Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Cover me. I'm going in.

It’s never like you think it is, and I blame Hollywood for that. Movies like Look Who’s Talking completely mislead a man into thinking the whole baby process is done and over with in 121 minutes plus credits. We spent longer than that sitting in the waiting room today waiting for Dr. Birthday to return from an “unexpected delivery.” If she was nine months pregnant and seeing him regularly, I should think it wasn’t quite the surprise they’re making it out to be. But maybe that’s just the narrow, little view from where I’m sitting...which was right in the fucking lobby for the last 2 hours.

Most of the women in the lobby were pregnant, as far as I could tell. I was doing my best to be discreet while I looked them all over, noting their varying sizes. Directly across from us was another couple. I was relieved to see I was not the only awkward man sitting in the waiting room for an OB/GYN. It’s like getting caught with your pants down, literally, and facing the principal. “So you put your pecker in her pocket, have you, son?”

I braced myself for dirty looks from the nurse and tsking by the doctor once they found out what I’d done. Irresponsible prick. Jasmine had been staring at the same chair for nearly an hour since filling out a three inch stack of paperwork, just off in a zone. I didn’t want to talk because it was so quiet everyone could overhear anybody’s conversation. Particularly the cranky as all hell executive on her cell phone who obviously had far better things to do than check the health of her unborn child. I didn’t blame her. I told myself if this shit took any longer I’d ask her if she wanted to grab a beer downstairs. Surely the cafeteria serves liquor with what goes on at level 3 up above.

Finally, a nurse walked out and called Jasmine by her last name. She stood up and walked a few steps before both she and the nurse turned to stare at my parked ass still sitting in the chair. Fuck. If that doctor even thinks of looking at me sideways I’m out of here.

They weighed Jazz, then took her blood pressure, checked her temperature, looked at her teeth and checked for lice. Or whatever the fuck. Then the nurse brought her to the exam room and told her to strip. Now we’re talking! Once the nurse left and Jazz went behind the little corner curtain I thought I saw a perfect opportunity. “Hey, honey, you think we have time to-”

“Jay, shutup.”

Fine. Whatever. It’s not like I’m going to get her pregnant or anything. Just trying to make the best of an awkward situation, ya know? I parked my can in the only chair in the room and waited for her to step out from behind the curtain. She had been so quiet all morning. And when she did speak it was to snap at me. If I remember correctly, I wasn’t the one shimmying my panties down over my hips in an all-fired hurry to hook it up. And yet, Big Jay seems to be taking the blame for all this. Poor fella. It’s not his fault. He’s real sorry for all the trouble he’s caused. He didn’t mean it.

Nonetheless, Big Jay and I have both been banned from the pooty until further notice.

Another fifteen minutes of zero conversation elapsed before Dr. Birthday finally arrived. “Hello, Mssssss. Jasmine.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean? I swear he glanced at me when he did it.

He sat on his rolling stool and asked Jasmine and me both a list of questions about all the shit she filled out to begin with. A bit more conversation followed and he had her lie back on the table. That’s when he felt her up. He was on those boobs like white on rice. For a minute I thought I was gonna have to stand up and puff out my chest in my most menacing manner.

Jasmine looked at me. “Breast exam,” she whispered.

That’s not where the baby is. Unless, of course, it actually worked that one time… Nevermind.

A nurse stood in the corner taking notes, probably so she could blog about it tonight when she gets home. When the doctor did the breast exam, Stupid Boyfriend #6 nearly jumped out of his chair. Ignorant people crack me up.

Then shit got for real. He pulled these medieval gadgets out of nowhere and placed Jazz’s heels in them. Are those stirrups? Now that’s a useful gadget to have around the house. Look at the distance between those knees, damn! She had a sheet on her knees which protected her nether regions…until Dr. Birthday went below. I swear he made eye contact with me, then it happened.

An interesting thing, sitting in an exam room while your girlfriend is in stirrups. Logically, you understand another man is about to examine her. But emotionally, you're never prepared for it. Particularly at the site of his body leaning further and further in as his arm smugly disappears into the discovery zone at depths the...ahem, average man can only dream about.

And then he went under. What the fuck…! Did he jump in? Jasmine grunted and I nearly came unglued. Get the fuck out of there! I was open-jawed and speechless. I expected an exam, but there ain’t shit left but the son of a bitch’s legs hanging out back there. Good god, man, she’s not a dairy cow! You don’t have to go in up to the shoulder!

Jasmine says, “Ouch” in this soft, sweet voice that impressed me tremendously. No way could that be just an ‘ouch.’ I would have been kicking with both legs and struggling to muster a fart in order to gas him out of there. That’s when he said, “Can you feel that?”

Oh, hell no. I’m going to pass out. I started looking all around the room for anything else to focus on. That’s when it hit me. We were all four in this room because of me. Because I got my nut. And now Jazz is lying on the table with Dr. Feelgood eyeballing the interior of her uterus while the nurse jots it all down with a smile thinking about all of the great comments she’ll get on the Stupid Boyfriend #6 post I was inspiring.

The doctor finally surfaced and started pressing on top of her belly while still engulfed up to the elbow. Jasmine’s face was twisted and clenched. I held her hand, wishing like hell this could somehow not be my fault but I don’t care what anybody says, it’s all my fault.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. Everyone in the room heard, but at least they knew better than to acknowledge it. Jasmine smiled at me and actually chuckled. “Honey, please. This is no worse than a well-woman.”

Whatever the fuck that means.

“Ms. Jasmine, when did you say your last period was?”

“October 19th,” she replied. “It was light, but I didn’t think anything of it until November’s didn’t show up at all.”

He finally removed his appendages from my girlfriend’s vagina and snapped a very bloody glove down low where Jazz couldn’t see. My heart stopped. “I think you might be further along than you think.” He turned to the nurse. “Let’s get her in with Neesha this afternoon for an ultrasound.”

The nurse walked out and Dr. Birthday gave Jazz a hand to help her sit up. That’s when the disturbing news came. “Ms. Jasmine, you have a considerable amount of pooled blood around your cervix. More than I’d like, maybe a tablespoon.”

He went on to tell us it likely meant nothing, but it explained the spotting she’s been having this week. He said some doctors tell a woman to stay off her feet and take it easy, but in all honesty, if the baby is not meant to survive…it won’t. As it stands, with the level of bleeding she's having, he thinks she's got a 50/50 chance of miscarriage.

Frankly, we had no idea we were going to get news like that on our very first visit. Talk about a buzz kill. She mentioned some light pain and bleeding but told me it was normal. She’s the woman, she should know. That’s what I thought, at least.

Her ultrasound is scheduled for 5pm today. She took a personal day so I came back to work and will head out at 4:30 to meet her back up there. They were in a hurry to get her in. I wasn’t about to voice my thoughts, especially since I’m a naïve idiot who would surely say something incredibly insensitive and ignorant like, “So do they think it died?” even though that’s what I’m really wondering.

Only eight months to go? Amazing how time flies when you're having fun.

Monday, November 29, 2004

Auctions on eJay?

Why the fuck didn't I think of this?

