A Whole Lot About the Girlfriend, and An Overdue Apology
Thanks to a rebounding immune system and hefty doses of Vicks Sinex nasal spray, I'm sliding into the weekend with my health almost back to normal, save for the occasional cough and tissue full of snot. Gotta love the snot.
I'm heading back to St. Paul after work today to see the girlfriend. It was a long week without seeing each other, despite our phone calls. Strangely, we have yet to actually fight, about anything, and fighting has traditionally been one of my stronger areas when it comes to relationships. I'm superb when it comes to on-the-spot arguments, and I can usually leave my targets unable to respond to my crushing doses of harsh reality and common sense.
Alas, Melissa and I haven't had reason to yelp at one another yet, despite four months of dating. As she stated so poignantly last night, "honey, we really are pathetic." And, she's right. We need an argument, something to stir the pot. Okay, we don't, but I just keep wondering if being so content and happy is actually healthy. Then again, every time I think of her family life, I find it hard to want to fight with her about anything.
Her parents are divorced. I know, who's parents aren't divorced in today's world, where the divorce rate in America is over 50 percent. It's not that Melissa's parents are divorced that offers cause to pause, it's why they're divorced. It turns out that Melissa's father remembered that he was gay. That seems to always have a detrimental effect on marriage. So, Mel's parents split when she was in 9th grade, although she didn't learn of her father's homosexuality until a couple of years after.
That made for an interesting Thanksgiving, that's for sure.
On the one hand, I met the ultra-religious mother, a very kind woman who told Melissa countless times when she was growing up that "she was going to hell." The high point of the holiday, for me, was when her mother revealed that she was dating a married man, at which point Melissa said, "Mom, you're going to hell," and to which her mother replied, "Me? What about you?" I kept imagining Satan in the corner, with a heaping plate of turkey and stuffing, laughing and pointing maniacally.
On the other hand, there's the swinging gay father, a man who is so incredibly manly, you would never guess he's actually gay. I remember when I first met her father. It was during one of our first dates, and Mel invited me to go swimming in her father's pool. She offered to show me around her dad's place, and she introduced me to a young man in addition to her father. Not knowing that her father favored men, I asked if the young man I met was her brother or some other relation.
"No," she answered. "Not exactly. That's my dad's boyfriend."
*insert foot into mouth, and chew until tender*
"Oh," was all I could say.
So, Melissa's folks clearly aren't the Cleavers. It's a stark contrast to my own family life, featuring a solid parental marriage that has survived over 30 years, two insane dogs, 11 years teaching in Tokyo and, most incredibly, having me and my brother battling our way through the house for 22 years. Such a family life is alien to Mel, who once stated, in all seriousness, "It's so weird that your parents are still together."
Despite her less-than-normal childhood, Mel seems to be the epitome of normal, although I continually keep my baggage scanners on full alert. Granted, at 27 years old, I allow quite a bit more baggage to flow through than I would have at 22, but Mel consistently passes all my tests, and I've grown just a little more than enamored with her.
The weekend should be fun, with plans to attend the Hollidazzle parade on Saturday, with a possible stay at an Embassy Suites. We also have to do gift shopping at the Mall of America (Ugh!). With all due respect to our great mall, once you've seen it 10 times, you've seen it 10,000 times. Come Sunday, I should really get to writing the book report I offered to do for her, a comparison of two Holocaust-era books, Dawn, by Elie Wiesel and Maus, by Art Spiegelman. Both books I highly recommend. Easy and quick reads with plenty of emotional punch.
I must take this time to officially apologize to someone whom I know I've done nothing but hurt all week. Layne, I truly am sorry for all the scathing commentary I've bestowed upon your site. Your recent posts admittedly bothered me, but I had no reason to belittle you the way I did. It's your site, and your thoughts, and it's not my place to question how you choose to live your life. Reading your site is an enjoyable part of my daily routine, and I'm deeply sorry if I've hurt you in any way. I blame the cold. fucking cold.
Learning Sinus Language
I. Feel. Like. Hell.
For the second day this week, I came into work at noon in an attempt to sleep away the awful bug infesting my system. For the most part, I think, it's gone. However, my clogged sinuses, the most irritating sympton by far, stubbornly remain. I don't know if there's a big party in my sinuses or what, but no one seems to want to leave.
