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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Sometimes, it’s about the small victories. The little things, the minor wins, those brief moments when you can shake your fist in the air and crow, ‘Hoho, Universe — I finally got one!‘
Or so I’m told. It’s not like I would actually know. When it comes to little things, I’m 0-for-everything. Batting zero. Shutout city.
Every once in a while, it seems as though I could win. I get close. And then the door slams shut, and I’m put back in my place until the next horrific emasculating nightmare.
Take dog poop, for instance. I’ve been dealing with dog poop for a long time — just over twelve years now. That’s almost as long as I’ve been dealing with our dog.
(Like, very almost. There was that brief magical period when we had the dog, and we thought, ‘Hey, maybe this one just doesn’t poop at all. Could it be we dodged the big dog turd bullet altogether?‘
And then, two hours later, WHAM! One squat, and the honeymoon was over. Ain’t that always the way?)
For most of my poop-scooping experience, I’ve used bags. Clear open-top plastic bags meant for freezing food or keeping sandwiches fresh. Poor little buggers come off the shelf, thinking they’ll be stuffed full of Otter Pops or PB&Js. But no. It’s half-digested horse meat and three-day old rawhide passed through a mutt intestine. *bzzzzzzzzzzt!* Thanks for playing!
(At least I’m not the only one who never wins. Keep yer chin up, sammich bags!)
As of about three months ago, though — just about the time cold weather was setting in — the paradigm changed. My wife decided, bless her precious little heart, that the ‘old bags’ just weren’t cutting it any more. Suddenly, the plain one-gallon transparent jobbies winked out of vogue, like shoulder pads on sports jackets or movies with Renee Zellweger.
Instead, I was told, we had fresh new fashionable poo receptacles — little rolls of plastic bags in neon green and pink and orange, tucked into a little holder and designed precisely for the purpose of snatching steaming scat from besmirched sidewalks.
“Life does nothing but get harder and dumber and more impossibly aggravating as you get older. That’s just how it is.”
Fine, I said. I don’t need the big sales pitch. I’ve used a leaf for the job, when I had to. Hell, I’ve used a dollar bill. I’ve had frozen turd bags, rooms full of doo, and sacks of crap steeped like sun tea in the back of my Maxima. It’s not art, it’s not rocket science — and if you’re asking me to be fashionable while I’m collecting cuckoo canine kaka, then we’re all going to be sorely disappointed. Just give me the damned bag and open the door. I’ve got shit to scoop, lady. Bags is bags.
Or so I thought. Turns out, these bags are not bags. Not always.
No, sometimes these bags are sheets. Little rectangular sheets of plastic that come out of the little holder so tightly squeezed together that the sides don’t separate. You can — sometimes — twist the edges between your fingers to get the sides to open up, or pick at the rim of the bag for a purchase, but that’s about the only way to turn these neon-colored sheets back into the bags they were advertised to me.
And you know what makes them stick more? Cold. Did I mention we started using these in the winter? Yeah. Good times, sunshine. Good times.
Now, all of this was to be expected. Life does nothing but get harder and dumber and more impossibly aggravating as you get older. That’s just how it is. And I spent many a frozen fumble-fingered night standing over a fresh heap of mutt dung, fiddling with one of those stupid effing openless bags and cursing whoever turned my wife onto the godforsaken idea in the first place.
(Because I can’t curse her directly. She KNOWS.)
Until one night, I won. Accidentally, to be sure — but I really thought I’d won. I was fiddling and cursing and fumbly-fingering as before, when suddenly the top of the bag ripped. And in that little ragged plastic edge, the two sides. Magically. Came. Apart.
I felt like Columbus discovering some new land he thought was back in the other direction. Or the ‘Eureka! guy, with the bathtub thing. Or whats-his-name Dyson, when he first thought of putting his balls into a vacuum machine.
(Oh, you know what I mean. Keep yer dust trap on, sparky.)
So for a week, I won. The dog would skitter to the door for a walk, I’d grab a bag and a leash and lead her out, she’d crap her pooching little brains out, and I’d rip the bag. On purpose. Just rip it halfway to hell, open it up, scoop, dump, and be done. After an entire winter of losing, I’d finally won. I beat those bags. Victory was mine!
That lasted about a day. Soon enough, I found the flaw in my winsome little scheme. Namely, that in the dark in the middle of the night — which is prime pooping time, if you ask our persnickety-boweled mutt — there’s no way to tell one end of the bag from the other. So soon enough, I was faced with a pile of pup poop, pulled out a bag and ripped the living shit right out of the bottom.
