I have an unusual relationship with the big man upstairs. I love that he loves me and all, but I wish he'd talk to the rest of his followers and remind them that they're supposed to love each other, and not just themselves. There's only so much of the "Jesusweetjesus" stuff I can take before I start to taste my own vomit.
I was given a choice today by Norton: I could come to church, or I could stay home; but I wouldn't like it.
I believed him.
Last time Norton gave me a choice I stayed home. The little shit went into my TV controller box thing and locked me out, but before doing that he'd programmed in a marathon session of Jack Van Impe, and his lovely and enthusiastic wife Rexella. Where I learned (among other things) that black holes were the scientifically proven location of hell. Norton also managed to disable the volume and the off button.
So to make a long story even longer when Norton gave me the option, I figured getting a shot of Jesus and a decent coffee was better than listening to Dr. Van Impe try to guess the date of the second coming - considering that "no man knows the hour ... " does his claiming to know make him less of a man?
A horn sounded outside. Norton poked his head in the kitchen. "Mom's here, let's go." Then he raced out the door calling shotgun. Crap. I hated the back seat. Thankfully the church (okay it was in a school gym) was just down the street. We arrived in record time - Mrs. McCleary could really pedal when she put her mind to it. Remind me to tell you about the time she spent the weekend in jail for street racing.
I went inside and went for the coffee, and grabbed a mug. Today's inspirational message was a bit of a surprise. "Jesus said,'Turn the other cheek.'" then in small print it read brought to you by the Christian Men's Proctology Association.
It didn't help that the chair I got didn't have padding. So I sat there, and suffered in my own way and when it was all over I felt better.
All in all, one of those awkward moments that loses a lot in the retelling.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
The Seven Irritating Habits of an Irritating Person
September is one of my favourite months. Everyone I know makes their resolutions in January to coincide with the start of a new year. Me, I turn over my leaves after Labor Day. I have to try to make them "new" leaves, otherwise I keep turning over the same leaf, and repeat the same mistakes over and over. But for the most part I tend to feel rejuvenated come fall.
Norton's been living with me now for a couple of months, and despite my initial worries, he actually turning out to be a pretty decent kid. He does the lawn without having to be told, and I haven't gotten any calls from his mom in weeks. Outside the first week Norton moved in when he cut into the lawn "If you can't read this, YOU'RE STANDING TOO CLOSE!"
I've had to adjust to his little foibles, and he has a lot.
Norton's been living with me now for a couple of months, and despite my initial worries, he actually turning out to be a pretty decent kid. He does the lawn without having to be told, and I haven't gotten any calls from his mom in weeks. Outside the first week Norton moved in when he cut into the lawn "If you can't read this, YOU'RE STANDING TOO CLOSE!"
I've had to adjust to his little foibles, and he has a lot.
- He hums when he's eating something he enjoys.
- He likes Bruce Campbell (how is this a bad thing? He likes Alien Apocalypse - a lot)
- He likes ABBA. More than is natural. (He sings like Pierce Brosnan with a cold)
- He irons his socks.
- He likes to clean up my workshop.
- He's always leaving the seat down on the toilet.
- His hero is Joseph Pujol. He's practicing to be like his hero. He does a lot of laundry.
Was there any point to this? Not really, but it was more fun than doing what I supposed to be doing. Starting Monday, I really am going to try and keep up with stuff. One of the first things will be to go see Vernon, something I've been putting off for the last month and a bit.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Mamma Mia - Here We Go Again
Norton it turns out is a huge ABBA fan. Much to Margaret's delight - and to my horror.
Margaret and Norton shanghaied me into going to see "Mamma Mia!" and it just so happened to be the sing along showing we were going to go see. Margaret came over wearing a blond wig, blue eye shadow, looking very much like Agnetha (don't ask me how I know the name - I blame it on an evil form of osmosis).
"Oh my god, you never told me it was a costume show too!" I felt like going to bed and curling into the fetal position.
Margaret shimmied up to me, and cooed in my ear, "Take a chance on me." I tried to reach around and grab her ass, but she scooted out of the way, and ran down the hall calling for Norton. Right on cue the little moron popped up wearing a white jump suit and had a tennis racket slung over his shoulder. There was a squeal, (I think it was from Norton) and Norton ran into the arms of my girlfriend ... this was going to be a long night.
"Which one are you supposed to be?" I asked as I weaseled my way between them.
"I'm Björn!" exclaimed Norton, who had a huge grin on his face, and was playing air guitar on his racket. Margaret was grinning as well, which was setting my teeth on edge.
"More like Björn Borg."
"Ha ha, that's very funny coming from you, John McIntosh." He tried to give Margaret a high five, and missed.
"I think you mean John McEnroe you little moron." (He hated being called a moron, mainly because I said it in such as way as to sound like Norton with a silent "t") I was about to punch him in the arm, when the door bell rang, and the cats ran for the door getting themselves caught up in my legs in the process.
Norton took the chance to get away and made it to the door before I did. "Hello mom."
I peeked over Norton's shoulder and it took me a second to realize it was indeed Mrs. McCleary. She stood there on the porch looking impatient, and if I didn't know better it was as if she was expecting to be invited in to MY house. Margaret squealed a little, and clapped her hands (holy crap, she sounded like Norton when she did that). "Oh my goodness, Barbara you look magnificent, please come in, we're almost ready. Did you bring the stuff for John?"
Something in my stomach turned over. This could not end well for me. Wait a second, Barbara? Mrs. McCleary had a first name? What was she doing in my house, and what the hell was she doing wearing that god awful red wig.
Then my stomach turned over again, and I got a little bit of vomit in my mouth.
"Oh no. Abso-freakin-lutely not! No way. THIS IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN."
Margaret opened the bags Mrs. McCleary dropped on the floor. "Oh John," Margaret actually cooed, "come on - this will be great fun. I promise you I'll find a way to make this up to you if you do this for me." She pulled out a white polyester suit that was the twin to the monstrosity Norton was wearing, and then she pulled out a blond wig, and what looked like a furry snake. She shook it at me. "Come on John." Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bedroom.
A few minutes later I emerged, feeling like an idiot. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror - with the wig and beard you could hardly recognize me. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. I would be incognito - but then again, I'd be with Margaret and the moron and his decrepit mother who looked more like something from a child's nightmare than she did Frida. She could have worn a bra with a thicker under wire or something, she was likely to trip over herself if she wasn't careful.
When Margaret and I walked into the kitchen Norton squealed again and shouted "Benny!" as he ran up to me to give me a high five - which I ignored, leaving him swatting air. Then it dawned on me. Why was I Benny? Why couldn't I be Björn and go with Margaret? So I asked, and I was told that Norton didn't want to be paired with his mom, and figured because I was old anyway it would be a better match to his mom's Frida
And that was that. So we all piled into Barabara's car and made our way to the theater, and of course to get into the mood, Norton had his copy of ABBA Gold on cassette so we could play it on the way.
We arrived around 8:30, and there wasn't much of a crowd. We got a lot of attention and when we went to get tickets we were informed that the sing-a-long performance was at 7:15 and that the late show was a regular sitting. As we made our way to our seats Norton and Margaret were giving high fives to the people in the audience, and "Frida" was doing that royal wave thing. Me, I grinned despite myself and gave a thumbs up here and there. We sat in the front row, and although it wasn't the sing-a-long version we all sang along anyway, and I surprised myself by knowing more words than I thought I knew, and by the end of the show we were all cheering and clapping.
I figured since I was in costume I may as well play it up. Besides tonight I'd be taking home a Swedish blond, and that was something worth taking a chance on.
Margaret and Norton shanghaied me into going to see "Mamma Mia!" and it just so happened to be the sing along showing we were going to go see. Margaret came over wearing a blond wig, blue eye shadow, looking very much like Agnetha (don't ask me how I know the name - I blame it on an evil form of osmosis).
"Oh my god, you never told me it was a costume show too!" I felt like going to bed and curling into the fetal position.
Margaret shimmied up to me, and cooed in my ear, "Take a chance on me." I tried to reach around and grab her ass, but she scooted out of the way, and ran down the hall calling for Norton. Right on cue the little moron popped up wearing a white jump suit and had a tennis racket slung over his shoulder. There was a squeal, (I think it was from Norton) and Norton ran into the arms of my girlfriend ... this was going to be a long night.
"Which one are you supposed to be?" I asked as I weaseled my way between them.
"I'm Björn!" exclaimed Norton, who had a huge grin on his face, and was playing air guitar on his racket. Margaret was grinning as well, which was setting my teeth on edge.
"More like Björn Borg."
"Ha ha, that's very funny coming from you, John McIntosh." He tried to give Margaret a high five, and missed.
"I think you mean John McEnroe you little moron." (He hated being called a moron, mainly because I said it in such as way as to sound like Norton with a silent "t") I was about to punch him in the arm, when the door bell rang, and the cats ran for the door getting themselves caught up in my legs in the process.
Norton took the chance to get away and made it to the door before I did. "Hello mom."
I peeked over Norton's shoulder and it took me a second to realize it was indeed Mrs. McCleary. She stood there on the porch looking impatient, and if I didn't know better it was as if she was expecting to be invited in to MY house. Margaret squealed a little, and clapped her hands (holy crap, she sounded like Norton when she did that). "Oh my goodness, Barbara you look magnificent, please come in, we're almost ready. Did you bring the stuff for John?"
Something in my stomach turned over. This could not end well for me. Wait a second, Barbara? Mrs. McCleary had a first name? What was she doing in my house, and what the hell was she doing wearing that god awful red wig.
Then my stomach turned over again, and I got a little bit of vomit in my mouth.
"Oh no. Abso-freakin-lutely not! No way. THIS IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN."
Margaret opened the bags Mrs. McCleary dropped on the floor. "Oh John," Margaret actually cooed, "come on - this will be great fun. I promise you I'll find a way to make this up to you if you do this for me." She pulled out a white polyester suit that was the twin to the monstrosity Norton was wearing, and then she pulled out a blond wig, and what looked like a furry snake. She shook it at me. "Come on John." Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bedroom.
A few minutes later I emerged, feeling like an idiot. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror - with the wig and beard you could hardly recognize me. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. I would be incognito - but then again, I'd be with Margaret and the moron and his decrepit mother who looked more like something from a child's nightmare than she did Frida. She could have worn a bra with a thicker under wire or something, she was likely to trip over herself if she wasn't careful.
When Margaret and I walked into the kitchen Norton squealed again and shouted "Benny!" as he ran up to me to give me a high five - which I ignored, leaving him swatting air. Then it dawned on me. Why was I Benny? Why couldn't I be Björn and go with Margaret? So I asked, and I was told that Norton didn't want to be paired with his mom, and figured because I was old anyway it would be a better match to his mom's Frida
And that was that. So we all piled into Barabara's car and made our way to the theater, and of course to get into the mood, Norton had his copy of ABBA Gold on cassette so we could play it on the way.
We arrived around 8:30, and there wasn't much of a crowd. We got a lot of attention and when we went to get tickets we were informed that the sing-a-long performance was at 7:15 and that the late show was a regular sitting. As we made our way to our seats Norton and Margaret were giving high fives to the people in the audience, and "Frida" was doing that royal wave thing. Me, I grinned despite myself and gave a thumbs up here and there. We sat in the front row, and although it wasn't the sing-a-long version we all sang along anyway, and I surprised myself by knowing more words than I thought I knew, and by the end of the show we were all cheering and clapping.
I figured since I was in costume I may as well play it up. Besides tonight I'd be taking home a Swedish blond, and that was something worth taking a chance on.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Ikea - Swedish for Hell
My brother Curtis is in town for a few days, and he wanted to pick up some bric-a-brac for his place. I was sitting in the kitchen throwing treats at the cats when Curtis came in holding an Ikea catalog.
"Hey John, let's go to Ikea. It'll be fun. We can go to the restaurant and have meat balls, and then we can go shopping!."
I was filled with dread. If Margaret caught wind of this, it would be an all day affair. It didn't help that at the word shopping Norton poked his head in the kitchen. "Somebody say 'shopping'?" Before you could say "Holy Shit" he and Curtis had their heads together and they were flipping pages going "ooh" and "aah" like a couple school girls.
Then it happened.
The doorbell rang.
It was Margaret.
Of course.
