Better Get a Bucket

Ever since Thanksgiving, I have been stuffing myself sick.

I know this is something people do and talk and write about each year, but usually I don't. I mean sure, I pig out on the holidays themselves, and at related parties. And of course you have to sample while preparing treats, and it would be wasteful not to hoover up the leftovers. But that still usually leaves at least eight or ten days between Thanksgiving and Christmas for me to suck down a green vegetable or two.

This year, though, I managed not to waste those days. I'm not sure why, but I just woke up one morning around December 1st thinking "Fuck it. Bring it on." Did I want a cheeese omelette for breakfast, Johnny asked me? Why yes, that sounds delightful! What should we have for dinner tonight? How about if I make pizza! Would I like another Kahlua sombrero? In fact I believe I would! And isn't mac & cheese traditional this time of year?

Seriously, for the past four weeks I have been inhaling every spare calorie in my vicinity like a bear putting up stores for hibernation. I'm telling you: the cats are scared to linger within reach of my increasingly doughy arms, for fear I'll snatch them up and slather 'em with cheese.

It was fun at first. I ran through lists of Things I'm Not Allowed To Eat, and ate 'em all. Drive-through Wendy's chicken sandwiches with bacon. Chocolate cookies with chocolate chips in them from the honest-to-god bakery. Crackers and cheese for breakfast. Lots of beer (which, okay, is generally allowed, but not generally every single night and occasional afternoon).

After a while, though, all this excess started feeling like a chore. I started dreaming of zucchinis (though not in any filthy-rotten way) and fantasizing about Bobby Sands. Unfortunately, I'd started celebrating so early that my gorge began to rise just as the season was reaching its crescendo. When I wanted nothing more than to lock myself in a sweat lodge with a week's worth of water and a loofah sponge, instead I had a week's work of consumption planned -- Lady Dinners, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Stephen's Day, a Fun Night Out That Was Scheduled For After Christmas Because I Was So Busy Before, and two Football Games (in one of which I was reduced to rooting for the Jets, which was going to require lots of drinking).

I plodded through that last week, enjoying it not at all. Apple pie? I guess so. Seven-layer dip? Okay. Cinnamon rolls? Fine, whatever. Old Thumper? Sure. Although at some point even beer had lost its magic power.

Which is how I wound up stone cold sober last night, watching Eric Mangini try to play Belichick football and fail to pull it off. That last funky-chicken play might have worked, you a-hole, if you hadn't botched it up the first time so everyone down to the last parking lot attendant knew what you were planning. Not that you care. You totally went back to the locker room and, after a quick "sorry you tarnished your legacy" pat for #4, closed yourself in your office and did a little "Patriots aren't going to the playoffs" dance. You know you did, I know you did, and everybody else in the goddamn football universe knows you did. I hope you tore your ACL, you little worm.

And with that, I'm going into Total Health mode. I don't care that there's a few days left till January 1st, and I'm glad not to have football games to worry about. I'm having sour grapes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every night, I swear to god. At least until the end of April.

Or, no, wait. At least until the end of March?

Dang.

Somebody get me a mint. Make sure it's wafer-thin.

Gettin' My Gary Glitter* On

Guess!

Where!

I'm!

Going!

Tonight!

*No, they don't really play Gary Glitter anymore. Not since he got done for diddling. But it's still the song I hear in my head when my boyds** score a touchdown. 

**Yes, that was a typo, but I think it's hysterical so I'm keeping it. From here on out, the Patriots are my boyds. 

Squawk on, Boyds! 

It Ain't Over Till the Grey Hoodie Swings

Last week was the first time in three years the Patriots played a football game without me on the team. They won anyway, so I guess I wasn't the most crucial player or anything -- but then again, they're tied for first place in the division without Tom Brady or Rodney Harrison, so there's obviously no such thing as a most crucial player.

I mean, besides the coach. Sorry Coach. Oh my lord, I'm heartily sorry, Coach. I'll just be out here running suicides until you feel I've properly atoned...

