Man vs Train

The Cup

Sun, 17 Jun 2012 11:33:08 -0400

You always think you’re ready until you find out you’re not. For me it was fastening her in her car seat, sliding into the driver’s seat, and realizing I had to get her home in one piece. Scariest moment of my life. I was right to be scared. The realization that you created a human and you’re the only person in the world who can be their father, indefinitely, is overwhelming. There are many approaches to fatherhood. My own father chose to be a drunk, abusive, monster. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to go that route so I used him as a blueprint. At every step I would think of what my dad would do and I would do the opposite. My goal in the beginning was simple: Keep her warm, clean, and make sure she’s not hungry. Turns out that was a solid foundation and sticking to that qualifies you as a good dad.

I could go on all day but I’m really here to talk about the cup. When she was 6, my daughter set up a lemonade stand at my sister’s garage sale. With a remarkable grasp of economics and America’s distaste for coins she determined 75 cents was the best price point because it was “less than 1 money” and “people won’t want that quarter anyway”. It was like 95 degrees that day and she did very well, slinging lemonade like a boss, earning $42 on day 1. The following day she added cookies to the menu and despite rain brought in another $31. When we counted up and stacked all her cash she told me she wanted to donate it to the Animal Rescue League. This was the first I’d heard of the charity idea and I wasn’t a fan. I wanted her to keep the money but she wouldn’t budge. So the first $73 she ever earned she gave away. This was a concern. After much negotiation she agreed to let me give her $1 out of my pocket for the time she spent helping at the garage sale.

The other concern for me was after the garage sale experience she developed a keen interest in garage sales. The horror. All week she bugged me relentlessly to take her to garage sales. I knew she wouldn’t let it go so the following Saturday we drove around the burbs checking out garage sales. She carried that dollar bill in her sweaty little paw all morning, looking at rack after rack of clothes, picking through toy chests, and examining shoes (without actually touching them, “feet are gross, daddy” she kept saying). But she wouldn’t spend that dollar. No matter how hard I talked up the item she looked at she’d put it back and move on. After 2 hours and 5 garage sales we had a grand total of nothing. My sister and her daughters, who accompanied us, had all purchased about 20 things. Peanut and I had nothing.

As we cruised up the final driveway of the day I told her, “this is the last one, Peanut. After this we’re going home.” She said, “Daddy, I haven’t found what I want yet.” “Well, this is it for today so you better find something.” “OK, Daddy”, she said. I stayed behind in a lawn chair while she ventured into the melee in that garage. After what seemed like an hour, my sister, her girls, and Peanut came down the driveway, all wearing smiles that a woman gets after she finds the best deal ever. I tried to see what she had but her hand was behind her back. I feared the worst, and based on the obscenely huge grin on her face, I assumed it was another goddam WebKinz, even though we’d discussed she really didn’t need anymore and no “mommy” could take care of 25 babies (and just a few years later Nadya Suleman would prove me right). “Close your eyes!”, she ordered as she skipped toward me. I did. I opened them and she handed me this -

“I finally found you a coffee cup, Daddy! Isn’t it awesome!” It was. “It is, honey. But why did you spend your dollar on a coffee cup, silly?” “Because I never bought you anything before and this was the first dollar I ever had on my own so I wanted to buy something for you, Daddy.” And right there she broke and mended my heart for the millionth time. I drank out of the cup nearly every morning since. No one else is allowed to use it. I protected that cup like my most prized possession, which is why ever since I dropped and broke it yesterday, I’ve been sick to my stomach. Every time I drank out of that cup I thought about her. I thought about how sweet and wonderful and perfect she is. Every sip was a reminder of the greatest thing I’ve ever done. That makes for a good morning. I’m pretty sure I’ll still think about her a million times a day, but that cup is gone now, and that’s why I’ve been exactly 1 second from bursting into tears the past 24 hours. I suppose that’s pretty much the definition of fatherhood.

Take care of what’s precious to you and Happy Father’s Day.

The Boss

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 09:52:16 -0500

A few years back, I lived in Spokane, Washington. My two brothers lived there as well. I shared a house with one brother, Slim, and the other, Mitch, lived about 5 minutes away from us with his wife. Being who we were, we had occasion to drink together, frequently. It’s the only family tradition that stuck. Thankfully, Mitch’s wife also liked to drink (fucking Zima) so she was never a hindrance to our hijinks. Well in our family, we don’t get drunk and plan bank robberies or play cards, we listen to music. A little backstory might help here. Slim and Mitch had been in bands since they were kids. They both played guitar. Slim was fucking amazing. In all seriousness, he was one of the best rock/blues guitarists I’ve ever listened to. Mitch wasn’t that great of a player, technically or creatively, but he was more organized, so he always had the more successful band. These two had never been in the same band and had ALWAYS argued about the quality of the other’s band. This went on for years, until they both happened to move to Spokane and neither was in a band. Finally, there was peace in the music world, which I was about to disturb.