"What's going?" she asked. Both Curtis and Norton grinned like idiots (not a stretch) and Curtis held up the catalog. On queue Margaret clapped her hands together. "Goody! When are we going?"
I was beaten. I threw a last treat in the air, and watched as Clarence 1 jumped to try and snag it, but Clarence 2 beat him to it, only to have Clarence 3 pounce on his head and take the morsel for himself. "Let's go. We'll have to take the car, because Jimmy has the Fargo in the shop." I didn't get the reaction I'd hoped.
The "car" was an old Datsun Pulsar. It was once black, but it was now a mottled charcoal color, and only one of the pop up headlights still popped - but the best part was that the little sewing machine engine under the hood was in dire need of a gasket job. It smoked like one of those old Buck Rogers spaceships. People driving behind me had to put on their headlights to be able to see.
All I got was Norton yelling "Shotgun." and Curtis punched him in the arm hard. I love my brother.
Ikea is one of those stores that likes to be a "destination" store - which means that it's out in the middle of freakin' nowhere, and it takes forever to get there. It took even longer today, because I got pulled over by the cops. Apparently a concerned citizen called 911 because there was a car on fire driving down the freeway.
We arrived to squeals of delight from Curtis and Norton. Margaret was clapping her hands. To me it looked like a giant blue and yellow trimmed prison. I parked, unrolled the windows and left the doors unlocked (who knows, maybe someone would steal the car) and we made our way into the great Disneyland of shopping experiences.
The first thing we did was grab coffee and cinnamon buns then sat down to plan our adventure. I wished I was able to go to the ball room. But sadly not only was I too old, I was too tall even on my knees to fake my way in.
Margaret clasped my hand and snuggled into my shoulder, "This is sooooo fun." I smiled and mussed her hair, trying to let a little of her enthusiasm rub off. All told we spent four and half hours wandering around the store. We filled three yellow bags, and I have to admit I had more fun than I expected. I bought two hundred tea lights, and a really cool set of cat dishes for Clarence.
The ride home was relatively quiet - we were stuffed with meat balls. The silence was broken by Margaret, "Hey we should go out and see Mamma Mia."
"Hey John, let's go to Ikea. It'll be fun. We can go to the restaurant and have meat balls, and then we can go shopping!."
I was filled with dread. If Margaret caught wind of this, it would be an all day affair. It didn't help that at the word shopping Norton poked his head in the kitchen. "Somebody say 'shopping'?" Before you could say "Holy Shit" he and Curtis had their heads together and they were flipping pages going "ooh" and "aah" like a couple school girls.
Then it happened.
The doorbell rang.
It was Margaret.
Of course.
"What's going?" she asked. Both Curtis and Norton grinned like idiots (not a stretch) and Curtis held up the catalog. On queue Margaret clapped her hands together. "Goody! When are we going?"
I was beaten. I threw a last treat in the air, and watched as Clarence 1 jumped to try and snag it, but Clarence 2 beat him to it, only to have Clarence 3 pounce on his head and take the morsel for himself. "Let's go. We'll have to take the car, because Jimmy has the Fargo in the shop." I didn't get the reaction I'd hoped.
The "car" was an old Datsun Pulsar. It was once black, but it was now a mottled charcoal color, and only one of the pop up headlights still popped - but the best part was that the little sewing machine engine under the hood was in dire need of a gasket job. It smoked like one of those old Buck Rogers spaceships. People driving behind me had to put on their headlights to be able to see.
All I got was Norton yelling "Shotgun." and Curtis punched him in the arm hard. I love my brother.
Ikea is one of those stores that likes to be a "destination" store - which means that it's out in the middle of freakin' nowhere, and it takes forever to get there. It took even longer today, because I got pulled over by the cops. Apparently a concerned citizen called 911 because there was a car on fire driving down the freeway.
We arrived to squeals of delight from Curtis and Norton. Margaret was clapping her hands. To me it looked like a giant blue and yellow trimmed prison. I parked, unrolled the windows and left the doors unlocked (who knows, maybe someone would steal the car) and we made our way into the great Disneyland of shopping experiences.
The first thing we did was grab coffee and cinnamon buns then sat down to plan our adventure. I wished I was able to go to the ball room. But sadly not only was I too old, I was too tall even on my knees to fake my way in.
Margaret clasped my hand and snuggled into my shoulder, "This is sooooo fun." I smiled and mussed her hair, trying to let a little of her enthusiasm rub off. All told we spent four and half hours wandering around the store. We filled three yellow bags, and I have to admit I had more fun than I expected. I bought two hundred tea lights, and a really cool set of cat dishes for Clarence.
The ride home was relatively quiet - we were stuffed with meat balls. The silence was broken by Margaret, "Hey we should go out and see Mamma Mia."
Monday, July 21, 2008
Apples and Orange Coffee Servers
With summer comes summer clothing, and for a lot of people summer includes the sun - and lots of it. I hadn’t figured Cindi for a sun worshipper – but then again with Cindi all bets are off.
I’ve kind of been away for a bit (details will no doubt follow at some point when I feel like telling them to you) and I’d not been to the coffee shop. I wandered in, and caught sight of Cindi behind the counter. She looked a bit – odd – and when I got close enough to place my order I figured out what was odd. Cindi was orange. I must have been staring, because she stepped back and struck a pose for me. She stood with one hand on her hip, and she stuck her chin and her ass out (and didn’t fall over) and pouted at me.
“You been away so long you forgot what a woman looks like John?” She then stepped forward and snatched my hand and turned it over to look at my palm, but before she could get a good look (because she always creeps me out when she “reads” my future) I reversed the hold and turned her wrist so that she was palm up.
Holy crap, her palm was orange too. She was gooped up on tanning cream. “Hey pumpkin, how've you been?” I think she had the good grace to blush, but I couldn’t be certain.
She pulled her hand away so fast she actually smacked herself. I tried not to laugh, but wasn’t entirely successful.
Cindi brought me my coffee and as I took it to grab a seat, she said rather loudly, “I hear Norton keeps a clean house.”
I sat in silence, read the paper and drank my coffee, which tasted like shit – it was more flax seed than coffee.
What else should I have expected on a Nonday?
I’ve kind of been away for a bit (details will no doubt follow at some point when I feel like telling them to you) and I’d not been to the coffee shop. I wandered in, and caught sight of Cindi behind the counter. She looked a bit – odd – and when I got close enough to place my order I figured out what was odd. Cindi was orange. I must have been staring, because she stepped back and struck a pose for me. She stood with one hand on her hip, and she stuck her chin and her ass out (and didn’t fall over) and pouted at me.
“You been away so long you forgot what a woman looks like John?” She then stepped forward and snatched my hand and turned it over to look at my palm, but before she could get a good look (because she always creeps me out when she “reads” my future) I reversed the hold and turned her wrist so that she was palm up.
Holy crap, her palm was orange too. She was gooped up on tanning cream. “Hey pumpkin, how've you been?” I think she had the good grace to blush, but I couldn’t be certain.
She pulled her hand away so fast she actually smacked herself. I tried not to laugh, but wasn’t entirely successful.
Cindi brought me my coffee and as I took it to grab a seat, she said rather loudly, “I hear Norton keeps a clean house.”
I sat in silence, read the paper and drank my coffee, which tasted like shit – it was more flax seed than coffee.
What else should I have expected on a Nonday?
Saturday, June 21, 2008
They Say It's Your Birthday - But it's All About Me
Today is my birthday, and unless you were born today too, my birthday lasts longer than yours. Nyah nyah nyah na na.
Anyway, enough about you - today is all about me.
I know, I know - no one really gives a shit about birthdays unless it's their own, or you're under the age of 11 and are cute. But there are a few things I refuse to let go of - one of them is my birthday.
I suppose the reason I take this birthday thing so seriously stems from my mom. Good old Emily Jane wasn't the best mom in the world, but she did try to take our birthdays seriously. Every summer mom would slather me and Curtis with coconut oil and make us play outside - by mid August me and Curt looked like a couple of pieces of crispy chicken. Mom would then make us stand in the sandlot down the street and stick out our belly's. She'd take a few pictures and then she'd shoo us on our way.
How does this relate to my birthday? Well, it turns out my mom was scamming some adopt a child thing. She managed to register us as a couple of orphans from Bangladesh, and somehow she convinced the people in charge that we were kids that George Harrison had taken a shine to. Anyways money would come in, and how she did it I still can't figure out, but on our birthdays mom would give us a care package that came all the way from India that was the envy of the other kids - this went on until I was about 15 - then mom got busted for trying to sell Mrs. McCleary's house and that was that.
Anyway, last night before I went to bed I left little sticky notes on the fridge and stuff to remind people that it was my birthday. I also updated my facebook profile to invite people to send me birthday greetings, and I set up a little paypal widget so my friends could send me money.
So far, the paypal thing has been a bust, although I did get a note from my little brother Curtis saying happy birthday, and that he'd be coming to town in a few weeks and that he had an idea for a belated birthday present.
All he would say was that it was blue and yellow.
Anyway, enough about you - today is all about me.
I know, I know - no one really gives a shit about birthdays unless it's their own, or you're under the age of 11 and are cute. But there are a few things I refuse to let go of - one of them is my birthday.
I suppose the reason I take this birthday thing so seriously stems from my mom. Good old Emily Jane wasn't the best mom in the world, but she did try to take our birthdays seriously. Every summer mom would slather me and Curtis with coconut oil and make us play outside - by mid August me and Curt looked like a couple of pieces of crispy chicken. Mom would then make us stand in the sandlot down the street and stick out our belly's. She'd take a few pictures and then she'd shoo us on our way.
How does this relate to my birthday? Well, it turns out my mom was scamming some adopt a child thing. She managed to register us as a couple of orphans from Bangladesh, and somehow she convinced the people in charge that we were kids that George Harrison had taken a shine to. Anyways money would come in, and how she did it I still can't figure out, but on our birthdays mom would give us a care package that came all the way from India that was the envy of the other kids - this went on until I was about 15 - then mom got busted for trying to sell Mrs. McCleary's house and that was that.
Anyway, last night before I went to bed I left little sticky notes on the fridge and stuff to remind people that it was my birthday. I also updated my facebook profile to invite people to send me birthday greetings, and I set up a little paypal widget so my friends could send me money.
So far, the paypal thing has been a bust, although I did get a note from my little brother Curtis saying happy birthday, and that he'd be coming to town in a few weeks and that he had an idea for a belated birthday present.
All he would say was that it was blue and yellow.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Fee-Fi-Mo-Norton - or A Rose by Any other Name isn't a Rose
I got a weird call from Norton's mom - I'm guessing she'd been into the cooking sherry. She wasn't as blubbery as some drunks I've known over the years, but she would be in the top 10. She waffled between complaining about her little boy growing up, and threatening to come over and poison my cats. When she started complaining about my lawn I couldn't help myself.
"Look Mrs. McCleary, you've been complaining about my lawn for the last couple of years, and you know as well as I do that Norton has been cutting my grass. I wish you'd lay off -if you don't like the job your son is doing on my lawn - you tell him!"
There was silence, broken by a snuffle.
"Besides, he's a grown man. You need to let him grow up. He needs to learn to do things on his own. He can't even cross the street without you coddling him. You drive him to my house for crying out loud."
I felt bad. Not so much for her but for me. She was losing a son and I was gaining an unwanted house guest and I was too much of a coward to stand up for myself. Maybe I wanted the company. Then again, maybe I was secretly wanting to punish myself, and the most punishing thing I could think of would be to have Norton come and live in my house, with my cats, and take up some of my personal space.
He wasn't here yet - but by the weekend my solo days would be over.
Meanwhile I had another day of freedom. Sort of. Friday I have an appointment with Vernon. I am more nervous about this than I'm letting on, and I'd been putting it off for a couple of weeks - and this is probably something I should look at sooner than later.
Besides the best thing about procrastinating is that tomorrow is indeed another day.
Until tomorrow then.
"Look Mrs. McCleary, you've been complaining about my lawn for the last couple of years, and you know as well as I do that Norton has been cutting my grass. I wish you'd lay off -if you don't like the job your son is doing on my lawn - you tell him!"
There was silence, broken by a snuffle.
"Besides, he's a grown man. You need to let him grow up. He needs to learn to do things on his own. He can't even cross the street without you coddling him. You drive him to my house for crying out loud."
