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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA



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HomeAboutArchiveBestShopEmail Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
If you're a science and/or silliness fan, give it a gander! See you soon!

Caught with My Paints Down

Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve had contractors in the house. They’ve been painting our hallway and a couple of rooms upstairs.

(And the dog’s been helping them. A regular Poochlo Picasso, she is.)

I feel I should mention here that my wife and I actually can paint. Not masterpieces, mind you, nor art of any imaginable definition. But we can paint rooms. We’ve done it. I’ve seen us. So I feel a little silly saying that we’ve hired a bunch of guys to come over and slap a few cans of off-white on our walls, when it seems like something any self-respecting homeowner ought to be able to tackle.

However.

A: I never said I was a ‘self-respecting homeowner’. Just a homeowner. If somebody offered to paint my walls — or mow my lawn, clean my gutters, whitewash my fence, tidy my basement or replace my shingles, and they weren’t saying those things euphemistically (‘Sweep my chimney‘? Um… no, thanks.) — I’d totally let them. If they’d do it for free. And sing a happy little song while they worked.

Would that make me less of a ‘homeowner’? Who cares? With all that work out of the way, I’d have plenty of time to find a way to live with myself. Trust me.

And 2: When I say these guys are ‘painting’, it’s not quite that simple. Sure, our bedroom they’re just painting. Pretty garden-variety stuff. The missus and I probably could have handled that level of latex-slapping in the boudoir on our own.

(That’s right. For some people, latex slapping in the boudoir is garden variety. I said it.

I wonder where those sorts of people hang out. Maybe I could hit them up for pointers.)

“Try stuffing a watermelon into a brown paper lunch bag, and you’ll have some idea what transpired that day.”

But our bedroom is not the problem, lack of lusty latex slapping notwithstanding. It’s mostly the hallway, which runs the length of the house, up the stairwell and back to the front. And is covered in wallpaper. Underneath the wallpaper is plaster. Hundred-year-old horsehair plaster. And I’m not going near it.

We’ve dealt with the plaster in this house before. Soon after we moved in, we got the wild and crazy idea of taking down the flowery wallpaper in the dining room and painting on top of whatever we found underneath. Which turned out to be a lot of large, gaping plaster holes, by the time we’d gotten the wallpaper down.

So we patched. Poorly. And sanded. Poorlier. And painted, as quickly as we could in the darkest, wall tumor-hidingest red we could find, and we never spoke of the ordeal again. I won’t even go in that room now. I think it wants revenge for what we did to it.

Needless to say, the decision to hire contractors this time around was a no-brainer. That doesn’t mean the experience has been painless, though.

Take this morning, for example. I woke up and made myself marginally presentable by nine o’clock, the time the painters have been coming by. I heard the knock on the door, and shuffled downstairs in my untucked shirt and one inside-out sock to let them in. They marched upstairs to get to work, and I took an inventory of how best to get from ‘let the painters in presentable’ to ‘venture into public presentable’. No small feat.

My biggest obstacle was the pants. In my usual rush to get reasonably unnaked before the contractors showed up, I’d slipped on a pair of jeans that had already been worn. By me, thankfully, or I’d have the further problem of explaining how I’d split a pair of my wife’s pants from the thighs down. Again.

(By the by, if you’ve been harboring some wild idea that I might look simply fabulous in a pair of wrecked Jordaches pulled halfway up my legs, I can disabuse you of that notion right now. Try stuffing a watermelon into a brown paper lunch bag, and you’ll have some idea what transpired that day.

Also, you’ll have an uncomfortable mental image you may never quite shake. So you’ve got that going for you.)

So there I was in my slightly-used jeans, facing a denim-clad dilemma. Painters upstairs in the bedroom meant dropcloths and plastic sheets everywhere, so I wasn’t getting fresh supplies from the bedroom. And most of my jeans were sitting dripping wet in the washer, anyway — the result of a failed attempt to sneak in a critical load of laundry between contractor visits.

Sadly, ‘clean, but wet’ helped me in this situation about as much as ‘single, but not blind’ helped me trying to find a date back in high school. In other words, not at all.

I searched for a ‘Plan C’, and soon formulated one: I’d just slip down to the basement while the painters were working upstairs, toss the old jeans into the dryer for a quick freshen-up, and be off on my merry, dryer sheet-scented way. No problem.

So that’s what I did. Down the stairs, two Bounces in the dryer, jeans off, jeans in, set the timer for five minutes on high, and settle in to wait it out. Everything was peaches and candy — other than a pair of awfully chilly knees — for the first two minutes.