Anyway, what I'm talking about is this:

I bought it a few weeks into his rookie season (in 2006) because I thought he was going to be good. I mean (and I'm not ashamed to say it, even now), I thought he could conceivably be hall-of-famer good. Those first few weeks, he ran like a Heisman trophy with a jet pack on its back. Sure, he jigged a little, but he was a rookie, with Corey Freakin' Dillon as his mentor. Soon enough, I thought, he was bound to learn to power through.

I always do like a rookie, anyway. They're like unwrapped Christmas presents: they could turn out to be anything. Besides, in a system with so many stars and so much turnover, do you really want to be wearing the same #12 jersey as everybody else (especially, gag, in pink)? Or #18, who played his heart out for us but was only ever slated to be here that single year?

So anyway, I bought #39. And learned that the thing about unwrapping Christmas presents is that sometimes, after you play with them a little bit, they up and break.

His rookie season went extremely well. But the next year they took Corey Dillon away and it turned out Maroney hadn't exactly learned to power through. Not consistently, at any rate. Then he hurt his shoulder, badly enough to need surgery, and he never played consistently again. He hadn't ever gotten hurt before, and it seemed to spook him. A few weeks ago, it started looking like he was actively avoiding potentially dangerous plays on the field -- when he had the ball -- and finally, on October 20th, they cut him. Well, not cut-cut. He does still have that rookie contract, after all. He's on injured reserve. Only everybody's wondering whether he's really hurt.

So I shelved my jersey.

Now, I am notoriously jinxy. I am willing to shoulder (so to speak) at least part of the responsibility for Maroney's jinxed career. For that same reason, I've been hesitant to buy myself a replacement shirt. I thought about going with an old standby -- but oh, lordy, I couldn't take the guilt if anything happened to Tedy Bruschi. Last weekend, watching the game, I thought I might go in for Ellis Hobbs -- he's been around long enough to prove sturdy and everything, yet he's not exactly an everybody's-wearing-his-shirt marquis star -- but no sooner did I have the thought then BAM. He got hurt. On his shoulder, nonetheless. They say he'll be okay, they say he'll play this week against the Colts, but I'm definitely going to leave his #27 shirt alone. I even briefly considered the new kid -- BenJarvus Green-Ellis -- but then I thought: he's got enough weight to carry around with all those extra names, he doesn't need me hanging off his back as well.

But then last night I had a dream. I dreamed that I was riding in the back of a moving pickup truck in the rain, with all wet leaves and everything along the road, and I decided it would be symbolically amusing to toss my Maroney jersey over the side. So I did, and as we drove on, I watched it sort of flatten itself and become one with the leaves and tar.

A few miles later, we stopped at an intersection, and there was a fellow in his front yard with a handsaw, slicing the number off the back of a football helmet. It was a vintage one, with the old logo on it, and the number that he cut off and tossed aside was 40. I asked him why he was doing it, and he said "Fuck him. He's like sixty years old these days. Who needs him?"

I jumped out of the truck and ran back all those miles in the rain, up and down hills, through leaves and everything -- past, for some reason, a display of Chicago Bears jerseys all mounted in hand-over-heart salute -- but when I got back to where I'd dropped Maroney, he was gone.

And I woke up.

There is no way I knew this at the time, but I googled it this morning. Number 40, from 1976-1982, was a fellow by the name of Michael Haynes. He, too, sat out almost an entire season on injured reserve -- after playing in the first six games, just like my boy. I know this has to be the fellow that I dreamed about, because there hasn't been a #40 since. The Patriots retired the number after he took it off. He's a hall of famer, now.

I'll be putting my #39 jersey on again this week. Until Santa Coach says this gift's broken for good, who am I to question the wisdom of his workshop? If nothing else, as long as Maroney isn't on the field, at least the Jinx can't be doing him any harm.

But, um, speaking of Santa Coach... can I stop running these suicides now? Pretty please? I'm really sorry!

Damn.

The Good News Is...

At least I can talk about the Patriots again.

I said nothing last week and they won, so I said nothing this week either.

And this happened...

There's no way that shit was my fault.

30-10. Feh.

Oh, and since I'm breaking my silence and I'm not afraid of jinxes anymore... Well, I can't quite bring myself to say the mean things I was going to say.

