Since our recent move, my wife and I have been trying to go to restaurants in our new neighborhood. A friend recommended a nearby little café for a Sunday brunch. The place turned out to be a combination spa and diner. When you enter the front door and turn to the right you can sit and order a ‘soy-chorizo egg-white burrito’ and a ‘sea scallop salad’ with a ‘mango coconut smoothie’. If you turn to the left you can get an ‘abalone sea kelp body wrap’, ‘a pomegranate body scrub’ and combination ‘armpit / teeny weenie bikini wax’. I am not sure I like all of that stuff under the same roof. Do both sides share the kitchen? http://www.solarespa.com/
Despite the fact that some guy might be getting the ‘Metro Man’ back waxing special a few feet away, we decided to sit and order a couple of omelets (which did turn out to be very good!). As we waited for our food we could not stop watching the two men doing some kind of work along side the window outside of the restaurant. My wife immediately noticed the 1970’s countryish style sofa sticking out of the back of their beat up truck. I could not keep my eyes off the 300lb plus man in the way too small t-shirt that was not long enough to cover his giglotomous hanging belly folds.
Instead of gazing out at the local scenery during one of the first beautiful Sundays of the year, I watched a rotund over exposed guy in dirty ill-fitting clothes. He climbed down a ladder, stepped back slightly from it and barked at his young wiry assistant to shift it a few inches to right. Once the scruffy kid, wearing an equally scary outfit highlighted by a cap with a multi-colored skull pattern, shifted the ladder over a little, the large guy shuffled the two steps back and climbing up again exposing vast acreage of his uncovered belly to the small crowd in the restaurant. I think they both could have really used a ‘deep cleansing surf and sand body scrub’ next door.
This past week the weather turned nasty again. The temperature dropped into the low 40s with strong winds and thunderstorms. I was at work when one of our couriers let the side door slip out of hand as he tried to sprint through the torrential storm to his car. The door brace ripped apart in the wind, damaging the push handle and frame. Later as we were about to leave for the evening one of my co-workers tried using the door as a shortcut to avoid the deluge but she too lost her grip of it and this time the wind slammed the door against the wall knocking the glass out of it.
I got soaking wet standing out in the freezing cold rain trying to fix it myself while someone else tried to track down an after hours repairman. I got the glass loosely propped back in the door but did not have the tools or know-how to get it securely attached to withstand the storm. We luckily got a hold of a client of ours that owns a glass company. After asking for a return favor from us, he rushed over in less then 10 minutes. He quickly installed the glass and got the door to close but said there was only one person he trusted to fix all the other broken parts. That guy should be able to make it tomorrow afternoon after he finished “working on an emergency at the Auto Parts store… that someone must have mistakenly thought had a drive-thru”.
Latter the next day the door/glass expert showed up. The heavy man looked familiar to me but I did not realize who it was until I saw him walk around banging on various item in his truck’s bed while barking to his assistant “I will need this toolbox and this stool… Whether an item was 20 feet away or 20 millimeters away, he cried out for the kid in the skull patterned hat to grab it and hand it to him. He slowly scrambled up the ladder and called out for “the nose picker”. After being handed the tool he told his helper “you know what you get without a Nose Picker… a runny nose.” He caught me listening in to his joke and quickly told me the complicated real name of the tool but quickly assured me that everyone calls it a Nose Picker.
I started talking to the guy and although he spoke and dressed in a way that would make the Beverly Hillbillies look distinguished, he really seemed amazingly knowledgeable in his field of expertise. He told me about all the companies that built ‘these exotic doors’ in the 1980s and 90s all went out of business and most people have no clue how to fix them. He was not bragging, just matter of factly telling me how he makes a living being the guy that everyone calls when they do not know how to do it themselves.
Of course once he knew he had an audience he included me in all his jokes. Through his rotting teeth he called out for the kid to ‘fetch me My Old Lady’, he waved me over to the ladder to whisper to me that he calls his bright orange rubber mallet “My Old Lady because it is really a Dead Blow Hammer”. Later on the big guy referred to one of the broken off missing pieces as a ‘Jesus Cap’. “I call it a Jesus cap because when the little cap inevitably pops off you always look down and yell ‘Jesus, where did that go’.”
