No Sir, I'm Not Buying It
According to this article, found via The Command Post, the man televised walking among the throngs of adoring Iraqis today really, truly, honestly was Saddam Hussein. Nope. I'm not buying it. That man is dead as an Iraqi doornail. He is a char-broiled dictator, consisting of a gelatinous puddle of moustache and beret. But, let's explore the other side:
Iraqi President Saddam Hussein called the bluff of the Americans, who were of the view that he had died in a missile attack on the first day of the bombing on Baghdad, by walking on the streets of the capital on Friday evening.
I saw the footage, and I have to say that, underneath that big smile, on a face that looked suspiciously younger than the bespeckled lump of potatoes who appeared the day after he probably died, that man looked slightly spooked, as if he was a man who was really upset that genetics played such a cruel joke on him by making him look like a young Saddam Hussein. If it weren't for the armed men surrounding him, I'm pretty sure he would grab a razor and shave his moustache, his hair, and his pubes, anything so he wouldn't be marched out in public as a Saddam look-a-like.
Saddam LOOK-A-LIKE: *Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Keep smiling man, keep smiling. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.*
ADORING IRAQI: We love you Saddam!! *Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Keep smiling man, keep smiling. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.*
Television channels across the world broadcast video clips of the Iraqi leader walking amongst his delirious people. Western analysts appeared taken aback by Hussein's appearance in public, mingling with his people, talking to them, and at one point of time even holding aloft a child.
In short, that terrified bugger went down the list, not missing a beat, to assure the world that Saddam is alive, which he isn't. Ah, yes, holding aloft a child, a sure indicator that their leader is alive and well and virile.
IRAQI CHILD: *Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Don't cry, don't cry. Gotta keep from crying. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.*
Some doubted it was Hussein, saying it might have been one of his look-alikes.
Yeah, that would be me. In Iraq, if you're male, and you allow yourself to grow a moustache, there's a 30 percent chance you're going to look like Saddam Hussein.
Lt General (retd) Kirpal Singh Randhawa, who had imparted training to Iraqi troops in the seventies, was convinced that the man shown on television networks was none other than the Iraqi president.
Um, yeah, because, you know, Saddam hasn't aged a day since the 70s. He's an Iraqi version of Dick Clark. Just a couple of weeks ago, the sorry sap they pushed in front of the camera looked like he had been dragged out of a nursing home. Now he looks about middle age as he struts amongst his people. He's dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. Finished. Finito. Done. Gone. A cooked goose. He has ceased to be.
"I recognise three of his bodyguards and they were right there with their leader. This courageous and bold move could electrify the Arab world, particularly the people of Baghdad," Randhawa told rediff.com on phone late on Friday night.
IRAQI BODYGUARD: *Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. I'm so glad I have a gun in my hand right now. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.*
Saddam's personal appearance in public could motivate Iraqis to even sacrifice their lives for defence of their motherland, he said. Asked why the Iraqis let the Americans easily capture Baghdad airport, Randhawa said it could have been a strategic move on their part.
Yeah, strategic, totally strategic. Like the innovative strategy of surrendering in droves and giving up huge expanses of land. Strategic like THAT. Sheesh.
"Saddam Hussein wants the Americans to fight the battle on the streets of Baghdad. He would not want to waste his tanks and armoured personnel carriers in open warfare. He would like to personally direct the battle of Baghdad," he said.
And of course, the first act of any commander about to defend a city is to practically hand the enemy a nice, big, fat international airport to serve as a command center. Apparently, Saddam is so certain of victory, he's willing to spot the coalition forces a few points, you know, just to make it interesting.
General Randhawa said that the battle for Baghdad could be one of the bloodiest in the history of modern warfare.
"I would say that the Americans and the British would lose at least a couple of thousand troops even if they skirt street-to-street battle and depend heavily on aerial bombing."
"But if they go in for street battles, the toll could be much higher," he said.
