Once More with Feeling.

The Office

For those of you who do not know what I do (which including my friends, would mean just about everybody), I can tell you that I am not management.  After reading the following excerpts of actual conversations with my manager, I think it's safe to say that that's probably gonna remain the case.

[manager in his office and has door closed. I open it and stand in the doorway to give him a quick update on an account]

Me: So, I called Peter and he has the policy now and he's all.....[smells something rather pungent in the air]...um, sorry,... but did you just fart?

Manager: [shocked but laughing] No, I did not fart.

Me: Sorry, it's just that I smell something really bad over here and it's...[steps into office]...nope, not coming in from here...[steps outside of office] woah, yeah someone out there did something awful. don't want you to think that was me.

Manager: [sniffs] Great - now you're bringing it in here!

Me: [closes door] Sorry. Ya know, I have never, ever asked a boss that before in my entire life.

Manager: And I have never been that asked before.

As if that weren't enough, this exchanged occurred.  The deal here was the office has separate wiring instructions depending on whether the account is located domestically or internationally.  Pardon my ignorance, but one account was wiring their money from Puerto Rico and this caused me some confusion and this particular account  left me zero margin of error, so I had to be 110% I was having the money wired correctly.

Me: So, is Puerto Rico considered domestic or international?

Manager: [quick pause] Domestic.

[more talk on account stuff]

3 minutes later...

Me: So is Puerto Rico considered domestic of international?

Manager: You JUST asked me that 3 minutes ago! It's still domestic. Did you think it changed in those 3 minutes?   

To be fair, I'm not that level of dumb. I was trying to trick him into giving a different answer because I didn't think he was completely sure on this either and I HAD TO BE SURE. Screwing up on this account was not an option.  In the end, all I did was end up looking like an simpleton employee with no memory recall.

So, dumb things you've said to your boss? Said by your boss?

Shocking

Help me out here: am I cheap or does this happen to everyone?

I workout/run with my iPod.  For the past 3 years, my iPod has been my saving grace when it comes working out.  It almost makes working out, dare I say, not that bad. And yet, I've been having this problem: the earphones.

I switched out the original earbuds that came with the iPod because I felt like they kept slipping out of my ears. The type I prefer are the kind that go into your ear and have a hook that latches over your ear (looking like a hearing aid).  I will admit, I don't spend more than 15 bucks on these deals.

What happens is, after a number of months of use (less than 6) particularly when I am running, though eventually it's a matter of time when it's when I'm walking, and then just sitting, I get shocked.  In my ears.

I won't sugar coat it: it hurts.

To the spectator at the gym seeing me run, the scenario they witness is such:

Run, run, run, run, run, ...OW...run, run, OW!..run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, ruh-He-EY!!..FUCK ME, THAT HURTS.... run, run, run, run....

(along with a lot of ear touching, face contortions, and adjusting of the earphones)

If anyone is a Cheers fan, the whole thing starts to eerily take shape of one of my favorite episodes. You know the one where Cliff is trying to secretly rework his personality so that his friends like him more/find him less grating?   In that episode, he seeks out a "therapist" who is willing to go to the bar with him, and from across the room, send a shock signal to him every time he says something annoying.  The experiment starts out okay, but then the man shocks Cliff accidentally ("Hey! I didn't even say anything that time!") and this is where things begin to unravel for Cliff as starts to annoy the man holding button.   By the end, the shock man/"therapist"  can't stand Cliff, and chases him around the bar yelling (one of my favorite lines from television), "DANCE, MAILMAN!"

The mailman, he no like to dance.

Let me break it down:

So the thought of actually running without my music is actually so hee-deous an option (thinking, "What is this? The NINETEEN FIFTIEEEEES?" ), that I will continue to try to run while my ears are, you know, being electrocuted. Eventually due to the pain associated with being chronically zapped, I am forced "deal with it". Because the shocks comes at such random intervals, it's hard to say what's going on. And it's in the longer reprieves that suck you in and give way to hope that it's only temporary, that you have some control over it, and it'll go away.  Note to all: no, no you don't, and it never does.

