I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I have two cats, Moe and Murphy, a male and a female. Up until we moved to California, they were pretty normal cats. In fact, they were very friendly to anyone that came over to visit. They would jump up on a chair or a table to sniff the hand of the person that was visiting. People would comment about how cool my cats were. I couldn't agree more. They weren't like a lot of cats that I've know, mean.
Well all of that changed once we moved to California. We started to see subtle and not-so-subtle changes in the cats. I would walk out of our California apartment and Murphy would mew pitifully until I walked back inside. Moe, on the other hand, was worse. He started to become very clingy. Moe would often and by often I mean every freaking night, sit out in the hallway of our tiny apartment and just meow over and over until we either played with him or came to show him some attention. Sometimes, Laura would have to sleep on the couch with her arm on him to keep him quiet.
She remarked with much disdain, "Moe had to be near his Mommy!"
Laura called the local vet and asked her if there was anything that we could do. The vet listened to the situation and was clueless. She remarked that it sounded like Moe suffered from separation anxiety, which usually only occurs in dogs. The vet also suggested that we send Moe to a pet therapist at UC Davis for further study if we wanted some help with the situation. A cat with separation anxiety?
Laura wasn't that happy with the situation, but what could we do? Usually, playing with him and Murphy, but mainly Moe, would suffice. Laura would often ask while working her night shift if I played with the cats, which I usually didn't forget. The nights I did would be hell as Moe would revert to his meowing. In our tiny apartment, there was no place to put him when he's been bad. Now we just throw him out in our sunroom and let him out in the morning. Problem solved.
There is a problem we do have with the cats that we may never solve. They've gotten very vicious when it comes to strangers, friend and relatives. Usually, it's someone that they can tell is a dog lover.
We'll have parties and Moe will station himself on a chair or a table so that when people have to walk by him to go to the bathroom, he'll hiss and bare his fangs, which usually scares the shit out of the people walking by.
A few years ago, we went to visit some old friends in San Francisco and we asked our friend Jeff to come over every other day to give the cats food and water. He said no problem. I called him up and asked him if he'd been watching the cats.
He remarked, "Not so good. I had to have Angela (his wife at the time) come over and help me."
"What? You're kidding."
"No, I'm not kidding," Jeff said. "From the moment I walked in the door, they started to chase me around the apartment. The more I moved away from them, the more they chased me. I was really scared and freaked out so I ran out of the house and returned with Angela. I'm jumping everytime they hissed and me and she's like 'Come on! They're just cats you freak!'"
Since then, we've known that we've had a problem with the cats. We were a little aware of their disdain for strangers, which is why we had a screen door on Julia's room for the first three years of her life. It didn't take long for the cats to warm up to Julia. Now Moe follows her around like a puppy, but we were worried he would have a problem with the new member of the household and then we'd have to get rid of him.
Currently, we're having a problem with the cats because we're trying to sell our house.
When you have pets and you're trying to see your home, it's common practice that you put the pets in a cage or just out of the way. We do have that large pet carrier that will fit both of them comfortably, but it's a nightmare to use. I usually have to turn the carrier on it's end so the door is in the air, then I have to grab Moe, the least docile of the two cats, and put him in the carrier first. Then I grab Murphy, the cat that is very likely to scratch the living shit out of you by her flailing hind legs and shove her in the carrier. It works, but we think it's a little cruel to expect them to be there for a two-hour period while we're waiting for house lookers to come through, so we ended up putting them in the garage.
Laura put up a note explaining to the realtors and house lookers that the cats were in the garage on the front door. It worked well for a few days, but then Laura got an unexpected call after she had gone to work. A realtor had wanted to show the house to some clients, but the cats were not put away. Laura warned them that the cats were out, but the realtor decided to take her chances.
I come home and the following note is posted on the door:
"We came through your house and the cats were not in the garage as your note said. They followed us around the house until we were cornered in the basement. :-) After they showed us their fangs and charged at us, we decided not to risk it and we left through your garage. Great guard cats! :-) Sorry if we left any of your lights on."
I had to laugh when I read that note because I could just imagine them being all fierce and intimidating. Keep in mind, these cats have no front claws so the worst they could do is to bite you, which they sometimes do, but it's just a nip.
Julia will sometimes come downstairs after bedtime to express her disapproval with Moe. It usually goes like, "Daddy, Moe bit me (shows me an invisible mark on her arm which probably was the result of her being too rough with Moe). I want him out of my room!"
I follow her upstairs to her room. Moe is usually lying on the end of the bed.
"Moe is fine." I tell her. "He's calmed down and he's resting."
"No. I want him out!" Julia defiantly says while pointing towards her door. So I grab the protesting Moe and through his ass out, which makes Julia happy.
The next day after the fiasco with the realtor, we had another fiasco with our realtor open house. I had taken down the note that the cats were in the garage because of the note written on the other side, but I forgot to leave another note telling people not to let the cats in. Of course, one of the realtors opened the garage screen door and let the cats into the house. They were enraged that strangers were in the house and the realtors fled in horror, thereby canceling the open house.
Now, we have put a lock on the garage screen door so that people can look out and the cats can't be let out.
Still, I sometimes wish my cats were back to the way they used to be, when they actively liked any strangers. While any burglars that makes the mistake of breaking in my house will be surprised by attacking cats, it's far less annoying to have cats that don't attack.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
If you use something you pay for, then that's being cheap dammit...
Sunday was Father's Day, which is a holiday that always gets the shaft.
Someone told me that they read that Father's Day has about 2 billion dollars less purchases than Mother's Day does, which I suppose makes sense. After all, Moms are more apt to get flowers on their holiday than Dads. It's kind of hard to find a manly bouquet that would say "I love you Dad, but not in that way." I suppose it could be a manly plant like a cactus with some tools stuff all around it, but I digress...
Back to yesterday...
Laura was home from work on a small vacation, so we decided that we were going to use our YMCA membership and go swimming. Rather, Julia and I would go swimming while Laura works out.
Last week, I had invited Bill and his daughter, Tess, to swim with Julia and I. Tess seemed to really have fun so I thought I'd invite him again.
Bill said that he's think about it, but that he'd rather go to Star City Shores, the big public water park because Tess had fun when she went the day before with Bill's wife, Audrey. (I needed to mention why he wanted to go to Star City Shores since Bill often accuses me of writing one sided pieces about him)
Near the end of the conversation, Bill asks me why I want to go to the YMCA pool.
"Because we pay for it and we don't have to pay anything extra to go swimming."
Bill replies, "And because you're cheap."
"No, because I pay for the membership anyway, so I feel I need to use it."
Bill said that he'd think about it, but him calling me cheap really got me steamed. Yes, it's true that I am little thrifty with my money, but I think he's really exaggerating the point. It's not like I'm buying generic pop or non-Heinz ketchup. I don't. I have digital cable with DVR capability and I gladly pay for it. It's not like I'm like Laura's grandparents who never had pop in their house, who never stop to eat lunch when they go on a trip (they pack sandwiches). However, if they do stop for lunch, they split the meal. This is from when they grew up in the Great Depression, so of course they have the habit to be thrifty.
