I saw The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe last night at the midnight view. It was there that God told me that I was not to be involved in any way form or fashion with teenagers. Or spanish teenagers for that matter. What do you do Brian? What do you do when there is a pack of them behind you kicking the chairs, talking, giggling, etc. If you turn around you look uncool and invite more of the same, only this time, it's focused on you. If you sit there you're miserable. Oh and it's part of a youth group, sanz chaperone.
I turned and said, "Would you guys mind holding it down. Thanks." This brought more chair kicking. This brought more talking and giggling, and now, mocking. I turned around and smiled several times. On my way out I stopped by the bathroom. One of the churchy teens was standing at a urinal. I walked up behind him and shoved him forward. It wasn't a hard shove, but it got his pants wet and seemed to hurt is swollen dignity. "Hey Man!" he whined. "Not so funny is it?" I asked in a calm voice. I left the bathroom feeling much better.
I hate teenagers. Which means I'm old. I was cursing "...those teenagers". Keith Moody got a kick out of it. Me pushing obviously makes me as bad as them, but I can buy beer and vote, so, in your face teenagers.
A
Friday, December 09, 2005
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Merry Jihady Christmas
So I opened an account for a Middle Easten man several months ago. He was tall and middle aged, dressed conservatively from a half day at the office. Probably a doctor or engineer of somesort. Well spoken with a hard line accent on consonants. His wife would be coming by in a few days to be added as a signer on the account, so I set the paper work aside and waited.
A week went by before his wife showed. She was significantly younger and dressed in a dishdash and berka-the proper attire for the devout Muslim wife. Although pleasant, she was soft spoken and had very little to say to me. I signed her on the account, filling out the proper paper work and necessary computer strokes.
Two months go by and today they told me that I failed to get the majority of the information I need to properly dress the account. This means I have to call this man and obtain the information via phone, which I was not enthusiastic about doing as my skills as an interpreter have just recently overcome Ebonics and Hick.
He answered the phone in what must have been an native tongue. The smell of spice and inscence filled my nose as I recalled what he smelled like sitting in my office. I had to explain why I wanted information from him 6 times before he finally divulged his address and birthday. A driver's license number was completely out of the question and his voice grew more metallic and cold each time I asked him to repeat himself. I apologized for the inconvenience of the 5 minute phone call and said that there was nothing more I needed from him.
"Thank you Mr. Abdwash and have a Merry Christmas."
Silence. Then a loud explosion that vaguely sounded like the reciever being slammed into it's rest on the phone.
Merry Christmas Iraq. Merry Jihady Christmas.
A week went by before his wife showed. She was significantly younger and dressed in a dishdash and berka-the proper attire for the devout Muslim wife. Although pleasant, she was soft spoken and had very little to say to me. I signed her on the account, filling out the proper paper work and necessary computer strokes.
Two months go by and today they told me that I failed to get the majority of the information I need to properly dress the account. This means I have to call this man and obtain the information via phone, which I was not enthusiastic about doing as my skills as an interpreter have just recently overcome Ebonics and Hick.
He answered the phone in what must have been an native tongue. The smell of spice and inscence filled my nose as I recalled what he smelled like sitting in my office. I had to explain why I wanted information from him 6 times before he finally divulged his address and birthday. A driver's license number was completely out of the question and his voice grew more metallic and cold each time I asked him to repeat himself. I apologized for the inconvenience of the 5 minute phone call and said that there was nothing more I needed from him.
"Thank you Mr. Abdwash and have a Merry Christmas."
Silence. Then a loud explosion that vaguely sounded like the reciever being slammed into it's rest on the phone.
Merry Christmas Iraq. Merry Jihady Christmas.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Still Smoking
My father bought an old house way out in the country roughly two weeks ago. It's rudimentary architecture and shotgun framing, made it an ideal fixer upper. There was always something to be done. Replace the baseboards, re-wire the electrical outlets, shingles, shingles, shingles, paint, drywall, finish, re-finish, install central air ducts, etc, the list goes on and on. So for the past two weekends, Dad would have me drop him off in the earliest part of the morning. He would work in solitude for hours on end, and around mid-day, after yard sales were over, I would meet him out there with a couple of sandwhiches. We would eat on the back porch, looking out over the natural beauty of a yard studded with oak, pecan, and plum trees. "What an odd mix." he'd later say about those trees. And they were odd. There was no rythym or rhyme to suggest someone took time to plant them, however they are trees that don't normally grow in the same yard.
