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Why, Oh Why Couldn’t They Have Given Me ‘6969’?

I had a rather embarrassing moment today.

(I know, what are the odds, right? Smartass.)

Anyway, it happened at around noon today. I got hungry, as many people do around that time, and so I went off in search of some lunch. On the way, I discovered that my total cash in hand was exactly two American dollars.

(Wrinkly ones, too, not even the nice, crisp, newly minted sort. Or even the titillating, lip-smacking creased-down-the-middle ones. You can imagine my disappointment.)

So, given that I was planning on eating way more than two dolla’ worth of food, I decided to make a run to the cash machine. As luck would have it, there’s an ATM for my back right in the food court where I was already headed. Nice! And, as luck would further have it, there was no line for the ATM when I got there. Sweet! And then, because luck likes to fuck with my head every chance it gets, I couldn’t remember the PIN for my check card. Damn! Finally, because luck is one persistent little whore, I also couldn’t remember the PIN for my Visa card. Bitches! Shut out, like a lactose intolerant dog. Damn, damn, damn!

Now, before you go snickering at me for brain-farting on my PIN codes, let me say something in my defense. Something weak and feeble and shaky, perhaps — picture grandma with a vibrator, if that helps — but something, nonetheless. When you don’t have strong arguments, you’re forced to go with the crap you’ve got. Ain’t my rules, folks.

Anyway, I think I can pretty much blame the whole mess on my bank. See, a couple of months ago, they issued us new bank cards. And yes, when I say ‘a couple of months‘, that could be anywhere from two real months to… oh, I don’t know, the Carter administration. But that’s not important — the crucial thing here is that they sent us new cards. Something about a ‘possible breach’ of their computer systems, and ‘not to worry’, that our ‘money is safe’, but that we should probably expect more spam from ‘Perked-Up Penises, Inc.’ for a few months. Or something — I didn’t really read the letter very closely.

The point is, they sent us new cards, and with them, new PINs. And PINs not of our choosing — these were random PIN codes. So I had no attachment to the thing at all — there was simply nothing in there for me to hold onto. It didn’t include my date of birth, or the jersey number of my favorite baseball star, or even the year when I lost my virginity. Hell, ’69’ wasn’t even in there, for chrissakes — what the hell kind of number is that? So, I promptly forgot it. I didn’t ask for a new PIN; I was more than happy with the old one, which I picked out all by my lonesome. I never forgot my old PIN. Sure, sometimes I mis-typed it, or got distracted and punched the button for Spanish-language instructions, so I didn’t know when the hell to enter it. But I never forgot it, not once. The new one was gone by the time I put down the letter. Those digits never stood a damned chance.

And the Visa PIN? What’s my excuse for it, you ask? Well… shit, I don’t know — age? Stupidity? Unexpected midday sobriety? Take your pick. Hell, I’m not even sure I have a PIN for the damned thing. I never had to use it, because I always had my handy-dandy check card, and I could get cash with it. Until now, that is. Now, my card is neither ‘handy’, nor ‘dandy’. It’s not even ‘randy’, baby.

(Though if I could use it to get me some of those creased-up dollar bills… then maybe. Just maybe.)

So. I got bupkis from the machine. And people started lining up to use the thing, and eyeballing me, so I gave up. (Or maybe people lined up to eyeball me, and then decided to use the machine. Damn, I should have asked. I never think to ask.) And at that point, my options were not good. On the one hand, I could go without lunch altogether, which is made tougher by the fact that I didn’t eat any breakfast this morning, so we’re talking about the prospect of starving myself for nearly twenty-four hours here, from dinner to dinner. And that sounds downright assy, if you ask me. Like a big, fat assy ass. Uncool.

The other option was to schlep my ass — sans coat on a freezy-weezy, wintry-breezy Boston day — six blocks back to my car to hit the stash of dollar bills that I keep in the little drawer on the dashboard.

(Um… excuse me a sec — ‘freezy-weezy, wintry-breezy‘?! What am I, Winnie the fuckin’ Poo all of a sudden? Where the hell did that come from? Man, I have got to stop snorting Windex on the weekends.)