I suppose you could argue that I am cheap when it comes to spontaneously doing something. That's probably because I have a certain amount of money allocated for a certain pay period that I keep track of in my head and if I've already gone over that or am near it, I may not want to shell out more money. Is that so wrong?
Well, if you want me to be fair, I HAVE been known to be very late on paying people back, but then demanding immediate payment when people have to pay me back.
And I SUPPOSE you could say that when I have to pay people back that I have been known to pay them in payments of lunches here and there to repay my debt.
I mean, who among us hasn't been cheap every now and then?
And if digging through a garbage dumpster for a federal tax return check that my wife threw away because she thought it was junkmail makes me cheap, then I guess I am cheap (I didn't even find that stupid check anyway. Thanks, Laura).
So Bill calls me back a little while later to tell me that he's still thinking about it.
"So you called me to tell me that you're still thinking about it?"
"Yeah, because I'd rather go to Star City Shores."
"That's fine," I say, "but we've already planned on going to the Y."
"Look, if it's because you're a cheap ass, I could pay for you to get into Star City Shores."
I begin to get a little irritated at this point. Bill wanted me to point that out since he's usually the one mad in my stories.
He tells me how much it costs to get in for an adult and a child, but I can't let the cheap comment go.
"Bill, let me ask you. You have HBO right? (which I already know that he does.)."
"Right."
"What's on this month?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what movies are on this month?"
"I don't know."
"Okay, then what's the last movie you remember watching on HBO."
"Umm, I don't know. 'Surviving Christmas'. Why?"
"Well, why didn't you rent it you cheap ass?"
"That is totally not even the same thing?"
"That is so the same thing!" I exclaim.
"How so?"
"Well, you pay for HBO, but if you rented it on DVD you'd see it in wide screen anytime you want, but on HBO you have to wait for it and it's full screen. My point is that you're being cheap because you watched something that you pay for."
"Wow, you are really taking this personally," Bill says.
"Of course I am. Using a membership that you pay for is not being cheap. We pay for a family membership and we're going to use it."
"Fine."
I get off the phone. Laura looks up from the Sunday paper and says, "Your mothers right. Why do you guys have to argue about everything?"
I'm not exactly sure why we always have to argue about everything, but we just do. It's always been in our nature to argue with each other.
I wasn't quite sure how to end this story, but then Bill called yesterday. Laura, Julia and I were coming back from our dinner at Chili's to celebrate Laura and I's eighth wedding anniversary. My meal was pretty good (shrimp, chicken and steak skewers), but Laura was less than enthusiastic about her chicken quesadillas.
So Bill calls and I answer it. We start to reminisce about the Family Guy like we always do when he asks what I was doing.
"We're on our way back from Chili's."
"Oh, any good?"
"Well," I say matter-of-factly, "I had the corn dog kids meal. It was okay."
"Really?" he says a little disbelieving.
"Yeah. Then Laura and I shared a drink."
"Are you... are you serious?" he asks in disbelief.
"Yeah, I'm serious."
"OH! Because you're cheap!" he exclaims while laughing.
"Ri-ight!"
Someone told me that they read that Father's Day has about 2 billion dollars less purchases than Mother's Day does, which I suppose makes sense. After all, Moms are more apt to get flowers on their holiday than Dads. It's kind of hard to find a manly bouquet that would say "I love you Dad, but not in that way." I suppose it could be a manly plant like a cactus with some tools stuff all around it, but I digress...
Back to yesterday...
Laura was home from work on a small vacation, so we decided that we were going to use our YMCA membership and go swimming. Rather, Julia and I would go swimming while Laura works out.
Last week, I had invited Bill and his daughter, Tess, to swim with Julia and I. Tess seemed to really have fun so I thought I'd invite him again.
Bill said that he's think about it, but that he'd rather go to Star City Shores, the big public water park because Tess had fun when she went the day before with Bill's wife, Audrey. (I needed to mention why he wanted to go to Star City Shores since Bill often accuses me of writing one sided pieces about him)
Near the end of the conversation, Bill asks me why I want to go to the YMCA pool.
"Because we pay for it and we don't have to pay anything extra to go swimming."
Bill replies, "And because you're cheap."
"No, because I pay for the membership anyway, so I feel I need to use it."
Bill said that he'd think about it, but him calling me cheap really got me steamed. Yes, it's true that I am little thrifty with my money, but I think he's really exaggerating the point. It's not like I'm buying generic pop or non-Heinz ketchup. I don't. I have digital cable with DVR capability and I gladly pay for it. It's not like I'm like Laura's grandparents who never had pop in their house, who never stop to eat lunch when they go on a trip (they pack sandwiches). However, if they do stop for lunch, they split the meal. This is from when they grew up in the Great Depression, so of course they have the habit to be thrifty.
I suppose you could argue that I am cheap when it comes to spontaneously doing something. That's probably because I have a certain amount of money allocated for a certain pay period that I keep track of in my head and if I've already gone over that or am near it, I may not want to shell out more money. Is that so wrong?
Well, if you want me to be fair, I HAVE been known to be very late on paying people back, but then demanding immediate payment when people have to pay me back.
And I SUPPOSE you could say that when I have to pay people back that I have been known to pay them in payments of lunches here and there to repay my debt.
I mean, who among us hasn't been cheap every now and then?
And if digging through a garbage dumpster for a federal tax return check that my wife threw away because she thought it was junkmail makes me cheap, then I guess I am cheap (I didn't even find that stupid check anyway. Thanks, Laura).
So Bill calls me back a little while later to tell me that he's still thinking about it.
"So you called me to tell me that you're still thinking about it?"
"Yeah, because I'd rather go to Star City Shores."
"That's fine," I say, "but we've already planned on going to the Y."
"Look, if it's because you're a cheap ass, I could pay for you to get into Star City Shores."
I begin to get a little irritated at this point. Bill wanted me to point that out since he's usually the one mad in my stories.
He tells me how much it costs to get in for an adult and a child, but I can't let the cheap comment go.
"Bill, let me ask you. You have HBO right? (which I already know that he does.)."
"Right."
"What's on this month?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what movies are on this month?"
"I don't know."
"Okay, then what's the last movie you remember watching on HBO."
"Umm, I don't know. 'Surviving Christmas'. Why?"
"Well, why didn't you rent it you cheap ass?"
"That is totally not even the same thing?"
"That is so the same thing!" I exclaim.
"How so?"
"Well, you pay for HBO, but if you rented it on DVD you'd see it in wide screen anytime you want, but on HBO you have to wait for it and it's full screen. My point is that you're being cheap because you watched something that you pay for."
"Wow, you are really taking this personally," Bill says.
"Of course I am. Using a membership that you pay for is not being cheap. We pay for a family membership and we're going to use it."
"Fine."
I get off the phone. Laura looks up from the Sunday paper and says, "Your mothers right. Why do you guys have to argue about everything?"
I'm not exactly sure why we always have to argue about everything, but we just do. It's always been in our nature to argue with each other.
I wasn't quite sure how to end this story, but then Bill called yesterday. Laura, Julia and I were coming back from our dinner at Chili's to celebrate Laura and I's eighth wedding anniversary. My meal was pretty good (shrimp, chicken and steak skewers), but Laura was less than enthusiastic about her chicken quesadillas.
So Bill calls and I answer it. We start to reminisce about the Family Guy like we always do when he asks what I was doing.