As you may know, this maneuver does not produce a bag. No, sir. Instead, I stood there holding a new hot pink plastic headband — which is just peachy if a Jane Fonda movie revival were to suddenly break out. But it’s a pretty piss-poor tool for removing shit from a sidewalk. And not ‘winning’. Not by half.
So now I’m back to scrabbling at the corners of these ridiculous bags, freezing my Dyson balls off trying to find a millimeter of space between the sides of these horked-up pooping bags. I had a solution to the problem, for one brief shining moment. And then it blew up in my face.
Also, it dripped on my shoes. And onto my pants. And I washed my hands for three hours that night, but I could still smell the kibble. Yuck.
So now I’ve learned my lesson. ‘Winning’ isn’t everything. Or the only thing. Or anything. Those ‘small victories’ are for other people, in other places, with far more sanity attached to their choice of poop bags. Until I can train the dog to crap directly into a double-handled Hefty, I’m on my own. In the dark. With plastic neon ‘sheets’.
I should have known it would end like this. Universe, you got me again.
Permalink | No CommentsWhen you join a new gym — as I recently did, thanks for your athletic support — you find yourself thinking about all sorts of new things.
You might wonder whether you’re sweating more than anyone else in the room. You may worry that you pedal like a girl on the stationary bike. You could spend an afternoon trying to determine the least ‘dirty old man-like’ spot to take in a yoga class.
(These are merely examples.
No, you shut up.)
Mostly, though, you’ll think about your underpants.
I’m serious. I’ve belonged to this gym for three weeks. And I’ve given my undergarments more consideration in the last twenty days than I have in twenty years. It’s like I don’t even know me any more.
Here’s the thing. Most places you go in life, you don’t much care about the state of your underwear. If they’re on, clean — or for some people, clean-ish — and flipped around the right way, that’s all you need to know. Most of our unmentionables don’t get seen, felt or mentioned throughout the course of our daily lives. Not on the bus. Not at work. And not in the coffee line at Starbucks. We’re too civilized for that.
But the gym, now — the gym is a different animal. There’s a locker room there, so you can change into your sweat-stained T-shirt and prissy-pedal your way through a workout. And you’re also changing pants, which means exposing your underpants. And that leads to choices. Choices you never thought you’d need to make.
That’s what’s happened to me. I’m no fashion hound. I get out of bed in the morning, and put on the first pair of jeans and striped rugby I find in the closet — the way Nature intended. What goes underneath — boxers, briefs or a ballerina gown — is usually of little consequence to me, or anyone else.
(Though for the record? It’s boxers. Made the move from tighty whities back in college, and never looked back.
To be fair, I actually can’t look back, mostly. If I turn around too fast, I could spin out a testicle. These things are unsafe at any speed.)
These days, however, I find myself standing over my dresser with undies drawer drawn, musing my strategy. I miss the good old days — the straight-shootin’, grip-it-and-rip-it times — when I could grab any old hunk of fabric out of there, toss it around my waist, and get on with the morning. But now? Now that I’ve joined a gym?
Not so much.
“Everyone in the locker room will laugh and point. Or recoil in horror, and refer me to a good urologist.”
Now I have to consider the options. That pair’s no good; it’s got a hole in the leg. People will think I’m non-ironically ghetto. And those with the weird stain — which should teach me not to drink chai tea on my couch pantsless on a hot summer night — those won’t do. Everyone in the locker room will laugh and point. Or recoil in horror, and refer me to a good urologist. I don’t want any part of that.
Of course, some of the issues are not so cut-and-dried. Or spilled-and-dried, as the case may be. Take my sailboat underpants. I have a pair of boxers, and they’re adorned with little sailboats all over. The pants are otherwise fine — structurally sound, free of blemishes, of approximate size to fulfill their duties — but there are cute little sailboats tucked all over the print. And I’ve ruled them out on gym days. I’ve made the decision that if I wouldn’t wear something on my chest at the office, then it’s not seeing the light of day on my crotch at the gym, either. That’s the rule. I’ve drawn the line.
Sadly, much of my undercarriage covering wardrobe falls on the other side of that line. Joining ‘sailboat boxers’ are, in no particular order, ‘puppy dog heads’, ‘smiley faces’, ‘Professor Utonium action poses’ and ‘silk Valentine hearts’. And those are just the easy ones.
