Big Ugly Man Doll

My friend the wonderful and funny Diane Henders recently posted a few notes about times she’s managed to hurt herself in somewhat embarrassing fashions, and called for comments.  As I commented, it occurred to me that many of you might appreciate some of my pain as well.

Despite having inadvertently proven that I cannot support my body weight with my left arm at full extension, by dint of dislocating said left arm at the shoulder  … twice  ….  my best, if that’s the right word for it, was actually an incident involving the lawn.  I was outside, mowing the grass.  (I suppose this would have been a much more interesting story had I been inside mowing the grass.)    I decided that the grass needed to be shorter than I was making it, so I stopped the mower – of course I stopped the mower!  I’m not stupid, after all.  I stopped the mower, then adjusted the wheels next to me.  Being always economical of motion, which is not the same as lazy, thank you very much, I leaned over the mower to adjust the wheels on the other side.  I realized I didn’t have the leverage to quite reach, so I leaned on the top of the mower with my right hand.

Do you know what’s on the top of the mower?  The exhaust manifold, it turns out.  Can you describe the exhaust manifold of a gas mower that’s been running for 10 minutes or so?  If you said, HOT, you’re right.

There were two parts of this that were embarrassing.  The first was that my wife insisted on driving me to the local ER/Clinic.  This is not a full fledged ER or hospital, this is just a “patch them up, put it in a cast and send them on their way” type station.  We walked in and the people behind the desk started panicking, telling us, “No, no!  We’re not equipped, we can’t do this here!”

That’s when I realized that they were looking at a man walking in under his own power next to his 8-and-a-half-months pregnant wife.  SOBUMD waved them off, pointed at me, and said, “Don’t worry, I’m with Stupid.”

The worst part of the ER trip was that this time, SOBUMD was with me when the nurse asked me when my last tetanus shot had been.  “Oh, I don’t remember, but certainly in the last 3 or 4 years,” said the guy who hates needles and really didn’t want a tetanus shot.  “You liar,” piped up my lovely bride, “we’ve been married more than 11 years and you haven’t had a tetanus shot since I’ve known you!”  WHAM, right in the shoulder, like my body didn’t hurt enough already.

But that wasn’t the MOST embarrassing part of burning myself on the lawn mower.  That was reserved for the scar, which was, essentially, a brand.  You see, the exhaust manifold of the mower assumes that you might not read English, so the warnings are in symbols.  Specifically, there’s a picture of a hand – a right hand, even – inside a circle, with a big line through it:  a universal Do Not Touch.  This symbol, along with several of the holes from the exhaust manifold, was now neatly branded onto my palm.

There are few things that have ever managed to highlight my own idiocy as effectively.  I couldn’t use my mouse hand for week.  This was also about the time that my neighbors stopped letting me use power tools….

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First, as I hit the mid-stride of the afternoon of my 45th birthday, I have to note that I cannot remember spending any previous birthday shoveling snow.  I’ve done a lot of different things on past St. Patrick’s Days.  Some of them involved drinking, some involved being born, and some involved drinking to sufficient excess that I wished I hadn’t been (I’m looking at you, dear Ma’am), but none have involved shoveling.  So, that’s a new thing.

New is not the same as good.  Get this winter over with.

However, I think 45 should be more than just looking back, however fondly or blearily, at the years gone past.  I’ve decided that I will not worry about all the things I have thus far failed to accomplish, all the almosts, all the maybes.  I will not consider for one minute the fact that when John Keats was my age, he’d been dead 20 years.  No.  I shall keep my eyes due north, face forward into the wind, and imagine what comes next.

Based on statistics and actuarial tables, I can reasonably assume that I might live to 90, assuming a smooth downhill road and a good tailwind.  That means that today marks my halfway point, my middle life.

