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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, you know how it is, right? You spend the weekend on Cape Cod… scoot back into town on Monday morning… spend a couple of hours in the office… go home early, watch some TV… then do a little bit of work…
Surely, you can see how there’s little room for writing in there. Or thinking about things to be writing. Or writing about having no time to think of anything to write.
Oh. Wait. Actually, there is a bit of time for that last thing. But just a bit.
Anyway, the rest of the weekend was fairly uneventful. There’s just something about a car ride that puts me to sleep, though — it’s two hours from here to the Cape, and I napped both ways. It wasn’t so bad on the way there, but it was a bit embarrassing to walk into the office this morning with fresh drool stains on my shirt. People are used to seeing that shit from me at the end of the day, but at ten in the morning? That’s just embarrassing.
In that same vein, I’m gonna have to cut our ‘QT’ short tonight, I’m afraid, lest I end up with ‘slobber collar’ again in the morning. If I keep that sort of thing up, they’ll fit me with a lip splint or something. Maybe a droolcatcher I could wear around my neck. Something like that.
Anyway, the point is, I need a good night’s sleep. See, apparently, our bed is made out of concrete, reinforced by some sort of rebar or steel or other. Because any time we spend the night somewhere else, it feels like we’re sleeping on Jell-O.
(Okay, so sometimes we do like to sprinkle a little bit of Jell-O on the bed. But that’s… um, different. That’s not for sleepin’.)
As I was saying, our mattress is apparently on the hardish side of the spectrum — the past two nights at the bed and breakfast were great, but the actual snoozing left something to be desired. All I got for my trouble in bed was a bunch of wild turning, some frenzied tossing, and an aching back. And I don’t mean any of that in the good way, either, dammit! Not as far as you know, anyway.
All of which is to say, I’m out. Away. Off like a prom dress. I’ll be back tomorrow, but for the first time in the last three days or so, I need to get some solid shuteye that isn’t in the passenger seat of a moving car. You kids have a good night, now.
Permalink | No CommentsHey, everybody. Sorry I don’t have a lot of time to chat right now, but I’m writing this from a room in an inn on Cape Cod — the wife and I are down here for a wedding this weekend, getting some R&R at a B&B.
But, of course, even when we’re apart, I’m thinking of you, and so I thought I’d check in with a few things I’ve learned and observed this weekend:
First, we’re not really ‘Cape people’. This is our first trip to the peninsula-named-after-a-fish, and the word ‘haughty’ came up in coversation no less than three times in our first eight hours here.
Also, we’re staying the ‘Hydrangea Room’ at the bed ‘n’ breakfast joint we’re at. Now, I’m no expert, but apparently ‘hydrangea’ is a word meaning very, very small shower stall. See, the ‘hydra-‘ comes from the Latin word for ‘water’, and ‘-ngea’… well, um, is probably Greek or something, meaning ‘undetectable by the naked eye’.
Seriously, it’s one of those showers where, if you have soap in your hand, you’re washing something, guaranteed, because it’s going to be smooshed up against some part of your body or other, no matter which way you turn. Assuming you could turn in that shrunken phone booth of a space, which you can’t, really. I’ve been in iron maidens that were roomier than that shower stall. Sardines would complain about the elbow room. Or about not having elbows in the first place, but that’s really beside the point. I think you get the idea.
On an unrelated note, my wife and I had the following exchange last night:
Me: ‘Hey, who’s the guy from your office with the really big face?’
Her: ‘Oh, that’s Joe <Name-Changed-to-Protect-My-Wife’s-Job>’
See, if I said to most people, ‘Who’s that big-faced dude?‘, I’d get a blank stare, or a strange look, or maybe even a ‘tsk‘ or two. But from my wife — an answer. The right answer, even. Soulmates, we are.
(What that says about the state of our souls may be another matter, but I don’t really give a damn about that — just the fact that we’re squarely in the same boat is good enough for me, proverbial leaks and sharks and waterfalls be damned.)
Finally, I learned — or relearned, I suppose — that a three-hour-long open bar at a pre-wedding party full of strangers is a lot like a leprechaun with a switchblade knife. It’s magical, and can be rewarding, but it’s also very, very dangerous. And in either case, if you’re not careful, you’re likely to wake up with your pockets empty and the taste of clover and rotten potatoes in your mouth. You might also be feeling a little green, and praying that you’ll not be ‘kissing the blarney stone’ anytime soon. Blimey.
Anyway, that’s the story so far — there’s still a wedding and reception to get through, so who knows what other adventures we’ll have. Until then, I’m signing off from the Cape. Happy Sunday, all.
Permalink | No CommentsYou know, you women have it easy.
Oh, sure, there’s that pesky menstruation thing. And childbirth — I hear that can be somewhat uncomfortable at times. I’ll admit, you certainly have your ‘inconveniences’.
But that stuff is nothing, compared to the nightmare that we guys have to go through sometimes. Like me. Like tonight, just a few minutes ago.
See, I’d been sitting — okay, slouching — on the couch for a couple of hours, watching TV and surfing around on my laptop. But just a little while ago, I decided to get up for a beer. And that’s when it happened — one of the most unsettling, uncomfortable, unnerving things that can happen to a man.
My privates had fallen asleep. The horror.
Now, for you female types — and possibly guys out there with exceptional blood circulation — who have never experienced this particular brand of ickyness… well, frankly, I’m not sure I can describe it. It probably should come as no surprise, really. Honestly, would you expect to be able to imagine what walking around with a numb penis between your legs feels like, if you’d never actually experienced it? I might as well try to tell you what having a rhinoceros horn is like, or a lemur tail.