Or we could just sit tight and wait for the buses of fleeing Iraqis to continue unabated until there's no one left but a few Special Republican Guard units. Then we'll just starve them out. "The bloodiest in the history of modern warfare." Apparently the good general hasn't been keeping up on the history of modern warfare. Either that or he skipped the chapter about the siege of Stalingrad. Whatever the case, we're getting off topic here. Saddam is dead. D-E-A-D.
Of course, I could be wrong. But, nah, he's dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead, dead. The man is dead.
I Need To Unplug
Okay, I'm way too informed for my own good. The Internet has officially taken over my mind. I got this week's Time magazine a couple days ago, and I already knew everything in it. I mean, one of their stories talked about Salam Pax as if his blog is some sort of new phenomenon or something. I'm too informed. I need to take this weekend to sequester myself away from the Internet. No Internet for me. I must resist.
UPDATE: Except for porn. Porn surfing is fine.
UPDATE: It's also okay if I surf for things like THIS, just so I can laugh my ass literally off.
UPDATE: And if I hadn't read this before starting my weekend away from the Internet, I wouldn't be the better man I am at this moment.
Special Republican Guards Are People Too
Iraqi Fighters Can Do The Same Things As Everybody Else
BAGHDAD (Rhodes Media Services) -- Iraqi officials today, pressed to explain the difference between regular Republican Guard units and Special Republican Guard units, issued a strongly worded statement that said there was no distinction between the two, except that it takes just a little longer for Special Republican Guards to do some things.
"We love and value all our Republican Guard units equally," said Iraq's Minister of Education, Fahd Salim Shaqrah. "Just because our Special Republican Guards are perceived as different by some people, that does not mean they are any less human. Yes, it takes a bit longer for Special Republican Guards to carry out certain war-related tasks, but that shouldn't represent a failing or shortcoming on their part."
One Special Republican Guard individual who was interviewed, Tariq Ismal Qadiz, appeared to be in good spirits and very optimistic about the war, despite the presence of coalition forces just outside of Baghdad.
"Aliq sallah!" said Qadiz, which, roughly translated, means "Yay!"
With apologies and credits to The Onion and Crank Yankers.
Girlfriend Moving Madness
Last weekend, I discovered that my girlfriend is insane.
Granted, I've always had my suspicions that Melissa is insane, primarily because she's dating me, but it wasn't until I helped her move into a new apartment that I realized the true depths of her insanity.
To be fair, I really didn't have to move much of anything because Mel had conducted most of the moving during the week, and my weekend moving duties mostly centered around cleaning and maintenance. Truth be told, I would rather have been involved with the manly art of furniture and box moving instead of cleaning and maintenance, but whatever.
My primary function was to put together the new furniture items she bought specifically for her new apartment, the pre-fabricated K-Mart specials that are the staple furniture pieces for people from age 18 through, roughly, age 38. I'm now 28 years old, and I've owned and constructed enough particle board furniture to furnish a small third world country. In other words, I was the right man for the job.
My first furniture construction challenge was a wine rack. Now, I had never before put together a wine rack, but now that I have a wine rack under my belt, I can truthfully state that wine should simply be stacked on the floor because that would save mankind the irritation of putting together a wine rack.
I won't bore you with the details of the wine rack construction, except to say I let fly with more expletives than most sailors can utter in a lifetime. Melissa loved the finished wine rack. She loved it so much, in fact, that she spent the next half hour painstakingly positioning kitchen appliances so as to show off the wine rack. I should note here that Mel is an interior design student, so she lives on a different planet than the rest of us.
"I don't like the microwave there, because you can't see the wine rack from the sink," she said.
"Is it that important to be able to see the wine rack when doing dishes?" I asked, and she looked at me like I just defecated on the floor.
"Well, obviously, you just don't get it," she huffed, and then she spent the next 20 minutes placing, and removing, and replacing, bottles of wine on the wine rack until they looked "just right."
Rather than question her strange wine bottle positioning technique, I busied myself with the next construction project, this time a heavy bookshelf.
