Slice of Life

What Goes Around

I was a bank teller one summer during my college years.  I was the only male bank teller.  The women I worked with were pretty bitchy, but I didn't care.  On Fridays I would go to a diner across the street for lunch and have a club sandwich and a coke.  This old lady came to my window one morning to cash her social security check.  I couldn't find her name in the system so I asked her for some identification, and she went ape shit bananas.  "You must be new!" she hollered as everyone in the foyer stared at my window.  "I'm Daisy Leavitt and this is ridiculous!"  I politely told her that I was only asking for identification for her protection, and when I thought about her today I smiled, because she is probably dead now.

Still Looking Back

I was amazed at the amount of shit I took this past weekend for not having updated my blog in the past several months.  Well, assholes, as I tried to tell you as you mocked some of my more memorable posts and just generally made me out to look like a complete fucking douchebag to anyone within earshot of the hotel bar last Friday night, there was that small task of that exam I had to study for this past summer and just generally being caught up in the hustle and bustle that is my life raising a young boy.  But we all know what they say about excuses, and quite frankly I need more and more breaks from the monotony that is my current job, so I figure it's time to bring the blog back.  We'll start with the most recent news that just a select few people know about.

I turned down a job this morning.  And I'm fucking bullshit mad about it.  Not so much that the timing of the offer was bad, which it was, or that the job wasn't my view of a dream opportunity or even a great opportunity, which it wasn't.  But it was a better opportunity, no doubt about that.  Sometimes I hate all these goddamn bullshit adult considerations that factor into stuff like this such as the "timing" of putting a house on the market, whatever the fuck that is all about.  I just want to get up and go, but as I look at this chance I just closed the doors on (or, for the anal English majors out there like me who still don't feel right about ending sentences or clauses with a preposition, "on which I just closed the doors"), it's more about the part of me that still wants to go back.  Back to the north, back to New England, just back.

Three years ago I fucked up.  I fucked my career up by changing professions on nothing more than a whim and I fucked up by blazing out of a job that while not ideal, was pretty low stress and could have given me some solid experience, vested me in a goverment pension plan after 3 years, and just generally have been a good way to do something I was content with while searching for the next thing.  I what pisses me off to no end is that all of the poor decisions were ultimately my own.  And for as pragmatic and logical as I like to think I am when it comes to making big decisions (appliances don't stand a chance of entering our home unless they are ranked in Consumer Report's top 3), I just fucked up.  There's no other way to put it.  And while it hasn't all been gloom in doom in the south, my skin absolutely crawls when I think about that month or so leading up to the big move, where I worked for a boss that was the most miserable fucking prick I've ever met in my life doing something I really didn't know much about, and being away from my family (just wife and dog, at the time) for 3 months.  It was just such a fucking waste that I haven't really forgiven myself or accepted what a dumbshit thing it was to do.  And the only reason I put the blinders on and didn't really think about what I was doing is because I was too hell bent on running away from my problems in Vermont, a place where I wasn't perfectly happy or perfectly content or perfect in my marriage so I thought if I extracted my life completely from that scene, all would be well.  I wish I had an older brother or a much bigger close friend to just beat the living piss out of me for that, because I'm not doing a good enough job of being hard on myself.  Nearly 3 years later, and I'm still looking back at that time in my life wanting to correct it somehow, wanting to make different decisions.  And so to turn down a job this morning, in Vermont, it's like all the scabs just get ripped off again.  "Ha ha, fuck face," the bad decision-maker in me is saying today.  "You can't go back."

There was a guy I met here about a year ago when I started my current job.  One of these guys who has to immediately be your best friend as soon as he meets you.  Double-handed handshake, first of all.  Big no-no if you're meeting someone for the first time.  And by double-handed handshake I'm talking about the ol' regula shake plus simultaneous left-handed wrist grab.  Seriously guy.  So if that wasn't enough this guy is all in my face wanting to know not only my life story but my life plan.  "So are you looking to join the partnership in 5 years or move on to a bigger firm?"  "Ever think you'll go back north?"  On and on and on.  I wanted to punch this guy right in the fucking mouth, it was that obnoxious.  "You know what?" I said, "I'm here now."  It was probably the most polite way I've ever told someone to go get fucked in my entire life, but I think he got the point:  I'm here now, go get fucked.  But I think about that interaction a lot because it's times like these I need to heed my own advice:  I'm here now.  I don't necessarily like it and it certainly isn't perfect, but I'm here now.  And truthfully I don't have all that much to bitch and gripe about, despite my propensity to bitch and gripe.  I'm hung up on all the time, effort, money, and stress I've had to deal with in trying to get things back on track for the better part of the last 3 years, and I'm not yet ready to just say what's in the past is in the past, move on.  All that fucking bullshit is my own fucking fault and there should be some punishment that goes along with it, and maybe this it.  And maybe I'm only adding to it in a way, applying for a job a couple of weeks ago that I knew was nothing more than a silly way of giving myself a taste of being able to go back, even though I couldn't.  And I can't.

