PIPE!!!!!

So I’ve got this friend I’ve fallen out of touch with. We all have them. I was just thinking about this friend the other day. Well first, let me say that this friend wasn’t a simple “falling out of touch” with. It was a very abrupt end to the friendship after some bullshit. Anyways, I guess the wife and I were out with some other friends the other night and talking about our fall plans (football travels :) ), and other friends we were going to see this fall came up.

So it probably went something like the old board-game Clue: we’re going to DC for XXX with person YYY and we’re using the ZZZ, we’re going to Atlanta for AAA with BBB and we’re staying with CCC, we’re going to Blacksburg on these weekends, we’re staying with fam on these weekends and going to try and see MMM for this game and NNN for that game. Etc. Etc. Etc.

At some point, my old friend came up. The standard, “have you seen him?”, “where is he?”, “have you talked to him since”, was where the conversation drifted to. The answers to those questions, and other similar to it, are: no I haven’t seen him, no, I don’t know where he is, although I know he was joining the Army, I haven’t talked to him in at least two years because the last time we even e-mailed was a simple, “hey I know we hate each other, but I wanted you to know my son was born and he’s healthy and we’re doing great, here’s a pic”. “congrats, that’s awesome, leaving for boot camp in 3 days, later”.

Since I know you can’t stop wanting to ask what happened, I’ll just say that my friend was a meat head. Lol, that’s mean and not true. I mean, he was a smart guy, read a lot about history, had good jobs – but he was a weight lifter. Actually got into big time. He was huge, you could see the fruits of his labors – like his bicep veins were about the size of my biceps. You’re scrawny. Shut up. But he was unstable. I met this guy in college in like 1996-97. And he was unstable then, big emotional swings, before he even got serious into the weight lifting. Then he got serious into it. And he got more unstable. I am by no means saying this guy raided Barry Bonds’ medicine cabinet, or saying that I am officially laying down the gauntlet of accusation. I’m just saying that if you were to have intimate knowledge of his bodily intake at that point in his life and you told me it included Jason Giambi’s mixtures – I would believe you.

Then, should you decide to throw alcohol into the mix, and this friend became even more Hyde than Jekyll. And, far be it from me to explain it, when groups of old college buddies get together for football, bachelor parties, cookouts, poker, whatever – there’s a running theme at these events, and it can be described in units of pints and liters. So, our last encounter was actually at a party at my house, and he had been imbibing, and there was a fight, and some threatening stuff was said to me and my wife and other friends, and he’s no longer welcome in my life.

Where is this going? Sorry, yeah, way off track. You think? I figured why we fell out of touch was a big part of this story, and now that I’m about to get into why I’m typing today in the first place, I realize why, or that we even, fell out of touch is totally irrelevant. Brilliant! But I’m not backspacing, deal with it. Fine, just get to the good part.

Wait, it does relate! You see, the funny part is centered around his weightlifting. That’s why I wanted to get the back story in. “Had a friend, we fell out of touch, because he was unstable while in a weightlifting binge, Oh hey! have a funny story about that!” It’s a stretch. Objection overruled, but make it quick. Thanks. So this friend, when times were better between us, invited me and some of our other boys into town one weekend to attend one of his bodybuilding competitions. You know, the Mr. Olympia Universe, cover-yourself-in-fake-bake-spray-and-pose-down-in-your-underwear, stuff. He made it out of his division and into the finals, but ended up like 5th, so no medals. But I think he was 5th out of like 18 in his weight class. Which was cool.

They’d put six of them up there for the music, routine, and pose-down – choose two of them for the finals. Then they’d put six more of them up there – choose two for the finals. And finally the last six – and last two chosen for the six man final. I want to remember and say that he was in the first six to go in his division, because I want to say that he was sitting with us in the crowd watching the other two groups of his division with us. He’d call them out, knew some of them, cheered for some, tell us who was big, who shouldn’t be in this division, etc.

They’d all come out on stage initially in a jump suit, sweat suit type outfit. And when their name would be called they’d disrobe and do their official routine of poses to their own music and then they’d line up for the six man pose off. Then the judges would choose the two to move on.