Anyway, long story… um, slightly less long, I schlepped. I schlepped to get money, and then I schlepped my frozen ass back to the food court for a Subway sandwich. I’m not sure I can say it was worth the trip — a lukewarm half-assed sammich and flat Pepsi against twenty minutes of my life, four frostbitten cheeks, and nearly eight bucks of my hard-earned coin doesn’t really seem to stack up, frankly. But I got to eat, so I think it was the right thing to do, under the circumstances.

Of course, the right thing to do would be to learn my damned PIN, and then this shit wouldn’t happen. But I don’t see that happening anytime soon. For one thing, who knows where that letter telling me what the damned number is has gotten to? I’m sure by now I’ve lost it, or eaten it, or made the dog piss on it, so I wouldn’t have to take her outside. It could be anywhere. And stained with anything. I’m not really sure I want to find it. It might be scary. Hold me. Please?

(Um, sorry. Moving right along, then.)

So, I’ll soldier on, with my PIN forgotten and mooching off my wife for cash. It’s demoralizing, really. I mean, I never really want to be the one who gets money, trekking to the ATM to pull out cash for the family. But still, it would be nice to think that I could come up with some green in an emergency.

(You know, like if I were going to miss lunch, or have to trudge to my car for cash. Those sorts of emergencies.)

Clearly, though, it’s not to be. Somewhere out there, there’s a four-digit code that’ll let me get cash with my little piece of plastic. But I don’t know what it is, I’m afraid, and so I’ll never have money to call my own. Which is all right, I suppose — my wife hits the ATM often enough (usually), and doles out the cash on a regular basis. It’s actually pretty rare that I’m in need of mid-week dough.

Oh. Oh, shit. Mid-week, that’s right. This is only Thursday. I’m gonna have the same damned problem tomorrow, and now I’m running low on emergency dollar bills. Damn. Well, I guess that’s it. I’m not goin’ hungry tomorrow, so I guess I just have to find that piece of paper tonight, and figure out what my PIN is. And either staple the letter to my forehead, or tattoo the number across my knuckles, because I am not gonna remember it. Ugh. I just hope that letter doesn’t have dog drool all over it, or pee stains, or… well, worse. Yick!

All right, folks — I’m goin’ in. If I’m not back tomorrow, you’ll know that something happened, and that I’m sitting somewhere, trying to convince a bank teller that I was kicking his damned ATM out of love and respect, and no, I do not want to speak to the security guard on duty, nor do I want to see the surveillance tapes, and hey, get those damned cuffs off me, and whoa! — where the hell are you talking me, and what’s that thing, and look, buddy, I want no part of that, and… and… those aren’t pillows!!

Damn, all that trouble over four little numbers. You’d think it was the frickin’ Powerball or something. *sigh*

Behold, the Magical Boxers of Much Hilarity!

My wardrobe has been the center of attention over the past twenty-four hours or so.

Now, if you know me, then you’ll know how shocking out of character that is. I might as well have just said, ‘Ooh, yeah, I think I’d like a nice juicy tomato right about now‘, or ‘Hey, Microsoft isn’t all bad‘. Or even, ‘No, really, all I want for Christmas is a few McDonalds gift certificates for their scrumptious fish sandwiches. Oh, goody goody gumdrops!‘

Well, I’m not gonna say any of those things any time soon, let me assure you. (Gun-toting terrorist coercion or massive head trauma notwithstanding, of course.) Now, to be fair, I’d have said the same thing about the ‘wardrobe’ statement just a day or so ago, but alas, now I cannot. Decisions about clothes have occupied more of my time in the past day than they have in the past month or more.

You see, I normally care little about what I’m wearing. I see the old ‘clothes make the man‘ adage as poppycock bullshit dreamed up by some tailor to drum up business. Clothes don’t make the man — the man makes the man. And the woman makes the woman, and the man and woman together make sweet, sweet, sweaty snugglebunnies all night long. But that’s a story for another time — I’m talking about clothes here.

