I'll Take Potpourri for $200 Please

1.  I have now been a part of no less than four truck breakdowns at new job, including a depot record two in one day on Monday.  I'm starting to get a reputation.  Number one I've talked about previously.  Number two was harmless (apart from a tongue lashing from our one-toothed mechanic who sounds like the crazy cat lady from the Simpsons when he gets agitated).  The truck didn't exhibit any signs of malfunction until I pulled into the garage at the end of my shift.  At that point it started smoking furiously and smelling like burning flesh.  I still don't know what was wrong with it (see mechanic above), but I know he wasn't happy with me and the truck was out of commission for a week or so.  Monday's episodes I can't be blamed for as I wasn't even driving, just riding along.  I won't bore with the details, but the end results were unloading one truck and loading another on the shoulder of a freeway at 5:00AM (breakdown #1) and an hour-long ride from St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin, to New Hope in the backseat of a tow truck (I didn't realize they had backseats either, but am thankful they do as I wasn't interested in riding three across the whole way back) which gave me an awful kink in my neck from the awkward position I was forced to take my nap in.  So, to sum up, I have killed or been an accomplice in the killing of four different trucks already.  I have been acquitted once from insufficient evidence, allowed to walk once from a hung jury, and escaped twice as my partner refused to testify against me.  I am the Jeffrey Dahmer of high-caloric delivery trucks.

2.  Speaking of the new job, a combination of that and the grueling, ultra-competitve Schlitz Sporting Club have left me with a nasty case of late 1970's pre-teen boy legs.  In other words, before video games and cable became so incredibly awesome that sheer boredom forced you outside and, invariably, into physical activities.  Witness:

Photo one is, I believe, proof that my skin has the toughness of wet toliet paper.  Not the double strength Charmin that those creepy cartoon bears always have stuck to their ass in the commericials but the kind of toliet paper you find if you have ever been unfortunate enough to have to take a shit at Walmart or the Metrodome.  This injury occurred playing volleyball with the Schlitz Sporting Club last Sunday.  Understandble, perhaps, except for we played volleyball on the kind of lush sand you see in travel brochures for exotic beaches in places you have never heard of.  It was so soft you could make matresses from it.  How I managed to savagely tear up my knee in it is beyond comprehension.  It's akin to suffering a concussion in a pillow fight with a toddler.

Photo two is the aftermath of a savage attack I suffered from a fully-loaded bread rack.  Rushing to finish my day last Saturday and begin my sorry excuse for a weekend, I was pushing a fully-loaded rack up a ramp at a faster than recommended speed (yes, bread racks have speed limits).  One small stone in my path began the slapstick hilarity.  A wheel hit the stone just perfectly, causing the rack to lurch violently forward and begin tipping over.  Determined not to let this happen, I reacted quickly, pulling back on the rack with everything I had.  Unfortunately, in my split-second reaction, I failed to take into account that I would also have gravity in my favor (I was pushing uphill).  The result was pretty obvious.  Next thing I knew I was laying on my back in the Cub parking lot, buried in 108 loaves of white, wheat and pumpernickel bread.  My extreme shame and embarrassment caused me to jump up quickly (I tried to do that!), reload the cart and race into the store.  Only after a few minutes of wondering why I was getting horrified stares from suburban tennis moms did I realize my leg was gushing blood. 

3.  I have been offered (and accepted) a temporary contract writing reviews of various places/events around Mpls.  I found the position on Craigslist, which made me a bit jittery as 97% of Craigslist ads result in anal rape or worse, as anyone who watches as much Lifetime Television or the Hallmark Channel as I do can attest.  However, it was with a site I had heard of before and follow up emails with them have been reassuring.  The interesting part is the ad said they were looking for "young, hip, social butterflys" for the gig.  Without question, these are the first three descriptive terms I would use for myself if asked.  Or perhaps the last three.  Either way, I sent them a link to my blog and answered a few sample questions and was offered the gig.  The only catch is they want the reviews to be short (ala Twitter format).  As is agonizingly obvious to anyone who has read this far, being short and concise isn't easy for me.  I get far too much egotistical enjoyment from my own narrative and tend to go on and on (and on).  So, it may be a bit of a challenge.  Regardless, I'm looking forward to it.  My friend Carrie (who has done online reviews previously) summed it up best when I turned to her for advice:  "Writing for money is entirely different than writing for yourself.  Think of it as having sex with an old woman.  Your dick knows what it is doing, but it isn't necessarily enjoying itself."  Brilliant.

4.  I realized sometime this week that I have worn long pants exactly twice since May 19th.  Once was for a wedding.  The other was for a wake.  I don't know whether to be proud or embarrassed of this.

5.  Finally, story time.  Or, more accurately, a cautionary tale about the perils of shopping severely hungover while suffering from middle-aged dementia.

