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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Well, this isn’t good.
I just used the last scrap of toilet paper in the whole house.
(Well, honestly, the last scrap and a couple of the next-to-last scraps, too. I don’t want you to think I just used a half a square and called my ass ‘clean’. I’m an optimist, but I’m a little better than that.)
Frankly, I wasn’t sure that there was enough left to, um, do the job I needed done. But luckily, there was just enough to use, without resorting to anything ‘creative’. Which is a relief. I don’t know how the hell I’d have explained that kind of stain on the shower curtain.
‘Well, gee, honey, I don’t know how the dog got it all the way up there. Maybe… um, maybe she stood on the sink? I dunno. Bad dog!‘
Anyway, the immediate crisis is over, but there’s still trouble brewing. I’m just about to leave the house to play volleyball, and I won’t be back for three hours. In the meantime, my wife will come home, and — who knows? — just might have the ‘urge to purge’, derriere-style. And as far as I know, she’s unaware of our current predicament. Hell, I didn’t know we were down to the last roll either, until I looked around for something to replace the empty with. But since I’m the one who took the last sheets, it’s gonna be my ass that’s in hot water over this.
(Well, in the literal sense, it might just be my wife’s. If she can’t find any suitable ass-paper substitute, she might just have to hop in the shower, and wash it all down the drain. I don’t even want to think about the tub ring that would leave. Ick. But it’s my ass that’s gonna get in trouble, that much is for sure.)
Maybe I can find something to put in the bathroom to help her before I leave. Some sort of emergency TP substitute. But what’s best? Kleenex? Too wispy. There’s always the chance that stuff will rip and tear, and you’ll end up with your bare fingers all up in your bidness. I don’t think I could do that to her.
(Plus, she might save it, and try to wipe it on me when I come home, just to teach me a lesson. She’s crafty like that.)
So what else? Paper towels? Maybe. I bet that Brawny guy wouldn’t look so fucking smug if he knew what I was thinking of doing with his precious towels. Still, those things could get awfully rough. It’s not quite like using sandpaper on your backside, but I imagine there’d be some chafing involved. Perhaps not something I want to burden my sweetie with. Especially since we all know who’d have to kiss that shit and make it better. I think I kiss my wife’s ass quite enough as it is, thank you very much.
(Just kidding, honey pie. Love you!)
Well, shit. Now I gotta go, and I’m no closer to a solution. What can I put in there? A notebook? Wrapping paper? A Post-It pad? I’m at a loss. Damn.
So, I guess I’m gonna go, and just let her wing it. Hopefully, she’ll see the problem before any unpleasantness happens. And now that I know, I’ll stop off on the way home and grab a couple of rolls. You know, a sort of peace offering, in case she ends up having to do something regrettable before I get back.
I just hope it doesn’t come to that. I actually like the shower curtain we have now. I’d hate to have to throw it out. Yuck.
Permalink | No CommentsI was visited by a chimney cleaner today.
He didn’t actually do any work, but he took a look around and gave me some estimates on shit that we should have done before winter sets in. It was pretty informative; my wife and I moved in here in April, and have never had a working fireplace of our own before. So it was good to pick up a few tidbits of information about the thing before giving it a test run.
(Like which end the wood goes into — I was so not looking forward to climbing up on the roof and dropping logs down the chimney, too. So it’s a relief to know that you stick ’em in the bottom end. I guess I should have known, really. Where else would you find logs but in a bottom?)
Anyway, it was good that I was expecting him. He seemed like a nice guy, but he was frickin’ huge. And sooty, of course, as he’d already had a couple of appointments earlier in the day. So I think I might have been a little taken aback if I’d gotten off the couch to see who was at the door, and have this big hulking filthy dude say,
‘Yo, I’m gonna clean your chimney, man.‘
And by ‘little taken aback’, I really mean ‘scared out of my fucking mind’. I’ve seen prison movies. I think I’d have just screamed like a girl, and tried to escape through my back door before he could… um, escape into my back door, if you get my connotataries. You won’t catch me squealin’ like a pig. Uh-uh.
But, luckily, I knew what he was really there for, and so I showed him around the place. And he was cool, and very specific about what we needed, so I didn’t have anything to worry about, after all.
(Sure, he may bend us over and stick it to us when it gets down to prices, but that’s different. This is Boston. Everybody gets the proverbial shaft on shit like this around here. It’s kind of expected.)
So, we’ll call him back in a week or so, once we’ve decided how much work we need to have done right now.
(Which means, how much work we can afford to have done, and still eat people food for our meals. The dog didn’t appreciate it when we bought our car, and had to dig into her kibble because we were so poor for a while. On the other hand, it wasn’t all that bad. That shit tastes like chicken. Who’da thunk it?)