So, normally, I’d get up in the morning, take a shower, throw on some undies, a pair of socks (of the ‘tube’ variety, white and plain), a T-shirt, jeans, and a rugby. Period. That’s the routine. In summer, I forgo the socks, unless I’m wearing sneakers. But that’s the only deviation. It’s very Einsteinian, really. Or lazy.

(Yo, why it can’t be both? Don’t be buggin’, G.)

(By the way, I see from that last paragraph that I’ve been assimilated into the New England culture. Until I came here, I didn’t wear ‘sneakers‘. I wore ‘tennis shoes‘. Even for a few months here, that’s how it went. Until one day, I had this conversation with a coworker:

Me: Man, I really need to buy some more tennis shoes. These are getting pretty ratty.

Her: What? What did you just call them?

Me: Um, tennis shoes?

Her: ‘Tennis shoes‘? Why do you call them that? Are you going to play tennis in them?

Me: Well, no. I guess not. What do you call them?

Her: Uh, sneakers. Duh.

Me: Sneakers, eh?

Her: Yah. Sneakers.

Me: I see. So I suppose I’m supposed to go sneaking in them, is that it?

Her: Um… shut up. It’s not the same at all.

Me: What? Of course it’s the same. How is it different?

Her: …

Me: Well?

Her: Nobody likes you, ya know. Go hump a stapler or something, would you?

So, certainly, the chat ended badly. And I thought I held my own rather well. Still, some seed of that idea must have wormed it’s way into my brain, because I haven’t found myself talking about ‘tennis shoes’ ever since. And I have this weird perverted urge to dry-hump office gadgets. Weird — who was that woman, anyway?

Oh, and word to the wise, if you ever have the same affliction… um, avoid the hole-puncher. Trust me on this one, especially if you consider yourself a ‘bleeder’. Ouchie.)

Anyhoo — I don’t put a lot of thought into the old wardrobe. Sure, I have shirts that I like better than others, and pants that fit better than others, and socks that are longer or less long (known in some areas of the world as ‘shorter’), but such things barely raise a blip on the old Charliedar on a typical day. And that’s why today (and the tail end of yesterday) has not been a ‘typical day’. I’ve had no less than three clothes-related decisions to make. Three! And I thought you might like to read about them, so dammit — here they are:

1. Those Don’t Look Like Pajamas!

So, without sharing too much information — I hope; I wouldn’t want a big wall thrown up in my face here — I’ll tell you a little something about me in bed. Here’s what I usually wear to go nighty-night:

Boxers, pair of

That’s pretty much it. On a particularly chilly night, I might accessorize with a T-shirt. On rare occasions, I’ve even been known to leave on my socks, or to put on a pair of shorts, for some extra insulation around the nether region. (Nobody likes cold nethers, now, do they? Except maybe Kim Basinger in 9 1/2 Weeks — she seemed to be enjoying herself. But she wasn’t sleeping; so that’s different. Sexily, steamily, nipple-pokingly different. Moving on.) Anyway, that’s it. I don’t like to be too fettered while I’m getting in my forty winks, you see. Plus, I don’t mind being just a tad chilly; I’m more comfortable when I’m not too hot.

Now, that’s all well and good. That system has worked well for me for the first thirty-three and a half years of my life. But none of those years included a winter spent in a hundred-year-old drafty house in the middle of fricking New England, either. And it’s finally turned cold around here, as I’ve mentioned several times lately. So, without beating that horse carcass too soundly again, I’ll simply list what I wore to bed last night, the first really chilly evening of this winter:

Boxers, pair of

Socks, pulled way up

T-shirt, short-sleeved

Sweatpants

Sweatshirt, long-sleeved

For chrissakes, people, if I could have found mittens and a scarf, I’d have worn those, too. It was frickin’ cold, dammit! And while all the layers seemed to have done their job — I awoke this morning with all the bits I had when I went to bed; none had shriveled up or broken off during the night — I don’t look forward to having to do this ridiculous bundling dance every stupid night for the next six months. It’s just not me. Don’t wanna. Wah.

