Troy and I took a quick roadtrip over the weekend to go to a friend's wedding. A few hours into the trip, we swung through Troy's hometown to say hi to his parents. We walked in the back door and Troy yelled down the stairs to the basement.
Troy: Hi Dad!
Troy's Dad: Hey there!
Me: Hi Russ!
Troy's Dad: Uh-oh.
The situation became immediately clear.
Interrupted: Naked Saturday.
9.22.2008
9.14.2008
I threw away that picture of your baby.
I don't mean to sound insensitive, but you can stop sending me pictures of your baby.
I looked at the first few pictures before tossing them into the shoebox that holds old theater tickets, past wedding invitations, and greeting cards. There they will remain, face-down under the card my sister sent me (the one with the picture of the little girl holding a sign that reads "I like corn on the cob" where you would expect to see a "happy birthday" message). I won't see these pictures again until, several years from now, I dig through that box in an effort to paste into a scrapbook those items worth saving. The corn-on-the-cob card will make it into the book. Your baby will not.
The back of your baby's picture probably says something like "age 6 months" or "18 months." This means nothing to me. (The rest of the world counts age in years, by the way.) Can your baby talk? Can it walk? Can it do math? Don't send me pictures unless it can do math.
Chances are, you wrote your baby's name on the back of the picture. When I find it in a few years, it will be stuck to my ticket stub from the County Fair Demolition Derby with some sort of purple syrup. When I pry them apart, I will smile as I remember the grape sno-cone I had the night my friends and I watched those cars catch on fire. I will have a detailed recollection of the deep-fried Oreo cookies and losing our car in the parking lot, but I will look at "Emma, 8 months" with an empty stare of non-recognition.
As I cover the back of my demolition derby ticket with rubber cement and paste it into a book, my elbow will inadvertently knock your baby's picture onto the floor. As I turn the page and add a picture of Penelope's dog, I will stretch out my legs and unknowingly kick your baby under the large, built-in desk in my basement. Under the desk it will stay..."Madison, 4 months"...for an untold number of years. I will eventually move out of my house and someone else will take my place.
On a rainy day in September, years in the future, this new resident of my house will be cleaning the basement. (She will be a more conscientious housekeeper than I.) And when her mop reaches under the desk, it will unearth a small photograph. She will pick it up, look at your baby, and cock her head in confusion. She will turn it over and, for just a moment, will attempt to recall "Noah - 20 months." She will shake her head and give up as she moves to the next room with her mop. On her way, she will pass a shoebox filled with letters, postcards, and last week's concert tickets. And she will casually toss your baby's picture on top.
I looked at the first few pictures before tossing them into the shoebox that holds old theater tickets, past wedding invitations, and greeting cards. There they will remain, face-down under the card my sister sent me (the one with the picture of the little girl holding a sign that reads "I like corn on the cob" where you would expect to see a "happy birthday" message). I won't see these pictures again until, several years from now, I dig through that box in an effort to paste into a scrapbook those items worth saving. The corn-on-the-cob card will make it into the book. Your baby will not.
The back of your baby's picture probably says something like "age 6 months" or "18 months." This means nothing to me. (The rest of the world counts age in years, by the way.) Can your baby talk? Can it walk? Can it do math? Don't send me pictures unless it can do math.
Chances are, you wrote your baby's name on the back of the picture. When I find it in a few years, it will be stuck to my ticket stub from the County Fair Demolition Derby with some sort of purple syrup. When I pry them apart, I will smile as I remember the grape sno-cone I had the night my friends and I watched those cars catch on fire. I will have a detailed recollection of the deep-fried Oreo cookies and losing our car in the parking lot, but I will look at "Emma, 8 months" with an empty stare of non-recognition.
As I cover the back of my demolition derby ticket with rubber cement and paste it into a book, my elbow will inadvertently knock your baby's picture onto the floor. As I turn the page and add a picture of Penelope's dog, I will stretch out my legs and unknowingly kick your baby under the large, built-in desk in my basement. Under the desk it will stay..."Madison, 4 months"...for an untold number of years. I will eventually move out of my house and someone else will take my place.
On a rainy day in September, years in the future, this new resident of my house will be cleaning the basement. (She will be a more conscientious housekeeper than I.) And when her mop reaches under the desk, it will unearth a small photograph. She will pick it up, look at your baby, and cock her head in confusion. She will turn it over and, for just a moment, will attempt to recall "Noah - 20 months." She will shake her head and give up as she moves to the next room with her mop. On her way, she will pass a shoebox filled with letters, postcards, and last week's concert tickets. And she will casually toss your baby's picture on top.