"We're on our way back from Chili's."
"Oh, any good?"
"Well," I say matter-of-factly, "I had the corn dog kids meal. It was okay."
"Really?" he says a little disbelieving.
"Yeah. Then Laura and I shared a drink."
"Are you... are you serious?" he asks in disbelief.
"Yeah, I'm serious."
"OH! Because you're cheap!" he exclaims while laughing.
"Ri-ight!"
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Try explaining the Internet to someone who has never seen it...
I'm reading a new book called "Earlybird: A Memoir of Premature Retirement" by Rodney Rothman.
It's an okay book. There are lots of reviews on the back about how hilarious it is, but mostly it's kind of whimsical and sad. In the book, Rodney retires to a Florida retirement community when he's only 29. He attempts to see what it will be like when he retires. There are a few funny chapters here and there, but mostly I get caught up in the depressing existence of his roommate, who has a parrot that immitates everything and several cats, none of which she's supposed to have.
In the retirement community, he runs into shuffleboard enthusiasts, a 93-year-old retired comedian, WWII vets, volunteer policemen and others. It's kind of sad that he spent this much time kind of pretending to be interested in them when he clearly wasn't. That kind of bothered me.
The book got me thinking about when I was in my second round of college in 97 or 98, I was taking a photojournalism course for my Journalism Graduate Studies program with an emphasis in news editorial. One of our projects was that we were assigned a project for one of the magazines the department put out. This particular magazine dealt with the issue of aging, so my assignment was to follow around a band that goes to nursing homes and plays shows for them.
Naturally, I was very curious about this band. They called themselves Milo and the Clefs. Milo was a 70+ year-old-man who played several instruments (mainly the saxophone). Playing with him were a rag-tag group of musicians who played the accordian, the Clarinet, the keyboards and the drums. They mainly played abbreviated versions of such standards like "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" and "Little Brown Jug" among others.
Long story short, I took pictures of them on two separate occasions. I thought the pictures were going to turn out well. I mentioned to Milo that these pictures were going to be used in a class project that will be published in the fall. In the meantime, I was going to be putting these pictures on the web.
Milo stopped listening, paused and confusedly asked, "The web?"
I kind of smiled and said, "Yes, on the world wide web."
"World wide web? What's that?"
"That's where you type in a web address (blank stare) into a browser (blanker stare). Then a web page comes up (even blanker stare)."
"A browser you said?"
"Right. A browser. You see, there are Internet browsers on computers (I'm seeing the blank stare again.) in which you can access the world wide web."
"What's on it?"
"Well, when you get to a web page... Let me back up... A web page is a... page... that has words (still with the blank stare) and pictures... on it."
"Why is it on a page?"
"Umm... Well... We can put these on a web page... That way, anyone can see these photos... if they have Internet access and a web browser."
(Milo looks utterly confused)
"Look," I say. "I could write down the web address of the project for you. I already have a lot of pictures on it already. The address is http... colon... backslash... backslash...(I pause because Milo stops looking confused. He looks like he's given up trying to figure out what I'm talking about).
"Umm... I could tell you how to get online if you want."
Milo laughs, "That's okay. We'll see them if we see them."
It was like when my Dad had to take a computer class for his job. Here he was, a 60+ year-old-man, who had never touched a computer in his life, and he was expected to learn this new piece of software. He didn't know how to use a mouse. He didn't know how to open folders. He didn't know how to open documents. How do you explain that to someone who has never seen it?
It's an okay book. There are lots of reviews on the back about how hilarious it is, but mostly it's kind of whimsical and sad. In the book, Rodney retires to a Florida retirement community when he's only 29. He attempts to see what it will be like when he retires. There are a few funny chapters here and there, but mostly I get caught up in the depressing existence of his roommate, who has a parrot that immitates everything and several cats, none of which she's supposed to have.
In the retirement community, he runs into shuffleboard enthusiasts, a 93-year-old retired comedian, WWII vets, volunteer policemen and others. It's kind of sad that he spent this much time kind of pretending to be interested in them when he clearly wasn't. That kind of bothered me.
The book got me thinking about when I was in my second round of college in 97 or 98, I was taking a photojournalism course for my Journalism Graduate Studies program with an emphasis in news editorial. One of our projects was that we were assigned a project for one of the magazines the department put out. This particular magazine dealt with the issue of aging, so my assignment was to follow around a band that goes to nursing homes and plays shows for them.
Naturally, I was very curious about this band. They called themselves Milo and the Clefs. Milo was a 70+ year-old-man who played several instruments (mainly the saxophone). Playing with him were a rag-tag group of musicians who played the accordian, the Clarinet, the keyboards and the drums. They mainly played abbreviated versions of such standards like "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" and "Little Brown Jug" among others.
Long story short, I took pictures of them on two separate occasions. I thought the pictures were going to turn out well. I mentioned to Milo that these pictures were going to be used in a class project that will be published in the fall. In the meantime, I was going to be putting these pictures on the web.
Milo stopped listening, paused and confusedly asked, "The web?"
I kind of smiled and said, "Yes, on the world wide web."
"World wide web? What's that?"
"That's where you type in a web address (blank stare) into a browser (blanker stare). Then a web page comes up (even blanker stare)."
"A browser you said?"
"Right. A browser. You see, there are Internet browsers on computers (I'm seeing the blank stare again.) in which you can access the world wide web."
"What's on it?"
"Well, when you get to a web page... Let me back up... A web page is a... page... that has words (still with the blank stare) and pictures... on it."
"Why is it on a page?"
"Umm... Well... We can put these on a web page... That way, anyone can see these photos... if they have Internet access and a web browser."
(Milo looks utterly confused)
"Look," I say. "I could write down the web address of the project for you. I already have a lot of pictures on it already. The address is http... colon... backslash... backslash...(I pause because Milo stops looking confused. He looks like he's given up trying to figure out what I'm talking about).
"Umm... I could tell you how to get online if you want."
Milo laughs, "That's okay. We'll see them if we see them."
It was like when my Dad had to take a computer class for his job. Here he was, a 60+ year-old-man, who had never touched a computer in his life, and he was expected to learn this new piece of software. He didn't know how to use a mouse. He didn't know how to open folders. He didn't know how to open documents. How do you explain that to someone who has never seen it?
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Bill and I have a healthy relationship built on mutual mockery and respect...
I honestly was just thinking of a topic to write for this week when I got an unexpected phone call. I swear that I was thinking of writing about me quitting my job, selling the house, trying to find a new one, my Phantom Menace diatribe that I was thinking about finishing, or the fact that I am very accident prone as evidenced by me almost cutting off the tip of my index finger with scissors this morning when I got the phone call.
"Hello?"
"You are a F&*(ing jerk!!!" (It was Bill)
"What?"
"You heard me. You're a f&*(ing jerk!!"
"What did I do?"
"What did you DO?! What did you DO?! You posted two stories about me that weren't exactly fair."
Oh, that's what I did. I did post a story in which I purposely messed with Bill. I was debating on whether or not to run with it, but Laura and Joe thought it was hilarious so I ran with it. Bill, on the other hand, thought that it was rather misleading, unfair and one-sided.
My Mom likes my writing, but she usually comments about the Bill stories.