Now, the bookshelf would have been a quick construction job, except that Mel kept borrowing the only screwdriver in the house so she could hang curtain rods. I'm not exactly sure why curtain rods became so important all of a sudden but, to her, hanging curtains rods had become a life or death situation akin to duct taping for a terrorist attack.
Again, rather than question her motives, I simply sat quietly and waited for her to finish with the curtain rods so I could finish with the bookshelf. Once completed, I moved the bookshelf against the appointed wall, and Mel immediately started stacking books strategically on the bookshelf. Once it was crammed with books, she stepped back and assessed the situation.
"The bookcase needs to be moved to the right about two inches," she said.
Did I mention the bookcase was heavy? And it was heavy even without two tons of books, so moving it, even a measly two inches, was a task even Hercules would pass on.
"Do you have any idea how heavy this thing is?" I protested as we both grunted and groaned and tried to move the beastly thing two inches across carpet. "Can't we just leave it where it is?"
Again I got the floor defecation look, so I scuttled into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and to look at the wine rack. When I returned, Mel was (you guessed it) removing books from the bookcase so she could move it two inches to the right.
Then, much to my amazement, she started hanging a picture near the bookcase and she asked me to hold it up so she could eyeball it. I did as instructed, but I made the unforgivable sin of (get ready) holding it too high.
"Don't hold it so high!" she scolded. "It has to be even with the top of the bookcase!"
By the end of the weekend, I was pretty much resigned to being wrong all the time. Mercifully, it will be about two weeks before we'll be able to see each other again.
Hopefully she'll be done moving herself in by then.
Waxing Poetic
For those just tuning in, there's a poetry contest going on over at A Small Victory, and I'm soooooo kicking ass, if I do say so myself.
UPDATE: But, I sooooooo fucking lost to a superior limeracist named Dave. Ah, well, perhaps next time.
A Recap Of Banality, And Tearing Jill Nelson A New One
Hapkido last night. I know, I know, no one cares. Well, I care damnit! I care a whole bunch. I have a renewed hapkido enthusiasm following the news that I'm only a few months away from my black belt. Except. . .
I found out yesterday that, before I can become a black belt, I have be certified in CPR/First Aid. Apparently, if I eventually have to beat someone senseless, I have to be able to bandage my opponent's wounds, set their broken bones and, Heaven forbid, get their heart going again. As if the pressure of preserving my own life isn't bad enough, now I have to ensure the longevity of the person who tries to slit my throat? It's a crazy world we live in. Anyway, I have to sign up for an April 26 CPR training seminar. Should be entertaining.
I had errands to run last night after hapkido, including gassing up the Cadillac. Does anyone else find it odd that, if a pump isn't working, or if a great unseen underground tank of petrol is empty, the gas station alerts the patrons by wrapping a plastic bag over the pump handle? It strikes me as some sort of gasoline haz mat suit. "Don't touch this, you fool! Can't you see the plastic bag?!"
I then went to Subway for my dinner, and I was waited on by one of those auto-pilot "sandwich artists" who obviously hate their job. She was a thin blonde unit, cute I suppose, in an anorexic sunken eyes sort of way, and she fired out all the standard Subway questions without any inflection or heart whatsoever.
SANDWICH ARTIST: What can I get you tonight, sir?
ME: Not sure yet (could you at least let the door close behind me before you ask? I don't normally enter an eating establishment desiring any specific meal. That's what menus are for, so please let me look at your's first. I SO should have said that to her!)
SANDWICH ARTIST: Okay sir. *yawns*
ME: I'll take a chicken breast foot long on. . .
SANDWICH ARTIST: What type of bread, sir?
ME: Wheat.
SANDWICH ARTIST: What kind of cheese would you like on that, sir?
ME: Pepper jack.
SANDWICH ARTIST: What else would you like on that, sir?
ME: Lettuce, tomato, onion, green pepper and jalepenos.
SANDWICH ARTIST: Any sauces or oils?
ME: No.
SANDWICH ARTIST: Chips or pop tonight, sir?
ME: Chips.
