Monday, January 24, 2011

Uncle Willis

Baby Wolfgang arrived on January 6th. I wasn’t just Willis anymore. I was now Uncle Willis. When I first arrived at the hospital, I met my brother Arnold (the new dad) in the hallway outside the recovery room and he was looking a wee bit stressed. “What’s up, bro?” I asked as I gave him a sucker punch to the gut.

“Not much, bro,” he replied with a sucker punch back. “Where’s mom and dad?” he asked.

“They’re outside having a smoke.”

“Nice,” he said. “So much for their New Year’s Resolution, huh?”

But, I wasn’t interested in scrutinizing anyone’s New Year’s resolutions. After all, who was I to judge? I couldn't keep mine for more than day. What I was really interested in was what happened in the delivery room.

“So, bro, were you in the delivery room when the baby was born?”

“Yup,” he said with a tone of regret.

“Really? Was it nasty?”

“Let’s just say I saw some things in there I wish I could have gone my whole life without seeing.”

“Like what?” I asked. Did you see them cut the umbilical cord?”

“I saw everything,” he bemoaned. “The crown of the head coming out,”

“Ew,” I responded.

“The umbilical cord being cut,”

I cringed.

“The placenta coming out,”

I felt a lump in my throat.

“But the worst part, bro,” he added. “Was the when the blood spattered all over my face when the placenta came out.”

I let out a gasp and asked. “Did they ask you if you wanted to take home the placenta to eat it? It’s like one of the healthiest things you can eat.”

“No. They did not,” he answered with disgust and a smile.

On that wonderful note, my parents had just entered the building. We gave each other high-fives and then my brother led us to the hospital room where Tootie and Baby Wolfgang were staying.

Tootie was sitting up in her hospital bed watching the honorable Judge Joe Brown on television when we stormed in on her.  She looked startled when we initially breached the room, but she quickly composed herself and greeted us with a big smile. “Hi everyone!” she said.

“Hi Tootie,” We said in unison.

“How are you feeling,” my mother kindly asked.

“Much better now,” Tootie replied.

“How was it giving birth?”

“Oh. It was awful,” Charlene declared. “ It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. I don’t know how I got through it.”

“Was Arnold in there with you while you were having the baby?” My father jumped in.

“Oh yeah. Arnold was there the whole time. He was a real trooper,” she said as Arnold put his head down and shook it.

“Bro is traumatized!” I imparted.

“You could say that,” Arnold quietly admitted. 

The nurse brought baby Wolfgang into the room, put him in some sort of baby tray, and asked us, “Would anyone like to hold him?”

Everyone looked at each other helplessly. “I’m afraid I might drop him,” my mother divulged.

“I don’t want to drop him either,” concurred my father.

My brother didn’t say anything, but it looked like he was afraid to drop him too.

“I’ll pick him up,” I boldly announced.

I had picked up way heavier things than a baby without dropping them, including pissed off animals that hissed and clawed at me. 

“Careful, careful,” I heard from all directions as if I was removing the neuron trigger from a nuclear warhead. 

I swung him up into the air in one fell swoop. “That wasn't so hard,” I whispered to baby Wolfgang as I cradled him in my arms. 

Being an uncle already felt kind of cool.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

The Big Womack

I only started watching the Bachelor because of Charlene. It’s her favorite show. When we initially began dating, one of the first questions she asked me was, “Are you excited for the new season of the Bachelor?”

In hopes I’d get into her pants faster, I fibbed and said, “Of course I’m excited about the new season of the Bachelor.” That made her very happy, but it wasn’t quite enough to get her to put out ahead of schedule. In fact, Charlene made me wait two months before she gave me some hay for my donkey. That’s eight two-hour episodes of the Bachelorette I had to grit and bear…

The first season I saw starred Deanna, the Greek reject from the previous season that was built like an Olympic butterfly stroke swimmer. What amazed me most about the show was how well the producers coached the men to speak so highly of her on camera.

“I think it’s so sweet how all the men talk about Deanna,” Charlene would often say as we watched the show.

I didn’t have the heart to tell Charlene the truth -- that Deanna’s suitors were full of shit.

This season they brought back Brad Womack. He’s the Bachelor who couldn’t look Deanna (or the other finalist) in the eye and tell her he loved her. America was pissed at him for that and, as a result, he allegedly went into a deep depression. But after three years of intense therapy, he has resurfaced a new man – twice as horny and rearing to prey on another herd of twenty-five insecure and attention starved women.  When asked by Chris Harrison if he thought his future wife is inside the mansion this time around, “Definitely!” Brad confidently responded.