I have a good friend - for sake of anonymity, let's call him Moe Bepple - who quite often is inviting me for cocktails.  I like Moe, and I love cocktails, but 98% of the time I decline.  Sometimes it is for legitimate excuses (other engagements, responsibilities, etc.), but sometimes it is because I am simply afraid.  Moe is 30 years old and, like most people ten years younger than I, is able to consume far more alcohol far more frequently than I.  When I do agree to meet up with Moe, it always follows the same pattern:  He will buy the first round, which we will drink down and I will buy the second.  Then it's his turn, then mine, etc.  It's a pretty simple ABAB pattern that you learn in kindergarten.  However, I think Moe may have been absent the day they taught this lesson.  Sometime around the third repitition, he always seems to fuck it up by introducing "C" into the equation.  In this example, "C" = undistinguishable potent shots.  So, now our simple ABAB pattern has evolved into something that looks like this: ABAB(A*C).  Confused yet?  If not, hang on.  After Moe introduces "C" into the equation, I will try to regain balance (literally and figuratively) by simply providing my B. (ABAB(A*C)B).  Moe, however, will not be denied.  Before my B has more than a few sips gone, A rears it's ugly head again, with it's now permanent (even uglier-headed) attachment C.  Pretty soon, B is removed from the equation altogether and we end up with something like this:  ABAB(A*C)(1/2B)(A*C)C(A*C)AA(A*C)C.  The end result is never pretty.  I don't want to give the impression that it's not fun - it always is, but it usually takes me about a week to recover.

Anyhoo, back to the story.  A couple of weeks ago, Moe asked if KT and I would be interested in meeting he and his wife for a drink somewhere before they went to a Twins game.  Perfect.  It was on a Saturday, meaning I had to work and couldn't meet before 4:00 or so.  Plus, the Twins started at 6:00.  How much damage could be done in two hours?  Needless to say, I severely underestimated Moe and his damned complex formulas.  Seven hours and two unused Twins tickets later I somehow ended up at home in bed passed out cold.  KT was slightly better off than I (apparently being a female - or perhaps just being sensible - allows you to refuse to accept C into your equation), but feeling no pain all the same.

Sunday morning arrived with all the well-deserved head and stomach issues one might expect.  Fortunately, we didn't have a huge list of things we needed to accomplish.  A quick simple trip to Menards for a pair of gloves to protects my hands from razor-sharp loaves of bread was all that was on our agenda.  Piece of cake.  Several Excedrin and a few pots of coffee and we were on our way at the break of noon.

Anyone who knows and loves KT dearly is already aware of the following two facts, but for all others, a brief tutorial:

1.  KT loves Menards.  Everything and anything about it.  This is in direct contrast to my feelings about Menards.

2.  KT does not, nor has she ever, allowed public spaces or the presence of others (strangers or friends/family) discourage her from talking about, laughing about or (especially) expelling gas.  Where most others feel a sense of embarrassment or shame, KT feels nothing.  While most times this results is nothing more sinister than exceptionally loud belching in the middle of a store, it can occassionally take a nastier turn.

Because of my severe hangover, I didn't have the energy to gripe and moan and be the crybaby I typically am at Menards and I allowed KT to meander the aisles aimlessly with only token resistance.  After suffering through bathroom fixtures, power tools and doors we arrived at the "seasonal" section which is always her favorite.  The seasonal section in late summer was filled with close out patio furniture and other summery items they were trying to dump off to make room for the Halloween crap they would be displaying soon.  I picked a comfortable looking chair in the corner and popped a squat knowing it would be several minutes before KT was thoroughly satisfied she had sat on every available chair/loveseat/swing possible.  Watching her from my perch, however, I noticed her with a rather disturbing look on her face, jumping from seat to seat at a pace much quicker than normal.  I knew immediately what was going on and wasn't surprised in the least when she waddled (yes waddled) over and said "we should probably get out of here".  You see, as comfortable as KT is with farting in public, she is equally - if not more - comfortable quickly vacating the scene of the crime and pinning the deed on some poor innocent sucker who just happens to be wandering by.

Happy for the excuse to bail, I jump up and head for the registers careful to stay upwind of KT.  We head to an open lane, watch the high-school age girl ring up one pair of gloves and a box of Gobstoppers, and then stare at each other uncomfortably while the cashier repeats the amount we owe a few times.  We both reailized immediately that we hadn't brought any form of payment along but spent a few moments patting all of our pockets anyways, not wanting be the one to break the news that we were unable to pay.  Finally I caved, saying "sorry, just realized I forgot my wallet and don't have any money on me".  KT, always the polite one (public flatulence aside), chimed in "we'll come back, we promise!".  I'm not sure if the cashier felt pity or scorn, and I'm not sure which would be worse, but she just turned to the next people in line and explained that it would be just a bit as she needed a supervisor to come over and cancel our sale out.