"Why are you guys always fighting?"
My wife said when I told her this, "Has your mother ever heard you two talk before?"
Maybe we're civil when we're around our parents or maybe some people just tune it out, but yes, we tend to argue a lot. It's not that we don't like each other. We do. He's my twin brother and I wouldn't change any of our growing up experiences for the world. I truly feel blessed to have had Bill as a twin. He was always around and was a constant companion. On the other hand, when you have a twin, it is somewhat like a marriage. You're the same type of person, but not exactly the same type of person. You get to know someone really well, but then you know that person too well, so little things that this person does tend to get on your nerves, so you call them on it.
Now a normal person would probably tell you to go to hell and you'd never see them again. Not a twin. I believe most twins would tell you that criticism and arguments tend to roll off you and are not held as grudges for very long. My wife always marveled that one minute we'd be yelling at each other and the next minute we'd be going, "Hey, remember on the Simpsons when..."
So as twins we tend to argue a lot probably because we can argue and not hold a grudge. Just this Saturday, I was calling Bill to see if he had a tarp to cover a load I was taking to the dump (I had borrowed Joe's pickup) because all loads that go to the dump have to be covered or you get fined.
He said that he did and asked me if I could also dump off a grill that he melted when the fuel line burst and set fire to the knobs. I said, "Sure."
I asked him if he had any bungees to strap down the tarp.
"No, I don't have any bungees."
"No bungees? OK. What about that strap ratchet set you had with your truck?"
"No, I don't have that anymore. I gave that to the guy that bought my truck."
"Oh, well then do you have any rope?"
"Oh yeah. I have rope."
"Then why didn't you mention it in the first place since I was asking about tying down the tarp?"
"Because you didn't ask if I had rope."
Damn him! Caught me with a technicality.
He eventually asked me if I was going to stop by to pick up the grill, the tarp and the rope soon. I told him that I wasn't sure. He said that he would be leaving around 11:30 to go to a golf tournament. I told him that I'd keep that in mind, but I wasn't sure how long it was going to take me to load the truck.
"Make sure that you stop by my house before you go to the dump so you get that grill, OK?"
"Bill, didn't I mention that I needed to cover the load?"
"Yes."
"Then why in the hell would I come over your house AFTER I went to the dump? If I need the stupid tarp to cover the load, wouldn't it make sense that I would have to stop by your house sometime BEFORE I went to the dump?"
He chuckled a bit and said, "I guess that would make sense."
I get off the phone and Laura is waking up.
"Were you just talking to Bill?"
She knows our conversations so well.
Sometimes in our conversations, we offer helpful information. For example, today I was telling Bill about some strange circumstances with Joe's borrowed truck. I had put some little boy clothes into the cab of the truck to give back to Joe's wife, Jackie, who had borrowed them from a neighbor when Julia, who Jackie was watching at the time, had wet herself.
I pull up to the house this afternoon to find the clothes I had put in the cab by our mailbox near the sidewalk. I pick them up and put them back in the cab of the truck and lock the doors. I come back later and find that someone had tried opening the door because the door was slightly ajar, but not open. This made me feel a little paranoid about why someone would steal little kid's clothes, why they would bring them back and whether or not any cars I park are vulnerable.
I tell Bill this and jokingly say something about a pedophile nearby that stole them and returned them, which got me on another tangent.
"Hey, that reminds me," I say. "You need to check out the Nebraska listing of sex offenders because you have quite a few in your area." (Bill has a 18-month old at home)
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, you have two of them that live on the same floor of (that apartment complex two four blocks away from his actual address). You know the one by the gas station?"
"Well, that's good to hear. As if I didn't have enough to worry about in my area, now you've given me more to worry about. Thanks for that."
"Just trying to help."
So, it's not all arguing. Sometimes, they're conversations centered around pointing out insecurities.
I run with the Bill stories because they seem to be the favorite stories, but also, they are pretty easy to write. I can usually remember what Bill has said and add my own flair for good measure. It's a subject that I know well. Writing about them allows me to chuckle at them and helps me remember the ridiculous conversations that we have. Bill often complains that my stories are one-sided, but that's to be expected. After all, I am the one writing them, so of course I'll end up looking better.
Whenever I tell my wife about the latest story, she'll say, "You guys have such a healthy relationship."
It is a healthy relationship. You can be pissed at the person, but the unconditional love that comes with being a twin is hard to break.
"Hello?"
"You are a F&*(ing jerk!!!" (It was Bill)
"What?"
"You heard me. You're a f&*(ing jerk!!"
"What did I do?"
"What did you DO?! What did you DO?! You posted two stories about me that weren't exactly fair."
Oh, that's what I did. I did post a story in which I purposely messed with Bill. I was debating on whether or not to run with it, but Laura and Joe thought it was hilarious so I ran with it. Bill, on the other hand, thought that it was rather misleading, unfair and one-sided.
My Mom likes my writing, but she usually comments about the Bill stories.
"Why are you guys always fighting?"
My wife said when I told her this, "Has your mother ever heard you two talk before?"
Maybe we're civil when we're around our parents or maybe some people just tune it out, but yes, we tend to argue a lot. It's not that we don't like each other. We do. He's my twin brother and I wouldn't change any of our growing up experiences for the world. I truly feel blessed to have had Bill as a twin. He was always around and was a constant companion. On the other hand, when you have a twin, it is somewhat like a marriage. You're the same type of person, but not exactly the same type of person. You get to know someone really well, but then you know that person too well, so little things that this person does tend to get on your nerves, so you call them on it.
Now a normal person would probably tell you to go to hell and you'd never see them again. Not a twin. I believe most twins would tell you that criticism and arguments tend to roll off you and are not held as grudges for very long. My wife always marveled that one minute we'd be yelling at each other and the next minute we'd be going, "Hey, remember on the Simpsons when..."
So as twins we tend to argue a lot probably because we can argue and not hold a grudge. Just this Saturday, I was calling Bill to see if he had a tarp to cover a load I was taking to the dump (I had borrowed Joe's pickup) because all loads that go to the dump have to be covered or you get fined.
He said that he did and asked me if I could also dump off a grill that he melted when the fuel line burst and set fire to the knobs. I said, "Sure."
I asked him if he had any bungees to strap down the tarp.
"No, I don't have any bungees."
"No bungees? OK. What about that strap ratchet set you had with your truck?"
"No, I don't have that anymore. I gave that to the guy that bought my truck."
"Oh, well then do you have any rope?"
"Oh yeah. I have rope."
"Then why didn't you mention it in the first place since I was asking about tying down the tarp?"
"Because you didn't ask if I had rope."
Damn him! Caught me with a technicality.
He eventually asked me if I was going to stop by to pick up the grill, the tarp and the rope soon. I told him that I wasn't sure. He said that he would be leaving around 11:30 to go to a golf tournament. I told him that I'd keep that in mind, but I wasn't sure how long it was going to take me to load the truck.
"Make sure that you stop by my house before you go to the dump so you get that grill, OK?"
"Bill, didn't I mention that I needed to cover the load?"
"Yes."
"Then why in the hell would I come over your house AFTER I went to the dump? If I need the stupid tarp to cover the load, wouldn't it make sense that I would have to stop by your house sometime BEFORE I went to the dump?"
