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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
I tried a new approach at work today. I was supposed to give a status report on the work I’m doing, but I knew I’d get the same question I always get after these talks:
‘Gee, that’s great for our group — but isn’t the group next door planning on doing the same thing soon for the whole company?‘
I’ve tried explaining our reasoning in various ways. I’ve floated scenarios. I’ve drawn diagrams. I once took off my shoes and illustrated points with holey-toed sock puppets. None of it seemed to adequately make my case.
So today, I didn’t give my report. I borrowed a page from Aesop’s book and Plato’s scrolls and instead offered an allegory. It involved a wedding reception.
“I’ve drawn diagrams. I once took off my shoes and illustrated points with holey-toed sock puppets.”
Now, I’m just about the last person you might expect to use nuptial revelry as an instructive example. Somewhere around here, I’ve previously mentioned that the very first wedding I ever attended was my own. It’s true; I made it nearly twenty-six years without witnessing a hitching, until I was blissfully wedlocked myself. I’ve always been somewhat proud of that achievement, if only for its rarity.
(And lest you think I went in completely unprepared, I did make sure to learn the three ‘Groom Essentials’ before going in:
Come to think of it, those are pretty much the rules I have to live by as a husband, too. You’d think I would have seen that coming.)
On the other hand, there was the old colleague of mine who was proud of a rather different achievement — he’d been invited to be in more weddings than there were groomsmen in his. I suppose that’s an admirable goal, too. His feeling was that it showed he had a lot of close friends, and certainly, that’s a good thing.
Of course, I never asked about the details. Maybe he only had one groomsman in his wedding, and it just showed that he has two brothers. Or he has a bunch of rich friends with thirty-seven people in their wedding parties. Maybe he just looks especially good in a tuxedo. Like I said, I didn’t ask.
(This is the same guy whose dream it was to make so much money he could afford to buy an island, and post a guard house with a list of allowed guests at the entry port. Possibly, he had some convoluted logic to reconcile that with his ‘people person’ wedding party achievement, but I wasn’t about to sit through it. With certain people, it’s best to not ask a lot of questions.)
Anyway, back to my meeting. I stood up for my report, and announced that instead of project status, I was going to describe a wedding I recently attended. I told them how I arrived early with some friends at the reception to help set up, and how we found ourselves finished but hungry two full hours before the party.
The host offered us whatever we could find in the icebox, so I headed to the kitchen to make our group some sandwiches. When I got there, I found the food — and also the catering staff, struggling to prepare the reception spread. There were only a dozen or so of them, and with so many people to feed, and so many dishes to prepare for various tastes, they were clearly overwhelmed.
This is where I paused to emphasize my dilemma. I was there to provide for only a few people, which I could easily accomplish with the tools I had. But here were these people, trying to satisfy hundreds with a much larger, more sophisticated — and far longer-term — effort. I could abandon my sandwiches and help them, sure. But how much impact could I make? And what about my hungry friends? How would they manage with no food at all for hours?
My point cleverly underlined, I concluded by describing how I made those sandwiches, took them out to tide folks over, and only then returned to the kitchen to help with the larger effort. Satisfied that the parallels were clearly drawn between the story and our current situation, I smiled and asked if there were any questions about my report.
There were only three:
‘Why did they leave so much time before the reception?‘
‘What kind of sandwiches were they?‘
‘So, the bridesmaids… were they hot?‘
Man, I really thought I had them this time. I guess it’s back to the sock puppets. Dammit.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI’ve been watching the NFL Network a lot lately. It showed up one day a few months ago in our satellite channel list, and was fairly useless for the remainder of the offseason. Sure, there was the occasional NFL Films segment about an interesting game, or an interview with a favorite player, but the hits were few and far between. The ‘behind the scenes’ team cheerleader tryout documentaries were particularly disappointing. They barely showed any group shower scenes, and the pillow fight footage felt staged and hokey. And don’t even get me started about the hot tub makeout sessions. You call that a closeup? And what’s up with that lighting? Just dismal.
“They’re not constantly practicing or playing or shooting growth hormones into players’ eyeballs all that time — they must commute and shop and play and live like the rest of us occasionally.”
Happily, the approach of the NFL season has improved the content available to the flagship station for all things ‘football, the one with the fat guys and the face-stomping, not the one with the too-short shorts and the head-butting’. And I’ve been watching it all. Previews. Highlights. Recaps. Replays. Interviews. Press conferences. I’ve been living a life of total immersion in professional pigskin playing, and I have to say the network hasn’t let me down yet. If only they’d get the slow-motion shots and *boom-chikka-wakka* music right for those by-the-pool cheerleader wet T-shirt contests, I’d give them an A-plus across the board.
One aspect of the football season I’d never really explored before is the preparation that head coaches go through each week. Sure, I knew they put in an awful lot of work. Obviously, you can’t just show up on Sunday and expect the players to be on the same page without careful planning. Otherwise, one of your slavering behemoths on the offensive line could zig while another one zags, and they could end up falling and snapping your quarterback in half. And those fragile little bastards are expensive, so clearly you can’t have that.