That's not so bad, right?  Just about everyone has at one time or another forgotten their wallet or even dropped ass in a store.  It's not a big deal - we just cut our losses, laugh it off and head home for a much needed nap.  Yeah, well, not quite.  Sometime between leaving Menards and walking the 30 yards to our car, KT and I seemed to forget all the valuable lessons we just learned.  We didn't drive home.  Instead, we drove directly across the street to Target.  I still can't figure out how it is possible for not one, but two, people to completely forget within 30 seconds that they had no money along, but KT and I managed to do it.  We strolled into Target and began shopping anew.  Miraculously, however, I managed to recall our lack of payment option before we reached the register.  Sheepishly, we headed for the exits.  About 100 feet from the door, however, KT violently grabbed my arm, digging her nails deep into my flesh.  Before I could react she begain wailing as if she were in labor.  Again, KT and I have been together a while, so I knew exactly what was going on.  She had to poop.  Along with a lack of filter on appropriate times/places to expel gas, KT seems to lack the warning signs others get when it's time to take a deuce.  It seems to strike her suddenly, violently and without warning or mercy.  A nasty hangover only makes it worse.  So, to compound my misery, I walked out of Target with KT clinging to my elbow, wincing and loudly proclaiming "It's coming!  It's coming! I have to pooooooooooop!" while all the normal Sunday shoppers watched us not sure whether to call the police, ambulance or psych ward.  

We left Target and headed for home.  After a nap, more Excedrin and KT taking care of her intestinal issues, we tried one last time.  Too embarrassed to go back to either of the other places, I was desperate enough to tap Walmart.  The trip went off without a hitch and after three stores and six hours I had my work gloves (and my Gobstoppers).  It's ironic that Walmart was our success story as our other exploits would have been par for the course there and nobody would have even noticed.  Three lessons were learned from the experience:

1.  Never, under any circumstances, trust Moe Bepple when he wants to have a "couple" beers

2.  Never, under any circumstances, go in public with KT after a night of drinking unless she has successfully expunged all her demons

3.  Despite my protestations to the contrary, we are indeed "Walmart people"

Middle Age Man Syndrome - The Single Life

KT and Audrey went to Bismarck on Thursday for a long weekend. With Al out of the house now, this meant four beautiful, glorious days of the bachelor life. No taxi duty, the remotes are mine, no schedules to vibe with. Typically, this would mean four days of bar hopping, going to bands, eating shitty food and being a general jackass. I had visions of bike rides, Pizza Luce Block Party and whatever else I could cram around my work schedule. Below is a chronology of how my time went:

Thursday

4:00PM - Got home from work, but not before picking up two (2!) snack size bags of Old Dutch Dill Pickle potato chips (best chip ever unless they start making the ketchup chips again) and a two liter or (diet) 7-up. Let the party begin. Poured myself a whiskey/7, cracked open a bag of chips and grabbed the remote. Free to watch whatever I chose, I dove into House Hunters International on HGTV. If that isn't evidence enough to turn in my man card, consider this - I had several episodes backlogged that I had DVR'd. After three episodes, realized I had a terrible stomach ache. Played a game of FIFA while waiting for my stomach to settle so I could have another drink.

6:30PM - Stomach still not settled, I took a shower, swigged some Pepto and laid down to read.

7:15PM - Woke up when iPad I was reading my book on slipped from my hands and smacked into my nose. Pain in nose made me temporarily forget that my stomach was a gurgling burbling mess. Decided to give up the fight and rest up for the hijinx I would partake in Friday. Apologized to the dog for being so boring, promised I would make it up to her tomorrow.

Friday

3:28AM - woke up, two minutes before my alarm went off. Came to the realization that for all my bravado about sleeping better alone, it simply isn't true. Paranoid about oversleeping my alarm, I woke at 11:13, 12:45, 1:23, 1:49 and 2:12, although I'm not sure if the 1:49 time counts because I don't know if I actually fell back asleep. I am confident of the accuracy of these times as I picked up my phone to check each time I woke, sure I had overslept.

4:15AM - Arrived at work to learn that because of various illnesses I would be working alone for the first time. No problem, I was confident I was ready. A quick shift at work and I would be home early afternoon to begin the bachelor life in earnest.

4:30AM - Was chastised by crabby old lady manager at my first stop for moving too slowly. I apologized and explained I was new to the route and the job. She replied, "I'm too busy to sit around waiting for you". Considered mentioning that there was nobody else in the store (a Holiday) and she had been standing glassy-eyed behind the counter, not moving in the slightest, the entire time I had been there. Decided against it.

4:45PM - Neglected to consider the simple mathematical formula that two people work faster than one. Was disappointed to just be leaving work at a time I expected to be at a Happy Hour somewhere. Raced home, showered, and went to feed the dog before beginning my evening. Realized we were out of dog food. Cursed, several times, and headed to Walmart. Had any and all remaining energy sapped from me by the Walmart black hole.

6:30PM - Thought about having a drink, remembered stomachache of previous night and decided against it. Ate a salad and a turkey sandwich while watching Hallo Bundesliga. Became enraged when I realized Al had stolen my second bag of Dill Pickle chips when he was home earlier to let the dog out. Sent him a menacing threatening text. His reply (he blamed a friend) 20 minutes later woke me up. Apologized to the dog again and went to bed knowing that at least Saturday was a short work day and I could bike down to the Pizza Luce Block Party when I got home.

Saturday

3:27 - Up three minutes before alarm time today after another horrible night of (not) sleep. Asked Old Lady Maggie to go out and take a leak before I left. She took one step outside, realized it was raining and hightailed back inside to bed. I briefly considered doing the same before the Lutheran guilt made me realize that was impossible.