B. Which Underwear Would Be the Funniest?

So, my second standup show is tonight.

(In about an hour and a half, as a matter of fact. I’ll probably wrap this post up after the fact. Which you really don’t need to know — sorry, I’ll get back to it. My mistake. Please don’t beat me.)

Now, I not only want to sound good for this show, I want to feel good, too. And, like I said earlier, I do have an item or two in the wardrobe that I like more than others. So, I spent ten minutes this morning — as opposed to my usual six seconds — picking out what to wear today, finding the apparel that would make me feel most comfortable and relaxed.

I started at the very beginning, as I’d expect anyone on such a solemn mission to do. And so, right out of the shower, I spent some time picking out just the right pair of underwear. Not the funniest, necessarily. Rather, the best — the pair that fits well, isn’t too short, has the right amount of ‘breathing’ room, and maybe sports a nice pattern, to boot. Ooh, and no stains — yeah, it probably shouldn’t have any stains. Or… you know, not many. Hey, I strive for perfection in my underwear, but I’m not gonna demand it. You gotta play the cards you’re dealt, right?

So, picture me, if you can, naked and dripping and shivering cold, standing at my dresser, with the top drawer open to reveal a dozen or more pairs of boxers.

(And if you can picture that — and are willing to do so — well, you’ve got more problems than I can help you with. Seek professional help immediately, dude. Like, a frickin’ priest or something. I don’t know what’s in you, but get it out. Now.)

Anyway, I finally picked out a pair that I thought gave me the best chance to be funny tonight, and I slapped ’em on. And then the socks, and a favorite T-shirt. Next came the jeans — not the tight ones, or the ones that are still too dark and new-looking, and not the pair of my wife’s that I pulled from her dirty laundry basket. (Those are just for sniffing… oh, right, like you don’t do that, too. Uh-huh.) No, I picked out the bestest pair, and put those on, and then found a nice rugby to complete the outfit. It’s even Syracuse colors — orange and navy. Woo hoo!

Ten minutes it took me to go through this nonsense. That’s ten minutes that I could have spent sleeping, or reading, or… I don’t know, trying (again) to figure out how the hell the dog manages to lick herself. Seriously, do dogs just have no frickin’ spines or what? Damn!

What was I saying? Crotch-licking always makes me lose my place.

(Hey, if you don’t believe me, give it a try sometime. You’ll see.)

Anyway. I finally put my ensemble together, and got ready to leave the house. I don’t know whether it was any good fashion-wise, but it made me happy. Soon, you can see for yourself — I’ll have the tape of tonight’s standup show online, and you can critique my wardrobe to your heart’s content. And now that I’m in between shows again… I really don’t give a damn! Woo! Things are back to normal, and that’s ten more minutes of sleep I’ll get tomorrow. Score!

III. The Bother, Or the ‘Frostbitten Ass Cheeks’ Thing? Ooh, Decisions, Decisions…

So, I’m not a fan of wearing coats. As I’ve mentioned before, I just don’t like having to deal with the damned thing all day, in return for a few seconds of having it actually do its job and keep me warm. At least, that’s how I used to feel.

Now, of course, I’m parking in a different frigging time zone than my office, and so I’ve got a bit of a stroll on my hands in the mornings, and again in the evenings. And, in case you missed it, it’s winter now, so it’s a tad uncomfortable to be making the trek sans jacket.

And so, today, for the first time in many moons, I tracked down my winter coat, and wore it to work. This is a major milestone for me, folks. Really, I don’t like lugging the thing around. It seems to puff up somehow when I’m driving, so I look — and feel — like the damned Michelin man in my car. I’m always forgetting the damned thing — leaving it at work, or dropping it on a bus, or draping it around some streaker and then absent-mindedly walking off without it.

(Yeah, okay, on second thought, that’s the one time when I don’t want it back. Ew.)