“He’s such a nice guy,” Charlene wept as he told tear-jerking stories about how his father wasn’t there for him when he was growing up.

“Uh-oh,” I replied. “Does that mean I have to add Brad Womack to the list of dudes you want to bang?”

Charlene laughed. “No,” she said contritely. “He’s gross…”

The only thing Charlene found gross about Brad Womack was the high risk of catching an STD from him -- and possibly that ridiculous tattoo on his back.

“So, Let’s see,” I said. “There’s Leonardo DiCaprio, Robert Downey, Jr., Johnny Depp, Danny Gokey, Pat Sajak, and now Brad Womack.”

Charlene playfully slapped my arm. “Baby. The only one you really have to worry about is Pat Sajack. He's so funny!”
 

Thursday, January 20, 2011

From Bad Mood to Bachelor

Later that day, Charlene looked frazzled while she was getting ready for work. I walked into the bathroom where she was fixing her hair, grabbed her hips, and dry humped her from behind like I often do whenever she’s getting ready for work, looking out of sorts, or both.

“C’mon! Can’t you see I’m trying to get ready?” she asked rhetorically with a part amused, part annoyed expression as she curled her hair.

“I can’t help it. You just look so good. You make me so horny!”

“You always do this when I’m trying to get ready.”

“I know,” I said childishly.

“If you don’t go away I’m going to stab you in the eye with my curling iron! ”

I gently pulled her hair away from her ear, leaned in, and whispered into it with my super dramatic sexy voice, “I want you to stab me with your curling iron in my (pause) asssssssshole…”

She spun around quickly - war face on - and gesticulated the curling iron going up my butt. “I’ll stab you in asshole!” she roared.

“No! No! No!” I laughingly pleaded as I defended against her half-hearted ass rape attempt. “I don’t want the curling iron in my asshole! “

“Then get out of here and let me get ready!” she demanded.

I frowned, slumped my shoulders, walked two steps out of the bathroom, turned back around to face her, and told her very somberly, “You should be in a good mood.”

“Why?” she asked abrasively.

“Because tonight the season premiere of the Bachelor is on.”

Her eyes immediately lit up and a smile quickly overran her face. “Oh my God! I totally forgot! The Bachelor is on! That makes me so happy!” she joyfully declared.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

52 Words For Tai Bo


After New Year’s, I decided to cash in the gift certificate that Charlene got me for my birthday. It was for a one-month membership at L.A. Boxing.

I didn’t know exactly what L.A. Boxing was all about, but I assumed it had something to do with boxing. And, I like to box.

I had to fill out the typical nonsense gym membership paperwork when I got there. Questions like: What are your fitness goals? How long have you been thinking about a fitness program? What’s the name and number of a friend that we can harass into joining the club?

After the paperwork, the guy behind the counter pulled out a class schedule and said, “Let me tell you about our group classes…”

I had once heard that Eskimos have 52 words for snow. This guy had 52 words for Tai Bo. ‘Group Kickboxing’, ‘Group Boxing’, ‘Group MMA’. It was all Tai Bo to me.

“That’s ok,” I interrupted. “I’m not really interested in group classes. I just want to hit the bag.”

He gave me a nod, handed me the schedule, and said, “Here’s a copy of the class schedule just in case you change your mind.”

As I was putting the schedule in my gym bag he asked, “Oh, by the way, do you have gloves?”

“No. I don’t wear gloves,” I explained.  “I just use hand wraps.”

“That’s cool. It’s just that the owners are pretty strict about everyone using gloves. Ya’ know, in case of cuts and things.” 

I knew exactly what he was talking about. My bare knuckles had left bloodstains and blood spatter on the hard leather of many a heavy bag. And I didn’t always have the decency to clean it up when I was done either.

He handed me a pair of gloves from behind the counter and said, “If you don’t mind…”

I wrapped my hands, slapped on the big, comfy 16-ounce boxing gloves, and went to work on the heavy bag.

My knuckles were in heaven. It felt as if there was a cloud of softness between my fist and the bag on every impact. “He-he-he,” I giggled like the Downy Bear after each punch.

“You look disgusting,” Charlene noted when I returned home from my workout red faced and covered head-to-toe in sweat.

“Why, thanks,” I replied as I approached her with open arms. “You look like you need a hug!”

“You better not come near me, you fucking asshole” she asserted as she back stepped away from me. 