I’d only been in Spokane a week when I decided it was time to start a band with my brothers. I’d never played before but I figured, how hard can it be? And since I’m the world’s greatest mediator I knew the 3 of us could coexist in one band. So one night, we were drinking and they were playing (I think it was a Thin Lizzy song) and I walked in with a Fender P-Bass that I’d purchased on the sly and told them we were a band. They acted like it was the best idea they’d ever heard and off we went. They immediately started arguing about a name but I explained that I was the leader so I’d make the decisions. I went with Band of Brothers but shortly thereafter, and for reasons I can’t legally get into (fucking HBO) we changed the name to Baby Arm and that was it. The bass wasn’t tough to play. I learned to play it that night between midnight and 4am. We learned a couple songs and wrote a couple more and we decided we were ready for a gig. All we needed was a drummer. Mitch knew a guy at Gonzaga who went to law school with him so he was in. Pounder was awesome. He was a big, earnest, drunk, Texan. What he was doing in Spokane, at Gonzaga, I will never know. He was a good fit, because he had drums and did everything we told him to do.

For weeks, Slim and I would call Mitch at least 20 times a day (and night) and leave a message for him about song ideas. And all day long Mitch would sit at his desk at the law firm, on speaker phone, and leave us song ideas on our machine. We were so taken with our songwriting genius that Slim and I spent an entire Saturday at every store in the Pacific Northwest searching for the answering machine with the best “sound quality”. Oh those were halcyon days… anyway, after hundreds of messages, Mitch’s wife, Mammy, politely requested that we ease off on the messages because she wasn’t “feeling” our songwriting. We had our first critic! So, naturally, we started in with The Boss. Nothing against the guy, but at the time, he was a running joke with us because Mammy lurved him and we… well, we didn’t. So Slim and I made it a point to mix in some Springsteen lyrics about every 3rd or 4th call, just to keep Mammy happy. This did not go over well. See, Mammy did not care for Slim. She spoke to him, only through me, and vice versa. This was actually fine, because we could all hang out together and never listen to them bicker. Mitch was oblivious to it, so I handled it.

At the close of one of our Friday night house parties, Mammy, drunk on one too many Zimas, menacingly told Slim that she better not have a fucking message waiting for her when she got home or she would come back over and stab him in his sleep. That scamp! Of course, we took that as a request, so before they were even out of our driveway, Slim fired up his vintage Fender Telecaster and demanded that I call their machine and sing a Springsteen song in it’s entirety while he accompanied me on guitar. I cannot sing well. Thankfully, Springsteen doesn’t really sing so much as he forlornly mumbles, and it’s in the lower register, so I can handle it. For whatever reason, we got a particular satisfaction out of mocking I’m on Fire as brutally as possible. The lyrics are fucking golden (literally):

“At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet”

He wakes up at night with his sheets soaking wet? He’s a bed-wetter? How is that sexy? Is this some sexual proclivity that I’m not privy too? It’s not a long song and we got almost all the way through it before we got cut off by the machine. Now, this should not have happened, because when I bought our new kickass answering machine (which allowed 5 minutes of record time!) I bought Mitch and Mammy a duplicate machine as a “gift”, but she vehemently refused to use it. Well, there was no doubt we had to call back and finish her song but first we went to get a second mic and more drinks (singing makes you thirsty). So we called back and started up again, and not from the top, because we’re fucking pros, but rather the part where he sexily pisses the bed and this time I really got into character. I mean, I was the boss, only a long, lean, sexy one, not an old, grizzly, poor man’s Stallone, like the actual Boss. The atmosphere was electric. And the part at the end, where he just kind of whines for about 30 seconds, well Slim joined me for that part-

“Ohhh hooo hooooooooooooooooooooo
ohhhooooo whoooooooooooo”

And just as we wrapped the set, we heard a screech of tires, looked outside, and saw a fucking crazed Mammy drive INTO OUT FRONT YARD, throw the door open on her Civic (how scary!) and start yelling at Slim before she even figured out how to unbuckle her seat belt. We looked at each other and tried, fuck did we try, to take her seriously, but we busted out laughing, so hard, and we couldn’t stop.

She’s standing like 4 feet away from us, just outside the front window screaming obscenities at us through the door. I mean, she’s making up words I’ve never even heard before. She’s saying shit you wouldn’t hear on a golf course. And then after every minute or so, she’d stop, and as calm as could be, she’d say (all sweet) “Jebus, I’m not mad at you sweetie, just open the door and let me in, OK honey?” and then she’d pause and not hear the lock click, and she’d start in again on Slim, “motherfuckingskinnycocksuckingdirtylonghairdassjuicedrinkingfuckingcockmothereatingwhorefacedpignorespecthavingchriscornellwannabefuckingshitstain…” and then she’d stop and be like “Jebus, honey, I’m not mad at you, you know that, just open the door and let me talk to Slim, we really need to settle this… please” and then she’d wait a beat… and start in again. Holy shit, I have never laughed so hard in my entire life. And every minute or so, when she’d stop for breath, Slim would call out through the window (at my prompting), “we’re not taking requests at this time, ma’am” or “security!” or “Sorry, folks! We’re closed!” (he did a solid Marty Moose too) and this went on for like 10 minutes. If not for the fact that our neighbors slept with earplugs someone would have called the Popo. Finally, Mitch pulls up in his Blazer and parks in the driveway. I was peeking out through the blinds and the way he approached her was fucking priceless. All he needed was a tranquilizer gun and a net. He’s all tired and whispery, and after about a minute, she just sort of snapped out of it, and got in the Blazer with him, and they left.