Anyway, we’ll soon have a fully-functional fireplace, and just in time for winter. The ‘sweeps’ will be back soon to scrub our chimney, and grease our flues, and all sorts of other suggestive-sounding shit like that. I’m strangely excited just thinking about it. Of course, if the dude shows up next time with flowers, or friggin’ candy, I’m still running the other way. He may be a nice guy, but in my fireplace, the logs come out of the bottom, not the other way around. I ain’t got that kind of ‘chimney’, understand?
Permalink | No CommentsMy wife and I play little games sometimes.
(And before you get all lubed and bothered, I don’t mean that kind of game. You’re not gonna hear about me putting her in fuzzy handcuffs, or us trying to bump uglies at a table in the back of Denny’s, or me strapping a carrot onto my nose so we can ‘do it snowman-style’. None of that, all right? Just forget it.
Of course, I won’t say that we don’t do any of those things — you know, in case that sort of thing would raise your opinion of me — but I’m not gonna write about it. So don’t get your hopes up.
Besides, I don’t even know where to buy a carrot-strap, anyway. Frederick’s of Hollywood? Stop ‘n’ Shop? Who sells shit like that?)
So, anyway, the games we play. I should also mention that these aren’t ‘mind games’, either. Well, in a sense, they are — you’ll see — but they’re not the malicious, important types of things that some couples engage in. We don’t hold the others’ parents, or past relationships, or shit like that over the other’s head. We’re not mean, or spiteful, or generally even snippy.
(Okay, so if I have to get up before ten am or so, I do get a little cranky. I’d tell Mother Theresa to go stick her head up her ass before I get my head on straight in the morning. And my wife can be a little grumpy on the other end of the day, if you keep her up past eleven or so. But for those thirteen hours or so in the middle, we’re just peachy. Couple of freakin’ lovebirds, we are.)
Instead, we’re mischievous. We play little games, just to keep things interesting, keep us both on our toes. I’ll give you an example.
(‘Cause otherwise, all this setup is just crap, right?)
My favorite thing we play is the ‘Ice Cube Game‘.
(And if I didn’t manage to clear out all you pervs earlier, I’ll say right up front that this is not the 9 1/2 Weeks ‘ice cube game’. So keep your goodies in your pants out there. This is not that kind of blog. Not today, anyway. We’ll see how I feel tomorrow.)
Anyway, how the Ice Cube Game works is this: we’ve got two ice trays. They each hold something like fourteen or sixteen cubes, and they sit side by side in the freezer. They’re the only source of ice for drinks in the house.
So, the object of the game is to avoid filling the ice trays. And the rules say that if you empty a tray, you have to fill it. And so the goal is to use as many cubes as necessary for your drink, but not to use the last cub e in a tray. So there’s some strategy to think about here.
Clearly, when both trays — or even one tray, really — are full, there’s no issue. We simply don’t have the kinds of glasses that would need sixteen ice cubes all at once, so a full tray is absolutely safe. No worries there.
(Though I do often wish that we had those big mega-glasses lying around. Like a ‘yard glass’, or one of those beach-ball sized ‘scorpion bowls’. Who wouldn’t want a yard of margarita, or a custom-made scorpion bowl? How cool would it be to just dump six shots of every alcohol you have in the house into one glass, toss in a couple of pounds of ice, spritz it with some fruit juice, and settle in for the evening sitcoms? Now that would take the edge off a hard day at the office. It might force you to miss the next three days while you recover, but still — that might not be a bad thing, either. I think I’m onto something here…)
The challenge comes when the trays are half-full or less. Maybe I need six cubes for my glass, and I find the trays mostly empty. Fine. All I need is a few cubes in each tray — I’ll take three from each, and just hope to hell my wife needs ice again before I do. Or I’ll mostly raid the tray that’s more full, and just take one or two from the other. Whatever the situation calls for. You’ve got to be crafty to win at this game.
And I’ll say this: I’m a competitive person. I hate to lose. I’ll give 110 percent, and then dig deep for more, in order to win in some sport or game. But this game, the Ice Cube Game? Well, I’m sorry to report that my wife kicks my ass at this game. Regularly. With gusto. It’s not even close.
You see, she’s willing to go further than I am to win. Me, if I’m thirsty, I’ll go to the cabinet where we keep the glasses, and I’ll pick one out. Small glass for small thirst, big glass for big thirst. Pretty simple. So, I might need anywhere from three to eight cubes of ice, depending on what I’ve selected. Then, I go to the icebox to see what I’m facing.
I’m convinced, however, that my wife does it in reverse.
(Not a sexual euphemism, by the way. Didn’t I shoo you perverts off already?)
I think she goes to the freezer when she wants a drink, and then picks out a glass that needs just a couple of cubes less than what’s available. Or she eschews ice entirely. Or maybe she drops a few cubes down the sink just for the hell of it when she’s done, I don’t know.