What surprised me, though, is the dedication these coaches show for the game. I imagine they take a couple of months off in the spring, but when the preseason begins, these guys are on. Non-stop, twenty-four seven. It seems all they do is eat, drink, think, sleep, breathe, spit, fart, sweat, and bleed football. Probably, they poop footballs, too, but that sounds far too painful to think about very closely. The laces in particular would seem problematic and hurty.
It makes me wonder, though — if these coachines are so obsessed with football for nine or more months out of the year, how do they manage to survive in society? They’re not constantly practicing or playing or shooting growth hormones into players’ eyeballs all that time — they must commute and shop and play and live like the rest of us occasionally. So I wonder — does a head full of football get in the way? Do they line up the shoppers at the grocery store to coordinate a blitz on the checkout clerks? Do they give the fishmongers tossing haddock around down by the docks tips on how to throw a spiral? When making love to their wives, do they pause during foreplay to give a halftime pep talk?:
‘All right, we managed to get into the red zone a few times. That’s good. But I’ve been seeing a lot of sloppy play out there, and way too many mental mistakes. Those false starts are killing us. In the second half, I’d better see some smart decisions, crisp execution, and big licks in the backfield, or so help me god, we’ll be here for two-a-days until you can’t stand up straight.
Remember — this is sixty minutes of hell, and you’re only halfway through it. Stay focused, remember the play book, and dammit, stay hydrated out there. I don’t want any more of those cramping issues we had last week.
Now buckle up that chin strap, put yer head down, and let’s punch one into the end zone for a score. ‘Tight end’ on three… TIGHT END!!‘
Okay, probably they don’t do that.
But that doesn’t mean that I can’t. I am so going to try that next time the missus and I get snuggly. And I’ve always wanted to bring a whistle and a clipboard to bed. Just give me the damned ball, coach.
Permalink | 2 CommentsI spoke to my mother on the phone tonight. She mentioned that my uncle Doug has been having some minor health problems. He went to see his doctor, who prescribed medicine to help. In suppository form. Rectal suppository form. Yow.
Mom mentioned that uncle Doug’s been getting ‘gentle ribbing’ because of his new medicine. I’m no health care professional, but I’m thinking that if the suppository is touching his ribs, he’s probably crammed it in too far. I don’t care how ‘gentle’ it is; get some tongs and fish that thing out of there.
Mom thought that uncle Doug probably wouldn’t appreciate that very much. So she wrote it down for later, in case he ever pisses her off. I’m so glad I could help. That’s me — driving snarky wedges between family members for over thirty years.
“It can’t possibly be the first choice of delivery, for doctor or patient. I’m guessing the suppository system was probably invented by a doctor with a particularly troublesome patient.”
It got me thinking, though. Administering medicine via the poo cave — that’s a medical term there, ‘poo cave’ — seems an awfully strange way to get your health back. It can’t possibly be the first choice of delivery, for doctor or patient. I’m guessing the suppository system was probably invented by a doctor with a particularly troublesome patient. Like so:
Doctor: Okay, Mr. Jones. Here’s your prescription for the pills you need.
Patient: Pills? Oh, doc, I can’t take pills. They’re too chalky.
Doctor: I see. Well, it’s also available in a syrup. I can write you–
Patient: Um, no. Those syrups taste nasty and spill everywhere. No syrups.
Doctor: Hrm. Well, let’s see. There’s also a salve.
Patient: Too greasy.
Doctor: A paste?
Patient: Too sticky.
Doctor: Intravenous delivery?
Patient: Afraid of needles.
Doctor: Inhaler?
Patient: Makes me sneeze.
Doctor: Dissolvable powder?
Patient: Too powdery. Also, I don’t like the word ‘dissolvable’.
Doctor: I see, I see. Well, here’s an idea, Mr. Jones — why don’t you take your medicine, and shove it right up your ass?
Patient: Hmm. Will MediCare cover it?
Doctor: Sure, why not?
Patient: Okay, you’re on.
And thus, the ‘pooper pill’ was born. At least, that’s the way I assume it happened. And probably, that’s more or less how it went down with uncle Doug’s doctor visit, too. Sure, the guy is family, but sometimes he’s just a big pain in the ass.
Which is why he ended up with those suppositories, I suppose. It all makes sense, once you get to the bottom of things. Heh.
Permalink | 3 CommentsI have a dilemma. As usual.
My office has encouraged us to participate this Friday in something called ‘National Denim Day’. It’s an event that involves donating money to a worthy cause — curing breast cancer — and wearing blue jeans to work.
(According to the website, it also has something to do with Pierce Brosnan, though what the ex-Bond has to do with healthy boobs and casual pants isn’t entirely clear.
At least he’s posing in his denim, and not with his breasts. There are many bits of Remington Steele I’d prefer were left to the imagination. Or not considered at all, frankly.)
Now, I have no issues with making a monetary donation. And the breast cancer cause is one that I can fully get behind. There have been incidences of breast cancer in my family. And in general, I’m absolutely in favor of a world with more happy, healthy, and — presuming they’re outside my family — scantily-clad breasts. Sign me up on that bandwagon.