The most embarrasing aspect of this lingering sinus illness is my voice, which sounds like Andre the Giant has cupped a huge hand over my face. It's bad enough having a tell-tale Minnesota accent, you betcha, but to compound the situation with this muffled voice must make me nearly unintelligible to my fellow human beings.
To make converstaion with my fellow human beings a little easier, here are some simple sinus language examples so you can follow along with my day.
Gool morgning = Good morning. I feel horrible.
Howg ig eferythink wig you = How is everything with you? I feel like tiny miners are trying to dislodge my eyes from their sockets. Should this happen, please help me retrieve them from the floor.
Preggy nige dage todage, iggn't it = Pretty nice day today, isn't it? Except for the fact this accursed weather is the primary reason I feel so entirely awful. Would you happen to have any pills consisting of 100 percent codeine I could borrow?
Surg, I guesh I cag get thacht doneg todage = Sure, I guess I can get that done today. How can you ask me to do anything even remotely work-related in the state I'm in? Can't you see how miserable I am? Isn't the perpetual stream of snot trickling forth from my nostrils a solid indication that I'm in no mood to perform tasks of any kind, unless it involves laying in bed with a gallon of 7-Up?
Yesh, Ige am a shmoking hocht shpeshimen of maleg hunkinesh = Yes, I am a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness. Unfortunately, you've caught me on a day when I'm not at my best. Granted, I'm still drop-dead good looking, and most women would pay big money to see me in a speedo, but I'm lacking that certain edge today.
Itsh wash niceg talking wick youg = It was nice talking with you. I only hope I didn't subject you to this vile debilitation infesting my system. If so, stay away from me for four months, or however long it takes you to feel better and not give the illness back to me.
The Playground Bully
"You're out!"
"Am not!"
"Are too!"
Tony started to swagger across the dodgeball battlefield to confront his vocal naysayer, and the game stopped instantly. Both sides quieted to a dull murmer as Tony made his way to the shivering youth who had the audacity to claim that big Tony Masters, scourge of the playground, the only fourth grader who had to shave before going out for noon recess, was out.
"Who you calling out, faggot?" Tony growled as he grabbed Scott by the neck and administered a body blow with his right hand, a soft punch by Tony standards, because he was feeling generous that day. Also, the school monitor, Mrs. Thompson, was dangerously nearby, administering to a scraped knee, apparently unaware of the bullying taking place not more than 40 feet away.
Scott crumpled into a quivering mound on the cold, hard autumn ground, gasping for breath as Tony stepped heavily on his right calf. Scott would have screamed out in pain had he not been out of air.
"Game on!" yelled Tony as he made his way back to his dodgeball team, and the game commenced with no one daring to throw a ball at Tony or catch one of his powerful hurls lest they suffer poor Scott's fate, who was now sitting on the sidewalk blubbering uncontrollably with drool pitifully running down the sides of his mouth.
The game continued for about five minutes, when suddenly big Tony let out a terrific shriek of pain. Once again, play stopped abruptly, and all eyes turned toward Tony who was gripping his left shoulder in agony.
"Who threw that walnut?!" he howled. "Who the hell threw that walnut?! I'll kill whoever it was! I'll kill . . ." But his threat was cut short as yet another walnut came cruising from out of nowhere, crashing into Tony's forehead and exploding in a spray of sweet smelling yellow pulp. Tony, his feet firmly planted, toppled directly backward like a felled tree.
Now sporting a fresh bleeding cut in the direct center of his forehead, and his vision somewhat blurred by the projectile attack, Tony staggered to his feet while his schoolyard peers looked on not knowing what to do. Well, except for the recently abused Scott, that is. He knew exactly what to do.
Scott ran over to the disoriented bully, wiped the blood from his forehead using his own sleeve, and asked if Tony was okay. Tony nodded and said he would be fine in a little bit.
"Good," said Scott, putting his hands softly on Tony's shoulders. "Then I don't feel bad doing this."
With that, Scott mustered all his tiny yet determined strength and kneed Tony forcefully in the groin. The wounded giant let out a mournful wail and collapsed to his knees, and little Scott kicked him in the ribs for good measure, a slight smile of intense satisfaction gracing his still tear-streaked face.
