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Month: February 2009

Another Wednesday

The Wednesday night dinners of my childhood were episodes of Fear Factor.

Generally my mama followed a fairly regular menu schedule.  Sundays were fried chicken. Monday was Sloppy Joes.  Tuesday, pork chops. Saturday was a mixed bag, it could have been about anything. Friday was a favorite, second only to Thursday night’s spaghetti, because it meant the drive-thru at Wendy’s.  But Wednesday was the worst: Salisbury steak.

The middle of every week would mean me sitting by twilight staring down a gray patty-shaped slab of compressed meat by-products1 that swam in a ketchupy pool of gelatinous goo.  The frozen food box indicated that the goo was gravy.  But, I was always of the feeling that gravy poured.

Where was Joe Rogan? Next to that, I probably would have welcomed Madagascar cockroaches and bison penis.

Wednesdays didn’t even give me the chance to appeal to my mother’s demands to clean my plate by wolfing down everything but the Salisbury steak2 because the main dish was always paired with the most evil of all vegetables: Brussels sprouts.

Did the good people of Salisbury and Brussels really eat these things?  Willingly? Or were Salisbury and Brussels actually prison camps?

“Some people would be happy to even have a meal,” my mother would say.

It was a one-two punch of guilt.  One shot for not being appreciative of food on the table and a second for not being appreciative of her efforts.

Despite the fact that, in this case, effort basically involved scraping freezer frost off the oven-safe cardboard top before tossing the disposable aluminum pan into a 350 degree oven, it worked.   Any son of the South will tell you that his mother can not be denied.  And so, I ate.

But as my belly was filled with chunks of barely-chewed “meat,”3 I was fed a sense that there are things in life you are blessed to have available.  You may not always like them, but you simply have to swallow them.

I was reminded of that last week after telling my boss that I wanted out of my job.

For those of you who are new or don’t remember from the old blog, back in September I started a new job.  I’m with the same company, just in a completely new position.  After about ten years working as a painter with a contractor, I was moved into that same contractor’s office doing planning and management duties.

The thing is, in and of itself, it is a pretty good job.  It’s just not a good job for me.  I’m good at the planning aspects, but it also involves a lot of dealing with people 4  and that’s just not me.  It’s a job for somebody who is more personable and dynamic.

I wanted to go back to painting.  Where I enjoyed the solitude. Where I know that I am good.

He wasn’t happy.  You see, while I knew that the position did not exist before, what I did not know was that he had restructured the duties of others around the office to create it.  And he had created it with me in mind.

That’s way more than scraping the frost off the lid.

I left his office that day with the agreement that I would think about it for a few days and if in a week I still wanted to quit, he would understand.

It didn’t take a week.  More like eighteen hours or so.

It took me that long to become ashamed of myself.

I realized the job it’s simply another Wednesday night dinner.  Every day more and more people are having their meals taken away from them. Who am I to toss mine in the trash?

I have swallowed many a Wednesday night dinner in my life, and I will do it again.

Who knows? As I mature I might even develop a taste for it.

{ fin }

  1. complete with imprinted “grill” marks []
  2. and then faking fullness []
  3. I swallowed it as quickly as I could to keep from tasting it.  It’s a wonder my bowels weren’t locked up well into adulthood. []
  4. clients, other contractors, suppliers, crews, etc. []

The Invader

A mild-mannered painter by day.  By night…THE INVADER.


Okay, so I don’t have cannonball delts, club forearms, and milk-bag pecs, but I do have broad shoulders, a small waist, and big ol’ hands.  So, is it really that much of a stretch that this could be my alter ego?

Okay, I guess it is.  But it’s fun to imagine.

I definitely would pack my tights out better than The Gifted Jedi. But I guess that during the transformation, that part shifts into the weapon.1

“The Gifted Jedi” is the name my super alter-ego was given when I created him at The Hero Factory.  But I am using it only as a sub-title.2 For when bottoms in need cry out in the night, they are crying for The Invader.

His superpowers: the ability to wedge into and expand tight spaces; probing deep into cores; pulverizing; firing liquid heat.3

Naturally, being my alter-ego, his suit is sleeveless4 and green like the mountains that host his secret lair.5 The emblem on his chest, a letter “i,” is a dual symbol.  It represents not only the Invader’s name, but is evocative of a nice big thick one with an explosive head.6  The weapon in his fist…well, it speaks for itself.

Go over to the The Hero Factory and discover your superhero within. Everybody’s doing it.

Blobby did it.  Moby did it.  So did Kelly and John.

Normally I’m not so much of a sheep.  But with shepherds such as these, how could I not join in?