“The last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I’m not thinking about their boobs.”
But here’s the thing — for most people, wearing jeans to work this Friday probably represents dressing down from their usual attire. As for me, I’ve been wearing shorts to work for the past four months. Putting on long denim pants would constitute a dressing up. Breasts or no breasts, that hardly seems right.
So, I thought I might wear my shorts, and compensate for my non-compliance in another way. I could double my donation, perhaps, or hand out pink ribbons, or volunteer for duty on the local hospital Mammary-Mobile. Hey, if herding women into a van, squishing their boobs, and taking pictures will further the cause, then I’m here to help. I’m just that kind of stand-up guy.
(It didn’t get me anywhere in high school, but that was different. Most of the time back then, I wasn’t wearing any pants at all.)
I can only find one problem with my plan — the women I work with won’t know anything about the other contributions I’ve made. They’ll see the shorts, note the glaring lack of denim on ‘Denim Day’, and presume that I’ve turned a cold cotton-clad hip to their plight. And I have to live with these boob-toting ladies five days a week, so that simply won’t do. Half of them kick me in the shins when I walk by already.
(And it’s not like the other half don’t kick. They just aim higher. Lately, I’ve been wearing an athletic cup to staff meetings, just in case.)
So I guess I’ll wear those jeans on Friday. The last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I’m not thinking about their boobs.
Wait. That’s not right. The very last thing I’d want is for the women I work with to believe that I am thinking about their boobs. Maybe I shouldn’t wear jeans, after all.
Jesus, this is complicated. How much money do I have to donate to just not show up at work on Friday at all? A hundred bucks? A thousand? Five thousand?
Whatever it is, it’s money well spent. Somebody just tell me whose boobs to make the check out to.
Permalink | 2 CommentsMy refrigerator has become ‘The Place Where Leftovers Go to Die’.
It’s been a gradual progression from ‘icebox full of fresh tasty food’ to ‘air-conditioned coffin for last week’s takeout moo shu’. Partly, it’s because my wife and I aren’t home for many meals, because of our busy schedules. Also, when we are home, we have this quirky preference not to eat the same damned fried rice or soggy pizza for six nights in a row.
Mostly, though, it’s because we’re both waiting for the other to finish the last of the leftovers. Neither of us wants to rudely hog the last dregs of edible food in the house. It’s a little game we play. And we’re very stubborn. And very patient.
Right now, a chess match is developing over half a garden salad sitting in the fridge. I bought it last night, along with some pasta, and we shared it for dinner. There was a bit left over — but not quite enough for two. So, I left it for my wife and fended for dinner elsewhere — because chivalry is not dead. Not in my kitchen.
“Also, there’s only so much nasty rabbit food a man can eat in one twenty-four hour period without the benefit of beer, hot sauce, or some sort of crispy-fried dead animal.”
(Also, there’s only so much nasty rabbit food a man can eat in one twenty-four hour period without the benefit of beer, hot sauce, or some sort of crispy-fried dead animal. Having none of those, I left the lettuce for the lady of the house. Chicks dig the veggies, you know.)
She came home tonight and took the bait leftovers, as planned. Except she left a big honking wad of salad hanging out in the fridge. I told her she was welcome to finish it. She told me she couldn’t possibly. I insisted. She ignored me.
Game on, baby.
Now it’s my turn. Over the next few days, I’ll eat dinners out, bring dinners home, fix myself sandwiches, and generally act as though the salad in the fridge doesn’t actually exist. Meanwhile, my wife will be doing the same. We’ll dance this foodless fandango until one of us breaks down and eats the stupid salad, or until it morphs into something unrecognizable, moldy, and possibly oozing — at which point it goes in the trash. Either way, whoever touches the leftovers last loses. The goal of the game is to take the next-to-last portion, then hide behind ‘being polite’ to deny any responsibility for the final scraps of food.
Over the years, we’ve had some legendary matches. There was a half a can of olives that sat in our fridge for three years before I finally gave in, put on a hazmat suit, and disposed of them. Then there was the order of cheesy bread that occupied a shelf on the refrigerator door until they were but shriveled and petrified shadows of their former selves. I won that round when my wife turned to me and asked, ‘When did we buy beef jerky, anyway?‘ Luckily, she asked before she tried eating one, or we’d have both been in big trouble.
I have the utmost confidence that I’ll win this current ‘salad round’. I have a very good record with vegetable-related leftovers, and particularly those in clear plastic containers, like this one happens to be. If the missus has a weakness in this game, it’s that she can’t stand to watch the food deteriorate. Her specialty is cans and jars; I haven’t won a ‘screw-top battle’ for years. The closest I got was the ‘draw’ we called on a dubious-looking jar of jelly that was nearly old enough to vote. That was an epic.
But salad? Fuggedaboutit. It’s in the bag. I just hope she gives in and eats it, rather than trying to wait me out. Those hazmat suits are expensive as hell to rent.
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