So anyways, when the third group got on stage, there was a guy up there who my friend said he saw backstage and the dude had no business entering this competition. Said the guy wasn’t cut, wasn’t built well, and didn’t know why he’d enter something like this and pose down with a bunch of huge cut up bodybuilders. Said the dude didn’t even look like he worked out, just looked like a regular dude. I was able to pick out the guy in question pretty easily, even when they were all up there and had on their sweat suits.

Jacket came off. My boy was right. This guy wasn’t cut up at all, he might not even be a weight lifter. I silently agreed with my boy, like, why would this guy even enter this competition? You were judging nearly naked dudes? Shut up! It was a bodybuilding competition and I was being an objective observer. Then the pants came off. And it quickly became readily apparent why this guy willingly signed up to be in a competition where he would be standing next to five other guys on a stage in front of a couple thousand people wearing only a Speedo.

Let’s just say, the judges and people in the first row might have had to duck if they didn’t want to get a mushroom tattoo on their forehead. I couldn’t help it, I’m that guy at sporting events, I heckle, I yell, I’m outlandish. I couldn’t help it. Don't do it. I yelled it.

PIPE!!!!

Psssst. Are you one of the X-Men?

It’s not every day you get asked if you’re a super hero. But when and if you do, I guess you sure hope it’s for doing something super heroic-ly awesome, right? Jay, “it’s not every day” = never. Whatever, leave me alone, she still technically asked. So it’s not never.

So my company used to have a bunch more employees than we do now. There’ve been layoffs and we’ve downsized, I mean, streamlined, to a smaller work force to more represent the level of our back log and current amount of work we have to complete. We used to be spread out at three different company offices. Now, they’re trying to sell office #3 and have stopped leasing office #2. So the remaining employees, including myself, have all been moved to #1 of the three original offices. You traded in your office for a cube. Booooo. But there’s plenty of parking. Yay.

So, in the new office set up, I share a quad cube set up with:

*My Secretary (ummmm, I mean Document Control Representative), this place wouldn’t run without her. Amen. Right, amen. Right, that’s why I said amen. Right, that’s why I said….moving on.

*the older lady (ummmm, I mean woman from the Caulk Party in my “Home Improvement” piece), she writes our training manuals. SIDE NOTE: since I had put the idea for this piece down on my list, Caulk Party Woman has been let go too :(. Doesn’t affect the outcome of this story, but :( just the same. You’re an ass. Hey, full disclosure.

*Accounts Receivable Girl. I don’t have any dirt on her. We’ll just call her the pirate. A R G. Get it? Wow Jay,......wow. Shut up. That’s quality stuff.

So you see the red break-in-the-cube-wall I highlight? My Document Control Girl and I use this to pass notes. Ooooooooh dirty. No no, 99.9% of the time they’re about work. So they’re not really notes. It’s more like, we use the division in the cube wall to save ourselves the trouble of getting up and walking around the cubes to hand the other person something that needs to be reviewed, signed, routed, transmitted, etc. Actually, I can only think of two instances when they weren’t about work.

[1] I was having a particularly bad day, to include an hour+ argument on the phone with Credit Card Company X regarding some bullshit finance charges. PREVIEW!!!! - future post, Things That Bug Me – Citibank. Boy you really kept that anonymous “Company X stuff” up for a while. Be forewarned now to use kiddy language earmuffs when reading the Citibank post. Anyways, she hit me with an “Are you OK?” sticky note. Well, come to think of it, I think she just put the sticky note on a normal work transmittal she would’ve passed to me through the cube crack anyways – so this doesn’t even actually count as passing me a note. It was more of a cover letter, feigning worry for my well being, oh by the way here’s some work to do. I kid I kid.

[2] And here is where the namesake for today’s post comes from. Personal note passing through the cube crack #2: “Are you Wolverine?” See! Someone did ask me if I’m a superhero. Am I Wolverine!!!!! What heroic deed did I do today? What villain did I thwart to earn such a complimentary question? And she thinks I’m a badass superhero, not some crap Silver Surfer or Green Lantern. Dear Reader, read more, don’t let him take credit for this.

“huh?”

“Well, you see, I can hear you clipping your nails. Every day, like two times a day. So I figured there must be some explanation for the rate at which your nails grow. Like, you’re Wolverine or something.”