The ones that keep me up at night — or rather, standing at my dresser with uncovered junk at seven thirty in the morning — are the toughies. Like ‘football referee calls’. This one pair of boxers is black with little referees all over it making hand signals, and the name of each call — like ‘Offsides’ or ‘Pass Interference’ — written underneath. It’s sports-related. Not too kiddish. So are they gym-worthy?
I look at it this way. Would I want to be in the locker room, mid-change, and have some random guy look at my ass and think ‘Illegal Procedure’ or ‘Roughing the Passer’?
No. No, I emphatically would not. So football motif notwithstanding, these boxers are not in the gym day rotation.
What is in the rotation is the plainest, boringest, most fifties-grandpa-argyle-sock nondescript bunch of plains, plaids and gently paisleyed that you’ve ever laid eyes on. Because they might actually have eyes laid on them, and that seems like the path of least mortified embarrassment. As usual in life, if it makes me smile, chuckle, or swell with joy, then I’m not bringing it out in public.
And so, I spend more time per week mulling underpants than one man should in a lifetime. But so far, no one’s kicked me out of the gym, run my boxers up a flagpole or flicked holy water at my privates to make the horror go away. So I suppose it’s going well, for now. At least until I stop in for an impromptu workout on a My Little Pony day.
That’s gonna be hawkward.
Permalink | No CommentsSometimes the key to being a husband is realizing that you can’t win.
Not to say that you never win. It’s just that some situations, maritally speaking, are entirely impossible to navigate. Like, most of the ones that occur while you’re conscious and within loud shouting distance of your wife.
Take tomorrow, for instance. Tomorrow, I was scheduled to accompany my lovely wife to a classical music concert in the afternoon. She asked if I’d attend, and I said I would. Most of these concerts, she goes to with a friend of hers — they make it into a “girls’ afternoon out” with dinner or tea or cucumber sandwiches or lingerie pillow fights, or whatever the hell girls do when they’re out together.
“Of course, I’d be happy to accompany you to the concert / ballet / formal ball / family reunion / proctology exam, honey — why, what sort of husband would I be if I weren’t thrilled to pink little bits about this electrifying event?”
(Besides brainstorming up ways to make sure the husbands never win. Clearly, that’s agenda item number one.)
This time, though, the missus gave me the opportunity to do the right thing — which involves snoozing next to her in a stuffy concert hall filled with octogenarian viola buffs, apparently — so I did. Of course, I’d be happy to accompany you to the concert/ballet/formal ball/family reunion/proctology exam, honey — why, what sort of husband would I be if I weren’t thrilled to pink little bits about this electrifying event?
(It’s possible I lay it on a little thick sometimes. Just possible.)
Also, I chose my moment wisely. Tomorrow’s concert features Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, which I don’t hate.
(Not like one of those Haydn nightmares — am I right, fellas? Hoo boy, am I right?)
So I was all prepared — read: ‘steeled’ or ‘resigned’, if you like, married dudes — to slap on a pair of khakis and a socially acceptable shirt and schlep downtown for a musical tour through the calendar, courtesy of some ginger Italian dude from the 18th century. Because that’s how you spend a Sunday afternoon, kids.
Except.
That’s not how you spend a Sunday afternoon when your buddy has tickets to the AFC Championship game, one of which has your name on it.
(Provided you have a check to cover the ticket that has his name on it, of course. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Or a comp playoff ticket.)
And so, as the schedule turned, I’ll be attending Foxboro Stadium tomorrow afternoon, and not Symphony Hall downtown. There’ll still be music, but otherwise the two events are pretty dissimilar. There’ll be only one season in effect at the game — low-down ass-cold winter. I’ll trade my khakis for two pairs of pants and thermal undercarriage warmers. And while the intermission wine selection is probably better at the concert hall — who serves shiraz after the wildcard round these days, anyway? — I’m happy enough to stick with beer, pretzels and the occasional ballpark hoagie.
I should point out here that my invitation to the game was not a surprise, nor an eleventh-hour occurrence. My friend had clearly stated — and I’d relayed along to the wifely authorities — that if the Patriots made the AFC title game, my ticket was stamped to watch it. Weeks ago, the possibility was there. Just like weeks ago — and who can remember which came first, really? — the Vivaldi plan was established. These were separate events, with separate timelines. None of us realized the schedules would collide as they did; it just happened that way. Pure chance. Circumstance. Dumb luck.