We would sit there, idley talking, me smoking a cigarette, him smoking out of the same pipe my grandfather used to use, a memento I will one day inherit. Our smoke would catch on the wind and go sailing through the plum trees, around the mighty oaks, and then scatter through the branches of the pretty pecan. After watching this, we would continue to work in a comfortable silence.
It was late one night several months ago, when a friend and I were drunk and making peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches to sober up before turning in. The only light in the house that worked was a dim stove light that made navigating especially difficult. We sat in silence, each of us with a peice of newspaper, and ate and read in complete silence. "You know", I whispered, "we must really be friends if the two of us can sit here and not say a thing and still feel comfortable."
"Shut-up", she hissed back, "I'm trying to read the paper."
Dad and I have reached that plateau where it's not uncomfortable teenage/adult parent silence, but an adult to adult level of understanding. While working, we sometimes sing old church hymns, which sort of makes me feel like a slave, and there is a lot of humming on his part. He hums and mummbles lyrics. It is either this, or full scale acapela concerto. I take my pick. We harmonize well together, and when my brother is in town and the three of us get in a car or sit on the same church pew-people stop and listen. We're good. Real good. Like a barbershop trio or something.
As we work and the sun wanes on the horizon hinting that it's time to go. We climb in the cab of the truck, both light our favored tobacco vices, then make our slow and steady way out of the dirt driveway. When I drive out of there it makes me think of the relationship between fathers and their sons-slow and steady. It's a growing understanding, one that takes years to figure out; to realize that you're just like each other, and how hard it can be to get along with yourself. I hate it that not all men have been able to get there. Not all have these weekends with their fathers.
My mom called me this morning and told me that the rental house burned to the ground last night. Vandals, electrical wiring, no one knows yet. She told me that my dad went out there and before it collapsed he saved our tools and some spare lumber. He glanced at the house one last time and noticed that the back door was open. Then it caved in on itself. Two weeks of work hung in the air around him, then it caught the wind, and went sailing through the plum trees, around the mighty oaks, and then scattered through the branches of the pretty pecan. I can see him standing there in the cloud of dancing smoke, his efforts dashed around him, and then, if I listen real hard, I can can hear my old man begin to hum.
Waiting on the Fire Marshall,
Andrew Greene
We would sit there, idley talking, me smoking a cigarette, him smoking out of the same pipe my grandfather used to use, a memento I will one day inherit. Our smoke would catch on the wind and go sailing through the plum trees, around the mighty oaks, and then scatter through the branches of the pretty pecan. After watching this, we would continue to work in a comfortable silence.
It was late one night several months ago, when a friend and I were drunk and making peanut butter and jelly sandwhiches to sober up before turning in. The only light in the house that worked was a dim stove light that made navigating especially difficult. We sat in silence, each of us with a peice of newspaper, and ate and read in complete silence. "You know", I whispered, "we must really be friends if the two of us can sit here and not say a thing and still feel comfortable."
"Shut-up", she hissed back, "I'm trying to read the paper."
Dad and I have reached that plateau where it's not uncomfortable teenage/adult parent silence, but an adult to adult level of understanding. While working, we sometimes sing old church hymns, which sort of makes me feel like a slave, and there is a lot of humming on his part. He hums and mummbles lyrics. It is either this, or full scale acapela concerto. I take my pick. We harmonize well together, and when my brother is in town and the three of us get in a car or sit on the same church pew-people stop and listen. We're good. Real good. Like a barbershop trio or something.
As we work and the sun wanes on the horizon hinting that it's time to go. We climb in the cab of the truck, both light our favored tobacco vices, then make our slow and steady way out of the dirt driveway. When I drive out of there it makes me think of the relationship between fathers and their sons-slow and steady. It's a growing understanding, one that takes years to figure out; to realize that you're just like each other, and how hard it can be to get along with yourself. I hate it that not all men have been able to get there. Not all have these weekends with their fathers.
My mom called me this morning and told me that the rental house burned to the ground last night. Vandals, electrical wiring, no one knows yet. She told me that my dad went out there and before it collapsed he saved our tools and some spare lumber. He glanced at the house one last time and noticed that the back door was open. Then it caved in on itself. Two weeks of work hung in the air around him, then it caught the wind, and went sailing through the plum trees, around the mighty oaks, and then scattered through the branches of the pretty pecan. I can see him standing there in the cloud of dancing smoke, his efforts dashed around him, and then, if I listen real hard, I can can hear my old man begin to hum.
