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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
This morning, I entered an emasculation contest.
Well Not “entered“, precisely. “Was chucked into” is more like it. I imagine that’s how emasculation contests usually go; nobody enters them willingly. Like marathons, probably.
Anyway, there’s some question as to whether I or this other guy should have felt worse about himself, cried his way back home and crawled under the covers. Me, or him? I don’t know — you decide.
Contestant #1: Yours Truly
Over the weekend, it snowed maybe two or three inches around Boston. I didn’t need my car, so I left it in the parking lot. Resting. Stewing. And evidently, freezing.
So this morning, with the workday looming, I took my trusty windshield scrapery thing and cleared off the car. I got in, turned it on, blasted the heater, threw it into reverse and moved… nowhere. Spinny wheels. Smell of rubber. Mild shame.
I stepped out and investigated the wheel situation. There was a little snow, sure. But nothing I hadn’t powered through or rocked over or peeled accidental sideways donuts around before. My car is great in the winter. I never get stuck. That stuff is for hybrids and “sports coupes” and no-wheel-drive BMWs.
(Seriously, with the Beemers. It’s like the Germans refuse to believe snow even exists.)
“Jack Frost wasn’t yanking my flywheel, so far as I could tell. And I think I would notice that. I’m just saying.”
So I dug a little with my windshield brush, and tried again. And again. And again. I got a couple of feet, but the wheels just refused to grip. And I couldn’t see why. There was no snowdrift behind me. No puddles of grease under the wheels. Jack Frost wasn’t yanking my flywheel, so far as I could tell. And I think I would notice that. I’m just saying.
Anyway, it went downhill from there. A pretty brunette lady came driving into the lot, parked in the spot she’d clearly cleaned out earlier, and asked if I needed some help. I said, no thanks. She claimed to not know too much about getting unstuck, but offered, and I quote:
“But I’m Canadian, and I’m fearless.”
Which is a phenomenal pickup line. But it doesn’t get a Nissan on the street. I thanked her and went back to my scraper-scooping.
She went into her apartment building, then poked her head back out to ask if I wanted to borrow a real shovel.
Less optimal, as a pickup line. And little help to me, since there really wasn’t any significant snow to shovel in the first place. Just an inch or two of ice that shouldn’t have stopped a skateboard, much less my usually-Arctic-exploring vehicle.
But it did. I kept at it for another ten minutes, until another guy came out to try pushing me out. I got another two feet before thanking him, calling it quits and rolling back into my parking spot. Partly, I was worried I’d get into the middle of the lot, get stuck and ruin things for everyone else. Like a BMW driver.
(But mostly, the guy who was helping me was European, and I couldn’t place his accent. Also, I couldn’t go any further without bad-mouthing BMWs, and got worried he might be German.
Besides, snarking on German engineering just seems fundamentally wrong. That’s like bagging on American consumerism or Brazilian crotch haircuts. Just… wrong.)
So I gave up and took a cab to work. And was thus introduced to:
Contestant #2: The Cabbie
I found a cab, and asked the guy to take me to the Cambridgeside Galleria, in Cambridge. Not because that’s where I was going — but it’s close to where I was going, and it’s a spot everyone around here knows.
(Because it’s a mall. See: ‘Consumerism, American’.)
He didn’t know it. Blank look. Running meter. I tried again.
This mall — and also my nearby office — is in Kendall Square in Cambridge. Next to Harvard Square — that’s where Harvard is, kiddies — it’s the best-known area of Cambridge. So that would get us moving.
Except he’d never heard of it. Fine. Just take me over the B.U. Bridge, and I’ll get us there.
He looked at me with the innocent guileless eyes of a newborn puppy. A puppy who had no idea what a “B.U. Bridge” is.
What a B.U. Bridge is, in fact, is a bridge just a few blocks away, and which connects the campus of Boston University to Cambridge, which is just across the river. Which the bridge crosses. To Cambridge. Where I wanted to go.
He shrugged. So I took him, turn by turn, to the destination, like an infinitely patient backseat GPS. Only let’s face it, better.
“In 300 feet, go left.”
“Take the second right, where that red car is.”
“This yellow light lasts a while — gun it. GUN IT!”
So I made it to work, finally. But did I win the contest? Who’s the bigger dink here — the guy who couldn’t get out of the parking lot over an inch of ice, or the cabbie who’s never heard of anything in the city he’s driving?
I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Because somebody got that stupid cab out of the lot this morning.
Dammit.
Permalink | No CommentsI’ve been noticing a lot of urine lately.
Let me rephrase that.