My wife understands this. She doesn’t blame me for going to the game. But does that mean I win — that I get full, or even partial, marriage points for innocently agreeing to go in the first place, though the tempestuous winds of fate cruelly drove me away?
No. I emphatically do not get points — I’m told, in no uncertain terms — for this whole debacle, because I secretly didn’t want to go to the concert in the first place.
But honey, I did want to go. Honest.
“Oh, suuuuuuure.”
Hey, I was planning to go. I can’t help the schedule.
“Right. Reeeeeeal lucky for you.”
Well, it’s Vivaldi. I like Vivaldi. Comparatively.
“Oh, you wouldn’t know Vivaldi from a vivisection. Bah!”
But… but…
“Humph.”
That’s when I know I’m cooked. You get the ‘humph‘, you’re done. So I said I was sorry, salvaged what I could, forfeited ALL the points I thought I was earning by agreeing to go… and started picking out Belichick homage hoodies to wear for tomorrow.
Hey, I’m not getting any points this weekend. I can at least stay warm out there.
So my wife will be humming to Vivaldi tomorrow with her usual concert friend, and I’ll be cheering in the frigid cold down at Foxboro. That’s not how I planned it to happen. It’s not how I thought it would happen. But there it is. Football up. Concert down. Points unceremoniously subtracted from the marriage total.
And no winning. Here’s hoping that’s the only loss I have to sit through in the next twenty-four hours. The very last thing a married guy wants is to find himself wishing he were at the thing that he was getting points for, but got out of for something else that seemed better, and lost all the points in the process. That’s the worst.
And if you didn’t understand that last bit, go find yourself a sweetheart and tie the knot. It’ll clear up soon enough.
Permalink | No Comments(Another week [in January], another plug for you to come see The Ruckus Proves It! over at ImprovBoston. This Saturday, 10:30pm. Come for the comedy. Stay for.. uh, more comedy. Or something. There’s beer. You’ll like it.
While we’re pimping, there’s also the latest Zolton Does Amazon piece over at ZuG,com, Black Tie and Fails. It’s as gussied up as I get. And that’s plenty gussy.)
I mentioned a few days back that my new office building has a gym inside. Like, right there. So scandalously close by that if you don’t join the gym and show up to sweat at least twice a week, then people on the street are legally obligated to shake their heads sadly at you and ‘tsk’ in your sloppy, husky-pantsed direction.
(Seriously. It was in the employee agreement. These people are serious, I’m telling you.)
So I’m going to the gym. And the real draw for me is the racquetball courts. For some reason, it’s interminably difficult to find racquetball facilities in the greater Boston area. Squash, you can find. Handball, I’m sure is around. Tennis, for sure. Even ping pong. But racquetball has somehow become the lonely bastard outcast of the New England racquet set, shunned by all but a few brave gyms and underground blue-ball speakeasies.
(Why is that? I have no idea. Maybe the Redcoats enjoyed a nice game of racquetball back in the ‘all tax, no represent’ days. Or the Salem witches were caught with a court behind their houses. Does Eli Manning play racquetball in his spare time between football games and Opie Griffith impressions? Could be.)
Me, I’m a racquetball fan. I played for years — in high school, in college, for a couple of years afterward, even. And not just a little, either. I got out there two or three days a week, sometimes for two or three hours straight. At some point work got in the way, and the gyms weren’t so close by, and eventually I moved to Boston — where racquetball is whispered about in hushed tones only, like people are talking about the color of Whitey Bulger’s underpants. Frankly, I thought my racquetball days were behind me.
And now, not so much. I joined this gym, bought a racquet, sprung for some balls, and on Monday this week, stormed onto the court to bask in the glory of the sport once more.
“Any game that requires you to warm up your balls before playing had better come with a glass of Courvoisier and a candlelight dinner, is all I’m saying.”
Mind you, I’ve been bask-free in this regard for, oh, on the order of fifteen years. Those racquetball muscles I once had — toned and trained and twitching to go — are long gone now. Shrunk. Atrophied. Layered over with a decade-and-a-half of wrong living, bad eating and racquet-free existence.
(Oh sure, I tried squash a couple of times. That was an unmitigated disaster.
Any game that requires you to warm up your balls before playing had better come with a glass of Courvoisier and a candlelight dinner, is all I’m saying.)
Anyway, back to racquetball. And my triumphant return to, thereof.
