This is it. The big one. OK, so it's not really that big of a deal but this does mark my 100th posting. And that feels pretty good. Next week I actually do have something at least a little bit big - I'll be launching a new blog. Stay tuned.
The other day while looking in the rear-view mirror, I noticed a few grey hairs. We’ve had nearly constant rain for the past month but on that day, the stars seemed to align and the sun shone through the clouds in the same split second I checked the mirror. It’s reflection revealing a peppering of grey across my scalp.
Later I mentioned it to Linda and all she said was, “You don’t really have that much. Just that one tiny patch above your left ear and a few random ones everywhere else.”
Today I’m adding to the patch of grey.
While eating lunch today I noticed the man sitting in the booth across from me. This was in a local hamburger establishment called ‘Burgerville’ whose menu boasts of ingredients produced locally and includes items only available in season. These items tend to rotate on and off the menu about every month or so and are advertised with huge posters that hang in nearly every window. Currently on display is the ‘Grilled Coho Salmon Sandwich’, which includes a description beneath it using words like ‘frisée’ and ‘lemon aioli.’ It’s a description that seems out of place next to red plastic booths and the smell of french fries. I’ve been to several different locations and each has the same veneer of sticky grease coating the tables. Burgerville likes to add to this ambiance by bringing one’s food out to them rather than offering it at the counter. It’s a nice touch that isn’t fooling anyone.
So while I waited for my food I couldn’t help but notice the man across from me. He was mostly bald with what remained cropped short. The blue t-shirt he wore looked like it was pulled that morning from the dirty clothes hamper and advertised what I assumed was his employers construction firm. In his ear he wore a bluetooth headset flashing at the ready and he was slouched so low in the booth his knees touched the bench across from him. When a woman delivered his food I think he slouched an extra half an inch and asked, “Hey you got any thousand?”
Really? So we’re shortening “thousand island dressing now?”
We’ve all been frustrated while trying to straighten the bend in a wire coat hangar. I’m not talking about straightening one out to roast marshmallows over a campfire on or to construct a scratching tool for use beneath a cast. I’m referring to the rehabilitation process of making a bent hangar work again as a coat hangar.
The tendency is to take a corner in each hand and attempt to bend the wire back to its original shape. My personal preference is to employ my thigh, while bending the hangar across it. I’ve seen people use the arm of a couch or the edge of a countertop as well. The result is the same, however, with the bend doing nothing more than flipping from one side to the other rather than actually straightening.
I don’t make it a habit of sharing much detail about my coworkers but from time to time I notice something that can’t go without mention. The other day, while speaking with our admin about some travel arrangements, I noticed she picked up a bent coat hangar. Her name is Mychl, which is pronounced the same as the more common spelling - ‘Michelle’, though there’s nothing common about her. Armed with the energy for two and the common sense of three, she’s the office equivalent of a Tasmanian Devil. At least that’s what I imagine pretty much every time I see this woman; mid-fifties, dark curly hair that’s slightly wile, spinning, bouncing, and maybe even foaming at the mouth a bit as she’s constantly solving 17 problems simultaneously.
So Mychl picks up this hangar and begins attempting to straighten it while answering a question about my travel itinerary. She begins by working the hangar across the edge of her desk but it simply flips then flops back and forth with no real result. Frustrated and needing to burn off a bit more energy while stuck solving my simple problem, she places the unresponsive hangar across her chest. I’m guessing in her mind she’s thinking, “I bet I can get more leverage on this little sucker if I can just pin it here between the top of my ribcage and my left boob.” The problem is the hangar is doing it’s best to remain bent. Flip, flop, flip, flop - above the boob, below the boob, above, below.
“Hey Mychl, could I borrow that a minute so I can gouge my eyes out?”
Flip, flop, flip, flop.
No post today. Out on the golf course testing an update to some of the outerwear I'm working on. See you Monday.
A couple of days ago an attorney friend of mine asked me for a favor. Between family lawyers and the friend ones, I probably know a couple dozen attorneys and like keeping them on the speed dial. Just last month, for example, when forced to deal with a frustrating insurance issue regarding the family car, I consulted with an attorney brother, an attorney brother-in-law, and two attorney friends. There’s something about a little legal jargon that makes me feel invincible in the midst of conflict. I like to pepper the conversation with big lawyerly terms gathered from my lawyer crowd, hoping to scare my opponent into capitulation. Things get heated, though, and I’m not always sure when to use the right term. When this doesn’t work I blame it on my adversary’s inability to detect nuance and the fact they weren’t born with a brain. Next I resort to less subtle jousts like, “Well, when I spoke with my attorney about this, they recommended such and such.” This tactic generally proves even less fruitful.
So the other day when my friend asked for a favor I quickly said yes. It seems he’d had some legal problems of his own and when the legal jargon tactic followed by statements like, “You realize I am an attorney,” didn’t work he turned to me. And why not? I’m no attorney but then he was way past the legal route and came looking for some more specialized work.
It turns out my friend was heading to small claims court and needed a person not directly involved in the case to serve papers to the defendant.
“Perfect,” I said then added, “You realize I have a bit of experience with this sort of thing, don’t you?” And while I’ve technically served papers before I did spend a year as a private investigator looking into insurance fraud cases. But like I told him - that’s a totally different story for another time.
I caught a lot of people though. Unfortunately yesterday turned out a bust as the defendant didn’t live at the expected address. I’m on the case though and will now turn to my killer private eye skills to track them down.
One of my favorite comedians is Jim Gaffigan though admittedly I’d be hard pressed to name more than five and that includes Gallagher whom I believe is dead and the only thing I know about him is that he made his fortune smashing fruit before huge crowds. This seems completely stupid to me and I’ve always assumed those attending Gallagher’s shows must have been either completely drunk or totally wasted to see the humor in having chunks of watermelon and cantaloupe splattered in their faces. Gaffigan, though, is hilarious and I’d highly recommend seeing him if given the chance.
A couple of years ago we got turned onto Jim Gaffigan one night while flipping through the channels and then saw him live when he came to town. It was Linda, actually, who stumbled upon his stand-up show one evening when I was out with a friend and since then we’re slightly obsessed.
He’s most famous for his bit about ‘Hot Pocket’s’ but for me, whether it’s deodorant, bacon, or white trash; everything he does is hilarious. He also does this one about cake and office birthday parties, which is based on the premise that we all behave like we’ve never seen a cake before the second it shows up at the office. “What’s this?” he’ll say. “Cake? Well, I guess I could try it.” I’m sure if you spent a second on youtube you could find a clip.
This is what I think of every time a cake shows up around here at work. Take last week, for example, this woman I work shows up on her birthday with a large cardboard cake box. It had one of those shiny foil stickers in the corner displaying the name of the bakery on it so I know it’s going to be a good cake too. Not one of those cheap theme cakes with waxy frosting that comes from the grocery store. I asked her why she was bringing a cake on her birthday and she explained, “That’s how we do it now. Everyone brings their own cake for their birthday. It just makes it easier.”
I didn’t see how this was easier or how it made sense but she insisted, then added, “and anyway, this isn’t a cake. I brought a fruit tart instead.”
A fruit tart? Really?
A few minutes later she broadcasted an email to the entire department announcing birthday treats. About a half second later the first guy showed up a bit out of breath from running. He’s about 4’ 10” and works on footwear engineering and grumbled, “Oh, I thought there’d be cake.”
You, me, and Jim Gaffigan too my friend.