SANDWICH ARTIST: That will be $6.53. Thank you sir and have a nice night. *disappears into strange back room*
Now, I understand that being a "sandwich artist" probably isn't as glamorous as it sounds, and chances are this highschooler has aspirations that far exceed the Subway walls, but I don't think it's too much to ask to to expect an occasional smile, or some sign that the person handling my dinner has personality characteristics other than simply bored and irritated out of her skull. I'm not expecting Robin Williams or anything like that. Just a smile. Maybe a nipple flash. You know, just something extra.
I played The Sims last night. Now, before you roll your eyes and say "but isn't that game for girls?" let me just assure you that, yes, it is for girls, but sometimes I'm in the mood for a computer game free of the stresses of a first person shooter or real-time strategy game. I mean, I love Command & Conquer: Generals, but it's disconcerting to rush to build a base only to have it leveled by a Chinese nuke or a terrorist Scud attack. There's no stress to The Sims, and the plentiful cheat codes make it actually relaxing to play.
Just before I went to bed, feeling totally relaxed and at peace thanks to The Sims, I quickly went online to catch up on war news. Out of curiosity, I checked out the MSNBC.com opinions section and I was surprised to see an article by the ever-annoying Jill Nelson. She's been strangely quiet ever since the war broke out. Well, she's back, and she's making up for lost time by wallowing in hyperbole. This woman takes whining to a level that surpasses even that of Michael Moore. I'm convinced that, if Jill were to whine just a little louder, and at a slightly higher pitch, whales the world over would feel compelled to beach themselves.
Some excerpts from her latest bit of chilled literary vomit:
Spare me network anchors on location arrayed in multi-pocketed flak jackets and combat helmets, reporting from positions embedded with the troops or striding across maps in a safe studio, explaining the battlefield as if it is a diorama at the Museum of Natural History. Spare me the stories of Arnett and Geraldo and the ceaseless, obscene competition for ratings.
In other words, spare her the war coverage. I'm not sure what that leaves to report on. Maybe if we scooped up Jill's rickety bones and plopped her in the middle of a war zone, she could offer up an unbiased account of the situation, but I highly doubt it. She's more content to whine from her vantage point in the cheap seats.
Despite my disgust, I am not completely detached. I still scan the headlines, sometimes have the radio on in the background, watch snippets of televised news. Mostly, I learn little news and I am not interested in the grim details. I never believed the Iraqis would lie down and surrender their country in the face of America's "shock and awe" military strategy, so I am not surprised at the rising death toll on both sides and difficult battles.
Difficult battles? As opposed to what, exactly? Hug and kiss assaults? Battles, by definition are difficult, or at least that's how I understand battles to be. And a rising death toll? Is there anybody out there who honestly believes a death toll is supposed to go down during a war?
ANNOUNCER: In an unprecedented development today, soldiers from both sides of the conflict rose from their graves remarkably unscathed and renewed their fighting. This new Lazarus development actually caused the military to adjust their casualty numbers, bringing the death toll down by about 24.
Nor am I shocked or surprised by the emergence of Iraqi suicide bombers (bomber, Jill. Singular. There's only been one so far) and civilian resistance, or by Iraq's guerilla warfare strategies as they fight off the U.S.-led coalition forces. It can be only racism, arrogance and simple stupidity that made any one think they wouldn't.
For some people, it always seems to come back to racism. "I know why you pulled me over, officer. It's because I'm black! I know why I didn't get that job. It's because I'm black! I know why they're burning that cross in my yard. It's because I'm black!" Sometimes, as hard as it is to believe, it's not actually about racism. U.S. military planners expected resistance. They expected suicide attack(s). They expected guerilla warfare tactics. They expected all of this. Sure, it would be nice if the Iraqis just put down their AK-47s and showered us with kisses on our feet, but we certainly weren't counting on that to happen. I'm not sure where the racism comes in here, or arrogance, or simple stupidity for that matter. But, it wouldn't be a Jill Nelson column if she didn't play the race card at least once.
