I’m not hugely into the whole costume thing. Nonetheless, I went to a Halloween costume party this weekend. I kind of liked my costume, too. I wore bluish-green scrubs with a stethoscope around my neck. Also draped around my neck was a short strand of Christmas lights with chili pepper covers on them. On the breast pocket, was one word: “Pepper.” Have you worked it out yet? I was Dr. Pepper. I even had packets of pepper in my pocket (courtesy of Wendy’s), which allowed me to hand them out and ask people, “Wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?”
I know you think this costume sounds very clever and original (and/or perhaps a bit stupid), but 1) I didn’t come up with it, 2) I found it on the Internet, and 3) I wore it last year. I was happy to reuse it, too, since it took some effort to put together and my standard procrastination meant that it cost a lot more than it should have because of overnight shipping costs.
I remembered from last year that the scrubs were a bit large. However, as I put them on this time and held out the waist, I thought there was room for a whole ‘nother person in there. With some planning and a willing participant, that might have made for a good – and distinctly more fun – costume, but it was just me this time around. So I cinched that waist down (thankfully it had a drawstring) and went on about my business with some seriously baggy pants.
Once dressed, I headed to a friend’s house to hang out and have pre-party drinks. That was fun, too. The costumes included a hair band rock star, a deviled egg, FEMA, stoned, a panda, a cave girl, and (my personal favorite) poop. Yes, I said poop. It was a brown hoodie sweatsuit with some corn glued to it and a toilet seat over the head.
After a couple of drinks I had to avail myself of the facilities, and I excused myself to do so. I reckon that one should exercise caution when relieving himself in a costume, as it kind of puts him outside the comfort zone. However, I had a pretty simple costume, and I managed to get through it with no mishaps. So I washed my hands, dried them, and started to head back to join the crowd.
At the last instant, I took a quick look down to make sure nothing was awry. I was startled to find a 2 little spots of water on the front of my pants. Without thinking, I reached down to wipe it off, but that just made it worse. Apparently there was some water on the rim of the sink, and my unnecessarily baggy pants had brushed against it. Since the scrubs were bluish-green, the water showed up quite nicely. My attempts to remove it meant that instead of having a couple of barely noticeable spots of what may or may not have looked like a dribbling incident, my pants looked like I had stopped just short of full-on pissing myself.
With nothing to do about it (my host later informed me that she didn’t have a hair dryer, although that didn’t even occur to me as a solution at the time), I plodded back into the living room and announced to the assembled crowd in as red-faced a way as possible what had happened. I was thoroughly embarrassed, but I decided I would rather laugh with them about it than have them whispering about it and wondering if I knew I had pissed myself. I figured it would dry before long and I could go on enjoying my evening.
Today, my friend sent out a group picture from the pre-party. The first thing I noticed: it looks like Dr. Pepper has pissed himself. Other than that it was a great picture. I’m glad we could save that memory. As is often the case, the point here is probably that I’m an idiot. This time, though, I’m a bumbling, pants-wetting idiot.
Since I’ve always thought it sounded like a term a child would use to describe a bodily function, I should have just claimed I was Dr. P. Diddy. I would have gone together with poop like peas and carrots.
I wish you all a Happy Halloween free of Diddy incidents – real or perceived – on your costumes.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
The Wisdom of Youth
I once visited my friends Tim and Elizabeth, who live a couple of hours away, to have dinner in honor of Tim's birthday, as well as that of their younger son Miles. Miles's older brother, Connor, is my godson. I'm not really sure what the godfather role is supposed to entail -- and I'm not in the habit of making offers that can't be refused -- but through the 4 and a half years of his life up to that point, we had built a relationship based mainly on me buying him cool toys for his birthday (I'm always jealous of how much cooler toys are today than they used to be) and us playing together when I'm visiting. That might not be the standard way things are done, but it had works for us so far.