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Fairies and handcuffs

Think of how much simpler life would have been with a fairy. I don’t mean the kev kind of fairy, no offense buddy, I mean one that gives you snippets here and there of what’s to come.

So like you’re sitting on the can and suddenly this fairy appears, dressed as fairies dress, and says “Your first child will be born in 2005.” Then she vanishes before you have time to jerk your pants up and hope you don’t have a hanger.

Then when your girlfriend back in ’96 walks up to you and says her “special visitor” is late this month you can reply with, “You must be talking about your grandma, ‘cuz you damn sure ain’t pregnant with my kid. The fairy says.”

There’s a whole lot of shit I would have liked a heads up on. Like the total weight bearing load a magnolia tree branch can tolerate before it snaps and shoots a skinny 8 year old boy straight to the Earth as a chortling human rocket. Another piece of handy information would have been that geese can be very, very vengeful creatures if you fuck with their eggs when they are trying to hatch them. And lest we not forget how useful it might have been to know the warning against opening the bottom drawer of the armoire really had nothing at all to do with hidden Tonka trucks and Legos, but with an array of gels and gadgets that could horrify any curious young boy as he learns what kind of freaky dinkies his parents really are.

But no, no fucking fairy did any such thing. I should have gotten a damn trophy for turning out the way I did. I mentioned that to my sister last night when she came to pick up Katy. She said, “Yeah, you’re a godsend. I can’t believe they had the nerve to ask for bail every time they arrested you.”

Shut up.

Saturday, November 27, 2004

Turkeys all around

Thanksgiving is a pot luck. In the past, Julie and I have each brought something to lighten the load on mom who would cook everything else. Julie usually brought the green bean casserole, I usually brought the Lay’s potato chips and beer. Can’t have Thanksgiving without chips and beer for the Cowboys game. Sometimes I even brought a can of bean dip.

But last year Julie informed me in her uppity tone that I would need to do better. It became my job to bring the turkey and something other than chips and beer. I had stopped at Kroger’s on the way to Dad’s place and picked up one of those rotisserie chickens and a pumpkin pie from the deli. I guess I underestimated how far the little, golden-brown bird would go.

“Your son is an idiot!”

My dad, “Julie, you’re too old to be calling your brother names.”

I snickered.

“Why are you laughing, boy? I didn’t say she was wrong.”

Needless to say this was my year to redeem myself. Julie wasn’t taking any chances. In fact, she didn’t even give me my grocery list for the day. Jasmine showed up Wednesday night with a fried turkey from a local smokehouse and a big dish of sweet potatoes.

“Your sister emailed me last week. I forgot to tell you.”

Damn women were plotting behind my back. The hell with it. I don’t give a damn. I grabbed the chips and 12-pack and we met everyone at Dad’s place Thursday morning.

Jasmine was her usual confident self. She hugged Julie and her husband, then Dad and Kadybug. I don’t have much to say to my brother-in-law. He’s a good sort, treats my sister right, but he’s a bit over my head. He speaks in metaphors and quotes Frost and travels all over the world giving lectures. We’ve finally gotten to the point where I feel comfortable staring at him through awkward silence after he’s said something particularly profound that doesn’t make a lick of sense to anyone other than my sister. He uses words like “indeed” and “thus” on a regular basis as opposed to “shit” and “fuck” like my scholarly ass. And he bewilders the fuck out of my old man who can’t comprehend a man who has never changed his own oil or doesn’t have the upper body strength to break the nuts when changing a tire.

My uncle was there, along with the neighbor who’s too old to remember we aren’t his blood kin. My cousin and her husband showed up with their demon spawn who quickly recruited Kadybug into their shenanigans. The meal was loud and raucous with children fighting and crying, my dad and his brother arguing about who the next cabinet member to leave will be, my cousin and sister ripping Scott Peterson to shreds, and Jasmine and my brother-in-law discussing Sylvia Plath and other morbid poets from times gone by. I shoveled stuffing into my mouth and wondered how long it would be before someone asked me, “So Jay, have you knocked anybody up lately?”

Surprisingly, nobody asked.

My cousin tried to convince me I wanted to buy her ancient, fucking sway back horse for some ridiculous sum of money while my uncle persisted in trying to find out if Jasmine's mom is as good looking and single as she is. The children managed to provoke the neighbor's cat up a tree while my brother-in-law repeated jokes by some transvestite comedian he was partial to. My old man offered to climb the pole outside and splice into the neighbor's cable so the kids could watch TV, but the neighbors were not only armed with shotguns and an 8th grade education, but also pissed about their cat.

Just your average family get together.

Ah, shit. I'm watching my niece right now and just heard the splintering sound of a glass ornament meeting it's demise followed by, “Uh oh. Uncle Day, come ear!”

I dared the masses Friday morning. My, wasn't that an adventure.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Happy Thanksgiving

Enjoy your Thanksgiving. For those of you with family overseas, I’m sure they miss you as much as you miss them. Next time you send them a note, tell them I appreciate what they're doing.









Boners and Jugs

I haven’t had this many ups and downs since I was in Mrs. Kramer’s class in junior high. Damn, she was hot. She had long, dark hair with big brown eyes and she wore heels and knee length skirts paired with snug little shirts that screamed sensuality. Many a time I sat at my desk and tried to casually rub out nature’s response to perky nipplage and spherical globes. My emotions would run the gamut from blissfully unaware, to suddenly painfully attentive, and then frantically horrified. “Go down, go down.” Sometimes rubbing it out had the opposite effect and once it ended in an embarrassing whimper and subtle shudder. I was mortified. I don’t think anyone knew, but I was mortified just the same.

I’m not sure which was more awkward for me, taming the shrew in junior high, or standing amidst a half dozen pregnant women talking about lactating appendages and mucus plugs while waiting for the cashier at Mimi Maternity to ring up the gift certificate I picked up for Jazz.

Mucus plug?

I don’t fucking want to know.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

One bomb dropped, one to go

“Jay, why do you keep looking at Jasmine?”

I didn’t move, just kept clicking through the Reuter’s headline stream on my computer looking for news on the KMT & S merger. I hoped if I ignored her, Sarah would walk away. But those hopes were quickly desecrated when she pushed my door closed and crossed her plump little arms.

Just what I needed today. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She’s so expressive in her mannerisms when she talks. I’ve always found that useful to know what she’s really thinking. “Uh huh. You keep walking out and looking at her.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“You’re looking at her, too.” She leaned in with a huge smile. “Do you have a crush?”

“Please.” I went back to my headlines. “Heard anything on the merger today?” Sarah doesn’t let a headline slip by her. She knows it all, particularly the gossip. But sometimes even that is useful information to have. My phone rang. Sarah kept right on talking so I just turned around and answered it anyway.

“This is Jay.”

“Are you under fire?”

It was Jasmine. “Yes, ma’am. How did you know?”

“She just asked me if I’d noticed you looking at me a lot today. You are so obvious. What am I going to do with you?”

Ah, the golden question. “The list is long, my friend. Can I call you back?”

Sarah suddenly opened my door and looked down at Jasmine. What the fuck?! I don’t know what possessed her to do that. Damn! I hate lying, I fucking hate lying! You lose all credibility when you’re caught. And I’m too stupid to categorize and alphabetize my deceptions to access them efficiently. “Sarah, what are you doing? Sarah!”