Then, as I was perusing our extensive stock of empty laundry detergent bottles to pass the time, I heard a noise on the stairs behind me. I whirled around, in nothing but my t-shirt and happy face underpants, to face two of the painters. In the basement. Two floors away from where I expected them to be. The nerve! I gathered up the last fleeting shreds of dignity and demanded to know what they were doing all the way down here, when the painting job was clearly up two flights of stairs.

The nearer one just cleared his throat and pointed. Beside me. To the shelf, in the basement, next to the washer and dryer. Where we keep the paint.

For the painters.

*sigh*

He grabbed a can — not my can, mind you; a paint can — and they backed slowly up the stairs and went back to work. The dryer dinged at me (three minutes too late, thank you very little, Maytag), and I retrieved my pants, covered my smiley-faced shame, and got the hell out of the house as quickly as I could.

Now I just have to hope they finish the job today. If they show up on Monday, I’m not sure I can let them in the house. I certainly can’t look them in the eye again. And when the bill shows up with a new item for ‘hazard pay’ or ‘liquor to make us forget’, how the hell am I going to explain that to my wife?

Eh, I guess it could be worse. At least I don’t have to buy her another pair of jeans.

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You Love Eighteen Years and What Do You Get?

Speaking of romance yesterday…

I returned from my writing hiatus just a smidgen too late to catch an interesting personal milestone. The timing, she was never my forte.

Still, better late than never. So I’m happy to report that today (if it were three weeks ago), my wife and I have been together for exactly eighteen years.

(And three weeks. Unless you moved today three weeks backwards up there when I suggested it. In which case, it’s exactly eighteen years. But now you’re three weeks behind the rest of us.

And now you know how I felt in calculus class in high school.)

“Is it any wonder our love has survived to ‘Barely Legal!’ age?”

We haven’t been married for all that time, of course — though we’ve reached a dozen years and change on that calendar, too. But it was on November 13th, 1990 when the two of us first really talked, the sparks flew, and the rest is history.

(‘Sparks flew’. ‘Beer was consumed.’ ‘Hormones throbbed.’ Call it what you like.

See, I was taking the poetic high road. But here you come, with your boozy talk and your throbbing hormones. Fine.

And now you know how I felt during every moment spent outside calculus class in high school.)

Actually, there’s a small point of order to be made about the actual date from which our dating began. Though the night we began chatting was the 13th, it wasn’t until after midnight that we arranged our first actual date. And the 13th that year was a Friday, so my wife likes to use Saturday the 14th as our ‘go time’.

At least, she used to. I always assumed it was because she didn’t want some karmic disaster — seven years of bad luck, perhaps? — to befall her for embarking on a romance on Friday the 13th. But she’s been stuck with me for eighteen years, now. So either her little timekeeping trick isn’t working, or that disaster was bigger than she realized.

Maybe she used to tear the leaves off of clover as a kid. Or stand under ladders spilling salt on black cats. How the hell should I know?

Personally, I like Friday the 13th better. It makes us seem badass — like we’re beating the odds, laughing in the face of fate, walking our own rickety little love bridge across the Gorge of Eternal Peril.

Or like we’re vampires. That’s cool, too. What’s not badass about vampires?

At any rate, when we returned home the other night and counted up the rings on our anniversary tree, it struck us both just how long we’d been together. Which we expressed in our own, ah, particular ways. As usual.

My wife, poetic soul that she is, took a slow sip of wine, stared into my eyes, and said:

You know, if our love was a person, it would be an adult now. It could get married itself, and vote in elections and head off to college to begin all new adventures.

Hey, I like a good love analogy as much as the next doe-eyed old Romeo. So I jumped in to help.

Oh, yeah, our love would rock as a teenager. He’d have a kick-ass fake ID, and a sweet sports car, and he’d have totally banged a cheerleader by now.

Yep, that’s me. The incurable romantic. Is it any wonder our love has survived to ‘Barely Legal!’ age?

I just wish that on one of these damned anniversaries, I wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch.

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Romancing the Stalk

If I’ve learned one thing in twelve years of marriage, twenty-plus years of courting the fairer sex, and nearly four decades of being a doofus, it’s this:

There’s a razor-thin line between being ‘romantic’ and being ‘creepy‘.

Sure, the ladies love to be lavished with attention — but only the right sort of attention. And just the right amount of lavishing. It’s very easy to overlavish.

(Lavish her or leave her. If you lavish her more than twice, you’re only playing with her. Lavisher? I barely even know ‘er!