{ fin }

  1. I don’t know why it’s glowing and green, because I always wash good. []
  2. Like Batman is The Caped Crusader []
  3. And making sweet, sweet love. []
  4. Because I like rocking the wife-beater []
  5. I guess that makes Granny my Alfred.  That is if Batman has to help Alfred off the toilet from time to time. []
  6. I can’t believe I got through this post without saying “pecker” once. []

Tea Pee

I’m not pee shy.  I can piss in front of anyone, anytime, anywhere.1

But yesterday, I found myself shy about peeing.

Even though it’s the second week of February, it was nearly 70 degrees2 and a big spring or summer-like storm came through: really heavy winds3, hail, and the rain wasn’t falling so much as blowing in sideways sheets.

I was at my desk at work when the storm knocked the power out. But even with the dark clouds, there was enough daylight to see fine in the office.  My boss was out, so the only people in the building were me and the three Phyllises.  They are the ladies who work in the office.  Their names aren’t really Phyllis, but they all remind me of country versions of the character on The Office.

I dont know if it was all the water blowing against the window or that the iced tea I had for lunch had finally run its course, but I had to piss like a race horse.  There is a single toilet restroom the corner of our office.  We all use it.  Me, my boss, and the Phyllises.  So, I went in and hit the light switch just before closing the door.

I knew the power was out, but I hit the switch out of habit.  But, because there is no window, it was pitch black in there.

You’ve heard of not having a pot to piss in? Well, I couldn’t see a pot to piss in.

I couldn’t go outside because of the storm, so with the damn ready to break, I danced in place while my mind quickly flipped through my options.

My first thought was to just keep the door open to let the light in.  But what if one of the Phyllises walked by on the way to the break table to get another donut or cupcake?  I didn’t want her to see me standing there with my junk in my mitts.

I could have just cracked the door, but I didn’t want the sound of my spray broadcast out to the girls, especially since the office sat in a weird silence without the hum of the copier, computers, and all the other equipment.

I figured maybe I could sit down and piss girl-style4 and let it go more against the side of the bowl instead of a direct shot into the water.  That would keep the sound down.  But a big enough crack in the door to let light in is a big enough crack for a Phyllis to see right between my legs.

I thought I had the answer in sitting on the seat backwards.  I could still hit a sidewall, solving the sound issue; and my back would be to the door, solving the privacy issue.  But picturing it in my mind, I got an image of me looking like I was dry-humping the throne.  How do I explain that to a Phyllis?

Or, I could pee in my pants.

In the end, I just decided to fuck it, went back to square one, kept the door open and let loose. 5

I know the Phyllises could hear me in there churning up the white water with a heavy stream of yellow water.  The sound was echoing off the wall.  I tried to just not think about the fact that it was only women out there.

But when I zipped up, washed up, and walked the gauntlet of embarrassment back to my desk, no one said a word.

Still, I think somewhere in the mountains of East Tennessee tonight, there are three Phyllises laying in bed just imagining.

{ fin }

  1. Except on someone.  But that has more to do with being a germaphobe than anything else. []
  2. a week ago the high was 25 []
  3. there was a tornado watch in effect []
  4. or Phyllis style []
  5. In the clarity of hindsight and an empty bladder, I realize I should have just felt my way to the toilet in the dark, sat down, and done my thing. []

You Don’t Bring Me Flowers

Romance is like religion.  It should be a personal thing that doesn’t require specific days of observance.

I realized this last week as I stopped myself from obsessing about how to spend Valentine’s Day with The Attorney.

I thought about all the people running around with armloads of Teddy bears and chocolates, calling on Cupid the the same way some folks call on God only at Christmas.1  They allowed themselves to be gouged for a dozen roses like it was a gallon of gasoline2 after a hurricane, emptying their pockets in an effort to prove their love.

Like most holidays, Valentine’s Day is a free pass to be ambivalent the other 364.

The way I see it, if you need a special day and an empty wallet to show your love, how significant can your significant other really be?

Besides, the Attorney and I, neither one, are flowers-and-candy-big-display-of-romance kinds of guys any more than we are crosses-and-holy-water-ministering-to-others religion kinds of guy.  We’re pretty one-on-one when it comes to both.

Since I figure that the sentiments of Valentine’s Day should be an everyday thing,  I figured the Attorney and I should spend Valentine’s Day like it was every other day.

So we went on a hike.

Granted, hiking is not an everyday thing, but it could occur any other day.  And as far as I know there is no Hiking Day on the calendar.3

Plus, the hike gave us time alone.  Time to be significant to one another.