She ignored me for about five seconds and then Jasmine suddenly appeared in the doorway, pushing it open and staring at Sarah with that aggravated look I usually get when I’ve said something stupid or insensitive.

Oh shit.

The smile on Sarah’s face was massive. Jasmine dwarfed her in height and accentuated Sarah’s width standing next to her like that. Sarah’s a good person and a fucking kick ass assistant. I don’t wish her any malice, but I do wish she’d lay off my girlfriend when she gossips with the others.

If I was secretly hoping for a cat fight, I would have been incredibly disappointed. Instead Jasmine gave her a long, steady look. Then she turned to me. Oh fuck. Is she gonna yell at me?

I tensed up and waited for her to snap. Her patience had to be running pretty damn thin by now with all of this. Priorities shift and keeping our private lives out of the shark pool was soon to become impossible and frankly, not worth the hassle in my opinion. But for now, there was no way in hell I was going to open my mouth.

Jasmine slowly smiled at me. I can't believe it. Hot damn! I’d been given the green light for our official IPO. I grinned like a fool, guilty as a motherfucker and it was written all over my face. Sarah gasped and Jasmine turned around and walked back to her desk, I’m sure, as if she had not just dropped that bomb in my lap.

“I knew it!”

“You didn’t know shit.”

“How long? How long, Jay?”

“About 8 inches.”

“Oh, shut up, you’re sick! How long have you two been dating under our noses?” She wagged her finger at me like I’d been a bad boy or something.

“Five months. Now go away.”

I didn’t have to tell her twice. She walked out and I heard her congratulating Jasmine in a volume that left nobody out of the loop.

Finally. Now when can I tell them what my army of little republicans have done?

Is it Tuesday yet?

What a long freaking day. And an even longer evening. I talked her into coming over tonight. We talked. She’s asleep now, in my bed. I’ll share tomorrow.

Thanks for all of the emails I got. I started replying to them, but I got so far behind I said to hell with it and just read them all without replying. Two in particular were so…eye-opening…I read them twice. And a couple of the comments realigned some shit for me and made me realize how intensely I’d reacted even though I thought I was playing it cool. I’m also embarrassed about some of the things I said, because I don’t think I worded them correctly. I just…I don’t know. It’s been a long day.

It’s time for me to hit the sack. My baby’s sleeping in the other room.

Both of them.

Monday, November 22, 2004

Who's your daddy?

I didn't feel like proof-reading. If I have typos, I'm sorry.

Keep up. Things are about to move quickly.

Jazz has been...introspective this week. I assumed it was because I outed us with Jesse and Danny and she was nervous about it. Does anybody know where I'm going with this? I bet you do. I bet you have an idea, every damn one of you. Apparently, I'm the only motherfucker out there who had no idea. The only one who blissfully went about his life trusting the cosmos would do as I willed them to do. The only one with enough arrogance to believe her behavior had nothing to do with anyone but herself.

When the phone rang tonight and I heard her voice, I knew something was wrong.

“I was making sure you’re home. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”

On a Sunday night? You know that feeling you have when adrenaline soaks your muscles in dread? Like when your heart starts racing and you can suddenly hear sounds only four legged animals can hear? Yeah, I had that feeling.

“Sure, baby.”

She hesitated through an awkward silence and then hung up without saying anything else. Should I have not said that?

Jesus. What the fuck is she about to do? Is she breaking up with me? We haven’t been together, physically, in over a week. I didn’t think anything of it, other than ‘dammit, why won’t she give it up,’ that is.

And last night she wouldn’t sleep over, which is unusual. She laid on me while we watched some movie on HBO, her head on my belly, then got up when it was over and said she had to go.

But Thursday night she voluntarily sat beside me and let the guys see us together as a couple for the first time in public. If she were going to dump me, surely she wouldn’t have made a move like that, making her feelings known, just to undo it all. Okay, just shut up and calm down. Maybe it’s the broker again, the one who came onto her a few months. Maybe he’s done it again and she’s been trying to work it out by herself and now she wants my help. Or, maybe it’s the finances. I know she has a credit card with a balance, something I’ve gotten onto her about. But I don’t know the balance. Maybe it’s higher than I figured and she hasn’t been comfortable saying anything because of my credit lecture.

If that broker has come onto her again, I’ll break his knees.

“Jay?”

Shit. I never heard the door open. “I’m in here.” I felt safer sitting on the edge of my bed. Like she couldn’t possibly deliver bad news in the bedroom where we’ve slept together. In the kitchen, yes. The living room, yes. The bedroom, where she told me she loved me less than 2 weeks ago, no.

“What are you doing?”

“Just sitting here.” I patted the spot beside me and she sat down and faced me. It wasn’t the broker, or finances, or anything else. It was me. I could see it.

“Jay…”

My god she smelled great. It’s a sweet scent, so subtle you have to breathe deeply to really appreciate it. It’s the same scent she was wearing the first time she came to the house, sat on my island, and intimidated the hell out of me.

She turned away. Shit, shit, shit. I swallowed and looked at my hands as they laid uselessly in my lap. I was afraid if I spoke it would only bring the bad news faster. And if she was going to leave me I was damn well not going to hurry her through it.

I steeled myself. I won’t ask why. I won’t ask her not to do it. I’ll respect her feelings and her decision and handle it with decency. Then when she leaves I’ll get wasted and smash up the furniture and hope it hurts like a motherfucker.

All right, I can’t take it any longer. “Jazz…?”

Her eyes, which are a mixture of dark green and brown, were suddenly overflowing with tears when she looked at me. “Jay, I’m pregnant.”

…………..wha…………….um………….blink, swallow………..you’re……….. “You’re what?” It was a stupid thing to say. A response that required no thought whatsoever, hence the reason it popped out of my mouth. “Pregnant?”

She nodded.

“We’re gonna have a baby?”

She didn’t nod.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. What does that mean? What does that mean? “You’re pregnant?” I asked again.

She nodded again.

I don’t understand. What’s my next move? Is this where I get happy, sad, pissed? What does she want me to be? Why is she staring at me like that? Am I supposed to say something? Oh my god. I…oh my god.

A baby.

My baby. Jasmine has my baby. Is she sure? “Are you sure?”

She handed me a stick with two windows and a blue stripe in each one. Was she holding that this whole time? “This one is the control window. This one is the results window. Two stripes means positive.”

Jesus Fucking Christ, she’s pregnant. It’s mine, right? I mean, I know this is probably a stupid question, but this isn’t some “I’m pregnant with your brother’s baby” Jerry Springer bullshit, right?

Deep breath. Exhale. Do it again, deep breath. Exhale. Jazz’s face was completely solemn despite the tears slipping down her cheeks. Okay, so she’s crying and she’s upset. Time to push the “She’s Having My Baby” bullshit song out of my head and tend to her.

“Come here.” I hugged her tight and she just crumbled into sobs. In all honesty, I didn’t understand why she was crying, but I held her for ten solid minutes while she did. Once she pulled away I grabbed the hand towel from the bathroom and let her wipe her face.