So, Dear Friend, Fond Relation, and Gentle Reader, I ask you for input:  What’s a good crisis to have?  I’m ready for my mid-life crisis, and I’m entertaining ideas!  Bungee jumping?  Skydiving?  Fast cars?  Loose women?  Pot is now available legally in 2 states, and I’ve never had any – is that a decent option for a mid-life crisis?  Recreational alcoholism is old hat; nothing new there to try.  My understanding of how this works is that I realize my own mortality and then try to distract myself from same by spending inordinate amounts of time and/or money on something I don’t usually do.  Since there are thousands of things that I don’t usually do, the field is pretty open here.  I want to keep the financial aspects of this crisis to a minimum, so please don’t suggest I start a Ferrari collection – unless you’re willing to donate the first one as a starter, in which case I’m all in.

So, what should I do for my mid-life crisis?  All comments welcome!

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The Happy Couple, on the Books!

I was in a wedding this morning!  I was all atwitter, aflutter, and excited – and honored beyond words that I’d been asked to stand up for my friend’s wedding, as her best person.  My friend Brenda and her fiancé Darla finally tied the knot.  I met them at the courthouse with the rest of the wedding party, handed the right ring to the right bride, and watched as two people in love became one couple in the eyes of the law.

As Brenda and Dar get married, as Brenda’s best person and having been married for half my life, I thought I’d say a few things about marriage.   Mind you, I also met Brenda more than half my life ago, when we worked together at the US Postal Service, and so I will tell you that marriage is like mailing a first class letter.

On the inside is a secret message, just for the two of you.  Everyone knows that!  But on the outside, there is still some very important information.  It tells you about where you’re from, and about where you’re going.  There’s no superfluous data on an envelope.  Just as in marriage, everything – even the small things – are important.

Plus, there’s trust involved in mailing a letter, just like there is in a marriage.  When you put your stamp on the envelope, you’re trusting the post office to deliver your message – and as Brenda can tell you, they will.  That stamp is a 49-cent contract that they will deliver:  through rain and through snow, in  sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.  That stamp is the government seal of approval for your letter.

So congratulations to Brenda and Dar today, not just on getting married, but for persevering long enough for our government to realize that everyone deserves a stamp!  I am glad and grateful to have been a part of their day.

To the happy couple!

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In honor of Valentine’s Day, I thought I’d re-read and review one of the best love stories ever written.  It’s particularly appropriate, since the book turns 100 years old this year, and I thought I’d see how it’s held up over the century.  Don’t worry, you know the story.  It’s Tarzan of the Apes.

So, yeah, I know, it’s not the first thing that jumps out at you as a love story.  Oh, sure, it’s got beatings, killings, maulings, beheadings, and all sorts of good jungle violence.  Some characters die for vengeance, some die because someone else was angry – or just hungry.  At least 16 men or apes are killed before chapter 10 – and I mean right in front of you, with guns, knives, or teeth.  All told, there are probably around 80 deaths in the book.  There’s a lot of blood.

Warning:  Hereafter lie spoilers.  I know, you think you know the story.  Disney didn’t cover the books very well, and many people really don’t know the original story.  If you’re interested in reading the original, I’m going to give away the ending here – be warned.  (Also, for those who know me well and are curious, no, I don’t have a first edition.  I’m reading a later reprint, from around 1916.  If anyone wants to get me a first printing/first edition, they’re most welcome!)

But still, it’s a love story.  The first time Tarzan lays eyes on Jane Porter, his world changes – as does hers.  He goes from wondering about his purpose in life as a man among apes, to a man with a mission – Jane.  She left the jungle without him, against her will while fearing him dead or worse, but left him a love note.  For Jane, he leaves the jungle, learns the ways of civilization, and crosses continents.  He went to Paris, then to Baltimore, only to find she had moved to Wisconsin.

He makes his way to Wisconsin, just in time to save her from a raging forest fire, and then moments later from a loveless marriage to a miser.  He gives her father enough money to cover his debts, restoring the family’s honor.