He chuckled a bit and said, "I guess that would make sense."
I get off the phone and Laura is waking up.
"Were you just talking to Bill?"
She knows our conversations so well.
Sometimes in our conversations, we offer helpful information. For example, today I was telling Bill about some strange circumstances with Joe's borrowed truck. I had put some little boy clothes into the cab of the truck to give back to Joe's wife, Jackie, who had borrowed them from a neighbor when Julia, who Jackie was watching at the time, had wet herself.
I pull up to the house this afternoon to find the clothes I had put in the cab by our mailbox near the sidewalk. I pick them up and put them back in the cab of the truck and lock the doors. I come back later and find that someone had tried opening the door because the door was slightly ajar, but not open. This made me feel a little paranoid about why someone would steal little kid's clothes, why they would bring them back and whether or not any cars I park are vulnerable.
I tell Bill this and jokingly say something about a pedophile nearby that stole them and returned them, which got me on another tangent.
"Hey, that reminds me," I say. "You need to check out the Nebraska listing of sex offenders because you have quite a few in your area." (Bill has a 18-month old at home)
"Oh really?"
"Yeah, you have two of them that live on the same floor of (that apartment complex two four blocks away from his actual address). You know the one by the gas station?"
"Well, that's good to hear. As if I didn't have enough to worry about in my area, now you've given me more to worry about. Thanks for that."
"Just trying to help."
So, it's not all arguing. Sometimes, they're conversations centered around pointing out insecurities.
I run with the Bill stories because they seem to be the favorite stories, but also, they are pretty easy to write. I can usually remember what Bill has said and add my own flair for good measure. It's a subject that I know well. Writing about them allows me to chuckle at them and helps me remember the ridiculous conversations that we have. Bill often complains that my stories are one-sided, but that's to be expected. After all, I am the one writing them, so of course I'll end up looking better.
Whenever I tell my wife about the latest story, she'll say, "You guys have such a healthy relationship."
It is a healthy relationship. You can be pissed at the person, but the unconditional love that comes with being a twin is hard to break.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
If you call, I'll bleeping kill you...
I had a message on my voice mail the other day that went exactly like this:
“Bob, this is Bill. Hey. I.. am calling you ‘cause uh ah I’m like really run down and I’m going home to take a nap. And if you CALL, I’ll fucking kill you. All right? Because you have knack for doing that. All right. I’ll talk to you later. Bye Bye.”
I took that as a challenge. I had no intention on calling him at all this morning, but since he called and told me not to, I decided to call him anyway. The message was sent at 9:23 am. When I heard the message it was only 9:40. I figured I could still get in touch with him before he took his name. So of course I called.
The phone rings at his house number.
Audrey answers, “Hello?”
I immediately felt bad because I didn’t know she was home, so I quickly asked, “Is Bill there?”
“I’m sorry. He’s taking a nap.”
“Oh. Sorry,” I quickly say. “I’ll try him later. Sorry.”
Later, I get the expected call from Bill at about 11:00 am.
“Why in the fuck did you call me?”
“Well, I thought that since you were going home that I could catch you before you went to bed. I got the message at 10:25. I called you at 10:40.”
“Do you think that it takes me 15 minutes to get home from work?”
“No,” I said. “I just thought that I might get you before you went to bed because I was going to ask you something.”
“What did you want to ask me?”
“I was going to get the new Gorillaz CD and I was just checking if you were going to get it.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Do you want a copy of it?” I asked.
“Umm.. Sure. Is that it?”
“Basically,” I said. “I’m sorry that I woke you up. I actually wasn’t going to call you, but your nasty message prompted me to call. You should have just left a message like, ‘I’m going to take a nap with Audrey. Please don’t call.’ That’s all you had to do. You just kind of asked for it.”
“Sorry I asked for it.”
“No, I’m sorry that I woke you up.”
“It’s okay. I got three different calls after you called so the nap was a wash anyway.”
“Why didn’t you turn off your ringer,” I asked.
“All three of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Look I got to go ,” he mutters. “I don’t want to burn up my minutes on my cell.”
“Ohh… I’m… sorry… I didn’t … mean… to… take… so… long… on the… phone….”
Bill sighs. “Are you about done?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’m done.”
Bill hangs up. Just when I was thinking that this was over and that any hopes of messing with Bill would continue were slim, I get a surprise.
Bill calls back in the afternoon.
“You know who’s funny?
“Who?” I asked with a chuckle.
“Bob. He is fun-neee. So funny. I tell you. Ho boy. He is hysterical.”
I start to laugh, “What are you talking about? What did I do?”
“Oh, you know. I told you that I wanted to get off my phone because I don’t want to burn my minutes and you go, ‘Oh. I’m…sorry… about… that…. I… don’t… mean… to…’ and you keep me on the phone and go ‘blah blah blah’ and ‘I’m so funny’ and whoop-dee-doo and la-dee-dee.”
I laugh and say, “I’m sorry.”
“When you say that you want to get off the phone because you don’t want to burn your minutes, don’t I let you go?”
“Well, yes.”
“Well, stop it! It’s not funny.”
“Oh, come on! It’s a little funny. Get a sense of humor.”
“Get a sense of humor! You all of people don’t have a sense of humor about this!”
I laugh again.
“Look. I was speaking slow because it was a reference to the Simpson’s episode where Homer calls a football betting line and they go ‘in… the… game… between… Denver… and… Cin… (Cincinatti) ci… Cincinatti) natt… (Cincinati)… ti…’ I figured that you of all people would get the reference and find it funny.”
“I’m just laughing,” I say, “because I was just writing up something about this today.”
He fumes, “I knew it! Great, another one-sided blog story!”
I defend myself by saying, “I had no intention of calling you today, but you kind of asked for it when you sent your message. I had to write it down verbatim.”
I read him the message in the same tone and cadence that he used. Bill hangs up.
“Bob, this is Bill. Hey. I.. am calling you ‘cause uh ah I’m like really run down and I’m going home to take a nap. And if you CALL, I’ll fucking kill you. All right? Because you have knack for doing that. All right. I’ll talk to you later. Bye Bye.”
I took that as a challenge. I had no intention on calling him at all this morning, but since he called and told me not to, I decided to call him anyway. The message was sent at 9:23 am. When I heard the message it was only 9:40. I figured I could still get in touch with him before he took his name. So of course I called.
The phone rings at his house number.
Audrey answers, “Hello?”
I immediately felt bad because I didn’t know she was home, so I quickly asked, “Is Bill there?”
“I’m sorry. He’s taking a nap.”
“Oh. Sorry,” I quickly say. “I’ll try him later. Sorry.”
Later, I get the expected call from Bill at about 11:00 am.
“Why in the fuck did you call me?”
“Well, I thought that since you were going home that I could catch you before you went to bed. I got the message at 10:25. I called you at 10:40.”
“Do you think that it takes me 15 minutes to get home from work?”
“No,” I said. “I just thought that I might get you before you went to bed because I was going to ask you something.”
“What did you want to ask me?”
“I was going to get the new Gorillaz CD and I was just checking if you were going to get it.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Do you want a copy of it?” I asked.
“Umm.. Sure. Is that it?”