I leaned her back and laid down on the bed beside her, one leg over her thighs, kissing her nose and cheeks and forehead, then smiled at her. I told her how I felt about her and told her we’ll move forward from here, together. I let her know that I’m fully aware I have no say in what she decides to do, but assured her I’d be there no matter what.

I think she’s scared. I’m not sure why exactly, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand it. I’m scared myself. I just don’t know if her reasons are the same as mine. I doubt it. What does this mean for us? Will she keep it? How will it impact us if she doesn’t? Will I feel the same about her knowing she had my son or daughter inside and chose to terminate? And if she keeps it…suddenly there is a lifetime bond between us. Regardless of whether things work out between us down the road, if she keeps it this will tie us together for the rest of our lives.

I won’t propose because of this. I know that sounds callous, but it isn’t meant to be. What would that say of our marriage if I proposed because I got her pregnant and not because I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life? If it were me I’d like to know someone proposed for the right reasons, not from social pressures. And then there’s her perspective. At work, with the shark pool. Her family and friends. What do I do? What the fuck does she want me to do? It’s her body. But it’s our baby. Inside her body.

She told me to let it sink in, then we’ll talk about it later this week. I kissed her belly and asked her to stay the night with me. She said I should be alone tonight and went home.

So what did I do? I blogged.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Abercrombie & Fitch and Vasectomies

Abercrombie recently settled a lawsuit for discrimination in the amount of $50 million when all is said and done. This includes the cost of redesigning its marketing campaign because it has been blatantly targeting young, white adults and teens. They promised to be more diverse in the future.

Here’s my issue. Who the fuck gave people the right to tell Abercrombie who they have to market toward? If they want to target young, white adults and exclude all other skin colors, then so fucking be it. Am I raising hell because I’m not shaped like the 17 year old hairless punks in the ad? Hell no, because I don’t want to wear their goddamn clothes. Abercrombie has the right to target whomever they want in their ad campaigns. “But they don’t use black people in their ads!” Well, maybe, just fucking maybe, black people don’t want to wear their shit. Just maybe.

Does anybody care that Abercrombie is not targeting the 30 and over market? Or fat people? Or handicapped people? Or grandma? Fuck no. But there ain’t a Polynesian in those ads so let’s bring those bastards downs!

Does Ebony or Jet give a flying shit what I have to say? Does Akademics want me to wear their hanging-halfway-off-the-ass jeans? Sure they do. Do they spend millions of dollars putting half white, half Italian cowboys in their ads to draw me in? Hell no, and if they did they’d run themselves out of business. Does anybody care that beer commercials are marketed towards men and not women? Are there lawsuits against KitchenAid for not being sensitive to the househusbands out there who love to cook? How come I can watch the Rockets play any time I want, but if I want to see the Comets (Houston’s female basketball team) I’m shit out of luck? Is that not the broadcasting companies’ way of targeting men and excluding women in order to reap the most financial gains in sports advertisements?

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m against racism. Abercrombie had no right to refuse to hire non-Anglos. But just how many Mexicans do you see waiting tables at the sushi bar? How often does a Chinese waiter ask you if you want red or green sauce with your enchiladas? Is anybody boycotting them? Hell, my favorite sushi restaurant is run by a family of Taiwanese who are not only NOT Japanese, but they REFUSE to hire anybody that can’t be mistaken by ignorant Anglos as being Japanese. But that’s ok. Let’s go get Abercrombie for targeting their product to the most financially beneficial market for what they have to offer.

Leave Abercrombie the fuck alone.

Now, allow me to slip this soap box back under my desk for a moment. There we go. About last night: We all went out for drinks after work. As people slipped out one by one I noticed Jesse and Danny lingering on, not unusual in itself, but coupled with the fact that Jasmine was also still hanging around it was pretty obvious they wanted to see the two of us together without the others around.

Jazz is so sweet. She knows my fragile ego needs petting from time to time. Once everyone was gone except the four of us she moved from her end of the table to sit beside me, across from Jesse and Danny. I didn’t dare touch her. I’ve learned I don’t know shit about what women want. I find it far safer to do nothing until told I can than to assume it’s okay and get reprimanded for it. Fortunately, she took the first move. She put her head on my shoulder in a way that made me want to yell, "Told ya!" Both of those two had shit-eating grins on their faces the whole time. Jesse is blunt, Danny has no couth. They’re fucking great to hang out with. It was nice to relax and finally get to commingle the two halves of my social life.

When we got up to leave I walked Jazz to her car since she parked in the dark end of the parking lot. I was just about to grab her waist when I saw Melinda, one of the assistants from work, sitting in the back of her SUV while the hatch was up.

“Melinda, what are you still doing here? I thought you left nearly an hour ago.”

She told me her car battery died so she called her husband. I had jumper cables in my truck, but I had no idea she’d been out here this whole time. I offered to help, but she assured me her husband would be there any minute. They only lived a few minutes away and she’d apparently caught him as he was getting into the shower after being at the gym. For whatever reason, he was taking much longer than he should have.

Jazz headed home and I stuck around to stand with Melinda until her husband got there. Maybe five minutes later he finally pulled in.

“What took you so long?” She was pissed. She’d been cordial with me, but the fury was unleashed when he arrived.

“I had to take a shower.”

“For 30 minutes?”

“I had to…take care of some stuff.”

I stood there awkwardly while she gasped and then suddenly all hell broke loose. “You took the time to jerk off while I was stranded out here in the dark?!”

Oh my fucking god, he didn’t… No way, he couldn’t have. But his guilty silence said it all.

She started swinging with both arms. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Punch, punch, hit, slap followed by another string of explicatives so long she could have woven a profane tapestry above our heads. She was screaming so loud people in the restaurant turned and looked out the window as she whipped his ass. “YOU FUCKING JERKED OFF WHILE I STOOD OUT HERE IN THE FREEZING DARKNESS WAITING FOR YOU!”

For the record, it was only 68 degrees, not exactly freezing. But I was damn sure not about to argue with her. Nor was I going to step in and touch another man’s wife. She’s not but a spit more than 5 feet tall and he was a big boy pushing 250 minimum and as tall as I am.

“The doctor said I have to, honey please, he said I have to! Before my next appointment!”

“YOUR NEXT APPOINTMENT IS IN DECEMBER!”

I laughed so fucking hard I couldn’t breathe. Motherfucker got snipped! Homie was tugging the sausage for medical reasons. You can't blame a brother for taking care of prescribed business! I wished him luck, declining to shake his hand for understandable reasons, and trotted my ass back to my truck before WWIII broke loose.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

I have issues

Look, it's a post about a post. My kind of genius should be canned and sold beside the incredibly puzzling Hormel Canned Ham byproduct. I'll update this mañana. I've got some shit to say about the recent racism lawsuit against Abercrombie & Fitch. Also, I was fortunate enough to witness one funny ass marital spat in the parking lot of the Fox & Hound pub. I'll share all in the A.M.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Oh, look, more sappy shit

My day started sucking the moment my alarm didn’t go off. Possibly because I failed to turn it on, but let’s not get into the blame game, shall we? And why the fuck did I have it set so much earlier than usual anyway? Dipshit. That’s what I get for fucking with it.