I pretended to make chase and then turned off into the bedroom to change out of my wet clothes.

“So, how was it?” she asked.

“It was good,” I reported. “But they made me wear those stupid ass boxing gloves.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t want blood to get all over the punching bags.”

“Gross!” Charlene exclaimed. ”Does that really happen?”

“It does when I hit the bag,” I said plainly. “But never as bad as this one guy I used to work out with. It looked like a crime scene when he was done hitting the bag. There was blood on the bag, all over the floor, the walls, the mirrors. It was nasty.”

“Ew. I think you should wear gloves from now on,” Charlene advised. 


Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Transformation Now or Maybe Never

I don’t know what being freed from the parking lot meant to my neighbors, but all it meant for me and Charlene was that we had no more excuses to stay home from work.

Charlene and I were working together for a health juice company (and I use the term “health” loosely) called ‘Transformation Now’. Our job was to promote the juice at supermarkets and educate shoppers as to why Transformation Now was a better choice than Sunny D.

The juice we endorsed was of the superfruit variety: acai, pomegranate, blueberry, and noni. They were high in antioxidants and even higher in sugar content. If your body wasn’t tough enough to absorb 29 grams of sugar per 10 ounce serving, there was also a vegetable juice to choose from. It was low in sugar, contained half the salt content of a V8, and aroused a wonderfully frightening throat closing sensation after every sip.

Most shoppers weren’t interested in trying the juice for fear it would trigger an explosive need to visit a bathroom, which was a reasonable concern inside a supermarket, indeed. Customers were particularly cautious about sampling the acai (pronounced ‘Ah-Sigh-EE’) because it was purple and looked like prune juice. Its resemblance to prune juice was so uncanny that, in our neck of the woods, it became widely referred to as the ‘Ass-EE’ berry juice.

Charlene and I had a lot of fun with our job. After all, we got paid to interact with people and give away free stuff – which is like two of our all-time favorite things to do. Unfortunately for us, however, people weren’t buying the juice. 

Some would argue that it wasn’t selling because it was too expensive (which it was), but one woman we met at Costco put it best when she said, “It’s kind of like the taste you get in the back of your throat after you almost vomit in your mouth.” 

In any event and for whatever reason, Transformation Now decided to cut our sampling program short. So, rather than authenticating the health benefits of their snake oil juice for two more months, we’d only be doing it for two more weeks.

"That's some fucking bullshit!" Charlene uttered when she first heard about our early dismissal from Transformation Now.

In the pre-Willis era, Charlene was a prim and proper little Miss Goodie Two Shoes. The words ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ weren’t even in her vocabulary. She struggled a great deal with my free flowing foul mouth at the start of our relationship, but as time went on, she slowly began to love using profanity as much as I do – especially when in the heat of anger. 

“Can you believe this shit?” she added. “We were the best fucking thing that ever happened to Transformation Now.”

“I know. It’s some bullshit,” I sympathized. “I don’t know how they expect to compete against Sunny D with that overpriced, shit tasting, snake oil juice without us.” 

Monday, January 17, 2011

Halfway House to Freedom

My neighbors took to the Good Samaritan Highway immediately. It even inspired the owner of a certain abandoned Ford Explorer to surface. The owner, a man in his early 20’s, is one of the many colorful part-time residents staying sporadically at the apartment Charlene and I refer to as the ‘Halfway House’.
Since their arrival, the occupants of the Halfway House have contributed a new and distinct flavor to our otherwise quiet and peaceful community in the form of litter in the parking lot, vandalism, car break-ins, home invasions, and police raids, just to name a few.

Despite all the trouble they cause, Charlene and I always smile and say, “Hi, How are you?” whenever we see any of the suspicious characters coming and going to and from the Halfway House.  Zigzag, on the other hand, prefers to exhibit her massive teeth and says, “If you come near me, my family, or my home, I’ll fucking tear your head off!” So far we haven’t had any problems with anyone living there.

The parking lot had, at last, been cleared of abandoned vehicles. By that time, unfortunately, the plows had already headed home for the night. I headed home too. 

The next morning, Charlene and I heard what sounded like a Sherman tank entering our parking lot. Cheering ensued a few seconds later. I peered out the window to check it out. Low and behold, the monster of all snowplows had just arrived.

Just about every one of our neighbors seemed to be outside for this grand event. They clapped and waved and banged their snow shovels together in the air. I even heard a small group of them singing ‘Kumbaya’. It was if they had just been rescued after spending six seasons on the tv series ‘Lost’.