The Man Cave

Fuck.  And.  Yes.

'I was Putting My Seatbelt On'

Apparently this excuse works when getting pulled over and asked why you rolled through a stop sign.

Ten

Made In America

From B's 30th

For more shots of the chundery adventure in NYC last weekend, feel free to view the entire album.  View discretion is advised.

Memorabilia

I was there.

From L.A. Lakers v. Boston Celtics - NBA Finals Game 6

I've Decided

I've decided that for my final week of unemployment, I'm not going to do jack shit.  I had tossed around the idea that I was going to get up early every day, essentially do a week-long trial run of what my eventual schedule is going to be once I get back in the saddle again.  Then it occurred to me:  that is patently fucking dumb.  I'm going to stay up late, watch movies on TBS and TNT (You, Me and Dupree is still awful even if you watch it 4 times in a row), watch so many Sportscenters that I lose track of when the first one started an when the last one ended (anyone who has watched 6 consecutive Sportscenters will understand this last remark), take my dog to the park every day, and bring my personal hygiene to an all-time low.  Then, a week from now, I will indeed turn on the heat to a level not seen in years.  But until then, nothing.  As much nothing as possible.

Put it On My Tab

We're going to be releasing the hounds a little bit on this blog.  Lots to say and lots of space to say it.  New rants and new letters are also up, and if profanity offends you, well you'd be long gone by now.  Had a job interview last week and after a brief discussion with a friend via text message regarding the prudence of wearing a pink tie and pink dress shirt to said interview.  He said no, I said yes, and ultimately I went with the pink.  While I definitely appreciate the point that a job interview is not a place to take risks with one's attire, my feeling is that the candidates who score jobs are the ones that stand out from the others, whether it be in the form of a pink tie or perfectly timed joke.  I wanted to leave that interview with the office buzzing the remainder of the week, people praising the guy in the pink tie.

Let me give you a little information about me and interviews:  I dominate them.  I do slip up from time to time and have pretty much been spot on as to whether I ultimately will be offered the job or not.  In this case, the job is mine, knew it about 10 minutes into the interview.  And of all the interviews I've ever had in my life, I think I was asked for the very first time, "What did playing college football teach you?"  It was so much of a softball that I honestly hadn't processed internally for the purposes of an interview answer that I stumbled a bit at first but transitioned well into the last part of my answer:  "Loyalty.  Trusting in others and having them reciprocate those feelings to you."  I probably could have gone on for a half an hour, as I've always credited my football days to providing me the best lessons in life.  "That's a great answer," I was told and as the interview reached its conclusion was even told, perhaps unintentionally, "You've really done a great job."  The second interview takes place the Friday after New Year's.  I'm not quite sure what to think of this opportunity yet, however.  I have to process things and I'm not too down with that right now.

The morning of the interview started brilliantly with a workout highlighted by my personal trainer bringing me to my breaking point and actually spending an additional 30 minutes with me because as he put it, he likes working with me.  I couldn't walk properly for the next 3 days.  So I get home, shower, fire up the pink tie, and off I go.  There are these two absolutely senseless stop signs on my street within about 20 feet of one another.  I treat them as flashing yellow lights.  In the one year and 4 months I've lived in this neighborhood, I've probably come to a complete stop at either of these signs no more than a dozen times.  Sure as shit, I blow through the first one and hear a siren go off within about 5 seconds of said infraction.  Not really sure where he came from.  In any event, I know I'm screwed as I didn't even try to slow down.  Officer Dink Face approaches the vehicle and is as fired up as any cop who has ever pulled me over (#1 was probably the guy who pulled me and 5 of my high school buddies over when I got tagged for going 100 on the interstate the night before a football game my senior year.  Excerpt from said event:  "You were outdriving your headlights, you know what that means?"  "I was driving faster than the speed of light?")  Anyway, he starts his spiel off with the boilerplate "where are we headed today in such a hurry that we have to [insert appropriate traffic violation]."  He didn't want an answer but instead immediately asked for my license and registration.  He looks at my license and realizes I live about a quarter mile away, says something about living in the neighborhood then asks me, "How do you think all these people living along this street feel about people running this stop sign all the time?"  I employed my humble, gosh-i'm-really-hurt-by-this-just-let-me-off routine and said something like, "They probably don't like it."  A few minutes later I was holding the all-too familiar pink citation equipped with my very own fine and court date should I choose to fight it.  I've decided to lawyer up for this one, fuck em.  I'd rather blow a few hundred dollars on an attorney then pay some bogus fine that will go into the county's general fund and be used for something that has nothing to do with traffic safety.