I missed my run which means I have to make it up on Sunday and I hate that shit. Sunday is my day to forsake the Lord and lounge my lazy, unholy ass in bed until I damn well please, then get up and rush to Denny’s just prior to the parting of the Red Sea when the bible thumpers swarm every goddamn restaurant within a country mile of my good for nothing, don’t-wanna-drive-that-fucking-far-on-a-Sunday ass.

But back to me, it didn’t get any better when I walked outside and the pine tree pissed a pint a sap into my hair. Ever touch pine sap? If not, I recommend you don’t. Should pine trees not fornicate in your area, try super gluing your fingers to your ass and you’ll get an idea of what it’s like to touch the shit and then attempt to wipe your hand on your pants. There are only two things that remove pine sap: kerosene and the passage of time. Neither of which are going to happen before the market opens on this lovely dawn of the Sears/Kmart merger. Ever since analysts foresaw Kmart’s bankruptcy request, I’ve been cramming it down my clients’ throats by the fistful. “Eat it, motherfucker!” Yeah, now who’s your daddy?

Back. To. Me. So I drive my unmotivated, sappy ass to the office just to walk in and see balloons tied to my assistant’s desk and a small group of people wishing her a happy birthday. Fuck me running. Now I remember why I needed to get up earlier than usual. So much for that. Now I’ll have to resort to the “I’ll take you to lunch” cop out. I was hoping to talk Jazz into a nooner today, dammit. What’s it been, 48 hours? Man can’t live like that. It’s not right. Look at what it did to Jack. He ain’t been right in years.

I got an email this morning from Jasmine asking for my debit card number. I told her she’s good, but she’s not that good. That went over like a lead balloon. Fortunately, she was well aware of the fact that I’m an idiot long before we started dating. I’m weird about emailing info like that so I wrote it down and dropped it at her desk when I went for coffee. About ten minutes ago a bouquet of frilly looking flowers whose name I can’t spell, chrysanthemums (thank you MS Word), arrived for Sarah with balloons and a gift certificate for the mall from, I'll be damned, ME! I suspect Jasmine got me back for the “you’re not that good” comment when she ordered them at the going rate of no-holds-barred. I’d complain, but who the fuck would pity me?

Time to go wash my hair in the men’s room sink again.

Monday, November 15, 2004

Murphy

Murphy was born in 1989. He was a Sheltie and actually belonged to my first girlfriend. When she and I went our separate ways in 1993 I got custody of him and we became family.

Dogs are like people, they have personalities. Murph was The Man. When he was 7 years old I met a woman from Dallas with a similar breed puppy just a few months old. I dated her, the woman, not the dog, for several years so the dogs got to know each other pretty well. Whipper, my ex-girlfriend’s dog, had an issue with dominance. Even though both dogs were eventually neutered, Whipper continued to hump everything in sight. Including Murph. Sometimes I’d watch Whipper chase Murphy away from the dog food bowls and eat both bowls. Other times I’d watch him literally run on top of him to be the first one to come inside without regard to what his toenails might have done to Murphy in the process. Then just as I’d reach my limit, Murphy would make me proud. He’d charge at Whipper, snarling and biting, and send that penis-envy son of a bitch yelping across the back yard.

I used to let Murph sleep in the bed with me, a habit I got into when he was run over and had both hips crushed when he was 5. All I had to do was motion my head toward the bed and Murph would jump up, do a 360 at the foot and plop down.

Each year I took him in for a check up and each year I was told he had an elevated white blood cell count, probably some sort of minor infection. He showed no outwardly signs of being ill so the vet never became too concerned.



Then in November of 2001 I went to Hawaii with the girlfriend I broke up with this past March. When I returned, the kennel told me Murphy didn’t eat a damn thing the entire time I was gone. Several weeks passed and by Christmas I was genuinely concerned. He was barely nibbling his food and didn’t care one damn bit about his corner of the bed, he just slept on the floor. I took him to a different vet who found a growth in his mouth, blaming that for his lack of appetite.

I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a canine dentist, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t find one on the west side of Houston. He let me bring Murph in without an appointment, thank god, since he was booked two months in advance. Lots of dirty dog teeth in Houston, I guess. He looked at Murphy’s mouth and squeezed the fleshy lump hanging down over his teeth. Murph didn’t budge, but then again he never did. That boy was tough. He never flinched when he got his vaccines. Just stood there and took it like a man.

The dentist said something was seriously wrong systemically, indicating Murphy’s breath, and referred me back to the vet. I went to three more vets trying to find the problem. In the end, I found myself at a local pet hospital. It was mid-January by now, 2002. I was getting pissed off and impatient with the constant back and forth referrals between various vets. The owner of the hospital sat down and looked Murphy over, drew some blood, and asked me a shit load of questions none of the others had ever bothered to ask. He pointed out Murph’s yellow tongue, gums and whites of his eyes. He was seriously jaundiced and had been for some time. This was a sign of liver failure. I was given pills to force down his throat that were the same antibiotic he’d been prescribed in the past.

In the three days it took to get the results back from the blood work Murphy and I found ourselves on opposite sides of the fence. I was determined to make him take his pills. He was determined not to. You see, Murphy wasn’t just The Man with Whipper those years prior, he was The Man. Period. Hiding the pill in his food was a fucking joke. He’d eat everything in his damn bowl and in the bottom I’d find the tiny, white pill all by itself. I smashed it into a slice a cheese. Murph would eat the cheese, spit out the pill. I tried placing it on the back of his tongue. He’d hack it up. At our lowest point, I found myself sitting on my kitchen floor with my legs holding him against me as he struggled. I pried his jaw open, placing the pill as far back as I could reach until he gagged, then held his yap shut. I sat there, holding him against me, clamping his muzzle and stroking downward on his throat for a solid five minutes. I did a lot of thinking in that five minutes time. I’m sure he did, too. Finally, I felt him swallow.

Confident I’d won, I let him go only to watch him hack it back up, depositing it on the floor right between my knees. I should have kicked his fluffy ass for being so fucking stubborn but all I could do was cuss and squeeze my eyes shut in frustration and sit on the floor like a hopeless fool.

When the blood tests came back that same day, we finally had our diagnosis. Ehrlichia.

It’s a blood disease that came to the US from Vietnam when the dogs returned from the war. I’m going by memory now, so if my details are skewed I apologize. Ehrlichia lies dormant in the dog for 5 years before “coming to life” under stress, such as when the owner goes to Hawaii for a week. It attacks the blood cells which in turn overworks the other organs involved in recycling and replenishing them. Dogs become so lethargic they lose all interest in life and eventually starve themselves to death when they refuse to eat or drink water. It is easily detected, but rarely checked for in this region. That’s because Ehrlichia is prevalent in Dallas. Where Whipper was from, the dog we met 5 ½ years ago.

Murphy was the first dog in the entire Houston area to be diagnosed with it. Still, I don’t feel better knowing most of the vets here had never seen it; therefore, had been unable to diagnose it. As it turns out, the animal hospital owner was from Dallas and had known which test to request. No matter, it was early February by now. Murphy was vomiting after every meal and losing pounds by the week.