All I know for sure is this — about three-quarters of the times that I dig into the freezer for some ice, I find no more than two cubes in each tray. Two. And more often than I would’ve thought possible, I’m staring at the ultimate screw job: one cube per tray. So if I want to have hot Pepsi, or I’m interested in drinking from a frigging shot glass, I’m fine. But if I want to actually use the glass that I’ve already picked out, the one I’m holding in my hand, then I’ve got to use the ice that’s there, and fill the fricking trays. Both of them, too. I don’t know how the hell she does it.
So, anyway, that’s our little game. Maybe you can play this one at home yourself. Hopefully, you’ll have better luck than I do. Or you’ll just buy a few more stupid ice trays and never have to worry about it so often. Hell, forget that — just get one of those fancy ice-making fridges, and be done with the whole sorry mess. Sure, the cubes end up tasting like plastic, but you’ll never have to fill a tray again. I think it’s a small price to pay, personally. Sure as hell beats going 3-159 in a game you play in your own damned kitchen. Even the Tigers had a better record than that.
Permalink | No CommentsSo, at the risk of alienating some many even more of you, I have a confession to make.
I’m not rooting for the Cubs. I’m simply not doing it.
I know, I know, the Cubbies are the en vogue underdogs to cheer for, the feel-good saccharine du jour. Well, I say poop on that party. Poop, poop, and poop some more. Poop till you droop. I’m a big Poopenheimer, and I’m not afraid to admit it.
Now, I don’t want you to think that this is some sort of ‘sour grapes’ thing, either. Don’t give me that crap. Yes, I am an Atlanta Braves fan, and yes, the Cubs did eliminate the Braves in the NLDS. They found a way to beat a Braves club that finally showed up in the playoffs with some offensive firepower, who had team speed, and a great closer. Those little upstart Cubs were somehow able to overcome all of that, and outpitch Atlanta, a feat nearly unthinkable for a decade or more. Those… those… fucking bastards sent home a team that’s won a dozen division titles in a row, and that may finally be dismantled in the offseason, plunging them into ‘rebuilding mode’, when this — this — was to be their year, their time in the sun. Those goddamned Cubs — who the hell do they think they are? — have ruined everything! Bastards!! Douchebags!! Those asswipe freaking no-talent, ivy-lovin’, goofy-looking —
Um… ahem. Perhaps I should start that paragraph again. Er, yeah. Let’s try that again. Ahem.
Now, I don’t want you to think that this is some sort of ‘sour grapes’ thing, either.
(Oh, no, never.)
Seriously, though, I just don’t get any kind of vibe from the Cubs. Think about the teams left in the playoffs — the Cubs, the Marlins, the Red Sox, and the Yankees. What do you think of when you think of each team? Let’s take a stroll through them, shall we?
New York Yankees — This is the easiest one. You either love them or hate them.
(Of course, if you live outside the Bronx, then you have to be a sadistic babybeating slutmonkey to love them, but that’s another matter. I, uh, don’t have any ‘sour grapes’ over them, either. Ahem.)
But you can’t deny that the Yankees have a vibe. Brash, cocky, confident — they definitely have an aura surrounding the team and the uniform.
(The bastards.)
Boston Red Sox — Now, I’m a little biased here, because I live in Boston, and cheer heartily for them. But even outside the area, I have to believe that the BoSox mystique is well-known. Sure, they’re defined more than they should really appreciate by their second-fiddle status viz a viz the Yankees. But they’ve got more than that. This incarnation of the Sox is scrappy — Trot Nixon and Jason Varitek and Todd Walker are dirtmonkeys — baseball versions of the workaholic, dedicated ‘gym rats’ that basketball boasts.
And they’re quirky — which is about the nicest thing you can say about the clip of Kevin Millar getting his groove on that’s played during a late-inning rally at Fenway, or the ‘Cowboy Up’ slogan that’s got ten-gallon hats littering the stands now. But at least they’re trying — they even shaved their heads like some college hoops squad or fraternity pledge class trying to show solidarity. Like ’em or not, they’ve got personality.
Florida Marlins — To me, these guys are the real underdogs this year. Sure, the Cubs — or possibly the Red Sox — hold that distinction historically, but these guys were left for dead at midseason. There were too many good teams in the National League for the Marlins — who didn’t win even half their games last year — to squeak into the playoffs. But squeak they did, and then they roared, as they knocked off the San Francisco Giants. Plus, they’re fun to watch. They have tremendous speed, stealing more bases than any team in baseball this year. There’s always a hit-and-run or a double steal, or a runner scoring all the way from first. It’s exciting, risky, and nerve-wracking. What’s not to like?
Chicago Cubs — Now, certainly, I have to concede the historical aspect. The Cubs are the ‘lovable losers’ that makes them attractive to a lot of people. And Wrigley Field is practically a shrine; I’ve watched a game there, and it truly is spectacular. I’ll even admit that Mark Prior and Kerry Wood are fun to watch, and have electric ‘stuff’.