As I talked to my wife tonight about the incident, I regret not being quicker when the Man in Blue asked me what the neighbors thought about people who run this particular stop sign.  I actually came up with my answer later that day as I stewed at my desk at work.  What I should have said was something to the effect, "Well, I'm sure they'd much rather have the cops in this city catching the people who have been breaking into our fucking homes on a regular basis over the past year as opposed to the people who chronically run this stop sign on a daily basis.  Thanks to the shitty job you guys have done as it relates to property crimes in this city, my family spends $37 a month on a security system to do the job you guys are clearly incapable of doing.  And now you're telling me to fork over another $171 for this lame ass stop sign that does absolutely nothing.  I think the people who live on this street could give two shits about people who run this stop sign, that's what I think."

Or something like that.

Next time, I'll take one from Steve Carrell's book:  

Columbus Race Report

Little TJ survived his first road trip to Ohio this past weekend (8 hours on the way there somehow turned into 9 hours on the way back), with Cleveland the wonder-mutt serving as his body guard in the back seat and completely disregarding every one of my commands during a pit stop in his native state, West Virginia.  When it was time to go, Cleveland turned away from me and sat in the middle of some long grass near an abandoned railroad track.  When I slowly walked toward him he laid on his side, with his black beagle tail flapping on the tall green grass.  I could barely talk in my serious voiceThese are the things I'll always remember about our little rescue hound.

For the most part, the weekend was a blast.  I got to see the Columbus Blue Jackets opening night victory over the Nashville Predators in a sold out Nationwide Arena with my father in-law.  Not a big hockey fan, not even much of a fan at all to be honest.  But I am a fan of pro sports and seeing pro sports live.  I scored a pair of tickets 15 rows off the ice from a scalper outside the arena for less than face value, and we saw the Blue Jackets beat a team that they were previously 0-15-1 against in their previous 16 meetings, as well as the quickest goals scored in franchise history (8 seconds apart).  What I enjoyed the most was a chance to catch up and get his thoughts on retirement, living in Asheville, and this crazy mother fucking world we're living in.  Good times.

There really isn't too much to say about the marathon other than it was the most fun I've had in any races in which I've participated but for the Marine Corp Marathon I ran two years ago with a good friend, who, incidentally, was running the MDI Marathon in Bar Harbor, Maine, at the same time I was running Columbus.  While we weren't able to do a long training run together a few weeks before the big race as we had a couple of years ago, it was fun to e-mail each other throughout the weeks leading up to our races to check up on one another to see how our training runs were going and how we were feeling.  Having this kind of support is key leading up to a marathon, and a good lady by one's side is always a boost, too.  The weather on race day was about as perfect as you could want, although I gotta say that 39 degrees at 6:30 a.m. when it's pitch dark outside made my balls crawl up to the back of my throat.  I took a nice long piss in some bushes on the courthouse lawn (insert ironic lawyer reference here), and I was ready for the run.  The course was perfect; all the highlights of Columbus including a few miles through German Village just before the halfway point, a long jaunt down High Street, points through The Ohio State campus, down fraternity row and right along Ohio Stadium a.k.a the Shoe, with the final miles going through Upper Arlington then hooking back onto High Street for the final stretch.  There was live music all over the place, probably my favorite parts of any marathon.  And an amazing band; this year, the National Guard band was assembled outside the courthouse on High Street at Mile 13 or so and was just starting to play The Final Countdown by Europe.  An oldie but a goodie.  Naturally the brass section was featured prominently for this particular piece, and I got chills up and down my arms as the trumpet section bolted out the main lines of the song.  I turned my head and watched them play for as long as I could, smiling from ear to ear.  For the next mile or so I thought about all the songs I used to blare on my trumpet, vowing to pick it up again soon in the coming weeks.