But I will say this:

What? What? I said it! What?

Whoa, Back Up!

This...

...is not such a terrible thing to have to look at for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon:

Hubba hubba! What bushel have you been hiding your light under all this time?

We'll see how it goes today. The money isn't on those boys to win against the brand-new Jets and their slightly aged pilot, but if #16 at least keeps his head and puts on decent show, I might just go ahead and buy the t-shirt.

(For the record: I'm kidding. I never did buy #12 -- or even #54, for that matter. Too popular. Too following the crowd. The only team jersey I have is that fella on the left there. And what that says about me is that I may be indecisive at times, I may occasionally waste time jitterbugging while looking for an easier way through, but when the chips are really down, watch out, cuz I will go all Corey Dillon on your ass.)

Update:
Patriots 19;Jets 10

No Joy In Townville

The outlook sure was brilliant for New England’s team that day;
The record 0-0, a whole season left to play,
And then when Sammy slipped his grip, and Pollard took his aim,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

As our hero got up to go, we heard his pain expressed,
And with him went the hope from each and every human breast;
They thought, "It is still football, everybody takes a whack—
We'd put up even money now, with Brady gone, that’s that."

We felt for Matty Cassel, the mood was like a wake,
When he comes in, people go home, but there's too much now at stake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of happy news from Brady’s CAT.

But Matt let drive a bullet, to the wonderment of all,
And Moss, the much despised, got his glue-hands on the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Randy with a first down and Matt Cassel’s fear deterred.

From sixty thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
And 81 looked to the door, hoping for number twelve;
Alas, the door was empty, they were cheering now for Matt,
Because Brady, mighty Brady, was not going to come back.

There’d been pain in Brady’s countenance as he stepped from his place;
There was pride in Brady’s bearing, but the truth in Brady’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, Randy kept looking back,
No stranger in the crowd could want anything more than that.

Ten million eyes spent hours trolling for the latest dirt.
Five million tongues were wagging on how badly he was hurt.
The papers had to write about the game they played to win,
And wait for news from Foxborough of the condition Brady’s in.

And now theories aplenty came hurtling through the air,
Who would they sign, how would they do, would anyone still care?
Closed-mouthed stood Coach as always, close-knit the team he led—
Until "He ain't okay," admitted Belichick. "That’s it!" the haters said.

From the city, from the people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill Bernie Pollard!" shouted some wackos on the web;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Sammy kept his head.

With a look of resignation, Morris took the questions on;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade them move along;
He signaled to reporters, as once more the question flew;
“Do you think the hit was dirty?” “Look, I don’t think he meant to.”

“Foul!” cried the boy who'd looked in vain for his best friend
And “Blood!” cried some who didn’t want the dynasty to end.
But Coach is stern and cold, which is just how Coach plays the game,
When he tells us it will be a year till Brady moves the chains.

The cool has fled from Brady’s brow, the teeth are clenched in pain;
He pounds the ground with violence on the tape loop once again.
And now the QB holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Pollard’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Townville — mighty Brady's knee went out.

Stoopid Patriots

I hope they lose.

What? What? I said it. What?

I hope they lose and get it over with, and we can all moan and cry and everybody else can make fun of us, and then they can just get on with the season and forget all about last year. Until the Superbowl, when they can Avenge.

Unfortunately, they're playing Kansas City. So they won't. Lose, I mean.

Oh well, I guess I hope that they do next week.

Except for, well, next week they play the Jets. And I kind of don't hope that they they manage to lose that game.

And the week after that is Miami, and they damn well better not find a way to screw that up.

And the week after that is a bye week, and after that...

Oh man, here we go again!

I'm Sorry

I'm sorry I didn't post more this weekend, but I was busy doing this:

And this:

And, ah, there we go, this:

And I'm sorry I posted that obnoxious post the other day about the Bills. That's not like me, and I almost paid for it, and I deserved what I almost got. But I didn't get what I deserved, and I'm sorry to say that I'm not sorry for that.

And, last but not least, I'm sorry, but... does your closet look like this?