Waiting on the Fire Marshall,
Andrew Greene
The Web We Weave...then run screaming from.
Keith had just left the house, and Mama remarked at how much weight he had lost, although she said it in the way one would remark on the quantity of puss leaking from a ghangrenous wound. This is when dad chimmed in, his words trailing off into a gutteral whisper of disgust, "Yeah, but he's still got that...baaack." He then outlined what he considered to be Moody's back in the air with his hands, as if he was caressing a large fleshy shell.
"It's kinda like Liz Gray" Mama continued, again with the voice inflection reserved for a coroner, "lost all that weight but has that big hulk back" Her face then matched her tone of voice, which somehow prompted Daddy to respond.
Daddy's face looked like he had just seen Schindler's List and was stiffling a chuckle, "I HAAAAATE backs. I just haaaaaaaate them. They're so grosss! I'll bet if Keith Moody and Liz Gray had a kid, it'd just be a baaack." he hissed.
Mind you that this is less than fifteen seconds after Keith crossed the threshold from our house. He had been helping Abbey and I work on Abbey's term paper, which meant he had spent the night writing while Abbey and I bounced around the room, tapping everything with sticks.
I gazed out the window and saw him sauntering towards his car. His thinning waist and the large insultable bulk that swaggered like an old man carrying a bundle of lumber. Dad came and stood behind me and we watched perhaps the nicest guy in the world leave our darkened house. "You know, he's worked really hard to lose all that weight. It's taken him two years." I mentioned casually.
"Huh, ....that's soooome discipline." he said.
As the lumbering figure made it's way through our yard, we reflected a minute on Keith. With each step across the grass we were reminded of his genteel nature, a kindness beyond his means, a heart of gold, and the spider webs that criss-crossed our yard from tree to tree. Dad and I watched as he flailed and slapped himself trying to get free of the webbing matting his hair. Soon Abbey and Mama would join us at the window sill. Keith flounders around the yard for a few more seconds and we can hear him swear as he makes an awkward, ducking wind-sprint to his truck. He glanced back at the trampled webs, then got in his car and sped away.
Later that night, as I was lying in bed, I remembered hearing him swear. His frantic run from yard to car caused him to cuss in front of all of us. Then it occurred to me. Just before he got in his car he looked up. For a split second he looked back at those webs. He gazed with unsure disbelief in his eyes, as if he was trying to look through a cloudy night and into the stars. It was only for a split second but it made me wonder. 'Was he looking back at the spider webs he had just stampeded through, or was he looking at something else?' 'Was he looking past the webs to the house?' 'Or was he looking through the window?' The clarity of his swearing came back to me. Was it the webs that asked him to look back? Or, was it the cackle of four indigent Greenes as they watched their only friend stummble from their home.
The irony of watching others flail,
Your Brother,
NutHorse
"It's kinda like Liz Gray" Mama continued, again with the voice inflection reserved for a coroner, "lost all that weight but has that big hulk back" Her face then matched her tone of voice, which somehow prompted Daddy to respond.
Daddy's face looked like he had just seen Schindler's List and was stiffling a chuckle, "I HAAAAATE backs. I just haaaaaaaate them. They're so grosss! I'll bet if Keith Moody and Liz Gray had a kid, it'd just be a baaack." he hissed.
Mind you that this is less than fifteen seconds after Keith crossed the threshold from our house. He had been helping Abbey and I work on Abbey's term paper, which meant he had spent the night writing while Abbey and I bounced around the room, tapping everything with sticks.
I gazed out the window and saw him sauntering towards his car. His thinning waist and the large insultable bulk that swaggered like an old man carrying a bundle of lumber. Dad came and stood behind me and we watched perhaps the nicest guy in the world leave our darkened house. "You know, he's worked really hard to lose all that weight. It's taken him two years." I mentioned casually.
"Huh, ....that's soooome discipline." he said.
As the lumbering figure made it's way through our yard, we reflected a minute on Keith. With each step across the grass we were reminded of his genteel nature, a kindness beyond his means, a heart of gold, and the spider webs that criss-crossed our yard from tree to tree. Dad and I watched as he flailed and slapped himself trying to get free of the webbing matting his hair. Soon Abbey and Mama would join us at the window sill. Keith flounders around the yard for a few more seconds and we can hear him swear as he makes an awkward, ducking wind-sprint to his truck. He glanced back at the trampled webs, then got in his car and sped away.