12:30PM - One mile away from my last stop of the day, ecstatic that I'm going to be home by 1:30. Twinkie wagon begins smoking furiously from under the hood. Soon entire interior of truck is filled with so much smoke that I can't see. Freak out a bit because I think Twinkies may be highly combustible. Pull into a parking lot and call dispatch who connects me to a mechanic. Mechanic tells me to pop the hood and tell him what I see. This is similar to asking KT to diagram the triangle offense. After several moments I notice a belt broken which has somehow destroyed the alternator (I still don't quite get it). Mechanic tells me the truck is done, he will call a wrecker and call me back.

1:30PM - Mechanic calls me back and tells me a tow truck will be there "within an hour".

3:45PM - Tow truck arrives. Driver fits every stereotype imaginable (cut off sleeves, bad tattoos, giant wad of tobacco, answers my "How's it going?" greeting with "It's goin'"). We proceed to ride the entire 45 minute trip back to the depot without saying another word (I'm actually quite grateful for this). He does, however, pick up his clipboard and use it to violently scratch his back about every five minutes.

5:30PM - Exhausted, but finally home, I decide to blow off the block party even though my twitter feed is filled with people saying it's the greatest thing ever. Full of pity, I buy a twelve pack and some chicken wings and decide to get drunk and watch the Vikings.

7:00PM - Kick-off, I'm well into my second beer, my belly is full and I'm feeling pretty upbeat.

7:45PM - I wake up. Dazed, but not beaten, I figure the nap will give me the kick of energy I need to stay up late and get my buzz on. I get up, crack open third beer and rewind the game to where I figure I must of drifted off.

8:30PM - I wake up. Third beer is sitting on the end table, untouched. I give it up and decide to go to bed and read.

9:00PM - iPad falls backward this time, waking me as it slaps against my stomach. I call it a night and decide to sleep in tomorrow for my day off.

Sunday

5:00AM - Wide awake. I refuse to give in, however, and decide I won't get out of bed until 8:00

5:30AM - Give up. Head to Cub for a newspaper and orange juice. Inwardly throw a tantrum because it's too early to get the NY Times Sunday paper and I have to settle for the Strib.

6:00AM - Seriously consider going out to mow the lawn before deciding against it. Do some laundry and a quick cleaning of the house instead. Decide to vacuum the shag carpeting in the kitchen.

6:15AM - Realize we don't have shag carpeting in the kitchen but that the dog seems to be molting.

8:00AM - House tidied, breakfast made and eaten, I decide to start on the lawn so that I'll have the rest of the day to play. Realize I have to pick up dog crap first since I don't have a child at home to pawn it off on. Am amazed by the quantity my dog can shit in one weeks time and wonder if it is due to a bionic digestive track or a slightly less than stellar job performance that my child may have done when I asked him/her (her) to do it last.

8:30AM - determine the lawn is still too wet to mow, go inside to play a game of FIFA. Realize that somehow a bee has made it's way inside my shirt. Remember vow to never kill bees because I read somewhere that they are disappearing and we will all die if they go away. Try to coax bee out of my shirt and am rewarded with a sting to my stomach.

11:00AM - Audibly cuss at the FIFA game (yes, I had been playing for over two hours) for not calling a trip in the penalty box in the 90th minute of a nil-nil game. Realize it is the first time I have exercised my vocal cords in 20 hours. Start talking to the dog to make sure I remember how.

12:00PM - Mow the lawn. Applaud myself for not running over any of the hundreds of toads that have decided to breed in our backyard this summer. Try to mow the front yard in a cool looking diamond pattern. Realize I was never very good at art or geometry. Front yard ends up looking like a three year olds self-given haircut.

2:00PM - Have a beer to celebrate finishing my chores and to kick start the free-wheeling bachelor day ahead.

3:30PM - Wake up. Throw in the towel and decide to watch a Netflix stream. Throw a tantrum and cancel Netflix subscription when stream won't work. Watch DVR'd match between Bayer Leverkusen and Werder Bremen instead. Realize this has been the highlight of my single guy weekend.

6:00PM - Shower. Eat a cheese tortilla. Drink a beer and write this blog. Realize I really miss having KT and the kids around.

Now - Time to go to bed and read. Remember to wear protective padding in anticipation of inevitable iPad collapse.

How to be a Swedish Crime Solver

I'm plowing through a lot of Swedish crime novels lately.  I tell myself it's because KT has asked me to help her write reviews for shopswedish.com, but it's more out of a guilty perversion than anything.  I've come to realize that there are certain requirements to be an exemplary murder solver in Sweden.

1.  You must have an intense dislike for chain of command.  You must work best alone without a nosy son-of-a-bitch bureaucrat mucking things up with things like protocol and laws.  You must have an intensely antagonistic relationship with your direct report and be threatened with dismissal or criminal charges for your cavalier attitude.

2.  You must have a deep-lying psychological trauma that you live with daily but refuse to seek the help of a psychiatrist for even though everyone tells you to.  It will most likely involve the death of your parents or children and your sense of guilt over how they died, even though IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT!  There will be an intelligent, incredibly beautiful psychiatrist who tries to figure you out and help you, but you must resist.  You will have a flirtatious relationship with her and you may quite possibly have sex with her.  The murder you are solving must somehow conjure up your personal demons and - consciously or not - you must believe that solving this murder will give you the inner peace you are so desperately lacking.