Not that any of these answers ever stop me from trying. Oh no!  Yeah, I try out a few theories (all of which are PhD-level "or greater") in the hopes of circumventing these mini-electrocutions. First, I try to run LIGHTER (if that makes any sense, which on the one hand kind of does, on the other kind of makes me sound like a total moron), my thinking is that it's my clunky pounding on the 'mill that's the cause. This theory is usually blown to shit after about 30 seconds of pure, sparkriffic hell. Next, I begin to think that it is I that is holding some kind of surplus static charge (if you'll pardon the technical jargon), stop running, touch my hands to the sides of the machine (sometimes in the process shocking myself YET AGAIN), and then jump back on and continue running.  Naturally, this also highly regarded scientific theory is blown to smithereens as quickly as method one.  Lastly, I try the "well,...it isn't THAT bad", "Martyr-up" (TM),  and see how long I can suck up the Bic lighter flicks in my ear canal.  It's usually another 30 seconds until I exasperatedly rip the earphones out and throw them over the side of the machine, telepathically communicating (as I wouldn't want to make a scene), "I fucking HATE YOU!"

So, I am either cheap and just need to buy better quality earbud hooks, or I need to quit running and take up yoga. 

I am what the bruthas would affectionately refer to as "A lyrical gansta"

It's not so much that I'm deaf ("per se" my family pipes up) as it is that I contend we live in a society that gives mumbling the Green Light.  The Thumbs Up. The "Fine by us!"

Okay, admittedly I have some crap hearing issues going on.  I am the annoying person who sits next to you during a movie or television show going, "Huh, what did they just say?" And despite what you think, I AM focusing-- like really, really hard! Yeah, I'm certain my days are numbered where it's ear buds and Closed Captioning.

Excuses notwithstanding, this brings me and my battle with lyrics of popular music.  Ah, Lyrics, you are my kryptonite.  I try, I swear to GOD, I try to understand what you people are singing and maybe, if I like the lyrics, commit to some kind of music database in my brain for future reference. As it stands, I know the first 2 lines to just about every song...after that, well, you're on your own.

But I know I am not alone, as many a people have "improvised" lyrics to popular song for as long as there have been songs.  Some unknowingly doing this for years on end until one day a friend or loved one listens in, and then proceeding to crack on them mercilessly; others too lazy to care, or what I like to call, "freestylin'", avoiding my other handy crutch, "somethin'....somethinnnnn'' which quite frankly just gets boring after awhile.

In my house, when the mood strikes, yeah I sing a little bit. Sometimes quietly to myself, other times balls out with no regard to key or tempo.  ("Or key!" reiterates Mike). So tonight's rendition of Whitney Houston's "Greatest Love of All" was met with the the one-eyebrow raise.

"But this song* you know," mocked my one-manned audience as I lingered on ends of phrases where I found myself wavering, searching for a suitable a replacement word that maybe rhymed or was at least in close approximation to what it should have been.

(*I also know all the words to Bette Midler's Wing Beneath My Wings.  Lest I lose any street cred with you nice people, my Mom can't take full blame for that one after buying the soundtrack to Beaches and playing that damn song OVER and OVER and OVER.)

And then I belted the Chorus:

"I REMEMBER LONG AGO

NEVER TO WALK IN *ANY*-ONE'S SHADOW

IF I FAIL

IF I SUCCEED

....(uh)AT LEAST I HAVE MY.....(covering pause) DIGNITY!"

Yeah, not quite how Ms Houston's representation would say the lyrics went, but hey, I wasn't embarrassed. I was kickin it in my own home knowing full well I'm butchering a song. Like I said, "freestylin'".

After some discussion of my lyric replacement (Me: "Wait, I don't think those were the words. That didn't even make sense." Mike: "No, really?") I thought I'd sing another song I actually created new words for because, haha, I am just so clever.

Me: We'll make big beds, We'll make big beds, We'll make our be-edssss.

Mike: What the hell are you singing now?

Me: I know that's not the  words, I just thought they were funnier.  You know the song, (sings) "we'll make big bets, we'll make big bets, we'll make big bets..." by what's their name, Jane's Addiction I think?"

Mike: ...(oddly quiet) ...

Me: (keeps singing so he gets what song it is)

Mike: You mean 'pets'!?

Me: Uh, noooo, 'bets'! As in "making BETS".

(such a mastery of debate I have honed over the years you would say)

Mike: Uh, YEAH, "PETS" is the name of the song, Einstein. "We'll make great pets."

(he darts out of the room to get the laptop as it is now "ON" Google-style)

Me: We'll that doesn't make any sense. Why would they make great pets?

