Dispatches from the Randumb Thots Department

CAUGHT!!!

2011-06-08T17:06:00.000-07:00

My wife came home from work yesterday, a little bit earlier than I expected. I was surprised, and as I jumped up I tried to throw on an air of nonchalance. “Oh, hi, baby, how are you doing?” I said, and I moved to kiss her hello. But then she stopped, looked around our apartment, and her eyes narrowed. My wife is not an unattractive woman, but when she wants to she can conjure up a fairly good imitation of Margaret Hamilton, the woman who played the Wicked Witch of the West. When she gives me this look, we call it a “Margareting.” She usually does it in jest, and we chuckle about it, but this time, it seemed, she was in earnest. She growled, low, like an angry cat issuing a warning. “You bastard…”
“Honey, I didn’t mean to, I swear to God…!”
“How could you?” She demanded. “I thought we went over this! You said you were going to…”
I cut her off, attempting to allay the damage I’d done. “I know, I know, I know, honey, and I’m sorry. I really am. I just got carried away, and .. well… you know, one thing led to another, and…” I gestured around myself futilely.
She dropped her bags, slumped into a chair, and her face fell into her hands for a long moment. I stood there, helpless to explain myself.
When at long last she looked up, she gazed around and sighed. The hardwood floors of our apartment gleamed. I’d spent an hour or so chasing all the bits and crumbs and detritus of ours and our 2-year old’s existence out of the corners. I’d vacuumed the rug, put away all the baby’s toys, and put the pillows on the couch back in order. The stacks of books and magazines that normally occupied our kitchen table, making it impossible to eat a meal without major rearranging first, had all been put back on the shelves, or in the magazine rack in the bathroom. The cloth placemats and napkins were neatly folded on the table, awaiting our next meal.
Her voice came out of her in a long, exasperated sigh. “You CLEANED!” she said.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I suppose the laundry is done, too.”
At this point, I figured a full confession was my best bet. “Yeah,” I said.
“Folded?” She queried.
“Uh-huh.”
“Put away?”
“Yeah.”
“Kitchen?” she said, her voice and her eyebrows arching dangerously.
“Um….” Full confession was not looking like such a good move anymore.
“Kitchen??” she said again, her voice diving precipitously downward toward that cat-growl range again.
“Dishes are done.” I stammered. “I swept the floor. But I didn’t mop!” I said.
“You ASSHOLE!” she finally let loose. “I thought you were going to look for a job!!!”
“I tried to!” I said. “But… but…”
“But what?” she said. “I suppose this all started with you taking out the garbage.”
“Uh… kind of.” I said. “Then I kinda noticed that, as long as I was going to take out the garbage, I should probably get all the crap from off of the kitchen sink cleaned off first, and then next thing you know, I just kinda got carried away with it all. But I swear to God, I didn’t touch the bathroom!”
She ignored this feint. “And how long did it take you to do all this?” she said.
“Oh, not too long,” I said, lamely.
“Really? How long?”
“About two hours,” I said, lying through my teeth but trying to sound convincing. I was just praying she didn’t notice the two buckets drying on the front porch. Truth of the matter is, I’d spent 45 minutes on my hands and knees that afternoon scrubbing crusted, dried baby food off the floor in the dining room. I hoped she didn’t notice what I’d done to the baseboards. They reeked of Simple Green.
Turns out you can find a lot of things to do instead of job hunting. At last my wife got up and headed into the baby's room to drop off her bookbag. "You do this again, we're going to go see a counselor." she said.

