Wow! Where has the time gone? It seems as though it’s been years since I last post. Can you believe the “I Kissed a Girl” song (the theme song for our lesbot nation) has dominated the airwaves and I’ve written NOTHING about it?! I’ve been too busy preparing for wedding bliss!
Speaking of wedding bliss, we are now in the final preparations for the big day (which is nearly two months away!). Noooooo!!!! I mean, Yessssssss!!! (Honestly, the only thing I’m concerned about is everyone looking at me while I wait at the “altar” and the plane ride to our honeymoon destination. I’m cool with everything else.)
The other night, we decided to relieve some pre-wedding stress by wining and dining at Station Square. I was super-psyched as any dope-ass Brookline native would be, but as we drove through the parking lot, I could tell something was amiss. The nearby hotel was hosting an ultra-buff women convention!
Now I have nothing against women who workout or do cardiovascular workout or the ever-useless yoga, but the women I saw walking through Station Square were uber-buff, body-building women with muscles throbbing all over. Their veins sprung from their appendages as if they were part of some bas relief created by God. These tan, solid women stuck out of the crowd like Baldwin residents at a prestige country club. People weren’t familiar seeing them there!
The buff women received glances from nearly everyone they passed. Shifty eyes focused on their robust figures as they walked through the courtyard. Personally, I found their larger-and-stronger-than-the-average-man look unattractive – however many of the women were accompanied by guys! The guys themselves were not body-builders, but I had to wonder: How do these guys feel? Do they feel emasculated? Are they usually on the bottom?
After awhile, I stopped thinking about it because my head started to hurt. (This sometimes happens during humid evenings. It’s not because I’m dumb or anything.)
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Cleaning With Trash
I recently decided to take on an additional job as a custodian/maintenance man. (Sure, I may not promote or practice cleaning at home, but I will sure as hell do it for some cash!)
At this new job, I’m considered a “floater”, meaning that I go to different buildings every night to do different things; whether it’s cleanings doors, scrubbing walls, collecting trash or dusting horizontal surfaces.
There are 10 buildings in the complex and each building is home to several offices (for lawyers, radio stations, PR consultants, etc.). There are cleaners designated to certain areas in these buildings. If someone calls off, I go to their assigned building and essentially do their job for the evening. Therefore, I get to do something different every night.
For the last few evenings, I’ve been assigned to Building 1 – mostly scrubbing stairwells and walls. Sure, theses tasks were a pain, but so was sharing the Building with Chud, another cleaner.
Chud is in his early fifties and looks very tired. He has a good tan, but it may actually be dirt. He lives with his dad in a neighborhood down the street, across from Sammy’s Salon and up the road from Tim’s Tavern. He likes Coors and thinks the Cocker Spaniel is one of the meanest breeds of dog.
He comes into my work area every chance he gets to ask me questions like:
“Hey, you worked here before, right?
“You drink Coors?”
“You an animal lover?”
“What bar do you go to?”
“You’re Marcus, right?
“Doesn’t your wife work here?”
“Were you sick?”
“Yeah! You’re Marcus!”
“You an animal lover?”
One night, Chud was kind enough to tell me that I look like a particular midget from studio wrestling. It must be my delicious sausage fingers.
Later on, he interrupted one of our intellectual conversations to tell me that I looked like some guy from a TV show.
“Do you mean MASH?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been a while.”
“Are you talking about Radar?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “You think you look like him?”
“No,” I assure him. “Radar wears glasses. I don’t.”
Another day, Chud tells me that he doesn’t get along with our supervisor.
“I fuckin’ chased him into the parking lot. Tommy had to hold me back,” he said.
“Jeez,” I said. “When was this?”
“About three months ago. I can get pretty angry.”
I tried to relate to him.
“I used to be angry a lot too,” I said. He looked at me for a second, a grin appeared on his face. He lowered his voice and said: “You’re still fuckin’ nuts, aren’t you?”
Chud also think I’m in my forties and suggested that I hurry up and have kids while I can.
I tried to explain to him that guys can have kids at any age and that it’s the woman who needs to be younger than 40. He just laughed and said, “Aw man! I can’t believe you just said that!”
At this new job, I’m considered a “floater”, meaning that I go to different buildings every night to do different things; whether it’s cleanings doors, scrubbing walls, collecting trash or dusting horizontal surfaces.