Armed with the computer, it's researched, and well, it does not look good for me as I feebley try to explain that "those guys like to gamble, right? They kinda struck me as the Vegas-lovin' kind of crew, you know?

Turns out, those nice Porno for Pyros people sang a song about martians coming to town (like SANTA!) and how we the peoples of Earth will make "great pets". 

Huh, well if you put it like that, ...sure.

Updated to add: I forgot to add this bit about Jessica Simpson muffing part of Dolly Parton's hit 9 to 5 yesterday at the Kennedy Center Honors as she performed the song in front of Dolly herself.

Jess, honey, I know.  Lyrics are, like, tough.

Drip dry

Things get tricky when you don't have a linen closet in your bathroom...

and you realize after you get out of the shower that you forgot to grab a towel.

You're standing there, dripping wet, still not fully awake, shivering, wondering what your next course of action should be.

The bathmat starts looking pretty good, that I can tell you.

I hope my neighbors enjoyed The Jen Sprinting Naked Show this morning.

True Life: I am a Knucklehead

I don't know how many of you have caught some of MTV's more recent programming or not but one of the few shows I can get sucked into is called "True Life:".  "True Life:'s"  premise is a mini-documentary giving an upclose view of various people living their extraordinary (or trainwreck) lives. To give a taste, there's been "True Life: I am a Crystal Meth Addict", "True Life: I have Tourettes Syndrome", "True Life: I am a Jersey Shore Girl Ho".  Riveting stuff to say the least.

So I've thought about it and I think if MTV knocked on my door to do one of these docudramas on me, I think they'd have little choice but to call it something like, "True Life: She really aint all that bright".

I thought of this clever title about a month ago, which conveniently coincides with my move to my new apartment upstairs. 

Okay, remember about 3 months ago when I lost a Gap bag with approximately $125 worth of product, including a pair of jeans I really, really liked that I got on ridiculous sale? And how I thought I left the bag in a cab because I couldn't find them in my secret hiding place? And how I called the Boston Police Lost & Found at least 3 times in the week that followed?  Well, you should, because I wrote about it here.  And then I repurchased most of the items (with exception to the elusive on wicked sale jeans) and griped out it some more here.

Yeah....um...

I walked into the bedroom during moving week only to spot a dark blue plastic Gap bag laying on my bed.  And I stood there in complete and utter awe because I know Mike does not shop there.

And in my best Janice-of-"Friends" voice nasaled,

"OH.    MY.    GOD."

Mike, who was working on a project on the back steps outside heard me and rushed right in to see what was wrong.

Still in shock, I  just stood there, blinking, and as he asked, "What? What is it?"  I pointed to the bag on the bed.

"The...that bag? The Gap bag? Did you just put that there?  Where did you find it?"

Turns out it had been in a small suitcase packed in the front hall closet and he only found it because he had a trip coming up and needed the suitcase.  To his surprise he found that and my co-worker's very nice umbrella which I never got around to replacing.

"Mike, that's the fucking Gap bag. THE fucking Gap bag! You have any idea how long I've been looking for this thing??"

From what my Magnum P.I.-like skills can surmise, the suitcase must've been near the door when I got home with the Gap loot that night, ditched my stash into the case, left it there thinking I would get it in the morning.  But here's the rub: Mike gets up before me most Saturday mornings.  My guess he probably got up and put the suitcase back up in the top shelf of the hall closet first thing.  Me, not thinking I would need to draw a map for 12 hours later, I didn't exactly recall where I'd done the blind, nonchalant ditching, I just knew it was "somewhere near near or behind the couch. or front hallway."  In removing the suitcase from the scene of my sneaky crime, I was totally thrown off my own scent.

So, um, thank you to all who were very, uh, supportive of my plight of missing goods.  Just turns out I'm a dumb ass.

Oh, speaking of, here's one that's a little more in the spirit of the holiday.

Fifth grade me, Halloween 1983. Just moved to Connecticut from Boston less than 2 months. Just getting to know people. Shy, innocent girl I was.  Or maybe just really clueless. Probably just that. Anyway, in an effort to promote Halloween safety, my school handed out little reflector stickers to put on our costumes, the theory here being cars would see us, not mow us down, and most clutch, our brothers/sisters/parents would not get our loot.