DOIN' THE TIME WARP ON A BROKEN LEG

2011-04-13T11:18:00.000-07:00

What happens in the next few seconds of this particular Sunday afternoon, October 5, 2008, is where things get all “Inception”-like, although that movie won’t come out until several years after this whole leggy-snappy thing happens to me. In telling this story of this thing that happened to me 2 ½ years ago, I have to tell you about a memory of something that had happened 3 years before that. And to do that, I have to reference yet another movie that came out 26 years before the incident in question, and maybe even reference a Superbowl from so long ago that…. Hell, the Cincinnati freakin’ Bengals were still relevant, that’s how long ago it was.
So here goes.
If you’ve ever made spaghetti at home, you’ve probably had the experience of picking up a good, thick handful of the uncooked noodles and snapping them in half all at once just before you dropped them into the pot. Well, as I attempted to slide into second base in the middle of a co-ed Sunday softball game in Burbank, California on an otherwise perfect afternoon, there was a cloud of dust, an ungodly pain, and that sound – a sound like spaghetti crunching and snapping – that my left ankle made. It was an awkward, stupid slide, and best as I can figure, my cleats just got caught in the hard dirt and something had to give. I knew instantly that I was hosed. And just to add insult to injury - literally - I think I was out, too.
So here’s what flashed through my mind. I reached down, and found that my left foot was… Oh, I don’t know, I guess you could say “off.” As in, hanging loosely at a very strange angle. Not what a good foot should be doing in the middle of a softball game. And strangely enough, the first thing I thought of was a trip to Montana I took about 3 years before that softball game happened. Coincidentally enough, that memory also involved a ballgame of sorts.
I’d been invited to spend a week with my friend Joe and his family during their annual gathering in Helena, Montana in the summer of 2005. Joe’s dad ran a couple of general stores in town, did well enough that he bought a pair of beautiful log homes on the Madison River, and every summer the whole family – Joe is the youngest of about 10 kids, 9 of them from his mother’s previous marriage (Joe’s dad was one brave sonofagun, I have to give him that. Maybe even as brave as Joe’s mother, who took her 9 children and left her abusive first husband with no job and no prospects. A while later, as the family lore goes, Joe’s father came calling on his soon-to-be wife for their first real date, and Joe’s older sister Judy, all of about 5 at the time, answered the door, looked up at the strange man and said, “Are you going to be our new daddy?” Joe is the only product of his mother’s second marriage) came and spent a couple weeks hanging out, fly fishing on the river, going on canoe trips, eating a lot and playing whiffleball in the front yard. It was during one of these whiffleball games that Judy, now in her 30’s and playing outfield, went running after a long fly ball that sailed over her head. What she failed to take into account was the fact that her visiting siblings had casually parked their cars pretty much wherever they pleased on the front lawn, and so it was probably inevitable that some sort of conflict between ballplayers and cars was eventually going to be played out. Score one for the cars. This particular conflict resulted in the rather gruesome sight of Judy’s right kneecap being shoved clear off the front of her knee, where most good kneecaps are usually found, and off to the side of her leg. Whereupon Judy, remembering what had happened to Mariel Hemingway, who played a track and field athlete who suffered a similar gruesome injury in a movie called “Personal Best” in 1982, simply grabbed the prodigal kneecap and shoved it back into place.
Judy didn’t walk off the field after that. I wound up picking her up and carrying her back into the log home myself (feeling quite the hero, I might add), and she spent the rest of that family reunion recuperating on the couch with a succession of ice packs, and eventually was walking very gingerly around the family manses.
So Judy, (and by extension, Mariel) was what I thought of as I reached down and found my foot sort of… off. (Okay, that’s actually a reference from “Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life,” but I won’t delve too far into that one). So, without thinking too much about it, I grabbed a hold of my foot, and…
I’ll say this, shock is a wonderful thing. When your body finds itself all of a sudden in just waaaaaaay too much pain, its initial response is to say, “Oh, fuck this!” and it kinda just shuts things down. Of course, shock has the potential to kill you, but that’s something for the EMT’s to deal with. In any case, shock, I believe, and its numbing effects, is what allowed me to grab a hold of my left foot and attempt to put it back on again.
It didn’t work, really. However, the grinding of the shattered bones in my ankle was perfectly sufficient to remind me, in case I had entertained any thoughts whatsoever of eventually re-entering the game, that I was, in fact, well and truly hosed. I remember sticking my leg way up in the air. I think the idea was to keep my foot from coming into contact with anything, especially that treacherous patch of dirt in which I was lying.
Oh, the Superbowl reference. Go to Youtube and look up a guy named Tim Krumrie. He was a starting defensive lineman for the Cincinnati Bengals, the heart and soul of their defense really, when they went up against the San Francisco 49ers in Superbowl XXIII, a rematch of the loss they had suffered to those same 49ers (and that same perfect sonofabitch, Joe Montana) in Superbowl XVI. One particular play, the ‘Niners are running the ball from deep in their own territory, and Krumrie sticks his leg out in what looks like an attempt to trip the running back. What wound up happening was that Krumrie’s leg snapped in half just below the knee, and looked like a rubber dog toy as it flopped around, his foot turning backwards as Krumrie collapsed in agony on the ground.
Just in case you need another visual about my ankle.

HOW tough is it to find work???

2011-03-31T15:25:00.000-07:00

So I'm standing in my living room this afternoon, and I said, to no one in particular, "Gee, I really need to do some vacuuming around here."