But today, the coat would not be denied. I very nearly froze my nipples off walking to the car without it last night, so I knew that I had to take it with me today, no matter how inconvenient. Hey, look, people — my nipples were at stake. You don’t screw around when it’s your nipples on the line. That ain’t right.

So, I took the coat. And what’s more, I wore the coat. (But not in the car. I got enough problems.) And, to its credit, it did keep me — and my tender nipples — moderately warmer as I trekked to the office, and later, back to my car. So I suppose it was all worth it. Until I leave the thing lying around somewhere and lose it, that is. Then I’ll have to buy another one, and the whole stupid cycle will begin anew. Ugh. I don’t know if I have the patience.

But for now, I’m gonna wear the thing, and save my nipples out there in the harsh elements. But right now, I’ve just returned from my show. I’ve got a clip ready to be watched, and even some big news from the aftermath! But I’m too pooped to go through all that now, so you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow, I’m afraid. Don’t worry — I’ll get to you. I just need a few hours of shuteye first.

So, I’m gonna strip off my ‘lucky outfit’, right down to my comedic skivvies, and dress back up in the sweats-and-sweats outfit I wore to bed last night. And then, I’m gonna crawl under the covers and pray to every deity I’ve ever heard of to keep me warm and toasty through the night. I really never thought it would come to this, and yet here I am — dressing up for bed like I was going out tobogganning or something. How the hell did this happen? I want my life back, dammit! Somebody get me warm!

Anybody Wanna Help Me Staple a Pillow to a Wall?

Holy chocolate crapsicles, is it cold! Damn!

I had no idea it was gonna be fricking freezing today. And it’s not just cold outside — nuh-uh. My house is cold, my office is cold, and — make no mistake, people — my crotch is cold.

Look, I hate to be indelicate, but the only time I could feel my testicles on the outside today was in the car, on the way home from work.

(Because, as you may remember, my car doubles as an industrial flamethrower. You know, as opposed to the recreational ‘throwers we all grew up with, and kept under our pillows. Ah, good times. Singed eyebrows… but good times.)

Anyway, the little fellas finally came out to say ‘hello’ a few blocks from home. It took me off guard, to tell the truth. There was kind of a rumble, and then a double bump-bump, and out they came, with an audible *ploop*. I didn’t know what the hell it was. I thought I’d run over a couple of squirrels or something. It was freaky.

And, I’m sorry to say, my reunion with the ‘boys down under’ didn’t last long. One step into the cold wintry air, and up they went again, nestling themselves somewhere in my ribcage. I’m afraid to cough too hard, frankly. I might accidentally shoot ‘Lefty’ across the room. And he’s the smart one — I can’t afford to lose him. He’s basically running the circus down there.

All of which is to say — rather longly and lewdly — that it’s freaking damned cold around here. Seriously. Cold. Really.

So, let’s see — that’s probably enough talk about my genitals.

(For now, at least. You folks need a breather now and then.)

So what other trouble can I get into? Let’s see…

Well, for one thing, I’ve been contemplating my eventual accidental death at the hands of my staircase. It’s a straight set of steps — that means it doesn’t curve, by the way, or take a turn along the way; it doesn’t mean that it’s not a ‘gay’ set of steps.

(And maybe it is — how the hell would you tell? A rainbow-colored runner down the middle? Frilly lace on the bannisters? No idea.)

Anyway, about halfway down the flight, the wall drops down to meet the ceiling of the lower floor. It’s tough to estimate exactly how far away that hunk of wall is from the ground there, with the steps at different levels and all, but it’s pretty obvious that the minimum clearance is somewhere around six feet. And I’m six-foot-three, if that tells you anything about the anxiety this staircase is causing me.

So far, I’ve managed to remember to duck just a bit, or to put out my hands to catch myself on the upcoming wall, and slide my head underneath. But one day — one tragic, yet inevitable, day — it’ll happen. I’ll bound down the stairs in a rush, or I’ll be carrying a bunch of laundry, or distracted by some shiny object or naked ass (real or imagined), and I’ll solidly bonk my head on that damned wall, quite possibly knocking my brain out of my head in the process.