On this particular visit, I was quite tired for some reason. I think it might have had something to do with the pitchers of beer consumed the night before, but I’m not really sure. During one lull in the action, and I found myself lying on the floor with my eyes closed, pondering what would happen if I just fell asleep right there. The world will never know the answer to that riddle, though. Before I could doze off, I felt these little hands on my chest followed by a little person leaning in and little lips smacking on my cheek. I opened my eyes as Connor was standing up and saying, "I gave you a kiss, Uncle Abs." This was clearly an explanation in case I didn't know what had just happened. My heart lurched at the sweetness of the moment.
I started to say, "Thanks, buddy," but I was cut off.
"Because that's how you make love," Connor explained.
"Oh is it?" Uncle Abs asked, grinning a bit and undoubtedly cocking an eyebrow well past his hairline. Apparently my love of funny overrides my appreciation of sweet.
"SHOW love, Connor. That's how you SHOW love," his mother said, somewhat urgently, from the kitchen.
"Because that's how you SHOW love," Connor relayed, in case I hadn't heard it.
I said, "Well, darn, I was hoping to get some tips there."
"That's ENOUGH, Abs," said Connor's mother. She apparently didn't think anything good could come of that conversation.
I couldn’t help but wonder if I should take it as a bad sign that a 4 year-old felt the need to give me pointers. But I listened anyway.
On this particular visit, I was quite tired for some reason. I think it might have had something to do with the pitchers of beer consumed the night before, but I’m not really sure. During one lull in the action, and I found myself lying on the floor with my eyes closed, pondering what would happen if I just fell asleep right there. The world will never know the answer to that riddle, though. Before I could doze off, I felt these little hands on my chest followed by a little person leaning in and little lips smacking on my cheek. I opened my eyes as Connor was standing up and saying, "I gave you a kiss, Uncle Abs." This was clearly an explanation in case I didn't know what had just happened. My heart lurched at the sweetness of the moment.
I started to say, "Thanks, buddy," but I was cut off.
"Because that's how you make love," Connor explained.
"Oh is it?" Uncle Abs asked, grinning a bit and undoubtedly cocking an eyebrow well past his hairline. Apparently my love of funny overrides my appreciation of sweet.
"SHOW love, Connor. That's how you SHOW love," his mother said, somewhat urgently, from the kitchen.
"Because that's how you SHOW love," Connor relayed, in case I hadn't heard it.
I said, "Well, darn, I was hoping to get some tips there."
"That's ENOUGH, Abs," said Connor's mother. She apparently didn't think anything good could come of that conversation.
I couldn’t help but wonder if I should take it as a bad sign that a 4 year-old felt the need to give me pointers. But I listened anyway.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Lunchtime Musings
While out to lunch today, I excused myself for a brief trip to the restroom. Before heading back to my table, I noticed one of those signs on the mirror while washing my hands. You know the ones: "Employees MUST wash hands."
I've always wanted to add another little sign below those: "But the rest of you sould probably consider it, too."
I've always wanted to add another little sign below those: "But the rest of you sould probably consider it, too."
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Ten Years Later ...
My Wahoos have been really frustrating this year. Their best players have kept getting hurt. They've been turning the ball over at inopportune times (not that there are really opportune times for turnovers). They kept doing dumb things. Worst of all, they kept losing. Okay, so they only lost two games in a row, but they hadn't played well all year. They've been just painful to watch. Plus, they lost to the Terps. THE TERPS!
It seemed like it had been so long since they had played well that I found myself recently daydreaming of the single best sporting event I have ever witnessed in person: the toppling of Florida State on a balmy Thursday October night ten years ago. I've never heard UVA fans so into a game. They were pumped and loud from the first kick, and a national television audience got to see a gorgeously exciting upset of a top ten team that had not lost any of its 29 contests since it had joined the ACC. It was glorious. I yelled myself hoarse. I stormed the field. I reveled in the tearing down of the goalposts. I walked out of the stadium completely giddy with the joy of the upset.