There are 10 buildings in the complex and each building is home to several offices (for lawyers, radio stations, PR consultants, etc.). There are cleaners designated to certain areas in these buildings. If someone calls off, I go to their assigned building and essentially do their job for the evening. Therefore, I get to do something different every night.
For the last few evenings, I’ve been assigned to Building 1 – mostly scrubbing stairwells and walls. Sure, theses tasks were a pain, but so was sharing the Building with Chud, another cleaner.
Chud is in his early fifties and looks very tired. He has a good tan, but it may actually be dirt. He lives with his dad in a neighborhood down the street, across from Sammy’s Salon and up the road from Tim’s Tavern. He likes Coors and thinks the Cocker Spaniel is one of the meanest breeds of dog.
He comes into my work area every chance he gets to ask me questions like:
“Hey, you worked here before, right?
“You drink Coors?”
“You an animal lover?”
“What bar do you go to?”
“You’re Marcus, right?
“Doesn’t your wife work here?”
“Were you sick?”
“Yeah! You’re Marcus!”
“You an animal lover?”
One night, Chud was kind enough to tell me that I look like a particular midget from studio wrestling. It must be my delicious sausage fingers.
Later on, he interrupted one of our intellectual conversations to tell me that I looked like some guy from a TV show.
“Do you mean MASH?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been a while.”
“Are you talking about Radar?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “You think you look like him?”
“No,” I assure him. “Radar wears glasses. I don’t.”
Another day, Chud tells me that he doesn’t get along with our supervisor.
“I fuckin’ chased him into the parking lot. Tommy had to hold me back,” he said.
“Jeez,” I said. “When was this?”
“About three months ago. I can get pretty angry.”
I tried to relate to him.
“I used to be angry a lot too,” I said. He looked at me for a second, a grin appeared on his face. He lowered his voice and said: “You’re still fuckin’ nuts, aren’t you?”
Chud also think I’m in my forties and suggested that I hurry up and have kids while I can.
I tried to explain to him that guys can have kids at any age and that it’s the woman who needs to be younger than 40. He just laughed and said, “Aw man! I can’t believe you just said that!”
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Penguin Next Door
On a recent evening, while the city stared at televisions broadcasting the Penguins game, I sat around my house enjoying the eerie quiet in the neighborhood. (Who am I kidding – it’s always quiet around here!)
Just when I thought everyone was preoccupied, my doorbell rang. What the hell?!
I opened the front door to find two little boys. The kid who rang the doorbell had painted his face black and gold for the occasion while his friend (or brother) sat inside of a red wagon.
“Is Marc here?” the kid asked.
“No,” I said. “Marc doesn’t live here.”
“Where is he?” the kid pressed on.
“I don’t know. I have no idea. I don’t know Marc,” I finally said. “Sorry.”
I watched the boys leave in disappointment – the painted kid dragging the wagon containing the other kid. It was cute in a Norman Rockwell kind of way.
I later learned that the boys were looking for Marc Fleury, the Penguins’ goalie. It turns out he’s a neighbor in the hood! Hell, even if I saw him, I wouldn’t recognize him. I could have gone swimming with him in the pool – who really knows?!
Time to get autographs!
Just when I thought everyone was preoccupied, my doorbell rang. What the hell?!
I opened the front door to find two little boys. The kid who rang the doorbell had painted his face black and gold for the occasion while his friend (or brother) sat inside of a red wagon.
“Is Marc here?” the kid asked.
“No,” I said. “Marc doesn’t live here.”
“Where is he?” the kid pressed on.
“I don’t know. I have no idea. I don’t know Marc,” I finally said. “Sorry.”
I watched the boys leave in disappointment – the painted kid dragging the wagon containing the other kid. It was cute in a Norman Rockwell kind of way.
I later learned that the boys were looking for Marc Fleury, the Penguins’ goalie. It turns out he’s a neighbor in the hood! Hell, even if I saw him, I wouldn’t recognize him. I could have gone swimming with him in the pool – who really knows?!
Time to get autographs!
Monday, April 28, 2008
My Beautiful Mommy
There is a new children’s book on shelves titled “My Beautiful Mommy.” The picture book (whose audience is 4 – 7 year-olds) is meant to reassure kids about mom getting new tits and a facelift. It was written by a cosmetic surgeon.
According to an article I read online, this controversial book has stirred up debates (and outrage) from feminists as well as other surgeons.
In one part of the book, the mommy tells her daughter that mommy’s clothes no longer fit right and that “Dr. Michael is going to help fix that and make me feel better.” She also assures her daughter that mommy’s nose job will make her “not just different, my dear – prettier!”
