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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, thanks to everyone who asked about my ouchy leg earlier this week. Or who offered advice, or even just laughed about it. No, really. If you at least care enough to ridicule my pain, then at least we’re getting somewhere. And that’s progress. I might still leave a flaming bag of poop on your porch, but we’ve started a dialogue, at least. Baby steps, people.
Anyway, I saw the doctor yesterday, and he said he thinks it’s something called ‘sciatica’. But I didn’t quite hear when he said it — I thought he was telling me I’d caught something ‘like you get in Attica’. Which is weird, because I don’t remember sitting on any unwashed convicts recently. And I always put down that little sanitary toilet ring, any time I do have to sit on one. You can never be too careful; no telling where those things have been, you know.
But he didn’t say that, of course — he said ‘sciatica‘. Which, from what I gather, is leg pain, caused by back issues. Apparently, the back-bone is connected to the leg-bone. I never knew; I was never any good in anatomy class, frankly. Nor was I patient enough to get that far in the song. I usually tuned out around the ‘foot-bone connected to the ankle-bone’ verse. Maybe I should have paid more attention.
Anyway, the good news is that it seems pretty easy to treat. The doc gave me some exercises to try, and the leg feels better already. On the other hand, that might be because of the enormous bottle of oversized ibuprofen he gave me, too. Not only doesn’t my leg hurt, I haven’t been able to feel my forehead all day, either. I’m pretty sure I stapled my hand to the desk at work today — who knows, really? It’s all just a yummy, painless blur.
Meanwhile, I suppose it’s time to stop slouching — pretty much like my mother told me to do twenty years ago. Apparently, sitting up straight will relieve the strain, too.
(And for the record, no, I’m not really giving her credit on this point. For one thing, if I’d actually listened back then, think of all those years having fun slouching that I would’ve missed out on. And besides, she said lots of things; it’s just sheer luck that one of them turned out to be helpful. What, am I suddenly supposed to start eating green vegetables and looking both ways before I cross the street now? Poppycock.)
So, it turned out to be nothing so very interesting. So sorry for all of you who were hoping for a stress fracture, or gangrene, or maybe some sort of oozing femur rot. I’ll try to do better, next time I develop some mysterious painful ailment. For now, though, I’m limping off to enjoy the weekend. Happy Friday, everyone.
Permalink | 2 CommentsSo, I’ve got an anniversary coming up in a couple of weeks. And, to start out the festivities, I went looking for a card today. Sheesh, what a miserable damned time that is.
(And I’ll pause here for a moment, to let you folks who may not have realized that I’m married — and are in shock that it could ever happen — catch your breath. Pick up those jaws, people. Daddy got himself nuptialized, baby. And without any chloroform involved, either. Honest. I don’t know how the hell it happened, either.)
Anyway, I happened to be in a drugstore today, so I looked for a card. And yes, ladies — the lavish gifts and elaborate plans and all that jazz are coming later. I’ll get to that the day before the anniversary, like I always do. And like every other husband who doesn’t want a high heel up his ass does, too.
So, I’m browsing through these cards, looking for something genuine, you know? Something from the heart, like I might write myself. I mean, not like anything I’d write here, of course. The poor girl lives with me; she doesn’t need a greeting card from me with the word ‘assbaggery‘ involved in any way. But still — maybe there’s a card out there that’s a little bit smartassy, in a sweet kind of way. That’s what I was thinking, anwyay.
But is that what I got? No. Decidedly not. No, at this particular store, there were only two kinds of anniversary cards that a guy could give his sweetheart. The first was for the Bible-thumping fundy crowd, as far as I could tell. They all had pictures with rays of light, shining through stormclouds, or faded roses in grandma vases, that sort of thing. And inside, they’d all say shit like:
‘My dearest wife —
As we prepare to celebrate the covenant we share,
I swear, as diapered-up baby Jesus is my witness, that I love you —
and will do so until the very end of time itself.
