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Before my daughter was born–before I even knew I was having a daughter–the wife and I had, uh, heated “debates” of what we would name our offspring. Seeing how I come from a family of many boys (no girls) and The Wife had no interest in little girls’ clothing we just assumed it would be a boy. Kinda of silly because it was 50-50 either way, yet neither of us really considered the possibly of having a daughter. I wanted my boy to have a good, strong Italian name. Nothing too over the top like Guido, but Tony, Paulie, and Vinny were all possibilities (basically anything that ended in an “ee” sound). The Wife wanted more classical names like those of English royalty (James, George, William). Hmmm…Maybe we should compromise: Jamie, Georgie, Willie.
The girl’s name was relatively simply. The first name The Wife threw out was Babygrl1 and I kinda liked it. Of course, I couldn’t admit I liked it–not after she immediately shot down my suggestion to name a boy Giovanni. But that night, I started thinking more and more about it and really began to embrace it. It was the same number of letters as our last . . . . .
I don’t really have a nickname, but if I were to bestow one upon myself (because giving yourself a nickname is always a fine idea) I would likely be called Wart Boy. Unfortunately for Wart Boy the nickname isn’t clever or meaningful on any level. I am Wart Boy because of my propensity to host and grow warts (the boy part is fairly self-explanatory). Despite my portly appearance, I’d like to think I’m generally of good health. I rarely get sick or catch colds. But when it comes to defending myself against the virus that causes warts I’m 72-pound weakling with girlie arms.
All my life I’ve been prone to getting warts. About twice a year I’d have to see the doctor to get a wart or two frozen off. It was no big deal—I considered it part of my routine checkup. I’ve had so many warts removed from my body I consider myself to be an amateur dermatologist (or at least one who only works with warts). A wart here. A wart there. All in all: relatively no big deal.
One of my favorite wart stories (that’s right: I have more than one) occurred when my beloved cat scratched . . . . .
Last week I walked passed a booth of volunteers trying to get people to register to vote. A gal jumped in front of me and asked with her biggest smile, “Are you registered to vote?”
“Of course I am,” I said politely. While I saw no need to be rude, this was a conversation I really didn’t want to participate in. Being completely exhausted with work and having a newborn to worry about 90 percent of my brainpower was focused on something else. I was on autopilot: barely aware that I was even talking to her.
“That’s wonderful,” she replied. “Would you like to volunteer your time?”
And without realizing what I was doing, I blurted out laughing, “No.” I feel a little bad because I respect what she was doing…but volunteer work is just something I don’t believe in. Kinda like charity and the Easter Bunny.
I hate fees. I don’t think this a word that makes me cringe more than fees. I know some things have a price; other things have a cost. But there’s something about fees. Name something–anything–that you ever paid a “fee” for–was something you actually wanted? When you get a parking ticket, you hafta . . . . .
I live a charmed life. Or at least I like to tell people I live a charmed life. Being unable to find a full-time job and having a wife in her 30s seems to disprove that theory. Nevertheless, I like to tell people I live a charmed life because it feels like I never lose–only, that’s not quite right. I usually end up coming out a little ahead. When I feel like something bad happens to me, it’s only a matter of time before something good happens to me to make it all better. I’m the kind of person who will go to Jack and the Box while leaving my coupons at home only to find an extra taco in my order because someone screwed up. My cell phone breaks and T-Mobile replaces it with something better. One time I bought something at Target that didn’t work. Target refused to give me a refund, so I called the manufacture. Not only did they mail me a refund, they also sent me coupons for other free stuff “for my troubles.” When life gives me lemons, it also gives me a pitcher of water, a cup of sugar, and a crystal cup . . . . .
At my apartment complex, we have a lovely little area that is full of all sorts of treasures. Boxes of old VHS tapes. Three-fourths of a kitchen room set. Slightly used shoes with torn laces. Broken coffeemakers. Old computers. Thirty-two-inch 75-pound CRT “big” screen TVs. All available–all free of charge–and found in trash area. Most residents are kind enough to keep the truly great prizes outside of the trash bin. Some folks throw it away (maybe that’s a sign that it truly is trash). But you know what they say: “One man’s trash…”
About two months ago I found a grand prize. Someone had decided they no longer need two of the finest barstools you’d ever seen. The chairs had aluminum frames with padded swivel tops. Unlike most of the treasure I find in the trash, these chairs were in remarkable shape. The fabric was clean, unstained, and without rips. All four legs sat flat on the group without the slightest hint of a wobble. The seats turned without any grinding, squeaking, or resistance of any kind. Dare I say it (I dare, dare)–these chairs were as like new as something could possibly be. There was no doubt in my . . . . .