This weekend an unbeaten, top 5 Seminole team came to town to kick my ailing Wahoos while they were down. Perhaps thinking of happier days, the Wahoo team that put the first blemish on FSU's ACC record that October night 10 years ago was honored at halftime of this contest. Oddly, though, the current team -- the injury-prone, turnover-mongering dummies and losers -- were up 13 points at the time. The crowd was loud and excited. The team held on and gutted it out. Night game. October. Balmy. National audience. ESPN. Hoarseness. Upset. Giddiness. Jubilation.
I let the students storm the field, though. I had my time. [Aside: Goalposts are much more resilient than they were 10 years ago. Those things refused to come down.]
One sign I saw amongst the revelers on the field in the post-game bedlam put it nicely in perspective: "Party like it's 1995."
It seemed like it had been so long since they had played well that I found myself recently daydreaming of the single best sporting event I have ever witnessed in person: the toppling of Florida State on a balmy Thursday October night ten years ago. I've never heard UVA fans so into a game. They were pumped and loud from the first kick, and a national television audience got to see a gorgeously exciting upset of a top ten team that had not lost any of its 29 contests since it had joined the ACC. It was glorious. I yelled myself hoarse. I stormed the field. I reveled in the tearing down of the goalposts. I walked out of the stadium completely giddy with the joy of the upset.
This weekend an unbeaten, top 5 Seminole team came to town to kick my ailing Wahoos while they were down. Perhaps thinking of happier days, the Wahoo team that put the first blemish on FSU's ACC record that October night 10 years ago was honored at halftime of this contest. Oddly, though, the current team -- the injury-prone, turnover-mongering dummies and losers -- were up 13 points at the time. The crowd was loud and excited. The team held on and gutted it out. Night game. October. Balmy. National audience. ESPN. Hoarseness. Upset. Giddiness. Jubilation.
I let the students storm the field, though. I had my time. [Aside: Goalposts are much more resilient than they were 10 years ago. Those things refused to come down.]
One sign I saw amongst the revelers on the field in the post-game bedlam put it nicely in perspective: "Party like it's 1995."
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Welcome Back, Sweet Silence
I think we'd all do well to welcome Jen back. She's been on a bit of a hiatus, and I think it's safe to say that we all missed her. I know, I know. You might be thinking you don't even know Jen. You're sure she's quite nice and all, but you didn't really miss her. But you're wrong. You did miss her. You just don't realize it. So go ahead and welcome her back.
The different things we have to get used to as we adjust to new living spaces are intriguing to me. Having moved from the Windy City to suburban Cleveland, Jen is having to adjust to living among the Amish and the eerie silence that goes with it. So used to the noises of the city was she that she said, "On the first night I had to keep reassuring myself that silence did not equal impending doom." Ah, Jen. What I wouldn't give for some of that sweet silence.
As you may or may not remember, I recently moved and am doing a bit of adjusting of my own. As intimated by my friend who used to live there, my place is impressively noisy. The ceilings/floors and walls are quite thin. Luckily, I only have a neighbor on one side, and I don't hear anything from him. [Aside: not knowing any of my neighbors, they will all be referred to as "him." I have no idea as to their genders, but it seems to work better for me that way. I suggest that those of you who object to this type of gender bias to either stop reading or get over it.] On the other side of me is the building's foyer, which houses the stairs down to the garage, the elevators, and the mailboxes. If people talk out there, I can hear them quite clearly. Luckily for me, that's a rarity. The door to the stairwell that takes one to the garage, however, squeaks more consistently and loudly than any other door on the planet, and I can hear that anywhere in my apartment but the bathroom. One of these days, I will attempt to silence it with WD-40.
What's really impressive, though, is the noise from above. I don't know what kind of codes the building meets, but there can't be any noise suppression-related rules in there. Either that or the guy above me weighs a metric ton and is mostly deaf. I say this because I can hear every step he takes. Come to think of it, he may not actually be deaf. I can hear a low murmur whenever his TV is on, but I can't tell what he's watching or hear any words. But it's still sound pollution in my TV-watching environment, and I don't like it.