I’ve been noticing people making a big deal out of urine lately. In particular, the color and how it relates to overall health. Those little “pee hue” charts are everywhere, it seems. Look, here’s one whizzing by right now:
(You see what I did there? “Whizzing by“? Aw, yeah. It’s goin’ be like that.)
“Well, I’ve got a bone to pick with these tinkle tone testers.”
Now, maybe these things have always been popular — insofar as any infographic depicting the rainbow varieties of a bodily fluid can be considered “popular”. Whatever you call them, I don’t remember this sort of buzz in the past. Possibly, I just wasn’t paying attention. I might be more tuned in, now that my toilet is taking up a greater share of attention.
Well, I’ve got a bone to pick with these tinkle tone testers. Because none that I’ve seen yet goes far enough. I know there are others out there who, like me, have led an… interesting life. And in so doing, have peed a whole freaking rainbow of colors. What do those mean? Let’s consult the chart. My chart.
Urinalysis for the Rest of Us
| What You Peed | What It Means |
| You haven’t peed yet. | |
| You probably peed three hours ago and forgot to flush. | |
| Oh, yeah. There it is. | |
| That canned corn you ate may have gone bad. | |
| That canned corn wasn’t actually corn, was it? | |
| It’s possible you’re dehydrated. | |
| Or you’ve been eating Cheetos on the toilet again. | |
| You should probably see a doctor. | |
| Or stop using tomatoes as condoms. | |
| Time to lay off the blueberries. | |
| And the kale salads. | |
 |
Aaaaand the mushrooms. |
| You accidentally peed in your Guinness. | |
| Or your bladder is possessed by Satan. | |
| Either way, that can’t be good. | |
| Good god, are you still peeing? | |
| Seriously, are you made of freaking pee, or what? | |
| All right, Grimace. We’re done here. Get help. |
I hope this helps. I’m not a urologist, exactly. But I do have a lot of strange pees. Close is close, right?
Permalink | No CommentsIt’s said that those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. I don’t know what those who ignore toilet seat history are doomed to, exactly, but I’m quickly finding out. And it’s not pretty.
Here’s the thing.
My wife and I have lived in our condo for four years, give or take a blizzard season. The place has two bathrooms, and the toilet in each is fitted with a No-Drop Ev’r-Quiet Easy-Lower Seat™.
I have no idea whether that’s the actual name of the thing, of course. But seeing as how it’s a toilet seat, and to sell toilet seats you probably need some kind of flashy creative verbiage, and that whoever bought the things probably saw them in a late-night infomercial or something, it’s a pretty safe bet that I’m close.
(Or that the actual name is worse. Like the “Slo-Commode”. Or the “Whisper Shitter”. I weep.)
The point is, you can’t accidentally drop the lids or the seats on these things. If you tap the back of the seat, it glides slowly and gently down to the bowl, without any unnecessary drama or porcelain banging involved. It’s a convenience. A middle-class luxury. A toilet that’s seen, but never heard.
(Well. Except after “Taco Night”, maybe.)
So these fancy terlet seats are a pretty nice thing. And, like all nice things, they have a problem. Namely, one gets used to them. One grows accustomed to one’s nice thing, and then when one is in a situation without the nice thing, one’s usual habits turn one into a rude and boorish monster who makes all the neighbors and maybe damages a bathroom fixture or two.
I know. It happened to me last year.
In that instance, I was a guest in someone else’s house. A fine house, a very nice house — but not a house equipped with space-age “Serene Latrine” technology.
(Okay, I’m taking credit for that one. “Serene Latrine” isn’t half-bad.)
So, I banged the toilet in the middle of the night and woke people up, and go read the old post if you want all the details. I’m not obligated to relive all of my public humiliations year after year.
I save that shit for Christmas with the in-laws, thank you very much.
“You don’t need to know who was doing what in there, or if it was Next-Taco Morning or what kind of horseplay might have been involved. Or why a horse was in the bathroom in the first place.”
Anyway, that’s the history. Zoom forward to last week, when we suddenly needed to replace the toilet seat in our guest bathroom.
I’m not going to tell you why, exactly, we needed to replace it. That’s private. You don’t need to know who was doing what in there, or if it was Next-Taco Morning or what kind of horseplay might have been involved. Or why a horse was in the bathroom in the first place.
Let’s just say that the old toilet seat was… indisposed, and so we ordered and fitted a replacement. A replacement, it turns out, that is also not fitted with a Crashless Crapper Cap.
(Nah. The “latrine” thing was better. Ah well.)
And this is where the “ignoring history” bit comes in. Because I’ve used that toilet a half dozen times since we put the new seat on. And every time, when I finished I ever-so-gently tapped the top of the lid to close it. Not thinking, just force of habit. And history-ignorant.
