The Great Race

She knows damn well that we’re racing.

Since I get to work early, if all goes well I try to catch the 5:09 train home to find Sheena Easton waiting for me. Well, not Sheena Eason, but my wife, who isn’t Sheena Easton, but that’s okay because I think she probably cooks better than Sheena. I don’t have anything to support that – it’s just a hunch. And since I eat more often than have a need to hear 80’s pop live in my living room I’m not complaining. But I digress.


So I’m on the 5:09 and the train rolls into my stop. A mass of people gets off and those headed north have to wait for the train to pull out so we can cross the tracks. My abode is roughly across the street, about a three minute walk (which explains my stunning cardiovascular fitness level), and several people on the now infamous 5:09 live in my building. I’ve carefully studied all the possible routes home using a simple, yet effective, algorithm that I learned in my operations research class several years ago, and I think I have the route that will most consistently get me home in the shortest amount of time.

I swear I’m one slightly nudged gene away from being one of those people that can’t go to sleep at night unless I am certain that only every other button on all the shirts in my closet is buttoned. Starting with an open one at the top. But I digress.

Partly due to my total lack of interest in socializing with my fellow commuters and partly due to my superior speed walking skills (36” inseam, thank you), but mostly due to my route planning, I routinely arrive home, change clothes, wash my hands three times, and sit down to the dinner table before the rest of my neighbors can say “Hi de ho” to the doorman. Okay, I don’t have a doorman. It might be fun to hire one for the day to confuse everyone else in the building. But I digress.

But there is one woman who challenges my pedestrian authority and takes a back route. She ducks in the back door at ground level, sneaks up a rear stairwell and motors down the corridor, I know just in an effort to try to beat me. Some nights it’s close, so we’ve had to establish a finish line. I think we both would agree that the line would extend from the wall that holds the mailboxes right next to the elevators. Of course, I can’t confirm this is the official line since we both pretend we’re not racing so we can never have this conversation. But trust me, no other part of the lobby makes sense. And like I said, she knows we're racing.

Most days I win, usually just by about 5 - 10 seconds. But if she catches the traffic light and my jaywalking strategy backfires sometimes it’s a dead heat, and I swear I see an extra bounce in her step down the homestretch as I work to get my key smoothly in and out of the lock of the security door out front.

I’m often exhausted by this time so I usually take the elevator, whereas she takes the stairs to the same floor. I’ve considered taking the stairs, but now I’m afraid she’d think I’m copying off of her or I fear it developing into a violent, clawing race up the stairs with hair pulling and bruised shins.

I’m also convinced that my nemesis is WGN health reporter Dina Bair, but my wife says I’m insane. I already knew that.

But recently there is a new competitor. Her presence on the 5:09 is less regular, but in addition to my shortcut through the BBQ joint parking lot and my jaywalking strategy she has implemented another shortcut through the doctor’s office parking lot and possibly over a chain link fence. She appears to be leggy and nimble enough to do so, but nothing that my 36” inseam can’t compete with. But I’ve avoided this second shortcut because I’ve often encountered some muddy spots and don’t want to risk tearing my generic business casual khakis or ruining my fashionable DSW shoes or even falling down and getting kicked in the head with an iron boot. But most importantly, I'm busting my ass with my current route and she is coming up the elevator from ground level just as I’m arriving to take the elevator up. A virtual dead heat every time.

After coming in the door for so long with my arms raised overhead in victory, my wife noticed my distress. She recommended I follow the cheating, fence-jumping whore to find out her secret, but I can’t do it without feeling like I’m stalking her. If I follow her it just seems creepy and it also implies defeat. That's unacceptable.

I’ll just have to pick up the pace until I move again.

Locked Out In My Pants

I called my company's Help Desk because I was locked out of one of our systems. All I wanted them to do was unlock my login account so I could continue to use the same password. The woman at the Help Desk could not figure out how to unlock the account, but said she could reset it using the same password. So she asked me what my password was.


I said, "inmypants."


She said, "Gross."


How would she know? I've never even met her. She's two thousand miles away from me. As it turned out, she was unable to reset it using the same password, either. So, she asked me what I wanted my new password to be.


I said, "eatme."


She said, "That's not enough characters."


So I told her to use "riboflavin" instead.