I happened to catch a glimpse of the book’s cover – a small cartoon child holding a teddy bear welcomes her shiny new mommy with open arms (there are actual sparkles around the mom toon). And of course, toon mommy has more curves and perks than a windy road in the mountains. (Was that a bad metaphor?)
Anyway, my point is that this book breaks barriers for other “what strange and unnatural thing is mommy doing?” books. Here are a few of my ideas:
My Drug-Induced Mommy
Why Do I Have a Different Daddy Every Other Week?
Mommy’s Funny Pack of Smokes
Why Mommy Likes Needles
Why Mommy Likes Two Guys (this is also a number book)
Metal Detector Mommy
Botox Beauty
Mommy’s Two Sides: A Ride on the Bipolar Express
Hmmm. I may actually write the last one.
According to an article I read online, this controversial book has stirred up debates (and outrage) from feminists as well as other surgeons.
In one part of the book, the mommy tells her daughter that mommy’s clothes no longer fit right and that “Dr. Michael is going to help fix that and make me feel better.” She also assures her daughter that mommy’s nose job will make her “not just different, my dear – prettier!”
I happened to catch a glimpse of the book’s cover – a small cartoon child holding a teddy bear welcomes her shiny new mommy with open arms (there are actual sparkles around the mom toon). And of course, toon mommy has more curves and perks than a windy road in the mountains. (Was that a bad metaphor?)
Anyway, my point is that this book breaks barriers for other “what strange and unnatural thing is mommy doing?” books. Here are a few of my ideas:
My Drug-Induced Mommy
Why Do I Have a Different Daddy Every Other Week?
Mommy’s Funny Pack of Smokes
Why Mommy Likes Needles
Why Mommy Likes Two Guys (this is also a number book)
Metal Detector Mommy
Botox Beauty
Mommy’s Two Sides: A Ride on the Bipolar Express
Hmmm. I may actually write the last one.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Update!
So after a month on hiatus, I’m back (sort of).
Too much has been going on in my personal life to sit down and write anything remotely entertaining. Working 12-hour days doesn’t leave much energy for anything else.
On the other hand, I’ve recently received a fresh dose of inspiration for my book, and I hope next weekend includes at least a few hours of writing time. If only I can hold onto the motivation…
Too much has been going on in my personal life to sit down and write anything remotely entertaining. Working 12-hour days doesn’t leave much energy for anything else.
On the other hand, I’ve recently received a fresh dose of inspiration for my book, and I hope next weekend includes at least a few hours of writing time. If only I can hold onto the motivation…
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
$102 Million
Ben Roethlisberger recently signed a $102 million contract extension with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Reporters from several local television stations hit the streets to interview residents and record their reactions. All of the responses aired went something like this:
“I think it’s great! [Ben’s] gotta stay in Pittsburgh.”
I was disturbed that not a single person was aired saying something like:
“What the hell?! He’s getting paid $102 million while most of us are nearly starving and losing our homes? Shit!”
I’d like to imagine that a few people had the nerve to say something to this order. And if someone did say that, it may have been a good idea that the station didn’t air it because that person would most likely be hunted down by a logically weak, retard strong fan!
Big Stupid Ben is now the highest paid Steeler in franchise history. It’s a sad day for mankind when a man is honored with such riches for playing a ball game.
I’m sorry, but this is how I really feel. How many of you are barely scraping by to make ends meet? How many of you are trying to feed your kids on shitty wages? How many of you have to work for a living and not play games?
I feel that it’s a moral injustice that a football player makes such a large sum of money. This is only broadening the gap between the rich and… well… us.
I don’t ask much from anyone, but I do ask this: Please do not support this $102 million contract. It’s hurting all of us because a couple of wealthy jerks want a younger, stronger jerk to throw a ball for eight more years.
“I think it’s great! [Ben’s] gotta stay in Pittsburgh.”
I was disturbed that not a single person was aired saying something like:
“What the hell?! He’s getting paid $102 million while most of us are nearly starving and losing our homes? Shit!”
I’d like to imagine that a few people had the nerve to say something to this order. And if someone did say that, it may have been a good idea that the station didn’t air it because that person would most likely be hunted down by a logically weak, retard strong fan!
Big Stupid Ben is now the highest paid Steeler in franchise history. It’s a sad day for mankind when a man is honored with such riches for playing a ball game.