So far, I’ve woken up my wife, made the neighbors’ baby cry, set off a nearby car alarm and possibly perforated an eardrum. Which is not cool. I mean, I’ve only done two of those things in a bathroom before this whole seat debacle.
Well. Maybe three. But in my defense, that kid was always whining about something. It probably had colic.
Anyway, I’ve got to find some way to muffle this seat banging, before I do any real damage. Or we have to buy another one, with the Languid Lid feature. Otherwise, I’m going to lose my bathroom privileges altogether.
And Taco Night is just around the corner. Yeeks.
Permalink | No CommentsI meet new people from time to time.
Well, not “new” people, exactly. So far as I know, they’ve all been people for some substantial amount of time. Decades, in most cases. Some of them are actually quite old people, indeed. They’re just new to me.
So. I meet new-to-me people from time to time. And I’d like to stop, because it’s incredibly difficult. Every single little bit of it.
First, I don’t remember names. It’s like a social blind spot. I hear someone saying to me, “Hi, I’m…” And that’s all I get. I’m always so busy being sure to make eye contact and smile and make sure my hands are dry and not reflexively staring at my crotch in a panic to see whether my fly is zipped, I never hear the name. Or see my zipper. It’s a nightmare.
(On the bright side, I can usually play off missing the name, so long as I never, never ever see the person again. It’s when they show up again, socially — if it’s a new neighbor, say, or a mother-in-law or prospective boss on a job interview — that things get sticky. Eventually, I have to call these people something. And they never seem very pleased when my personal nicknames for them come out.
Well, maybe if Porky, Hairpile and Snagglefang would wear a nametag now and then, we wouldn’t have this problem. I don’t see how any of this is my fault, frankly.)
But that’s just the beginning. Then there’s the touching. There’s always some sort of touching, and I never know which kind is appropriate. When do you shake hands? When should you kiss cheeks? Or “pretend to kiss cheeks, but don’t actually touch your lips to my face, you big gangly doofus”?
(As it was once described to me. Rather loudly.
Thanks, Grandma.)
“So I’m always finding myself in the middle of some half-grasped handshake or near-gropey hug, or with my tongue in some strange European’s ear.”
I never know. So I’m always finding myself in the middle of some half-grasped handshake or near-gropey hug, or with my tongue in some strange European’s ear. Never the sexy strange ones, either. It’s always the hairy strange ones that smell like olives and failed national currency.
But that’s not even the worst part. You’d think, after the triumvirate trauma of introductions and greetings and social pawing, that the horror would be over. But no. Then it gets personal — because next comes the questioning.
Many questions are possible. “How’s it going?” “Do you come here often?” “Did you know your fly is wide open?” But there’s one you can always count on:
“So, what do you do?”
Maybe this is fine, if you do something that most people have ever heard of. If you plumb, say, or lawyate or buttle. These are easy enough answers. But I don’t have one of those jobs. So I have to guess how much or little to describe, based on how familiar I think my new acquaintance will be with the field.
Obviously, I’m always wrong. So answering “what do you do?” usually goes something like this:
Me: I work for an epigenetics company.
New Person: Ah. And what’s that?
Me: Well, you know about genetics?
New Person: Not really, no.
Me: It’s like that. Only more meta.
New Person: Oh. Um… oh.
Or this:
Me: I’m a bioinformatics programmer.
New Person: So… is that a computer thing?
Me: Yeah. Mostly, it is.
New Person: Ooh, can you help me set up my printer?
Me: Sorry, that’s not really my area.
New Person: So you’re not very good at your job.
Me: Yeah. Probably not.
Or this:
Me: I sit at a desk all day and fiddle with spreadsheets.
New Person: You a stockbroker?
Me: No.
New Person: Financial analyst?
Me: No.
New Person: Tax preparer?
Me: No.
New Person: Did you go to business school?
Me: No.
New Person: Well, thank god for that, anyway. Chin up, pumpkin.
Screw it, I give up. I’m not meeting anyone ever again. If I know you, I’ll be happy to see you again soon. If I don’t — and if you can’t have the common decency to impersonate someone I already know — then I’m sorry. I’m done. No more meeting. Kaput.
Unless you wear a name tag. And don’t touch me. And just assume I’m unemployed.
So basically, just like the people who already know me. You’re already fitting in!
Permalink | No CommentsThis Thanksgiving week has been more… distracted than usual, so I’m way off schedule here. In lieu of actually getting back on track and posting something new, here’s my favorite Thanksgiving-related nonsense from a few years ago:
The Turkey Timeline: A Thanksgiving Day Misadventure
Enjoy that, and your turkey, and I’ll catch up with something new over the weekend.
Probably. If the tryptophan coma lifts in time. Wishbones crossed!
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