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“EEEEEKKKKKKK! THERE’S A LIZARD IN THE HOUSE,” The Wife screamed, which was followed by a dash out the front door with such speed it would make the Flash envious. Knowing she would never return unless the cold-blooded houseguest was removed, I figured it was my husbandly duty to catch it.
I spotted the lizard in a corner, hiding behind a stack of books. About an inch and half long. It couldn’t have weighed more than a nickel. How the wife spotted it was beyond me, but she has a knack for that sorta thing. We can be watching TV and she’ll somehow spot a spider in 12 feet away directly behind her.
Being a city boy, I’m not exactly versed in the capture of live animals. Sure, as a boy I would pick up worms off the sidewalk and chase girls around the playground–but they were there for the taking: catching a live animal would be a whole ‘nother challenge. I saw no need to kill the lizard. If I could somehow grab it, I would put it in a jar and take it outside. At least that was the plan. Unfortunately, the reptile seemed to disagree and didn’t want . . . . .
Last week in soccer class, one of the girls kicked me in the shin. While that’s not an interesting story (actually, it’s a bit embarrassing), the aftermath that followed certainly worth telling. Besides the three-inch by one-inch scab, I also developed a large, yellowish-purple bruise on my leg that could be seen from outer space. My shin became incredibly sensitive to touch (I even hurt myself putting on socks) and on occasions it hurt to walk because I couldn’t put too much weight on it. Since the injury happened at school, I figured I ought to let the school’s health center check me out (that and I don’t have health insurance).
After being admitted, a youngish doctor entered the examining room carrying my chart and an iPhone. “How did you hurt yourself,” she asked me.
“Someone kicked me in the shin,” I told her as she looked at her iPhone. “Since it’s been a week and hasn’t shown any signs of healing, I figured I better get it checked out.”
There was a moment of silence as she typed something on her iPhone. “Uh-huh. What kind of pain do you feel?”
“Ungawdly, tremendous amounts of pain if I touch it . . . . .
My softball game last week was very strange.
That’s a horrible opening! The game wasn’t strange–it was a softball game. Strange is a 280-pound linebacker singing Ashlee Simpson songs in a mall while wearing a tutu. The game was noteworthy–but certainly not strange.
The biggest (and most noteworthy) event occurred when one of our players dislocated his shoulder while jogging around the second base. Mr. Fudge slipped for no obvious or apparent reason and landed awkwardly on his left shoulder. Everyone knew he was hurt bad immediately after it happened because quickly took himself out of the game. He walked back to our dugout and was in obvious pain; his face was trembling and he grimaced with every breath. “Does anyone know how to pop it back in,” Fudge asked.
Half the team told him to let a doctor do it; the other half was in shocked by the repulsiveness of the question (that sorta bravado is reserved for fictionalized action movies–not overweight, outta shape schleps who play softball). “No way,” someone said. Another person called him nuts. Someone else asked for Dr. Nick. There were a lot of chaotic suggestions thrown out until Wagon spoke up.
“This is what . . . . .
With my full-time return to school, I feel older and wiser than all my classmates (that’s probably because I am older and wiser). I bring about one third more life experience to the classroom–not to mention a BA in creative writing. I’m not afraid to speak my mind or do my homework because I know I can do so without thoroughly embarrassing myself (except when it comes to analyzing poetry). My wisdom really shines in Groupwork. I think because in Groupwork students are left entirely on their own with little teacher interaction. Since I am the oldest, I become the pseudo teacher of the group and often its leader.
When unaccustomed students are thrust together for the first time there’s a brief, “getting to know you” phase with an exchange of information. How old are you? What kind of music do you like? What’s your major? Since I refuse to answer the first question and name bands they never heard of (is 1995 really that far in the past?), my academic history proves to be the most topical. The majority of classmates are impressed when I tell them I already have a BA and I’m currently a graduate student. Usually . . . . .
Now that our car quest is over and The Wife has a suitable vehicle, I am in the process of trying to unload her car on some poor, unsuspecting sucker. Not that I’m trying to scam anyone–I’m very clear about the process and have no intention of hiding the blown head gasket (it’s not like you can hide a blown head gasket anyway–the car shakes like a earthquake when you drive it).
In the past, I’ve always used Autotrader to buy and sell cars. But about a dozen years ago something called the internet got invented (by Al Gore) and launched all sorts of wonderful free services–most notably, Craigslist. Craigslist has been in the news an awful lot lately. For those unfamiliar with the service, Craigslist offers more than overweight strippers and dirt cheap hookers–you can also buy and sell goods. So instead of plopping down 50 bucks on Autotrader, I opted to try posting a free ad on Craigslist.