I felt bad. Not so much for her but for me. She was losing a son and I was gaining an unwanted house guest and I was too much of a coward to stand up for myself. Maybe I wanted the company. Then again, maybe I was secretly wanting to punish myself, and the most punishing thing I could think of would be to have Norton come and live in my house, with my cats, and take up some of my personal space.
He wasn't here yet - but by the weekend my solo days would be over.
Meanwhile I had another day of freedom. Sort of. Friday I have an appointment with Vernon. I am more nervous about this than I'm letting on, and I'd been putting it off for a couple of weeks - and this is probably something I should look at sooner than later.
Besides the best thing about procrastinating is that tomorrow is indeed another day.
Until tomorrow then.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Mister Pootato Head and the Home for Lost Boys
Today I am interrupting my regularly scheduled blog to unblog. Life is messy, and as the saying goes when the going gets tough the weak run and hide.
I've been re-reading my blog, and have discovered that I say "shit" a lot.
Possibly too much. I feel like Gordon Ramsay lite. I don't use the f-bomb, I excrete the other expletive: The s-bomb.
Profanity in general is expressive. It's abrupt, jarring, and most effective when used sparingly. I guess this is why I enjoy saying shit so much. Like its big brother the mighty F word, there are dozens of ways to say shit. Like the color (or colour for my English and Canadian friends) of shit which has subtle shades and hues that can denote an array of conditions - the aural delivery of the shit word, is a linguistic cornucopia.
Why all this reflection upon the excremental wonder word? I suppose it has a lot to do with the record number of times I said it today. Even Margaret commented on it. I think it was, "Shit John, you must've said shit a hundred times in the last five mintes."
I suppose I'll have to set the stage. I should have known that to simply launch into a rant about the word shit, and then go on about my record use of said word without any preamble wouldn't work.
I can set it up with one word: Norton.
Norton came over yesterday and he had beers with him. We sat on the porch and spent the afternoon sitting and drinking beer. They weren't Kilkenny's, but he'd brought along some Sam Adams so it was pretty good for all that. I could tell he had something to say, and was working his way up to blurting it out.
Finally he said something that sounded like, "JohnIdon'twanttoliveathomewithmymotheranymoreshe'sdrivingmenutscanImoveinwithyou?"
Several minutes passed by while I processed what I thought I'd heard. Norton cracked open another Sam's and sucked it down. He opened another and started to look for the bottom of the bottle.
There was no way on God's green earth I was going to let Norton move in with me. None. No way in hell (am I telegraphing this enough for ya? You know what's coming don't you?)
I opened my mouth, and out popped "I guess."
I guess? Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. What have I done?
Norton finished off his beer - picked up the remaining soldiers and staggered into the house to put them in the fridge. Right around then his mother drove up, parked in front of the house and honked the horn. Norton smiled his drunkard's smile at me, "Ride's here - gotta go. I'll be bringing my stuff around later in the week."
I suppose if I was thinking objectively about what I've done, I'd come to the realization that I've been overusing the wrong word.
This is one where the score would read: Gordon Ramsay 1 - John Chapman 0.
I've been re-reading my blog, and have discovered that I say "shit" a lot.
Possibly too much. I feel like Gordon Ramsay lite. I don't use the f-bomb, I excrete the other expletive: The s-bomb.
Profanity in general is expressive. It's abrupt, jarring, and most effective when used sparingly. I guess this is why I enjoy saying shit so much. Like its big brother the mighty F word, there are dozens of ways to say shit. Like the color (or colour for my English and Canadian friends) of shit which has subtle shades and hues that can denote an array of conditions - the aural delivery of the shit word, is a linguistic cornucopia.
Why all this reflection upon the excremental wonder word? I suppose it has a lot to do with the record number of times I said it today. Even Margaret commented on it. I think it was, "Shit John, you must've said shit a hundred times in the last five mintes."
I suppose I'll have to set the stage. I should have known that to simply launch into a rant about the word shit, and then go on about my record use of said word without any preamble wouldn't work.
I can set it up with one word: Norton.
Norton came over yesterday and he had beers with him. We sat on the porch and spent the afternoon sitting and drinking beer. They weren't Kilkenny's, but he'd brought along some Sam Adams so it was pretty good for all that. I could tell he had something to say, and was working his way up to blurting it out.
Finally he said something that sounded like, "JohnIdon'twanttoliveathomewithmymotheranymoreshe'sdrivingmenutscanImoveinwithyou?"
Several minutes passed by while I processed what I thought I'd heard. Norton cracked open another Sam's and sucked it down. He opened another and started to look for the bottom of the bottle.
There was no way on God's green earth I was going to let Norton move in with me. None. No way in hell (am I telegraphing this enough for ya? You know what's coming don't you?)
I opened my mouth, and out popped "I guess."
I guess? Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. What have I done?
Norton finished off his beer - picked up the remaining soldiers and staggered into the house to put them in the fridge. Right around then his mother drove up, parked in front of the house and honked the horn. Norton smiled his drunkard's smile at me, "Ride's here - gotta go. I'll be bringing my stuff around later in the week."
I suppose if I was thinking objectively about what I've done, I'd come to the realization that I've been overusing the wrong word.
This is one where the score would read: Gordon Ramsay 1 - John Chapman 0.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The Meaning of Life - Can You Repeat the Question
For the last week I've felt uneasy about things. Nothing specific, just things in general. Actually that's not entirely true - I've been feeling empty, out of gas - blah. In short - I am in a funk.
That's right - I am in a funk. A Grand Funk - one that even Mark Farner would be hard pressed to get me out of - that's some kind of not so wonderful.
So this morning I got up, and decided that me and God needed to have a little chat about the state of the union. No I didn't go to the church of cool coffee and The Jesus Men. I'm not so sure I'd find God there anyway. I did the next best thing: I packed a bag lunch, a few Kilkenny's and went for a drive. There's a nice hike not too far away that has a great lookout and I always feel closer to the big guy when I can look out over his handiwork (I also have the same feeling of awe at the beach, but I wanted a little less distraction).
I spent the day sitting quietly, just thinking about stuff. Like how I was going to deal with the shit Vernon was telling me about my finances. Vernon had been poking into my affairs, and he came up with some things I didn't want to hear - let alone deal with. So for the time being, I was in ignore mode. But it had been wearing on me, hence my retreat into the wilderness. I didn't plan on spending 40 days eating honey and locusts - a couple of sandwiches and a few beers would be okay.
I got to thinking about my childhood. I remember bitching and moaning about Mother's Day, and Father's Day - "How come there's no such thing as Kid's Day?" I'd protest. The answer was always the same "Everyday is Kid's Day." It's a terrible thing to admit, but on this one thing my parents were right. The biggest decisions I had to make as a kid was whether or not to watch H.R. Pufnstuf or The Banana Splits.
When did life become needlessly complicated?
I didn't really resolve anything, nor figure anything out. Life is what it is, and it's what you make out of it. There are those that figure if life gives you lemons, you make lemon aid. That's great when life gives you fruit. I get shit - so what the hell do you make out of shit? I hung out for a while thinking about life, the universe and everything, and wished to God that the answer really was 42.
Life is messy.
Tomorrow in Nonday, which means I'm gonna sleep in late. Play with the cats, and enjoy the perks of being self employed. I think I may even stay up late have another brew and watch The Banana Splits.
May not be lemons, but it's a fruit and a step in the right direction.
That's right - I am in a funk. A Grand Funk - one that even Mark Farner would be hard pressed to get me out of - that's some kind of not so wonderful.
So this morning I got up, and decided that me and God needed to have a little chat about the state of the union. No I didn't go to the church of cool coffee and The Jesus Men. I'm not so sure I'd find God there anyway. I did the next best thing: I packed a bag lunch, a few Kilkenny's and went for a drive. There's a nice hike not too far away that has a great lookout and I always feel closer to the big guy when I can look out over his handiwork (I also have the same feeling of awe at the beach, but I wanted a little less distraction).
I spent the day sitting quietly, just thinking about stuff. Like how I was going to deal with the shit Vernon was telling me about my finances. Vernon had been poking into my affairs, and he came up with some things I didn't want to hear - let alone deal with. So for the time being, I was in ignore mode. But it had been wearing on me, hence my retreat into the wilderness. I didn't plan on spending 40 days eating honey and locusts - a couple of sandwiches and a few beers would be okay.
I got to thinking about my childhood. I remember bitching and moaning about Mother's Day, and Father's Day - "How come there's no such thing as Kid's Day?" I'd protest. The answer was always the same "Everyday is Kid's Day." It's a terrible thing to admit, but on this one thing my parents were right. The biggest decisions I had to make as a kid was whether or not to watch H.R. Pufnstuf or The Banana Splits.
When did life become needlessly complicated?
I didn't really resolve anything, nor figure anything out. Life is what it is, and it's what you make out of it. There are those that figure if life gives you lemons, you make lemon aid. That's great when life gives you fruit. I get shit - so what the hell do you make out of shit? I hung out for a while thinking about life, the universe and everything, and wished to God that the answer really was 42.
Life is messy.
Tomorrow in Nonday, which means I'm gonna sleep in late. Play with the cats, and enjoy the perks of being self employed. I think I may even stay up late have another brew and watch The Banana Splits.
May not be lemons, but it's a fruit and a step in the right direction.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Sometimes Revenge is a Dish Best Not Served at All
It had been a while since Margaret had come over to watch a movie. I made such a fuss over having to watch Atonement a while back she's more or less refused to come over for a movie night until I apologized. Which I did the other day - I snuck it in during sex, and it added an element of "make-up" to an already energetic afternoon.
It was my turn to pick. Now, in my defence in advance let me state that I am a fan of Bruce Campbell. Bubba Ho Tep was brilliant. Army of Darkness was genious. His cameos in the Spiderman movies, all good. So when I stumbled across Alien Apocalypse starring my hero I was stoked. Here was something I'd enjoy ... I'd be able to get even. (queue manical laughter)
What I wasn't counting on was how absolutely terrible it would be. It was camp and deliberately over the top bad - but sometimes bad as good just turns out to be bad as in BAD. This was beyond bad. It was SHIT.
So there I was watching this, trying to pretend to Margaret I was enthralled with my hero, while she looked at me like I was in need of a frontal labotamy. I drank more beers than necessary, and Margaret would make a point of pausing the DVD when I had to pee (which was every 5 minutes). Then once it was over, she called my bluff and asked if we could watch it again, but this time with the director's commentary, because Bruce himself was providing his insights into the project.
There's a lesson here, and the lesson is this: Woman are smarter than men, and you're deluding yourself if you think you can pull a fast one on the fairer sex. Oh yeah, and speaking of sex - Margaret stayed over but didn't put out. She had a headache. I didn't sleep well either, because I had to get up and pee about a half dozen times throughout the night.
Bruce you let me down.
Chances are I'm going to have to watch Elizabeth or something next week, and I'll have to pretend to like it.
It was my turn to pick. Now, in my defence in advance let me state that I am a fan of Bruce Campbell. Bubba Ho Tep was brilliant. Army of Darkness was genious. His cameos in the Spiderman movies, all good. So when I stumbled across Alien Apocalypse starring my hero I was stoked. Here was something I'd enjoy ... I'd be able to get even. (queue manical laughter)
What I wasn't counting on was how absolutely terrible it would be. It was camp and deliberately over the top bad - but sometimes bad as good just turns out to be bad as in BAD. This was beyond bad. It was SHIT.
So there I was watching this, trying to pretend to Margaret I was enthralled with my hero, while she looked at me like I was in need of a frontal labotamy. I drank more beers than necessary, and Margaret would make a point of pausing the DVD when I had to pee (which was every 5 minutes). Then once it was over, she called my bluff and asked if we could watch it again, but this time with the director's commentary, because Bruce himself was providing his insights into the project.
There's a lesson here, and the lesson is this: Woman are smarter than men, and you're deluding yourself if you think you can pull a fast one on the fairer sex. Oh yeah, and speaking of sex - Margaret stayed over but didn't put out. She had a headache. I didn't sleep well either, because I had to get up and pee about a half dozen times throughout the night.
Bruce you let me down.
Chances are I'm going to have to watch Elizabeth or something next week, and I'll have to pretend to like it.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Half Full, Half Empty or The Glass is always Cleaner on the Other Side
Today I did something stupid.