By the time I got to the closet in the baby's room to get the vacuum out, there was already a note on the door: "Thank you for choosing us. Unfortunately, we have already identified a candidate with more recent vacuuming experience. However, we will keep your application on file, and if another position which matches your skills and experience becomes available, we will be sure to contact you."

I SHOULD HAVE STARTED A BLOG

2011-03-02T06:38:00.000-08:00

Friday, October 3, 2008 is a date I’m going to remember for quite some time. It’s certainly not as significant as some dates that would soon follow (more on that later), but I remember it simply because it was the last day of the last full-time, paid, and with-benefits week of employment I (so far) have ever had.

Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. That’s the funny thing about life-changing events, you almost never know they’re happening when they happen, but you sure as hell know about it later. For example, within two weeks of Friday, October 3, 2008, my son James was conceived.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

On Saturday, October 4th, I rode my motorcycle from Burbank, California down to San Diego. A buddy of mine from back in Ohio was in San Diego with his father, who was a member of a World War II military unit that was having a reunion. I joined up with the two of them, and later that night Roddey (my buddy) and I watched the much-heralded freshman quarterback Terrelle Pryor eke out a last-minute victory for Ohio State against Wisconsin. On Sunday, October 5^th, I stopped by to visit a cousin who lived near San Diego, and then I headed back up to Burbank to play in the last co-ed Sunday softball game I would ever play in.

Like I said, I didn’t know it at the time. It’s not like you’re graduating high school, where you know this is the last time you’re ever going to eat in that cafeteria. In fact, as I stood on first base with my teammate at the plate, my team behind by two runs but rallying nicely, thank you very much, I had no clue what lay in store for me some 45 feet away.

My teammate hit a shot to shallow left. I bolted to second. The opposing team’s left fielder, who had been playing close in to the diamond, fielded the ball cleanly and got off a throw to the second baseman. I knew the play was going to be close, so I opted to slide.

A few seconds later I was writhing in agony, my left foot flopping uselessly off of my leg.

To be continued...

I've Been Lookin' Real Hard, and I'm Trying To Find A Job...

2010-08-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

So I'm in the midst of the first real, hardcore job hunt I've had to conduct in over a decade. The first thing I did was to hit up a bunch of temp services looking for office jobs because I can type fast and I look good in a tie. Besides which, I'd spent the last 9 years doing one of those sorts of gigs, so I figured somebody must be willing to hire me based on those qualifications. In today's economy, though, it seems that the minimum employability requirements are just a touch more stringent than that. A couple of weeks go by and my phone hasn't started ringing yet. I'm starting to worry a little bit about my prospects. I mean, I've heard it's rough out there, but is it really that rough? Wow. So in the interests of expanding my search, the other day I went down the street to put in an application at a placement agency that specializes in day laborers. Hey, I'm a guy, I like doing work, and even though I spent those 9 years sitting at a desk typing, I kept up with the gym and I figure I can still handle myself doing the kind of job where your ability to lift boxes is more relevant than your ability to write a macro. I think of Peter Gibbons, the hero of the movie "Office Space," who by the end of the film is wearing a hard hat and shoveling through the smoldering ashes of his former place of employment where he was once a cubicle-dwelling software engineer. "This isn't so bad," he says. "Here I am working outside, getting exercise, making bucks... What's not to love?"

I could do that, I'm thinking. So I showed up at the Day Labor Placement Agency and sat down to wait for my turn to interview. They only take the first five applicants each day, so I made sure to get there early so I could be first in line when the time came to apply. Cool, I was in. I sat in the waiting area looking at the somewhat ratty surroundings, the OSHA posters on the wall, the greasy-looking coffee maker. This wasn't going to be a cushy office gig with free lunch once a month, but what the hell, a man's gotta work, right? This'll be good for me.

When it gets to be my turn to talk to the guy behind the desk, he looks over my two forms of ID, nods and grunts, and says that I have to take a test to see if I qualify. Instantly my confidence starts to swell. Hell, I've been acing standardized tests since I was in the first grade. "Whaddaya got?", I'm thinking.

He hands me the test booklet and a little electronic box where I punch in my answers to each of the questions. Everything's still cool as I start to click through the first few general questions about age, gender, blah blah blah.

Then it starts to get weird. Question #4 reads: "Other than any prescription medications your doctor may have given you, what drugs are you taking right now?"

1) Marijuana (Grass, weed)
2) Cocaine
3) Methamphetamine
4) None of the above

Um... None of the above, I click. I sort of chuckle a little bit.

Next question: "How often do you steal from your employers?"