[Deflated] Ha Ha Ha Ha

“No. I’m not Wolverine. I bite my nails. So I trim them anytime they get past a bite-able state, in an effort to not bite them……and I can’t stand, CANNOT STAND, that hard skin that grows around the side of your nail if you bite your nails short. So I cut that off too. Right here ----->” (yes, I really drew her a diagram)

“Oh.”

Wow Jay, from Wolverine to “oh” in milliseconds……


NOTES:
[a] Please, no comments from Wolverine fans. Yes, I know those aren’t his “fingernails” that come out of his hands. Yes, I know that because of his mutated inhuman healing abilities, the Canadian government’s Weapon X Program bonded indestructible adamantium to his skeleton and claws to make him into a weapon. And therefore you couldn’t clip these indestructible devices with common fingernail clippers. So I couldn’t be Wolverine anyways, according to Document Control Girl’s logic. But run with it, ok?

[b] Also, please no comments from fingernail aficionados. Yes, I know that skin is called my cuticle. I just consider the cuticle the half moon thin skin that forms the base of each nail….not the hardened scar tissue part that grows around my nails when I bite my nails too short. And I didn’t feel like writing a big word like cuticle on a sticky note to pass back and forth through the cube crack. I was already deflated enough about the whole Wolverine thing anyways. You’re a loser. Yep.

Now I’m REALLY a Daddy.

No I don’t mean like my wife and I had a paternity test done and Maury Povich called me and told me that with 100% certainty, my son is my son. Plus, we know he’s mine because if you knew me and my dome piece, you’d recognize the genealogical hereditary lines in the basketball-head-on-a-toothpick-body that is my son.

I mean I’m really a daddy because there are things that happen, each passing day with your first child, that are just amazing. And sometimes it’s the littlest, weirdest things that cause you to pause and reflect.

Jay, you’re a poet. That cause-you-to-pause stuff is ingenious. Shut up. Help me focus.

Before I fall too far off the list of things that make you a daddy, let me clarify for all of you second or later children, that your parents probably still love you too. And yes, you’re just as special as your older brother/sister who was your parent’s first kid. And I’ll love my second, third,…..that’s enough Jay….. child just the same. But there won’t be as many touching, amazing, flat-out-smack-you-in-the-face-you’re-a-daddy moments. Minus I guess my first daughter, since I had a son first. I guess I’ll have a whole different set of daddy realization moments when we have our first daughter.

But anyways…so you all know (or can at least pretend for the sake of this conversation) the normal list of things that happen, that solidify your daddy-hood. You can’t talk about that kind of stuff here, it’s not that kind of page. Not THAT stuff that happens that makes you a dad. Jerk. I mean the normal stuff of a son. First when you carried him to the scale at the hospital. First night of sleep lost when you have no idea what’s wrong with him. First roll over. First crawl. First words. First steps.

Those are all the normal things. I didn’t mention the first thing that makes you a true, heart-stopping, oh-shit, moment of your life. I’ve been in a car wreck. I’ve been in a Jeep that did 1-1/4 rolls off the road. I’ve broken bones. All of that is nothing, NOTHING, compared to the instant your son is born. You’re at your wife’s side, coaching her and freaking out more yourself than she is. And after watching the most special, nasty, amazing, gut-wrenching, beautiful, destructive, event of your life…..there’s a split second, where they’re lifeless. They’re purple. They’re yellow. They’re not breathing. They’re not moving. AND YOU ARE FREAKED THE FUCK OUT. Yeah, it was scary. It is probably only approximately 0.0005 seconds long. But it truly feels like an ETERNITY. Then the doctor turns him over, clears his mouth, rubs his back – and all is well. And you’re on to daddy memory #2, cutting the umbilical cord.

Is this going somewhere? Yes, shut up. So you have memory #1, your first instance as a dad, is flat freaking the fuck out. Then the good ones start. Umbilical cord. First nights. All the normal things I already listed. Now my son is 2. 27 months. Whatever, who keeps age like that? He’s starting to have his own personality. He’s starting to react to situations. He’s starting to be a little man of his own. Now you have the first time he uses the potty. The first time he spells his name. The first time you catch him lying about finishing his dinner.

“All gone!”
“Really? Let’s see what’s in your napkin!”
“All gone!”
“What’s this then?”
“Cheese!!! Daddy found my cheese!”
Yes, daddy found your cheese.

