Concert Review--In the form of bad 'missed connection' personal ad

We saw you at the Pink Martini concert.  You both were in your fifties.  She had mid-length silver hair and the demeanor of a librarian.  I'm not one hundred percent sure what 'frumpy' means but I have a hunch her picture is next to it in the dictionary.   He looked like he's been selling insurance for several decades.  His body sagged.   I'd seen wet socks with more definition. 

 At first, when we spied you two on the dance floor, I winced and looked away.  You were initiating the painful first moves of an attempt at coordinated dancing.  I know I wouldn't want people watching me--unfolding out of my shell, matted and sweaty, stiff from years of sedentary whiteness.    But later that night my wife tapped me on the shoulder and said "no, Jared, don't be afraid!  Look at them!"  And I dared shift my gaze back to your gyrating response to the music.  It was awe-inspiring.  You two--advertisements for a good retirement fund, late Boomers on the verge of grandparenthood--erased the absence of rhythm with a bold stroke of unbridled fearlessness.  Nothing stopped you from dancing.  Not even your son who stood at a safe distance with his girlfriend.  Not the leers of  lazy drinkers holding up the bar...Not even the space invading, scantily clad lesbians stirred afrenzy by the exotic sounds of Latin dance could deter you from your PG-13 promenade.  Anywhere else at any other time a man resembling Charles Schwab grinding against a woman in a crowded room would result in a class-action suit and some self-esteem issues.  Not you.   You brave warriors battling the fight against time.  You are our heroes. 

No matter how old you are, no matter how many Ensures you had to chug, you gave everyone at the Gothic Theater hope.  Thank you. 

Pink Martini can make anybody dance. At first that doesn't always seem like a good thing.

How to Fold a Fitted Sheet

 My wife and I have company coming to town.  So now we have to do all of this drastic crap like clean and do laundry.  My wife sent this list (see how handy it is to have a hubby who works in the shed):

-Fuzzy blanket out of dryer and on the blue bed, down comforter to go on top.
-Matching towels, hand towel and washcloths on the blue bed.
-Grab a couple of the folding card-table chairs (in the garage) so they have something to put their bags on in the room.
-Kitchen floor
THANK YOU!!!
love you,
sarah

I just learned something about my wife.  She not fond of verbs.  The last one kind of had me for a second but I went and checked and our kitchen does have a floor.  Cool.  Not mentioned, however, is that lurking in the dryer with the fuzzy blanket is my nemesis, the fitted sheet.  I have struggled with the fitted sheet for many years.  And now I  want to help others who must deal with this ghastly abomination. 

How to Fold a Fitted Sheet

Here are the necessary materials: 

First and most importantly, convince yourself that it is impossible.  And I'm convinced it is.  Halving again and again  the cloth equivialent to a Water Weinie is indeed beyond the realm of any sane person's logic.

 

Secondly, relax.  Martha might show you how to turn a fitted sheet into collectible spoons.  Wouldn't your wife prefer those?!

 

If the tube doesn't teach you something then try meditating for inspiration.

 

 Act on said inspiration. 

 

 

Really hammer home your affection with a nice table setting. 

Now there's a chance your wife will fold the sheet for you! 

Croc Wearers Beware Day

It's currently raining in the Denver area.  Be very wary of donning the Crocs on these more moist days.  I barely made it from King Soopers to my car.  I kept doing that little slip-and-gasp-and-gather move.  I'm pretty sure it would look cooler to just let yourself hit the ground.  Instead you yelp and throw your arms in the air.  Like maybe you just found Jesus.

 My groin muscles got a great workout and in twenty feet I pumped myself dry of adrenaline.  I don't know why the near-fall is so frightening.   Some past human experience has lodged it into our psyche that if your about to slip and tumble you should be very, very scared. 

My wife, wearing Crocs, once hit a slick spot on the 16th Street Mall, and to the delight of those watching, sported several  very tricky spin moves before twisting herself to a glorious finish. 

She made two bucks and some change. 

Oh the beauty of spring

Just out the front door...

It is a lovely season.

Cannon City

So Sarah and I are looking for just a little bit of land to buy before it all gets developed.  Today I called a fellow who has a couple of acres to sell.  It's near the Royal Gorge and sounds like a nice place to put up a tent.  Now before I offer you the transript of the call I'll give you some excerpts of the landowner's Internet ad:

Has an older (1950's?) 12X50 Mobile home. Fully Furnished.
Will also throw in the old 195? Studebaker P/U bed trailer parked there.
Can shoot your gun...There are Elk, Deer, Bear, Turkey, Cougar to hunt in the area as well.

It sounds a little like the redneck Killing Fields.  So I call to perhaps play a role in reclaiming it's natural splendor.

Seller:  Now the local sheriff doesn’t mind if you ride motorcycles or four-wheelers on the ‘letter’ roads like K and L, but just stay off of Copper gulch.  

Woman in background:  “well he doesn’t much mind that either”

Me:  Do you have neighbors (that have not been shot?)

Seller:  Yah, some.  But You CAN shoot guns there.  I had my 7 mil’ out the other day.
 
Woman in background:  “shootin’ in the gulch."

Seller:  Yah, there's a gulch.

Me:  Good.  A gulch. 

Woman in background:  "tell him about the trailer!" 

Seller:  It has furniture and a pot-belly stove and maybe a dishwasher.  But it’s from the 50’s.

Me:  But there's no power?

Woman in background:  "Tell him about the Studebaker!"

Seller:  We cut off a bed to an old Studebaker and made a trailer.  We're givin' that to the buyer.

Me:  Is there water?

Woman in background:  "Tell him about the Disney land thing!"