For that matter, does your bedroom look like this?

This is what happens in my house when you balls-up the joint compound in the closet.

Johnny takes it upon himself (eventually) and gives it the old guild-treatment.

Seriously, who takes this kind of care in their freaking closet?

Johnny does, that's who.

That's not why I love him, but it's a pretty good extra-plus. Non?

Like School On Sunday...

...no Kid!

I just got home from work, and there's a furnace in the yard. There's a note on the table telling me that there's a furnace in the yard. But there's no Kid.

I don't know. Maybe we got our wires crossed. I guess, now that I thought about it, all he said was that the furnace would be here on Friday. I guess, when I play the conversation over in my mind, he might not have actually said he'd put it in -- but it was a reasonable assumption, don't you think?

His note says he'll call us later, so I'll just sit tight. He doesn't have a cell phone (ahem) and I don't want to bother his wife if he's not home yet.

(Here's a hint for those of you whose spouses don't work in the trades: wives aren't secretaries. Nor are they liaisons, ombudsmen or punching bags. If you call and ask for your plumber or your painter or your candlestick-maker and you're told that he's not home, you leave your name and phone number, say thank you, and hang up. We don't want to hear it. And if you offend, annoy, or otherwise piss us off, we can make it so much worse on you.)

Meanwhile all the back-hall stuff's still in the kitchen, and it's not raining after all. Oh, what the heck. I'll go down cellar and find the spin-sander and listen for the phone. If I find it soon enough, I'll take the door outside and have a go.

I just hope he calls before the game starts, cuz they say my boy's playing tonight!

Please, Panthers, don't hurt 'im!

Did We Win?

It was tied when I went to bed. I don't even know if they go into extra innings for an exhibition game, but I know I sure don't.

Not when we're losing to Tennessee.

I dreamed that a neighbor lady (who does not exist) was letting her toddlers come over and play in our yard unsupervised, and when we asked her not to do that she pitched a tent and staged a sit in with the entire neighborhood. They brought dishes and furniture and everything. But I was afraid to call the police because "I didn't want to start something."

Bodes well for my assertiveness in upcoming ventures, what?

The plumber is about half done, we're waiting now on Keyspan to deliver the furnace. Apparently that's the procedure. They won't just deliver the g-d thing, they want you to get your house torn up and the project half finished and then they make you wait a week and then they call the plumber to tell him they're delivering it to your house. So then he calls you and schedules it and then he calls them back to let them know.

Keyspan. It's how we roll.

I'm taking the weekend off from a bunch of Things. I've got family obligations to attend to tomorrow, and today I have to clean my house. There are empty beer bottles threatening to take over my porch.

And I have to strip that goddamn door.

Take the Gum, Leave the Tahini

Um... I didn't strip the door.

But I have an excuse! And it's a good one, too!

Okay, maybe not a good one. But it's valid, anyway...

(I don't have much time, so bear with me on the typos and the barely-english)

My Lady, a few days ago, told me that she had something she wanted to give me. A pot of hoo-moos-tahini (as she said), that she had bought but tasted and didn't like. It was too garlicky for her, and if I wanted it I should bring it home.

Sure! I like hoo-moos-tahini! So I put it in my bag.

And, um, forgot about it.

Did I mention this was a couple days ago?

So this afternoon I was doing dishes in the sink and there were a few empty hoo-moos tubs in there (because Johnny loves the stuff, which is why I took hers in the first place, and he also can not throw away a usable container) and suddenly I remembered the hoo-moos in my bag.

Quick! Get it out and throw it in the trash! Before Johnny sees it and decides that it's still edible!

Except, when I found it, it looked like this:

There was hoo-moos all over my shoulder bag. Which is not a fancy bag, but I love it. My folks gave it to me for Christmas last year, and I don't think it really is, but it looks like an old Albanian Army bag (which I guess I haven't mentioned yet, but I'm Albanian).

So I pulled out the tub and emptied all the pockets whilst dodging splots of splotting hoo-moos on the floor. There was gum and tampons and allergy pills and pens (more pens, I'm happy to report, than I found in my bedside table), a book and a notebook and a GQ and a Bible (don't ask). And then I rinsed the whole thing in the sink.