Every day I left work at the close of the market and rushed home to get him. He had to be fed intravenously and the process took 45 minutes. The antibiotic dosage was increased and added to his nutrient bag and would need three weeks to prove itself. Dr. Roberts admitted he’d never seen a dog get this far and survive, but I couldn’t very well look Murphy in the eye and tell him his life wasn’t worth the effort. Even if he disagreed with me.

Soon the entire staff at the hospital knew Murphy. He was the little brown dog who never complained when they fished his legs for a vein, but who also taught them not to turn their backs on him or he’d pull the catheter out with his teeth every damn time. He even figured out how to pinch off the tube so the cold saline would stop flowing, forcing them to wrap him in hot blankets and assign a “sitter” to watch him during his sessions.



After two weeks of IV feedings, Murph was given a drug normally reserved for human chemo patients at double the human dosage. It was to stop the nausea and enable him to eat solid foods again. We sat on the floor of the vet’s office and I rubbed the canned dog food on his teeth because he refused to open his mouth. Eventually, I got about a tablespoon into him. But within fifteen minutes he brought it back up. Dr. Roberts looked at me for a long moment, then left the room without saying a word.

His assistant came in shortly after and said the jaundice had gone too far and Murphy needed an immediate blood transfusion or his body wouldn’t have the ability to complete the aggressive antibiotic regimen. I shook my head, more from not knowing what to say than to decline, and then Murphy laid his head on my thigh.

“Just one more week, buddy?”

The next day Murphy was given a bag of German Shepard blood. For 48 hours, my Murph was back. He walked around the house wagging his tail, looking right at me rather than staring blankly at the floor. He even barked a few times. But as the final week of IV treatments finished out and his marrow failed to reproduce new blood while the German Shepard blood was dying out, it became obvious how it was going to end. Dr. Roberts brought in a sonographer from all the way across town who checked him out and then gave me the word. Murphy had liver cancer and it had spread into his other organs. A side effect of living for so many years with Ehrlichia. They regrettably informed me he wouldn’t make it through the night. I remember it was a Friday.

I picked up my boy and brought him home. That evening I pulled the catheters out of his legs and unwrapped his tail which had been wrapped to keep it from sticking to the secretions his body was putting out. I made him a place on the floor and that night I slept beside him so he wouldn’t die alone.



Unfortunately, it didn’t come that easy for him. He hung in there, fighting it out. He drank water, but refused food. On Wednesday night he made a noise I’ve never heard in my life. A deep, guttural sound that made my heart race in panic. His back legs went limp and his bladder relaxed. He tried to drag himself away, panicked and afraid, but was too weak to move. Goddammit, Murphy! I swore I’d never put a dog down. If it was his time, it was his time. If not, then it wasn’t my place to contradict that. Nature knew better than I. I would treat, but not terminate. He’d just had 3 aggressive weeks of treatment and he didn’t die when they said he would. All this for nothing?

I can’t do it. I can’t kill him. I won’t.

“Settle down, Murph. I’ve got you.” I carried him outside and sat in the swing and…had a moment. I called Dr. Roberts and he said the paralysis may or may not be temporary and was caused by the toxins released as the kidneys shut down. He advised I bring Murphy in. I told him Murphy had spent way too many weeks at the hospital and deserved to die at home.

Late that night it began to wind down. Every two hours, on the dot, he started vomiting blood. I knew he was bleeding to death internally. I was never so conflicted. It wasn’t fair to put him through it. I scooped him up and carried him to the front door but he started struggling and bit my hand when I tried to calm him down. He didn’t want to die there and dammit to hell I wasn’t going to make him.

We made it through the night and that morning Murphy, suddenly recovered from the paralysis, wanted to go outside. I patted his head and opened the back door. He had this unique habit of pressing the top of his head to my shin as a show of affection. He did that then, then walked outside to the far corner where the cotton tree stands.

I remember it was a sunny 55 degrees that day, February 28, 2002. He passed at 11:05AM. I buried him right where he died, beneath the old cotton tree.




Maybe it's trite, but I had a stone made for him to mark his spot. I'm not sure which affected me more: Momma's passing, or Murphy's.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Hit the pavement

The second race in Houston’s Warm-Up series was this morning, Oshman’s 25k. It was the first long race I’d run since Chicago over a month ago. Same old, same old. A triple loop on pavement with a bagpipe player at the 1, 6 & 11 mile marker (it was a triple loop, remember?). But the bacon and cheese burritos they had for the finishers were pretty damn great. Plus I got another shirt. Yee haw!

Now I’m chilling at home watching the music awards and trying to catch a glimpse of Janet Jackson’s nipple. Just like a woman to flash it when you’re not ready and then hide it when you are.

Well, I could talk about breastages all night but I won’t. There’s more to me than a fascination with hooters, you know. Don’t underestimate my depth. Then again, don’t overestimate it, either. I also like asses and waistlines and legs and knees and ankles and pelvic bones and a pair of wicked hot and sexy scapulas. Yummy. Ironically, I find a woman’s back incredibly erotic. Even with all of the jiggly parts in the front.

In case anyone is interested, I made it to the fantasy football playoffs tonight. I was sitting in 7th place four weeks ago. My team kicks ass.

There’s a bachelor party coming up this weekend. Won’t that be fun? Nothing like a big hickie to ruin Thanksgiving with the soon-to-be in-laws. Not mine, his.

An Egyptian exchange student ran his car into the Public Library downtown today because he said the FBI was following him. He demanded to be deported back to Egypt. The cop who was interviewed said this does not appear to be an act of terrorism, but rather one man's mental breakdown. But what I'm thinking is that maybe this motherfucker knows exactly what he's talking about and we're being placated with the official story. Yeah, I know. One too many Dan Brown novels for me. Either way, let's ship that crazy motherfucker back to Cairo and call it day before he ruins another Mercedes.

If you want a google email account, drop me a line. I've got a few invites available.

Well, I know this post has been incredibly informative and outrageously worth your valuable time, but if you really had something better to do you wouldn’t be blogging during the work day, now would ya?

Tomorrow’s post will be a tear jerker. I don’t actually have anything to write about yet, but I’m sure I’ll make something up before then and pass it off as real. If not, I’ll beat the shit out of Juicy next door and share the sad details. I’m going to carry my fatigued carcass off to bed for now. Hasta la vista, baby.

Friday, November 12, 2004

I'll give you something "newsworthy"

On the 10pm news tonight one old fucker was yacking his jaw about a paintball business moving in down the street. “Now we’re gonna have traffic.” The hell you say! And this made the news? What, nobody willing to take a paint pellet up the ass for the sake of news?

The next story was about a bridal couple whose reception was cut short. Not newsworthy to me, but perhaps I’m jaded. A restaurant kicks a bride and groom to the curb with the DJ’s sound equipment at closing time because they want to go home, damn the blissful couple. Insensitive bastards, yes, but newsworthy insensitive bastards? I think not.

I believe the news should be revolutionized. If nobody is lurking in my hood, stealing my money or threatening my community, then I think the anchor should open the news with “Good evening. Ain’t shit going on tonight, ya’ll. See ya tomorrah.” Save my ass the ½ hour. Save us all.