With that, the rest of the playground congregation, realizing they now all had a golden moment to reap revenge for all of Tony's past wrongs, lined up to administer their own punishment. Some children spit, others kicked, while still others just looked on pointing and calling him names.
Nearby, Mrs. Thompson continued comforting the youth with the scraped knee, oblivious, but not really, to the long-overdue schoolyard revenge taking place during her watch. She patted the little girl she was caring for on the head and sent her on her way. The child smiled broadly and laughed before picking up her jumprope and happily skipped away.
Mrs. Thompson then continued her careful monitoring of the playground, all the while smiling and rolling three walnuts over and over again in her pocket.
Finding a Life Purpose Through Total Hatred of Someone Else
I sat in the IBM office, a bauhaus square of filtered flourescent luminescence, metal desks, soft temporary walls, and the omnipresent buzz of computer gadgetry. No windows, no music, no indication that the sun was actually arcing across the sky, or that life in general took place outside the walls.
I tapped furiously at my workstation, laboring to edit a 400 page manual before my Friday deadline. Nearby, my manager, Jenifer (one N, and don't you forget it) sat at her desk going over my last piece of work, a 500 page tome of technical whatthefuck. I had decided early on in my job that Jenifer wasn't probably one of my favorite people in the world, and this decision was awarded with Jenifer and I sharing an office.
Jenifer was one of those people who sacrificed all semblance of a personal life in order to advance her career, a strange decision because, in our department, no one could really advance anywhere. If you were fast and could turn around editing work quickly, you were rewarded with even more work and, at the end of the year, you were given a Salary Action, a term that simply meant your salary would increase to reflect an increased cost of living. None of this apparently dissuaded Jenifer.
I probably spent more time trying to understand Jenifer than I did at actually trying to get work done. An attractive woman with Latina blood swimming in her system, giving her the appearance of being perpetually tanned, she could have probably had some fun living life, but she chose to throw herself into her work, while maintaining a condescending air over practically anyone who had the audacity to pop into her office. As luck would have it, I was ALWAYS in her office. We were an editing team, and we had to adhere to her pedantic process.
The process worked like this: Jenifer would edit a book and cover the pages in red editing marks. I, in turn, would enter her changes online while also checking for additional errors. Then, Jenifer would get the book back and edit it once more, at which point it would be handed back to me to, once again, enter her changes and make even more additional changes. That's right, folks. This job was F. U. N.
"Ryan, you really messed up here. It's a good thing I caught this or IBM legal would have been down our throats," said Jenifer unexpectedly.
"Well, let me see what I did, so I don't do it again."
"Right here, you have to be sure to know the difference between AS/400 and AS/400e. You're still pretty new to this stuff, so we won't dwell on it too much, but it's something to keep in mind."
"Hmmmm."
(Fast Forward to the Next Day)
As I went back through Jenifer's editing marks, I discovered that it was her, not me, who had made the grievous error that would have surely brought IBM crumbling to the ground. It was right there, in her prissy little handwriting, the smoking ink. I started to laugh.
"Sigh. What's so funny?" asked Jenifer, not taking her eyes off the computer screen.
"Remember that mistake you found yesterday that you gave me such a hard time about?"
"Yeeessss. But, there really wasn't anything funny about it," she said with an authority that came across so bitchy I couldn't wait to spring the news on her.
"Well, it turns out that it was your mistake," I said smiling, and I circled her red error with a big blue swath of ink of my own.
The storm clouds that gathered over Jenifer's head as I repeatedly circled the proof would have caused most dogs to cower and scamper from the office with their tails between their legs. I, however, had commited to this bit of self-justification and redemption, so I was ready for her. Or at least I thought.
"So it's my fault! You know, it really wasn't a big enough deal that you have to make such a display of it! Just fix it next time and save me the drama!" she roared, her face now 12 shades of enraged red. She then turned back to her computer and started clicking away with overt animation.
I rolled my eyes, desperately burning for a response, but nothing popped to mind.
"You know," said Jenifer, swiveling quickly in her chair. "There are a lot of managers who would take what you did very personally. You should really learn when and when not to bring something like that up!"
