bro?" Meltdown asks me.
My mind still hasn't caught up with what is happening to me. So I reply with the first thing that comes into my head.
"A Patsy Cline album."
Meltdown says, "I know, bro - what do you want?", indicating towards the tackle box.
"I really want a Patsy Cline album."
Meltdown and I both figure out what is happening at the same time. He has just tried to sell drugs to the world's dumbest buyer, and I was trying to buy music from the world's dumbest drug dealer. A perfect storm of stupidity.
We quickly excused ourselves from the scene, and I made some mumbling promise of keeping my mouth shut and left the premises. I got about halfway home, and realized that I had forgotten the CD. I figured it was okay that I walked away - Patsy Cline is awesome, but she's not worth doing time over.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Dream Street
I usually don't read too much into dreams - maybe because I die or come close to death in approximately 90% of the ones I remember. The strange ones are just that - so strange that I can't comprehend them. Occasionally, though, I get a DOOZY - and it's one that sticks with me. For instance...
The other morning, I woke up pissed at my wife. Not annoyed - PISSED. I have no idea why. I had a good night's sleep. Alcohol was not involved the night before. Work was not on the agenda, as I was enjoying the weekend. However - wow...I was UPSET with my better half. I had dreamt something about her that made me mad...but I could not (and still can not) remember what it was.
She's been mad at me after dreaming before - including once when she slugged me right above my ear in her sleep (at least she SAID she was asleep...hmmm....), and once when she ripped the leg hair off my body. That hurt like a muthaf****. Again, I am taking her at her word that she was indeed asleep.
But I have been able to shrug off her sleep-induced anger. Common sense finally comes back into the picture, and she realizes that ethereal me wasn't responsible, but corporeal me was indeed a loving, caring husband. This time, though, I couldn't shake my upsetting feeling.
I need to start writing this stuff down when I wake up. Trying to remember a dream a few days later is as fruitless as trying to empty the ocean with a thimble. Maybe tonight I will dream my usual dream of lovely, naked....Marge.
(Bonus points if you caught this last reference.)
The other morning, I woke up pissed at my wife. Not annoyed - PISSED. I have no idea why. I had a good night's sleep. Alcohol was not involved the night before. Work was not on the agenda, as I was enjoying the weekend. However - wow...I was UPSET with my better half. I had dreamt something about her that made me mad...but I could not (and still can not) remember what it was.
She's been mad at me after dreaming before - including once when she slugged me right above my ear in her sleep (at least she SAID she was asleep...hmmm....), and once when she ripped the leg hair off my body. That hurt like a muthaf****. Again, I am taking her at her word that she was indeed asleep.
But I have been able to shrug off her sleep-induced anger. Common sense finally comes back into the picture, and she realizes that ethereal me wasn't responsible, but corporeal me was indeed a loving, caring husband. This time, though, I couldn't shake my upsetting feeling.
I need to start writing this stuff down when I wake up. Trying to remember a dream a few days later is as fruitless as trying to empty the ocean with a thimble. Maybe tonight I will dream my usual dream of lovely, naked....Marge.
(Bonus points if you caught this last reference.)
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