Anyway, as a serious kid, I took this shit, well, seriously. Had school authorities not SERIOUSLY ADVISED us to wear these stickers?  That's all I needed to hear (Plus, STICKERS! I LOVE STICKERSSSS!). I didn't need a big, fat "We TOLD you to wear the stickers, but you disobeyed and now you are dead. Yeah, sorry about that. And sorry your little brother Brian is busy eating all of your Snickers...MWhahahahahaaa."

Or you know, whatever.

So Halloween night, I'm a 50's girl.  I think I am the shit.  I LOVE the 50s (still do) and loved that I got to wear my square dancing skirt (only reason why I took the class was for the skirt). The finishing touch was the road reflective stickers.  Oh where to put the two, small, orange, circle reflective stickers? (there were more, and in various sizes but I didn't want to overpower my awesome costume).

Let me try this again:

Girl on the edge of puberty...

2, small, circle, orange, reflective stickers...

I came bounding down the stairs looking the way I did.  And what I wouldn't know until some years later, my parents shared an exchange that was more in looks than words.

I mean, what do you say when your ten year old comes down the stairs like this?

We won't even get into the whore makeup application. Seriously people, this is just documented child abuse.

So after my parents shot each other looks of "dude, any idea why your daughter is wearing nipples on her sweater?" and shared a good little snicker at my expense, they took this picture.  I do recall them asking me about it, er them, and I innocently told them that I was just doing what the school had told me to do so cars would see me.  They were like "ok, fair enough",  let it go and LET ME WALK OUT THE DOOR LOOKING LIKE THIS.

Assholes.  The both of them.

Oh, and per my previous post on Halloween costuming and my mother's "mad makeup skilz", here's the clan of us, and as I said, we all have the rosy cheeks (well, I guess Kate got to do her own makeup here, as she seems to be with out the telltale Mom Marking of red rouged circles).

Little did I know, with exception of a 3 year old Brian, the lot of them were probably laughing at my orange nipples.

Fuckers.

You buttered your bread, now you gotta lie in it.

One of the dumber conversations I've had in recent memory after a talky me was "affectionately" told to go in the other room to go talk to myself about something that had me fired up so that I could leave someone alone so he could sleep in some peace and quiet.

Self: Ya know, I had just stopped thinking about that. Thanks for pouring gasoline on a wound...[realizing that is not the expression] ...and lighting a match to it [going for the recovery]...and pouring salt on top.

Mike: Uh, okay but I'm not sure what pouring gas on a wound would exactly do...

Self: Well, it would definitely HURT, that is for sure...

M: But...

Self: And THEN...being on fire? Hello? Also painful...

M: Oh...Kay. But  'salt on the wound'  is the...

Self: And THEN after being on fire adding SALT!...You know, to put out the fire? And that would sting!

M: Salt doesn't put out fires by the way.  Anyway, you'll excuse me while I go pour some more gasoline on the wound...

Self: Salt does TOO put out fires.  You know what? I'm going to make this expression stick, just you watch.

Welcome to the Gap, can I sell you some crap?

You know, I had no idea that a trip to the Gap would actually give me blog fodder but indeed...and unfortunately, it has.

I went to the Gap during my lunch break on Friday as a friend of mine was (and is) facing a bathing suit conundrum of sorts.  Her post had left me curious to see if they still carried my recommendation that I had seen there in early May, the board skirt.  I forgot I'd wanted one.

And they did. And much to pleasure, it had been marked down. Twice. And they had my size and all was swell.  Innocently enough, I'd also found *cough* a few *cough* other things. Like a summery, mini-nightgown, a pair of jeans (also on sale) and some t-shirts. It was just one of those days where shopping karma hits. AND is on sale.

Of course, some of these things required I hit the fitting room first before committing, and in the process of trying stuff on, naked from the waist up (sans bra), I got the dreaded "knock and walk(in)". I pushed back on the door and stated the obvious, "Uh, someone's in here."

Yeahhhh, this... this did not deter this woman, who I'd find out quickly was just another patron. In an annoyed voice, she told me, "yeah, but my clothes are in therrrre!" and CONTINUED to push her way into my fitting room.

Um, excuse me, but even if that did hold true (which it did not), does that give anyone the right to violate someone's privacy? Do I need to be on the can for people to give me a break?

"Hold on...[I push back] nothing's in here."