3.  Younger, incredibly beautiful, smart, charming women must find you irresistible.  You should have sex with several of them, but never commit because you are horrible at love and have many past experiences to prove it.  It's always your fault, and you are well aware that you are horrible, married to your job and can't be trusted.  None of these qualities should prevent you from having sex with these incredibly hot women.  After all, they are throwing themselves at you.

4.  You should have a friend from your police academy days you have a mutual respect for but haven't talked to since your days at the academy.  This friend will be able to provide you invaluable help to solve the murder.  Seriously, as soon as the murder occurs, call this person!  There is no reason to wait until halfway through the book.  Calling him/her immediately will help you solve this murder much sooner.  If you don't have such a friend, a retired detective who was your mentor will suffice.

5.  You must follow a hunch at least once and have it go horribly, horribly wrong.  Either someone must be injured (but never killed) or the police, and your asshole boss (see number one), must be publicly embarrassed and ridiculed in the press.  And, speaking of the press, you must have an awful relationship with them (unless, of course, you are an investigative reporter instead of a cop).  The massive screw-up should have you removed from the case/story, whereupon you should resign or threaten to resign to solve the case on your own.

6.  You must capture the killer alone, without help, and incur great physical harm while doing so.  You must overcome seemingy insurmountable odds to capture the killer.  The killer may or may not die - either is fine.  You should call for back up, but there must be circumstances that require you to confront the killer alone before help gets there.

7.  All of the above must be accomplished in no less than 400 pages.

The Unemployment Chronicles Part Eleven - The Employment Chronicles Part One

As hinted at earlier, I am once again in the world of the gainfully employed.  My official title is Route Sales Driver for Interstate Brands Corporation.  Put more simply I am selling/delivering Hostess brands.  Wingin' the Wonder Wagon.  Trippin' on the Twinkie Truck.  Or, perhaps most accurately, Delivering the Diabetes.  It is really one of those strange karma deals that got me here.  The day my position was eliminated at my old gig and I was at the height of my misery - down with people, down with companies, down with just about everything - KT and I were heading to the grocery store when I saw a bread truck and said, "Maybe I should just get a bread route".  It was a tongue-in-cheek statement, one which I didn't even recall saying until KT reminded me when I was called for an interview.  Being much more in-tune with the universe than I, she immediately said, "you put it out there and thus it became" (I'm kinda like Jesus in that way).  Regardless of whether you believe in karma or not, however, the job was one of several (over 50) that I applied for and the only job I received so much as a call back on.  So, long story short, I interviewed, did a "ride along", interviewed again, went pee in a cup and started on Monday.  Some early impressions:

The Good

- I was unemployed for exactly 59 days, or just over eight weeks.  According to the NY Times (and they know everything) the average length of unemployment is 37.1 weeks (9 months!).  So, I feel pretty good about getting back in the game after a short two month summer vacation.  Had I been unemployed for nine months I would have surely reached Charlie Manson levels of lunacy.  Fortunately, eight weeks only brought me to Charlie Sheen levels.

- In 60 days I will officially be a motha fuckin' Teamster.  I just like saying that.  I'm fully aware that unions can be as polarizing as religion and politics, but I'm ecstatic to be joining one.  I grew up in a union household and my parents still rave about the benefits they received because my dad was part of the UAW.  Plus the Teamsters just held their annual convention in Las Vegas (the town dirty Teamsters' money allegdy built) and their president is Jim Hoffa - yes Hoffa.  I will be dilegently searching for books on Teamster history now.

-  Speaking of books, I can still read them.  When I get home from this job, the job ends.  I don't have to think about it until I arrive the next morning.  I asked the guy I am training with if he ever stresses about his job when he goes home and he looked at me as if I asked him if he enjoyed gang bangs.  Books, movies, running, Schlitz Sports Club, this blog - all items I didn't have time to do previous to losing my job - I will be able to continue to do.  I won't be continually haraunged at all hours on all days via emails/phone calls.  Hell, I don't even have an email address with this gig.  I operate a tiny hand held "computer" with only a number pad and Enter button.  That's about as analog as you can get these days - and it's awesome.

-  I start work at 4:30 each morning.  No, this wasn't accidentally placed in The Good.  I love starting work this early for a couple of reasons.  First and foremost, it means getting home early.  On Monday I was home at 1:00.  Yesterday I was home at 2:30.  Plus, I haven't slept past 6:30 in the morning in over 19 years (hmm...how old is Al?) so a couple of hours earlier isn't really an issue.  I'm at my productive best early in the morning and dawn - when everything is eerily quiet, serene and beautiful - has always been my favorite time of day.  I was apprehensive about a 9:00 bedtime, but as usual KT set me straight in her famously loving gentle way by saying, "you're always old man asleep on the couch by that time anyways, so what's the difference?".  Touché.

-  It's an active job.  It involves a lot of lifting, walking, climbing, pushing, pulling, etc.  I won't be sitting behind a desk with my eyes glazing over staring at a computer screen (at least until I get home).  I have yet to come across another bread guy who is obese.  It would be pretty hard to do with this job.