Even with all his breaks to tell me bad jokes, the oversized door guru amazingly fixed the door in no time. It has been repaired numerous times before but it is currently working better then when it was new. I wrote down his number from the side of his truck but he made it clear that I should not call him but phone my regular glass guy when it inevitably breaks again. For all the obvious reasons, it is nice to be surprised by someone. Of course I still think he is really in need of that ‘deep cleansing surf and sand body scrub’.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
SAY GOODBYE TO BOOT BOY
You can stop calling me Boot-Boy. I am now sans boot so you can go back to calling me all the other stuff (Dork, Geek, Goofball, Freak-show…). Although I am very happy to not have to walk around with my leg strapped into an oversized stiff black boot any longer (I never did get around to painting racer stripes on it), my cat Radar is kind of sad to see it go. He thought it was a giant moving cat toy and was fond of attacking the Velcro straps. Then again he treats most of the furniture and people in the house as giant cat toys so he likely will not miss it.
I originally planned on donating the boot as soon as I got out of it but I think I am going to keep it a little while longer. I am not particularly superstitious but I just get the feeling the minute I give it away something will happen and I might need it again (I can keep it with the neoprene knee brace I have had for 15 years). Holding onto it is sort of like insurance; I certainly will never need a boot if I have one lying around in the corner with all the other cat toys.
You might recall I tore two tendons in my leg during the final sprint of an hour long exercise ‘boot camp’. I guess it made sense that I ended up in a boot due to boot camp (I still think they should market it as ‘Booty Camp to shrink your booty’, although if that were the case I might have opted instead to go to Gutter Camp to shrink my gut). I must confess to feeling a little old and fragile after hurting myself in what should have been an easy innocuous run.
I started to feel better about the injury when I learned that my oldest brother, a marathon runner, had a similar thing happen several years ago and in much the same unexpected way. I started thinking about other injuries I have had. Luckily none of them have been that major (knock wood… oops there I go being superstitious again). I should not feel old and fragile; I should feel like a Dork, Geek, Goofball or Freak-show (as usual). The few times I have really hurt myself have all been freak injuries that occurred in somewhat less then dramatic situations (see my blog on 10/17/07 for a longer more detailed version of the stories in the next 2 paragraphs).
When I was three years old I broke my nose. My brother and I were blowing bubbles in our small New York City back yard (we called it a back yard but really it was a very short hard-angled concrete driveway that led from the curb to the garage under the house) when I stumbled. I was a logical little kid and not wanting to spill or drop the bubble juice (a valuable item to a three year old) or lose the little bubble blowing stick (what good is the bubble juice without the little two-holed bubble juice dispensing stick), I fell face first onto the ground without ever putting my hands out to break the fall (since my hands were in use clutching the bubble producing paraphernalia). I did a similar thing 13 years later when, as an usher at my sister’s wedding, I passed cold but other things then my face broke that fall (I’ll have save that story for another time).
When I was 12 I gave myself a minor concussion and cracked a couple of ribs falling up a flight of stairs. I got home from school to discover our new dog Smokey had broken out of his crate. He had gotten into the kitchen garbage and spread it out all over the floor in an effort, I assume, to make a doggie buffet. As I started to scold him, he raced upstairs towards his crate. I darted up after him but slipped (possibly on one of the items from the doggie buffet). Inertia kept my body moving up the stairs even though my feet were not under me anymore. My chest came down hard on the corner of a step and with the wind knocked out of me I tumbled down to the bottom of the staircase.
This somewhat sports related tendon injury is about the most normal way I think I have ever been hurt. So after a few weeks of clopping around I am now faced with a month or so of physical therapy. After that I should be back to normal. Whatever that is.
I originally planned on donating the boot as soon as I got out of it but I think I am going to keep it a little while longer. I am not particularly superstitious but I just get the feeling the minute I give it away something will happen and I might need it again (I can keep it with the neoprene knee brace I have had for 15 years). Holding onto it is sort of like insurance; I certainly will never need a boot if I have one lying around in the corner with all the other cat toys.
You might recall I tore two tendons in my leg during the final sprint of an hour long exercise ‘boot camp’. I guess it made sense that I ended up in a boot due to boot camp (I still think they should market it as ‘Booty Camp to shrink your booty’, although if that were the case I might have opted instead to go to Gutter Camp to shrink my gut). I must confess to feeling a little old and fragile after hurting myself in what should have been an easy innocuous run.
I started to feel better about the injury when I learned that my oldest brother, a marathon runner, had a similar thing happen several years ago and in much the same unexpected way. I started thinking about other injuries I have had. Luckily none of them have been that major (knock wood… oops there I go being superstitious again). I should not feel old and fragile; I should feel like a Dork, Geek, Goofball or Freak-show (as usual). The few times I have really hurt myself have all been freak injuries that occurred in somewhat less then dramatic situations (see my blog on 10/17/07 for a longer more detailed version of the stories in the next 2 paragraphs).