I’m sorry, but this is how I really feel. How many of you are barely scraping by to make ends meet? How many of you are trying to feed your kids on shitty wages? How many of you have to work for a living and not play games?
I feel that it’s a moral injustice that a football player makes such a large sum of money. This is only broadening the gap between the rich and… well… us.
I don’t ask much from anyone, but I do ask this: Please do not support this $102 million contract. It’s hurting all of us because a couple of wealthy jerks want a younger, stronger jerk to throw a ball for eight more years.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Myron Cope
I was saddened to learn that Myron Cope, broadcaster/writer, passed away early this morning. I admired him as a writer and performer.
Call me egotistical, but there were quite a few similarities between Mr. Cope and myself. We graduated from The University of Pittsburgh, yearning to become writers (and having a difficult time selling our work). He was famous for his eccentric personality and I’m…well… infamous for mine!
I had the honor of meeting Myron at The University of Pittsburgh’s Bookstore at a book signing of his memoir Double Yoi!. I waited in line for the longest time but I didn’t care (and I absolutely hate lines). When I was the fourth person in line, I could hear Myron asking those ahead of me if they were Steeler fans. I began to think, “Oh great, he’s going to write something about the Steelers in my book.”
When it was my turn to share a moment with Myron, I was surprised that he did not mention anything about the Steelers! It was as if he knew I was there solely for the admiration of his career – of someone who took their writing skills to the next level and beyond. Without saying much of anything, Myron wrote on the inside of my book:
To Jon –
Thanks for wanting to share my experiences. I hope you enjoy these pages.
Myron Cope
He was a truly unique man, which made for an awesome broadcaster, writer and entertainer.
Thanks, Myron, for your inspiration.
Call me egotistical, but there were quite a few similarities between Mr. Cope and myself. We graduated from The University of Pittsburgh, yearning to become writers (and having a difficult time selling our work). He was famous for his eccentric personality and I’m…well… infamous for mine!
I had the honor of meeting Myron at The University of Pittsburgh’s Bookstore at a book signing of his memoir Double Yoi!. I waited in line for the longest time but I didn’t care (and I absolutely hate lines). When I was the fourth person in line, I could hear Myron asking those ahead of me if they were Steeler fans. I began to think, “Oh great, he’s going to write something about the Steelers in my book.”
When it was my turn to share a moment with Myron, I was surprised that he did not mention anything about the Steelers! It was as if he knew I was there solely for the admiration of his career – of someone who took their writing skills to the next level and beyond. Without saying much of anything, Myron wrote on the inside of my book:
To Jon –
Thanks for wanting to share my experiences. I hope you enjoy these pages.
Myron Cope
He was a truly unique man, which made for an awesome broadcaster, writer and entertainer.
Thanks, Myron, for your inspiration.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Goo-ru
I’ve been discharging thick brown ooze from my mouth for the last few days. It tastes like infection.
The other day it felt as if the ooze was going to explode through my ears each time I swallowed. My head was filled with the brown and it hurt.
As I drove home from work the other day, the brown had reached my ears, thus clogging them. I tried feverishly to pop my ears while maneuvering traffic – opening my mouth wide as if I was trying to yawn. I did this several times in succession. To onlookers I must have looked like I was having a psychotic episode, biting at an invisible fairy that only I could see.
When I reached the driveway, I squeezed my nose and blew – a last-ditch effort to clear my head. This relieved some of the pressure with a good squeak, but totally clogged my left ear to the point where I could hardly hear anything through it.
I stumbled into the house, a little off balance since my equilibrium was off. I warmed up a microwave heating pad full of beans to help melt the brown gunk clogging my left ear.
I then laid down for a very short nap with my head on top of the bean-filled pad only to wake up with my ear still out of commission. This sent me into a brief panic to the point where I placed the bean bag into the microwave for another two minutes. Meanwhile, I panicked a little more and shoved a granola bar into my face.
When the two minutes were up, the entire house smelled like roasted beans, which then started to make me nauseous. I tried to lie on the bag once more only to burn my face. It was really hot!
Shortly after this brief but powerful episode, Laura came home and suggested that we make a visit to Med Express on Greentree Road.
For those of you unfamiliar with Med Express, let me just say that it’s a convenient little doctor’s office that accepts walk-ins until 9:00 PM. Emergencies are their specialty, but they do not charge Emergency Room rates! Go, Med Express!
To make an unnecessarily long story slightly shorter, the doctor’s diagnosis proved my original theory. I had an infection. She prescribed some penicillin and ear drops and sent me on my merry way.