Friday, January 14, 2011

The Good Samaritan Highway



“Where’s my GODDAMN tea?” Charlene playfully yelled to me from the bathroom.

One of my jobs around the house is making the morning tea. The task only fell under my jurisdiction because I wake up before her every single morning. On most days I serve it to her while she is still sleeping. And, and it generally gets cold before she wakes up to drink it. Oddly, she doesn’t seem to mind that it gets cold. She just reheats it in the microwave. What she does mind, however, is if she wakes up and the tea isn’t on her nightstand. Then I get an earful.

The tea had just been coming to a boil when she beckoned for it. “Hold your GODDAMN horses,” I laughingly yelled back. “It’s almost ready!”

Charlene and I sat in front of the television, sipped our tea, and watched the weather for a few minutes before she announced, “I feel like I want to knit all day. What are you going to do?”

What she really meant to ask me is, “When are you going to get your ass outside and dig the cars out of the snow?”

“I was thinking of going outside and digging the cars out of the snow,” I replied.

I got bundled back up in my winter getup and headed outside shovel in hand. I assessed the distance between myself and the cars, took a deep breath, and plodded intently through the snow.

It took me about an hour to excavate our cars from under the snow. The only thing that stood between the cars and the freedom of plowed road, at that point, was about 1000 square feet of waist high snow – and an abandoned Ford Explorer.

The idea of trudging knee-to-chest back to the apartment was not particularly inviting, but it did invigorate me to begin construction an elaborate walking path that spanned from the plowed road all the way to the front door. In true Jersey fashion, I even built an exit that led directly to our cars.

About halfway through the project, some of my neighbors, debilitated by the snow, shouted desperately down from their windows and asked if I could dig them out. They also wanted to know who’s effin’ truck was blocking the parking lot.

Although not in my original blueprint, I was more than happy to disentomb my forsaken neighbors from the massive snowdrifts they were trapped under. They were so grateful for my assistance that my walkway quickly became known in the community as the ‘Good Samaritan Highway’.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Carpet Stain Police


Zigzag followed me up the stairs and then ventured out on her own, sniffing around from room-to-room looking for the cats.

“Are Zigzag’s paws wet?” Charlene yelled from the bedroom.

The only thing Charlene is more protective about than the cats is the carpet. Some couples argue about money, some argue about sex, we argue about stains on the carpet.  

Charlene is the carpet stain police. She can spot a stain from a mile away and she does everything short of tasting it to effectively trace its origin. The origin typically isn’t difficult to find, however. At least eighty-five percent of the time the trail either leads to me or Zigzag. And, if it leads to Zigzag it leads back to me because I get in trouble for whatever Zigzag does.

When I first moved in with Charlene about two years ago, there was no carpet stain police, nor were there any rules in place to protect the carpet.  Charlene would argue there was no need for the carpet police before I moved in. She would say the carpet stain police and the rules she enforces were born out of necessity to protect the carpet from me.

“I SAID… ‘Are Zigzag’s paw’s wet?” Charlene yelled with a hint of aggravation from her warm cozy bed.

I gave her my standard response: “I don’t think so.”

“Her paws better not be wet,” Charlene warned. “If her paws are wet it’s gonna make me maaaaad!”

Charlene’s focus soon shifted. Zigzag’s nose finally found Mr. Howell sitting on the pillow next to Charlene’s face. This is a regular morning ritual where Zigzag locates Mr. Howell on the pillow next to Charlene’s face, tries to sniff his butt, and then whines when Mr. Howell jumps off and runs under the bed. This very ritual also lets Charlene know it’s time for her to get out of bed.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Waist Deep In Winter

I woke up early the next morning feeling unusually confident and excited to see how much snow had fallen. I peered out the snow caked window. The parking lot below was a sea of snow and all the cars looked like they had drowned in it. I couldn’t wait to go outside. 

There was one major complication to getting outside, however. The front door was snowed shut. Fortunately, I managed to force it open just wide enough to squeeze myself out into the waist deep snow.

Zigzag carelessly leapt out behind me unaware that she’d be rendered completely immobile upon landing. She looked at me helplessly. “I’m stuck!” she said with her expressive eyes. I grabbed her by the collar, pulled her into my tracks, and told her, “Follow me if you want to live.”

Wading waist-deep through the snow proved to be very exhausting. But, I knew I had the fuel to make it to the plowed road a few hundred feet ahead. I had been super carbohydrate loading/overeating since Thanksgiving and I had a whole muffin top worth of energy to tap into during physically demanding situations such as this.