When I was three years old I broke my nose. My brother and I were blowing bubbles in our small New York City back yard (we called it a back yard but really it was a very short hard-angled concrete driveway that led from the curb to the garage under the house) when I stumbled. I was a logical little kid and not wanting to spill or drop the bubble juice (a valuable item to a three year old) or lose the little bubble blowing stick (what good is the bubble juice without the little two-holed bubble juice dispensing stick), I fell face first onto the ground without ever putting my hands out to break the fall (since my hands were in use clutching the bubble producing paraphernalia). I did a similar thing 13 years later when, as an usher at my sister’s wedding, I passed cold but other things then my face broke that fall (I’ll have save that story for another time).
When I was 12 I gave myself a minor concussion and cracked a couple of ribs falling up a flight of stairs. I got home from school to discover our new dog Smokey had broken out of his crate. He had gotten into the kitchen garbage and spread it out all over the floor in an effort, I assume, to make a doggie buffet. As I started to scold him, he raced upstairs towards his crate. I darted up after him but slipped (possibly on one of the items from the doggie buffet). Inertia kept my body moving up the stairs even though my feet were not under me anymore. My chest came down hard on the corner of a step and with the wind knocked out of me I tumbled down to the bottom of the staircase.
This somewhat sports related tendon injury is about the most normal way I think I have ever been hurt. So after a few weeks of clopping around I am now faced with a month or so of physical therapy. After that I should be back to normal. Whatever that is.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
BIG TALK
All right… let me shock you. I like to talk… really. I do. Oh there was a time in my life that I truly wanted to be that strong silent type guy. You know, the one that speaks only when spoken to and when they do say something the words are tightly measured like poetry. Yeah I couldn’t pull it off. I believe I was born with some odd ‘gregarious’ gene in my DNA that forces me to be rambunctious. My loudness is obviously all biological and very much out of my control.
I recently happened upon some of my old report cards from elementary school. ‘Talks too much’ seems to be a reoccurring theme in the comment section. Of course part of the problem back then was that I hit an early growth spurt so from 3rd to 7th grade I was a lot taller, bigger and louder then most of the other kids. If 5 boys were causing a ruckus I was the one that stood out and got in trouble. I am not saying I was innocent, just more obvious.
Now I might have a gift for gab but I am definitely not one of those people with a non-stop monologue about every mundane aspect of their lives. You know the people I am talking about, the ones that read out loud every billboard and road sign you pass when you are in the car with them. You can not get a word in edgewise as they drone on and on with stories like “I got up at 8:00 today not 7:30 as usual but 8:00 so I really really had to pee worse then usual but it was sunny, not too sunny, but sunny enough that I had to squint when I looked out of the window to see if the paper boy tossed the paper in the front lawn or the driveway because if it is in the lawn it might be damp and then I will have to wipe off the paper with a towel, not a bath towel, with a blue dish towel not the red ones I use when there is company because they match the color of the Kitchenaide mixer and I hate it when the paper is damp because it reminds me that I have to pee…”
I guess the key to being a good talker is to also be a good listener. So I really should have started this blog by saying I like to converse. The thing I enjoyed so much about the trip to see my family last week was all the conversations. We all chatted about stuff in our lives today but mostly we dug out all the old crazy stories from years ago. We have all heard the stories before but enviably we all end up rolling on the floor retelling tales like when Mom threw a bowling ball through the basement wall, our family trip to Washington when I disturbed the Senate (see my blog from 4/10/2007), my brother Arthur getting stitches on his head from an elderly doctor with extremely shaky hands, pea fights at the dinner table or and my famous hijacking story (see my blog entry from 4/15 & 4/21 2007).
One of the strong points of my marriage is that my wife and I communicate a lot. Granted she has lately started to say, “it’s amazing I do not hit you” when I blurt out something incredibly over the top or inappropriate (which happens pretty much daily). We occasionally get into a deep conversation but mostly we engage in a simple never-ending silly banter about whatever is on our minds. I am very lucky to have a lot of people in my life that I feel I can really talk to.
My Buddy Mike and I only get together a couple of times a year but whenever we do, it is like no time has passed since the last visit and a deep intense conversation will usually slip in amongst all the other chatter. Yeah we talk up sports, politics, religion and all those things you should not get into with acquaintances and coworkers, but our deeper conversations are the ones I really treasure. There are not many people in the world that know almost 30 years of my innermost secrets, hopes, dreams, loves and pains. We get into anything and everything without fear of judgment, which I have to say, is truly is the most rewarding type of talk.