The Bad

- I no longer have a weekend.  Ironic, as unions' catchphrases are often "from the people that brought you the weekend".  My days off are Wednesday and Sunday.  This will take some getting used to and pretty much eliminates being able to go anywhere too far away for the weekend.  More devastating, however, will be the loss of Friday night Happy Hour, which is always a highlight of the week.  If you want to be one of those annoying bright-side people, however, I suppose you could look at it like this:  I'm never more than  three days away from a day off.

-  It's a D.O.T. job, which means random drug testing.  Before you snicker and make stoner jokes, I passed my test, and I will pass any tests they give me - I'm not worried about that.  It's just that I think random drug testing is incredibly invasive and stupid.  It's like randomly selecting people to stand trial for burglary or murder.  Having to prove your innocence even though there is no evidence or even suspicion of guilt bothers me.  I can understand why a driving job would require a pre-employment or a post-accident screen but random tests can bite me.  (Side note:  I once saw a sign on the front door of a Blockbuster that said "We drug test our employees for your safety".  Thank god for that.  Heaven forbid someone stoned suggest a movie.  You can only watch A Clockwork Orange so many times.)

-  Driving a bread route is, admittedly, not quite the job I had fantasized about when I first became unemployed.  However, since my repeated harassing emails to the Bundesliga, St. Pauli, Eurail, Sparta Rotterdam and the Swedish Allsvenskan have (so far) failed to convince them that they absolutely must immediately hire me to travel Europe on their dime and write English language content for them, it will have to suffice for now.  However, if they do finally realize that they can't live without me, I might still be open to considering it.  Don't tell Hostess.

The Unemployment Chronicles Part Ten - The End

So I got a job.  I started on Monday.  Thanks for playing along.

The end.

The Unemployment Chronicles Part Nine - Memory Lane

Yesterday I undertook the gargantuan task of finding my Social Security card.  Or, more accurately, I undertook the heroic effort of following KT from room to room as she searched for my Social Security card.  We gave up after about four hours of searching and decided I would just venture to the Social Security office today and get a new one (which I thought would be a blog worthy adventure of its own.  Turns out it wasn't - I was in and out of there in five minutes and saw nothing but pleasant and helpful people the whole time.  Damn their efficiency and professionalism!).  Although we failed to find my card, we stumbled across a box deep in the attic which contained some of my personal items dating from early childhood through college.  It contained some of what you would expect - High School graduation program, confirmation picture, basketball cards (including thirteen Sherman Douglas rookie cards - I must have figured he was going to be awesome), etc.  There were also a few more noteworthy items.  Here is an inventory:

 - An envelope labeled "Paul's Teeth".  It contains exactly what you would expect.  Why I have kept my teeth for 30+ years, I have no idea.  I have a small box in our bathroom full of my kid's teeth as well.  Do other people do this?  I'm a little worried.  I can see perhaps saving a child's first lost tooth as a keepsake, but all of them?  The teeth in the envelope I discovered yesterday have no sentimental value.  They weren't my first teeth lost.  They didn't even come out naturally.  I had a messed up set of choppers when I was younger.  Think British meth-addict.  The seven teeth in this envelope were pulled out because they were growing in weird places or at weird angles.  Or at least that's what the dentist said.  In retrospect, he may have just been a sadist.

-  A white rabbit fur.  I don't know how or why I got this, but I remember my brother had one as well (his was gray).  It sat on the nightstand next to my bed and I kept my alarm clock on it.  The immediate question that comes to mind is who the hell manufactures rabbit skins?  Is there a sick farmer somewhere who raises rabbits simply to skin them and sell their hides to pre-pubescent children?  And if there is such a person, are they automatically on the "person of interest" list in all missing persons cases?  I would ok with throwing this away, but the fact that KT finds it so revolting that I can threaten her with it (really KT, I think this would look nice next to my side of the bed) means I have to keep it.

- A giant conch shell.  This didn't come from a memorable childhood trip to the ocean.  It came from a garage sale.  I think I paid 25 cents for it.  It also sat on the rabbit skin next to my alarm clock.  I have absolutely no idea why I have kept this and moved it from house to house no less than seven times.  I would dispose of it but I'm not sure if it is garbage or recycling.  Google couldn't help me on this.

- One Coca-Cola can and one Coca-Cola bottle.  When "new" Coke came out in 1985, I hoarded a bottle and can of classic formula, convinced they would be worth millions some day.  When Coke reverted back to their original formula less than a year later my plan was shot to hell.  I threw away the can yesterday because of leaking/evaportation but I'm hanging on to the bottle.

- An envelope containing corresondence from my first year of college at Gustavus.  This was back in the day when people actually wrote letters using pen and paper and stamps.  Here is a sample from one of my favorites from a high school friend who shall remain nameless:

Paul - Let me start out with a disclaimer of sorts:  I am extremely intoxicated from the hallucinatory effects of the drug THC, normally referred to as "marijuana".  In other words I'm Baked (note Capital "B").  So if the writing seems to wander a bit, don't surprised (sic); it should be good entertainment at least.