1) All the time
2) Maybe once a month
3) Almost never
4) Never.

Um... I don't. Really. I mean, maybe a pen, but does that really count? I don't think so. What kind of a questionnaire is this?

Next question: "How often do you get into fights or physical confrontations with your co-workers?"

1) A lot
2) About once a month
3) Almost never
4) Never

Holy crap, I haven't been in a fistfight since I took on Todd Coverdale in the 5th grade. Really? Fistfights? Never.

Next question: "Did you read the paper this morning?"
OK, we're back on more normal ground. Yes.
"Do you have a car?"
Yes.
"Do you have a computer?"
Yes.
"Oh, well look at you, mister fancy. Can I borrow twenty bucks? I promise I'll get you back next week."
NO!

Okay, next question: "Seriously - what kind of drugs are you on right now?"

1) Marijuana
2) Uppers
3) Downers
4) None of the above.

NONE OF THE ABOVE, DAMMIT! I TOLD YOU I DON'T DO DRUGS!

Okay, fine: Next question: "The last time you stole something from your employers, was it worth:

1) Less than $25
2) More than $25

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE! I don't steal, I don't do drugs! Jeez!!!

Next question: "Suppose I said you were a punk-ass little bitch. You think you could take me?"

1) Yes
2) No
3) Why don't we go outside and find out right now?

What the hell have I wandered into? I'm thinking. But I'm still a good employee, and I can certainly move boxes and push a dolly, for crying out loud. Anyway, I finished filling out the rest of the questionnaire and I handed it to the guy behind the desk. He nods and grunts again, and he punches a couple buttons on the electronic box. "Yeah, um... says here you don't qualify. But we'll keep your information on file and you can apply again in a year. Thanks for coming in. Good luck."

Whoof. Back to looking for office jobs. Either that, or I've gotta go find a crack dealer to beat up. Either way, wish me luck.

A VISION OF THE FUTURE

2009-08-11T16:45:00.000-07:00

My son is one month old today, and after watching his mother with him during that time, I had this dream last night:

"Well, folks, you want a dramatic conclusion to a classic baseball game, this is it. It's the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, game seven of the 2030 World Series. The Cincinnati Reds have sent to the plate their hard-hitting rookie superstar, shortstop Jimmy Moore. He's hitting .390 for the season with 59 home runs and an astounding .690 on-base percentage. However - on the mound is Yankees pitcher Nakamura Miduki, the greatest closer the game has ever seen. He has a perfect 70-game save streak going into this confrontation. The Reds trail 6 to 3, and this at-bat is for all the marbles. The count is 3 and 2. One swing of the bat could give the Reds their first World Series win since 1990. One more strike could win it all again for the Yankees. Miduki settles in, and Jimmy Moore and the entire baseball world await the next pitch...
"But wait, what's this? A woman has jumped out of the stands and is running toward the batter's box. It's ... It's Jimmy Moore's mother! And she's showering her 21-year old son with kisses! This is unbelievable!"
"He's just so cuuuute, I can't help it! *Kiss* *Kiss* *Kiss! Isn't he just the kissable-est?"
"Mom, jeeeeez! Come on, I'm BUSY here!"
"Stop that! *kiss!* Stop being so cute!"
"Ump, can I get a little help here?"
"Awwwwww, ain't this sweet?"
"Thanks, Ump. Mom... Ack! Mom, stop it, would ya? You're embarrassing me in front of all my friends!"
"Okay... *kiss!* You're just so cute! Oooooooo, I just love him so much! Finish your game now, and then it's time for dinner."
"Okay, I'll be right there."

Maternal Instincts Heading Into Dangerous Territory

2009-05-27T12:30:00.001-07:00

I'm starting to worry about my girlfriend, quite frankly.

Our baby isn't due until mid-July. In the meantime, though, after several baby showers, we now own about 385 "swaddling blankets," and her desire to make use of them is starting to get the better of her. She has developed a fierce, one might even say voracious need to swaddle something. Any damn thing. Her problem, though, is that there are very few viable candidates for swaddling in the immediate vicinity of her apartment. She has two close friends who have newborn babies of their own, and while they've been happy to have her baby-sit, they've also started to grow a bit wary of that hungry, "gotta swaddle" look in her eyes.

She swears that she just wants to practice, and that that this is going to be very important once the baby arrives. I believe her, of course, but I also believe in practicing temperance. "Patience," I try to counsel her. "you'll get your chance in a couple of months."