With that, my insult dam burst.
"Oh, just shut up!" I blurted, turning to face her. "Just yesterday you made the mistake sound like the biggest error ever to cross an IBM page! But when I point out that it was actually your fault, and rightfully considering how big of a deal you made it out to be, you totally lose it! It wasn't my fault. It was your fault. Your damned fault! Grow up and live with it!"
I think Jenifer was actually trembling with rage as she stormed from the office. One month later we were awarded separate offices, although we continued to hate each other for the next year and a half. Truth be told, I still hate her.
Some day, if I ever get to be rich and famous, I'm going to make it a point to find out where Jenifer lives and pee on her lawn.
Cold Today? Why, Yes, I Do
December in Minnesota this year has not thus far been very pleasant. Despite a relative lack of snow, we've been treated to temperatures hovering just around Absolute Zero. It's so cold. . . How cold is it? It's so cold that. . . well, it's just really fucking cold, okay?
Anyway, I have resolutely refused to give up my exercise regimen, which requires between two to four hours of hapkido each week, and at least 10 to 15 miles of running. After all, it takes work to maintain this smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness body with which I've been gifted. Damn I'm just soooo hot.
Well, the hapkido I have no problem with, owing primarily to the fact that it's conducted indoors. The running, however, is conducted outdoors and requires substantial bundling to ward off the piercing cold. I've been pretty good about running my usual five mile jaunt at least twice a week, but the cold air has finally caught up with me, in the form of. . . a cold.
Today I awoke with the familiar dry throat that feels like a rusty sewer pipe, and a hollow cough that reverberates like a hammer hitting a steel barrel. I'm also sporting the obligatory runny nose and ill-timed sneezes. Other than that, let me assure you that I feel fine.
It's funny how much I take being healthy for granted, until I wake from blissful slumber only to feel like a mighty oak that was felled in the night by a bacteria-laden woodsman. Timmmmmbrrrrrrrrrrr! *hack* *hack* *cough* *sneeze* Let me just take a moment to give myself a high five for that brilliantly conjured analogy.
The long and the short of it is that I'm sick, and I'm tired, and I totally don't want to be at work today. Oh, for the toasty warmth of my bed and the shrouding darkness of my basement abode. *sniffle* *sneeze*
Lottery Madness
I have a friend, whom I'll call Marc, primarily because his name is Marc. Well, Marc has this interesting philosophy regarding the Powerball lottery institution. Marc likes Powerball, particularly because it offers the minute chance of living a life of luxury, with bikini-clad, and non-clad women feeding him peeled grapes out by the Olympic-sized pool in the backyard of his palacial estate.
To Marc, all of this sounds a lot better than his current status living in a medium density apartment complex with his girlfriend who posseses about as much personality as a bowl of rotten fruit. I kid, of course. His girlfriend isn't that bad. She is, in fact, much, much, much, much worse. But, this entry isn't about Marc's girlfriend, because I can't come up with the appropriate number of derogatory analogies to describe her at this moment.
Marc's philosophy when it comes to the Powerball is as follows: Simply stated, Marc won't play the Powerball until the jackpot exceeds $60 million. Why? Because, according to Marc, "that would provide enough to live comfortably on." No, I'm not kidding. Those were his exact words one day as we drove aimlessly around the countryside.
Marc explained that, after taxes, which he says will be about 50 percent, he'll only have about $30 million left. And, as we all know, $30 million is pretty much on the cutting edge of the American poverty line. Marc continued to defend his stance, saying he wanted his future children to get comfortable inheritances. I guess I can see that. I mean, after he has 60 children, they'll only stand to inherit, at best, after Marc goes on a lifelong spending spree, around a measly $300,000. That's chump change.
The only reason this discussion between Marc and I came to mind was because I had a pretty good string of luck with scratch lottery cards this weekend, accounting for $108 in winnings. And I don't normally play lottery cards, with this weekend being the first time I had the urge to play in over three months. So, I'm feeling pretty good about my luck yesterday and today. Granted, it's no $60 million, but I'm still pretty damned pleased.
And, for the record, the Powerball is now worth an estimated $101 million. So, I bought two tickets. And, you know, if I win, I may even give Marc a buck or two. It's the least I can do.