“Basically,” I said. “I’m sorry that I woke you up. I actually wasn’t going to call you, but your nasty message prompted me to call. You should have just left a message like, ‘I’m going to take a nap with Audrey. Please don’t call.’ That’s all you had to do. You just kind of asked for it.”
“Sorry I asked for it.”
“No, I’m sorry that I woke you up.”
“It’s okay. I got three different calls after you called so the nap was a wash anyway.”
“Why didn’t you turn off your ringer,” I asked.
“All three of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Look I got to go ,” he mutters. “I don’t want to burn up my minutes on my cell.”
“Ohh… I’m… sorry… I didn’t … mean… to… take… so… long… on the… phone….”
Bill sighs. “Are you about done?”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’m done.”
Bill hangs up. Just when I was thinking that this was over and that any hopes of messing with Bill would continue were slim, I get a surprise.
Bill calls back in the afternoon.
“You know who’s funny?
“Who?” I asked with a chuckle.
“Bob. He is fun-neee. So funny. I tell you. Ho boy. He is hysterical.”
I start to laugh, “What are you talking about? What did I do?”
“Oh, you know. I told you that I wanted to get off my phone because I don’t want to burn my minutes and you go, ‘Oh. I’m…sorry… about… that…. I… don’t… mean… to…’ and you keep me on the phone and go ‘blah blah blah’ and ‘I’m so funny’ and whoop-dee-doo and la-dee-dee.”
I laugh and say, “I’m sorry.”
“When you say that you want to get off the phone because you don’t want to burn your minutes, don’t I let you go?”
“Well, yes.”
“Well, stop it! It’s not funny.”
“Oh, come on! It’s a little funny. Get a sense of humor.”
“Get a sense of humor! You all of people don’t have a sense of humor about this!”
I laugh again.
“Look. I was speaking slow because it was a reference to the Simpson’s episode where Homer calls a football betting line and they go ‘in… the… game… between… Denver… and… Cin… (Cincinatti) ci… Cincinatti) natt… (Cincinati)… ti…’ I figured that you of all people would get the reference and find it funny.”
“I’m just laughing,” I say, “because I was just writing up something about this today.”
He fumes, “I knew it! Great, another one-sided blog story!”
I defend myself by saying, “I had no intention of calling you today, but you kind of asked for it when you sent your message. I had to write it down verbatim.”
I read him the message in the same tone and cadence that he used. Bill hangs up.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
I suppose men can be idiotic, too...
So I've been guilty of perpetuating the myth that women think their husbands are stupid. I admit that I can be a little defensive about that. Sometimes, I hate to admit that we do stupid things without thinking about them, sometimes with humorous results.
A few years ago, they had this commercial for some product that I can't remember, which is never a good sign of a memorable ad if the potential customers can never remember what the original ad was. This ad showed a young-ish suit-and-tie guy walking down a sidewalk when he happens upon some kids playing on a slip and slide on their front lawn. For the uninitiated, a Slip N Slide is a long slick track that you hook a hose up to. The kids then take turns running, diving and sliding on the Slip and Slide. The water makes you fly really fast. In the commercial, the suit-and-tie guy pauses, then takes off his jacket, throws down his briefcase, runs and slides on the Slip and Slide with the kids! It looks really fun, but the screen disclaimer is a real downer, "Warning. Do not attempt. Serious injury may result."
This is true. Serious injury can and often does result from men trying to feel young by doing activities they really shouldn't be doing. We often forget we're mortal. Kids don't have that fear, which is they why do they a lot of stupid things. Kids also don't break as easily as adults. This is where men get into trouble.
My neighbor down the street found this out first hand when trying out a Slip and Slide he had set up for his 4-year-old son (at the time). My neighbor's back yard is sloped down towards this house and he set up the Slip N Slide that way on the slope. He decided that he was going to try the Slip N Slide himself. He went to the top of this yard, took a running start, slid on the Slip N Slide, shot past the end of it, flew over jagged rocks and hit the backside of his house. While he was cut, bleeding and injured, his wife thought this was funny as hell and laughed and laughed.
This brings me to another point. Wives not only think we're stupid, which we can be sometimes, they also love to laugh at our pain.
When my wife and I were dating, my roommates and I had a garage sale in our little townhouse garage. I had placed a cardboard garage sale sign by the entrance of our resident complex. When the sale was over, I drove Laura over to the entrance, got out of the car and went over to get the sign, which was taped underneath a Stop sign. I picked up the sign and walked forward, right into the side of the Stop sign.
All Laura could hear was a "wongongongong!". She looked up to see me holding my head and staggering around. She didn't stop to see if I was okay. She was too busy laughing her ass off at me. She laughed and laughed and laughed some more. Every time she looked at me and the large welt on my face, she laughed again.
She said, "That was the funniest thing I've ever seen!" while wiping away tears of happiness.
Another time, it was winter and we were walking to my car to return some wedding gifts that we had duplicates of. I had three boxes in my arms when I took a step off the curb and promptly slid and fell on my ass. I gasped in pain. Then I gasped some more as I suddenly couldn’t take a breath.
I gasped, “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”
Laura was concerned, for a minute. When I finally caught my breath and was clearly okay save for a bruise to my ribs, she started laughing and laughing. Nevermind that I might have cracked a rib or hit my head on the pavement, it was just funny to her that I fell down like Charlie Chaplin.
It wasn’t the last time I hurt myself in a stupid way. There was the time I cut my middle finger while trimming my hedges. Normally, one would probably uses goggles and gloves when trimming his hedges with an electric hedge trimmer, but not me. It didn’t occur to me that something bad might happen so I thought nothing of not using gloves.
I was in the two-foot gap between my hedges and my neighbor’s fence trimming the overgrown back part of the hedges. I was waving the hedge trimmer in a sweeping motion downward to get the higher branches cut on the hedges. I swept down with my right hand and pulled the branches away with my left. I was at it for a while when I nicked the extension cord and almost cut through it. I thought to myself to be careful not to cut the cord. Not a minute later, I swept down with my right hand while pulling branches with my left hand when “BUZZT!”, a loud sound erupted from the hedge trimmer. I dropped the still running hedge trimmer and looked down at my hand. I had cut my index finger. I had cut it deep and blood started to gush out of it. I grabbed my hand and ran towards the house.
I ran inside and said frantically, “Take me to the hospital!”
Laura kind of looked at me skeptically. I knew she was thinking that I was trying to fool her.
“I’M NOT KIDDING!” I yelled.
She jumped up and took me to the hospital. Laura would laugh later because she couldn’t picture how I managed to cut my finger. She still can’t. Laura would look over at me holding my hand it in the air with my massive splint on the middle finger and start chuckling. Or she’d say something like, “Hey, stop flipping me off!”
Not that it was the first time I’ve hurt myself.
In college I managed to fracture my left index finger while playing a dangerous game of basketball. We were just starting a game when I had the ball passed to me. It wasn’t a hard throw, but I had looked away at the last second to see who was open when I felt a huge pain surge up my arm. In the process of catching the ball, I had moved my hand slightly and the ball collided with my finger. I managed to catch the ball and I called timeout for an injury. The next day, I couldn’t even bend the finger without pain shooting up my hand. A visit to the doctor later and I was fitted with a splint for a fractured finger.