Well, we were a little too drunk and a lot too pleased with ourselves to consider the consequences, so we just kept on drinking and laughing about it. Then I went outside to shut off her car and close the door (since it was still running) and he stood in the window, and I did a “dramatic recreation” of her getting out of her car and I started in on him. Then, he went outside and I watched from the window and he played her role. I think our reenactments lasted longer than the actual incident. So just as he was coming back in the phone rang. It was Mitch calling and I put him on speaker phone, he said in a voice as serious as one of his closing arguments “Dudes, she got away. Get. Out. Of. The. House… I… I don’t know dudes, just go! Now!”

We heard a screech of tires and looked at each other, seriously, for the first time all night. We actually considered the hell we’d caused in our family, the shit Mitch was going to have to wade through, and then she drove up in Mitch’s Blazer, ran over my fucking mailbox, parked next to her Civic in my yard, and got out before the truck even stopped moving, and we started laughing again, harder than before. I went back to the phone and I was like “dude, what the fuck, I thought you had her wrangled?” Mitch was like, “I did, but when we got home I had a 5 minute pee, and she heard the second message you fuckers left, and by the time I ran out she was in the wind…” It was then that we realized that while we were leaving the second message, the really obnoxious one, with the harmonica solo, she was in the car on her way over because of the first one. This tickled us to no end. I said to Mitch, “well, I think we should probably go now, I’ma hang up…” and he was all “NO NO! Don’t hang up! Leave it on speaker phone, I want to hear this!” (I’m pretty sure Mammy does not know how hilarious he thought the whole thing was - I’m also pretty sure Mammy did not know how hilarious the whole thing was).

If we thought she was pissed before, we hadn’t seen anything yet. She tried to run around the front of her Civic but she bumped into it, hard, and went down like a fat kid that stood up too fast. She started wailing like a wounded animal “YOOOOUUUUUUUU MUTTTTTHHHHHERRRRR FUCKEERRRRRRRRRRSSSSSSS!” and I went to the door, to open it and go help her, and Slim cried out “Don’t trust her! She’s just trying to get us to open the door!” and sure enough, the minute she heard the lock she was up like a shot and making a bee-line for the door. I locked it again and stepped back like the handle was smeared in defecate. She busted into the door with her shoulder, fuckin TV cop style, and there was an audible “uuufffff!” Mammy was not a sturdy girl, so we knew she wasn’t getting in that way. So she’s yelling again and we’re just huddled together by the window, on the floor laugh-crying. It’s not as if she couldn’t hear us, I mean we were almost as loud as her, but we couldn’t help it.

Well, then there was dead silence and I was waiting for her to try to throw some sugar my way and try to get me to send Slim out to her. But there was more silence, we peaked out and she was gone. We did a slow take and looked at each other. At the same time, our eyes got wide and we knew we were fucked. She was going to the basement door. I know what you’re thinking:

What did you do Jebus?

And you’re right to ask, but first, you have to remember, we were dead drunk, giddy with self-love, and we had a fucking crazy woman after us, so we were not thinking clearly. So did we run to try to beat her to the back door? Did we open the front door, that was 3 feet away and go outside, fleeing in the running car in the yard? Did we wait for her and apologize? No. We grabbed our drinks and scrambled up the stairs like fucking Shaggy & Scooby with a zombie on their heels. We started for the back bedroom, but I wisely pointed out that it might be awhile, so I grabbed Slim and we went into the bathroom at the top of the stairs. We locked down the bunker and as soon as we we did, we heard Mammy hobbling up the basement stairs. I guess maybe she did take a pretty nasty spill in the yard there. We were trying to be all quiet, as if we were playing hide & seek, but fuck, it’s not like she wouldn’t find us. We’re huddled in the bathroom with our hands clasped over our mouths stifling laughter that’s been pouring out of us for a half hour straight when we hear her at the bottom of the stairs. I could almost see her all wild-eyed, with her little nose in the air trying to get our scent. She called up the stairs, “get down here Slim.”

It’s at this point that I should tell you, I wasn’t laughing anymore. Her voice was calm and it was positively simmering with hate. My plums heard it too and they shriveled up pretty good. Slim was still standing there laughing but he looked at me and I think he started to sense that the tide had turned. We were no longer in charge. We were huddled in a tiny bathroom with a pint-sized Zima swilling sociopath waiting for us. This is the same woman, that the week before, had spent 7 hours on a Sunday afternoon crouched down behind her garage with a pellet gun waiting to kill the squirrels that had been eating her bulbs she planted in the ground. She wasn’t going anywhere. I was eyeballing the window and wondering if I’d left the hammock out there and if I could make the leap without breaking anything valuable. Then I took a hard look at Slim and wondered if I tossed him down the stairs what his chances were at getting past her, I mean, she was injured, right? Then we heard her talking again. At first I couldn’t understand her, but then I heard her say “I’m not leaving, no matter what you say” in a weird whisper-yell. She then said “Just shut the fuck up, I’m not leaving until this is over” (heavy emphasis on over). Well now it’d gone from funny, to a little scary, to terrifying, because Mammy was pacing around the bottom of the stairs talking to herself. I mean, she wasn’t talking to us. She was having an audible dialogue down there. She was all —

Mammy: I don’t care. I’m not leaving until he comes down here and faces me.
[inaudible mumbling]
Mammy2: No it’s not a showdown! He asked for this and it’s happening. You can’t stop me!
[pause, for like 30 seconds]
Mammy: I know. I know….
[inaudible]
Mammy2: I’ll bash the fucking door in with his goddamn Stratocaster!! You…
[pause]
Mammy2: Telecaster! Whatever! If he doesn’t get down here in the next minute, I will burn this house to the ground.
[long pause, like she was really thinking hard]
Mammy: I know Jebus is in there too. No, I’m not mad at him, but he should have gotten out when he had the chance.