Earlier this summer, I thought I had moment-of-all-moments of daddy-hood. The first time my son hit a baseball I pitched to him. Sports aficionado myself, former baseball player, we’re starting early dammit. The first time he could hit the balls I pitch to him – I glowed in daddy-dom. That’s all I need. More memories like that. Swimming in our pool recently, he has lost his fear and probably his good sense. Now he’s a little daredevil. And I’ll have to watch him like a hawk, but I couldn’t be more proud.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better. My wife made us breakfast-for-dinner last night. It’s simple for her, and I like the occasional breakfast plate for dinner, since on work mornings I’m lucky to get a Pop-Tart and juice on my way out the door. You know, if you got up a little earlier and devoted more time and effort to eating in the morning, you could…. Just shut up.

So my son is eating in his big-boy-chair (feeding seat strapped to a kitchen chair), making a mess of his food, probably yogurt at this point. And my wife lets him try some of her plate.

“Ooooooh mommy dat’s good!”
“Yes it is. Here’s some more. It’s called bacon. Can you say bey-kuhn?”
“Daddy!!!!!! I Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaacon”.

[insert glowing light of fatherhood affirmation]

Wait, There’s Rules For That?

Well, not in the sense like there’s a national rules committee, or even standardized rules for everyone to follow – but everyone has their own personal set of rules that they follow, in regards to the amount of slang and levels at which they cuss depending on who the fuck they’re talking to.

I thought of this subject the other day. You see, I have a ~30 minute commute to and from work every day. The morning ride, that’s for “Mike&Mike In The Morning”, or maybe to try for that last little bit of sleep on the way to work. I kid, I kid – but for the purposes of this conversation, I don’t talk to anyone in the morning, it’s too early. The afternoon ride, that’s a different story. I definitely have phases where I am abusing the free long distance of cell phones and use that time to catch up with friends and family. So, the other day, in succession, I spoke to: my wife, my best friend of all time, my brother, and finally a friend from my old office who recently moved back to the east coast.

It amazes me the automatic, subconscious level that my brain knows the rules. It knows to what level of slang or even cussing is appropriate to all these people. It’s not a calculation, I guess it’s just a learned associative property.

Jay, you’re speaking with your wife, be nice.

“Ok honey, I’ll meet you there, drive safe.”
“Ly”
“Lee?”
“Drive safe…..ly”
“yeah, sorry, drive safely” She’s a teacher Jay, deep breath.

Next was my best friend of all time. This conversation was about an upcoming fantasy football draft. We’re both professionals, but we have a vast array of unprofessional memories together from high school through college and beyond. We talk in a lot of slang, but not a lot of cussing. Actually, come to think of it, we actually talk in a lot of movie quotes. But the point here is, it’s not that cussing isn’t allowed, we just don’t do it. Like, neither of us would blink if the other one said, “that’s bullshit!”. I guess we just don’t, from years speaking in front of each other’s wives, or speaking at work on the phone. So it’ll be more like, “CIRCUMSTANCE!!!!! That’s crap!” Don’t ask, just accept it.

Next was my brother. He’s ~8 years younger than me. Did the college thing for a while and now enlisted in the Coast Guard. He’s doing great with it, and will be commissioned soon as he entered with college credits. We talk in a lot of slang too, and it’s always SO exuberant. No rules about cussing or not, but most energy here is spent on the exuberance, not the actual words or conversation.

“yo you see that hit on Boldin last night? Crazy shit!”
“BUHLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE DAT!”

And finally, I spoke with a friend of mine from my old job. We both have multiple degrees and technical professional jobs. We both have a family and a young son. We’re both good people. And we’re both just crazy fucking dirty shit talking potty mouths when we get together. Where the fuck did this come from? When did it start? I don’t know. I had to chuckle. We talked about his new job. His move. His cars. My house. My son. His son. Travel plans for the fall. It was a perfectly normal situation. Minus the constant barrage of shit fuck cocksucker dickball titty cooter.

You ever wonder where your brain came up with these rules? I understand they’re learned over time. I can’t help but think my brain has this subconscious flowchart set up for the advancement of slang and language in conversations with people. And the other person is running a similar strategy.

Jay, would you like to see it? Wait, you really have one?

Home Improvement.

Not like the Tim Allen show. Like, literal home improvement at my house.