She's having none of it. One Saturday afternoon we were sitting around her apartment, and my girlfriend was just doing some organizing (or so she said), taking inventory of what we had already and what we were going to need once the baby arrived. Out came the swaddling blankets. A strange light came into her eyes. I knew there would be trouble.

Our cat Mason, a grey tabby with the disposition of an NFL linebacker, was dozing in the sunlight on the top of the couch while supervising the goings-on outside. My girlfriend grabbed him. I have to give her credit, she laid him on his back on a swaddling blanket she'd spread out in the middle of the living room, and with the speed and skill of a rodeo roper, she damn near succeeded in getting the beast wrapped up.

But as most cat owners will tell you, cats also have a certain look that they get in their eyes every now and again when their people try to do something really, really stupid like this. I don't know how they would express it in cat terms, but in very human terms, the look on Mason's face said, "Really? Are you fucking kidding me?"

There was an explosion of fur and claws and fangs. My girlfriend let out a sharp "Mwaaaah!!!" and Mason shot out the front door like he'd been fired from a cannon. I had to admit, I felt bad for her, because the look of dejection on her face was truly sad. But then I noticed that I was bleeding profusely. In my attempt to mediate the dispute, Mason had seen me as complicit in this attack on his dignity, so he'd taken the time to slash the everloving crap out of me on his way out the door.

So while I heal, we're continuing to count the days off the calendar until the baby's arrival. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that a new plot is starting to hatch in my girlfriend's curly red head. I've caught her practicing her swaddling moves with larger and larger blankets. I'm fairly certain that at some time in the near future, we're going to open the morning paper to find the following headline: "Mystery swaddler strikes city! Winos in park found resting comfortably."

The View from LaunderLand

2009-05-13T14:17:00.000-07:00

The View From LaunderLand

A proposition:
To breathe, and
see the day for what it is.
Not "once was," or
"could/should be," but
what it is.

Hot.
Lazy.
Fanned by an idle wind.

There was a time, not long ago
when "Wednesdays,"
after all,
simply weren't.

And there will be again.

But for now,
the old woman folds her undies
the young mother scans the ads
I watch the socks flop by, and I

Breathe.

The Curious Case of the Call at Midnight

2009-05-06T11:03:00.000-07:00

It was around midnight last night when I got the call I couldn't answer in time.

My roommate and I were sitting and having a beer. "Rescue Me" was on pause on the DVR as we parsed through the day's events, and the Stuff I Should Be Doing List had gained a couple of new items (starting a blog was one of those things, so... hey, here you go.) My cell phone began to ring.

The usual thing occurred - you spend the first few rings just wondering where the hell the cell phone is, and then you begin a frantic hunt for it. My roommate finally pointed out that the phone was in the kitchen, so I disgorged myself from my recliner and went over to get it. 6, 7, 8 rings? Who knows?

By the time I got to it, though, it was still ringing. Glancing at the phone before flipping it open, I saw that the readout said "Unavailable." I opened it and said hello.

No response.

"Hello?" a few more times.

Still no response. So I hung it up, never knowing who it was. But I had a hunch. It was The Helpless One.

It was nearly midnight on Tuesday, and to the best of my knowledge, the Helpless One had been sleeping in her car since last Friday night. Circumstances wouldn't allow me to offer her my couch to sleep on, and despite my best efforts, I was unable to procure other arrangements for her. So after I finished helping her move her things into storage last Thursday, I made her the best offer I could: If she just needed a place to grab a quick shower, she could call me. Civilization, after all, is the art and practice of making oneself clean, comfortable and well-fed regardless of one's circumstances, and if you're in a situation where you don't have access to regular running water, cleanliness would not only be next to Godliness, it would be second only to food on the list of things you crave the most. That was all I could give her, because The Helpless One seemed unable to help Herself.

Where was she? I don't know. I'd heard nothing from her since I left her Thursday evening in the cluttered remains of the cozy little house she'd been renting, the one she'd been forced to leave now that her money was gone. She'd lost her job 2 years ago and had been unable to find one since. Her one friend in the world, seemingly, was a woman I knew who had moved across country six years ago. That woman, La Generosa, now a single mother, had even gone so far as to give The Helpless One half of her income tax return to tide her over, but even that money was now long gone.

A draft blew through the open windows of my apartment. It had been a sunny, warm spring day, but the night air was turning cooler. I closed the windows. My roommate, finally exhausted at the end of a long day, shambled off to bed. I settled back down into my recliner and pushed "play" again. Denis Leary's familiar snarl sprang to life on my TV screen.

"Unavailable," the cell phone read.