Or armageddon, whichever God sees fit to happen first.
Blessed be our matrimonial bed,
Your husband.‘
Now, don’t get me wrong. I mean, I was looking for sort of a funny card, right? And that shit is hilarious — especially coming from me. But it’s a little much for an anniversary, I’m thinking. And if she doesn’t realize that it’s meant ironically, it’d probably scare the diapered-up baby bejeesus out of her. So those cards were no good.
The other kind of card wasn’t much better, though. Oh sure, they were meant to be funny and playful, but they were just frigging ridiculous. You’ve seen these cards, too. They’ve got cartoony little pictures of dogs or bears or cats or some other silly shit, and they represent the happy couple doing crap that we never do — going to movies, and hiking together, and playing with children… I mean, who does that shit? Hiking? Honky, please. I get winded fishing the last bit of ice cream out of the carton. Like I’m going to walk up a mountain. Never gonna happen.
Worse than that, though, is the poem that inevitably accompanies the silly pictures. It’s always hacky, and sappy, and completely inappropriate. I’m not handing my wife something that says:
‘Honey, we’ve been through thick and through thin;
We’ll get in the car and we’ll go for a spin.
You stick by me, even with all of my flaws —
And unlike our remote, our love has no ‘pause’.
When I first met you, dear, I couldn’t fathom my luck,
And now that we’re hitched, well, I guess that you’re stuck!
We’ve made it together, through one more year;
‘Cause we’re a great couple, and you’re the best, dear!
And through all of this, we’re doing just fine —
Because I’m always yours, and you’re always mine!‘
I mean, come on. I love her dearly, but that’s just stupid. Nobody talks like that — not to their wife, not to their husband, not to their drooling baby children. It’s just asinine.
But, I had to get a card, and the fundy crap was just goddamned scary, so I did the best I could. I actually bought the card I just described, and made a couple of… edits. It’s still not quite what I was looking for, but my version’s a hell of a lot better, I think. Let’s see if you agree:
‘Honey, we’ve been through thick and through thin;
‘Cause I don’t pinch other chicks, and you don’t lick other men.
You stick by me, even with all of my flaws —
But I’m still not coming home to see the in-laws.
When I first met you, dear, I couldn’t fathom my luck,
<– This line deleted due to FCC decency regulations –>
We’ve made it together, through one more year;
Who knew we could turn being goofy into a frigging career?
And through all of this, we’re doing just fine —
So drop those pants, baby, and let’s do sixty-nine!‘
See? Much better. I could write those things. Meanwhile, I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks whether I’m still married or not. I’m pretty sure she’ll dig the card, but you never know. I mean — women, right? Who can figure them out? Whoo.
Permalink | 5 CommentsFolks, is there anything better than a full night’s sleep, after you’ve been working with very little for a few days? I mean, short of sex, or a Red Sox win, or a really good poop — that’s pretty much the holy trinity of good things. But just after that is ‘much-needed nine hours in the sack’.
(And just for the record, I wouldn’t try the top three all at the same time. Especially not if you’re watching the game at Fenway. They’ll kick you out twice for that.)
Of course, the combination of too little sleep and a comedy show — in Maine, no less — apparently leads to some pretty strange dreams. I don’t remember the details, exactly, but I do recall walking around in my dream, telling really bad jokes that no one was laughing at. I just remember saying, ‘Get it? Get it?‘ a lot. And getting the distinct impression that people did ‘get it’, but they sure as hell didn’t want it. The jokes may have had to do with boogers; I’m trying to block it out. Really, it was like my high school talent show, all over again.
(Okay, so that’s not quite true. Actually, in our talent show, I got together with a couple of other guys and emceed the thing, while throwing Monty Python skits in to hide the prop changes and band setups. So you can be pretty damned sure that none of the kids even ‘got it’, much less wanted it. And boogers were never mentioned at all, so far as I can remember. No boogers were harmed during the production, certainly.)