Still, this did not satisfy her, The Fucking Bitch. At this point, she had the door cracked opened just enough so that she could see my bits, and she still did not relent. Now normally I would argue that I am strong enough to hold back a door completely, but try frantically throwing on a shirt 1-handed in a CO-ED dressing room while simultaneously holding back a beast bent on "getting her stuff". And if I used the force I'd wanted to, I probably would have given her a bloody nose.  Yeah, details.

I continued to push back against the door and respectfully asked, "Hey, ya wanna GIVE ME A MINUTE, I'm HALF NAKED."

You'd think she'd care. You'd care. But see, you are not Fucking Bitches.

I put my tank back on and opened the door, "See? Nothing here."

She then stepped INTO the room and proceeded to look around behind the door and politely offered a look of disgust my way. Yeah, lady, it's a fucking CONSPIRACY THEORY.

"They took my stuff?"

"Or maybe you have the wrong room?"

Then she took off. I mean, that was it. No, "Sorry", nothing.

This whole exchange took maybe about 10-15 seconds and being preoccupied (the potential to be exposed in a co-ed fitting area AND thinking, "nobody is this rude to me...I'm ....I'm NICE") and being one who suffers from (as I call it) Brain Delay, jerks are left off the hook all the time. She never got "what for" from me.

And the "awesome" thing about Brain Delay is that eventually it catches up to you when it's over and in this instance, a ferocious rage set in. Like, "Did that just happen to me? And did I just let her completely off without so much as punch to the face?"

I will admit, I was really, really angry at this woman. And naturally I stood in the fitting room stunned as no less than 20 responses to dish out in 20 different styles entered my brain.

I actually wanted to find her in the store and embarrass the shit out of her for her behavior,  however, lucky for her she'd already left the store (Oh, she lucky...for I would have totally hurt her....feelings.)

Shopping Karma aside, this story has an even SADDER ending.

The clothes? Totaling $123 (with 2 wicked sale items - including jeans for $25 that looked AWESOME AND WERE COMFORTABLE)?

LEFT THEM IN A CAB FRIDAY NIGHT.

I swore I did the buyer's Buy and Hide (or Stash and Dash, whatever you call) when I walked in the door...but.... they're not here. My apartment isn't that big and my trick would have been to stash them by the front door. And it doesn't help that I had a few drinks which totally aides my forgetfulness.  So I will be calling Boston Police Lost & Found Monday (MONDAY!). I usually have decent luck when it comes to leaving stuff in a cab (cellphone twice, once returned via L&F, once returned by guy who found it), so if it's not too much to ask, could  you please say a prayer (preferably to St. Anthony, but I'm not in a position to be picky) that I continue my streak of cab L&F luck?  I would appreciate it.

Also, if you used to suffer from Brain Delay and no longer do, could you please tell me how you got over it? Because I would really like to know.

Bitch.

Updated to add:

Oh, and I told the story about rude lady to my boss just after it happened (yeah, my naked bits and all) and he asked if it was a co-ed fitting room because he offered, had it not, then I should-could have opened the door all the way, still naked and shouted, "SO, DO YA SEE ANYTHING?"

(do you see why I like my boss. damn, that's a good idea.)

In my mind, that scene plays out 2 ways. 1) with my (granted, smallish) boobs going all over the place as I gesticulate widly while saying "DO YA SEE ANYTHING!?"  or 2) with my hands on my hips and twisting my trunk so that they go side to side. Anything to freak out a complete and completely rude stranger.

Of course, he added, that awesome idea probably come way after the fact.

But AH HA! Now I know what to do if I ever run into this woman at Ann Taylor.

Updated  AGAIN to add:

Not that you care, but I keep pacing my apartment like a caged animal thinking I'll find the bag. I truly do not want to believe I was that stupid to leave it behind in a cab.

The Jerk at Work

(I know, 2 posts in one day! Film at 11!)

The thing about working in a small department is that it's a awesome opportunity for your personality to really shine in front of your manager. My dept. just hosts me, another same level guy aka Science Guy, a temp, and of course, the manager.

Last week, Science Guy and I had to watch some video with our manager and immediately following that, take a quiz.  The quiz was all of 5 multiple choice questions.  Of course, as soon as we started the quiz, out the gate I treated my co-hort like a fellow 4th grader, covering my paper and hissing, "no cheating!"