Needless to say, it was good entertainment.  Seven handwritten pages, single spaced, covering topics ranging from the Kansas City Royals to a dick down the hall that owed him $14 dollars.  At one point, without warning or explanation, the language switches to Russian and continues that way for half a page before switching back to English mid-sentence.  God I miss college.

The other favorite was this postcard my brother sent me from Chicago:

It reminds me of the picture Audrey found in an old coloring book at a friend's cabin last year:

The caption reads "Ape is bringing a big bunch of bananas."  Ape also seems to be bringing something else rather large.  KT and I were bursting with pride that Audrey took the time to color it, tear it out and bring it home for us.  Yes, that is hanging on our fridge.

- A jar full of pieces from the backboard my friend Eric shattered in High School during practice one day.  It was the most awesome day of practice ever.  Back when I went to high school, hardly anybody could dunk.  We had one person on our team that could throw it down on a somewhat regular basis, but only in practice, never in a game.  That didn't stop everyone from trying, however.  The rims and backboards took a beating everyday when every player who could grab the rim (I wasn't in this group) would spend at least 30 minutes attempting to dunk.  They would inevitably miss badly, but hang on the rim for a while for the cool factor anyways.  Eric apparently held too long one time because before anyone knew what was happening he was laying on the ground with thousands of small pieces of glass raining down on top of him.  We all froze, convinced he was dead.  I can literally remember watching him lay on the ground as his face turned from the palest ghotly white to a bright shining red as he realized what he had done.  Luckily, he escaped with only a few minor scrapes.  It goes without saying that he was a celebrity for a few days.  Side note - Eric was also the guy that somehow broke a window and nearly fell out from the 7th floor of our hotel on a 9th grade band trip.  Somebody shot him with a squirt gun, he backed up and went right through the window, just catching himself on the frame before he tumbled out.  He must have developed a taste for the adrenaline as he is both a cop and fireman now.

- An envelope containing some of my "poetry" from high-school and college.  Good Lord am I a colossal douche.  I will not subject myself (or you) to an entire entry, but let me just give you a small sample:

Morning brings in the setting sun

And you sink deeper into its grips

Recovery is the ultimate setback

It is a mere illusion of the impending doom

You can be born only once

Although death is a reoccuring procedure

I was emo before it was cool to be emo.  Except I wore button-fly 501s (rolled up of course), powder jackets and Swatch watches (I found one of these in the box as well!) instead of trench coats and black eyeliner.  As tempted as I was to destroy all evidence my "dark period" and the poems that flowed out during this time, I shoved them back in the box before pushing it back into the deep nether-regions of the attic.  Someday, when my grandkids or great-grandkids discover them, it will explain a lot.

Unemployment Chronicles Part Eight - Tales of a First Grade Paul

I once read a study that losing your job is the fourth most stressful thing a person can endure in their life, behind only death of a spouse/child/parent, divorce or jail.  I've been fortunate enough in my life not to have had to go through any of the top three, so what the brain doctors are telling me is that I am going through the most stressful time of my entire life.  Admittedly, being jobless has been trying at times (probably more so for those sharing a roof with me) but for any shrink trying to tell me this is as stressful as it gets, I submit the following photo as evidence to the contrary:

That's me in first grade.  Notice the hunched shoulders, overbite holding a trembling lip still and big brown eyes moist with the tears of a thousand stresses.  This is one stressed out little kid about to lose his proverbial (and quite probably literal) shit.  How can a kid with two loving parents, a roof over his head and plenty of food on the table be this stressed?  Glad you asked.  Let me tell you about the day this kid had been through.

Back in the mid-seventies, there was no such thing as all-day kindergarten.  You were either an AM or a PM.  I was a PM, meaning school started about noon and went until about three.  Mornings I was free to sleep in, watch cartoons and be a general pain-in-the-ass to my mom.  I liked school but was comfortable with my three hour a day afternoon shift.  So, when first grade came around and the bus picked you up at 7:45, it threw a major monkey wrench into my sedentary lifestyle.  Now, I had to be up at seven, washed-up, breakfast eaten and teeth brushed within forty-five minutes.  Nearly impossible under normal circumstances.  On this day, however, being picture day, a shower had to be thrown in as well.  Although I highly doubt I missed the bus - even then I had an anal-retentiveness that forbade such things - I have to imagine 876 Oriole Dr. was an utterly chaotic scene that morning.  Stress level rising.

I realize it's pretty easy to second guess, but looking back at picture day at Southview Elementary, I have to question the strategy of the administrators.  They always started with the fifth graders, lining them up first thing in the morning for photos and then moved their way down grade by grade until they got to the first graders in the late afternoon.  I would think common logic would show that the younger the child, the greater potential for jelly faces, boogers on the collar, dirt on the shirt, etc., so you would want those photos taken first.  Instead, the first graders were expected to remain clean and presentable throughout the day, which was a nearly impossible mission.  I had an early history of screwing up picture day.  In Kindergarten, my mom took me to the Sears Roebuck Outlet Store in the morning of the day I was to have my pictures taken.  She picked out a nice pair of corduroy pants with a matching turtleneck and accentuating sweater vest.  I was looking sharp and naturally insisted I wear the outfit out of the store.  I also naturally insisted I be awarded with a piece of gum for my excellent behavior during the shopping outing (I had to be bribed to go shopping - still do, although now it's with beer and not gum).  Needless to say, by the time we had gotten home, the entire outfit as well as my hair had somehow become infused with Fruit Stripe.  Consequently, my kindergarten picture features me in too small clothing and a suspicious chunk of hair missing.  Anyways, back to first grade.  With recent history in mind, my mom shooed me out the door with the following instructions: "Whatever you do, stay clean until you get your picture taken."  Then, as I was hopping on the bus, she yelled "AND DON'T HUNCH YOUR SHOULDERS!" - which I had a strange tendency to do.  Stress level continuing to rise.