Jebus: *gulp*

I took a good look at Slim and he didn’t seem like he wanted to go out and talk to her, so I did the only thing I could, I went to the window to see if I could make the leap. The hammock was clear across the yard so I was screwed. I had to face her.

Jebus: Hey, Mammy? Are you OK, honey (this was the first time I went with honey for her)?
[silence]
Jebus: I’m a little worried about you, sis… (she was not my sister, when talking to a crazy woman, these words just come out) I’m gonna come out now…

So as I unlocked the door, turned the knob, and carefully poked my head out, I could faintly hear her, downstairs in the kitchen, talking.

Mammy: [calmer] I’m not the one who started this…
Mammy2: [agitated] I didn’t want this! He DID! HE FUCKING BEGGED ME TO DO THIS!!!

I was quite simply, baffled. I moved toward the stairs and went about halfway down. I called to her in my sweetest, calmest, tone.

Jebus: Hey, Mammy… why don’t we go outside and
[she interrupts, agitated]
Mammy2: Just a minute! I’m TALKING HERE!!
Jebus: …huh? Were you talking to me?
Mammy2: NO, jackass! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A MINUTE! We’re trying to work this OUT!

So, now she’d confirmed that she wasn’t talking to me. Problem was, she was alone and she referred to herself as “us”. At least “they” weren’t talking about burning my house down. I stood there for about 2 minutes and I heard her mumbling softly, almost sobbing. I looked back and Slim was standing just behind me at the top of the stairs, listening, and holding his stomach because he was starting to laugh again. I gave him the international symbol for “zip it” by making really crazy eyes, pursing my lips, and shaking my head furtively at him, so he went back into the bathroom and just as he was closing the door, he barked out a hearty laugh and locked the door.
Mammy was off toward me like she was shot out of a musket. I stumbled down the stairs and caught her around the waist and just as I grabbed her, I slipped on the tile at the bottom of the stairs and I fucking pancaked her little ass. There was a crunching sound and I thought “FUCK! I broke her”.

So I’m laying on top of this little angry person and she started making these mewling sounds. I tried to lumber off of her and she started sobbing and crying and then she grabbed me and started hugging me. But not like sexy time, or for comfort, but like a hungry Pygmy Marmoset. Now, I wasn’t afraid that I’d broken her, I was afraid I knocked a chip loose or something. Then she’s all, “…just hold me for a little while…” It was like 4 in the morning. I was shithoused. She was about 99% crazy. She’s my brother’s wife and I was lying, awkwardly, on top of her at the bottom of the stairs and she was wanting to snuggle? I was like, “Hey… hey… no” and she’s all, “I just neeeeeed this.” And she was fucking grabbing at me and I was trying to scramble away and I was also still trying to figure out what the crunching sound was. Then, I heard from just over my shoulder, “What in the fuck are you doing to her?” Slim was heckling me! Then she saw him and went off again. Now he’s laughing and taunting her again, and he’s all “I just neeeeeeeeed thiiiiiiiiiiiss” and she’s instantly back to fuckin DEFCON 1. He’s prancing around the room taunting her and she was livid, and struggling with me, and wrestling with me, which was, to be honest, getting me a little, ahem, hot. The whole thing was just so absurd that finally I rolled off of her and said, “You know what? Go. Get him.” And she scrambled after him and he headed downstairs and out the back door. I just walked over to the couch and sat down. Mammy went downstairs, I heard the door lock, then she came back up and walked into the living room. She walked over to the couch and sat right next to me.

I did what any self-respecting man would do, I pretended to be asleep. I was drunk and tired, but not too tired to be scared, so I played possum. I fucking sold that shit too. I even left my mouth open a little and made snoring noises. It was quiet as could be for about 5 minutes. I was actually starting to drift off when Mammy spoke. It was the most rational voice I’d ever heard come out of her. The voice was anyway, the words, well, they chilled me to the bone.

Mammy: You know what? That song is sexy and when you sing it, it makes me want to fuck you. That’s why I got so mad. Don’t ever sing that song again.
Jebus: [not only pretending to sleep, now pretending to be invisible, this is very difficult!]
Mammy: I know I’m not going to fuck you, but the song gives me bad thoughts.
Jebus: [now, in addition to invisibility, also pretending to have no penis]
Mammy: I know you’re horrified and I know you’re not sleeping. Mitch makes that same stupid face when he pretends to sleep. If you promise not to sing that song, or any other one on my machine, ever, I won’t remind you of this conversation. OK?
Jebus: Done.
Mammy: I still hate Slim. He is an asshole and I will GET him for this.
Jebus: [still with eyes closed, I don’t know why] …uhhhh, who were you talking to, down here, earlier? That was… kinda weird.
Mitch: She was talking to me, dude.
[Jebus realizes Mitch has been on the speaker phone for the past half hour and fucking heard all of this shit]
Mammy: [whispers to Jebus] sorry…
Mitch: I heard that too!
Jebus: I never had a boner when I was on her, dude. Seriously! [shouting to phone now] She was creeping me out! No boners! At all!
Mammy: Thanks! [slugs me in arm and smacks my leg]
Jebus: [now getting a boner, a real one] Would you tell her to get off of me before her wishes come true!
Mammy: Fuck you. It wasn’t you, it was the song.
Jebus: Yes, it’s very sexy. Especially when he talks about pissing the bed.
Mitch: Guys, stop! Is everything OK now?
Mammy: Yes. I’m sleeping here. Right here on the couch and if I hear Slim make a sound I will kill him in his sleep.
Jebus: Just keep your creepy little paws off of me. I get night boners.