On Mondays, the gym has a ’round robin’ tournament, which basically means that people show up sometime between six and seven in the evening, and play when their respective turns are up. There’s no keeping track of who beat whom, who taunted whom, or who smacked whom with a ball ‘on accident-purpose’ after some smug comment.
Which is good. No paper trail. I like it.
We play our games on the two courts designated for racquetball — except that one court designated for racquetball has recently been re-designated for some sweaty nonsense called ‘Boot Camp’, and the word is that we’re never going to whack our bouncy balls in there again. It hardly seems fair.
On the other hand, those ‘Boot Camp’ do-rags keep a lot of awfully heavy equipment in there — which includes a few of the participants themselves. We probably can’t take them in a fight, and even if we sneak in when they’re gone, all their shit is in the way. And I’m not moving that junk — what, am I in the gym to exercise now? Please.
So we play on our one good court, and that’s how it is. When I made my first racquetball session on Monday, there were a half dozen of us waiting to play. And I was kind of bummed, because that seemed like an awful lot of waiting between games.
Then I got onto the court — picked for the first game, no less. And after roughly three-and-a-half points, I was seriously considering barfing the full contents of my chest cavity onto the wall and finding a nice comfy spot to die. Somewhere near the service line, preferably — well-lit, and open spaces.
I made it through that game, and crawled off the court to a water fountain. Four hundred sips and a head soak later, and I was up again. I didn’t quite run myself as ragged in the second game — mostly because I’d lost most of the use of my left leg by that point — but I did find myself panting, pained and positively peaked when it was over.
By the end of the night, I’d played four games — a nice warmup back in the day, perhaps — and I was ready to quit. Playing, standing, breathing — you name it, and I wanted badly to stop. Several dozen body parts were screaming at once; it was like some sort of anatomic Parliamentary bitch session, and nobody ceded the floor without a fight. A stabbing, seizing, “forgot that muscle even existed, didn’t ya, pally?” sort of fight.
Right at the end, as I made ready to hurl my broken flabby old carcass toward the locker room, the guy running the thing — he’s the “racquet sports guy” for the club — gave me an especially helpful piece of advice:
‘Oh yeah, I meant to say to you earlier — it’s really a good idea to warm up and stretch before playing.‘
Uh-huh. Thanks, there, Jack LaLanne. That’ll come in super handy while I’m collapsed and drowning in the sink downstairs because I can’t move my arms, neck or legs any more. Pip, pip, old boy.
Luckily for me, the real pain didn’t kick in until the next day, after all those dormant muscles had gone back to sleep and found that they didn’t fit in the same body holes any more. That’s a good time. And it led me to formulate a bit of advice of my own, for all of you within reading-shot of my agony:
Don’t go there. Just don’t. Look — if you’re young and healthy, or one of those insufferable assbags who jogs at four thirty in the morning in the middle of a blizzard, then fine. Congratulations. Join a gym, work out every day, eat your microgreens and broccoli shakes and live to be a thousand. And bully for you, Adonis. We’re all very impressed.
But if you’re not one of those — if you’ve been sitting on the couch for the last umpteen years, and last worked out wearing non-ironic thigh-high leg warmers during the Reagan administration — then don’t do it. It hurts. A lot. And where’s the payoff, really? You’re likely to gank a hip or have something important fall off before you see any real health improvements. Go back to your living room, wait for a Seinfeld rerun, crack open a bag of Funyuns and enjoy the ride. You may not live as long as those health nuts — or to finish reading this sentence, for that matter — but at least your pain will be in the future, probably fleeting, and only centered on the chest region.
Is a longer life span, more energy and better-fitting jeans really worth the effort? Big Bang Theory is on for three hours a night now. Come to the dark side. I’m just saying.
Ah, who am I kidding? Assuming I can feel both legs again by then, I’m signing up for racquetball next Monday, too. I think I caught the fever — probably while I was collapsed on the floor, with my tongue scraping the lines on the court. All I know is, life was a lot easier when I was just a ‘glutton’, and not a glutton for punishment.
Easier. And a whole lot less painful. I’m beginning to see why nobody’s playing this goddamned sport around here, anyway.
Permalink | No Comments(A quick and friendly reminder that if you’re reading this before 10:30pm tonight and live in the Boston area — or, come to think of it, you’re reading this before, say, 3pm and have lots of airline miles just sitting there idling — you’re in time to come see The Ruckus Proves It! [Again!] over at ImprovBoston in Cambridge.