(Not ‘junk’, ’cause I don’t know about that. ‘Stuff‘ is what we’re talking about here. Keep your mind out of the gutter.)
But what about the days when they’re not pitching? What about the team as a whole? What kind of vibe do they give off?
Well, as far as I can tell — none, really. Sure, there’s Sammy. Everybody loves Sammy, though his halo did get a bit tarnished with that whole corked-bat fiasco earlier this year. But he’s still an icon; no denying that. To me, though, the essence of a team is not the star power of their big player or two — the Braves to me aren’t Greg Maddux and Chipper Jones; those guys are sort of ‘givens’, who’ll produce more often than not and quietly go about their business. The Braves are cannon-armed Rafael Furcal, and scrappy Marcus Giles, and enigmatic Andruw Jones. Similarly, the Mets aren’t all about Mike Piazza. The really interesting players are the fringe guys — Joe McEwing and Ty Wigginton and Jae Weong Seo. The up-and-coming stars, or the guys fighting to stick around another year, or the players who’ve found their niche, and are working day and night to perfect it.
And that’s where I get nothing from the Cubs. Once you get past Wood and Sosa (the superstars) and Prior (one legitimate phenom), what’s left? A bunch of castoffs and spare parts from other teams, as far as I can tell. A bunch of has-beens and barely-wases that nobody else wanted. And maybe that’s enough for a lot of folks — they’re the ‘hodgepodge kids’, scrapping their way into the playoffs. For me, though, it’s just not that interesting. I’ve watched Eric Karros hit .280 for ten years with the Dodgers, and Doug Glanville hit .260 for five with the Phillies. Grudzielanek, Miller, Remlinger, Lofton, Ramirez and Simon — all of these guys, and others, have just been glommed onto the team, stuck to Sammy and Kerry and made to fit.
See, if the Cubs are all about history and tradition, then I’m just not seeing very much of that in their current lineup. I had a whole different opinion of them, back in the day. Mark Grace and Shawon Dunston abd Ryne Sandberg — now those were Cubs! They were steeped in the waters of Cubbiehood, and soaked it all up and asked for more. Those were ‘lovable losers’ I could root for. These Rent-a-Cubs just aren’t the same. Most of them have never even spent one miserable offseason wishing their Cubs could have made the playoffs; what the hell kind of Cubbies are those?
So, I’m sticking with the Red Sox all the way. And if they lose, I’m picking the Marlins. The Yankees can go sit on pointy sticks, and I just can’t get into the Cubs. Everybody else seems to be able to, but not me. I like to think that I take a deeper look at important issues like these, a more cerebral approach. A reasoned approach.
Yeah, you’re right. It’s pretty much just sour grapes. Damn those Cubbies!
Permalink | 2 CommentsFinally.
After three long months — and landing a new job — I finally had the day I should have been having throughout my unemployment this summer. It seems I even procrastinate about the good things, too. I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with me.
But at least I finally got it right. I got up and got some things accomplished. In this case, I went to a meeting for my new job, to get ‘acclimated’ into the workplace a little early.
(Or was that ‘assimilated’? ‘Aggravated’? I can’t remember. So maybe it was ‘Alzheimersated’. Who knows?)
By noon, I was done. By one-thirty, I was on a golf course, playing a few holes with a friend of mine playing hooky from work.
(Speaking of which, have you ever noticed how many good things start with ‘hook’? There’s ‘hooky’, and ‘hookah’, and even ‘hookers’. When you love doing something, you’re ‘hooked’. When you get your gullible friend to do something stupid, you say he went for your gag ‘hook, line, and sinker’. Really, I’m beginning to think there’s nothing bad that starts with ‘hook’.
Makes me want to try one of those ‘hookworms’ all the kids are raving about these days. Might be fun.)
Anyway, I played like shit, but that’s pretty standard. (You may remember my earlier diatribe on how much golf sucks, and I suck at it. If not, then fricking go read it. How dare you forget my shit so quickly?) Still, it was a damned fine way to spend an afternoon. After nine holes, it was back to the pro shop for a beer — hey, we had to have something to cry in about our ineptitude out there — and then back home.
Just in time, as it happens, to turn right around and hit a local watering hole and watch the Red Sox beat those damned Yankees. A couple more beers, some good food, and a Boston win. Nothing could be finer. And there’s none of this ‘getting up early’ shit going on tomorrow, so I can sleep as long as I damned well please. I love it when a plan comes together.
I just have one question — where the hell was this shit in June? Or July, or August, or even September? What the hell is wrong with me? I spent more weekdays this summer mowing the goddamned grass than I did playing golf! I mean, I know I’m old, but when did I become clinically retarded? Can I have a do-over for the summer? Please?
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