If, on the other hand, you’ve, um, walked a mile in my… er, ‘shoes’, then you too have felt the fear and shame and tingly pins and needles that I suffered tonight. And you know what a weird feeling it was — I could still walk, of course. It wasn’t painful, exactly. But it’s not fricking natural — I waggled my leg, and wiggled my boxers… I even shook my money maker, but to no avail. There was no magic spell I could cast to wake my ‘leetle friend‘ from its slumber. All I could do is stand there, hopping from one foot to the other like a damned tool, until the blood pumped itself back into place. Humiliating, dammit.
So think about that, ladies, next time you’re inconvenienced by that pesky morning sickness thing, or you’re feeling bloated or grumpy. Just remember — no matter how bad it is, it could always be worse. Your willie could fall asleep on you. Surely, I don’t have to tell you how that trumps just about everything this side of being drawn and quartered. Surely.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go run up and down the stairs until I can feel my testicularies again. If I’m not back, please… remember me — and my tingly nethers — fondly, won’t you?
Permalink | 9 CommentsHey, hey, hey, kiddies!
Welcome to the first day of the next year of the rest of this blog!
(Yeah, I’m still giddy over yesterday’s one-year bloggiversary. Twelve whole months of ridiculous drivel. Hardly seems possible, what with this straightjacket and everything, eh?)
Anyway, what better way to kick off year two than with another installment of everybody’s very favorite of all the features that are on this site and that start with the letter ‘P’: Punchline Fever!
For those of you just clambering onto the bandwagon, here’s what this little endeavor entails:
1) I’ll sit around, day and night, thinking of a short but flexible setup for a joke.
B) I’ll post the best setup I can think of, but with a blank where the punchline should go.
iii) Then it’s up to you to come up with your best line, and leave it in the comments, for all to snicker over.
Nothing to it, eh? So let’s get groovin’, and pump this Friday up! It’s Fever time!
Punchline Fever #18:
‘Melody decided to give her elderly husband a big surprise on his birthday by jumping out of a big cake at his party, wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini. Of course, it might have worked out a little better if she hadn’t
__________________________________‘
Have at it, people — that’s all you’re getting until next week. But feel free to dig into the Punchline Fever archives for further yukkery. Hasta la fever, amigos!
Permalink | 8 CommentsIt was a weekday morning much like this one when I first put fingers to keys and wrote the very first post this weblog would see. In it, I explained a bit about what I had in mind for the site — my hopes, my plans, and my hopelessly short attention span. That was one full year ago today.
In many ways, not much has changed around here. I still have big plans — and too little time to get to them. I still sprinkle ridiculous words like ‘snootful’ and ‘backwards-ass’ and ‘parentheseses’ liberally throughout my entries. And, of course, I still lose my train of thought at the drop of —
(Hey, something weird just hit me. I’m usually really good at identifying voices — commercial voiceovers, documentary announcers, cartoon characters, and the like. But I just figured out, after many dozens of episodes, that King of the Hill‘s Bill Dauterive is none other than one of my favorite characters, the inimitable Jimmy James of News Radio fame. Not to mention Milton from the movie Office Space. I don’t know how I missed it for so long.
No, I don’t know what the hell that has to do with anything. Look, these are parentheses, all right? I can talk about anything I want to in here. That’s what they’re here for, you know.
And no, I don’t really know what ‘inimitable‘ means. Shaddup.)
As I was saying, some things never seem to change around here. I dunno — maybe the meds and the support groups and the primal scream therapy aren’t working. But not everything has stayed the same since this baby’s inception. For one thing, this isn’t BlogSpot anymore, Toto. After a few months in the original digs, WTHWI? up and moved house to a private server, and the domain you’re soaking in right now. Besides that, there’s now just a dozen shy of 500 posts here, plus another 100-plus ‘100 Things’ entries, more than twenty standup comedy sets, and lord knows how many total words. (And how many parentheses. But now there’s another set. Woo hoo!)
Meanwhile, my particular set of circumstances have changed a bit, too. Oh, the important things have stayed pretty stable — my wife hasn’t thrown up her hands and left me yet, and we’ve still got our house, and the faithful family pooch. But the job I had when I started blogging is but a distant memory — I got laid off before my one-month online anniversary, and spent the next quarter looking for another spot. Hell, I’m not even the ‘new guy’ at my job any more — now I’ve got people washing my car for a change. Oh, baby.
More importantly, though, I’ve met — or at least ‘met’ — some of the coolest and most interesting people imaginable in the past year. Bloggers, readers, random bypassers — I’ve traded emails with all of them, and learned some pretty amazing things from everyone I’ve come in contact with.
(Yeah, ya grammar Nazis, I know it’s ‘with whom I’ve come in contact’, or something even more stilted, if that’s frigging possible. Just let it go, would you? It doesn’t even look right. Now get outta here before I dangle a participle where your gerund don’t shine.)
Anyway, it’s been a good year; that’s all I’m really trying to say. And if you’re reading this, then I’ve got you to thank for the magic.
(Unless this is your first time here, of course — if that’s the case, then you’re officially part of the magic of the second year. You’ll get your heartfelt thanks in due time. Wait your turn, there, Skippy.
Unless, of course, you’re sick of all this and you’re gonna stop reading now and never come back, in which case you’re not really helping anybody. Poopyhead.
Ah, but you’re bluffing, it seems, because you’re still reading. Your mouth says, ‘ew! ew! get it away!‘. But your eyes keep reading. Oh, yeah — I gotcha now.)
So, I suppose the point is simply, thanks. Thanks for stopping by, and for reading, and — if you’ve been so kind — for emailing or commenting to let me know what you think. Year number one at WTHWI? has been a blast, folks; I can’t wait to see what kind of trouble we get into together over the next twelve months. You guys rock!
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