Me:  Disney Land?

Seller:  Oh yah, the son of the guy who built the gorge is going to build like a big amusement park thing.

 Me:  So you say you can shoot guns there, eh?

We're going to check it out this Thursday afternoon. 

Man Eaten Alive by Rabid 12-year-olds

Tomorrow I subsitute teach.  It's middle school shop.  Since I just read that after intense research it was discovered that prayer does not help to heal or comfort, please just take a moment out of your day to think "well at least I'm not the kid whose hand will be severed after Jared intructs him on the band saw."  You'll feel better about whatever your doing. 

Good thing is that teaching is always good for comedy.  So I hope to see you this Wednesday at either Laughs for Lunch or Virgin Sacrifice.  

Update on Monday, April 3, 2006 at 12:08PM by ewy

I just got back from being a recess monitor. I'm weary. Teachers are not paid or appreciated near enough. Subs get the respect of rodents.

So far I had 6th grade girl start crying. Whether it was my fault is debatable.

And I had a kid run out of class. I have not seen him again. I think he had some issues. One girl said he was part of the 'beam' program. And added "that's where they beat little kids."  I wonder where I can sign up.

And the room is hot. I forgot the odor issues of little boys ambushed by manhood. Or maybe it's me.

The girls are much better behaved. I'm so glad I'm not a twelve-year-old girl. It seems like a lot of work.

Becca can make her shoulder do this awful popping thing. Her doing that inspired another kid to say "Hey mister. I can shake my eyes." He can. So I showed them my wings. They were not impressed.

8 minutes until school's out. I can't wait.

Gap Part II: Transmorgification

Then I went to the Gap.  Being built like a large squirrel I’m the furthest thing from your typical Gap shopper.  But they have this one kind of shirt that I think makes me look sexy.  I’ve yet to take a poll of unbiased observers regarding this claim but the truth sucks.  Especially when you’re a guy and you hate shopping but society deems you must wear clothes.  

And to make things worse, as soon as I enter fancy, shiny and hip places like Gap I take on a whole different persona.  An inferiority complex takes hold.  I feel dirty and out of touch.  Like I just wandered in from my home, the dumpster out back.  And I tell you for the amount of battering homosexuals get from the press and more conventional parties they sure are a confident folk.  

So I rush through the store and get to the one spot I know.  The place with the t-shirts.  Then just to be sure I don’t have to go back for several years I actually use a fitting room.  And this is how sophisticated clothing retail has become: in the fitting room is a button.  Written around the button are the words “Wrong color?  Wrong size?  Press here!”  Fricken incredible!  Schools have toilets that don’t flush and the Gap has a button that beckons help for emergency wardrobe malfunctions.  

My shirts were fine so I grabbed several and went to the counter.

Now I don’t know Eduardo at all, other than he works at the Gap and has very little sense of humor.  He’s also a very well groomed fellow.

One of the symptoms of my inferiority complex—the one that sets in while I shop places fancier than my breeding should allow--is that I chatter a lot. It’s necessary to break the weirdness of hushed conversations and techno music.

So I started a conversation with Eduardo.  He was very serious about his job of pointing the scanner at my t-shirts tags.  

Playfully I declare, “That’s crazy you guys have a button to change your size and color in your dressing rooms.”

Eduardo took a moment from his techno-induced trance.  Looking up he asked “Why?  You have a problem with the size and color?”

I replied, “No, I just thought it was cool.  And then I got ready to knock the punchline out of the park.”  But Eduardo wanted to make sure he was not derelict in his duties.  

“If there’s a problem let me know and I’ll get the right size and color.”

Apparently I'd pushed a completely different button and now was making sure he was satisfied.  “No, no, really, these gray shirts are fine.”

“They’re brown,” he said glancing up at my bicycle helmet.

“It’s just that—“ and I should have stopped here but I think the headgear bought me some levity.  And I just had to share my joke with someone.  “It’s just that I pushed the button and I’m still a fat, white guy.”  

Eduardo’s cheekbones, pronounced by what I could only observe as his deliberately sucking in his face, glistened in the Gap’s modern lighting arrangement.  Then he squinted his eyes the way you do when someone tells you something in a language you've never heard before.

“Sir,” he began again, “if you need another size and color I can help you.”  He reached for a two-way radio.  Nervous that his stress signal might send the fashion SWAT rappelling through the ceiling, I cut him off with yet another quick explanation.

“No, I’m fine, I’m just saying I pushed the button and I didn’t change size or color.”  

“I get it” came a very dry response from the lady waiting in line behind me.

Eduardo had moved on.  His head was down as he studied the information on his Gap monitor.  Each and every hair seemed intentionally arranged.  It looked wet, tired and manipulated.  I suddenly felt for this man.  He probably makes eight bucks an hour but takes the time to dress like he’s up for best Actress at the Academy Awards.  This kind of daily letdown would be debilitating to most.  But what if…what if he’s a robot.  What if he’s a Gap- trained droid and all of his effeminate qualities are the world’s greatest scientists combining the fashion sense and multi-tasking of a woman with the male affinity for buttons and strobe lights?    

He completed all of the necessary processing and thanked me for the experience.  No human would offer gratitude for such painful discourse.  He’s a robot.  Sexy mannequins and mechanical soldiers on the fashion front are monitoring us now.  Without emotion and a conscience they emanate a confidence that makes us feel worthless.  Worthless, that is, until we buy something.  Then we feel great like we accomplished something.  That’s how I felt as I fled the evil empire.  

That is until I had to turn around and get my sister’s gift.  A droid at the Pottery Barn stalked me until the task was complete.