Now, you may be saying to yourself:

‘Hey. Look, Charlie — you seem like a smart enough guy. Don’t you think you can manage to do this one thing reliably? Seriously, how hard could it be?‘

To which I would say, ‘Smart? Smart?! You really haven’t been reading this dogflop, have you?‘ But, leaving your poor judgement of mental capabilities aside, I’d also concede that it seems easy to simply not hit your head on the stupid wall. And, in any given instance, it is pretty simple. But those eensy-weensy chances of perma-denting the old forehead tend to add up, and it’s just a matter of time until I bonk myself silly. Which is way worse than boinking myself silly. Seriously, who couldn’t use a good boinking now and then, hmmm?

But there’s one other thing that positively convinces me that I’m destined to head-butt that wall one day — it’s happened before.

Yes, that’s right, folks — there’s precedence for this sort of brainless braining. I haven’t danced with this particular stairway, but I’ve been down that road before. Oh, yes, and I’ve got the poor memory and dysfunctional social skills to prove that something happened to my brain along the way. I choose to blame a run-in with a similar staircase in my youth.

(Hey, mom said she was off the sauce and the smokes by the third trimester. That’s probably fine, right? Um, right? What was I talking about again?)

Anyway, I’m pretty sure speed-bumping my head against a doorway when I was ten or so didn’t exactly help anything. I mean, I’m no fancy head doctor or anything, but I’ve been told that teeth-jarring blunt head trauma isn’t exactly the best way to keep your marbles in place. I forget who told me that, though — it may well have been a giant invisible rabbit. Or Tinkerbell. Anything’s possible, when you live in my world.

As for the actual cranium crushing itself, there’s really not much to tell. Like I said, I was ten or so years old, and I was bounding down the narrow stairwell that led from the attic to the second floor of our house. I can’t remember now why I was in such a hurry — maybe the phone was ringing, or a good cartoon was about to come on. Maybe I’d just discovered the neat tricks my penis could do, and I was running to tell my folks. Who knows — I can’t remember anything that happened before the accident, so it could be anything. Ask Harvey, or Tink. They probably know.

Anyway, there I came, hoop-te-dooing down the stairs. ‘Dum de dum de dum.’ Or something like that — I always was a hummer.

(Yes, there’s a joke in there somewhere about a hummer. But it’s probably at my expense, so I’m moving on. Catch up when you’re ready, folks.)

So, *hop hop hop* down the stairs, easy as she goes. I hit the next-to-last step and pushed off, reaching for the floor, and — bam! I slammed into the top of the doorway, right at eyebrow level. That was bad enough, of course. But to add just a pinch of pissy to the experience, the blow dropped me on my ass on the third stair, and I slid the rest of the way down on my backside. The whole thing probably sounded something like this:

*THWACK!!!*

‘Ungh!‘

*plop* *boogity boogity boogity thud*

‘Ow. That’s gonna hu — Oh holy fuck! OUCH!‘

Anyway, once I could see straight again — the next winter, I think it was — I shook off the cobwebs, dusted myself off, and was right as rain. Of course, I forgot what the hell I was running for in the first place. (But it obviously wasn’t for a bathroom emergency, or I’d have left a trail of some kind on the way down the stairs. And I didn’t — really, I checked. Lots of pain, but no stain. Miracles do happen, it turns out.

In any case, that’s how I know I’m gonna eat it some day on the stairs here in the house. If it happened back then, it’s almost surely gonna happen again. Seriously, I haven’t gotten any smarter since then — it’s even reasonable to assume that I lost a few IQ points that afternoon. They might still be lying there in the upstairs hallway, for all I know. Maybe the people living there now will send them to me. That might come in handy, next time I need to win an argument, or talk my way out of a traffic ticket. Maybe I’ll look into that.

Now, if I could just remember the address of the house where I lived for eighteen years. Um… uh… guh. Shit. I guess that was part of what got knocked out. Dammit!