Later that night, as I was lying in bed, I remembered hearing him swear. His frantic run from yard to car caused him to cuss in front of all of us. Then it occurred to me. Just before he got in his car he looked up. For a split second he looked back at those webs. He gazed with unsure disbelief in his eyes, as if he was trying to look through a cloudy night and into the stars. It was only for a split second but it made me wonder. 'Was he looking back at the spider webs he had just stampeded through, or was he looking at something else?' 'Was he looking past the webs to the house?' 'Or was he looking through the window?' The clarity of his swearing came back to me. Was it the webs that asked him to look back? Or, was it the cackle of four indigent Greenes as they watched their only friend stummble from their home.
The irony of watching others flail,
Your Brother,
NutHorse
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Running One Unit at a Time
So I'm quitting smoking and yesterday was my big run.
My neighbor and I decided last week that this week would be the week we started running together. Richard is a tall sinewy Native American looking man with gaunt cheeks and long inky hair. Veins are visible throughout his forearms, neck, forehead, hands, and legs. His frame, along with his head, is aerodynamic, as this man was built for speed. And apparantly, so was his mouth; Richard talks non-stop.
I was checking my mail yesterday dreading Richard pulling into the driveway next to mine. Mail in hand, I quickened my pace towards my apartment, when a loud maroon Blazer whips in flush with the curb. "HowdyAndrew,upforrunningtoday", he said at warp speed, nearly leaping from the car.
"Yeah man, just knock on my door when you're ready."
"I'mgonnaeataturkeysandwichthenchangeclothesandI'llknockonyourdoor," at Mach 3.
I'm not kidding when I say that in less than seven minutes he was at my door. His knock sounded like a machine gun, or the back beat to "Surfin' USA". I invited him up, as I was not not finished changing from work to play. I walked into my bed room and left Richard in my den, and began changing from dress pants to shorts. "Nice Unit," Richard said.
"Huh?"
"Nice Unit.......I like the hardwood."
It was only later, after he told me he liked the size, structure, and reach of my unit, did I realize he was talking about my apartment. He talked about how he preferred a wider unit to a longer one and I'm in my room silently screaming.
Richard is more than a novice runner. He ran track in college, and logs about 20 miles a week now that he's 32. He comes from a long line of marathon runners, as I later discovered, and it is apparant by his build and physique that running is in his blood. 'He even talks fast,' I kept saying to myself, 'I can't wait to see him jog.'
So we went out to Vaughn Road Park, and walked a lap which is 0.6 miles. After that, Richard says, "OkAndrewyouready??" And I was ready, I was ready to run. I have smoked for 5 or so years now and haven't moved a muscle in about three. It was time I exerted myself. It was time I grunted and groaned. It was time to sweat and perge and push. I was ready. I was reving my engines, my batteries were charged, I was ready to do this, ready to R-U-N. "Go!" I yelled under my breath, and Richard broke into what I can only describe as not walking.
'What is he doooing?!' I thought to myself. Richard looked like the cross between a wounded ostrich and a pack animal. His trot wasn't so much herky jerky as it was deliberate and measured. At one point we had to run beside the path so that the old black women pushing strollers could walk past us. Children pointed and laughed. It was humiliating, but i noticed that I was actually doing it and keeping up.
About a year ago, I decided to run around the block. I didn't make it a mile. I was wheezing, and coughing and my esophogus felt as though I had swallowed boric acid. Yesterday, however, I made it the whole 1.2 miles. It was tough, don't get me wrong, but with Richard's odd pace I managed to pump my legs and swing my arms and breathe regularly and finish. My goal was to make it one mile today. I made it 1.2.
I sprinted the .2. Richard came up behind me, "CongratulationsAndrew! Youdidit!" and he smiled warmly and handed me a water bottle. For a small moment in time, I felt accomplished, like I was the champ. I had finished something, but moreso, this was the Season of Accomplishment. I had graduated from college and finishing this mile somehow edified me. Reaching this mile mark was confirmation. My legs ached, my head hurt, my lungs were full of tar, and my stomach was on fire, but my heart felt nothing but wonderful pride. And for this one small fleeting moment I was more proud of myself than I had been in years. Then I saw Richard.