Anyway, I think I’m back to my old self again, more or less. Unfortunately, I don’t have a clip from the whow last night, because:
On the other hand, it was still a lot of fun. For me, at least — I didn’t know any of the Maine comics’ jokes, and they didn’t know mine. And I didn’t even have to drive, thanks to comic friend Jenn, who was nice enough to drive. Even though she came all the way from Rhode Island that day. And couldn’t see. And saw bridges where they didn’t exist. Good times on the road, let me tell you.
So we had a few giggles, whether I can prove it with video documentation or not. You’ll just have to trust me — good things do happen in Maine, sometimes. Hell, I’m going back on Saturday for another show — you know something magical goes on there, right? Maybe they drugged the water; I’m not sure. But that would explain the ‘booger dream’. At least I was wearing pants in that version. Sheesh.
Okay, this is going nowhere, really. Honestly, I’m just so giddy at not being exhausted, I fear I’m not making any sense at all. As opposed to every other post here, where I make just enough sense to keep you reading. Or retching, or dialing 9-1-… and waiting to see how bad it gets. At any rate, I’m out for now. I think I’ll date this puppy back to last night, so I can come back later today and try again. Hopefully, I’ll make more sense in a few hours, when I’m nice and tired again. But you might want to go ahead and dial 9- now, just in case. See you then.
Permalink | 1 CommentFolks, there’s something wrong with me.
(Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Look, you’d think you peanut gallery types could sit just one of these out, couldn’t you? Is nothing ‘too easy’? Damn.)
Anyway, what I meant was, there’s something physically wrong with me. With my leg, in particular.
Now, I know — this must be shocking news for many of you. I mean, think about it — a computer programmer by day, who spends his evenings either sitting on his ass typing away or hanging around in bars with standup comics. How could he not be the very picture of good health? And hygeine? And mental stability, for that matter?
Well, I don’t know, frankly. But somehow, my left leg hasn’t gotten the message, and now I’ve got to have it looked at. Not by just anyone, either — as it turns out, my friends and co-workers are about as helpful and unsnarky as you lot. So, if I asked some random person I’m hanging out with to look at my leg, I’d probably get a diagnosis something like:
‘Yep… it’s a leg, all right. And hey, look over there — you’ve got another one, too! Congratulations, you’re a biped. Moron.‘
Kids can be so cruel. So, to avoid that mess, I’m going later this week to see a professional.
(Um, that’s ‘health care professional’, by the way. Don’t get any ideas otherwise, of the ‘slap it up, flip it, rub it down’ variety. Because honestly — if I were to ever start going to that sort of ‘professional’, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it now. I’ve already hurt my leg; that’s not going to make it any better, people.
And I’d probably hurt the other one, somehow, or cut my head, or get rug burn on my nipples. People get a little crazier having sex with hookers, from what I gather. I can understand that; it works the same way at Avis, right? It’s a rental.)
Anyway, hopefully it’s nothing serious. Or, if it is, then hopefully it’s at least something interesting and serious. Like scurvy, maybe. Or gremlins. Anything but cooties, really, I think I could take. I caught those things in first grade, apparently, and it was years before I could get rid of them. Or so the girls told me. Wow, kids really can be cruel, eh?
Meanwhile, I’m learning a little bit about what being old and decrepit is like. Well, older and decrepiter, I suppose. Which is nice, because with my lifestyle, I’m not so likely to actually make it long enough to experience it for real. So, this is good — I groan and cry every time I sit down or stand up. It takes me three minutes to get into the damned car. I’m thinking of peeing my pants every once in a while, or telling kids to get the hell off ofmy lawn, just to have the full experience. Or maybe I’ll pee on the kids; hell, that ought to keep the snotly little whippersnappers away from my property. Worked on me growing up, that’s for sure. Old man Johnson sure was a hard-ass. Liked his asparagus, too, apparently.