This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, but there are times when my glass is half full, and times when it's half empty. Today my glass was full. Full of shit - which not only tasted terrible (although it has half the calories of a regular shit, without those lumpy bits that are so hard to suck up through a straw) but smelled even worser.
I should start again. Life may not have an undo button, but there's nothing to stop me from erasing the previous paragraph and starting again. Nothing. But I won't. Wanna know why?
Because. (to my third grade teacher Mrs. Stapleton: "You can too answer a question with 'BECAUSE'!")
Where was I? Right, I was stupid today.
Today I started my day by setting a record regarding my alarm clock's snooze button. I made it a full hour, and then it stopped. Then I fell asleep, and woke up at 11:00 to three very hungry cats. I also missed my appointment with Vernon. He had called last week and wanted to show me something he found.
Oh well. What can you do? I'd been screwing around all week, so another day wasn't going to cause me any extra distress. With that glass half full mind set, I checked messages while I fed the cats.
"Hi, this is Norton." pause "Um, Mister Chapman ..." (I knew something was up, usually Norton called me John, or when he thought he could get away with it JC. "My mom was wondering when you were going to pay me for the yard work, and for the time I spent helping you out at the Trade Show. Can you please give me a call and let me know when I can expect to get paid?"
I couldn't believe it. I was out thousands of dollars and he wanted to get paid? This is when my glass became less than full. It was also when I should have gone out for breakfast, had a coffee (hold the flax) and calmed down.
What did I do?
I called Norton. I spent close to half an hour yelling at him over the phone. I let it all out, nothing held back. I felt great for about 10 seconds after I had finished - and then I felt guilty. Really guilty.
It only got worse. In the afternoon my doorbell rang, and there was Norton and his mom. Norton looked embarrassed, and his mom had a look I'd only seen on those National Geographic specials. You know the ones where they show how mother lions protect their young by killing anything that gets in their way. I felt like leaping through tall grass ...
They just stood there. And stood there. Me getting glared at, and Norton standing there looking at his feet. The silence was broken by three words "How dare you." She must have liked the reaction she got from me because she repeated them, "How dare you."
I didn't know what to do. They just stood there. Eventually I went inside and got my checkbook. I must have put in the right amount of zeroes because Norton's mom smiled at me. Took the check, and then gave her son the look she'd given me - he actually got smaller.
"I'll be around on the weekend to do the grass." and then he mumbled something that sounded like "I'm sorry." With that, Norton's mom actually grabbed her son by the ear and marched him down the walk to her car.
My cup runneth over.
This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, but there are times when my glass is half full, and times when it's half empty. Today my glass was full. Full of shit - which not only tasted terrible (although it has half the calories of a regular shit, without those lumpy bits that are so hard to suck up through a straw) but smelled even worser.
I should start again. Life may not have an undo button, but there's nothing to stop me from erasing the previous paragraph and starting again. Nothing. But I won't. Wanna know why?
Because. (to my third grade teacher Mrs. Stapleton: "You can too answer a question with 'BECAUSE'!")
Where was I? Right, I was stupid today.
Today I started my day by setting a record regarding my alarm clock's snooze button. I made it a full hour, and then it stopped. Then I fell asleep, and woke up at 11:00 to three very hungry cats. I also missed my appointment with Vernon. He had called last week and wanted to show me something he found.
Oh well. What can you do? I'd been screwing around all week, so another day wasn't going to cause me any extra distress. With that glass half full mind set, I checked messages while I fed the cats.
"Hi, this is Norton." pause "Um, Mister Chapman ..." (I knew something was up, usually Norton called me John, or when he thought he could get away with it JC. "My mom was wondering when you were going to pay me for the yard work, and for the time I spent helping you out at the Trade Show. Can you please give me a call and let me know when I can expect to get paid?"
I couldn't believe it. I was out thousands of dollars and he wanted to get paid? This is when my glass became less than full. It was also when I should have gone out for breakfast, had a coffee (hold the flax) and calmed down.
What did I do?
I called Norton. I spent close to half an hour yelling at him over the phone. I let it all out, nothing held back. I felt great for about 10 seconds after I had finished - and then I felt guilty. Really guilty.
It only got worse. In the afternoon my doorbell rang, and there was Norton and his mom. Norton looked embarrassed, and his mom had a look I'd only seen on those National Geographic specials. You know the ones where they show how mother lions protect their young by killing anything that gets in their way. I felt like leaping through tall grass ...
They just stood there. And stood there. Me getting glared at, and Norton standing there looking at his feet. The silence was broken by three words "How dare you." She must have liked the reaction she got from me because she repeated them, "How dare you."
I didn't know what to do. They just stood there. Eventually I went inside and got my checkbook. I must have put in the right amount of zeroes because Norton's mom smiled at me. Took the check, and then gave her son the look she'd given me - he actually got smaller.
"I'll be around on the weekend to do the grass." and then he mumbled something that sounded like "I'm sorry." With that, Norton's mom actually grabbed her son by the ear and marched him down the walk to her car.
My cup runneth over.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
The Jesus Men
I got a visit from some strange men today.
I answered a knock on the door, and there were two guys wearing black. They both wore dark glasses, and they looked like the bloody Blues Brothers. I shit you not.
I stood there at a loss for words. The chubby guy tilted his head, and looked at me over his glasses. "We've missed you the last few weeks."
The taller fellow nodded and said, "Yup."
"Who are you guys, and what brings you to my house?" I asked, but I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I knew exactly who these guys were. They were the Jesus Men. I thought the pastor was kidding when we chatted after church a few weeks ago when he said that he hoped to see me again soon, and that if he didn't, he'd send the Jesus Men my way.
I waited for it. They wouldn't be able to resist. And they didn't.
"We're on a mission from God."
They then went on about how they had missed me at church. The two guys looked kind of familiar though, and I'm sure I'd seen them before. Margaret and I were at a pub on Friday, and there were a couple of boy howdys at the bar pounding 'em back who looked an awful lot like these two jokers standing on my doorstep.
"You boys sure drank a lot of beer."
They ran for their car right on cue.
I answered a knock on the door, and there were two guys wearing black. They both wore dark glasses, and they looked like the bloody Blues Brothers. I shit you not.
I stood there at a loss for words. The chubby guy tilted his head, and looked at me over his glasses. "We've missed you the last few weeks."
The taller fellow nodded and said, "Yup."
"Who are you guys, and what brings you to my house?" I asked, but I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I knew exactly who these guys were. They were the Jesus Men. I thought the pastor was kidding when we chatted after church a few weeks ago when he said that he hoped to see me again soon, and that if he didn't, he'd send the Jesus Men my way.
I waited for it. They wouldn't be able to resist. And they didn't.
"We're on a mission from God."
They then went on about how they had missed me at church. The two guys looked kind of familiar though, and I'm sure I'd seen them before. Margaret and I were at a pub on Friday, and there were a couple of boy howdys at the bar pounding 'em back who looked an awful lot like these two jokers standing on my doorstep.
"You boys sure drank a lot of beer."
They ran for their car right on cue.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Black Coffee with a touch of Betrayal
I managed to successfully avoid "Nonday" - I laid low and hid from everybody.
Today though was another story. I woke up grumpy, and was itching to deal out death and destruction - so I got in the car and drove off to get breakfast. I got cut off at the corner, and leaned into the horn and stuck my head out the window and gave the driver a good piece of my mind. A small wrinkled hand emerged from the driver's side window of the offending vehicle, and I was flipped the bird by a little blue hair whose head was hardly higher than the bench seat on her old AMC Ambassador (looked like a '73).
It would be one of those days ... so I opted for the coffee shop. It was close and I needed coffee sooner than later. As I walked in, Cindi spotted me and gave me a little wave. By the time I got to the counter she had a tall black coffee waiting for me. "John, you look like shit. Are you getting enough sleep? Are you eating your flax?" Last time I was in Cindi made a big deal out of flax. I was supposed to eat flax, and lots of it.
I ordered a English muffin thing that looked suspiciously like an Egg McMuffin (tasted better) and took my food to a corner table and sat to read the paper. Cindi came over, and sat down. "Mind if I sit down?" She sat. She plunked herself down and proceeded to stare at me. "How's the coffee?"
I took a slurp. It was more nutty than usual, and I'm not a fan of flavored coffee. "S'okay."
"I put ground flax in it."
Is nothing sacred?
Today though was another story. I woke up grumpy, and was itching to deal out death and destruction - so I got in the car and drove off to get breakfast. I got cut off at the corner, and leaned into the horn and stuck my head out the window and gave the driver a good piece of my mind. A small wrinkled hand emerged from the driver's side window of the offending vehicle, and I was flipped the bird by a little blue hair whose head was hardly higher than the bench seat on her old AMC Ambassador (looked like a '73).
It would be one of those days ... so I opted for the coffee shop. It was close and I needed coffee sooner than later. As I walked in, Cindi spotted me and gave me a little wave. By the time I got to the counter she had a tall black coffee waiting for me. "John, you look like shit. Are you getting enough sleep? Are you eating your flax?" Last time I was in Cindi made a big deal out of flax. I was supposed to eat flax, and lots of it.
I ordered a English muffin thing that looked suspiciously like an Egg McMuffin (tasted better) and took my food to a corner table and sat to read the paper. Cindi came over, and sat down. "Mind if I sit down?" She sat. She plunked herself down and proceeded to stare at me. "How's the coffee?"
I took a slurp. It was more nutty than usual, and I'm not a fan of flavored coffee. "S'okay."
"I put ground flax in it."
Is nothing sacred?
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Futher Muckin' Fuffalo Buckers
Mother's Day.
It's the one day the restraining order doesn't cover. When I was 9 years old my mom tried to sell me and my younger brother Curtis for a carton of smokes and half gallon of Wild Turkey when Dad was out of town on "business".
Mom's been in and out of jail and half way houses for the last 25 years. Once a year she calls either me or Curt on Mother's Day to try and guilt us into coming to see her, or wire her money for cigarettes. This year I got the call. It was collect.
We talked for about 10 minutes. She asked about the cats, she called Margaret a gold digger, and asked how Mrs. McCleary was doing. Mom hates the old bag, but asks anyway - I think she asks just in case she happened to drop dead since the last time we'd spoken. If the old bat hadn't been a few snorts short of the half gallon mom wanted there's a good chance Mrs. McCleary would have raised me and Curtis in the basement of her creepy old house.
Needless to say, I don't have a lot of use for Mother's Day. Margaret thinks I'm too hard on my mom - after all (according to Margaret) she brought me into the world, I should have a little respect. To be honest I have no idea how me and my brother survived our childhood. I have stories that can curl wallpaper about my dear old mom. Remind me to tell you about my first day of school some time.
However, if there's any good to come out of my childhood it's that I don't take life for granted. Life is for living, and I've learned not to try and keep score with my friends.
It's the one day the restraining order doesn't cover. When I was 9 years old my mom tried to sell me and my younger brother Curtis for a carton of smokes and half gallon of Wild Turkey when Dad was out of town on "business".
Mom's been in and out of jail and half way houses for the last 25 years. Once a year she calls either me or Curt on Mother's Day to try and guilt us into coming to see her, or wire her money for cigarettes. This year I got the call. It was collect.
We talked for about 10 minutes. She asked about the cats, she called Margaret a gold digger, and asked how Mrs. McCleary was doing. Mom hates the old bag, but asks anyway - I think she asks just in case she happened to drop dead since the last time we'd spoken. If the old bat hadn't been a few snorts short of the half gallon mom wanted there's a good chance Mrs. McCleary would have raised me and Curtis in the basement of her creepy old house.
Needless to say, I don't have a lot of use for Mother's Day. Margaret thinks I'm too hard on my mom - after all (according to Margaret) she brought me into the world, I should have a little respect. To be honest I have no idea how me and my brother survived our childhood. I have stories that can curl wallpaper about my dear old mom. Remind me to tell you about my first day of school some time.
However, if there's any good to come out of my childhood it's that I don't take life for granted. Life is for living, and I've learned not to try and keep score with my friends.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Pursuit of Happiness and The One that Got Away
Norton's mom called me today, she wanted to know why her son wasn't talking about his big trip. I like the old bird, so I tried to be nice ... I hung up on her.