I have never seen a man move that fast for that long. His long ink black hair flapped behind him, never once touching his broad shoulders. He was the wind. A fluid, and mechanical wind. He ran like a gazzelle. My moment dissolved into one of awe, and then quickly into humility. I had been running with a former track star, a former marathon winner, and oh yeah, a current iron man competitor.
He finished his laps as I casually walked around the track to catch my breath. I couldn't help but smile everytime he passed me. He was truley something to behold. And here I was, walking with my own head held high for running a mile. I didn't feel any less proud of myself, only now I had a little more perspective on it. I thought how funny it is that as soon as you feel like you've run the 4 minute mile, there comes some one who can do it in 3:55.
It would be easy to look out at the mountains others have climbed from the hill you stand upon now and feel a little inconsequential. A little under-accomplished, but when you consider the scope of your own life, and the turns and dips you've had to personally over come it all still seems worth it. And you don't feel so small anymore, because you know that if you made it up this hill, that one day, you'll make it up the mountains as well. We'll get there in our own time.
Riding back in the car with Richard, he told me he wished he had moved into my apartment years ago, long before I had rented it. He had mentioned before how much he liked it and how the land lords and him were such good friends, etc.. He then continued his story of how he ran the Washington D.C. Marathon in only a few short hours. This story seemed to last longer than it took for him to run it.
'That may be true Richard' I thought as the wind hit my face as I leaned far out the open passenger side window, 'but I've got the bigger unit.'
Anderopoloid
My neighbor and I decided last week that this week would be the week we started running together. Richard is a tall sinewy Native American looking man with gaunt cheeks and long inky hair. Veins are visible throughout his forearms, neck, forehead, hands, and legs. His frame, along with his head, is aerodynamic, as this man was built for speed. And apparantly, so was his mouth; Richard talks non-stop.
I was checking my mail yesterday dreading Richard pulling into the driveway next to mine. Mail in hand, I quickened my pace towards my apartment, when a loud maroon Blazer whips in flush with the curb. "HowdyAndrew,upforrunningtoday", he said at warp speed, nearly leaping from the car.
"Yeah man, just knock on my door when you're ready."
"I'mgonnaeataturkeysandwichthenchangeclothesandI'llknockonyourdoor," at Mach 3.
I'm not kidding when I say that in less than seven minutes he was at my door. His knock sounded like a machine gun, or the back beat to "Surfin' USA". I invited him up, as I was not not finished changing from work to play. I walked into my bed room and left Richard in my den, and began changing from dress pants to shorts. "Nice Unit," Richard said.
"Huh?"
"Nice Unit.......I like the hardwood."
It was only later, after he told me he liked the size, structure, and reach of my unit, did I realize he was talking about my apartment. He talked about how he preferred a wider unit to a longer one and I'm in my room silently screaming.
Richard is more than a novice runner. He ran track in college, and logs about 20 miles a week now that he's 32. He comes from a long line of marathon runners, as I later discovered, and it is apparant by his build and physique that running is in his blood. 'He even talks fast,' I kept saying to myself, 'I can't wait to see him jog.'
So we went out to Vaughn Road Park, and walked a lap which is 0.6 miles. After that, Richard says, "OkAndrewyouready??" And I was ready, I was ready to run. I have smoked for 5 or so years now and haven't moved a muscle in about three. It was time I exerted myself. It was time I grunted and groaned. It was time to sweat and perge and push. I was ready. I was reving my engines, my batteries were charged, I was ready to do this, ready to R-U-N. "Go!" I yelled under my breath, and Richard broke into what I can only describe as not walking.
'What is he doooing?!' I thought to myself. Richard looked like the cross between a wounded ostrich and a pack animal. His trot wasn't so much herky jerky as it was deliberate and measured. At one point we had to run beside the path so that the old black women pushing strollers could walk past us. Children pointed and laughed. It was humiliating, but i noticed that I was actually doing it and keeping up.
About a year ago, I decided to run around the block. I didn't make it a mile. I was wheezing, and coughing and my esophogus felt as though I had swallowed boric acid. Yesterday, however, I made it the whole 1.2 miles. It was tough, don't get me wrong, but with Richard's odd pace I managed to pump my legs and swing my arms and breathe regularly and finish. My goal was to make it one mile today. I made it 1.2.