This witty repartee continued for about 5 more minutes until Mitch went to sleep on the phone, Mammy passed out on the couch with a freshly opened Zima in her little claw, and I made sure the doors were locked and I went to bed.

Editor’s Note: To this day, I don’t know where Slim slept. I believe he was hiding under the neighbor’s deck but he will not admit it. I waited at least 3 days before I called and left a song idea on their machine. In order to keep Mammy happy, we substituted Elton John for The Boss. I’m On Fire did not reappear until a few months later at Mammy’s Birthday Party when we performed it as a band, for her, in front of about 80 people. That is a story in and of itself, but a story for another time. Sorry this didn’t have a flashier ending, but real life usually doesn’t.

Hidden

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 08:22:11 -0500

I eat chips & dip in the laundry room. This is what I’ve been reduced to. Now that you’ve read the conclusion, it’s your choice to continue.

Through a series of unfortunate events, I’m cohabiting with 2 dogs. My general distaste for people does not carry over to dogs. Dogs will never borrow money and not pay it back. They’ll never call you from the car, say they’re on their way, and just not show up. You always know where you stand with them. That said I do not indulge or pander to them either. Much like a friend’s child, they can be cute, but if not disciplined, you must reassess your relationship with that person. An ill mannered or unkempt dog is best ignored like a baby or a booger on the lapel of the greeter at Wal-Mart. If they just stay off of me, we can silently co-exist in the same general vicinity.

I am a tidy person. No, I do not keep my furniture sheathed in plastic but I do empty my trash before it spills onto the floor and I put dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I do hang my coats in a closet, I do not make guests remove their shoes. Get it? Good. As you can imagine, living with animals that are not my own is difficult at times. I’ve known them for some time and find them to be well-intentioned but malodorous creatures. They are not yippy, nor do they bark. The only sound they make is a click-clack on wood floors and the occasional friendly growl at their counterpart, in the interest of horseplay, in which case they are put outdoors for a minimum of 60 minutes.

Goldie (not her real name, as you know, I am very respectful of privacy here) is the more dominant of the 2 mongrels. She is not big, nor is she small. I don’t need to know her breed anymore than I need to know your ethnicity to share space with you. She has no distinguishing features other than obstinate eyes and disproportionately short front legs. I would call her husky if the calendar read 1975. I’m not sure what the accepted term is now, nor do I care to know — she’s not thin. When she refuses to come inside while I call for her from the backdoor I call her stubby, as in — “Stubby, come on! Get in the house!” When discipline needs to be dispensed on her sister, Blackie [see: below], she handles it quickly and fairly. I would not choose her as a roommate but we’ve grown used to each other and she is no longer on day to day terms with me.

Blackie is a different story. For all of her charms, she is mostly a pain in my ass. I spend more time sighing loudly at her than I do speaking at her. Frequently, when she does something irresponsible, I simply look at her with eyebrows raised, sigh (loud enough that she knows what time it is), call for Goldie, and walk away. Blackie looks like a greyhound. She is long and lean, a bit taller than her sister (the dogs are not actually related, but they were raised together, so this is their accepted relationship label). She also has the most gentle and nervous temperament of any pooch I’ve ever seen. I suspect before she was selected for home delivery at The Pound by my sister, she was victim of the infamous “ride in the country” we’ve all heard about. She was just 2 months old when my sister got her, so I fear this early abandonment left behind psychological damage on her; the kind that cannot be fixed. I don’t want sympathy for my difficult childhood so I try to extend to her the same respect. I do not coddle her but I think it would be disingenuous for me to say I treat her as I do Goldie. If Blackie gets extra treats or more couch allowances it’s only because she needs it. Admittedly, she does have the kindest eyes I’ve seen on an animal, or a human for that matter. She also drives me to the brink of insanity with her pathological fears of garbage trucks, flyswatters, coffee grinders, the game Operation, the buzzer on the dryer, the opening credit sequence of Battlestar Galactica, the vacuum, the toaster (english muffins only, bread does not bother her), the doorbell, the sound my belt makes when I release my pants to the floor after a long day, the garbage disposal, thunder, falling leaves, frisbees, my impersonation of Sean Connery, the food chopper, and the “GNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN” sound I make when one of my blog posts is eaten never to be found again. The slightest hint of any of the above listed items send her into full panic mode. It’s always the same:

Step 1: Freezes like a statue for a brief fermata while she determines where her safe place will be.
Step 2: She dips her head so low to the ground it looks like it’s not attached to her shoulders (do dogs have shoulders?).
Step 3: She moves quickly and silently to her panic room.
Step 4: When she arrives in her panic room she fixates on a spot on the wall.
Step 5: She stands there and shakes for a period of at least 5 minutes but lasting up to 2 hours (thunderstorms).