I kept a nice steady pace throughout the race, taking in the sights and waving to as many spectators as I could, as the community support was phenomenal.  At about Mile 15 a guy came behind me and said, "I hope you feel as good as you look right now," to which I replied that I surprisingly did feel pretty good.  I encouraged him as well, as he seemed to keep the same pace as I did for the next mile or so.  I've realized that the biggest key for me throughout a race is to get as much fuel as I can at set intervals, primarily Advil and Gatorade and for this race, Shot Bloks.  Money.  Running alone caused me to play a lot of games in my head, as I would use various mile markers as goals for when I would get certain rewards.  At mile 10 it was 2 Advil and a pack of Shot Bloks and Mile 15 it was 3 Advil and more Shot Bloks.  I ran into the most wonderful sight at Mile 21, as the Wife was waiting with 4 Advil and a G2, with our little pumpkin head snoozing away in his stroller on the sidewalk, oblivious to the world.

The last few miles of a marathon can fuck with your head in a major way.  Lots of people cramping up and walking at this point.  Some runners are in tears.  Unfortunate others are being attended to by paramedics or even being carted away on the meatwagon.  Not exactly the nice fluffy thoughts of young children holding hands and sing Kumbaya in a field of daisies to help you grind through those last brutal miles.  "Grind it" I said several times out loud beginning at about Mile 21.  Partly because I was going delirious, partly because I was trying to support my fellow runners, partly because it was pretty fucking funny to hear someone saying "grind it" every couple of minutes at this point in the race.  I saw a guy who had a knot on the side of his shin above his calf muscle like I had never seen before.  Absolutely gruesome.  Lots of people walking, a feeling I remember too well from last year's debacle in Charlotte.  But what I will remember most of all from the run is a woman in front of me wearing a hot pink running skirt who was clearly cramping up in her legs and calves, walking a few steps every now and again but, for the most part, just continuing to plug away.  There was a guy who would join her every now and again and run by her side (her boyfriend, I would later find out).  I couldn't help but think how friggin' awful she had to have been feeling at that very moment; so close to the finish line but fighting a body that was ready to completely shut down.  The easy way out at this point is to just shut the engines down and say fuck it, walk it in and give in to the pain.  But this girl just kept running and powering through each stride, it was impressive to watch.  When she stopped again to walk a couple of steps I slowed down as I passed her on her left side.  "You can do this," I told her, "you're kicking ass right now, don't stop, you look great."  She picked up again and started running, the same pace as before.  It was impressive, and I couldn't help but think that I had no excuse at all for slowing down since my legs weren't cramping up and I felt relatively strong at this point in the race.  I always feel that when I get to Mile 20 the race is just about over, even though running another 6.2 miles when you've already run 20 miles is nothing short of insane.  For me, I just like mile markers that start with a '2' since that is what the very last one looks like.  When I crossed the finish line just a few strides behind pink skirt (you make up names for people in these types of events, at least I do, anything to pass the time.  There was Pink Skirt and Buckeye Girls and Obnoxious Obama Guy, just to name a few.)  In any event, Pink Skirt had just crossed the finish line, collected her medal and was walking towards the tables of various food and drink for the runners.  She was crying a little bit, tears that reminded me of the ones I had following my first marathon a couple of years ago.  I put my arm around her and told her that what she did at the end of the race was the most amazing thing I have ever witnessed in any of the marathons I had run, which was the absolute truth.  I couldn't help but tear up myself, joyful for having finished myself but genuinely thrilled to share in another's experience.  She cried a little bit more, mostly out of relief, and told me that it was her first marathon and as she was running with her boyfriend towards the finish line she told him how much "that guy" helped her and she wouldn't have been able to do it otherwise.  "That guy" apparently was me and that moment was probably one of the happiest times I experienced at the end of a race (number one being seeing the Wife and our hound shortly after finishing my first marathon).  We introduced ourselves and I just kept telling her over and over again how remarkable her run was, almost holding her up a little bit as we exited the course.  Her boyfriend was on the other side of one of the fences and I introduced myself to him and congratulated him as well, complimenting his lady and her feat.  We got some gatorade and a couple of bananas and parted ways after sharing more compliments, smiling and crying together.