I sprinted the .2. Richard came up behind me, "CongratulationsAndrew! Youdidit!" and he smiled warmly and handed me a water bottle. For a small moment in time, I felt accomplished, like I was the champ. I had finished something, but moreso, this was the Season of Accomplishment. I had graduated from college and finishing this mile somehow edified me. Reaching this mile mark was confirmation. My legs ached, my head hurt, my lungs were full of tar, and my stomach was on fire, but my heart felt nothing but wonderful pride. And for this one small fleeting moment I was more proud of myself than I had been in years. Then I saw Richard.
I have never seen a man move that fast for that long. His long ink black hair flapped behind him, never once touching his broad shoulders. He was the wind. A fluid, and mechanical wind. He ran like a gazzelle. My moment dissolved into one of awe, and then quickly into humility. I had been running with a former track star, a former marathon winner, and oh yeah, a current iron man competitor.
He finished his laps as I casually walked around the track to catch my breath. I couldn't help but smile everytime he passed me. He was truley something to behold. And here I was, walking with my own head held high for running a mile. I didn't feel any less proud of myself, only now I had a little more perspective on it. I thought how funny it is that as soon as you feel like you've run the 4 minute mile, there comes some one who can do it in 3:55.
It would be easy to look out at the mountains others have climbed from the hill you stand upon now and feel a little inconsequential. A little under-accomplished, but when you consider the scope of your own life, and the turns and dips you've had to personally over come it all still seems worth it. And you don't feel so small anymore, because you know that if you made it up this hill, that one day, you'll make it up the mountains as well. We'll get there in our own time.
Riding back in the car with Richard, he told me he wished he had moved into my apartment years ago, long before I had rented it. He had mentioned before how much he liked it and how the land lords and him were such good friends, etc.. He then continued his story of how he ran the Washington D.C. Marathon in only a few short hours. This story seemed to last longer than it took for him to run it.
'That may be true Richard' I thought as the wind hit my face as I leaned far out the open passenger side window, 'but I've got the bigger unit.'
Anderopoloid
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Cousin Countdown
On a side note, did I ever tell you that the rocking chair I received in my grandmother's will was the focal point of much family controversy? My grandfather made that rocking chair with his own two calloused hands. When Grandmama passed, it was handed with dishpan hands down to me. Yours truly got the rocking chair and two quilts. That is all. My brother got the old grandfather clock and a footstool also made by PawPaw Greene. The rest of the cousins got jewels and money and other assorted treasures. Simon and I were happy just to have a peice of a memory.....a handcrafted memory at that. "Let the dogs have their bones." was our proud and silent mantra.
My brother and I escaped the scrutiny that often follows a patriarch or matriarch's death, buriel, and will and testament. Nearly escaped I should say, for not a week after Grandmama was in the ground, I got a call from one of my first cousins. She was ripe with child when we spoke at the funeral and I couldn't help but think how all of this grief might be bad for the baby. On the phone, she explained to me how her baby was due in a couple of days, and how nice it would be to have a rocking chair to coo the baby to sleep. She then began to say how a 'dorm room' was probably not a good place for a peice of antiquity, especially one with such sentimental value to the whole family.
"So what are saying? That I give the chair to you?"
"Well, I would just hold it for you until you got a place of your own...."
"Ohhh, 'hold it for me'? Yeah right Pre-Pardum, not on your life."
"Look I don't want it damaged if you had one of those...parties or something..."
"Parties? I think you have bigger things to worry about there Baby Factory. I don't have parties, and I don't live in a dorm. How low rent do you think I am?"
"I'm not saying that, all I meant was.."
"I don't care what you meant. You got the cash, you got the jewels, you got the jade turtle collection Grandmama TOLD ME I could have, and now you want MY rocking chair. I can't believe it. Why don't I just hand it ALL over to you. I'll get Simon, and Abbey, and we'll just give you EVERYTHING!!....."
"Andrew, wait, I just meant that since..."
"If you say another word I'm going to personally take a hatchet to that f*#?ing chair! I CANNOT believe it! Grandmama has barely lost her pulse, and your trying to horde everyone's inheritance. How greedy ARE you? Next, you'll want to exhume the body and rip off all the fingers, I'm sure there's some valuable rings going to WASTE on the CORPSE!!"