And sometimes I think the arrogance of George W. Bush, Donald Rumsfeld and all the rest of them so bent on this war for oil is itself simply a posture — a cloak to convince Americans to go along with a war that would be quick and virtually painless, with few casualties and over in a few days. If so, it was a lie that only the United States, Tony Blair, Spain and Bulgaria believed.
Er, AND Afghanistan, AND Albania, AND Australia, AND Azerbaijan, AND Colombia, AND the Czech Republic, AND Denmark, AND El Salvador, AND Eritrea, AND Estonia, AND Ethiopia, AND Georgia, AND Hungary, AND Italy, AND Japan, AND South Korea, AND Latvia, AND Lithuania, AND Macedonia, AND the Netherlands, AND Nicaragua, AND the Philippines, AND Poland, AND Romania, AND Slovakia, AND Turkey, AND Uzbekistan. But who's keeping track?
And enough of the whole "war for oil" mantra. I didn't believe that months ago, and I don't believe it now. If this were truly about oil, we would have simply secured all the oil fields and would be pumping that fresh sweet crude into our SUVs by now.
I can tell by the expressions on the faces of people I pass on the street that they are, like me, both angry and broken-hearted by the violence being done in our name. I know that they, too, live every day now with that clenched feeling in the stomach, waiting, always waiting, for the next worst thing to happen. Wishing it won't, but certain that it will.
It's nice to know that she's so obviously psychic, able to see into the minds and souls of people passing by. Maybe they're angry and broken hearted because they just got dumped. Maybe they simply have to take a shit, what with the perpetual clenched feeling in their stomachs and all. Give me a break. Alison. Alison. Angel. Alison. Angel. Alison. And the next worst thing to happen? To hear Jill tell it, you'd think we're massively losing this war rather than being 25 miles from the Baghdad doorstep.
In my neighborhood, I cannot find anyone who supports the war. In the bodega on the corner, the woman behind the counter cannot tell me in English how much a head of lettuce costs, but when I say "war" she immediately frowns. "Is very, very bad. Bush very bad," she declares as she hands me my change.
"I don't even want to talk about it, it's terrible," says the young guy grinding my coffee beans at the supermarket. "What can you say? It's all about oil," he adds, shaking his head.
"Those poor young people, American and Iraqi, it's a shame and a waste," an elderly woman murmurs sadly as we stand on a corner waiting for the light to turn green. And so it goes.
What the hell neighborhood does this woman live in? Sounds like a warped version of Sesame Street.
Jill Nelson. My choice for five star whiner of the week award. *****
UPDATE: I just read this headline from my local paper: Couple Say War Truth Is Somewhere Between CNN, Al-Jazeera
No crap.
Okay, This Is Pretty Cool
I'll give a new, shiny penny to anyone who can tell me how this little game works.
Saddam Hussein Alive, Says Saddam Hussein
Iraqi Dictator Confirms Existence Through Written Word
BAGHDAD (Rhodes Media Services) -- In a written statement from Saddam Hussein, read on Iraqi national television by the country's information minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf, the Iraqi dictator explained, in no uncertain terms, that he was, in fact, not dead.
"The aggression that the aggressors are carrying out against the stronghold of faith is an aggression on the religion, the wealth, the honor and the soul and an aggression on the land of Islam," said Hussein in his agressively worded statement.
"And let me just assure you that I am, at this very moment, breathing deeply and my heart is pumping blood through my wonderful god-like veins," the statement continued. "I am not dead. I am very much alive. I was not killed when that huge bomb surprised the living shit out of me when it struck my bunker. Because I am so incredibly great and invincible, the shrapnel and debris cast about by the infidel explosive bounced harmlessly off my rippling muscular chest and taut buttocks. The bomb did not tear me asunder, as some people may believe. I am so incredibly alive right now, I'm at a level of cat-like alertness and I am primed to lead the great and invincible Iraqi military to victory against the puny invaders."
Also in his statement, Saddam said he had joined forces with Elvis Presley to defeat the U.S. led coalition forces.
I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.