I went into work like any ordinary day–at least as any ordinary day could feel at a job you’ve been working at for four days–when I was greeted by a blonde woman I had never seen before.
“My name is Libby,” she said, “and I am the new director of this YMCA branch.” We had been going without a director for since the day I started. The woman who interviewed me, hired me, coordinated all my prejob screening (background check and drug testing) had mysteriously vanished the day prior to my first day of work. Well, mysteriously vanished to me. No one at the Y seemed concerned with her disappearance. Last time I spoke to her she said, “I’ll call you tomorrow to schedule your first day.” Two days later, I got a call from someone else informing me that Penny was no longer with the Y and could I come in to start that afternoon (yes, one sentence like that). I think Penny got fired, because she gave no indication that she was going to quit, but that’s not relevant to this story. Or maybe it is.
Libby and I exchanged short pleasantries before she got to the heart . . . . .
The time has come for me to replace the Almighty Honda. This is not something I want to do. I dread all aspects of it. Even as I write this, I’m doing so in darkness and out of earshot of my car (ya know, just in case it overhears). I think it would be easier to replace The Wife than replace the car, but then again I’ve had the car longer than The Wife (it has seniority). Despite my reservations, the truth is I’m driving a car that’s twice as old as my students and it’s just time for a change.
Reasons for change? Well, did I mention I’m driving a car twice as old as my students? This would be fine if my students were younger than five or older than 25. Anything else in-between means I’m driving an old car. Not a classic. Just old. Kind of like that lame age for Grownups between 35 and 55 when you’re expected to behave responsibly (reckless fun by youngsters is considered “youthful indiscretion;” reckless fun by seniors is “too old to know any better”).
I’ve also noticed I’ve been getting pulled over more often. Not for moving violations–just “checking . . . . .
Leftover pizza presents an interesting challenge for me. There are so many different factors and options that there’s no clear-cut obvious answer. Don’t finish Chinese food? Save it for later! Can’t finish a salad? Throw it out. But pizza is more challenging.
Probably the biggest obstacle leftover pizza presents is there doesn’t have to be leftover pizza. I might be full after two or three slices–but that doesn’t mean I have to stop eating. The only time I truly have to stop eating pizza is when there’s no more pizza left. My ability to continuously (and gluttonously) eat pizza is slightly short of being remarkable (probably because it’s disgusting to see a guy eat slice after slice of pizza for three hours). Back when I was a teenager Pizza Hut started to roll out all-you-can-eat pizza buffets. Now they’re all gone. Why? Because they all lost money when I came in through the door. A lot of money. Why, I think it’s safe to say I am solely responsible for Pizza Hut’s disappointing third quarter in 1996.
I like to eat–this is no surprise to anyone who knows me. I’ve often said eating if my favorite hobby–and pizza is perhaps . . . . .
This is part two of a story I set out to tell the other day. Hopefully this time I’ll stay awake long enough to finish.
I recently moved into an apartment that put me in the ideal situation to steal cable. See, stealing cable is no easy task. You need to find the right conditions to make it work. By my rough (uneducated) statement, it can probably be done in most apartment buildings. Unfortunately, I haven’t lived in any of those apartment buildings until now.
The important thing to remember about stealing cable is that you can’t be picky. You might not get 200 channels. You might not get HD. You might not even get a perfect picture. Luckily for me, I’m willing to settle for what I can get (look at my car, my job, my wife, my life). I don’t need the finer things in life. I don’t need BET, Bravo, or HGTV. Heck, I don’t even need 50 channels. As long as I get ESPN, ESPN2, and Fox Sports I’m a happy man. Anything else is cake because the only reason I want cable is to watch baseball (that and the sheer joy of stealing cable).
Once . . . . .
One of my job duties as an after school babysitter/tutor is to provide snacks for the children. The logic is that by the time 3:00 rolls around, the little rugrats are jonesing for some nutrients. My job is to provide those nutrients in the form of salty, dry pretzels and sugar-filled Capri Suns.
(Side note: Capri Suns have become much easier to drink though out the years. When I was a kid it was nearly impossible to put straw through the pouch. Back then the plastic was made of some indestructible material that also could be used to protect the gold in Fort Knox. It took a tremendous amount of force to piece the pouch, which–if not aimed correctly–would often lead to bent straws. My mom would often to use a hole punch because the pouches would not welcome the penetrating straw. Heck, often the easiest way to drink a Capri Sun was to flip it over and stick the straw in the bottom [feel free to draw your own conclusion from this perverted metaphor]. Sure, you had to hold the drink because then it wouldn’t be able to stand up on its own–but at least you got your juice. . . . . .
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