After several minutes of screaming at each other, I told her that I loved her, and that I hoped her baby came out alright, especially since it had such a greedy mother, to which she slammed the phone down, hanging up in my face.
Later that evening I had some friends over and was telling them what happened. Ironically, as I was in the middle of the story, I spilled a glass of Merlot on the rocking chair. The fabric was simply ruined. We all had a good laugh, then took turns riding the chair as it skiied down the concrete stairs in front of my apartment building. I eventually had to throw the chair out, as I'm pretty sure it had mites.
Corn Pudding,
Andrew
My brother and I escaped the scrutiny that often follows a patriarch or matriarch's death, buriel, and will and testament. Nearly escaped I should say, for not a week after Grandmama was in the ground, I got a call from one of my first cousins. She was ripe with child when we spoke at the funeral and I couldn't help but think how all of this grief might be bad for the baby. On the phone, she explained to me how her baby was due in a couple of days, and how nice it would be to have a rocking chair to coo the baby to sleep. She then began to say how a 'dorm room' was probably not a good place for a peice of antiquity, especially one with such sentimental value to the whole family.
"So what are saying? That I give the chair to you?"
"Well, I would just hold it for you until you got a place of your own...."
"Ohhh, 'hold it for me'? Yeah right Pre-Pardum, not on your life."
"Look I don't want it damaged if you had one of those...parties or something..."
"Parties? I think you have bigger things to worry about there Baby Factory. I don't have parties, and I don't live in a dorm. How low rent do you think I am?"
"I'm not saying that, all I meant was.."
"I don't care what you meant. You got the cash, you got the jewels, you got the jade turtle collection Grandmama TOLD ME I could have, and now you want MY rocking chair. I can't believe it. Why don't I just hand it ALL over to you. I'll get Simon, and Abbey, and we'll just give you EVERYTHING!!....."
"Andrew, wait, I just meant that since..."
"If you say another word I'm going to personally take a hatchet to that f*#?ing chair! I CANNOT believe it! Grandmama has barely lost her pulse, and your trying to horde everyone's inheritance. How greedy ARE you? Next, you'll want to exhume the body and rip off all the fingers, I'm sure there's some valuable rings going to WASTE on the CORPSE!!"
After several minutes of screaming at each other, I told her that I loved her, and that I hoped her baby came out alright, especially since it had such a greedy mother, to which she slammed the phone down, hanging up in my face.
Later that evening I had some friends over and was telling them what happened. Ironically, as I was in the middle of the story, I spilled a glass of Merlot on the rocking chair. The fabric was simply ruined. We all had a good laugh, then took turns riding the chair as it skiied down the concrete stairs in front of my apartment building. I eventually had to throw the chair out, as I'm pretty sure it had mites.
Corn Pudding,
Andrew
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Executive Assistant Application
I might graduate this semester. If i have a party, you and Susan can come. But only if we dance.
Thinking about how busy i typically am on any given work day, I have concluded that I need a personal assistant, so I sent out a mass email to all the genetically superior women in the offices here. Most responded with embitterment, but a few actually said they'd like a 'position' of that nature.
Here it is: If any of your hot single friends are looking for internships, this one would be great.
Here are a list of job descriptions for your role as my Secretary, or more formerly titled, Executive Assistant:
1. Above all the ability to tell a convincing lie is a top priority. My boss comes in and asks where I am. You know I am taking a three hour lunch with an old college buddy, but you tell him something like, "He JUST stepped out. He mentioned something about finishing a report early and having to double check it with corporate." You let him know I haven't been gone long, reinforcing it by attributing my abscence to a work related cause. This will make him think I am responsible, which will propel me to a more sophisticated sounding, higher paying non-job, leaving you to take my position.
2. Know that we are a team. You don't want me to get in trouble for slacking, so I will need help pretending to be busy at work. Great care goes into this practice of avoiding work. Soon I will be on the way to the top, and a higher pay grade-and I will need somebody to help me along the way. You won't receive more pay, however, you will get an impressive new title, "Assitant Executive". Sounds good huh?
3. Math. I hate it, so you will have to do it. This includes balancing my checkbook, watching my travel per diem, stealing from petty cash, and making sure my paycheck is accurate. Math required in company paper work you can delegate to other people's assistance. Just make them believe thay are doing a small part of a very large project. It'll make them feel important, like we trust them with 'big responsibilities'. I will outline how to shirk the work in another chapter. Math, do it.