This will be the last time I mention the "event" mainly because I don't like to dwell on the past (that and I'm still seeing red, and I don't want to kill anyone). I think I told you all of the boxes I needed for the trade show were neatly stacked along the wall of my garage. There I was, a few hours from opening, and I was standing around looking foolish.
While I was fuming about how to kill Norton without leaving any visible marks, my cell rang. It was Margaret:
"Did you know that your boxes were outside?"
I said I knew that.
She said, "You know it's raining here and has been since this morning?"
I said I didn't know that.
She said, "Those boxes are pretty wet. Were those boxes important?"
I said a really bad word that sounded a lot like truck.
This trade show was where I showed off my handiwork, made contacts, and sold stuff - usually quite a lot of stuff. Enough to pay a lot of bills and buy a lot of pizza. All I had on me was my digital camera a black and purple sharpie, and about a dozen business cards. It would have to do.
Norton was just about beside himself trying to be helpful. We spend the next three hours preparing our table, and making signs and trying to look like we belonged. To put the weekend in a nutshell it wasn't a complete disaster - just a disaster. I was able to meet up with a number of customers from year's past, which was good. I had my camera, and Norton was able to make prints of a few dozen items I would have had along ... I was able to get some spec orders.
Mostly though I spent Friday, Saturday and Sunday morning glaring at Norton. The trip back was hell for Norton. I played Alice Cooper's Billion Dollar Babies album over and over and over. Every time "No More Mister Nice Guy" came on I'd crank it making the little Fargo's speaker's clip.
At least when I got home Clarence would be finished his meds ...
This will be the last time I mention the "event" mainly because I don't like to dwell on the past (that and I'm still seeing red, and I don't want to kill anyone). I think I told you all of the boxes I needed for the trade show were neatly stacked along the wall of my garage. There I was, a few hours from opening, and I was standing around looking foolish.
While I was fuming about how to kill Norton without leaving any visible marks, my cell rang. It was Margaret:
"Did you know that your boxes were outside?"
I said I knew that.
She said, "You know it's raining here and has been since this morning?"
I said I didn't know that.
She said, "Those boxes are pretty wet. Were those boxes important?"
I said a really bad word that sounded a lot like truck.
This trade show was where I showed off my handiwork, made contacts, and sold stuff - usually quite a lot of stuff. Enough to pay a lot of bills and buy a lot of pizza. All I had on me was my digital camera a black and purple sharpie, and about a dozen business cards. It would have to do.
Norton was just about beside himself trying to be helpful. We spend the next three hours preparing our table, and making signs and trying to look like we belonged. To put the weekend in a nutshell it wasn't a complete disaster - just a disaster. I was able to meet up with a number of customers from year's past, which was good. I had my camera, and Norton was able to make prints of a few dozen items I would have had along ... I was able to get some spec orders.
Mostly though I spent Friday, Saturday and Sunday morning glaring at Norton. The trip back was hell for Norton. I played Alice Cooper's Billion Dollar Babies album over and over and over. Every time "No More Mister Nice Guy" came on I'd crank it making the little Fargo's speaker's clip.
At least when I got home Clarence would be finished his meds ...
Monday, May 5, 2008
Pete and Repeat
I am at a loss as to where to begin.
I can almost hear you, "Well, start at the beginning."
As much as I'd like to sweep the whole weekend under the rug, I suppose I should vent and get it out in the open. (queue the "whooba whooba" swirly flashback music).
Probably the only thing to go as planned was Norton’s arrival. At 5:30am he showed up. I waved at Norton’s mom, and she tooted the horn and drove off. I was finishing up my breakfast and was setting out the cat’s breakfast. I checked my instructions for Margaret regarding Clarence.
After locking up and leaving my key with Mrs. McCleary I got in the Fargo. Norton was already riding shotgun. He had the clipboard on his lap. After a last minute run through I buckled up we were off. 6 o'clock on the nose - right on time.
It was a six hour drive. And I spent most of it trying to explain why the Fargo didn’t have a CD player, or an FM radio. But it did have an underdash 8 track player. A few months ago I’d stumbled upon a box of old tapes and although they weren’t exactly current they were nostalgic for me. Bob Welch’s French Kiss, Foreigner’s Double Vision, stuff by Kiss, The Beatles, Cheap Trick, and an oddly warped copy of Yes’ Fragile. The one I played the most, because it seemed to drive Norton nuts was Nana Mouskouri’s Songs Of The British Isles.
Had I known then what I know now, I’d have probably shoved him out a window driving through the pass. But I didn’t - because I'm an idiot, and I would probably get caught.
We arrived just after lunch, and there were a bunch of other guys milling around, shooting the shit, and checking out the competition. I honked and waved, and got a couple of waves and the finger from some kid. Norton fingered him back.
I left Norton in the van, and went in to register. When I came back I tapped on Norton’s window. “Okay Norton, time to unload at set up.” I went to the back of the van, and opened up the doors.
“NORTON!” Norton scampered over, and saw me looking in the back and he turned white.
“Norton, where are the boxes?” I felt like smacking him upside the head, but people were looking over. “Nor – ton!”
He was stammering now, and it took me a few rounds through to finally work out what he was trying to say. He had wanted to be sure we had everything, so while he waited for me he unloaded the boxes to count them to make sure he’d not forgotten to load anything. He placed them in order along side the garage. When he heard me coming he was so excited to get going he neglected to put them back in.
All he could remember was that he had checked the list, and he had the clipboard and it confirmed that everything had been packed …
4 hours to kick off, and I had nothing …
I’ll tell you more tomorrow, this is making me sick just thinking about it. Besides, my hope is that the longer I wait, the less I’ll remember.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Going, Going, Gong Show
Well, tomorrow I'm off at 6am. I'm still not sure about bringing Norton, but he's actually been quite a help the last couple of days (much to my surprise). He's even loaded the Fargo and everything. His mom will be dropping him off here at 5:30am just to help me with any list minute items before we hit the road.
Margaret will be coming over to look after the cats. Clarence 2 will be all done his treatments by Sunday (good thing too. I'm hoping the scratches on my arms heal by summer). Margaret did a test drive last night, and she emerged unscathed. I was pretty put out. Clarence hardly reacted at all. Margaret cooed and did that kitty-baby talk thing, and he not only took his pill, but he didn't bolt when she snapped on the gloves and did the "nasty".
Today was kind of a wash, other than me running around taking care of last minute errands. That's not entirely true. Mrs. McCleary waiting for me as I headed out to the car. She had a bucket of soapy water and a sponge and was looking as angry and put out as I've seen her. "Mister Chapman," I knew she was pissed she hardly ever calls me Mister. "I think it would be neighborly of you to clean my windows." I peeked over at her house. Holy shit. More to the point, just shit, and lots of it. Those bloody birds certainly ate a lot, they must have had to blow a lot of ballast to get airborne and the evidence was stuck to Mrs. McCleary's windows.
Norton of course was nowhere to be found. I tried to stall the old broad, but she wasn't having any of it. I moved, she moved blocking my way. Resigned to my fate I spent a couple of hours cleaning ... as I was finishing the boy wonder appeared magically asking if there was anything else I needed before he went home to pack.
Eventually I finished my errands and packed my own things. I called Margaret and gave her a few last minute instructions.
It's getting late, and I have a long drive tomorrow, so I'm blogging off for now. I'll be back in a couple of days.
Wish me luck.
Margaret will be coming over to look after the cats. Clarence 2 will be all done his treatments by Sunday (good thing too. I'm hoping the scratches on my arms heal by summer). Margaret did a test drive last night, and she emerged unscathed. I was pretty put out. Clarence hardly reacted at all. Margaret cooed and did that kitty-baby talk thing, and he not only took his pill, but he didn't bolt when she snapped on the gloves and did the "nasty".
Today was kind of a wash, other than me running around taking care of last minute errands. That's not entirely true. Mrs. McCleary waiting for me as I headed out to the car. She had a bucket of soapy water and a sponge and was looking as angry and put out as I've seen her. "Mister Chapman," I knew she was pissed she hardly ever calls me Mister. "I think it would be neighborly of you to clean my windows." I peeked over at her house. Holy shit. More to the point, just shit, and lots of it. Those bloody birds certainly ate a lot, they must have had to blow a lot of ballast to get airborne and the evidence was stuck to Mrs. McCleary's windows.
Norton of course was nowhere to be found. I tried to stall the old broad, but she wasn't having any of it. I moved, she moved blocking my way. Resigned to my fate I spent a couple of hours cleaning ... as I was finishing the boy wonder appeared magically asking if there was anything else I needed before he went home to pack.
Eventually I finished my errands and packed my own things. I called Margaret and gave her a few last minute instructions.
It's getting late, and I have a long drive tomorrow, so I'm blogging off for now. I'll be back in a couple of days.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Norton Hears a Who's Going on a Roadtrip
I called Norton in the morning. He was still "mad" at me. Which I found funny, but bit my tongue. As soon as I said "road trip" he perked right up. Then he wouldn't stop jabbering. I had a sinking feeling that this would be a lot more fun for him than it would be for me. I asked him to come over around noon, because I had a bunch of things I needed help getting sorted and loaded into the Fargo. He promised he'd be over with bells on.
He wasn't kidding. At noon I got a knock on the door, and there he was standing in the doorway wearing a jesters cap complete with bells. When he walked through the kitchen the tinkling must have sounded like a kitty toy, because Clarence 1 who likes to sit on top of the fridge, launched himself at Norton's head. For a couple of seconds I stood there laughing while Norton tried to remove 18 pounds of purring calico cat (mental note, time to trim Clarence's claws).
After showing Norton the various boxes, and lists of things I had to pack and sort. He waved me off saying (and I quote) "I got it buddy, you head off and do your stuff, I got this."
This was as good a time as any to head in to see Vernon. Vernon is my book keeper. He likes to think he's my accountant because he took a semester of accounting at community college. He is a whiz with numbers and probably knows more about the ins and outs of finances better than most, and I trust him. His dad Vernon Sr. was a Rotarian, not to mention a Paul Harris Fellow (a big deal apparently), and the apple didn't fall far from the tree.
Vernon is an odd duck. He's one part Floyd the Barber (his voice) and one part Count Floyd (his hair) and every time we get together he plays the part. Last time I went to see him a plastic spider fell on me and I just about crapped myself, and Vernon laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. Anyway, I arrived at his office and went in looking for him. I called his name a couple of times but he didn't answer.
It's not unheard of for Vernon to step out and leave the office open. I went to hang my coat in the closet, as I reached in to get a hanger an arm shot out and grabbed my hand followed by a loud "BOO!" I think I spotted myself at both ends. Vernon came out of the closet (don't go there) practically jumping up and down, "Oh man. Oh man," he said in his Floyd the Barber lisp "I got you. I got YOU."
After drinking a glass of water, and checking my pants, Vernon and I got down to business. It took about an hour and a half. The short story was I was making money and keeping up with my invoicing and payables, but somehow there was an unexplained gap between my income and expenses, and Vernon was stumped. I admitted that it was a head scratcher and that I'd have to look into it some more after the weekend. Vernon walked me to the door, and patted me on the back as I left. Thankfully I found the "kick me" sign before I got to the car.
When I got home Norton was gone, and there was a note on the fridge. "Just about done. The truck's loaded, and I'll be back tomorrow to finish up." This was almost too good to be true. I went to the shop, and sure enough all of my stuff was gone, and the check lists were on a table with check marks and scribbles beside all of the tasks.
Maybe I'd been too hard on the kid.
Anyway, it was getting late, and I was getting hungry. I gave Margaret a call and asked her what she was doing for dinner. She invited me over (yes!) for dinner. We spent the evening just chatting and hanging out. It was nice.
Oh yeah, Clarence 2, is starting to look a lot better. I guess getting outside really helped. All of them looked like the cat who swallowed the proverbial canary all day.
He wasn't kidding. At noon I got a knock on the door, and there he was standing in the doorway wearing a jesters cap complete with bells. When he walked through the kitchen the tinkling must have sounded like a kitty toy, because Clarence 1 who likes to sit on top of the fridge, launched himself at Norton's head. For a couple of seconds I stood there laughing while Norton tried to remove 18 pounds of purring calico cat (mental note, time to trim Clarence's claws).
After showing Norton the various boxes, and lists of things I had to pack and sort. He waved me off saying (and I quote) "I got it buddy, you head off and do your stuff, I got this."
