Tonight I was at a softball game. Early in the contest, I was standing by our bench. That’s my usual position, though they occasionally let me clear the dirt off the plate between innings, or polish the bats when nobody’s using them. Or wash the infielders’ cars. I’m a real ‘team player’ that way. That’s what they tell me, at least.
Anyway, on this particular play our runners were careening wildly around the diamond, leading the other team to throw the ball between various bases all willy-nilly. Because this is softball, folks. ‘Good fundamentals’ are for people who can sprint to first base without having a coronary, or stopping by the visitors’ dugout for a chili dog.
“We all know a guy — or know a guy that knows a guy — who has endured the infernal sting of the raw red rash on his ‘Jolly Rogerer’.”
As is always the case when a softball play involves more than two high-velocity throws, the ball went sailing up over a glove and out of play. In this case, out of play past third base, rolling past the bench where I was standing, across a sidewalk, and into a dark patch of weeds in an unlit area of the park.
Me being the most expendable closest player, I jogged off to retrieve the ball. Since I couldn’t see over there, I was forced to rummage around with both hands, feeling the ground until I located the ball.
Or, in this case, until a guy from the other team came over and said, ‘Hey, I see it — it’s over here‘ approximately three feet from where I was copping a cheap feel from a patch of dirt and weeds.
(I’m guessing it’s just this sort of locked-in ‘nose for the ball’ that keeps me solidly riding the pine on this team. But I’m just happy to contribute — so long as they supply the Turtle Wax for the bats. And the shortstop’s Toyota.
This ‘team player’ thing sucks ass. I see that now.)
So the other guy throws the ball back to the field — and leaves me there with two arms wrist-deep in plants that I can neither identify nor clearly see. And one horrific thought leapt immediately to mind:
POISON IVY!
That was followed closely by ‘poison oak‘, ‘poison sumac‘, and several other poison-plant concoctions that I’ve since learned don’t actually exist. There’s apparently no such thing as ‘poison grass‘, ‘poison dandelions‘, or even ‘poison poseys‘.
(Except maybe for Parker Posey, in that stupid, stupid cola commercial. I swear, that godforsaken ad makes Pepsi seem like D-Con. Make it stop. Please.)
Still, the fact remained that I might well have been tainted with the noxious itchy oils of one of Nature’s great equalizers. There was no way to know for sure — and no immediately easy way to wash off my hands as a precaution. I had five more innings of plate-dusting and bat-polishing ahead of me, and no tub full of soapy water in sight. Naturally, the next most obvious thought soon came screaming into my consciousness:
WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T TOUCH YOUR WINKIE!!
You guys know where I’m coming from. The annals of manhood are full of horror stories involving unsuspecting or injudicious gentlemen who’ve been exposed to poison ivy, and then fiddled with their privates. Whether it’s a bathroom break after working in the garden or an unfortunate choice of toilet paper replacement on a camping trip, the outcome is the same. We all know a guy — or know a guy that knows a guy — who has endured the infernal sting of the raw red rash on his ‘Jolly Rogerer’.
And by far, it’s the itchy irritation of the unmentionables that gets the most sympathetic (or empathetic) response from any group of males. You could have horror stories galore about the non-nether-region effects of poison ivy, and you’d barely rate a blip. Consider:
‘When I was a kid, my dad fell into a bed of poison ivy, and developed open sores on his hands and arms that lasted for weeks. It was a month before the doctors would let him out of bed or untie his arms to scratch, for fear of infection.‘
‘Hrm. Any on his wiener?‘
‘No.‘
‘Meh.‘
Or how about:
‘I knew a guy back in high school that burned a bunch of weeds in his yard, but there was poison ivy in there, and he inhaled a bunch of the fumes. The poor guy ended up on a respirator, and now he drinks three meals a day via straw through his nose.‘
‘Sad story. Did the fumes get his penis?‘
‘Not… that I know of, no.‘
‘Eh. He’ll live.‘
But:
‘My old roommate back in college pulled a football out of a shrub during a game, and didn’t know that there was poison ivy in there, too. An hour later, he went to pee — and ended up with poison ivy on his Johnson!‘
‘Gaaaaaah!! Jesus, that poor bastard. We should take up a collection or something. Imagine being cut down, so early in life. Just… wow.‘
Suffice it to say, I didn’t get my hands anywhere near my delicates for the rest of the game. And this was softball — much like baseball, where in-game crotch scratching is damned near an art form, so it wasn’t fricking easy. But I did it. Then I came home, and thoroughly scrubbed my hands with soapy hot water, for as long as I could stand it.