See, I love this bag so mujch that I'm shy of washing it in the machine. It's needed it for a while, but I don't want to do it. Or get in the habit of doing it, anyway. I want it to last forever. And, as we all know from our favorite pairs of Levi's: they lst longer if you don't wash them all that much.

But the rinse in the sink didn't do it, so I tossed it in the wash.

And I wish I had a report for you on how the thing turned out, but look what time it is! I've got to change my clothes and get my game on!

Ahhh, that's better...

I'll report tomorrow on the Illyrie bag. And maybe then I'll also strip some paint

Moving The Chains

Remember last week? When I said I had too many things to do and something was going to have to give? And I said I had a solution and you should tune in later to find out what it was?

Well, I kind of forgot. Because, as the days went by, the solution receded and didn't seem quite so solutary (solutive? solutional? solutative?). But here we are at Friday again and I remembered!

Are you ready?

For some...

FOOTBALL!

I can get through Things One through Six if I can get sit on the couch and get drunk and eat crap and scream and yell. Now that football season's here, it'll help me cut that kind of behavior down to once a week...

Keep my head down, my shoulder forward, and keep plowing through. And every Friday, then Sunday, and sometimes Monday night, I get a screaming-yelling, bacchanalian reward.

Tonight's exhibition game (Thing Seven) doesn't start till 8:00, so I might even have time after work (Thing One), if I finish writing (Thing Two) to finish heat-gunning that g-d door (Thing Three) and blog about it (Thing Four).

But I'm putting Thing Six off till next week.

K?

Sic

I'm sorry for the small type of what follows, but the format of the poem doesn't work if each line doesn't fit on one line. If you can't read it as is, I've posted the entire thing (with stupid ugly formatting, and without the links) as a comment on this very post...


“I cannot come to camp today,” says Brandon M, “and by the way
“I want more money than I said. The guy I shot at, he's not dead;
“The guys I stomped, they're walking since. So let’s talk dollars, forget sense.”

Georgetown House worked really hard for this homage from the bard
(That’s me this time, not William S. – and how do you like that largesse?)
So she gets an entire verse (except the part on me, of course)

When others said “He’s a mistake” I gave the kid a brand-clean slate.
I thought he knew the chance he’d gotten, I thought he'd stop being rotten.
But I was wrong, others were right: this dog’s still looking for a fight.

LadyScot’s one of the ones who remembers the brawls and guns.
Donna played by private email, bringing up the new five-year deal.
(Joe D. – though he's off the mark – gets credit for the Whinehouse snark)

Rookie holdouts are the norm, but from a punk it’s just bad form.
If you’re that good, let’s see you prove it. We’ve seen you’re* ass, let’s see you move it.
Really, what’s your damage, Heather? I’m sorry, I mean Meriweather…

*not a typo, but a very clever play on words…

Day 28, Project 11: Swearing A Blue Screen

My plan today was to drop the screen-door screens off at Curry Hardware (the Ace Place where I have the plus-five-dollar coupon for) -- which is conveniently located on the way to dropping Johnny off at work -- because they’re both torn and we were supposed to get them fixed sometime over the winter. (Oops.)

It wasn't until we were actually driving by Curry Hardware that I realized I forgot to bring the screens.

So my new plan was to drop them off at the other Ace Hardware on my own way to work.

I won’t get to use the extra $5 coupon from Curry (which expires tomorrow), but the fact is, as great a store as Curry is and everything, they are generally more expensive than the competition. The $5 they're offering would probably save me just about the difference between going there and going somewhere else (if I’m explaining myself clearly, which I don’t know if I am because it’s really, really hot still).

So okay. I put the door-screens in the car (step one: accomplished!), and I head to work. I park where I always park and I carry the screens (which aren’t heavy, just awkward and conspicuous) for the two blocks to the hardware store.

There’s someone waiting at the register, but I raise the screens above his head and ask the guy behind the counter “Do you do these? Just, you know, before I wait in line…?”