I recently happened upon some of my old report cards from elementary school. ‘Talks too much’ seems to be a reoccurring theme in the comment section. Of course part of the problem back then was that I hit an early growth spurt so from 3rd to 7th grade I was a lot taller, bigger and louder then most of the other kids. If 5 boys were causing a ruckus I was the one that stood out and got in trouble. I am not saying I was innocent, just more obvious.
Now I might have a gift for gab but I am definitely not one of those people with a non-stop monologue about every mundane aspect of their lives. You know the people I am talking about, the ones that read out loud every billboard and road sign you pass when you are in the car with them. You can not get a word in edgewise as they drone on and on with stories like “I got up at 8:00 today not 7:30 as usual but 8:00 so I really really had to pee worse then usual but it was sunny, not too sunny, but sunny enough that I had to squint when I looked out of the window to see if the paper boy tossed the paper in the front lawn or the driveway because if it is in the lawn it might be damp and then I will have to wipe off the paper with a towel, not a bath towel, with a blue dish towel not the red ones I use when there is company because they match the color of the Kitchenaide mixer and I hate it when the paper is damp because it reminds me that I have to pee…”
I guess the key to being a good talker is to also be a good listener. So I really should have started this blog by saying I like to converse. The thing I enjoyed so much about the trip to see my family last week was all the conversations. We all chatted about stuff in our lives today but mostly we dug out all the old crazy stories from years ago. We have all heard the stories before but enviably we all end up rolling on the floor retelling tales like when Mom threw a bowling ball through the basement wall, our family trip to Washington when I disturbed the Senate (see my blog from 4/10/2007), my brother Arthur getting stitches on his head from an elderly doctor with extremely shaky hands, pea fights at the dinner table or and my famous hijacking story (see my blog entry from 4/15 & 4/21 2007).
One of the strong points of my marriage is that my wife and I communicate a lot. Granted she has lately started to say, “it’s amazing I do not hit you” when I blurt out something incredibly over the top or inappropriate (which happens pretty much daily). We occasionally get into a deep conversation but mostly we engage in a simple never-ending silly banter about whatever is on our minds. I am very lucky to have a lot of people in my life that I feel I can really talk to.
My Buddy Mike and I only get together a couple of times a year but whenever we do, it is like no time has passed since the last visit and a deep intense conversation will usually slip in amongst all the other chatter. Yeah we talk up sports, politics, religion and all those things you should not get into with acquaintances and coworkers, but our deeper conversations are the ones I really treasure. There are not many people in the world that know almost 30 years of my innermost secrets, hopes, dreams, loves and pains. We get into anything and everything without fear of judgment, which I have to say, is truly is the most rewarding type of talk.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
My wife and I flew to Florida this past weekend for my Dad’s 80th birthday party. My father is amazingly active for his age. He has had a few more aches and pains lately but I cannot say much. I was the one hobbling around the beaches of the Sunshine State on my bum leg encased in a big fancy boot.
I had been looking forward to the trip to see my family for months but when I recently tore a couple of tendons in my leg I started to dread the flight to get there. I find sitting in a plane seat on par with pouring lemon juice into an open cut or getting root canal without Novocain. At my height there is never enough legroom, at my width (i.e. my extra poundage… damn those beers and burgers!) the seats are too tight and because of my long torso (look at me sometime, I’m all friggin torso. If I were the Black Knight in Monty Python’s Holy Grail yelling “none shall pass”, I would still be over 6 foot tall after King Arthur hacked off my legs and arms) the seats hurt my back within minutes of sitting down. I figured the boot would just make things worse.
Getting through security was a little more difficult then usual. Not because I had to be individually screened but because the TSA agent that searched me was about the friendliest one I have ever dealt with. Too friendly. Scary friendly. He just kept talking to me. He asked how I hurt my leg but before I could answer he started telling me bad jokes that involved the punch line ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild'.
The TSA guy told a ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke as he tested for explosive residue on my boot and hands. He continued with another ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke as I gathered my belongings. He told yet another ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke as I sat and put my other shoe and watch back on. Then he followed my wife and I as I hobbled into the terminal to tell us a fourth ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke. Eventually he wished us a happy flight but I kept thinking he would follow me on the plane to tell me another one.
We wandered down the hall looking over our shoulders in case the ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' TSA agent was following us, as we went in search of a quick overpriced airport snack before the flight. Next to us in the food line was a couple easily in their 70s. They had a great banter with each other like they had been together forever but after we let them in front of us they excitedly told us that they were newlyweds. We joined in their joking about the bad menu selections. I kidded around about my messed up leg and he trumped me by wisecracking about his hip replacement surgeries. My wife and I left smiling hoping that we will be that happy at their age.