And still I didn’t dare dip a digit toward my danglies. Frankly, I’m not sure when I’ll be able to touch them again. Maybe in three or four months, if no rash forms on my hands, I’ll consider it. But you can never be too careful. We’ve all heard the horror stories — and we’ve all crossed our legs and promised ourselves ‘that will never happen to me‘.
And now my little man is counting on me. I can’t possibly let him down. Hang in there, little dude — I’ll see you again next year!
Well, either that or I’ll end up doing some pretty unspeakable things with one of our oven mitts.
Either way, this could be the start of a long, cold, itchy winter. And I’m not talking about those wool turtleneck sweaters. Now who’s coming over to help with the calamine lotion, eh?
Permalink | 3 CommentsLast night, the missus and I trekked out to a fancy local restaurant for dinner. It was definitely one of the trendier places I’d been in a while — many of the really nice eateries screen ‘my kind’ at the door, of course — and made for quite an interesting experience. A few highlights from our Zen dining experience at Om:
Like I always say, ‘When in R(Om)e, eat as the R(Om)ans.’ Or words to that effect. Loosely translated, it means, ‘When faced with an odd and fancy-pantsed menu, order something outlandish — because you’ll be back to white-bread tuna sandwiches and microwave burritos soon enough’. I hopped right in with the appetizer course, and ordered something called the ‘Deconstructed Caesar Salad’.
“If they’d ‘deconstructed’ the thing any further, they’d have driven me out to the farm to harvest the head of lettuce and squeeze the egg out of the chicken. “
Why that starter? Partly because it sounded interesting. Partly because ‘deconstructed’ anywhere on a menu means ‘frou-frou‘, and that’s what I’d just said I was shooting for. But mostly because my wife picked the appetizer I was going to order, and I’m not allowed to get the same thing. Marriage rules, you see. So I had to find another app fast, and this one had the distinct advantages of being both somewhat familiar and reasonably pronouncable. I may have accidentally called it ‘deconvoluted’ or slipped and said ‘Caesarean salad’, but the waiter knew what I meant.
(And thank heaven for that. I hear placenta can make one a mite logy.)
When the dish arrived, it certainly displayed characteristics of a Caesar salad. There was lettuce, and croutons, and crispy little anchovies, and even a poached egg with a little spoon for digging out the goodies and mixing with the dressing. But true to the menu’s word, none of the edible elements were actually touching one another. If they’d ‘deconstructed’ the thing any further, they’d have driven me out to the farm to harvest the head of lettuce and squeeze the egg out of the chicken. Also, there were extra bits of food I wouldn’t normally expect in a Caesar salad — bits of potato, and shaved something-or-other, and some sort of chopped other… thing.
Frankly, I should know what those extra little culinary doohickeys were. Not because I make it a point to learn about every component of every bit of food I stick inside me — who the hell has time for that? Or wants to really know what those McNuggets are made of? No thanks, cookie. Ignorance is bliss — and it’s delicious.
Instead, I should have painstakingly detailed — and near-carnal — knowledge of the ingredients in our dishes because the waiter pointed each of them out and explained them after he delivered the plates. You could see he really enjoyed his job, too — he was in the zone, expounding voraciously on the virtues of our various victuals. The man just loved talking about food. He could describe a demiglaze or wax poetic about waxy beans. I’m not positive, but I think he gave us the daily specials in haiku form. It was impressive.
Sadly, I didn’t listen all that closely, and so I have no idea what the hell it was I ate. The lettuce and the croutons and the crunchy little fishies, I got. After that, it was a blur of foods and preparations and possibly foreign languages that I’d never heard of before. So I did what I was told to do as a small child — I shut up, I ate what was in front of me, and I didn’t ask any questions. No way was I getting sent to my room without dessert this time.
Speaking of dessert, that was an interesting twist — and eerily similar to the appetizer experience.
(In between, we had our entrees. They were both pretty good — lamb for her, pork for me — but frankly nothing to IM home about. The best part of the main course was the snippet of the waiter’s description of my dish that I tuned in for:
‘…and the sweet and sour cabbage, harvested from the north face of a particular mountain in the heart of Nepal. It’s lovingly tended by Buddhist monks, packed and shipped to a secret underground bunker outside of Washington, D.C. There, the sweet and sour glaze is prepared by our chefs, who are sworn to protect the secret recipe and confined to the bunker without any contact with the outside world. The pork shank is sliced with knives that have been blessed by the Dalai Lama himself, and served with a delicate and savory apple moustarda. It’s like mustard, only more pompouser. You’ll like it.‘
Okay, maybe he didn’t say all of that. But he could’ve. And I’m sure the Dalai Lama had something to do with the cabbage, because it was pretty damned tasty.)