This was as good a time as any to head in to see Vernon. Vernon is my book keeper. He likes to think he's my accountant because he took a semester of accounting at community college. He is a whiz with numbers and probably knows more about the ins and outs of finances better than most, and I trust him. His dad Vernon Sr. was a Rotarian, not to mention a Paul Harris Fellow (a big deal apparently), and the apple didn't fall far from the tree.
Vernon is an odd duck. He's one part Floyd the Barber (his voice) and one part Count Floyd (his hair) and every time we get together he plays the part. Last time I went to see him a plastic spider fell on me and I just about crapped myself, and Vernon laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. Anyway, I arrived at his office and went in looking for him. I called his name a couple of times but he didn't answer.
It's not unheard of for Vernon to step out and leave the office open. I went to hang my coat in the closet, as I reached in to get a hanger an arm shot out and grabbed my hand followed by a loud "BOO!" I think I spotted myself at both ends. Vernon came out of the closet (don't go there) practically jumping up and down, "Oh man. Oh man," he said in his Floyd the Barber lisp "I got you. I got YOU."
After drinking a glass of water, and checking my pants, Vernon and I got down to business. It took about an hour and a half. The short story was I was making money and keeping up with my invoicing and payables, but somehow there was an unexplained gap between my income and expenses, and Vernon was stumped. I admitted that it was a head scratcher and that I'd have to look into it some more after the weekend. Vernon walked me to the door, and patted me on the back as I left. Thankfully I found the "kick me" sign before I got to the car.
When I got home Norton was gone, and there was a note on the fridge. "Just about done. The truck's loaded, and I'll be back tomorrow to finish up." This was almost too good to be true. I went to the shop, and sure enough all of my stuff was gone, and the check lists were on a table with check marks and scribbles beside all of the tasks.
Maybe I'd been too hard on the kid.
Anyway, it was getting late, and I was getting hungry. I gave Margaret a call and asked her what she was doing for dinner. She invited me over (yes!) for dinner. We spent the evening just chatting and hanging out. It was nice.
Oh yeah, Clarence 2, is starting to look a lot better. I guess getting outside really helped. All of them looked like the cat who swallowed the proverbial canary all day.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Birds, Turds and Automobiles
I woke up this morning to sunshine. After a couple of days of less than stellar weather it was a nice change of pace. I got up feeling 100% better and set out to feed the cats and take care of Clarence 2. I whistled for the cats, but they didn't come. Not even Clarence 3, who I'm sure is just an undersized pig.
Peeking into the living room I saw the cats lined up at the sliding door looking into the backyard. Their tails were twitching and their ears were circling like little radar dishes. I walked over to see what had their attention and I froze. It was a scene straight out of The Birds. My lawn was completely covered with birds. Hundreds of them. The sound of the telephone snapped me out of my trance.
It was Mrs. McCleary asking me why I had so many birds in my yard, and who was going to clean up the mess on her windows? Occasionally there'd be a thud and a thump as some poor creature hit a window. The cats, even Clarence 2 wanted outside.
I had a lot to do today and time was running away from me, as the weekend was approaching quicker than I could prepare for it - all in all, this wasn't the best start to my day. The phone rang again. It was Norton.
"Norton." I asked, "What did you do to the lawn?"
"I fertilized, and over-seeded."
"Norton, my lawn is covered with birds, it's like a scene from a horror movie. What did you do?"
"I told you!" Norton was defensive, which usually means that he really doesn't know what's going on, opposed to his smuggy tone when he's done something on purpose. "I fertilized, and put on the seed you had in that big bag in the garage."
I called Norton an idiot and hung up the phone. The "big bag" in the garage was a fifty pound sack of spring mix I use for the bird feeders out back. Norton had covered my lawn with the entire bag.
I peeked out the window and the birds were starting to thin out. Possibly because every cat in the neighborhood was having a field day (if there was a Christmas for cats it came early this year). My cats were staring at me, and then out the window and back at me, imploring me to let them join their friends. What could I do? I opened the door; two of them were off like a shot, and Clarence 2 off like a speed walker. I closed the door and curtains, not wanting to watch.
Figuring I still had the better part of a day I got in the truck and headed for town. I had hardly gone more than a few blocks when the familiar thump thump thump of a flat tire forced me to pull over. I got out and kicked the tire just to make sure it was dead. I could almost hear DeForest Kelley in my mind telling me that it was indeed dead. Followed by "I'm a doctor, not a mechanic."
Speaking of mechanics, I was towed to Jimmy's Garage (don't ask me about the spare - I was driving on it). Where Jimmy himself met me. Me and Jimmy have a love hate relationship. Jimmy loves my old Fargo, and I hate Jimmy (I'll tell you about it one day). Jimmy kicked the dead tire and looked at me with his "I told you so" look, it was the same look I got last time I was in.
Anyway, to cut a long story short (because I'm tired). Jimmy looked over the three other tires and proclaimed that they were past being legal, and that he couldn't let the truck go until I'd bought new tires. We went back and forth for a good twenty minutes until we settled on a set of good used tires that had plenty of life left in them.
I was there until almost closing time, and by the time I was able to leave, it was too late to go to Vernon's office, and too late to pick up any odds and ends. Dang. I'd have to call Norton tomorrow and apologize and see if he could give me a hand.
I'd also forgotten to let the cats back in.
Peeking into the living room I saw the cats lined up at the sliding door looking into the backyard. Their tails were twitching and their ears were circling like little radar dishes. I walked over to see what had their attention and I froze. It was a scene straight out of The Birds. My lawn was completely covered with birds. Hundreds of them. The sound of the telephone snapped me out of my trance.
It was Mrs. McCleary asking me why I had so many birds in my yard, and who was going to clean up the mess on her windows? Occasionally there'd be a thud and a thump as some poor creature hit a window. The cats, even Clarence 2 wanted outside.
I had a lot to do today and time was running away from me, as the weekend was approaching quicker than I could prepare for it - all in all, this wasn't the best start to my day. The phone rang again. It was Norton.
"Norton." I asked, "What did you do to the lawn?"
"I fertilized, and over-seeded."
"Norton, my lawn is covered with birds, it's like a scene from a horror movie. What did you do?"
"I told you!" Norton was defensive, which usually means that he really doesn't know what's going on, opposed to his smuggy tone when he's done something on purpose. "I fertilized, and put on the seed you had in that big bag in the garage."
I called Norton an idiot and hung up the phone. The "big bag" in the garage was a fifty pound sack of spring mix I use for the bird feeders out back. Norton had covered my lawn with the entire bag.
I peeked out the window and the birds were starting to thin out. Possibly because every cat in the neighborhood was having a field day (if there was a Christmas for cats it came early this year). My cats were staring at me, and then out the window and back at me, imploring me to let them join their friends. What could I do? I opened the door; two of them were off like a shot, and Clarence 2 off like a speed walker. I closed the door and curtains, not wanting to watch.
Figuring I still had the better part of a day I got in the truck and headed for town. I had hardly gone more than a few blocks when the familiar thump thump thump of a flat tire forced me to pull over. I got out and kicked the tire just to make sure it was dead. I could almost hear DeForest Kelley in my mind telling me that it was indeed dead. Followed by "I'm a doctor, not a mechanic."
Speaking of mechanics, I was towed to Jimmy's Garage (don't ask me about the spare - I was driving on it). Where Jimmy himself met me. Me and Jimmy have a love hate relationship. Jimmy loves my old Fargo, and I hate Jimmy (I'll tell you about it one day). Jimmy kicked the dead tire and looked at me with his "I told you so" look, it was the same look I got last time I was in.
Anyway, to cut a long story short (because I'm tired). Jimmy looked over the three other tires and proclaimed that they were past being legal, and that he couldn't let the truck go until I'd bought new tires. We went back and forth for a good twenty minutes until we settled on a set of good used tires that had plenty of life left in them.
I was there until almost closing time, and by the time I was able to leave, it was too late to go to Vernon's office, and too late to pick up any odds and ends. Dang. I'd have to call Norton tomorrow and apologize and see if he could give me a hand.
I'd also forgotten to let the cats back in.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Bile, Beer and Flying Pigs
I think I ate something funny last night. Not funny "Ha ha" either. I've been eating crackers and drinking ginger ale all day. I'd forgotten how much fun dry heaves can be, and how truly awful bile tastes. For those of you who hate beer and refer to beer as bile, let me tell you, the only thing bile and beer have in common is the letter "B". On the plus side, I think I finally got rid of all the gum I'd swallowed when I was younger.
I was worried about Margaret being as sick as I was, but I need not have worried. She called me in the morning from work to wish me a happy Monday. Something she only does when she's trying to goad me into saying something stupid - an all too frequent occurrence. When I explained how sick I was, and how terrible I felt I was hoping for a little sympathy. what I got was nothing. Although she asked about Clarence.
I wasn't in any shape to go anywhere, which sucks because I planned on going to see Vernon today even though I try not to work on "Non-day" since I refuse to acknowledge the existence of Monday. I need him to look over the books. I'm falling behind, and I know that I'm making more than enough money to cover things, so somewhere there's a disconnect.
The way I felt today didn't leave me in any condition to do much other than sit in front of the TV and cuddle with the cats. Clarence 2 is showing more signs of life, but he hides under the bed when I put on my gloves.
I seldom watch TV during the day. When I was a kid there were game shows on all day long. They've been replaced by "Judge" shows. Man there are a lot of TV judges - and boy are there a lot of screwed up people out there. I'd like to be on one of them shows as the plaintiff. I think I'd sue Norton for breach of implied contract regarding my lawn. He said he fertilized my grass on the weekend ...
Speaking of Norton, his mom called me this morning asking me if I needed any extra help around the place. I told her I'd get back to her (just as soon as pigs fly). The upcoming trade show is looming over my head like a 50 pound bag of cement. I have a sinking feeling that I may actually have to give the kid a call and ask for help.
I can see the winged pigs off in the distance doing barrel rolls ...
I was worried about Margaret being as sick as I was, but I need not have worried. She called me in the morning from work to wish me a happy Monday. Something she only does when she's trying to goad me into saying something stupid - an all too frequent occurrence. When I explained how sick I was, and how terrible I felt I was hoping for a little sympathy. what I got was nothing. Although she asked about Clarence.
I wasn't in any shape to go anywhere, which sucks because I planned on going to see Vernon today even though I try not to work on "Non-day" since I refuse to acknowledge the existence of Monday. I need him to look over the books. I'm falling behind, and I know that I'm making more than enough money to cover things, so somewhere there's a disconnect.
The way I felt today didn't leave me in any condition to do much other than sit in front of the TV and cuddle with the cats. Clarence 2 is showing more signs of life, but he hides under the bed when I put on my gloves.
I seldom watch TV during the day. When I was a kid there were game shows on all day long. They've been replaced by "Judge" shows. Man there are a lot of TV judges - and boy are there a lot of screwed up people out there. I'd like to be on one of them shows as the plaintiff. I think I'd sue Norton for breach of implied contract regarding my lawn. He said he fertilized my grass on the weekend ...
Speaking of Norton, his mom called me this morning asking me if I needed any extra help around the place. I told her I'd get back to her (just as soon as pigs fly). The upcoming trade show is looming over my head like a 50 pound bag of cement. I have a sinking feeling that I may actually have to give the kid a call and ask for help.
I can see the winged pigs off in the distance doing barrel rolls ...
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Day of Rest has No Rest for the Wicked
Sunday. The day of rest.
So I rested.
It's going to be a busy week, as I am preparing for a trade show next week so I planned on milking Sunday for all I could.
I'll spare you any cat stories for today - mainly because it would take too long, and I'd have to tell you about the scratches on my arms, and I don't want to. Besides, it hurts to type, and I want to keep today's bloggitty thing short.
An odd thing happened just after lunch. I got a call from Jesus. Apparently the little visitor's card I filled out at church last week made it all the way to the big guy's inbox, and my absence from his place of worship was noticed and I was being called to account. It was a pre-recorded message telling me that his dad really loved the world, so much so that he was sent to earth to be the propitiation (I'm going to have to look that one up later, but it sounds pretty bloody impressive) for my sins, and that after the the crap and abuse (um, that's a paraphrase) he took on my behalf, he really didn't think it was too much to expect that I could have a little respect and come to church. Besides, the church he wanted me to attend had really great coffee and convenient hours with three services to choose from on Sunday - so I could make some effort to be grateful.