(Ruder than I usually allow Prudence to be, but I haven’t exactly left extra time for myself to get this done and still be to work on time. But if I wait to do it on my way home, then I won’t get to pick them up on my way home -- which was the beauty of the whole plan to begin with. Drop them off, go to work, pick them up, go home, put them in -- practically no time spent and day 28: accomplished!)

Yes, they do do them -- and, bonus! The guy at the register isn’t actually in line. He's just standing there. So I don’t have to wait!

Measure, measure, math, math, and then…

“There you go ma’am, that’ll be $30.09.”

See? At Curry I had a free $30. Here I only have a free $25. But I bet it would have cost more at ol’ Curry, anyway. I flip the guy my $25 Ace card and my five-dollar bill, and I go fishing in my pocket for nine cents.

“Um,” he says. “We’re not Ace, anymore.”

What? Oh crap. I knew that. They changed hands like a year ago. Crap. Crap crap! Now what do I do? Do I pay $30 because I’m here and it’s all done? Or do I got back over to Curry this afternoon? But I was just over there! But the only reason I'm doing this in the first place is because I have the card…

“You could go to Curry,” the guy sas, while I'm thinking. “But they’re all the way on the other side of town…”

Screw you, Mr. Guilt-Maker, I’m Curry-ing!

So I put the screens back in the car and go to work. And after work, I head back over to Curry.

Try to look on the bright side, I think to myself, as my brain fries in the 130 degree heat inside Chuck the Fucking Truck. At least this way you get to use your coupon.

Oh, yay.

So I get there and the lady at the register measures them and rings me up. She’s funny and she's nice and she's everything we love in Curry Hardware. It comes to $35.60. Minus the $5 coupon is $30.60 -- so I was right, almost spot-on, about what the difference in price would be. Minus the $25 gift card, it comes to five dollars and sixty cents.

Here’s $10.60. Just to make it easy...

“Thanks very much,” she says. But before she rings it in, she adds: “We’re lookin’ at two weeks.”

Two weeks? Crap crap! I thought I could pick them up later, or tomorrow. Or at least in time for the fourth of July. Okay two weeks fine whatever. Balls.

“Great, then. We’ll call you.” And she punches numbers in: $5.60 due, $10.60 paid…

NOT VALID AMOUNT the computer tells her.

HOLY MOSES the computer says.

And dies.

Bottom line: I stood there for another half-an-hour (okay, ten minutes) got three different sets of receipts (okay, two), paid $5.28 actually (instead of $5.60) and still have to wait two weeks for my screens.

And I got stuck behind the bridge on my way home.

So when I got here, for Goody's sake, I stuck this to Fucking Chuck:



Which I’ve been meaning to do since last December, when I got it in exchange for babysitting the wee Football Buddy. And also I stuck this:



Which I’ve been deliberately not putting on any car for seven years because the last car that I put one of these on passed away a few days later. But Chuck’s on his way out already, so who cares?

And then I baked a cake.

Really.

Day 28: Attempted. And, therefore: Accomplished
Time: All freakin’ day.
Cost: What’d I say? $5.28?
I Need A Shower Because I Smell: Pungent

Drafting a Kraftsman House

(Some of you won’t have any idea what I’m talking about, but for those who will…)

When funds are limited, you have no choice but to work with what you have. Especially if the options out there aren’t what you might have hoped, all you can do is hard research and take the best that you can find.

Maybe she’s got a big old tree branch poking through the master-bedroom ceiling. Maybe he stomped somebody one time in a fit of pique. Maybe he’s little, maybe she stinks, but he’s fast and she’s sturdy and they’re what you have to choose from. So you do your homework, you look down deep into their souls – and your own – and you try to be as realistic as possible about your expectations of them.

Then you bank the rest out on the future.

You insist he lose the handguns, make her give up the detritus of owners past. You devise a regimen for building them both up and install supports in places where they’re needed most. You let them know you’re happy to have found them, but that you won’t put up with any shit.

And if the shit comes anyway, you prepare yourself to walk away.

Welcome, Meriweather. May maturity come before decrepitude, and may your acquisition prove to be a wiser thing than ours ever was.