Derf 'til You Puke

I was reading something the other day – I don’t remember what, exactly, maybe an obituary writing manual – and I came across the word “underfed”. It looked strange to me, as if it should be pronounced “un-derft” instead of “un-der-fed”. I thought, “un-derfed” should be its own word, as in undoing an act of derfing. For all I know, it is an official word. So I looked it up in the dictionary. To my surprise, underfed was in there! Its definition is to have fed insufficiently. This leads me to believe that, in turn, “to derf” is to feed sufficiently. I plan to derf myself on a nice steak dinner tonight to celebrate my new knowledge.

Mentally Challenged

“I am sorry to hear about your challenges.”

That was the first line of the email I received in response to a plea for help in completing the simple task of registering at our new 401(k) provider’s website. My challenges? Bite me. It’s your challenge to fix the problem that I have with your site. Either tell me that your website, in 2008, is not compatible with Macs and that I need to fill out the paperwork in your overproduced and glossy Welcome package with smiling old people on the cover who obviously haven't tried to use your website, or find me someone that can tell me how to do it online. My only challenge is finding the time to get to Boston to kick your ass.

Here’s an idea – take some of your glossy brochure budget and shift it over to website development so that it works with something more than Internet Explorer on a PC.

Here’s another idea – train your customer service people to actually resolve problems instead of calling your problems my “challenges”. Especially these days when we do most things online and only pick up the goddam phone to speak to one of your chowderheads when there is a “challenge”. I expect a little better especially since we’re already overpaying for your crappy funds.

Yeah, I had a couple jobs that involved talking to customers. And all of them suck. They try to teach you all these wonderfully useless customer service techniques instead of just letting you fix the damn problem.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear you’re experiencing difficulties.”

“So if I understand you correctly, you’re saying that when you try to request a withdrawal that our webpage dissolves into a photo of Johnny Cash giving you the finger?”

“Yes, I can see how that can be frustrating.”

“Our technical support department has advised us that we are currently experiencing some system challenges at the moment. Thank you for your patience – is there anything else with which I may assist you today?”

Even worse is that this was one part of our new company on which I could have kicked some ass. It’s not like they don’t know I spend half my day at work planning my early retirement, and I could have set them up with a 401(k) that would have them shitting daisies.

Instead, they put me in a marketing meeting where I sit in a loft office with a dog in the hip part of town and talk to a consultant that needs to know what kind of tree I am before he can design us a new logo and website.

Look, Slappy, just have the dude with the horn-rimmed glasses and the Cheap Trick t-shirt whip something after he's done walking Fido and we'll be good.

Maybe I should be setting up an EAP plan instead….

High Tailing It

I think I might be more offended that people we elect to handle our tax dollars believe it's reasonable to spend over $4,000 to get laid. That's the real reason they need to get thrown out on their asses.

Email from Jon Owens

I received an email message today from Jon Owens. The subject of the email was:

I wanted to give someone a sexually transmitted disease (e.g., herpes, AIDS).

Good thing he provided examples of sexually transmitted diseases in the subject line. If not, I would have thought he intended to offer me phone service, and I would not have opened the email.

At first, of course, I thought this to be a typical chunk of SPAM, and I was about to delete it. But then I thought, why would anybody want to give somebody an STD? What kind of SPAM marketing ploy could this be? Maybe there is a benefit to getting an STD, and Jon Owens was trying to help his fellow humans. I’ve never had herpes or AIDS. What kind of a snob am I to be discriminating against them? The only STD I have ever had to deal with has been unintended pregnancy. Yes, that is, too, a disease. Think about it. What’s a sexually transmitted disease? It’s something you get because you were acting irresponsibly while having sex. Once inflicted, the disease cells start multiplying and eventually cause you irritation. And, it costs you a bunch of money and stress to get rid of it. Or in some cases, they stay with you forever and sometimes kill you. How is that any different from having a child?

So I opened the email. To my dismay, it was merely a link to a web site where I can attain amazing gains in length and thickness. Nothing about the benefits of having an STD or why Jon Owens wanted to give them away. So I clicked the link hoping to get some lawn care tips.