9.04.2008
Because we're No Nonsense
Yesterday, the weather started to change. I walked outside in the morning and went back in to get a sweater. It felt like fall, and I smiled. Not just because it’s my favorite time of year, or because it means Halloween is right around the corner, or because Penelope is coming to visit in 7 weeks.
I smiled because this summer has been riddled with Nonsense, and September feels like the start of something better.
It’s been a rough summer by any standard. The people I love have lost jobs, lost parents, and lost friends. Three ended relationships. Two attended funerals under unimaginable circumstances. One drove ten hours each weekend to visit his mom in the hospital. At some point, our problems shifted from kid problems to real problems, and there’s no end in sight.
All of this means that there’s no time, no energy, and no heartache left for Nonsense. So let me say this:
When you invent a story about how my friend, the substance abuse counselor, is using drugs – that is Nonsense.
When you spread a false rumor that This Boy is cheating on That Boy – that is Nonsense.
When you cycle through your friends at your convenience and intentionally hurt Travis’s feelings – that is Nonsense.
When you throw a tantrum and storm out for no reason – that is Nonsense.
When you break up with Brad and then kiss the new person that he’s dating – that is Nonsense.
All of it. Nonsense. And I know we can all do a little better.
Welcome, September.
8.29.2008
Her lovin' is a wild dog, she's got the look.
Moments after he announced to me and Brad that being on the State Fair Board is "like Heaven," Troy's mood turned. He was beside himself.
"Heather and Cory had sex on my couch on New Year's Eve." He seemed certain that the catastrophe had occurred.
"Eww. How do you know?" we asked.
"Alissa told me." He said, disgusted and shaking his head. "Can you believe that?"
"Wow. So Heather told Alissa that it happened?"
"Well, yes. She indicated it."
"Indicated it?" Brad clarified. "How did Heather indicate to Alissa that she had sex with Cory on your couch on New Year's Eve."
"A wayward glance."
Well then. That settles it.
"Heather and Cory had sex on my couch on New Year's Eve." He seemed certain that the catastrophe had occurred.
"Eww. How do you know?" we asked.
"Alissa told me." He said, disgusted and shaking his head. "Can you believe that?"
"Wow. So Heather told Alissa that it happened?"
"Well, yes. She indicated it."
"Indicated it?" Brad clarified. "How did Heather indicate to Alissa that she had sex with Cory on your couch on New Year's Eve."
"A wayward glance."
Well then. That settles it.
This is a Short Man's Room
Boss #5 and I are usually the last two people in the office at night. Yesterday, he asked if I was staying late.
“Yeah. I have a client coming in at 6:30. Why? Do you need me to write that motion for you?”
“No," he said. "I need to throw out my computer monitor and I don’t think I can reach the top of the dumpster. Can you lift it up there for me?”
“That is the weirdest thing you have ever asked me to do.”
“If that’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever asked you to do, I feel really good about my level of professionalism at the office.”
“Yeah. I have a client coming in at 6:30. Why? Do you need me to write that motion for you?”
“No," he said. "I need to throw out my computer monitor and I don’t think I can reach the top of the dumpster. Can you lift it up there for me?”
“That is the weirdest thing you have ever asked me to do.”
“If that’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever asked you to do, I feel really good about my level of professionalism at the office.”
8.07.2008
34. Or more.
I just finished a 4-day trial on the case from which this blog gained its name. After 19 months of litigation, 350 billable hours, and $52,500 of unpaid fees, here is what I have learned:
- When you argue in front of the 7 justices of the state supreme court, it is best to remove the stickers from your notebook that depict strips of bacon and eggs cooked over-easy. (Also, to leave your Dr.Pepper Lipsmacker in the car.)
- Don't make fake "snoring" noises when opposing counsel calls her 12th witness to the stand.
- When you can't find the document previously marked as Exhibit E, do not suggest that the Judge may have "misplaced it." (even if he TOTALLY did)
- If you try to keep a running tally of the number of times the word "softball" is said on the record at a lesbian-themed trial (because you think it's funny), you are probably going to miss something.
- The number of lesbians who want you dead can no longer be accurately determined by counting the names on a mass email, and may increase exponentially without warning.
8.05.2008
Time to burn, Lots to learn
When I received an invitation today from friends wanting to get together soon, I realized with chagrin that I was able to confirm my availability for 12 of the next 13 evenings.
I had a similar experience last year when a glance at my calender revealed "Watch Troy's Cat" as my only social event* scheduled for the entire month of October.
*That's right. Social event.
I had a similar experience last year when a glance at my calender revealed "Watch Troy's Cat" as my only social event* scheduled for the entire month of October.
*That's right. Social event.
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