I stopped every few steps to catch my breath and to take in my surroundings.   The dark, quiet, and stillness were wonderfully peaceful. But, there was also a part of me (my legs) that longed to hear the loud booming and banging of a snowplow coming to the rescue.

Zigzag and I finally reached plowed road. We were both panting heavily with our purple tongues hanging out the side of our mouths. Now on level ground, our next objective was to let Zigzag’s nose find the perfect location to have her morning glory.

Two hours later, we were headed back to home base, hopeful that the plow had unearthed our parking lot from the snow. Sadly for us, however, we returned to our development the same way we had left it: untouched. And, I quickly realized why. Some jackass abandoned their Ford Explorer right at the entrance of the parking lot, making it impossible for a plow to pass.

There was no sign of Charlene when Zigzag and I came barging back in from our little snow-capade. She was evidently still warm and cozy in bed with Mr. Howell sitting on a pillow next to her face.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

The Avalanche and the Poop Expedition


Charlene and I heard a loud crash come from the balcony. We stopped and looked at each other. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Charlene calmly asked.

“That the balcony just fell off?” I replied.

We got up and rushed over to the sliding glass door that leads to the balcony. “HO-LY shit, baby. Do you see this?” Charlene asked.

We both looked in awe at the 8-foot high pile of snow that just fell off the roof on to the balcony.
“I think we just survived an avalanche!” I exclaimed.

The good news was the balcony was still there; the bad news was Zigzag was giving me her bathroom eyes. It was time to suit up and boot up and take Zigzag out into the tundra for a poop expedition.

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” I announced to Charlene before I exited the building with Zigzag.

Zigzag was so excited about the snow that she immediately forgot I was on the other end of the leash. “Hey! Calm down!” I commanded as she thrashed, pulled, and jumped her way through the accumulating snow.

“Look at me! I’m a wild horse dragging you through the streets!” Zigzag proudly implied by way of pulling me with such force that my arm nearly disconnected from my shoulder.

“Stop!” I asserted.

Zigzag came to a rolling halt. She turned her head in my direction and shrugged her shoulders as her eyes said, “What?”

An hour and a half later, Zigzag and I shuffled in the front door. Charlene was standing tall at the top of the stairs, supervising the removal of all things snow covered and wet. “You better take all those wet clothes off at the bottom of the stairs,” she shouted like a drill sergeant. “You better not track any snow inside!”

Down to only my dry clothes, I began to ascend the stairs. Zigzag was right behind me.
Just as I was about to reach the top of the stairs, Charlene blocked my path, extended her right arm and motioned for me to stop.

“Is that dog wet?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

I gave her the fake out and slipped right past her. Zigzag, on the other hand, got caught in Charlene’s homemade dog net that she made out of an old bath towel. Her dog net invention has a dual purpose: it both catches Zigzag at the top of the stairs and dries her off before she gets the whole place wet.

Charlene and I headed to bed. Instead of watching repeats of ‘To Catch a Predator’ on MSNBC like we usually do on Sunday nights, we decided to listen to the hypnosis CD that came with the book ‘I Can Make You Confident’. We were both in a dead sleep within five minutes of pressing the ‘play’ button.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

The Pursuit of Anything Except Ramen Noodles

The snow was coming down heavily and Charlene was worried. “I don’t think we have any food. What are we going to eat if we get snowed in?” .

“We’ve got plenty of Ramen noodles – and cookies," I assured her.

We were getting hungry for dinner and we were both craving a pizza. We called around to all the local pizzerias. None of them answered the phone. Not even Dominos.

“I guess it’s Ramen noodles tonight,” Charlene said playfully.

Ok. Maybe pizza was out of the question. but there had to be somewhere else. I thought long and hard about whom would be open during this monumental snowstorm. And, then it occurred to me. “We’re having Chinese tonight!” I exclaimed.

Driving the one-mile down the road to Hunan Panda Wok Jade Express felt like what I imagined driving my car at the top of Mt. Everest at night would be like. When I pulled into the parking lot – which at that point looked more like a glacier -- the shopping plaza was completely black except for the little red neon sign that said ‘open’ in the snow covered window of the Chinese restaurant.

I got out of my car and made my way to the front door, trudging through the high winds and shin-deep snow. I walked into the restaurant, and much to my surprise, I wasn’t the only idiot there picking up food. There was a whole line of us. Not only that, but the phone was ringing off the hook with even more idiots placing orders.