And so on.)

“All you hair-sniffers and bush-hider-inners out there should probably start taking notes.”

In the interest of saving would-be Romeos out there from making the same mistakes/misdemeanors/restraining order violations that I’ve made, I’d like to point out a few examples of how ‘Sweet‘ can turn to ‘Sugary‘ can turn to ‘Stalky‘. All you hair-sniffers and bush-hider-inners out there should probably start taking notes.

Sweet: Opening the car door for your lady.

Sugary: Opening the subway door for your lady.

Stalky: Opening the bathroom door for your lady.

Sweet: Sending a dozen roses to your sweetie’s workplace.

Sugary: Sending twelve dozen roses to your sweetie’s workplace.

Stalky: Sending Axl Rose to your sweetie’s workplace.

Sweet: Carving your honey’s initials into a tree.

Sugary: Carving your honey’s initials into a Furby.

Stalky: Carving your honey’s initials into your knee.

Sweet: Serenading your sweetheart with a song from ‘When a Man Loves a Woman‘.

Sugary: Serenading your sweetheart with a song from ‘When Harry Met Sally‘.

Stalky: Serenading your sweetheart with a song from ‘When Animals Attack‘.

Sweet: Baking your darling a cake, in the shape of a cake pan.

Sugary: Baking your darling a cake in the shape of a heart.

Stalky: Baking your darling a cake in the shape of an anatomically correct heart. With aortal icing.

Sweet: Surprising your lover by taking her to her favorite restaurant.

Sugary: Surprising your lover by reading to her from her favorite book.

Stalky: Surprising your lover by wearing her favorite panties.

Hopefully, these tips can help keep the more zealous wooers among you on the right side of romantic. If not, then the next ‘registry’ you’ll be listed on probably won’t be for wedding gifts. I’m just sayin’.

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It’s Not Delivery, It’s De Jackass

I may have mentioned that I have a new phone.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I mentioned it. I called every last person I know the day I bought it, just to tell them. My new bumper sticker reads, ‘My Cell Phone Kicks Your Honor Student’s Ass‘. And I introduce myself to people now by saying:

Nice to meet you. Wanna see what’s in my pocket?

(To be fair, I’ve always introduced myself that way. Only now, I can show them the phone.

Much safer. Less horrified looks. Fewer restraining orders. Better.)

Suffice to say that I’m a big phan of my new phone.

(Android Kool-Aid? Why, what flavor is it? Ah, never mind, gimme gimme gimme.)

I wouldn’t go so far to say that the phone is completely perfect, of course. But I do tend to look past its few imperfections, or to see what others might call ‘bugs’ as ‘features’. You might say I always see my bars as half-full.

Take last night, for instance.

” Where others might see ‘poor sound quality’ or ‘shoddy electronics’, I see opportunity.”

I was walking back to my car after a late evening at work, and feeling pretty hungry. Now maybe there was something to eat at home, and maybe there wasn’t. If there was, I’d probably have to cook it myself. Or reheat it. Or at least unwrap it. Clearly, all of those things are beyond my culinary capabilities. Ordering pizza was the only reasonable option.

But home was a long way away, and the menu from the pizza joint mocked me from my kitchen cabinet. It was a long-distance mocking. Tele-mock. Mockhausen by proxy. Something like that.

Luckily, I had my trusty phone on hand. Calling on the gods of mobile 3G goodness, I Googled the name of the pizza place, found their phone number and clicked it. Immediately, the phone asked if I’d like to call the number, and opened the dialer app. Oh, these wondrous times in which we live.

(Look, I’m serious here. If the phone could give a decent back rub and make homemade spaghetti sauce, my wife would have some serious competition on her hands.

Come to think of it, I’m not a huge pasta fan. I’ll have to give this some thought.)

So, my phone graciously dialed the number for me, and a few rings later I was talking to a gentleman who wanted nothing more than to cook a pizza pie and deliver it to my door, in exchange for a few measly dollars. Outstanding.

This, by the way, is where the ‘bug’feature‘ comes in.

I noticed, as soon as we started talking, that I was getting an odd feedback echo through the handset. I don’t know what acoustic anomaly was at work, or whether it had to do with gabbing on the phone in the great outdoors, but every word I said was repeated back after a half-second delay or so. It was a bit unnerving.

Pizza Pie Purveyor: Hello, Pop’s Pizza Pagoda. What would you like?

Me: Yeah, hi. I’d like- (‘-hi. I’d like-‘)

PPP: Yes, what can I get you?