Luckily for me and unlike my friend who warned me (too late, but warned me nonetheless) about the noise level, I have heard no conversations from above and have been subjected to no sexcapades. However, the guy gets up early. It's very sad for the lightest sleeper in the world to have people walk around above him every day sometime between 4:30 and 7:30 AM. On the off-chance that I might sleep through the tromping about, he redoubles his efforts, announcing that he has arisen by violently tossing porcelain against porcelain as he makes use of the toilet. That thunk is not a pleasant way to wake up at all.
With all of that said, so far I like everything about my pad except the noise. Shockingly, I haven't hooked up my surround speakers yet (still trying to decide what to do with the cables). Less shockingly, I haven't put anything on the walls yet. (I lived in the Lodge for 6 years and never put anything on the walls in my room.) When I do those things, I'll be all settled. Before that, though, I'm going to look into some earplugs.
The different things we have to get used to as we adjust to new living spaces are intriguing to me. Having moved from the Windy City to suburban Cleveland, Jen is having to adjust to living among the Amish and the eerie silence that goes with it. So used to the noises of the city was she that she said, "On the first night I had to keep reassuring myself that silence did not equal impending doom." Ah, Jen. What I wouldn't give for some of that sweet silence.
As you may or may not remember, I recently moved and am doing a bit of adjusting of my own. As intimated by my friend who used to live there, my place is impressively noisy. The ceilings/floors and walls are quite thin. Luckily, I only have a neighbor on one side, and I don't hear anything from him. [Aside: not knowing any of my neighbors, they will all be referred to as "him." I have no idea as to their genders, but it seems to work better for me that way. I suggest that those of you who object to this type of gender bias to either stop reading or get over it.] On the other side of me is the building's foyer, which houses the stairs down to the garage, the elevators, and the mailboxes. If people talk out there, I can hear them quite clearly. Luckily for me, that's a rarity. The door to the stairwell that takes one to the garage, however, squeaks more consistently and loudly than any other door on the planet, and I can hear that anywhere in my apartment but the bathroom. One of these days, I will attempt to silence it with WD-40.
What's really impressive, though, is the noise from above. I don't know what kind of codes the building meets, but there can't be any noise suppression-related rules in there. Either that or the guy above me weighs a metric ton and is mostly deaf. I say this because I can hear every step he takes. Come to think of it, he may not actually be deaf. I can hear a low murmur whenever his TV is on, but I can't tell what he's watching or hear any words. But it's still sound pollution in my TV-watching environment, and I don't like it.
Luckily for me and unlike my friend who warned me (too late, but warned me nonetheless) about the noise level, I have heard no conversations from above and have been subjected to no sexcapades. However, the guy gets up early. It's very sad for the lightest sleeper in the world to have people walk around above him every day sometime between 4:30 and 7:30 AM. On the off-chance that I might sleep through the tromping about, he redoubles his efforts, announcing that he has arisen by violently tossing porcelain against porcelain as he makes use of the toilet. That thunk is not a pleasant way to wake up at all.
With all of that said, so far I like everything about my pad except the noise. Shockingly, I haven't hooked up my surround speakers yet (still trying to decide what to do with the cables). Less shockingly, I haven't put anything on the walls yet. (I lived in the Lodge for 6 years and never put anything on the walls in my room.) When I do those things, I'll be all settled. Before that, though, I'm going to look into some earplugs.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Winning Friends? Not so much.
Some people just have a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. For instance, this guy seems awfully good at it. I think he would do well to read Dale Carnegie's most famous book. Hell, reading a summary might help. I just don't see how clubbing Harry Potter in front of a bunch of kids is going to do you any favors, especially if your claims are ludicrous. The big winner of a quote to me was this: "I'm a priest and I'm very careful about not offending people." Well, maybe you should redouble your efforts there, padre.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Doing My Part
I don't typically get into patting myself on the back, but sometimes I can't help it. An opportunity presented itself today. It was an unusual opportunity to help people out, and I took it.