This has been going on for 5 years and nothing can alter her panic mode routine. In the months we’ve lived together I’ve learned that it’s best to ignore her and let her work it out. Sometimes, girls just want to be left alone.

So I’m living with animals. They’re relatively well mannered but like all of you, they have their faults. Most of them, I simply ignore. When they sniff each other’s asses, I look away disapprovingly. When they urinate onto the urine of their sister, I pretend not to notice. When they lick themselves, I busy myself in another room. Filthy habits, to be sure, but none of them have an effect on how I live my life, so it’s nothing I can’t handle. However, there is one thing they do that I cannot stand and I’ve become cross many times.

They fucking stare at me when I eat. No matter what it is, or where I eat it, they find me and watch. I know it’s because my sister gives them table food. It’s almost Pavlovian! The thing is, I don’t give them table food. I never have. I don’t bury my face in their designer dog food bowl so why should they think I’m going to give them my food? Seriously, it’s not going to fucking happen. The worst part is, they aren’t even looking at the food itself, but at my mouth as I shovel and chew. It’s currently #2 on my list of things that make me crazy. And, and, they hate it when you watch them eat! When I put food into their bowl they won’t go near it until I leave. If one of them is eating and I walk through, they stop eating and shuffle away. I have to schedule my infrequent meals around their backyardshenanigans. Even then, I’ll look up and they’ll be peering at me through the backdoor like a couple of doe-eyed gargoyles. It’s like they know when I’m hungry. They can sense it. Even if they’re taking one of their 4 hour naps I cannot sneak a snack. Which brings us to my introduction/conclusion.

I eat in the laundry room. It’s between the kitchen and the garage. It’s 6 X 6 and smells vaguely of detergent. Also, this time of year, it’s colder than a brass toilet seat in the Yukon in there. I keep a fleece jacket on the back of the door so I can eat comfortably in the laundry room. It’s not fancy, but it’s quiet, it’s cozy, and it’s mine. It works well since 90% of my meals are burritos, pizza, or sandwiches. It gets tricky when you go with foods requiring 2 hands, like soup, cereal, and chips & dip.

You don’t get a body like this eating chips & dip but my sister always buys them. I would never purchase them but I will not let them go to waste either. So yesterday in the midst of a snack attack I grabbed the chips & dip and didn’t even break my stride, I just went straight to the laundry room. The dogs were on it too. The second they heard the bag crinkle, they were off like a shot to head me off. They lost. I got into the laundry room and slammed the door just before their probing eyes could see what I had (this is very important to me, I find a meal/snack less enjoyable in my laundry room if they know what I’m eating on the other side of the door). I opened the door to the garage, opened the garage door, waited a beat, let the door go, and quickly reached around and hit the button to close the garage just as the door slammed, missing my paw by inches. Then it’s a waiting game. The dogs are not as smart as me. If I stand there, motionless and silently for long enough, they think I’m gone. I just wait until I hear Goldie sigh angrily “HARUMMMPH!” and click-clack away. Once I hear them run up the stairs I know I’m free to eat my snack in the laundry room in peace. I must tell you, nothing tastes finer than a potato chip with just a dab of dip eaten unmolested from the probing eyes of beasts. It’s like contraband! Food just tastes better in the laundry room.

Am I proud that I’m a grown man stealing furtive bites of food standing in the laundry room so dogs of loose relation and questionable background can’t see me eat? Not really. I’m also unashamed. A man should not be judged by his issues, but rather they way he chooses to deal with them. If I were to invite you to my home for a meal (this is very, very, very, unlikely), you would pass by the laundry room on the way to the kitchen and dining room. Perhaps we could throw caution to the wind and I’d share my little treat nook with you! Perhaps…
but probably not.

The Cook, The Thief, The Dog, and No Lover

Sun, 29 Jan 2012 07:30:00 -0500

Sandwiches are important to me. I would say I love them more than people, but that would be an insult to sandwiches. I am not fat, but if I were to get fat, I would do so by eating sandwiches. Lots and lots of sandwiches.

I was starving. I would have stopped at the sandwich shop on the way home but it was foggy. A dense, thick fog that allowed visibility of about 20 feet. It was like the fog you’d see on Scooby Doo. Travel was a whore, not the good kind.

So, I stopped home for a sandwich. Not just any sandwich, but the JHC. It’s the greatest and best sandwich in all of the world. It’s also quite big. I’m not talking Subway (gross) big or Blimpie’s (grosser) big — I’m talking Dagwood sized. Hoagie roll (more legitimately a baguette), butter, mayo, provolone cheese, jack cheese, ham, salami, capicola, roast beef. I used every slice of meat in my home, even the suspect ham. I had to make a call while I was home for my respite from the day, so I walked into the front room, turning my back on my sandwich.

I made my call, was interrupted by another call, and had a package arrive at the door, in quick succession. The total time and distance away from my sandwich was probably 3 minutes and 12 feet. I hung up the phone, placed the package on my desk, walked into the kitchen, and was treated to one of the most horrific things I’ve ever seen — my sandwich was gone.