Me: Um, sorry, just a sec. (‘-ust a sec.‘) I’d like to get a large pizza. (‘-arge pizza-‘) Uh, for delivery. (‘-elivery.‘) To <my address>. (‘-dress>.‘)

PPP: Sure, what would you like on it?

As far as I could tell, the guy couldn’t hear it. He could hear me, but not the other me, aping me mercilessly like a snotty six-year-old sibling. Only I could hear me twice. You might think I’d be disappointed in the phone’s performance.

You would be wrong. Where others might see ‘poor sound quality’ or ‘shoddy electronics’, I see opportunity. Opportunity, as usual, to make an ass of myself for my own amusement. I continued with my order:

Me: I want to split the toppings. (‘-oppings.‘)

PPP: Okay. What do you want on the first half?

Me: Iiiiiiiiin this corner! (‘-orner!‘) Weighing in at seventeen ounces! (‘-ounces!‘) The meat you love to eat!! (‘-love to eat!!‘) Miiiiiiister pepperoni!! Oni! Oni. (‘-oni!! Oni! Oni.‘)

PPP: Um… all right. And the other half?

Me: Wearing the green trunks! (‘-trunks!‘) The Tijuana terror!! (‘-error!!‘) Topping the scales at seven thousand Scovilles!! (‘-ovilles!!‘) It’s jaaaaaaalapenos!! Yos! Yos. (‘-os!! Yos! Yos.)

I can’t imagine what the hell the guy was thinking. Except that I was an idiot, probably. Still. When those ring announcer guys order pizza, you know that’s how they do it. Maybe my pizza man thought he was dealing with a celebrity.

Or an escaped mental patient. But I wasn’t quite done yet.

PPP: Okay, then. That’s a large pie, half pepperoni, half jalapenos. Anything else?

Me: Nope, that’s it. (‘-t’s it.’) Oh, just one other thing. (‘-ther thing.‘)

PPP: *sigh* Yeah?

Me: If you could deliver this pizza in thirty minutes… (‘-inutes…‘) …then today… (‘-today…‘) I would consider myself… (‘-myself…‘) …the luckiest man… (‘-man…‘) …on the face of the earth. (‘-the earth.‘)

PPP: Yeah, whatever, buddy. We’ll be there as soon as we can.

Me: No problem. But wait — don’t you need a name? (‘-a name?‘)

PPP: Not really. We’ve got the address.

Me: Could you ask for a name, anyway? (‘-way?‘)

PPP: I don’t think I want to.

Me: C’mon. As a favor. For a customer. (‘-ustomer.‘)

PPP: Fine. What’s the na-

Me: KHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNN!!!!!! (‘-AAAAANNNNN!!!!!‘)

I can’t believe they actually delivered the pizza. But they did.

I’m not at all convinced the little green things were really jalapenos, or the red stuff was pepperoni. But I didn’t have to make it, or heat it, or wait long for it once I got home, so it was delicious. And that’s the most fun I’ve had ordering dinner since the time we went through the Burger King drivethrough with a bunch of helium balloons.

Have I mentioned? I love this phone.

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Your Tax Dollars, Hard at… Something

I get visitors to this site from all over the world.

Not a lot of visitors, mind you. But they come from all corners of the globe, and they’re the best readers around. It’s the quality of the clicks that matter, not the quantity. That’s my stance.

Until there’s quantity. Then all bets are off. Obviously.

In the meantime, the slow steady crawl of page hits allows me to see where people are coming from, and what they’re seeing, and in many cases, what they came looking for. Through careful study and analysis, I’ve come to a firm and scientifically defensible conclusion:

You people are freaks.

Nah, I’m just kidding. Oh, don’t get me wrong. There are freaks out there — as I’ve documented several times in the past — but mostly, I like to think that the people browsing by the site are just looking to kill a few minutes of time, and maybe grab a quick laugh or two. They’re regular folks, whether from Paris, Texas or Paris, France, from Riyadh to Rio de Janiero, from Quebec to Canberra, and from everywhere in between.

They’re even, as I found out recently, from the United States government. Gulp.

You may imagine, quite rightly, that when I first found hits from the Fed in my logs, I was a little worried. Who knows when the lawmakers will finally get around to passing some sort of anti-silliness law, or a bill outlawing the use of words like assmometer or flaccipointing? If not for the crippling economic situation, the half-dozen wars being fought, the recent election, baby-kissing photo ops, education, health care, billion-dollar bailouts, Social Security, welfare reform, special interest pandering, mall openings, urban rezoning, Constitutional amendments, media spinning, subcommittee meetings, foreign relations, union negotiations, environmental watchdogging and deciding what to buy Wolf Blitzer for Hanukkah, it’d be way up high on their to-do lists. Maybe even first.