My manager, who is a great guy and thankfully has a very forgiving sense of humor, went over the the answers when we were finished. Once again, I down-shifted into 4th Grade mentality and made the "C" for correct marks next to each number.  When I realized Science Guy had answered one of the questions incorrectly, I leaned over and put an X next to the number. He appreciated that a ton as you well might imagine.

Now naturally, I got all the questions correct and proudly marked my paper accordingly, adding a artistic flair by making my "100%" into a smiley face using the zeros.  Thinking "something's missing", I surrounded the 100 smiley face with about 4 stars (2 on each side, for balance).

Raised not to be a poor winner, I offered my condolences to Science Guy.

"Sorry you only got an eighty on your quiz. Better luck next time."

Then, the "unthinkable" happened...

My Boss asked for our papers.

Uh, come again?

"Yeah, I have to fax these to Home Office."

Puh-puh-puh-pardon?

Some Home Office person if going to see this and think, "wow, what a consummate professional. We should promote her at once!"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Believe it  or not, some of my jerkoffy thoughts never see the light of day. Somehow I am actually able to just keep them in my head thus providing me endless whole minutes of entertainment.

The Elevator. I have so,so many beefs with conduct unbecoming an elavator rider but really who has that kind of time.  And at my old job, it sucked even worse because I was on the 31st floor, which was 1 floor beneath the penthouse, that is a lo-ooooot of elevator riding time. So that is to say, if you caught "the local", well, hope you weren't in a huge rush to catch your train. What's even more "freaking foul and foul an filth and..." is when the newest person to get on only goes up or down one floor and you SO TOTALLY KNOW they have access to get there via the stairs. LAZY. ASSES.

Yep, "taking the local" sucks.  But here at new job, I am only on the 6th floor, so it's not such a hassle, even if I do get the local.  Still, there's always that sneaky thought that pops in from time to time when I hit 6 and then someone sneaks on at the last second and presses on a number lower than my floor. Or that pang of fraternity when on a crowded elevator, someone from 17 remarks, "the local today, huh?" when I get on. I was there with you, brutha, trust me, I was there.

But me knowing me like I do, I swear, it's only a matter of time until I crack* and say with an air of exasperation to some poor sack hopefully carrying a laptop and a bunch of files, "What, you COULDN'T TAKE THE STAIRS??" 

*and by "crack" I mean, "tempted" and "curious to see what would happen".

Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's a Mo-ron.

[Alternate title: "Adventures in Babysitting - As Taken from an Episode of 'COPS'"]

So I made reference in a meme not too long ago about my ability to find some brand of humor in just about any situation, this being a self-preservation tactic that I've finely tuned over the years. To illustrate my point, I casually dropped that I'd my car impounded while my boss's young son who I was babysitting was in the car.  Many of you in the comments were like, "Whoa, wait a minute. Back that up...that is a story that needs a-telling." 

Okay.  Here you go.

(By the way, this cute, little episode I would brand and file under, "Only you, Jen. Only [expletive] you.")

To give some history, I had started off on the traditional college path, and when I was 19, a friend of my father's, Bernie, offered me a summer job at an insurance company as a mail/file clerk.  I remembered him from 8th grade, our families hung out a few times, and liked him well enough. I came back the following summer working on something else, and by the Fall they had offered me a full time job and the company would also pay for my education on a part time basis.  Win-win.

The deal with being 20 and not a college grad and them paying for your school and all that, is that you are still pretty much broke. Paying you less than $20K broke.  I moved out of my mom's house around age 23-24 with my pay then just slightly north of the $20K, able to be on my own and pay bills....well, sort of.  Okay, so I was not exactly, totally responsible with all of my finances. I mean, rent got paid, car loan got paid, insurance - things of that nature where there was no wiggle room.  However, things like credit cards, and parking tickets and uh, town taxes....you see where this is headed.

I had A LOT of parking tickets. That was because I didn't have the money to buy a sixty dollar monthly pass (tho somehow always had funds for beer on Friday and Saturday nights...hmmm, tricky how that math works out).  I collected these things - I could have made a mural out of them. Anyway the "fun" and "interesting" thing about parking tickets, as you may or may not know, is that they double, triple, and then max out with a additional fee if you don't pay them right away.  And people, that shit adds up.