Zigzag was waiting for me at the front door when I got home and she was very excited about the contents inside of my big brown grease stained paper bag.

“Whew! It’s nasty out there,” I yelled up the stairs.

“What?” Charlene yelled back.

She was obviously sitting on the couch with Claws or Mr. Howell and couldn’t be bothered to greet me at the door. “How is it out there?” she yelled from the couch.

“I’m giving Zigzag your sweet and sour chicken because she’s the only one that cared enough to greet me at the door,” I said jokingly to Charlene as she continued to sit very warm and cozily on the couch with Claws by her side.

“I couldn’t get up, pooh bear. Look how comfortable Claws looks curled up next to me. I couldn’t bear to disturb him,” she explained as she stroked her hand across his fur.

“Well, food’s here if you’re interested,” I reported. “C’mon Zigzag!”

Zigzag followed me to the kitchen and, reluctantly, Charlene did too. Even the affection of the cat couldn’t hold her back from the mouthwatering aroma of Chinese takeout.

“Oh my God!” Charlene uttered. “I can’t believe how much food they give you.”

“A lot of stray cats,” I maintained.

“That’s horrible. I hate when you say that,” Charlene expressed just as the cats rushed into the kitchen and jumped up on the table.

The cats sat at a safe distance from the food like they always do. They know their boundaries. They know how close they can come without provoking a spray bottle attack. But, I could see their wheels turning – always scheming to get away with a piece of chicken and waiting for me to slip up and drop something on the floor.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Baby Wolfgang, the Blizzard, and The Movie Theater Incident

December 25th had finally arrived. After our fancy Wawa Christmas breakfast, Charlene gave me one last chance to join her in spending the holiday with her family. “No thanks!” I replied.

The women in Charlene’s family have this motto: “No man is good enough for our Charlene”. And, as it turns out, I’m no exception. I’m REALLY on the outs with her older sister Blair. About six months ago, Blair made some outrageous claims that she saw me at the movies by myself when I was not. It would have probably been easier for me to have lied and said, “Yeah. Cat’s out of the bag.  That was me,” but I vehemently denied it.

This, of course, led to Blair telling Charlene, “I don’t like him. He’s lying to you. He was there. I don’t think he’s the right kind of guy for you. I don’t approve of you seeing him.”

The worst part about it is that, as stupid as this whole ‘movie incident’ is, there’s a part of Charlene that believes I might have been at the movies that day – and every time we get into an argument she always resorts to saying, “You were at the movies that day, weren’t you?” Sigh.

Christmas with my family was a little different this year. No getting up early to stare at and open gifts. No greasy egg and bacon breakfast. No China buffet for lunch. None of that good stuff. Now that my brother Arnold got married to Tootie and moved an hour away, our Christmas activities were reduced to a late afternoon gift exchange followed by dinner and dessert.  

The gifts this year were of a higher caliber than the gifts we exchanged last year. Meaning: no snuggies, no slippers, and no cheesy foot, back, or head massagers that only get one use before ending up in a closet. We gave each other real presents this year. That’s because all of the Jackson men (me, my brother, and my father) were all working in 2010. It’s not uncommon for one, or even two of us to have a job at the same time, but all three of us working is quite the phenomenon.

The big topic of conversation around the dinner table was “Baby Wolfgang”. Tootie, my brother’s wife, was due to pop him out on January 8th. She and my mother talked about aches, pains, tingling sensations, antacid, and what it’s to give birth. The Jackson men, on the other hand, discussed more important matters like movies, television, and the zombie apocalypse.

Before the night concluded, my brother Arnold asked if I could drive out to his place the next day and help him move some old furniture out to a dumpster. 

“Sure,” I said.

We were due to get slammed by a huge blizzard the next day and my mother was appalled that my brother would ask me to drive all the way out there in bad weather. “If you go out there tomorrow you’re stupid,” my mother asserted.

The following morning I sent a text message to my brother that said, “I’m leaving now.”

He wrote back, “Word.”

I decided to take the juice van out there. The juice van is my company vehicle/big eyesore that I use for work. The van is about 16-feet long with a very colorful, attention grabbing graphic wrap on it. Totally not embarrassing to drive.

It started snowing as soon as I got on the road. “How bad could the roads get in a matter of a few hours?” I asked myself. I would soon find out.

I arrived safely at my brother’s apartment on time and without complication. “I’m surprised you came out in this today,” Tootie remarked.

“I told you he would come,” Arnold exclaimed. “The Jackson brother’s love driving in the snow.”