So it was with some trepidation that I clicked on an access log from last week indicating that a visitor from ‘senate.gov‘ had made his or her honorable way to my little corner of the internets. And that trepidation trebled when I saw that specifically, the hit came from the office of the U.S. Senate Sergeant at Arms. It looked bad. It looked official. I had no freaking idea what a sergeant of arms is, or why the Senate would need one. So I looked it up on Wikipedia:

The Sergeant at Arms and Doorkeeper of the Senate is the law enforcer for the United States Senate. One of the chief roles of the Sergeant is to hold the gavel used at every session. The Sergeant can also request the attendance of absent Senators.

He’s a ‘doorkeeper’. And his main duty is to hold a gavel and play truant officer for Senators playing hooky. Suddenly, I felt a lot less trepidatious.

With the architect of the Capitol and the House Sergeant at Arms, he serves on the Capitol Police Board, responsible for security around the building.

Fine. I’d be concerned if I were blogging from the Capitol rotunda. From an unspecified location outside of Boston, I think I’m probably in the clear.

Also. There’s an architect on the Capitol Police Board? Seriously?

Pfffft. Rent-a-cops.)

The Sergeant at Arms of the Senate can arrest any person upon their violating Senate rules (including the President of the United States).

Uh-oh. That whole ‘flaccipointing‘ thing could conceivably violate Senate rules somehow. There’s no way shit like that is covered in Roberts’ Rules of Order. Maybe I’d better see what this person came looking for:

grammar lesson your and you’re

Well. That takes a load off. Here I’m worried about being court-martialed — or sworn in and court-martialed, or enlisted and court-martialed, or whatever they’d have to do to make me eligible — and it’s just some high-ranking government official searching for a basic rule of grammar taught to children in the third grade.

That’s… um, comforting. Sort of.

The question is, was it more or less comforting than the visit I had today, also from the office of the Senate Sergeant at Arms, who found my Simpsons quotes page by searching:

“you, sir, have the boorish manners of a Yalie” simpsons

I suppose that sort of thing would come in handy on the job, when you catch a couple of truant freshman Senators hanging out at the ice cream shop when they’re supposed to be voting. You’d think a ‘Sergeant at Arms’ would be using tougher language, though — maybe he should be searching for Full Metal Jacket quotes, if he really wants to make an impression.

I suppose you’re not allowed to call elected officials ‘maggot pukes’, though. Not actually in the Senate building, anyway. Only in the newspapers, I guess.

(It’s remarkable, by the way, how much the U.S. Senate Sergeant of Arms’ office gets around the web. I don’t know what the size of the staff is like, but a quick search reveals several other posts like the one you’re reading, reporting visits from the same folks.

Of course, given the subject matter around this place, I ascribe little significance to a couple of chance visits from the legislative branch. Many of the sites above are political in nature, and prefer to think of the visits as much more targeted and meaningful.

My guess? If they knew the truth, they’d be sadly flaccipointed.)

As troubling as the experience with Sgt. Senate was, there was one other gubment-related log item of note in recent days. This one came from, of all places, the domain belonging to the United States Court of Appeals for Veterans Claims. And what, pray, were the good folks on the appeals board searching for, perhaps to assist in a ruling on some worthy veteran’s case?:

photographs of women who go commando

Now, possibly they’re talking about the military sort of commando. Maybe they’re after pictures of camouflaged ladies, to compare to an alleged commando lady pleading her case to the court. There’s a chance it’s all on the up-and-up.

Only… no. I don’t think so. If you’re in the military, and you have to Google for pics of ‘women who go commando’, I’m pretty sure it’s not the good sort of ‘commando’.

(Depending on your views on underpants. And special forces personnel. And possibly whe’er the twain should meet.)

At any rate, it’s been an eye-opening experience to catch a glimpse of the browsing habits of supposedly-serious government officials. I suppose they’re people, too, just like the rest of the internet crowd — curious, bored, horny types looking to the web to brighten their days. Sometimes in the form of pantiless women, evidently. And who hasn’t been there, am I right?

But I’m not sure it helps me sleep any easier at night, knowing these elected officeholders are just as fragile, just as forgetful, and just as freaky as the rest of us. When it comes to learning about how these governmental gavelholders and Army appellate agents get their online jollies, one of their own policies leaps to mind:

Don’t ask. And don’t tell.

Freaks.

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