That’s all we needed.  Time with someone we love, doing something we love, in a place that we love. 4

No flowers.  No candy.  No choirs.  No pope hats.  Just the kind of love we have every day.

{ fin }

  1. Or when the Powerball hits nine figures. []
  2. Which last longer than a dozen roses []
  3. It wouldn’t be commercial enough. []
  4. Like hitting it between the sheets later. []

Aging Process

They say your tastes mature over time. I guess that’s true. I hated broccoli as a child.1 But now I love it. I think it’s the iron.  Supposedly children don’t like the taste of foods that are high in iron.

By the same token, as an adult I can’t stand a lot of the really sweet stuff I enjoyed as a child.

I’m beginning to think it’s the same way with men.

In the couple of years I have been keeping company with The Attorney, I have noticed that I take notice of older men more than I used to.

Are my tastes maturing?  Are they more sophisticated?

There was a time when all it took to get my attention was a bit of junk in the trunk and a willingness to take on a challenge.  But nowadays it takes something more substantial.  I’m less about Happy Meals and more about prime rib.  Aged prime rib.

Has seeing The Attorney has made me more aware of how sexy and older guy can be?2 Or did I already have a latent attraction to mature men that drew me to him?

Chicken and eggs. But, I think it is more the former. It seems that most of these older men who fall into my sites are the same type as The Attorney: very clean-cut  and well put together.  Think Anderson Cooper or Dr. Drew.  Now, The Attorney doesn’t resemble either of them and he is not in silver fox mode yet,3 so maybe it’s the shirt and tie drag that gets me going.

Nah, I doubt that, considering how much I imagine all three of the without.

Don’t get me wrong.  I still have day-dream sex with younger guys the greater percentage of my waking hours4.  But, I’m starting to think that an older man in good shape is, in a lot of ways, hotter than a young guy in good shape.

Maybe it’s an expectation thing.  You sort of expect a younger guy to have a decent body because its much easier. But, when an older guys slip out of his clothes to reveal a tight bod, you know he has gone the extra mile to make it happen.

An iron man.

Yeah, my kindergarten tastes have matured.  These days, I can’t seem to get enough of that iron.

{ fin }

  1. Not as much as Salisbury steak and Brussels sprouts. []
  2. He is 15 years older than me. []
  3. Still brown. Thinning, but brown. []
  4. with Jake still at the head of the line []

You Always Hurt The One You Love

I raised a lump on The Attorney’s head about as big around as a golf ball.

You see, I throw a pretty mean punch.  And I socked it to him good.

No cuts or bleeding, but a big ol’ swollen puffy red spot on the forehead just outside his left eye.  Normally I’m leaving him with a swollen puffy red spot just outside a different eye.

It was all an accident.  I didn’t mean to hit him in the head.  I was going for his chest, but he shielded himself and ducked right into the path of my right fist.

We were goofing around and play-fighting.  We do it all the time.  But we always go for the meatier parts of the body: shoulder, side of the arms, chest,1 etc. Never the face.  And we never intentionally punch hard.

But, just like my mama always said to my brother and me, just before taking a real good swig of her 20 oz. Sprite, “Rough-housing is all well and good until somebody gets hurt.”

She was so right.  It’s amazing how quick a misplaced jab can change the whole mood.

First there is that briefest of brief moments when everything stops, then your mind and heart starts racing.


All that in the time it takes to say two words: I’m sorry.

It took only a few more seconds for him to feel it swelling under his fingertips.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I said.

But when I pulled his hand away to have a look, I think my saucer-sized eyes betrayed me.  He immediately got up from the ottoman he had dropped to and went into the bathroom.  I followed him and looked from behind into the mirror.

“Goddammit, Tony, look what you did.”

“Are, you mad?”

“I’m not mad. But, Goddammit, it hurts.”

“I’m sorry.  Really, I’m sorry,” was all I could respond with.

“This is going to be really nasty and bruised tomorrow,” he said, wincing at my touch. “What am I going to tell people?”

I told him he could be like women in Lifetime movies who wear dark glasses to work and try to pretend it’s nothing.2

He didn’t appreciate my attempt to lighten the mood. He just plopped down in his big leather chair and nursed his pain with a cold rag.

I did my best to apologize and make him feel better. He told me it was all okay.  But still I felt bad.

I leaned over him and kissed him on his injury.  He responded with a sweet kiss back and pulled me into the chair with him. We kissed and made up.

Then I slid from his lap and onto my knees.  And I blew him.

I figured maybe I could take the swelling down by diverting that bruised blood elsewhere.

You always blow the one you hurt.

{ fin }

  1. Meaty on him anyway. []
  2. Is it spousal abuse if you’re not yet spouses? []