For dessert, I ordered the ‘ras malai’.
Did I know what a ‘ras malai’ was? No.
Did I know how to pronounce ‘ras malai’? Not especially, no.
Was I daunted just a bit when the waiter said, ‘Oh, that one’s interesting. It’s sort of like a sponge cake. Only it’s not. It’s cheese.‘? You betcha.
Did I order it, anyway, instead of a boring old cheesecake or pie dish? Hell, yes. A little spongy cheese never hurt anyone, right?
It turned out to be quite tasty. I might have been a bit happier thinking that the squishy, soggy, doughy things were ‘cakes’, rather than ‘congealed milk’, but I got past the mental image and enjoyed them, anyway. The assortment of extras that came along with them made me wonder if I’d missed a ‘deconstructed’ detail somewhere in the dish description. There were pistachio bits, mint sauce, and a bunch of other add-ons that the waiter must have described after he mentioned the ‘curry ice cream’.
When you hear ‘curry ice cream’, the bits of your body responsible for hearing tend to take a back seat for a few seconds, while the bits of your body responsible for involuntary shuddering and making gagging noises take over. I pondered whether maybe I’d misheard him saying ‘slurry ice cream’ or ‘hurried ice cream’, or even ‘furry ice cream’, which might be tricky to pick out of your teeth, but would still sound marginally more palatable than curry ice cream. That’s the sort of thing I always imagined they force-feed the Iron Chefs as punishment when they lose a match to a challenger.
When he brought the plate, I discovered that it really was curry ice cream. And happily, it was quite tasty, too. Like cinnamon, with an extra earthy kick. It was at least as good as all of the other dollops and pastes whose descriptions I missed while I was making ‘blech!‘ noises at the waiter about the curry ice cream.
Overall, it was a nice dinner. The dishes were a bit of work to assemble — hell, even at 7-11, they’ll put the hot dog into the bun for you — but they were tasty, and it was good to get out of the house for ‘real food’. And how often is dinner a learning experience, with your very own gastronomic guru available to detail what you’re eating? I was almost afraid I should have taken notes, in case there was a test after the dessert course. Luckily, they let it go, and let us find our own path out. How zen of them.
Permalink | 2 CommentsIn the spring, I made the unfortunate decision to join two volleyball teams that played on consecutive (Wednesday and Thursday) nights. I enjoy playing, and like (need) the exercise, but ideally the sessions of flinging myself across a gym and filling my socks with sweat would be spaced out a little more. Like once every equinox, maybe. I’m thirty-six, for crissakes. One of these days, I’ll break a hip out there or sprain a prostate or put out an eye with my walker or something.
Now it’s time for the fall season. And while I’m six months older, I’m apparently just exactly as stupid. Because I just played volleyball for the first time in months on Wednesday night. And for the second time in months last night.
Ow.
“From the wrists down, I feel the burn like I’m training for Clubber Lang. The rest of me would probably lose a pillow fight with Mickey.”
I’d forgotten just how many muscles are used only on the volleyball court. At least in my life; maybe you have one of those jobs where you use muscles a lot, like moving pianos or erecting buildings or juggling chainsaws for spare change at the subway station. Hey, good for you.
(Me, I’m a programmer. I type on a keyboard for ten hours a day. From the wrists down, I feel the burn like I’m training for Clubber Lang. The rest of me would probably lose a pillow fight with Mickey.)
So, for two nights I dusted off those long-dormant muscles used to spike and block and high-five and pull my fat ass off the floor. And today, they’re fighting back. Most of the complaints seem to be coming from the back and arms, with a few angry customers scattered around the rib cage and stomach, too.
(Happily, the legs have abstained from this particular round of soreness. I guess all that walking once a day to and from the keyboard has really paid off. Super.)
Of course, the first week back is always the worst. Soon enough, I’ll be sore on Fridays, but not sore sore. Not so sore that I’ll still think about installing a motorized chair in the house to get up and down the stairs, or finding a way to get to the bathroom in the morning that involves remaining horizontal. Because this morning, if I knew where the hell to order a gurney from, it would’ve been a done deal. I’d have even paid extra for the bedpan attachment. Or an especially helpful nurse.