“So, what are we moving out of here?” I asked. Arnold led me into the spare bedroom and showed me a bookshelf and a computer desk. “That’s it?” I wondered. Arnold didn’t need my help. He could have moved it all by himself.

It didn’t take us long to move his old furniture out to the dumpster, but the snow seemed to be accumulating quickly. “It looks like it’s snowing out there pretty hard,” Tootie said with concern. “Are you guys still planning on going out to lunch?”

If I had a rational side, Iwould have said, “No. I should be getting back before the roads get too dangerous,” but instead I said, “I’m down for lunch.”

Arnold and I jumped in his brand new Subaru Forrester. “I finally get to test this bitch out in the snow!” Arnold touted.  We set course to Red Robin and the roads weren’t looking like anything nice. “So, what did you need my help for, bro?” I asked Arnold as we cruised down the snowy roads. “You could have moved that stuff yourself.”

“I know,” he said. “But Tootie has been on my ass lately. She has a million things she wants me to do before Wolfgang is born and she wants it all done right this second. She kept asking me, ‘when are you going to get rid of that computer desk?’ and ‘when are you gonna’ get rid of that bookshelf?’ I didn’t feel like doing it right then so I said I had to wait for a day when you could come and help me.”

“Good thinking,” I said with laughter. “Good thinking!”

After lunch it was time to brave the road home. I wasn’t sure how well the juice van was going to perform in the snow – especially since I had bald tires and shoddy windshield wipers. Despite the slippery snow covered roads and the piss poor visibility, there was only one instance on the ride home where I thought I was going to have to abandon the juice van and hoof it the rest of the way back.

It took nearly three hours, but I finally made it. Zigzag and Charlene came tumbling down the stairs as soon as they heard the front door open. “I’m so happy you made it home!” Zigzag implied, tail wagging as she circled and licked and made half attempts to jump on me at the bottom of the stairs.

“I was very, very worried about you, pooh bear!” Charlene chimed in. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours.”




Thursday, January 6, 2011

Whatchu talking about, Willis?

Merry Christmas and welcome to my blog.  So, this morning my girlfriend, Charlene, and I decided to start a new Christmas tradition. We went to Wawa for breakfast. I got a 10-inch meatball sub, a root beer, and a 99-cent bag of air with some sour cream and onion potato chips. I ordered Charlene a bowl of pancakes and a tongue-scorching hazelnut coffee. She refused to let me order her the bowl of pancakes at first. She said, “I’m not in the mood for a bowl of pancakes. I’m not even really hungry”. But, I insisted. I explained that it wouldn’t feel like Christmas if I had a meatball sub and she didn’t have anything to eat from Wawa.

Wawa for Christmas breakfast wasn’t our original plan. We actually wanted to go to Perkins. We got in the car and drove over there, but they were closed – and so were the Americana Diner, the Cobblestone Diner, and the Four Seasons Diner (all within 2.5 miles of each other). We only had three choices left: White Castle, the Grand China Buffet, or Wawa. If it were up to Charlene, we would have gone back home and poured a couple of bowls of Fiber One cereal. But, that just didn’t feel like Christmas to me.

On the ride back home, Charlene laughed, gave me a look of disgust, and exclaimed, “Ugh. I just caught a wiff of your meatball sandwich! I think I’m gonna’ vomit.” She made a few retching gestures and asked, “Who eats a meatball sandwich at 9:30 on Christmas morning?”

“This guy does,” I replied. “Get used to it. It’s tradition now.”

It turns out that a meatball sandwich tastes just as good at 9:30 in the morning as it does at 12 noon. And, Charlene practically inhaled that entire bowl of pancakes. She didn’t even save a taste for Zigzag, our German Shepherd. So much for Charlene not being hungry or in the mood for a bowl of pancakes.

Charlene and I didn’t have any gifts to open this morning. That’s because we exchanged gifts on December 17th: the day after my birthday. I suggested we do that because I was feeling greedy for more presents after my birthday -- and also because I was excited to give her the gift I had just purchased for her. I sent her a text message from the store where I bought her present. It said, “I think we should exchange gifts tonight.”

 “Ok,” she wrote back.

Charlene was waiting for me on the futon with Claws, one of our cats, when I got home. She usually greets me at the door with Zigzag – except when Claws or Mr. Howell (our other cat) are around. She loves them the more than she loves me and Zigzag and I do have evidence to prove it. But, we’ll talk about that another time. Anyway, Charlene started laughing at me as soon as she saw me. “What is that?” she asked as she eyed up the gift I had under my arm.