It turns out, Jon Owens happens to be the same Jon Owens I went to grade school with. With whom I went to grade school with. I never knew what happened to him after sixth grade. Neither does he. He’s sending me some free samples.

Hotel or Porn Studio

I've been planning a vacation and just booked a room at a place called Casa 69. The 69 is just part of the address and the place gets great reviews online, but there's still part of me that thinks I'll end up with a story worthy of Penthouse Forum if I dare order room service.

Book Store Girl

I almost asked out the check out girl at Barnes and Noble yesterday. She might have been too young for me, maybe around 30, and was kind of plain jane cute. But I didn't because I figured she was poor. So I went to Steak 'n Shake by myself instead.

In The Doghouse

About a month ago I received an email. Yep, my posts are both timely and fascinating, eh? It was a request from a friend with a sick puppy. And since I’m all about compassion and puppies and rainbows and the smell of fresh baked cookies in a warm kitchen on a cold winter day, I had to respond.

I’ve never had a dog. They’re pretty cool animals in general, but I’ve usually found them either too loud, too moist, or too hairy to share my space with. Ditto for kids. But it seems that the puppy has not been doing too well and requires daily IV fluids. This same time last year, I also required daily IV fluids so she hit soft spot. Whereas I had opposing thumbs and could do my own, the puppy does not have the same and usually fumbles with the IV tubing until somebody steps in to help. Apparently this is a two-person process since the puppy doesn’t seem to mind the fluid part, but like most humans she tends to flinch when needles are inserted under her skin.

Now go back and substitute “pit bull” for “puppy” in the previous sentences. That’s right… I was being asked to hold down a pit bull while someone else stuck an IV needle under her skin. It’s not as bad as it sounds since the dog has always been as laid back as any dog I’ve known. And in her advanced age, even the squirrels in the backyard are resting a little easier. But I still found it amusing that I was volunteering for the job.

I signed up for two days during the 2-1/2 weeks her husband would be out of town on business and unable to help. The first day I went over, it was clear that the dog was sick but still enjoying the company of her loyal owners and her visitors. Once the IV was set up we walked the dog back to the treatment room, which was also used for human laundry. I found a small throw rug, with small pillows on each end. The dog stood on the rug and I was to take position on the pillow near her head and hold her in position by her collar. Just in case. I kneeled down and took her collar. And quickly realized my naughty bits were positioned about three inches from the face of a pit bull about to be stuck with a needle. Again, the dog had exhibited nothing but the sweetest demeanor, but the fleeting visual of her jaw clamped onto my privates was enough for me to adjust my position. I didn’t want to be nominated for a Darwin award or be the local man in the news who required 450 stitches to reattach his scrotum.

Now comfortably seated on the floor, where the lower jaw could not as easily slip around my jewels, the process began. As promised, she barely flinched when the needle was placed and she remained remarkably patient for the ten or so minutes while the fluid flowed. Before I knew it, we were all done and I was rewarded with a treat and a non-alcoholic beer. Thankfully, she let me know the treat was for the dog before I wolfed it down myself. I settled into the couch and sipped my beer with pride, knowing that I could add pit bull wrangler to my resume.

Neuro Misfirings

You might be a racist if… I used ethnic groups as the punchlines to two of my jokes this week. Yep, that’s right – I broke a workplace taboo and mentioned the “fucking Swiss” and the “evil Danes” just for a laugh. But the material killed.

Tattoo Removal Made Easy – book a room at the Tulsa Marriott. Stand in shower. Brace yourself. Place tattooed area directly in front of fire hose pressure shower head. Turn on shower. Wait two minutes. Pat dry. Sure it’s painful, but I don’t have to be ashamed of my Where’s The Beef? and Luke <3 Laura tats anymore.

I dig college radio. In Texas I used to listen to a station out of The University of North Texas. It was previously called North Texas University, but when they changed the name of the school they didn’t change the station called letters from KNTU.

Whenever I see something black cherry flavored it sounds really good and I usually order it, but 9 times out of 10 I’m disappointed. It’s like dating a really hot girl.

I recently heard the Theme from Rockford Files. Televisions shows just don’t have good theme songs or opening montages anymore. Takes away from valuable ad time, I suppose.

That would totally suck if wombs were made out of wood and you had to spend the first half of your life just trying to get the splinters out of your body.