So now I’m trying to do the smart thing, and keep those volleyball muscles in shape through the week and year-round. At work, I’ll sprint to and from meetings. (But mostly from.) I’ll practice jumping to rinse off my knees in the shower, instead of adjusting the shower head. And at the toll booth, I’ll spike my change into the little basket.
Or at least near the basket. My spiking isn’t all that consistent, unfortunately. I may have to keep a few extra rolls of quarters in the glove box.
Hopefully, with a few little exercises and tricks, I can avoid these start-of-season unpleasantries and walk fully upright and without moaning again. Meanwhile, I’ll try to sit here perfectly motionless for the next three days until the achiness wears off. At least I can still work out my fingers and thumbs. Feel the burn, baby.
Permalink | 1 CommentI’ve found a new way to combat road rage. Not cure it, mind you. The only true cure for road rage would involve the passing of several unpopular new laws, the repossessing of millions upon millions of other peoples’ cars, and prohibitively expensive crosswalk vouchers for pedestrians. Also, murders. Lots and lots of murders.
In the meantime, we have to live in our imperfect world of jaywalking jackasses and nearsighted grandmas clogging up the express lanes. My new method of coping is very simple –from now on, when I feel the urge to scream and rant and shake my little fisticles at some asshole in my way, I’ll do it in the same voice I use to praise my dog.
So far, I’ve gotten some very strange looks. But I’m pretty sure my blood pressure is down, so it seems to be working.
For instance, last night I was on my way home and stopped at a red light. Just as the opposing light turned yellow, a plain-looking young lady chittering on a cell phone stepped off the curb to cross in front of my car. Sloooooooowly. When the light turned green, she was still walking in front of my grill, leaving me and the four cars behind mine to wait her out. Did she get the clue and hustle across? No. If anything, she toddled just a little bit slower, yakking away and oblivious to the roadblock she had become.
“The only true cure for road rage would involve the passing of several unpopular new laws, the repossessing of millions upon millions of other peoples’ cars, and prohibitively expensive crosswalk vouchers for pedestrians.”
This sort of thing irks me to no end. My feeling is, if you’re going to break the rules that society lays out, then at least get the hell out of other peoples’ way when you do it. I’ve got nothing against victimless crimes. You can jaywalk if you want. You can speed, you can make illegal U-turns, you can snort toadstools and drop your pants in the park and make ‘woo-woo-woo!!‘ noises. Knock yourself out. But when it starts affecting other people — like, for instance, me — then we have a problem. That’s when I vote to stuff you in a tutu, throw you in a cell with ‘Mervin the Maimer’, and see how this whole Darwinism thing works.
So normally, I would’ve unleashed an angry, obscenity-laced tirade at the woman shuffling along in front of my car. But as I opened my mouth to vitriolize, I remembered my new policy, and instead waggled a finger at her and said:
‘Oooh, who’s an ignorant widdle bitch, then? It’s you! Yes, you is. You was beaten with the ugwy stick, too, wasn’t you? Oooh, yes you was! Who’s an ugwy widdle ignowamus?‘
She just kept inching through the crosswalk — but as long as I was talking at her like she was a four-legged drooling fuzz-faced moron, it didn’t seem so bad. And as long as nothing I do is going to help the situation, why not sneak in a little ridicule of my fellow man or woman?
I had another chance to practice on the way to work this morning. Some jackhole in the left lane decided that he really needed to swerve in front of me over to the exit on the right. Like, RIGHT NOW! With no warning or turn signal to be seen. But did I honk? Did I flip him the bird, or call into question the legitimacy of his birth, or his mother’s honor, or the relative size of his male ancestors’ genitalia, as I normally would?
No. I simply reached out a hand in his direction, to pretend I was scritching him behind his reckless fuzzy little ears, and I said:
‘There’s my little dumbass, careening through traffic, yes you are. You’re going to die someday soon in fiery widdle crash, aren’t you? Oh my, yes. And the people will come and waugh at your charred wemains, won’t they? Yes, they will! Goodness!‘
I’m liking this idea more and more. I’m calm, I’m peaceful, and I’m at least twenty percent less likely to smash in some idiot’s windshield with a softball bat. And maybe just a little closer to the right frame of mind to finally teach my dog how to drive. Even if she can’t reach the pedals or read the road signs, she’ll be Mutt-io Andretti compared to most of these assbags.
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