Ok, so recently I was chatting with an older lady at my office. [read: not an “older” lady, a woman is who is simply older than I am] How do you politely say that? Do you just say “lady” or “woman” and not “girl” – and there’s an inherent assumption about age? Ok, if there’s not rules yet, I’ll make them. “girl” means younger, “lady” means equivalent age, and “woman” means older than you. There, now you can non-offensively discuss the females you work with. No matter how young or old they are, I must warn it is never ok to call them “ol’ cooter tits”. I’m just saying.

Back on track Jay….sorry. So, I was actually chatting with her because she is about the most frugal person I know. And, as described in “I Know Poops”, I went over how I was frugal for a week of eating right when my wife was out of town, and shopped as such with a very detailed list at the grocery store. She’s like that all the time, almost too frugal and will drive to separate stores to fill her grocery needs for the week based on sales and such. I think it’s a total waste and she doesn’t end up saving because of gas money for her car, and then travel time wasted and my time is worth more than the $0.83 saved on a package of hot dog buns. Her intricate stories of successful frugal-ing have become common office conversation pieces.

Back on track Jay….sorry. Anyways, we were discussing my eating habits that week, and my part-time life in the ways of high frugalness. And the conversation changed to, essentially, “what are you doing for your wife with her out of town?”. Ummm, I’m eating right, I’m not being a total wannabe-college kid douchebag, I’m not going to strip clubs. What else is there? I’m supposed to DO something FOR her when she’s out of town? It eventually morphed into whether or not I was completing any non-maintenance activities at the house with the wife gone. [maintenance activities: yard work, dishes, laundry, vacuuming, etc. – normal stuff] Was I completing any home projects with her gone? I have since come to learn that what my co-worker meant was, “…since the wife and kid are out of town, are you taking advantage of the peace and quiet to be able to get something extra done…”, like that you normally might not be able to work on. What I heard was, “…since your wife is out of town, it’s your duty to surprise her with a home project while she’s gone…”, While-You-Were-Out-style.

Back on track Jay….sorry. The same way that her frugal-ing stories are common office conversation pieces, I guess my personal stories for the water-cooler would have to center around my hatred for my home projects’ status and completion percentage. I hate the status of many of my home improvement projects, many of them are like 90% finished. I get all spread out and distracted and start something new and never finish the last job. So I have like 10 things 90% complete, but nothing all the way done. Sooooooo, knowing this tendency on my part, what she meant in asking about my work on home improvement projects with the wife and boy out of town, was…..was I taking advantage of the empty house?

I got into the conversation with excuses why I hadn’t started anything yet, for example:
*Initiative* – Working all day, coming home, not in the mood to change clothes and get to work on a work night, let me see what Saturday brings.
*Supplies* – I didn’t have the necessary equipment (power washer I borrowed was back at the owner’s, I’m re-borrowing it soon).
*Expertise* – I don’t have the expertise to safely, in code, install the breaker in my attic for the second master bathroom fan, so I am at the mercy of my electrically oriented friend’s schedule. I’ll need his help to do the electricking to code, ya hear.
*Other Plans* – One work night was already lost to other plans. I drive a truck. I help friends move furniture. It’s a character flaw.
*Dragons* – Unfortunately, as you remember from my spacebarfail post, I only know about spacebarfail in computer form because of World of Warcrack. Look, there’s dragons to kill and gold to collect. (see inset picture of heroin addict)

Back on track Jay….sorry. So one final job that came up, that my coworker agreed would be a good one to complete with the wife out of town, was the kitchen remodeling. See, that one is like 99% complete. The wallpaper is down. The walls are painted. The countertops are redone. The trim is painted. The windows are done. The cabinet hardware is changed out. The only left to do, outside of tiling the floor, which financially is put off until a later date, is to finish caulking the trim, windows, and cabinetry. For this one, the excuse used was basically the *Initiative* excuse. I didn’t feel like working all day at work, getting home, changing clothes, and then working in the kitchen – taping up walls/trim and caulking for a night.

In hopes to up my initiative, and talk me into working on the kitchen, my coworker yelled from her office to mine, “well why don’t you just have some of your boys over, get some pizza and beers, and have a caulk party”.




Say it out loud to yourself.

Yeah. Why don’t I?