Not that my friends were sympathetic. If I had my hand on the table during dinner at the dorm lunchroom, there were all sorts of jokes like, “Hey, Bob where is the salt?” I’d look down to see my finger pointing in the direction of the salt. “Oh there it is! Thanks!” The joke was always where is the pop, plate, floor, someone else and them saying, “Oh there it/he is!” Ha Ha. So funny.
Whether we’re trying to have fun or just trying to fix something around the house, men are bound to get hurt.
At my last job, we had a really nice grass courtyard right next to our office. While some of our employees used their break time to smoke a cigarette, our group used it to have recess. We would play touch football, soccer and rugby for an hour everyday. It was fun, but not without its dangers.
One guy started limping and re-aggravated his hamstring injury from high school. He was encouraged by his wife to stop playing football with us to give his leg a chance to heal. He kept playing with us, but his leg got worse. His wife demanded that he stop playing football. He again kept playing with us. Finally, his leg was so bad that he had to see a doctor, who told him that his hamstring had torn and it required surgery. After the surgery and he recovered, he continued to play against his wife’s wishes.
The stupidity didn’t stop there.
Another co-worker, Jim, ended up sidelined for over a week after a spirited game of touch football caused a hernia to flare up, which then required surgery, which laid him up from football and work for a week. Because it was on company time, he got off a week of work and we almost got banned from using the courtyard.
Yet another co-worker, Chris almost got impaled during a spirited football game. Let me explain. He was running a pass route when he blindly, that is he wasn’t looking forward, encountered one the small trees in the courtyard. This wasn’t really new for Chris as he had collided with several trees in the courtyard during some of the games. This time, he ran headlong into one of the support poles for the small tree, which instantly snapped in half, with the remaining half in the ground now a lower sharp point. Chris managed to stop himself with a light skin abrasion. That would have been good. I think we would have gotten banned for good had that happened.
Even I was almost banned by Laura from recess after completely ripping two pairs of jeans. Each time, all I was doing was throwing a football. Each time, I threw the ball and I heard a “RRIIIIPPPP!!” I looked down and noticed that I was completely hanging out in the crotch area because the fabric had ripped all through the upper leg area. I finished work with a nice breeze. Two week later with a different pair of jeans, the same thing happened again. I made the mistake of telling Laura that a co-worker had been forbade by his wife to play, but he played anyway. She said that she should do the same thing to me. I then shut my mouth.
We even had a newer employee start playing with us. He had no hands. Where hands should be were nubs. How did he lose his hands? Making a pipe bomb of course! The pipe bomb did not go off like it should have so he walked over to it and picked it up when... well... I think you can see where this is going.
Now that I think about it. It's probably justified that she sometimes treats me like an idiot. After all, we tend to do idiotic things on occasion. As she says, "I never know with you..."
A few years ago, they had this commercial for some product that I can't remember, which is never a good sign of a memorable ad if the potential customers can never remember what the original ad was. This ad showed a young-ish suit-and-tie guy walking down a sidewalk when he happens upon some kids playing on a slip and slide on their front lawn. For the uninitiated, a Slip N Slide is a long slick track that you hook a hose up to. The kids then take turns running, diving and sliding on the Slip and Slide. The water makes you fly really fast. In the commercial, the suit-and-tie guy pauses, then takes off his jacket, throws down his briefcase, runs and slides on the Slip and Slide with the kids! It looks really fun, but the screen disclaimer is a real downer, "Warning. Do not attempt. Serious injury may result."
This is true. Serious injury can and often does result from men trying to feel young by doing activities they really shouldn't be doing. We often forget we're mortal. Kids don't have that fear, which is they why do they a lot of stupid things. Kids also don't break as easily as adults. This is where men get into trouble.
My neighbor down the street found this out first hand when trying out a Slip and Slide he had set up for his 4-year-old son (at the time). My neighbor's back yard is sloped down towards this house and he set up the Slip N Slide that way on the slope. He decided that he was going to try the Slip N Slide himself. He went to the top of this yard, took a running start, slid on the Slip N Slide, shot past the end of it, flew over jagged rocks and hit the backside of his house. While he was cut, bleeding and injured, his wife thought this was funny as hell and laughed and laughed.
This brings me to another point. Wives not only think we're stupid, which we can be sometimes, they also love to laugh at our pain.
When my wife and I were dating, my roommates and I had a garage sale in our little townhouse garage. I had placed a cardboard garage sale sign by the entrance of our resident complex. When the sale was over, I drove Laura over to the entrance, got out of the car and went over to get the sign, which was taped underneath a Stop sign. I picked up the sign and walked forward, right into the side of the Stop sign.
All Laura could hear was a "wongongongong!". She looked up to see me holding my head and staggering around. She didn't stop to see if I was okay. She was too busy laughing her ass off at me. She laughed and laughed and laughed some more. Every time she looked at me and the large welt on my face, she laughed again.
She said, "That was the funniest thing I've ever seen!" while wiping away tears of happiness.
Another time, it was winter and we were walking to my car to return some wedding gifts that we had duplicates of. I had three boxes in my arms when I took a step off the curb and promptly slid and fell on my ass. I gasped in pain. Then I gasped some more as I suddenly couldn’t take a breath.
I gasped, “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”
Laura was concerned, for a minute. When I finally caught my breath and was clearly okay save for a bruise to my ribs, she started laughing and laughing. Nevermind that I might have cracked a rib or hit my head on the pavement, it was just funny to her that I fell down like Charlie Chaplin.
It wasn’t the last time I hurt myself in a stupid way. There was the time I cut my middle finger while trimming my hedges. Normally, one would probably uses goggles and gloves when trimming his hedges with an electric hedge trimmer, but not me. It didn’t occur to me that something bad might happen so I thought nothing of not using gloves.
I was in the two-foot gap between my hedges and my neighbor’s fence trimming the overgrown back part of the hedges. I was waving the hedge trimmer in a sweeping motion downward to get the higher branches cut on the hedges. I swept down with my right hand and pulled the branches away with my left. I was at it for a while when I nicked the extension cord and almost cut through it. I thought to myself to be careful not to cut the cord. Not a minute later, I swept down with my right hand while pulling branches with my left hand when “BUZZT!”, a loud sound erupted from the hedge trimmer. I dropped the still running hedge trimmer and looked down at my hand. I had cut my index finger. I had cut it deep and blood started to gush out of it. I grabbed my hand and ran towards the house.
I ran inside and said frantically, “Take me to the hospital!”
Laura kind of looked at me skeptically. I knew she was thinking that I was trying to fool her.
“I’M NOT KIDDING!” I yelled.
She jumped up and took me to the hospital. Laura would laugh later because she couldn’t picture how I managed to cut my finger. She still can’t. Laura would look over at me holding my hand it in the air with my massive splint on the middle finger and start chuckling. Or she’d say something like, “Hey, stop flipping me off!”
Not that it was the first time I’ve hurt myself.
In college I managed to fracture my left index finger while playing a dangerous game of basketball. We were just starting a game when I had the ball passed to me. It wasn’t a hard throw, but I had looked away at the last second to see who was open when I felt a huge pain surge up my arm. In the process of catching the ball, I had moved my hand slightly and the ball collided with my finger. I managed to catch the ball and I called timeout for an injury. The next day, I couldn’t even bend the finger without pain shooting up my hand. A visit to the doctor later and I was fitted with a splint for a fractured finger.