Other than that, I got nothing. Nada. Zip – oh, one more thing. Tonight Jasmine finally got around to telling me she loved me. If I were the type to be insecure, I might have been silently doubting myself up to this point. Luckily, she can’t resist my ass.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Honoring those who serve. Past, present & future

"On this day in history - November 11, 1921 - the remains of an unknown soldier were solemnly delivered to the Arlington National Cemetery, which overlooks our nation’s capital. His flag-draped body was carried aboard the same simple carriage that once carried the body of Abraham Lincoln. That fallen soldier - whose name is known only to God - had been killed while fighting for his country in the trenches of Western Europe. On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, that soldier was finally laid to rest in his home soil.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier serves as a reminder to all Americans that the price of freedom has never been cheap. Those interred beneath its granite stones are a reminder of the tremendous debt this nation owes its veterans.

Today, on Veterans Day, we pause to honor our veterans past, present and future – those who served, those who are serving and those who are preparing to serve the nation in the days ahead."

Link










Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Invisible to teenagers

As I was filling my gas tank this morning I glanced up and noticed a credit card sitting on top of the machine. It was a platinum card for Bank of America. Ah, mamacita, a debit card. As per the little photo in the upper left corner, a brunette with a cute smile and just young enough to get my ass thrown in jail for trying to nibble the nipplies left her card behind for all to share in the wealth. Bless her generous, stupid heart.

What teenager has a platinum card? I don’t have a platinum card. And if I did I’d damn sure not leave it sitting ON TOP OF THE FUCKING PAY AT THE PUMP! Especially if it was Daddy’s checking account. But then, that’s just me and I’m fucked up like that.

I topped off my tank, to hell with those cutesy little stickers that warn not to or else goblins will eat my soul, and tossed the abandoned credit card onto my front seat. Now maybe the right thing to do was to bring it inside, but who’s to say the owner went inside or would know to come back for it at this location? And who’s to say the remarkably sharp clerk behind the counter inside with a mouthful of broken teeth in a lovely shade of moss would make an effort to return the card to its owner, let alone keep it safe? Honestly, I felt like a thief, but hoped nobody would find out until I’d had time to locate the owner and prove my intent. Worst case, if she was nowhere to be found I’d cut it up and trash it and she’ll never have to experience fraudulent charges whether she realizes it or not.

Fortunately for both of us, her name was Meghan Thingamabobber. Not really. But unique in a similar way. I gave Jazz a jingle at home and asked her to hop online and find someone by the last name of Thingamabobber in my zip code. She found 1 total. Ironically, his name was Jay. Jay Thingamabobber. Daddy, I’m sure.

I wrote the number down on a dirty Starbucks napkin I almost used to pick my nose with last week. Went with the pants leg instead. Good job. I dialed the number and got this:

Her: Hello?
Me: I’m calling for Meghan Thingamabobber
Her: Yeah…?
Me: …is this Meghan?
Her: Yeah.
Rude little shit. Me: I have your Bank of America card.
Her: Huh?
Me: You left it at the Citgo. I found it this morning.
Her: I need that.

You’re welcome, ungrateful little brat.

When I drove to her house some time later she answered the door wearing a tight, red tank top that made me want to do naughty things with her not-quite-legal appendages which strained against the cotton, begging to shake my hand and vice versa, I'm sure. Maybe in a few more months when the stiff jail time falls from her plate of goodies to savor I’ll come back and swipe my own debit card between the boobies and see what it buys me. Try as I might, I was unable to maintain full eye contact when I handed her the debit card.

“Thank you, sir.”

Sir? Ah, hell. There went that fantasy.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Lovely. More fucking questions

Lucky you, I decided my crap post of the week shall be today. So rather than be original, witty, amazing – oh wait, that was only in a sex dream – charming and perplexingly impressive, I decided to rip off el sid’s post and be a big, fat, copy cat. Meow.

1. What time is it? 9:57pm central
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Jay Alan Stud
3. Nicknames: JJ
4. Piercings: one in each ear. Neither of which helped me get laid.
5. Eye color: brown cuz I’m so full of shit
6. Place of birth: tejas
7. Favorite Food: thick cut of filet mignon cooked rare with asparagus and bearnaise sauce.
8. Ever been to Africa? What the fuck kind of question is this? Is anybody answering yes?? Retards.
9. Ever been toilet papering? Yes. That bitch deserved it.
10. Love someone so much it made you cry? My mom
11. Been in a car accident? Many. Rolled my truck once during a blow job.
12. Croutons or bacon bits: fuck the crusty bread, gimme the pig
13. Favorite day of the week: saturday
14. Favorite Restaurant: Papa’s Brothers Steakhouse
15. Favorite flower: the vulva
16. Favorite sport to watch: women’s tennis. Oooooooooooooh yeah. sherapova wants me.
17. Favorite drink: 16 yr old lagavulin
18. Favorite ice cream: blue bell butter pecan
19. Disney or Warner Bros.: warner brothers. Disney fucking pisses me off. ever notice how disney comes out with a film 2 months before another company whose idea was out there first? Like deep impact vs. armageddon or bug’s life vs. ants. try being original fockers. Like me.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant: subway
21. What color is your bedroom carpet? Damn, I know this one. umm, fuck don’t know. Light beige, tall pile with a fancy french name I can’t remember.
22. How many times did you fail your driver’s license test? Please. Aced it. Made a 100 on my motorcycle test. Oh yes, you’re impressed.
23. Before this one, from whom did you get your last e-mail? From the dave and apparently I need a sugar pops decoder ring to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about. Wait a second…….ah, I get it! You fucking bastard, you got something against verbs?
24. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? none. Credit cards are not my friend. credit cards are not anyone's friend.
25. What you do most often when you are bored? Masturbate. Then take a nap.
26. Bed time: after orgasm, regardless of who was/was not present at the time
27. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest? Your momma
28. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Your momma’s momma
29. Favorite TV shows: CSI, the real one. because it’s so fucking realistic to what being a CSI is really like.
30. Last person you went out to dinner with: my woman
31. Ford or Chevy? GMC, but Chevy if I don’t have a choice
32. What are you listening to right now? 10 o’clock news
33. What is your favorite color? blue
34. Lake, ocean or river? ocean
35. How many tattoos do you have? Nada. Can’t risk any identifying marks
36. Ever run out of gas? Yep. Bessie used to have a faulty gas needle. Kept a gas can in the bed for whenever she stranded me twenty miles from anywhere in hillbilly land.