And remember, if you’re reading this after 10:30pm on Saturday — or those pesky airlines black you out from an immediate flight, who do they think they are? — you can always catch our Ruckusing next week — same time, same place, same misleadingly-named theater.
And don’t worry. I’ll remind you. Obviously.)
It’s not my intention to make this into an ‘all-office, all-the-time’ blog, To be fair, that’s mostly what I’ve talked about for the last two weeks — but it’s been sort of a big transition. When I started this site eight-and-a-half years ago — no, I’m not kidding; see for yourself if you like — I was in a tough employmentary situation. The company I worked for had ‘hinted’ at a large set of layoffs. Then they strongly hinted, then nudged us, poked us with sticks, and sent out memos essentially telling twenty percent or so of us to ‘get our affairs in order’.
(Frankly, I wasn’t sure whether they were going to let us go or just kill us and dump us in the basement. When a car backfired during my exit interview, I used the HR lady as a human shield.)
Anyway, in mid-June 2003, I started up this site. Eight days later, I was out of a job.
(I’ve always maintained the two have nothing to do with each other.
Now that I reread those first dozen or so posts? Not so sure. I might’ve fired me, too.)
It took four months or so — and one wildly uncomfortable interview — to land a new job. Which I kept, right up until the calendar turned two weeks ago. The point being, it’s been a while since I dealt with such matters. And I’ve been a little surprised at the changes.
Take sleeping, for instance.
At the old job, I had a pretty flexible schedule. Being a nighttime sort of guy, I decided to go in late and stay late most days. I’d get the same eight hours of crying under my desk in; just in a slightly different window than some of the other folks there.
“At new job, there are things that encourage one to hit the decks early. Excitement. Enthusiasm. Free little bags of Doritos in the lunch room.”
New job is different. At new job, there are things that encourage one to hit the decks early. Excitement. Enthusiasm. Free little bags of Doritos in the lunch room. So one goes in early, and one often stays late. And one is happy to do so.
With this injection of early-and-often stimulation, though, comes a price. In the old days — waaaaay back in 2011 — I’d stay up into the wee hours of the morning on a regular basis. Most of the posts here were probably finished after midnight, on some dubious whim or another.
I’ve tried keeping a similar schedule lately, and it hasn’t worked out so well. Here’s how it typically goes;
11pm: Start a post. Wax (relatively) poetic for six or eight paragraphs, floating zingers and asides and bazingas as best I can. Figure I can wrap things up by midnight and get a solid night’s sleep.
11:30pm: Nod off at the keyboard. Realize that I’ve only made it through the setup and there’s two-thirds of what I’d planned left to go. Shake myself awake and resolve to burn through it.
11:38pm: Nod off again after writing three sentences. Realize I’m in trouble. Slap myself, hard, on the cheek. Super-secret resolve to make it to the end.
11:51pm: Discover, again, that I have the willpower of a kitchen sponge, as I jerk awake. Get up and get a glass of water to get the blood flowing. Smart thinking, kid.
12:05am: Wake up slumped on the keyboard. Find that I’ve written exactly “jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj” in the last fourteen minutes. Sip the water. Soldier on like a boss.
12:17am: Knock over the water. Snore like a banshee.
12:33am:“iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii”
12:43am:Finish the post with the perfect, hilarious ending and slip off to bed for a well-deserved and restful sleep.
12:44am: Discover that last bit was itself just a dream, and now I can’t remember what I’d planned to write in the first place.
12:51am: Drift back to sleep, hoping it comes back to me.
1:03am: Dream of falling off a cliff. Repeatedly. Wake up in a puddle. Hope it’s the water.
1:14am: Shake awake, sit up straight and change strategy. Hastily slap together words, some of which might possibly be in English, to bring the aborted train wreck to a screeching halt and get the hell to bed.
1:23am: Fall forward onto keyboard. Remember why sitting up straight is a bad idea.
1:48am: Finish post. Submit. Drag groggy butt to bed.
1:52am: Lie awake, worrying whether I spelled ‘asstastical’ the way I’d wanted.
2:02am: Get up to check so I can get some damned sleep.
2:05am: Find typo. Fall asleep on keyboard before I can change it. Spend rest of night dozing on top of desk.
So the next time you see a post from me, you’ll know exactly how it got onto the page. If it’s coherent in any way, you’ll know that I’ve figured out the dilemma. And if it’s filled with ‘llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll‘, then you’ll know I spent another night drooling on my space bar. Because sometimes the hardest part of a new job is what happens outside the office.
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