December  1996ish- I'm 23, the night before the office Christmas party. Bernie had asked me to babysit his younger son, Dillon, who was about 8 at the time.  His son had hockey practice up in Enfield and he was going to be able to watch some of the practice, but would have to leave to make his plans with his wife to see Lord of the Dance.  My instructions were to hang around practice and drive him back home, get him fed and to bed by 9:00 and once his high school aged brother got home, I could jet.  Easy enough.  Around 7:00 Dill and I left the rink, loaded his huge hockey bag and stick into my car and headed down a 2-lane road towards the highway. 

I never even made it to the highway before I saw the blue flashing lights.  I was being pulled over with my boss's son in my car.  Fantastic. I knew I hadn't been speeding or driving unsafely, which only meant I was in much worse trouble.  My stomach tightened around my heart that had dropped in there.

A woman officer approached my window and asked me the same lame question they always ask: "Any idea why I pulled you over?"

"Well,  I wasn't speeding...was I?"

"No, you weren't. License and registration please?"

"Uh, okay."

It's probably a good time in the story to tell you that I knew my registration had expired by a few months. Yeah, this is what we call "Not Good".

I handed her my license and (expired) registration slip. She looked at it, handed it back and asked for the non-existent "new one". By that point, I was totally committed to "Operation: Dumbo" and innocently reacted, "it's expired? really? I had no idea."

Officer Lady sentenced me right then and there: "I can't let you drive this car." I explained/begged to/of her to PLEASE, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, I HAVE BOSS MAN'S BABY IN THE CAR. HE LIVES IN WALLINGFORD! I NEED TO GET HIM HOME!  I'LL TAKE CARE OF ALL THIS TOMORROW. PLEASE LET ME OFF.

Yeah, she really didn't give a shit. Also, this was 1996. Cellphones were not quite that common yet.  And Miss Moneybags that I was, I sure as heck didn't own one. 

Also an interesting note, during all of this, another 3 other coppers decide to pull over to see what's going on.  Apparently I was "news" in Enfield that day.  Another officer walked up to my window, this time a man, and I again explained my situation, bascially that I was in a huge pile of shit trouble as I nodded over to the kid in the front seat and that I could take care of this tomorrow (total lie) if he would just cut me a break.  Unlike the woman officer, he seemed at least a little empathetic to my plight, "sorry, I'd like to help you out, but she's already written this up."  Eventually we were requested to leave my vehicle and asked where he could take us to call for a ride home.

To add to my anxiety, I was almost an hour away from this kid's home. No car, no cell, no friends in ENFIELD to speak of, and I needed a 2 car swing so I could stay with the kid and then drive back home (i.e. calling my mom and having her hang out with me while I babysat wasn't looking like my best option).

To give you an idea how far I was from this kid's home, here is a map:

I mean, honestly.

So I didn't really know where he could've taken us for a phone and to hang out for a ride, so I told him to take us to the police station. We re-loaded all of his hockey gear from my car into the police car and he let the kid sit up front, with me in the criminal backseat (actually, I think he made it a point that I HAD to sit in the backseat.)  I could only imagine what is going on in the kid's head as he's riding shotgun in a police car. Definitely a story for his fellow 4th graders though.

We arrived at the station and I called my friends Scott & Amy in Hartford (midway point between where I was in where I had to go). By the Grace of God, Karma, whatever, they were home and able to get us, let me take one of their cars back to Wallingford and then drive it back to Hartford where they'd drive me back home. Dillon and I waited for them in the police station lobby where thankfully, it was so vacant, uneventful and plain looking, it could have been anywhere. While we're waiting, Dillon, kicking his legs back & forth underneath the bench we were seated on, turned to me and asked, "so, there any bad guys in here?" "Uh, no, not here. Maybe a couple of drunks drying out but no bad guys; they take them somewhere else."

Yeah, I really said that to an eight year old. I didn't want him to be scared AND scarred.

My friends arrived, we parted and I got the kid fed, home and in bed-- BY HIS BEDTIME I feel the need to add, I swore him and his brother NOT to say a PEEP about anything to his parents (I had to swear both of them because the little guy was now BOUNCING off the couch saying to his big brother, "Guess what happened to US tonight! Guess!") because this is just too important and detailed for them to cover over breakfast and I would be handling it in morning at work.

Now, my back was really jacked up against the wall. There was a reason my registration was expired. Actually, make that reasons. I owed about $5-600 in parking tickets. I owed a couple of hundred in past due town taxes. Another $70 to get the car registered. And now add a towing cost of $70 + daily holding rate.  All told, if I get everything done "tomorrow" like the lie I told to the officers, I was looking at a NINE HUNDRED DOLLAR NUT. That's 1996 $900.  Did I mention I was broker than broke?