Monday, November 08, 2004

Cat's out of the bag

I hate really long posts so let me summarize:

Saturday night I went to shoot some pool with two co-workers and a third friend. Obviously, none of them know about Jasmine so she wasn’t there. During the course of the night we were approached by four smoking hot blondes in high skirts and low necklines looking for some sucker to foot the bill for their night out in exchange for a little one on one. Not that I’m opposed to this tradition, but since I’m the only single man in the crowd the burden was to fall directly upon me to make the team proud and knock a homer out of the park. Understandably, I was unable to fulfill my obligation to mankind when Blonde #4 made her move with an obvious cupping of the genitalia for all to see. Securing my position as a “chicken shitted twat” and unable to offer a valid piss-ant excuse as to why I rebuffed the meals-on-heels, I was accused of having some on the side already. This is the conversation that ensued:

Jesse: Who is it?
Danny: No way.
Jesse: Who is it, man?
Danny: You fucker! You hiding someone?
Me: I’m not hiding anyone.
Jim: Is it Carrie?
I pictured Carrie from our running group and shuddered. Me: Thanks, man.
Jesse: Got to be someone. That girl was bringing it.
Me: Whose shot is it?
Danny: If he’s hiding her then I bet we know her. Who do we know that’s single?
Me: Jesus Christ, somebody fucking shoot. This table is rented by the hour, not the day.
Jesse: It’s a client. Is she rich? Married?
Me: She’s not a fucking client. Would ya’ll shut the fuck up about it?
Danny: So why you hiding her, dog?
Jesse: Is it Bianca?
Danny: Ooh, sloppy seconds from the boss, dude.
Me: That’s nasty. Cut that shit out.
Danny: Isn’t Bianca married anyway?
Jesse: Is she?
Danny: Yeah, I think so.
Jim: Jasmine isn’t.

They all burst into laughter and just as quickly stopped and stared at me with open mouths. Jesse’s shit eating grin slowly pulled across his entire face while Danny shook his head.

I let my head drop back in defeat and hoped she’d understand. “Keep it low. Seriously. She doesn’t want the shark pool on her back.”

They shook my hand, patted my shoulder, congratulated me as if I’d raised this year’s prize calf and we all went back to our pool game like the well mannered, respectful gentlemen that we are.

About twenty minutes later Jesse asked, “You seen her naked?”

“Yep.”

“Cool.”

Friday, November 05, 2004

Sorry, wrong number

The outgoing greeting on my answering machine is the pre-recorded "Please leave a message, after the tone. Beeeeeeep" because I'm just lazy like that. I had a message on my answering machine when I got home tonight. Assume what sounds to me to be a Korean, maybe Taiwanese accent. Fuck, it could be Jethro for all I know.

“Yes. This is Dr. Matt (?). Uh, I got your test results back. I, uh…need to talk to you about them as soon as possible. Call me…on my cell phone tonight or at the office. We need to talk.”

No cell number, no work number, “Out of Area” on the Caller ID and no clear last name to go by due to cell phone static.

Sure hope the poor bastard he’s looking for has a sixth sense about these things.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Dubya Dubya

The majority has spoken.


Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Ovaries win by a landslide

Out of the blue, Jazz turned to me tonight while watching Fox for the poll results and said, “My eggs are too old to donate.”

“I beg your pardon?” Did she just say her eggs? Brit just said something crucial about Ohio, but I didn’t catch it.

“My eggs. They don’t want them because I’m 30 now.”

Is it unreasonable to think she should have known what I was about to ask and spared me the syllable? “Who??

“The egg donor people.”

I swear to you she said that with sarcasm, as if I should have known. Did I miss a commercial? As far as I knew Susan Estrich had been giving her opinion to Brit for the better part of 10 minutes already. And who the fuck is she trying to fool with that brand new 40 year old face? Like she wasn’t pushing 60 just a few weeks ago. When women feel compelled to go under the knife, is that our fault (men) for demanding they look younger? Then again, men do it, too. Have you seen Burt Reynolds lately? What the fuck happened there? He looks like somebody grabbed the back of his scalp and yanked until his lips touched his earlobes. That doctor should have been strung up by his –

“Are you listening to me?”

Now there's a bitch of a question. Like I really have options on the answer. “Yes, your eggs. They don’t want them.”

She rolled her eyes. Bad sign.

“I said I saw an ad in the paper that said ‘Egg Donors Wanted 18-29.’”

“That sucks.”

Her jaw dropped. Well, shit. Is there a fucking code book for "Male Response Etiquette" somewhere? Somebody look up "old eggs" in the index and tell me what I should have said.

For the next five minutes I was informed of all sorts of things I cared not to know. Besides the fact that I’m unconcerned about her “ticking time-bomb ovaries” and the “delicate nature of the female reproductive organs” and I’m entirely insensitive to the fact that she’s now “reproductively antiquated,” I’m also too self-involved to understand my own “insurmountable shortcomings” in regards to it all.

About forty seconds of silence passed between us as I resisted the urge to shift my eyes Chucky style to the left and catch a glimpse of the current electoral vote tally on the TV. Ah, hell. What is it with women having emotional breakdowns when something life altering is on TV, like the Presidential election, the Super Bowl or American Chopper?

“Jazz, honey, your eggs are not for sale.”

“Well not now that I’m so old! Nobody wants them!”

Jesus Christ. Women.

I abandoned my cozy recliner and wobbled over on my knees to where she sat on the sofa. She was actually pouting. “I want them.”

I got a begrudging smile and a “Boyfriend of the Week” trophy kiss and hug. Crisis averted. Now... "Sweetie?"

"Yes?"

“Can you take the TV off mute, please?”

Monday, November 01, 2004

The MasterCard's

I just finished a meeting with a young couple referred to me by a CPA who’d had enough. The MasterCard’s. They live and die by MasterCard, dwelling on today and to hell with tomorrow. I guess he thought I could talk some sense into them.

The husband had a job making $180k a year until January. The wife is a new mom and an “Image Consultant.” That’s bullshit. She’s got a fucking Master’s and she puts baskets together with miscellaneous crap in it and sells them for $85 each. I know this because she brought one trying to sell it to me. There’s the advantage to being publicly single. I can’t be persuaded into sucker purchases on the spot.

They’ve got $40k in student loans, $50k in credit card debt, they owe $20k to her parents and they wanted my help trying to work a Mercedes into the budget to replace her current one which has become too small now that they are a family. You know, with ONE damn infant and all. Not to mention a savings account with $25k in it despite all of the debt as a safety cushion.

But like I said, the husband had a job paying $180k a year. He lost it and took what he could get, an admirable move, but at a $130k loss in salary per year. Ouch. The house they bought last summer is just over $300k and the pretentious wife “simply adores” it. Well, shit yeah! But a house in the $90k price range is just as good, in my opinion. It ain’t fancy, it ain’t ghetto. It’s juuuuust right.

I gave them my advice, told them how it would work and explained to them that it will hurt more to step down a class, from upper middle to working middle, than anything else they may ever do. Sell the house, sell the car, buy a small house, American made car, pay back your parents, and for the love of god cut up the credit cards and get a debt consolidation loan. After a stunned moment of silence the wife closed her gaping trap and told me how unacceptable my proposition was.

“Well then you should stick to what you’re doing. The bankruptcy will be off your record by the time junior enters high school.”

My guess? She’ll leave him. That’s why she’s got the Master’s, I’d bet. To cover her ass when husband #3 lets her down like the two before him did.

Big house in The Heights --------------$300,000
Mercedes E-Class ---------------------$65,000
Brand new infant to feed --------------$1,000,000
Leaving hubby with all of the bills -----Priceless
For all other things, there’s MasterRuptcy.