And then, at the end, Jane has a crisis of faith, and agrees to marry William Cecil Clayton, Lord Greystoke, who inherited his title, wealth, and lands when his uncle was declared dead – his uncle, who was Tarzan’s father.  Tarzan, for his part, receives a telegram from Paris just moments later, from his friend who had been investigating the matter, stating:  “Finger prints prove you Greystoke.  Congratulations.” 

He realizes that at a word, he can have Clayton stripped of his title, lands, and money – and in doing so would strip them from Jane, too.  Clayton chooses that exact moment to walk up to him, thank him for all the help he’s been, and ask how he had wound up in the jungle anyway.

“I was born there,” said Tarzan, quietly.  “My mother was an Ape, and of course couldn’t tell me much about it.  I never knew who my father was.”

Yes, Burroughs was a privileged white man born in Illinois in 1875, and wrote what he saw.  The impression he had of Africans as savages, the idea that women were little better than chattel, the concept and conceit that British nobility would of course shine through despite a life lived as a brute among brutes, all of those products of Burroughs’ time that we now look back on and cringe – these are all here in this book.  The anachronisms, the patois of racism and privilege, grow worse with each passing year.  As a book, it doesn’t hold up well to modern morality.

But – that’s a love story.  He swept her off her feet, she fell in love with his savage nobility, and at the end he renounces his true identity and birthright, giving her up, to secure her happiness and well being – without telling anyone.

I hope everyone had as Happy a Valentine’s Day as that kind of love can bring!

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OK, this came to me driving in to work this morning, and as usual I felt the need to inflict this on share this with you all!  I’m blatently cross-posting from Free Range Poetry, where it can be found at http://www.freerangepoetry.com/?p=149.  Also, you need to remember – Jimmy Buffet is singing this to you.  Not me.  As you read it, imagine Jimmy Buffet singing it.  In fact, if any of you know Jimmy Buffet, please point this out to him and let him know it’s for sale! 

Without further ado…

“How ya doin’?”

“Oh, I’m not bad…  For a Monday.”

Well I’m not bad for a Monday
I could use another Sunday
I need a weekend with One More Day
But even if I had it I know I’d say
That I’m not bad … for a Monday.

—————–

I got into the office and it’s too damn loud
My feet are on the floor but my head’s in a cloud
And the prospect of the work-week has my spirit cowed
But I’m not bad – for a Monday

And my wallet’s empty but my head is full
Of angry squirrels, with maracas, and no sense of timing
But I’m OK.  Not bad, really. 
For a Monday.

Well I’m not bad for a Monday
I can’t remember much of Sunday
I need a weekend with One More Day
But even if I had it I know I’d say
That I’m not bad … for a Monday.

—————–

Well the weekend was a blur, it went by so fast
My arm’s in a sling and my leg’s in a cast
And I don’t really know what was in that pipe they passed
But I’m not bad for a Monday

My ex won an Oscar for playing herself
In a movie she wrote about what a jerk I am
But that’s all right.  Not bad, really. 
For a Monday.

Well I’m not bad for a Monday
I can’t remember much of Sunday
I need a weekend with One More Day
But even if I had it I know I’d say
That I’m not bad … for a Monday.

—————–

Friday it all started out so well
Half a case of beer for our thirsts to quell
Who could guess how fast it would all go to hell
But I’m not bad for a Monday.

I don’t think that beer was half the problem since we were OK until
My half-brother’s sister’s cousin showed up with that Tequila,
But we forgive him.  It’s OK.  Not bad, really. 
For a Monday.

Well I’m not bad for a Monday
I could’ve lived without Sunday
I need a weekend with One More Day
But even if I had it I know I’d say
That I’m not bad … for a Monday.

I don’t remember much of Sunday
I need a weekend with One More Day
But even if I had it I know I’d say
That I’m not bad … for a Monday.
Yeah, I’m not bad … for a Monday.

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