By the time we finished our frightening airport treats it was time to board the plane. We barely had time to make fun of the freakishly bent fingers on the woman with the laptop (her long fingers bent backwards at least an inch at the knuckle and then crimped back down forward at a 150 degree angle over her keyboard, think of a disjointed bent up skeleton hand), grumpy hissy fit ‘demanding an upgrade’ boy (he was really unhappy he had to sit in the back with us riff-raff) and oddly accented ‘18 hour long drive to the airport couple’ (that acted as if they were being tailed by an Amazing Race film crew).
The plane was overbooked and the folks abusing the carryon rules were franticly fighting over the last remaining tiny gaps of open space in the overhead bins. I smiled at one of the flight attendants and she decided to adopt us and dubbed my wife and I as the only ones on the plane that were on her side. She kept coming over to tell us stories about other ‘rude’ and ‘stupid’ passengers like the guy that finished ‘playing on his computer’ and now wanted her to carry his bag up and down the aisle to find a storage spot. She did not tell him but she told us where she thought he should stow it.
We knew we would have a wacky time at my family get-together. There are a few interesting characters in my family (myself included) but I never expected to meet so many new ones just getting to Florida. I just hated that I had to hop around the State looking as if I had been beaten like a red-headed stepchild.
I had been looking forward to the trip to see my family for months but when I recently tore a couple of tendons in my leg I started to dread the flight to get there. I find sitting in a plane seat on par with pouring lemon juice into an open cut or getting root canal without Novocain. At my height there is never enough legroom, at my width (i.e. my extra poundage… damn those beers and burgers!) the seats are too tight and because of my long torso (look at me sometime, I’m all friggin torso. If I were the Black Knight in Monty Python’s Holy Grail yelling “none shall pass”, I would still be over 6 foot tall after King Arthur hacked off my legs and arms) the seats hurt my back within minutes of sitting down. I figured the boot would just make things worse.
Getting through security was a little more difficult then usual. Not because I had to be individually screened but because the TSA agent that searched me was about the friendliest one I have ever dealt with. Too friendly. Scary friendly. He just kept talking to me. He asked how I hurt my leg but before I could answer he started telling me bad jokes that involved the punch line ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild'.
The TSA guy told a ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke as he tested for explosive residue on my boot and hands. He continued with another ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke as I gathered my belongings. He told yet another ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke as I sat and put my other shoe and watch back on. Then he followed my wife and I as I hobbled into the terminal to tell us a fourth ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' joke. Eventually he wished us a happy flight but I kept thinking he would follow me on the plane to tell me another one.
We wandered down the hall looking over our shoulders in case the ‘she beat you like a red-headed stepchild' TSA agent was following us, as we went in search of a quick overpriced airport snack before the flight. Next to us in the food line was a couple easily in their 70s. They had a great banter with each other like they had been together forever but after we let them in front of us they excitedly told us that they were newlyweds. We joined in their joking about the bad menu selections. I kidded around about my messed up leg and he trumped me by wisecracking about his hip replacement surgeries. My wife and I left smiling hoping that we will be that happy at their age.
By the time we finished our frightening airport treats it was time to board the plane. We barely had time to make fun of the freakishly bent fingers on the woman with the laptop (her long fingers bent backwards at least an inch at the knuckle and then crimped back down forward at a 150 degree angle over her keyboard, think of a disjointed bent up skeleton hand), grumpy hissy fit ‘demanding an upgrade’ boy (he was really unhappy he had to sit in the back with us riff-raff) and oddly accented ‘18 hour long drive to the airport couple’ (that acted as if they were being tailed by an Amazing Race film crew).
The plane was overbooked and the folks abusing the carryon rules were franticly fighting over the last remaining tiny gaps of open space in the overhead bins. I smiled at one of the flight attendants and she decided to adopt us and dubbed my wife and I as the only ones on the plane that were on her side. She kept coming over to tell us stories about other ‘rude’ and ‘stupid’ passengers like the guy that finished ‘playing on his computer’ and now wanted her to carry his bag up and down the aisle to find a storage spot. She did not tell him but she told us where she thought he should stow it.
We knew we would have a wacky time at my family get-together. There are a few interesting characters in my family (myself included) but I never expected to meet so many new ones just getting to Florida. I just hated that I had to hop around the State looking as if I had been beaten like a red-headed stepchild.
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