Not the whole sandwich, but the (suspect) ham, salami, capicola, roast beef, and jack cheese. Left behind was the bread and a 1 slice of provolone. The provolone was just lying there, abandoned. It wasn’t until that exact moment that I’d ever actually seen provolone. It was white… so white. It looked so small and naked, lying there, slightly askew, on the vastness of my hoagie. I felt an urge to cover it up, to protect it from the harsh eyes of the world. It was only there because it wasn’t wanted, not even by a thief. Time slowed, it was like bullet time in a video game. My vision blurred and my heart rate went from 50 to 150 in 1.2 seconds. I think I was having what one would call a conniption. Just as I was about to bellow words man’s never heard and spontaneously combust I saw a flash of black in the corner of my vision. It was a dog — the black one — hugging the wall, making its way toward the stairs. The dog was the thief and the cook was broken.

I wasn’t even angry when I realized what had happened. I was hurt. I nearly burst into tears. That’s the truth. All I wanted was a sandwich, and this dog, whom I clothed (not really), bathed, and provided safe haven to had raped and pillaged my sandwich, my afternoon, and the sanctity of my kitchen. I didn’t yell or scream or call for help. I just scuffed across the room, opened the backdoor, and cut my eyes away, far away, to a world where dogs were trustworthy and sandwiches had meat. I heard the thief pass by and I fought back tears. As the canine cribber crossed the threshold from my home into the wild, I knew a line had been crossed, literally and figuratively. This was an act that could not be undone.

I didn’t toss the sandwich into the bin. I joined the hoagie halves together, as one, and ate. My appetite was gone, the sandwich was bland and it probably had the demonic beast’s saliva all over it, but I ate that fucking sandwich. I choked down every last bite. I wanted to remember what treachery tasted like. I wasn’t eating a sandwich at all, I was eating loss. Lost companionship, lost loyalty, and lost salami; and it tasted like shit. You may think I’m being dramatic, that I’m overreacting. “It’s only a sandwich…” You just sit there in your ivory tower and tell me it’s only a sandwich. Maybe to you it was, but you don’t know. You just don’t know.

When Animals Attack

Thu, 26 Jan 2012 10:27:00 -0500

I’ve never been a big fan of squirrels. For those of you that are city folk, a squirrel is a rat, with a flashy little tail. And they fly. Mean little bastards when they want to be. You haven’t lived until you’ve tangled with one, like I did.

It was Saturday and it looked like rain, so before it did, I went out to mow my lawn to perfection, ‘cus that’s how I do. So I’m mowing and I see a squirrel out of the corner of my eye. I pay no attention because I’m handling my business and I’m focused on keeping my shit correct. I make a couple sweeps by my Aspen and then I see this little beady-eyed motherfucker Mad Doggin me. I stop the mower, cock my head to the side, and give him a steely glare (which admittedly, was hampered by my sunglasses). What does he do? He takes a step toward me! He wants a piece of me! So I went off script, reignited my mower, made a hard right and went after the little varmint. He knew he was bested so he did what all cowards do, and he ran up the tree just out of reach, and turned and started squawking at me. I looked at him, hard, until he turned and scurried away. Every confrontation is controlled by eye contact - even with squirrels.

I was more than a little pissed that I’d messed up my pattern so I cleaned it up as best I could. I went with an angle cut, even though it was a Saturday. I was livin’ large! Just as I finished it started to rain. My timing was impeccable, again. I put the mower away, strip off my dirty clothes, and drop them in the garage. I head into the house and I stand naked in my kitchen and gaze lovingly at my lawn. Just as I start to achieve a misdirected boner at the perfection of the grass, I see the squirrel, hopping around my hammock. I try to ignore him, but now my lawn boner is gone, so I head toward the stairs to take a shower. As I ascend the stairs I take one last look out my French Doors into the backyard and I see the squirrel digging away at the tomato plants. Let me tell you something about the tomato plants. I call them “the” tomato plants because they’re not mine. My sister planted them. Why does she have to grow them at my place? Because they “won’t grow at her place”. Why won’t they grow at her place? Because she doesn’t have me to build a little enclosure around them to keep the rabbits out, and to water them, and to make sure they get maintained and weeded properly. I hate tomatoes but I’ll be damned if that little bastard is going to come into my house and defile my little garden! I am a man! So I did what any rational human would do and I put on a pair of dirty pajama shorts that were lying on top of my laundry basket, I grabbed my 4 iron (which I do not hit well, I mean, it was no accident that the 5 iron stayed safely in the bag - that is a club I can hit!), and darted across my yard in a thunderstorm swinging my 4 iron like a polo mallet.

The shit was going down. He ran back to the tree but I could have sworn he was kind of taunting me a little. Like, I get the feeling he wasn’t running as fast as he could? So he gets up about 15 feet and I’m standing below him and he’s snearing at me. As though he’s saying, “Sir, kindly return your naked body to your dwelling as you’ve clearly been bested. Sheath your sword (the golf club - dirty!) and take it with you. Be gone!” Little did he know I wasn’t about to let this end. So, I swiftly (maybe that’s an exaggeration) grabbed hold of the lowest limb that appeared most able to support my well-proportioned physique and I pulled myself up. Sadly, I had a golf club in my hand, it was pouring rain, I was shoeless, pant less, and in such a blind rage that I didn’t notice the little fucker had adeptly moved to the other side of the trunk and stealthily made his way down to within about 3 feet of me. He wasn’t retreating, he was attacking. He made a swipe at my hand which, you know, was the only part of me that was actually attached to the tree, and I smartly released the tree, HA!, and promptly fell to the ground below. He was pleased with himself. How pleased? Pleased enough that he did a little celebration dance on the limb. It was startlingly reminiscent of the Icky Shuffle. Then he calmly skipped back up to his nest. Yes, he had a nest in my tree. He thought he was there to stay. Think again, cocksucker.

