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.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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.
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