I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.
Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.
I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.
And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.
Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.
But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.
I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.
Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."
Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.
Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.
It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.
We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.
After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.
As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.
Ramdomized Randomness
Did anyone see my weekend? If you happen to find my weekend, please return it to me immediately.
I've travelled between Rochester and St. Paul so much over the past few months, they've changed the signs to read "Once again, welcome to St. Paul, Ryan." I guess I don't actually mind the drive that much, but it would be nice to see a change of scenery like, oh, I don't know, LEAVES, or something else green-like in appearance. Hell, I'd be okay with the occasional splotch of green vomit on the side of the road. It's spring. Let's see some green.
I saw Melissa's new apartment for the first time on Friday. It's pretty nice, but anything is an improvement over the dilapidated shack she used to live in. She now lives in a nice but weird collection of apartments that look like they were built in the early 70s, and, as with most apartment complexes, they have not been asthetically updated since they were built. We're talking electric blue carpet with electric green design swirls that look like something from a John Travolta disco movie. Thankfully, that carpet is only found in the hallways, not in the apartments themselves.
The apartment complex is divided into two buildings and, as luck would have it, one is inhabited primarily by younger folks my age, and the other is apparently a manor for older folks. By some strange mix up in the paperwork, or so I like to believe, Mel is housed in the old folks building. How old are these people? Well, to give you an idea, the caretaker, who lives in Mel's building, is 80 years old. And she's snoopier than Charlie Brown's dog Snoopy, which is pretty damned snoopy when you think about it. I put together a K-Mart wine rack on Friday night and, come Saturday, Ms. Snoopy was knocking at Mel's door complaining about all the pounding from the night before. For the record, I may have cussed and compained and bitched while I put together that maddening wine rack, but I did very little pounding. I think the pounding was just an excuse, because she kept trying to nuzzle her way into the apartment, but Mel stood firm in front of the door, preventing entry and keeping the caretaker from discovering the meth lab I was cooking up in the bathtub. Okay, there was no meth lab, but I was taking a bath, so that was not entirely untrue.
On Saturday night, I met Mel's sister and brother-in-law, and I was unimpressed by both. The brother-in-law is an ex-marine who decided to fully adopt and maintain an arrogant attitude that makes me look meek by comparison. We went to Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner and drinks and they practically had to enlarge the door frame to make room for that guy's ego. Mel's sister, by comparison, is a submissive, soft-spoken waif who is a younger version of Mel's mother. It was a study in contrasting personalities that was more suited to candid camera than marriage. Also seated at the table was my friend, Marc, and Mel's other sister, the youngest, forgotten sibling who has all the people skills of a dead, dried out lady bug.
It's strange, really, because Mel is so totally different from her sisters. She's a take-charge, opinionated, fiery little vixen, while her sisters are everything but, especially the youngest, who is quick with a laugh but very, very rarely speaks unless she happens to be sitting in a bear trap and needs to voice her discomfort. Then again, I guess I really have no way of understanding how a family like theirs grows, what with a divorce and the father's homosexuality thrown into the mix, to say nothing of the ultra-religious mother who battled severe depression for most of the children's lives. Any one of those issues is tough to come to terms with alone, but combined we're talking years of consecutive therapy spanning into infinity. When we were visiting my brother and sister-in-law in Colorado, and I got sick of talking, I just steered Mel into a conversation about her family history and let her go on conversational auto-pilot. I never get sick of hearing about her atypical family, so I can only imagine what people must be thinking when they first hear about them.
Early Sunday morning, I drove Mel to her father's house so she could load up the last of her stored furniture. Her dad is probably one of the last men on the planet you would suspect of being gay. He's a swaggering, masculine force to reckon with, and he let fly more expletives while loading the pickup than most sailors emit in a lifetime. Then, just as I was on the verge of forgetting he was is even at all gay, he started talking about how his male lover was breaking up with him. Let's just say that Mel's family would not be a good subject for a Normal Rockwell painting.
Well, anyway, that was my weekend. How was yours'?