Things That Bug Me – My Cell Phone Battery

As you know, I’ve got my list of crap I want to write about for the first twenty-ump entries here. As I was scanning it for the next one I wanted to write about, I noticed a couple trends. So, I’ve decided that I’m going to have a couple running themes for entries. I know, I know, I said I’d be themeless. But there are going to be a couple repeating trends, so I figure why not use it. Now don’t you go getting all excited like it’s going to be so organized to the point like every Sunday is one type of column and every Wednesday is another certain type of column, or that even each themed column will get a weekly or otherwise other seemingly organized scheduled release. It won’t be like that at all. But, there will be at least two repetitive style columns.

"Things That Bug Me" – I think this is pretty self explanatory. I’m going to randomly let you into the inner-workings of this here mind and vent a little bit about things that bug me. It’ll probably be pretty simple things mostly, maybe something obscure once in a while. I’m not necessarily looking for your approval, "hey that bugs me too!!!11!32!!" On the other hand, I sure hope you don’t read it and now you have an immense hatred for something you didn’t before. But mainly, it’s probably going to center on simple things that don’t work the way they’re supposed to. A pretty common phrase I’ve been known to utter, "dammit, I paid $XXXX for YYYY, I sure as hell expect it to ZZZZ like it’s supposed to."

"Life’s Little Victories" – Another simple topic. I’m going to occasionally write about those little situations you have sometimes, where something so simple or inane just seems to be cool. It’s probably nothing to most people in fact, and the normal person doesn’t even think about it. But sometimes, I sit back (figuratively in my head) and chuckle (also figuratively in my head), and think, "wow cool! I sure am lucky because XXXX happened." It won’t be anything crazy or something that took CSI to figure out, just sometimes what might be considered a normal occurrence makes me chuckle and feel a little victorious for the day. Or for at least a couple seconds.

So for the first installment of a themed article on this themeless canvas: Things That Bug Me – My Cell Phone Battery.

I carry two cellphones. All day. Every day.

One is mine, it’s a Sony Walkman phone offered by AT&T (formerly Cingular, formerly Suncom, formerly some other crap). It’s my personal phone. Has a huge memory card, could also serve as a Walkman (fake iPod). But I don’t use it for that, I use it……………….wait for it……………..to call people. It has numbers on it. I dial them in a specific order. People answer. I talk to them. Or, in reverse, they call me. It rings. I answer. I talk to them. Done. That’s it. I like it. It works. It’s a phone. I’m very happy with it. It does what I need it to do. And it generally works like it’s supposed to.

The other, oh the other pile of crap, is my work phone. Supplied by my company. It’s a Verizon phone on that amazing network. I’ll give them a good coverage range, whatever, who doesn’t have that now. But it’s a Samsung Renown (SCH-u810). Which is actually Samsung-ese for (pile of crap).
Look, the image I got from Samsung online is even brown. Hmmmmmmmmm, how fitting. Anyways, due to recent downsizing at my company and changes in plans, and the fact that this is my second phone in a year through them, and blah blah blah – I can’t get a new phone from my company and Verizon until like January. Whatever. I’ll keep carrying around this piece of crap. Samsung and Verizon, can you hear me now? This phone is a pile of cow shit.

According to the specs online, this wonderful phone has "up to" (their words) 300 minutes of talk time, and "up to" 320 hours of idle time - from the standard battery. Quick math, 300 minutes / 60 minutes / hr = 5 hours, I mean, "up to" 5 hours of talk time on this battery. Before this rant continues, I must admit I have no problems with the idle time on this battery. I haven't timed it, or compared it to "up to" 320 hours - but it's plenty long enough. I don't have to charge it every other day................UNLESS............I talk on this phone. Because, Samsung is basically a big fat liar - I call bullshizer on 5 hours of talk time. I would estimate this phone's talk time on the standard battery to be about 45 minutes. If I'm talking on this phone, I can watch the battery dial go down as I'm talking - worse than watching my gas gauge in the Hemi.

So, to start the trend, Things That Bug Me - My Cell Phone Battery. Bullshizer on Samsung's 5 hours of talk time. Then, to top it all off, this phone has the worst, most annoying, warning-beep-my-battery-is-about-to-die sound. The worst. And, if I, heaven forbid, talk on this phone, I get to hear it often.