Dear people,If you had tracked me around today, like in one of those boring-ass Family Circus comics, this morning you would have found me in the recording studio (i.e. my basement) pounding out takes of All-State audition etudes for highschoolers who apparently cannot read music and thus only play by ear.
In the afternoon, had you been able to track me down 80 miles westward of my basement you would have needed to look for me in the bucket of a front-end-loader 12 feet in the air, chainsaw in hand, pruning fence-line trees. It might not seem like it but this is the kind of dirty job that requires you to not only shower afterwards but floss, too. Thankfully I only almost fell twice but severed just $2400 worth of appendages which, coincidentally and unfortunately, happens to be my new per-occurrence-per-person insurance deductible to the dollar. Gosh that's such rotten luck! One more toe and MEGA would have been losing money right outta the blocks.
Since you brought it up, I wonder what the details and small print say about that species of deductible. I mean, if I lost three fingers in an onion-mincing mishap does that count as three separate occurrences? Do I have to cut them off simultaneously to get them considered a single occurrence? If not, how much time must elapse between each severage? Are a few minutes enough or would 24 hours be necessary? Or is it more a question of context? Do I need to loose each finger on consecutive onions to accrue fresh new deductibles? I'll bet it's per doctor visit. If that is indeed the case then the next time I find myself heading to the ER wearing a hand towel as a tourniquet I may as well add the odd day-to-day afflictions into the mix as well.
“What's that doctor? You say I'll need 1,400 stitches and a blood transfusion? How 'bout throwin' in a little something for the cold sores, ingrown toenail, profuse rectal bleeding and periodic asymmetric medial numbness while you're on the clock?”
But that's another post. Honestly, it probably isn't another post. I'm done with that topic for good. In fact I'm pissed you even mentioned it! God!
Now where on earth was I? Let's see, recording, chainsawing, oh yes: ping-pong with 8-year-olds. Again in a basement. But I don't think it can really be considered ping-pong when there are 8-year-olds involved. Paraplegic garden gnomes could have returned my shots better. And don't get me started on serving technique. The ball contacted the table in only the most incidental manner imaginable as if it were just another obstacle in the room.
“Oh look. The ball landed in the litter box. Oh, it ricocheted off the weight bench. Oh, your serve managed to nick the edge of the table. On your side.”
But give 'em credit. Eight-year-olds are the only ones on the planet who willingly turn a game of p-i-g into an aerobic activity. P-i-g! The basketball game you play when you're too tired or lazy to even just shoot around so you decide to intersperse the shooting around part with standing around watching everyone else shoot around. Eight-year-olds are breathing hard by the end of p-i-g for two reasons: 1) Endless half court drives resulting in missed layups and 2) retrieving the ball not only for themselves when it's their turn to shoot but for me as well when it's my turn to shoot. Hey, I said they turned it into an aerobic activity. I didn't say I joined in the madness.
Besides, this pre-adolescent gopher behavior lasts for only a brief period. A couple-three years at the most. After that it's all, “get yer own ball, dork.” This is definitely fodder for another post since I remember my younger brother's gopher phase fondly. Make it a competition and he would do just about anything for anyone. It was Xanadu. But I digress. And regress.
Back to absurd aerobic activities, I may be getting set up this weekend. Well it's more accurate to say I may be getting checked out this weekend. The sister of a friend of a friend (sounds reliable already, don'it?) lives near me and is apparently as adept at hooking up on her own as am I. Machinations behind the scenes include a comp ticket to the CRSO season opener for said sister of a friend of a friend which she can then use to appraise the merchandise. And, speaking as the merchandise, that may be where things end.
I don't even have her name. And only the vaguest of physical descriptions: tall and blond. (Hmm... maybe it's Bridgette Nielsen.) These are adjectives for womanly qualities about which I never find myself caring: height and hair color. Whatever? I have requirements on width but not height. And my only capelli concerns are that a woman should have hair of some sort.
...
Okay so I just spent several minutes completely adrift in thought about a woman whom I want, whom I really-really want, who has gorgeous hair, like a cascade of dark rich coffee... without the penchant for mold growth after sitting in a mug for a week, or the insomniatic effects when enjoyed in the evening. Actually she has insomniatic effects on me but not entirely due to her gorgeous hair. Maybe I'm more hair-centric than I thought. So sue me.
What a day! What a life. To paraphrase one of my favorite stand-ups, T, “This is really quite a life I've made for myself. No one can take it away from me. And no one's trying.”
Yours,
Me
2 comments:
...so, you lost a couple of fingers and then later that day played ping pong and p.i.g. with a bunch of 8-year-olds? Did I read this post correctly?
Yes but there may be some hyperbole employed. One of the boys was a 9-year-old.
Post a Comment