What did you do Jebus?

I didn’t want to appear weak to my enemy, so I didn’t go in and put clothes on. I didn’t get shoes or protective eye wear. This was man vs beast. I marched over behind my shed and got out my 20 foot extension ladder and carried it through the driving rain and lightning over to the tree. I gave him a battle cry to let him know what was up (seriously, I fucking yelled up at him, god I wish I could remember what I’d said), propped my 4-iron next to the tree, and not so carefully started banging the ladder through the branches toward the trunk. I was already at a disadvantage since the battleground was on his turf so I wanted to be sure when I made my move this time I’d have a steady base for when I took my swing. I was starting the rethink the 4-iron. I should have gone with my sand wedge which is much more maneuverable in a tight space, but every golfer knows once you pull the club out of the bag you can’t second guess yourself, I was in the belly of the beast and there was no turning back now. Also, this whole time, I’m trash-talking. “You want a piece of me?” and “Daddy’s comin’ and he’s gonna eat your fucking face!” Unfortunately, in all the commotion, I’d lost sight of my adversary again. It was just like him to hide. As soon as I was satisfied with my ladder position, I grabbed my club, and started to make the precarious climb into the tree. It was slick as hell and the fucking branches were cutting the shit out of me but I had the taste of revenge on my tongue and I had to feast.

If you’ve never seen a squirrel’s nest, it’s actually kinda cool. It looked like a giant sugar cone made of leaves. The conniving little tomato lover had it placed just out of reach and on the opposite side of the tree so in order to bring him down, I was going to have to stand on the rung I wasn’t supposed to stand on. I was just about there when I caught sight of his embarrassingly garish little tail, just flitting away around the edge of his nest. Did he not know that I was comin’ and I was bringin’ hell with me? I got the club into a nice grip, I picked my opening through the foliage, grabbed hold of the ladder, and swung the club with a fury. Unfortunately, I caught a branch about 3 feet from the nest, the club went askew and arced almost directly into my face. I cried out in rage. He was clowning me! There was blood trickling down my arm, I was probably seconds from either falling off the ladder, or, being struck by lightning and then falling off the ladder, but the only thing I cared about was killing this interloper. He had to go.

I planted myself, picked my spot, and lunged, driving the head of the club directly into the nest. It was a beautiful shot right into the center of his humble abode. As I pulled the club back violently I felt it hit something solid so I twisted the club head and felt it catch hold. I jerked it back, hard, and maybe a little too hard, because I lost my balance and felt the world shift on it’s Axis. I was now defying gravity by leaning backwards into mid-air. Also, there was a frenzied squirrel on the end of my golf club. “Who’s laughing now?” I would have said had I not been grasping madly for the tree. Finally I just whipped my golf club back and tossed it behind me. As it passed my head I felt a scratchy rat tail breeze past me ear. The motion of me throwing the club threw me sideways so now I was dangling with one arm and one foot onto the ladder, which was slowly falling back out of the tree. This was some funny shit, had it not been for the fact that I was pretty sure I’d die in the fall. Thankfully, the ladder caught on a limb and rocked back into the trunk taking me with it.

I was alive (obviously) and more importantly, I took out my bitter nemesis on his turf. I probably got more satisfaction out of this than I should have but outside of the last street fight I was in a few years back, I was beginning to wonder if I was still the baddest man in the suburbs (I am)? I jauntily went down the ladder (I may, or may not, have been singing We Are The Champions to myself) with adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I felt a bit like a fighter who trains for 12 rounds and then gets a first round knockout. I had all of this extra fire in the tank and nothing to do with it. I came off the ladder and felt the earth beneath my feet. It wasn’t just any earth, it was my fucking earth, and it felt better under my toes than any soil heretofore. My only thought was “what goes good with grilled squirrel?” For the life of me I couldn’t think who to ask. Is this something you can find on The Food Network? Or the ebays? My mind was racing - red wine or beer? No, no, whiskey! Yes. And not Maker’s. Something in a Five O’Clock? Perfect! Perhaps when I was done with that, I’d affix his tail to a jaunty little cap! Or I could hang it in my garage, next to the power washer? What a sportsman!

And where was my catch? I saw my golf club, intact, lying in the grass - but no quarry. I knew the little bastard was out of his tree but this was not cool. The punk was gone. I can’t describe to you the outlandish disappointment I felt. It wasn’t like the feeling after a bad beat in poker. It was closer to the feeling I had when Iowa got absolutely fucking robbed in the 2006 Outback Bowl against Florida. I was no conqueror. No hunter. I was just a grown man standing, shoeless, in his back yard. I was soaking wet, I had a dozen open wounds with blood trickling from them, and I was wearing nothing but dirty pajama shorts and a mask of shame. I left the ladder in the tree, the club in the grass, and insolently tramped back to the house.

I’d won the battle but the war was not over. I knew as sure as I was standing there cleaning the wounds in my arms and shoulders that he’d be back.
I’d be waiting for him