Okay, that’s probably enough for now. I’ve got shit to do, which is going to involve getting up, so I’d better start that process now. My wife offered to buy me a cane — but not in that ‘honey, I love you, and I’m concerned about your well-being‘ way. More in a ‘you’re a whining douchebag, and I should probably make fun of you now, when you can’t catch me‘ sort of way. So, I hope the doctor fixes me, because she’s right. And until I can run her down to give her noogies, the shitstorm of teasing isn’t gonna stop. Man, this is worse than when I had cooties.
Permalink | 7 CommentsHey, kiddies. Looks like it’s the fifteenth again, so it’s time for another low-effort two-in-one post. Low-effort for me, anyway — you people still have to do all of that pesky reading, I’m afraid. So let’s get cracking, and get this party moving.
First, you should know that the new Zoiks! magazine issue is out today. There, you’ll find a handful of giggly, snorty humor pieces that may well make you upsnort your coffee onto the monitor. Oh, and I’ve got a piece there, too. Check that out, if you’re into that sort of thing. ‘Cause I know you are. Perv.
Meanwhile, have a gander at my last Zoiks! piece below. Sure, it’s been up over there for a couple of weeks, but hey — if you haven’t read it, then it’s new to you, right? And if you have… well, the truly new one will still be new to you. And I’m doing zero work here whatsoever, so we’re all getting something out of this. Let’s rock, baby. Happy Sunday.
To Have, and to Hold… and to Sort the Whites, Apparently
So, I’m married. That’s right, ladies — this squeeze bottle of man-sauce is off the table. And I’m very happy — some might even say ‘relieved’ — to be enveloped each day in wedded bliss… but it doesn’t always go smoothly. Marriage is fantastic, but nobody ever said it was ‘easy’.
First of all, there are the rules. In my house, these are set by my wife, and there’s an absolutely dizzying array of them to memorize. For instance, dirty laundry apparently goes into something called a ‘basket’. And later, into a ‘washing machine’. I’ve been told that it’s my job now to make these tricky little transfers. I’m not sure where exactly in the wedding vows they covered this material; I didn’t hear it then, but my wife has assured me it’s legit.
(On the other hand, can I really trust her on something so important? I mean, she is in law school, after all — she’s actually training to win arguments and convince people that she’s right. Personally, I think she’s angling for some sort of ‘post-nuptial agreement’. And I’d be a lot more concerned, if I had anything worth splitting in half. Right now, the best she could get is a pair of jeans and half the six-pack in the fridge. Something to keep an eye on, though.)
There are other rules, too. Apparently, once you’re married, there’s no peeing in the shower. Even if you’re alone — I know, I know; it sounds crazy, but those are the rules. And there’s no going in the sink, either. Honestly, where the hell am I supposed to pee? I already know I can’t touch the toilet — some days, I wonder whether the ‘seat down, lid up’ situation there is the only thing standing between me and divorce proceedings. I got that right once; I’m not risking screwing it up by actually using the toilet. That’s what the neighbors’ begonias are for, though, right?
At least the spirit of compromise is still alive in our marriage. I can always skirt around a rule, so long as I’m willing to give a little on some other issue. So, I can get out of laundry one week, but I’ll have to unload the dishwasher. Or I can trade trimming the lawn for vacuuming the floor. In a French maid outfit, while singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’. It’s not pretty, but if it keeps me away from the lawnmower, then it’s worth the humiliation. And it’s not nearly as bad as what I have to do to get out of bathing the dog. The widow down the block still won’t look me in the eye after last time.
On the whole, though, being married is a pretty sweet deal. Sure, it’s not great for my comedy career — apparently, ‘lonely and desperate’ is downright hilarious — but it’s nice to come home to a kiss on the cheek, a night of watching television together, and a warm, snuggly bed. And on those rare occasions when I do manage to mow the lawn, it’s my wife who has to wear the French maid getup. Didn’t I tell you marriage was fantastic?
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