4. Good personal taste. There is way too much Minesweeper to play to remember birthdays and anniversaries. You will have to depend on your own good taste in buying successful gifts for those I pretend are important to me. It will be your job to shop, as I will be way to busy writing my screenplay. You're getting to shop. That's great.
5. Making the call. There will be nights when I would rather go drinking with the boys or blow my paycheck at the track, whatever the case, it will be you're job to let my wife/girlfriend/date know that I am 'working late' (note the case tense in these words, as the Upper Case are reserved for quality number 7). There will be ample opportunities where an excuse will be needed. Creativity is appreciated, but believability is cherished.
6. Looking the part. Looking the part not only means looking professionally cool and collected in every scenario, but looking busy as well. You are to act like you are on task while in the office. Walk with purpose, carry several official looking papers in your hand, and above all, avoid anyone who looks as though they might have something for you to do. If you get something to do, then it usually means it will fall on my desk later, in which I will have to give it back to you to give to someone else. During that time we could have each played Solitaire until we got the fireworks, or taken an extra 20 minutes to 'check this with acounts payable'-translated-taking a nap in the backseat of our cars.
7. 'Working Late'. The word "secretary" begins with 'secret'. Enough said.
Any questions regarding your position please address your Assistant's Manual ie-Post Christmas Party activities, weekend business trips, emergency 2 am board meetings, etc.
Personal interviews only.
Join Team Andrew today!
Thinking about how busy i typically am on any given work day, I have concluded that I need a personal assistant, so I sent out a mass email to all the genetically superior women in the offices here. Most responded with embitterment, but a few actually said they'd like a 'position' of that nature.
Here it is: If any of your hot single friends are looking for internships, this one would be great.
Here are a list of job descriptions for your role as my Secretary, or more formerly titled, Executive Assistant:
1. Above all the ability to tell a convincing lie is a top priority. My boss comes in and asks where I am. You know I am taking a three hour lunch with an old college buddy, but you tell him something like, "He JUST stepped out. He mentioned something about finishing a report early and having to double check it with corporate." You let him know I haven't been gone long, reinforcing it by attributing my abscence to a work related cause. This will make him think I am responsible, which will propel me to a more sophisticated sounding, higher paying non-job, leaving you to take my position.
2. Know that we are a team. You don't want me to get in trouble for slacking, so I will need help pretending to be busy at work. Great care goes into this practice of avoiding work. Soon I will be on the way to the top, and a higher pay grade-and I will need somebody to help me along the way. You won't receive more pay, however, you will get an impressive new title, "Assitant Executive". Sounds good huh?
3. Math. I hate it, so you will have to do it. This includes balancing my checkbook, watching my travel per diem, stealing from petty cash, and making sure my paycheck is accurate. Math required in company paper work you can delegate to other people's assistance. Just make them believe thay are doing a small part of a very large project. It'll make them feel important, like we trust them with 'big responsibilities'. I will outline how to shirk the work in another chapter. Math, do it.
4. Good personal taste. There is way too much Minesweeper to play to remember birthdays and anniversaries. You will have to depend on your own good taste in buying successful gifts for those I pretend are important to me. It will be your job to shop, as I will be way to busy writing my screenplay. You're getting to shop. That's great.
5. Making the call. There will be nights when I would rather go drinking with the boys or blow my paycheck at the track, whatever the case, it will be you're job to let my wife/girlfriend/date know that I am 'working late' (note the case tense in these words, as the Upper Case are reserved for quality number 7). There will be ample opportunities where an excuse will be needed. Creativity is appreciated, but believability is cherished.
6. Looking the part. Looking the part not only means looking professionally cool and collected in every scenario, but looking busy as well. You are to act like you are on task while in the office. Walk with purpose, carry several official looking papers in your hand, and above all, avoid anyone who looks as though they might have something for you to do. If you get something to do, then it usually means it will fall on my desk later, in which I will have to give it back to you to give to someone else. During that time we could have each played Solitaire until we got the fireworks, or taken an extra 20 minutes to 'check this with acounts payable'-translated-taking a nap in the backseat of our cars.
7. 'Working Late'. The word "secretary" begins with 'secret'. Enough said.
Any questions regarding your position please address your Assistant's Manual ie-Post Christmas Party activities, weekend business trips, emergency 2 am board meetings, etc.
Personal interviews only.
Join Team Andrew today!
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