I took off work today to try and catch my balance – and it was worth it. I haven’t tried to enhance my hearing through ear-popping since last night (at least not as enthusiastically).
The other day it felt as if the ooze was going to explode through my ears each time I swallowed. My head was filled with the brown and it hurt.
As I drove home from work the other day, the brown had reached my ears, thus clogging them. I tried feverishly to pop my ears while maneuvering traffic – opening my mouth wide as if I was trying to yawn. I did this several times in succession. To onlookers I must have looked like I was having a psychotic episode, biting at an invisible fairy that only I could see.
When I reached the driveway, I squeezed my nose and blew – a last-ditch effort to clear my head. This relieved some of the pressure with a good squeak, but totally clogged my left ear to the point where I could hardly hear anything through it.
I stumbled into the house, a little off balance since my equilibrium was off. I warmed up a microwave heating pad full of beans to help melt the brown gunk clogging my left ear.
I then laid down for a very short nap with my head on top of the bean-filled pad only to wake up with my ear still out of commission. This sent me into a brief panic to the point where I placed the bean bag into the microwave for another two minutes. Meanwhile, I panicked a little more and shoved a granola bar into my face.
When the two minutes were up, the entire house smelled like roasted beans, which then started to make me nauseous. I tried to lie on the bag once more only to burn my face. It was really hot!
Shortly after this brief but powerful episode, Laura came home and suggested that we make a visit to Med Express on Greentree Road.
For those of you unfamiliar with Med Express, let me just say that it’s a convenient little doctor’s office that accepts walk-ins until 9:00 PM. Emergencies are their specialty, but they do not charge Emergency Room rates! Go, Med Express!
To make an unnecessarily long story slightly shorter, the doctor’s diagnosis proved my original theory. I had an infection. She prescribed some penicillin and ear drops and sent me on my merry way.
I took off work today to try and catch my balance – and it was worth it. I haven’t tried to enhance my hearing through ear-popping since last night (at least not as enthusiastically).
Monday, February 4, 2008
Wise Guys
I have a couple of wise guys in my mouth. They’re my wisdom teeth, silly!
That’s right. I have two wisdom teeth coming in from the top and they’re scheduled for extraction this Friday, and I’m nearly having a panic attack over the whole ordeal. I’ve already had two nightmares about it.
Since the initial consultation with the oral surgeon, I’ve been in a downward spiral of doubt and fear – especially after I found out that I would be lightly sedated via an IV. Now, the lightly sedated part was my idea, but I was hoping for nitrous oxide or “goofy gas” to do the trick. I’ve never had an IV before and the idea freaks me out. The surgeon tried to set my mind at ease.
“Have you ever had an IV before?”
No.
“Have you given blood before?”
No.
“Okay.”
He was unable to explain the IV experience, but apparently it’s like giving blood (something else I can’t bring myself to do).
Every other minute, I whine to Laura about my “struggle” and she does her best to set my mind at ease. She puts the whole thing into perspective by reminding me that I have to get them out of my head to avoid any potential infections or crooked teeth. It’s true – I don’t want to look like a horse in our wedding photos.
I have no idea as to why I’m such a sissy. I was so much braver at 17 when I had my bottom wisdom teeth removed.
I’m such a tooth fairy.
That’s right. I have two wisdom teeth coming in from the top and they’re scheduled for extraction this Friday, and I’m nearly having a panic attack over the whole ordeal. I’ve already had two nightmares about it.
Since the initial consultation with the oral surgeon, I’ve been in a downward spiral of doubt and fear – especially after I found out that I would be lightly sedated via an IV. Now, the lightly sedated part was my idea, but I was hoping for nitrous oxide or “goofy gas” to do the trick. I’ve never had an IV before and the idea freaks me out. The surgeon tried to set my mind at ease.
“Have you ever had an IV before?”
No.
“Have you given blood before?”
No.
“Okay.”
He was unable to explain the IV experience, but apparently it’s like giving blood (something else I can’t bring myself to do).
Every other minute, I whine to Laura about my “struggle” and she does her best to set my mind at ease. She puts the whole thing into perspective by reminding me that I have to get them out of my head to avoid any potential infections or crooked teeth. It’s true – I don’t want to look like a horse in our wedding photos.
I have no idea as to why I’m such a sissy. I was so much braver at 17 when I had my bottom wisdom teeth removed.
I’m such a tooth fairy.
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