They say in life you get what you pay for. Perhaps that’s the attitude of Craigslist shoppers: they figure since the ad is free, the product should also be available at a significant discount. I can’t believe the riffraff I’ve . . . . .
With summer time fast approaching, I felt it was time to embrace my summer ‘do and shave my head. I wasn’t allowed to shave my head last summer because The Wife wanted to make sure I had hair for our wedding (which is kinda silly because it takes me about three weeks to grow a full head of hair). I like to buzz my hair short for the summer because it gets ungodly hot. Plus, sometimes I just get sick of hair. All the washing and conditioning. Spending two or three minutes every morning styling it. Not being able to wear a hat because I’ll mess it up. Just between you, me, and the World Wide Web I’d much rather sport a maintenance-free shaved head than look good with my dark, curly locks.
I have always put comfort over appearance (a trait that’s obvious to anyone who has ever seen my wardrobe). Funny thing about personal appearance, you rarely get to look at it. Sure, there are those few minutes in front of the mirror in the morning or perhaps if someone snaps a photo. But for the most part, you never look at yourself. Suppose I buy a new . . . . .
Even though I have no job nor any prospects of finding a job, The Wife and I are in the midst of buying a car (and if CNN is right, we might be the only two car-buyers in America). The world economy is falling apart; everyone is scrimping and saving; I have no job–we’re a single-income family…and we still want to buy a car (which says a lot about the state of her current vehicle). This is something we talked about long before stock market Armageddon came. This was a decision we made before I lost my job. The point I’m trying to make is that we’ve need a car for a while now and is not a decision made lightly.
I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon during our hunt–a plethora of incompetent sellers. Since we’re in the market for a used car and I think dealers are the scum of the earth (although slightly better than politicians and insurance executives), we’ve contacted quite a few private parties. I’m not expecting to meet J. Paul Getty when buying a ten-year old used car–but I’d like to meet someone who could at least put a little bit of effort and enthusiasm into . . . . .
Yesterday at Ikea I have a very uncomfortable incident in the bathroom. I walked in about five feet behind this other dude. There was no one else in the bathroom and it was just the two of us (sounds like the beginning of a gay romance novel). The restroom had three urinals up against the wall and the guy immediately walked to the one in the middle.
What’s that all about? By foolishly walking to the middle urinal, now I had no choice but to pee immediately next to him. If he picked the one on the right or the left, it would be fine because at least we would still have a buffer between us. But now I had no choice–I had to pee right next to him. Call me a homophobe if you want, I feel uncomfortable touching my junk when there’s a guy eight inches away from me touching his junk. In plain sight.
There’s an unwritten rule regarding urinals for all the ladies out there: Thou Shall Stand as Far Away as Possible to Another Man When Using the Urinal. It’s just good, common decency. The distance helps prevent splashing or peeking (accidental and intentional). Nobody . . . . .
I generally don’t make impulse buys. No–that’s a lie: I NEVER make impulse buys. When I head to somewhere to buy something, I buy that something and nothing else (it’s not cheap: it’s falling under budget). Best Buy can offer me all the accessories and add-ons they want; I’m not walking out of there with anything more than what I planned to buy. Grocery stores hate me: I buy only what’s on sale with a low mark-up (milk, meat, and bread). I’ll pass on the magazines, sticks of gum, bars of candy, and Aqua Globes. That’s how one can afford to survive when they have no money. At least I use to be…until I caved and made my first-ever impulse buy.
A 20 pound bag of rice.
I was at the grocery store to by milk (and only milk) and saw a giant palate stacked chin-high with 20-pounds bags of rice. The sign said $10 and called it a “special buy.” Since I am a smart shopper, I disregard any claims to “A Deal” unless I can verify the price myself. So I went back to the store, got my milk, and intended to return to the checkout lane. But . . . . .
From the pointless researcher department…
Did you know Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer was a girl? It’s true because I saw it in print. I’m not sure if I blame the journalist or the “experts” who debated this topic, but overthinking like this really sucks the fun out of Christmas.
Last week at work we had our annual white elephant gift exchange. At this point, I’m sure everyone is familiar with the concept (if not, Wikipedia it). Since I’m blessed with the unique combination of being extremely lazy and remarkably cheap, I decided to put zero time, money, and effort into a gift. Instead of trying to give a good/funny gift, I decided to give the lamest piece of crap that came to my mind. I reached this conclusion while reading an old newspaper…which prompted the idea to GIVE an old newspaper.
The Wife quickly protested the idea. “That’s an awful gift,” she said. “You can’t give that.”
“It’s supposed to be an awful gift,” I pleaded. “The only people who give anything good or nice are newbies–suckers who are too afraid to give junk.”
Despite much–uh, persistence–on her part, I stuck to my guns and wrapped up a week-old . . . . .
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