“What do you think?” I responded.
“Whatever it is, I can tell you wrapped it,” she said.

For some reason I felt like I had to defend myself and said ,“I had to wrap it in the car so you wouldn’t know what it is when I walked in.”

It was true. I made a special stop at the Dollar Tree before I came home where I bought some tape and the most expensive wrapping paper they had. I wrapped her gift in the car – and it was harder than I thought it would be. I didn’t have much room to spread out, no scissors, and I couldn’t see shit because the asshole in SUV parked in front of me was shining his headlights in my eyes the whole time. The final product, however, didn’t look much different than if I wrapped a gift in perfect gift wrapping conditions with the perfect gift wrapping tools.

“Are you sure you want to exchange gifts tonight?” Charlene asked. “You’re going to be upset when you have no gifts to open on Christmas, are you?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Charlene hesitated for a moment and then said, “Okay”. Then she excitedly ran over to remote control and turned the TV to the Christmas music channel. It was now officially Christmas in our world.

Me, Charlene, Zigzag, Claws, and Mr. Howell all made ourselves comfortable around the Christmas tree. Charlene handed me my first gift. It was a small box and all I could think was that I was about to be engaged -- and that there better be a nice sized diamond in there. I opened it up and, instead, there was a note that said: “Pooh Bear: Your real gift was too big to wrap so come with me into the laundry to find it.”

Charlene popped up from the floor and led me to the laundry room. “You know what it is, don’t you?” she asked. “You saw it already, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what it is,” I said. “Why would I know what it is?”

“I think you know what it is,” she said as she pulled out this giant box. “You know what it is, right?”

“I still have no idea,” I explained as I began opening the box.

It was a bass guitar! And, I had no idea that’s what she got me before I tore the open the box. Well, actually… I had some idea because a few weeks ago she forced me to tell her what I wanted for my birthday/Christmas and then made me take her places where these things were sold. A bass guitar was the first item on my list.

“You knew what it was, didn’t you?” Charlene insisted.

I was really excited about my new bass. I couldn’t wait to plug it in, turn it up, and begin disturbing our downstairs neighbors, the Bunkers.

We made our way back to the Christmas tree where I handed Charlene her gift. I prefaced that I spent a little more on the gift than our agreed $150 limit. She shot back and said, “Obviously I did too.”

She unwrapped the gift like she was playing a scratch off. She’d tear off a little piece of wrapping paper and try to guess what it. Then she repeated the cycle until it was totally unwrapped. And, then she still looked at it like she didn’t know what it was.

I knew it finally registered when she realized I didn’t just wrap some cheap junk in an HP box – and that there was actually an HP product inside of it: an HP netbook to be more specific. “Really?” she questioned enthusiastically. “You got me a computer?”

“Well, yours is a piece of shit. You really need one that works.”

“It’s awesome! So cute and tiny! I love it!”

She gave me a thank-you kiss on the lips and asked, “Do you want to open your New Years’ gift too?” Of course I did. She quickly snatched up another gift from under the Christmas tree and handed it over to me.

I was pumped.  It was a Metro PCS phone with a Qwerty keyboard and camera. The technology of this new phone far exceeds that of my blue Samsung flip phone. T9 would soon be a thing of the past for me.

All the gifts had been exchanged and Charlene asked, “Don’t you think it’s going to be sad on Christmas morning when we don’t have any gifts to open?”

“No,” I answered. “I still get lots of gifts from my family on Christmas.”

“Well, there a few more things I’d still like to get you for Christmas,” Charlene announced.

I knew what that meant. There were a few more things she’d like for Christmas too. So much for me trying to be responsible with money. I was going for broke.


A few days before the nationally recognized Christmas holiday, Charlene insisted she come with me to pick out presents for my brother, his wife, and my mom. She dragged me to a bunch of girly stores like 'Bath and Body Works'. She had a real talent for choosing presents for the women in my family.  She did, however, cross the line hen she decided we were getting skin care products for my brother too.

He didn’t want skin products. He wanted a man's gift -- like a flashlight. But, I was outgunned.  My gift choices for my brother were between Jack Black’s skin care kit and ‘Anthony’ shaving lotion kit. I went with Anthony since Jack Black was too expensive for a gag gift that my brother would never use.

Charlene and I celebrated our 2nd Christmas the night of Christmas Eve. We both bought each other a lot of clothes. And, surprise, surprise - nothing I bought her fit.