Now, I HATE asking for help. HATE. And ESPECIALLY on money stuff. HATE. But this was too big for me to bury my head in the sand on, so I called my father. Who lived in Baltimore. The only upswing in all of this was that I had a check coming in from work to cover money I had fronted to school for about the same dollar amount. So my call was prefaced with, "this is a request for a loan - that I can pay you back in about 2 weeks."

What I didn't foresee was my Dad calling Bernie.  When I got to work the next morning, the day of our Christmas party which was to be held at noon at some fancy club, I sat and stewed at my cubicle just outside Bernie's door, waiting and dreading for him to get off the phone.  I was going over my schpeal in my head when I heard Bernie get off the phone. The next thing I knew he  was asking me in a tone that read "I know" to please come into his office.

"Yeah, " I thought to myself, "Just kill me, it'll hurt less."

"So, you had an interesting night last night, huh? {insert me flop sweating, mumbling something about jail being an opportunity to learn] Yeah, I talked to your Dad this morning...," and we were off.  Apparently, much to Bernie's surprise, the boys hadn't lead on the evening's excitement.  While he was a tad...stunned...he wasn't mad. If I could go so far to say, I think he found it a touch comical in a "you have got to be shittin' me" way. The reason my father had called him was that he couldn't get the money to me fast enough (I don't quite get that part, what with Western Unions and such  but whatever) and could Bernie front the 900 sheckels and he'd mail him a check.

Yeah, this was when the Salt/Wound intros were made.

It just got worse. HE didn't have 900 bucks extra kicking around in his checking account, and a lot of this crap had to be paid in CASH to have it cleared day of (DMV, city hall doesn't take credit either) but he promised my Dad he'd take care of it/me, so he had to call HIS WIFE to that she could TRANSFER FUNDS from their credit union savings to their checking and then he had to make a trip to his bank back home to get the cash. Suffice it to say, when the wife learned WHY she was doing this, I didn't exactly become her most favorite person in the world. It's 10 years later and I'm still afraid to see her.

If a situation has an angle untapped to make my experience even more humiliating, it will be found. This deal did not dissappoint.  As much as he was saving my ass on the coin front, Bernie somehow got saddled with the fun assignment (mind you, still my BOSS) of driving me to Hartford City Hall to pay the tickets, to Vernon (east of Hartford a good 20-5 minutes out) to pay the taxes, back over to Wethersfield to get the car registered and back up to Enfield (20-5 minutes north) to get the car of of the impound lot. Oh, and then back to the Christmas party that was by that point already in progress. Yeah, you may want to take another look at that map again.

But what really killed me was that on our way up the parking garage stairs heading into the Christmas party, he handed me 40 bucks for babysitting.  I refused twice --at least, but he insisted I take it. Ya know, I never knew accepting forty dollars could hurt so bad. Thankfully there was much alcohol at the party (along with a lot of "we were wondering where you 2 were"s) and we clinked glasses to my newly "street legal" wheels.

Does it surprise you that this was my last paid babysitting assignment?

You can take this up with Nance. I got a Hold Harmless Agreement against myself.

"Phoning it in", "mailing it in"-- why don't people swing for the fences anymore? Oh I geddit, that's what I'm here for (you pansies).

Some of you may remember that back in February I took a trip to South Beach, right? And that during that trip, with a belly full of liquor and a song in my heart, I became so enraptured and inspired by the Spanish "musica" surrounding me, that the electricity of the city coupled with my sauced soul gave way to what would become only my greatest creative achievement to date!

The "Holy Moly" song.

Born on the puddled side streets, I sang it from one club to another, much to the chagrin of my date as I was met with, "what on earth are you singing?"  (uh, only the Holy Moly song! ??) and a "okaaay, I think you are done with the martinis."  He didn't quite grasp its brilliance straight away.  It's a lot to take in, let alone without any warning, I'll grant him that.  I'm willing to chalk it "artistic differences" I guess.

(Oh, yeah, I know my TALKING voice sucks. You think what you got here was on ACCIDENT? Child please.)

Anway...

Without further ado, the international debut of my hit song verses, "Holy Moly". Be sure to look for it stores this Fall.

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