That got me thinking about coffee so I called up Margaret and asked her if she wanted to grab a coffee. I met her a half hour later. She was just getting her chai tea latte from Cindi, and by the time I was at the counter she had a large black coffee waiting for me. She wouldn't take the money from my hand. She asked me to put it on the counter, and she'd get me my change. Margaret gave me a WTF look, and I just shrugged.
Anyway, we spend a pleasant afternoon together chatting, and I had to listen to more about Keira Knightley and how pretty she was in her period costumes. I made a comment about how it was my turn to choose the next movie, and I was looking forward to picking it up a DVD I'd not seen before starring Bruce Campbell. This more of less killed the conversation. She still hasn't forgiven me for making her watch Bubba Ho-Tep.
Tomorrow is Monday, and I have some odds and ends to look after. I should probably go and see Vernon, my accountant. I'll see how I feel in the morning. I have to go out anyway, as I need more gloves.
So I rested.
It's going to be a busy week, as I am preparing for a trade show next week so I planned on milking Sunday for all I could.
I'll spare you any cat stories for today - mainly because it would take too long, and I'd have to tell you about the scratches on my arms, and I don't want to. Besides, it hurts to type, and I want to keep today's bloggitty thing short.
An odd thing happened just after lunch. I got a call from Jesus. Apparently the little visitor's card I filled out at church last week made it all the way to the big guy's inbox, and my absence from his place of worship was noticed and I was being called to account. It was a pre-recorded message telling me that his dad really loved the world, so much so that he was sent to earth to be the propitiation (I'm going to have to look that one up later, but it sounds pretty bloody impressive) for my sins, and that after the the crap and abuse (um, that's a paraphrase) he took on my behalf, he really didn't think it was too much to expect that I could have a little respect and come to church. Besides, the church he wanted me to attend had really great coffee and convenient hours with three services to choose from on Sunday - so I could make some effort to be grateful.
That got me thinking about coffee so I called up Margaret and asked her if she wanted to grab a coffee. I met her a half hour later. She was just getting her chai tea latte from Cindi, and by the time I was at the counter she had a large black coffee waiting for me. She wouldn't take the money from my hand. She asked me to put it on the counter, and she'd get me my change. Margaret gave me a WTF look, and I just shrugged.
Anyway, we spend a pleasant afternoon together chatting, and I had to listen to more about Keira Knightley and how pretty she was in her period costumes. I made a comment about how it was my turn to choose the next movie, and I was looking forward to picking it up a DVD I'd not seen before starring Bruce Campbell. This more of less killed the conversation. She still hasn't forgiven me for making her watch Bubba Ho-Tep.
Tomorrow is Monday, and I have some odds and ends to look after. I should probably go and see Vernon, my accountant. I'll see how I feel in the morning. I have to go out anyway, as I need more gloves.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Birkenstocks and Armpit Spiders
This blogging thing is more difficult than I gave it credit. I suppose you're expecting me to write in great detail about my adventures trying to get Clarence to eat those bloody horse pills Dr. Autte gave me. Or more excitingly, how I had to wear rubber gloves and apply a topical ointment to Clarence's inflamed backside. This would be where I insert the obligatory "Ring of Fire" joke and sing Johnny Cash mariachi songs.
But I won't.
You know why? Because I don't want to. That and I'm still kind of disturbed by the image of my finger disappearing into my cat's anus (the incorrect way to apply the cream). Actually what creeped me out was the noise he made. It really sounded like "Whoooooah!"
I'm also still trying to recover from last night movie extravaganza. Keira Knightley was great in those Pirate movies ... but having to sit through Atonement while Margaret sat enraptured was almost too much. I was also out of beer - I'd run out of Kilkenny (it's a beer I got into during my South Park phase ... don't ask) so I watched it sober.
Today while Norton was over to mow the lawn I decided to bugger off and grab a coffee at the little place down the street. There was a new girl serving coffee I'd not seen before. She was wearing a name tag that said "Hi, I'm Cindi" and she'd drawn red hearts over each "i". She was wearing a tank top, and had enough ink on her to make Tommy Lee feel naked. She crossed her arms, and armpit hair was creeping out like spider legs. I couldn't help myself, I looked her over, and sure enough, she was wearing a pair of Birkenstocks. A part of me wanted to look outside and see where she'd park the Volkswagen van.
I gave myself a mental smack on the wrist - no need to be judgmental. I walked up to the counter and ordered a coffee. Cindi just stood there smiling at me. Then she did an odd thing, she reached over and took my hand and looked me in the eye and said, "Can I read your palm?"
Too surprised to answer, she turned my hand over and ran her finger along some of my palm lines. She cocked her head to the side, looked at my other hand, and then abruptly let go, washed her hands and then got me my coffee.
When she came back she said, "You might want to wear a second pair of gloves next time ..."
I took my coffee and sat at a window seat. A few minutes later Norton strolled by looking oddly satisfied.
It was one of those days.
But I won't.
You know why? Because I don't want to. That and I'm still kind of disturbed by the image of my finger disappearing into my cat's anus (the incorrect way to apply the cream). Actually what creeped me out was the noise he made. It really sounded like "Whoooooah!"
I'm also still trying to recover from last night movie extravaganza. Keira Knightley was great in those Pirate movies ... but having to sit through Atonement while Margaret sat enraptured was almost too much. I was also out of beer - I'd run out of Kilkenny (it's a beer I got into during my South Park phase ... don't ask) so I watched it sober.
Today while Norton was over to mow the lawn I decided to bugger off and grab a coffee at the little place down the street. There was a new girl serving coffee I'd not seen before. She was wearing a name tag that said "Hi, I'm Cindi" and she'd drawn red hearts over each "i". She was wearing a tank top, and had enough ink on her to make Tommy Lee feel naked. She crossed her arms, and armpit hair was creeping out like spider legs. I couldn't help myself, I looked her over, and sure enough, she was wearing a pair of Birkenstocks. A part of me wanted to look outside and see where she'd park the Volkswagen van.
I gave myself a mental smack on the wrist - no need to be judgmental. I walked up to the counter and ordered a coffee. Cindi just stood there smiling at me. Then she did an odd thing, she reached over and took my hand and looked me in the eye and said, "Can I read your palm?"
Too surprised to answer, she turned my hand over and ran her finger along some of my palm lines. She cocked her head to the side, looked at my other hand, and then abruptly let go, washed her hands and then got me my coffee.
When she came back she said, "You might want to wear a second pair of gloves next time ..."
I took my coffee and sat at a window seat. A few minutes later Norton strolled by looking oddly satisfied.
It was one of those days.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Cat Scratch Fever and The Silver Spoon
Today I was pretty bummed out. I got the call from Dr. Autte this morning, and he told me Clarence was suffering from something called "fecal impaction". I must have sounded stunned (more so than usual) because after a couple of moments Dr. Autte explained that Clarence's anal glands were blocked up, and that he wasn't able to express himself. I tried to explain that Clarence was a very affectionate cat, and never had any problems expressing himself. Dr. Autte waited a moment before repeating himself excepted he used the word "poo" and that he needed my permission to put him under to clean him out.
Around lunchtime I got a call from Lucy, Dr. Harry Autte's assistant, that I'd be able to come later in the afternoon to bring Clarence home. Not trusting myself to drive over, I called Margaret and asked her if she'd be able to take me. When I got in the car I had an odd moment as Ted Nugent was blaring "Cat Scratch Fever" through the speakers. I gave Margaret a look, and she sheepishly changed the station, this time it was Harry Chapin sanging about "Cats in the Cradle". This was getting to be too much. I reached over and turned off the radio.
When we arrived at the vet's, Dr. Autte and Lucy had Clarence waiting for me in a basket. Clarence was wearing one of those cone things, and looked both angry and embarrassed. Dr. Autte called me over to the counter and passed me a small bag and a piece of paper. The paper was the bill. The bag contained a half dozen pairs of plastic gloves, a tube of topical ointment, and a small bottle of horse sized pills there were supposed to soften his stool.
After repeating the instructions to me several times, and showing me the correct and incorrect ways to apply the ointment, I was allowed to settle the bill and take Clarence home. When Margaret and I arrived home Clarence 1 & 3 set off a symphony of miaows and Clarence 2 offered a weak reply. I set Clarence on his pillow, and wrapped a blanket around him.
Margaret gave me a warm hug, and told me it was all going to be okay. She then pulled a DVD out of her purse and reminded me that tonight it was her turn to choose for movie night.
Atonement.
Just great.
I'm not sure what I looked forward to more: the movie or having to apply the cream to Clarence's backside in the morning.
Around lunchtime I got a call from Lucy, Dr. Harry Autte's assistant, that I'd be able to come later in the afternoon to bring Clarence home. Not trusting myself to drive over, I called Margaret and asked her if she'd be able to take me. When I got in the car I had an odd moment as Ted Nugent was blaring "Cat Scratch Fever" through the speakers. I gave Margaret a look, and she sheepishly changed the station, this time it was Harry Chapin sanging about "Cats in the Cradle". This was getting to be too much. I reached over and turned off the radio.
When we arrived at the vet's, Dr. Autte and Lucy had Clarence waiting for me in a basket. Clarence was wearing one of those cone things, and looked both angry and embarrassed. Dr. Autte called me over to the counter and passed me a small bag and a piece of paper. The paper was the bill. The bag contained a half dozen pairs of plastic gloves, a tube of topical ointment, and a small bottle of horse sized pills there were supposed to soften his stool.
After repeating the instructions to me several times, and showing me the correct and incorrect ways to apply the ointment, I was allowed to settle the bill and take Clarence home. When Margaret and I arrived home Clarence 1 & 3 set off a symphony of miaows and Clarence 2 offered a weak reply. I set Clarence on his pillow, and wrapped a blanket around him.
Margaret gave me a warm hug, and told me it was all going to be okay. She then pulled a DVD out of her purse and reminded me that tonight it was her turn to choose for movie night.
Atonement.
Just great.
I'm not sure what I looked forward to more: the movie or having to apply the cream to Clarence's backside in the morning.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Poop Scootin' Boogie (w/ apologies to Brooks and Dunn)
I was sitting watching TV this morning and eating my breakfast when I noticed Clarence 2 scooting himself along the carpet. It took me a minute to realize what I was seeing as the last time I'd seen a scoot like that was at my buddy Cliff's place a couple of years ago when his dog Angus was laying skid marks by dragging his mangy ass along the carpet. Watching my cat pull himself along the rug was a little surreal. I laughed it off as a weird thing for a cat to do, and went out for the morning to run some errands.
When I got back in the afternoon Clarences 1 & 3 greeted me at the door, tangling themselves in my legs. There was no sign of number 2. I walked into the living room, and I stopped cold. There were rust colored hash marks all over the carpet. I squatted down and rubbed one of the "lines" with my finger, and gave it a sniff.
"Oh crap." Well, I'd found my signs of number 2.
I went to the washroom to wash my hands. Then went looking for Clarence 2. I found him under my bed. I eventually coached him out, and he didn't look good at all. After wrapping him in a towel, I carried him to the car and drove to Dr. Harry Autte, my vet. He took a look at him and told me he'd keep him for the evening. Someone would call me in the morning.
So, now I'm waiting.
When I got back in the afternoon Clarences 1 & 3 greeted me at the door, tangling themselves in my legs. There was no sign of number 2. I walked into the living room, and I stopped cold. There were rust colored hash marks all over the carpet. I squatted down and rubbed one of the "lines" with my finger, and gave it a sniff.
"Oh crap." Well, I'd found my signs of number 2.
I went to the washroom to wash my hands. Then went looking for Clarence 2. I found him under my bed. I eventually coached him out, and he didn't look good at all. After wrapping him in a towel, I carried him to the car and drove to Dr. Harry Autte, my vet. He took a look at him and told me he'd keep him for the evening. Someone would call me in the morning.
So, now I'm waiting.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Paper Bags and Earth Day
Yesterday was earth day. I'd almost forgotten to mark the occasion, but I managed to celebrate by letting my cats Clarence add compost to Mrs. McCleary's garden.
I know we're all going green (trying to, or pretending to). If it's not trying to "borrow" carbon credits from developing nations, it's trying to eliminate the evils of the plastic grocery bag. Now don't get me wrong, I think we all have our part to play in being aware of our poor besieged planet. But what the heck is driving the banning of the plastic bag?