Utterly demolishing our opponents in today's touch football game caused several of us to work up quite an appetite. (Granted, those opponents were short a player, but that doesn't really change the fact that we demolished them. Or that we were hungry, for that matter.) So we went to our normal place to eat and watch some people play tackle football for money. When we got there, the team's coach and I noticed a card on the table advertising their Apple Krisp dessert. It sounded pretty good, but the not-so-fine print was even more intriguing. It pointed out that there was nothing more American than apple pie. Because of that, the restaurant would donate all the proceeds from the sales of Apple Krisp to the Red Cross to help with the Hurrican Katrina relief effort.
The coach and I were intrigued. We were both willing to avoid quibbling over the fact that it's apple pie and not Apple Krisp that is innately American. And we couldn't help but wonder what we had done to help lately. So we said we were going to get some after we had our meals.
Now, I don't know if you've ever been to Champps, but they have some seriously big portions. That's one of the first warnings they give you when you sit down at a table there, and they seem proud to be contributing to all of us inching toward obesity. Anyway, I didn't even eat all of my huge entree, but I was quite full afterwards, and I was thinking that this talk of ordering Apple Krisp might be one of those cases of my eyes being bigger than my stomach. Upon returning from a trip to the restroom, I was informed that the coach had ordered the Apple Krisp for me. I was a little uncomfortable, having considerably changed my level of hunger since we first discussed it. I was considering canceling my order.
However, I was forced to ask myself some hard questions, and I hope you will ask yourselves the same questions if you are faced with a similar situation: what have you done to help your fellow Americans? What have you done lately? Maybe you've given money, clothes, food, or even your time, but have you eaten a potentially tasty and definitely fattening dessert to help out those less fortunate than you?
With those questions in mind, I ate the hell out of that Apple Krisp. I'd do it again, too. That's just how generous I am.
Utterly demolishing our opponents in today's touch football game caused several of us to work up quite an appetite. (Granted, those opponents were short a player, but that doesn't really change the fact that we demolished them. Or that we were hungry, for that matter.) So we went to our normal place to eat and watch some people play tackle football for money. When we got there, the team's coach and I noticed a card on the table advertising their Apple Krisp dessert. It sounded pretty good, but the not-so-fine print was even more intriguing. It pointed out that there was nothing more American than apple pie. Because of that, the restaurant would donate all the proceeds from the sales of Apple Krisp to the Red Cross to help with the Hurrican Katrina relief effort.
The coach and I were intrigued. We were both willing to avoid quibbling over the fact that it's apple pie and not Apple Krisp that is innately American. And we couldn't help but wonder what we had done to help lately. So we said we were going to get some after we had our meals.
Now, I don't know if you've ever been to Champps, but they have some seriously big portions. That's one of the first warnings they give you when you sit down at a table there, and they seem proud to be contributing to all of us inching toward obesity. Anyway, I didn't even eat all of my huge entree, but I was quite full afterwards, and I was thinking that this talk of ordering Apple Krisp might be one of those cases of my eyes being bigger than my stomach. Upon returning from a trip to the restroom, I was informed that the coach had ordered the Apple Krisp for me. I was a little uncomfortable, having considerably changed my level of hunger since we first discussed it. I was considering canceling my order.
However, I was forced to ask myself some hard questions, and I hope you will ask yourselves the same questions if you are faced with a similar situation: what have you done to help your fellow Americans? What have you done lately? Maybe you've given money, clothes, food, or even your time, but have you eaten a potentially tasty and definitely fattening dessert to help out those less fortunate than you?
With those questions in mind, I ate the hell out of that Apple Krisp. I'd do it again, too. That's just how generous I am.
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