Not that my friends were sympathetic. If I had my hand on the table during dinner at the dorm lunchroom, there were all sorts of jokes like, “Hey, Bob where is the salt?” I’d look down to see my finger pointing in the direction of the salt. “Oh there it is! Thanks!” The joke was always where is the pop, plate, floor, someone else and them saying, “Oh there it/he is!” Ha Ha. So funny.
Whether we’re trying to have fun or just trying to fix something around the house, men are bound to get hurt.
At my last job, we had a really nice grass courtyard right next to our office. While some of our employees used their break time to smoke a cigarette, our group used it to have recess. We would play touch football, soccer and rugby for an hour everyday. It was fun, but not without its dangers.
One guy started limping and re-aggravated his hamstring injury from high school. He was encouraged by his wife to stop playing football with us to give his leg a chance to heal. He kept playing with us, but his leg got worse. His wife demanded that he stop playing football. He again kept playing with us. Finally, his leg was so bad that he had to see a doctor, who told him that his hamstring had torn and it required surgery. After the surgery and he recovered, he continued to play against his wife’s wishes.
The stupidity didn’t stop there.
Another co-worker, Jim, ended up sidelined for over a week after a spirited game of touch football caused a hernia to flare up, which then required surgery, which laid him up from football and work for a week. Because it was on company time, he got off a week of work and we almost got banned from using the courtyard.
Yet another co-worker, Chris almost got impaled during a spirited football game. Let me explain. He was running a pass route when he blindly, that is he wasn’t looking forward, encountered one the small trees in the courtyard. This wasn’t really new for Chris as he had collided with several trees in the courtyard during some of the games. This time, he ran headlong into one of the support poles for the small tree, which instantly snapped in half, with the remaining half in the ground now a lower sharp point. Chris managed to stop himself with a light skin abrasion. That would have been good. I think we would have gotten banned for good had that happened.
Even I was almost banned by Laura from recess after completely ripping two pairs of jeans. Each time, all I was doing was throwing a football. Each time, I threw the ball and I heard a “RRIIIIPPPP!!” I looked down and noticed that I was completely hanging out in the crotch area because the fabric had ripped all through the upper leg area. I finished work with a nice breeze. Two week later with a different pair of jeans, the same thing happened again. I made the mistake of telling Laura that a co-worker had been forbade by his wife to play, but he played anyway. She said that she should do the same thing to me. I then shut my mouth.
We even had a newer employee start playing with us. He had no hands. Where hands should be were nubs. How did he lose his hands? Making a pipe bomb of course! The pipe bomb did not go off like it should have so he walked over to it and picked it up when... well... I think you can see where this is going.
Now that I think about it. It's probably justified that she sometimes treats me like an idiot. After all, we tend to do idiotic things on occasion. As she says, "I never know with you..."
Monday, May 23, 2005
Proof wives think husbands are stupid - Exhibit B and I'm right and wrong at the same time...
Friday, I had a personal day off from work, so we spent the day in Omaha. We were on our way to my wife's work at the World Herald down by the Qwest Center. We were driving into that part of town when I noticed that there were a lot of construction signs and cones. Plus, the street was graded so it was bumpy.
My wife calls from the backseat, where she was sitting with Julia, "Be careful driving my car. There's a lot of construction around here."
We were at a stop light. I turned my head towards her and gave her a hollow stare as if to say, "I'm not a freaking idiot."
I turn back around and say, "Oh, is that why there are all of those construction cones all over the place? Although, the graded street kind of gave me the hint to take it slow."
She ignored me because I'd already been a smartass earlier in the day.
I subscribe to Netflix, the DVD mail rental service. When you get one in the mail, you watch it, put it back in the envelope and send it back in the mail to get another one. I was riding around all morning with Laura and her brother and looking for a post office or a mailbox.
Suddenly, I see a mailman start to get out of his truck. This was a perfect opportunity to drop off my mail so I call from the backseat, "Hey, stop the car so I can give this mail to the mailman."
No response.
I quickly call, "Hey stop the car!"
Still no response and we're quickly starting to move past the mailman parked in his truck.
"Stop the car!"
Not stopping...
"STOP!!"
Still not stopping...
"STOPPPPPPP!!!!!" I practically scream.
Laura slams on the brakes.
"What?" she demanded.
"I want to drop off my mail to that mailman."
I jump out of the car and hand my mail to the guy, who says thanks when I hand him my mail.
I get back in the car and say, "I asked you to stop five times! Didn't you hear me?"
Laura's response, "I'm so not having this conversation with you right now."
"Hey, you were the one ignoring me. I had to yell for you to hear me."
"I'm not talking about this!" she said quickly.
I dropped it until we dropped off her brother. Then I naturally brought it up again.
"Can you see why I got upset. You weren't even listening to me."
Her response, "I'm not going to talk about this."
My friends at work said that this means that she knows that she's wrong and doesn't want to talk about it. Regardless on who was wrong or right (me), it just doesn't make sense.
If someone was trying to save your life by yelling "Duck!", would you ignore it until that someone is frantically screaming for you to duck? By that time, you'd already be dead. Laura didn't like that analogy either. I guess I should drop it.
My wife calls from the backseat, where she was sitting with Julia, "Be careful driving my car. There's a lot of construction around here."
We were at a stop light. I turned my head towards her and gave her a hollow stare as if to say, "I'm not a freaking idiot."
I turn back around and say, "Oh, is that why there are all of those construction cones all over the place? Although, the graded street kind of gave me the hint to take it slow."
She ignored me because I'd already been a smartass earlier in the day.
I subscribe to Netflix, the DVD mail rental service. When you get one in the mail, you watch it, put it back in the envelope and send it back in the mail to get another one. I was riding around all morning with Laura and her brother and looking for a post office or a mailbox.
Suddenly, I see a mailman start to get out of his truck. This was a perfect opportunity to drop off my mail so I call from the backseat, "Hey, stop the car so I can give this mail to the mailman."
No response.
I quickly call, "Hey stop the car!"
Still no response and we're quickly starting to move past the mailman parked in his truck.
"Stop the car!"
Not stopping...
"STOP!!"
Still not stopping...
"STOPPPPPPP!!!!!" I practically scream.
Laura slams on the brakes.
"What?" she demanded.
"I want to drop off my mail to that mailman."
I jump out of the car and hand my mail to the guy, who says thanks when I hand him my mail.
I get back in the car and say, "I asked you to stop five times! Didn't you hear me?"
Laura's response, "I'm so not having this conversation with you right now."
"Hey, you were the one ignoring me. I had to yell for you to hear me."
"I'm not talking about this!" she said quickly.
I dropped it until we dropped off her brother. Then I naturally brought it up again.
"Can you see why I got upset. You weren't even listening to me."
Her response, "I'm not going to talk about this."
My friends at work said that this means that she knows that she's wrong and doesn't want to talk about it. Regardless on who was wrong or right (me), it just doesn't make sense.
If someone was trying to save your life by yelling "Duck!", would you ignore it until that someone is frantically screaming for you to duck? By that time, you'd already be dead. Laura didn't like that analogy either. I guess I should drop it.
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