You know who I think is behind this "movement"? The marketing folks at the Glad Products Company that's who. Somehow they've put together a street team of malleable "green thinking" tree hugger types whose sole mission in life is to save the planet by banning plastic bags.
Why?
Because the plastic bags end up in landfills, and that's bad.
Very bad.
You know what? They're right, those bags end up in the trash - you want to know why? Because people, and there are millions and millions of us, use those bags as garbage bags. That's right, we actually use one of the principles of recycling. We re-use.
All that's happened by my local store going "green" and not using plastic grocery bags is that I now have to buy my plastic bags to put into the landfill, instead of getting them "free"with my groceries.
Who makes the trash bags of choice?
Glad.
A coincidence? I don't think so.
I know we're all going green (trying to, or pretending to). If it's not trying to "borrow" carbon credits from developing nations, it's trying to eliminate the evils of the plastic grocery bag. Now don't get me wrong, I think we all have our part to play in being aware of our poor besieged planet. But what the heck is driving the banning of the plastic bag?
You know who I think is behind this "movement"? The marketing folks at the Glad Products Company that's who. Somehow they've put together a street team of malleable "green thinking" tree hugger types whose sole mission in life is to save the planet by banning plastic bags.
Why?
Because the plastic bags end up in landfills, and that's bad.
Very bad.
You know what? They're right, those bags end up in the trash - you want to know why? Because people, and there are millions and millions of us, use those bags as garbage bags. That's right, we actually use one of the principles of recycling. We re-use.
All that's happened by my local store going "green" and not using plastic grocery bags is that I now have to buy my plastic bags to put into the landfill, instead of getting them "free"with my groceries.
Who makes the trash bags of choice?
Glad.
A coincidence? I don't think so.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
"We Need to Talk, John"
Margaret called me this morning, and asked me if I wanted to go for lunch so we could "talk". Now the phrase "can we talk?" should be reserved and used as sparingly as the phrase "please castrate me". I asked her where she wanted to meet, and she mentioned a little coffee shop within walking distance of my place. The conspiracy theorist in me thought "she thinks you won't be in any condition to drive home afterwards ..."
Anyway, I spent the morning puttering around the workshop and reconciling my accounts payable pile. Around 11:30 I put on my jacket and walked down to meet Margaret. She wasn't there so I ordered a coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich and picked a table where my back wasn't facing the door.
A few minutes later she came in, looking flushed and happy. She waved at me and I waved back. She came over, I stood up to give her a peck on the cheek, but she turned her head and I got to to lay on a decent smooch. After putting her jacket on the back of her chair Margaret went and ordered a chai tea latte (I think that's how it's spelt) and a corn dog.
She sat down, and reached over to hold my hand. I gave her hand a little squeeze. "John" she paused and took a bite of the dog, "We need to talk." I think my face blanched a little. They say women smell fear the same way dogs do. I would have crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair, but Margaret had hold of my hand and tightened her grip.
"John, it's about my lamp."
I breathed a sigh of relief ... I would get out of this in one piece (unlike her unfortunate lamp).
Anyway, I spent the morning puttering around the workshop and reconciling my accounts payable pile. Around 11:30 I put on my jacket and walked down to meet Margaret. She wasn't there so I ordered a coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich and picked a table where my back wasn't facing the door.
A few minutes later she came in, looking flushed and happy. She waved at me and I waved back. She came over, I stood up to give her a peck on the cheek, but she turned her head and I got to to lay on a decent smooch. After putting her jacket on the back of her chair Margaret went and ordered a chai tea latte (I think that's how it's spelt) and a corn dog.
She sat down, and reached over to hold my hand. I gave her hand a little squeeze. "John" she paused and took a bite of the dog, "We need to talk." I think my face blanched a little. They say women smell fear the same way dogs do. I would have crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair, but Margaret had hold of my hand and tightened her grip.
"John, it's about my lamp."
I breathed a sigh of relief ... I would get out of this in one piece (unlike her unfortunate lamp).
Monday, April 21, 2008
Bangles and The Boomtown Rats
I don't like manic Mondays.
I can go another step beyond and say most weeks I skip Monday all together and wait for Tuesday. Since I often have to work on Saturday I take the Monday off in lieu, and by default it becomes my Sunday. Then when I go back to work, I pick things up on Tuesday.
Most of the time this works really well for me. I woke up this morning at 7:30 and rolled over to catch a few more winks. I must have hit an untapped reserve of z's because I didn't crawl out of bed until close to 10:00 am.
The first thing I heard was the three part harmony of Clarence the cats. Clarence 1 & 2 were pressed against my head - one on each ear. Clarence 3 was standing on my chest looking at me with a look that could only be described as "evil". They wanted food, and they wanted it NOW.
Not the greatest way to start my day. You can fool Monday some of the time, but you can't fool it all of the time. I had a sinking feeling as I looked over and saw the red light flashing on my phone. I pressed the button to hear my messages. "You have five new messages ..." I had four from the lady asking about her lamp, and one from Mrs. McCleary asking me if I had anything to say about my lawn.
It would be one of those days ...
I can go another step beyond and say most weeks I skip Monday all together and wait for Tuesday. Since I often have to work on Saturday I take the Monday off in lieu, and by default it becomes my Sunday. Then when I go back to work, I pick things up on Tuesday.
Most of the time this works really well for me. I woke up this morning at 7:30 and rolled over to catch a few more winks. I must have hit an untapped reserve of z's because I didn't crawl out of bed until close to 10:00 am.
The first thing I heard was the three part harmony of Clarence the cats. Clarence 1 & 2 were pressed against my head - one on each ear. Clarence 3 was standing on my chest looking at me with a look that could only be described as "evil". They wanted food, and they wanted it NOW.
Not the greatest way to start my day. You can fool Monday some of the time, but you can't fool it all of the time. I had a sinking feeling as I looked over and saw the red light flashing on my phone. I pressed the button to hear my messages. "You have five new messages ..." I had four from the lady asking about her lamp, and one from Mrs. McCleary asking me if I had anything to say about my lawn.
It would be one of those days ...
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Church and the Pope
Well since the Pope was here this week (no, not at my house) I got to thinking that maybe I could do with a little "churching". I went to church a few weeks ago for Easter, and by my watch I was good until Christmas Eve - but with all the attention on the papal visit, I figured it wouldn't hurt me to make an appearance in God's house and remind the big guy that I'm around.
There's a great little church not too far from my place that reminds me of a pub that's been turned into a place of worship. They serve coffee before, during and after the service. On those rare occasions when communion is celebrated you can choose to receive an individual serving, or if you don't have a cold you can actually drink wine (grape juice) from a chalice.
I was almost late for church today because Clarence (number 2, the brown one) decided that he was going to crap in my shoe instead of the litter box. Anyway, I arrived at church and got my coffee in my inspirational mug. Today mine said, "God Loves you just like you love your coffee". I laughed because I like my coffee black.
The service today was pretty cool. There was a multimedia thing that was as entertaining as it was creepy - Jesus was a boxer fighting the devil. It was acted out on the stage by the Sunday school kids. This little fat kid was playing the devil and shouted out, "You're dead meat, Jesus, I'm gonna bust you UP tonight!" Then a kid who was playing Jesus said, "Go ahead, make my day!" He squinted when he said it, and I waited for him to say something like "You feeling lucky" but it didn't happen.
After Church I saw Norton and his mom. Norton wouldn't look at me, which reminded me to take a closer look at my lawn when I got home.
There's a great little church not too far from my place that reminds me of a pub that's been turned into a place of worship. They serve coffee before, during and after the service. On those rare occasions when communion is celebrated you can choose to receive an individual serving, or if you don't have a cold you can actually drink wine (grape juice) from a chalice.
I was almost late for church today because Clarence (number 2, the brown one) decided that he was going to crap in my shoe instead of the litter box. Anyway, I arrived at church and got my coffee in my inspirational mug. Today mine said, "God Loves you just like you love your coffee". I laughed because I like my coffee black.
The service today was pretty cool. There was a multimedia thing that was as entertaining as it was creepy - Jesus was a boxer fighting the devil. It was acted out on the stage by the Sunday school kids. This little fat kid was playing the devil and shouted out, "You're dead meat, Jesus, I'm gonna bust you UP tonight!" Then a kid who was playing Jesus said, "Go ahead, make my day!" He squinted when he said it, and I waited for him to say something like "You feeling lucky" but it didn't happen.
After Church I saw Norton and his mom. Norton wouldn't look at me, which reminded me to take a closer look at my lawn when I got home.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Grass and the New Guy
Saturday is typically yard work day. Or as I like to refer to it: my least favorite day of the week. About a year ago I hired a young kid from the neighborhood to look after the lawn. Don't get me wrong, the kid is nice enough - actually he's not a kid. He's a college graduate (community college I think) but he's about as smart as a bag of bricks.
If it wasn't for his mother I wouldn't keep him on, but for 10 bucks a week I get my lawn cut. After a fashion. It's become something of a mystery as to what my lawn will look like from week to week. One time last year Norton decided to cut the words "Fart Head" on my from lawn. I wouldn't have known about it but Mrs. McCleary from across the street could read it from her bedroom window and made a point of letting me know about it, once a day until the next Saturday when Norton came to do his "job".
Well, today Norton arrived and he asked me if I wanted my grass cut. He says this every time he comes over. Now I've got a pretty good sized lawn, and depending on what kind of job Norton does it can take anywhere from an hour and a half to around twenty minutes.
Today it took him three and a half hours. I've not received any phone calls ...
If it wasn't for his mother I wouldn't keep him on, but for 10 bucks a week I get my lawn cut. After a fashion. It's become something of a mystery as to what my lawn will look like from week to week. One time last year Norton decided to cut the words "Fart Head" on my from lawn. I wouldn't have known about it but Mrs. McCleary from across the street could read it from her bedroom window and made a point of letting me know about it, once a day until the next Saturday when Norton came to do his "job".
Well, today Norton arrived and he asked me if I wanted my grass cut. He says this every time he comes over. Now I've got a pretty good sized lawn, and depending on what kind of job Norton does it can take anywhere from an hour and a half to around twenty minutes.
Today it took him three and a half hours. I've not received any phone calls ...
Friday, April 18, 2008
Grilled Cheese and Tuna
Today was one of those days where I couldn't put anything together. I work for myself, so most of my days are pretty much the same. I get up, put on a cup of coffee and then go to my workshop. Usually one or more of the cats follows me around until I feed them, and then I'm left alone until dinner.
My workshop consists of my usual assortment of odds and ends. Today I was supposed to fill an order for a lady in town who wanted me to customize an old lamp. I know, don't get me started. It's a lamp. But for whatever reason she wanted me to trick out this old brass lamp and make it more of an "architectural detail" than a lamp.
Anyway, I took it apart, and sorted the parts (as I normally do) from smallest to biggest laid them out on my table. I had a couple of ideas, and spent the morning scribbling my ideas down. Around lunchtime I figured on an approach and took a break.
I made myself a grilled cheese and tuna sandwich, and this may sound gross, but for the rest of the afternoon the smell of my fingers kind of turned me on. I couldn't help but think of my girl Margaret.
Anyway, that was pretty much the end of my day. I puttered around for another hour or so, and didn't get any closer to finishing the lamp. However I did give Margaret a call and we'll be getting together for grilled cheese and tuna later on.
My workshop consists of my usual assortment of odds and ends. Today I was supposed to fill an order for a lady in town who wanted me to customize an old lamp. I know, don't get me started. It's a lamp. But for whatever reason she wanted me to trick out this old brass lamp and make it more of an "architectural detail" than a lamp.
Anyway, I took it apart, and sorted the parts (as I normally do) from smallest to biggest laid them out on my table. I had a couple of ideas, and spent the morning scribbling my ideas down. Around lunchtime I figured on an approach and took a break.
I made myself a grilled cheese and tuna sandwich, and this may sound gross, but for the rest of the afternoon the smell of my fingers kind of turned me on. I couldn't help but think of my girl Margaret.
Anyway, that was pretty much the end of my day. I puttered around for another hour or so, and didn't get any closer to finishing the lamp. However I did give Margaret a call and we'll be getting together for grilled cheese and tuna later on.
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