As if the stress and pressure of picture day weren't enough, the powers that be of Southview Elementary decided to fill the morning with a grade wide spelling bee.  As Apple Valley was a booming suburb by this time, we had three first grade classes in the school.  The contest started within each classroom, with the top five from each class advancing to a big spell-off in the gym.  I was a pretty talented speller in first grade and didn't have too much difficulty flying through the preliminary round, snickering as kids messed up on gimmes like book or cat.  Before I knew it I was in the top five of the class and preparing to take on the other first grade chumps.  Shortly before lunch the entire first grade gathered in the gym.  At the time, I imagined my peers to all be spellbound (no pun intended) by my dazzling spelling skills.  In retrospect, however, I imagine they were bored out of their minds counting the minutes until lunch and recess.  The fifteen finalists were lined up in the front of the gym ready to compete when the principal informed us that the top three overall winners would be advancing to a regional competition to face the winners of the other elementary schools in the area.  Holy crap.  The thought of traveling to Rosemount, Burnsville or (ohmygod) Bloomington was too much to handle.  I froze.  Luckily, most of the other kids did too.  They were dropping like flies, getting more wrong than right.  I slipped through the first round - stuggling through "pillow"- and soon realized there were only five of us left.  I only had to outlast two more schmucks to be on my way to fame and glory.  When my turn came, I was ecstatic to hear them say "nickel".  Nickel?  Please.  Piece of cake.  I smiled broadly and nearly shouted, "Nickel.  N-I-C-K-L-E.  Nickel."  It was all I could do to contain myself from yelling "See ya suckas!".  When I looked to Ms. Dilworth, expecting to see a proud smile spread across her face, I saw her slowly shaking her head.  I had blown it.  My one shot at fame, fortune and happiness gone because of a stupid L-E mix-up.  To this day, I refuse keep nickles (yes, NICKLES) in my pockets.  Stress level high.

Oh well, at least I had recess to calm me down before pictures.  I, like most kids, was a huge fan of recess and figured I would be able to compose myself through a solid thirty minutes of basketball.  Even in first grade, I was obsessed with shooting baskets and would invariably spend each recess either playing pickup basketball or just shooting hoops on my own.  The vast majority of the other kids were obsessed with kickball, which to me meant getting one turn "at bat", which lasted 20 seconds, and spending the other 29 plus minutes thinking about how bored you were.  No thanks, I'll stick to basketball.  On a typical day, there was always a crate of standard issue red rubber balls for use at recess.  I always made sure to rush through lunch as fast as possible so that I could be one of the first out for recess and have my choice of balls to use.  In another case of questionable judgement (or perhaps it's sadism?) Southview Elementary chose on this day to only have two balls available.  I applauded my good judgement on choking down my lunch when I secured one of the precious orbs.  I took off to the hoops and began futile after futile attempt of hitting a free throw.  As the other kids trickled out for recess, I began to notice quite a few fifth graders watching and pointing at me.  Uh-oh.  Sure as shit, within minutes I was surrounded, the ball was pried from my fingers and headed over to the kickball diamond.  I was pissed and determined to see justice.  I marched over to the playground aide and through snot and tears emphatically explained the gross injustice I had just experienced.  He yawned (in hindsight, he may have been stifling a laugh) and said, "well, there's more of them so they get the ball".  He then went over and acted as umpire for their kickball game.  No trial, no appeal, no justice.  Stress level was now through the roof.

By the time pictures came, I was a hot mess.  The disruption of my morning routine, the devastating spelling bee loss and the unpunished mistreatment I had suffered at recess (you can see the puffiness under my eyes from crying) combined to make it the worst day ever.  I had hit rock bottom - or so I thought.  As I neared the front of the line, I realized with horror that the process wasn't as simple as sitting in a chair, smiling, and being sent on your way.  This was before digital photography allowed bad photos to be simply deleted and a new photo taken.  Each and every photo had to count.  So, before you ever got to the chair, you had to get past Mrs. Baumerkirsch.  Mrs. Baumerkirsch was normally the school nurse, but today her job was to ensure that each child was ready for their big moment.  She would take the child in the on-deck circle, forcibly sit them down, then run a plastic comb through their hair, straighten their clothes, attempt to rub out a stain if needed and send them onto the stage.  Then, and to an only slightly lesser extent now, I had huge issues with strangers pawing at me.  When my turn came, Mrs. Baumerkirsch grabbed me by the shoulders, placed me in the chair, whipped out the comb and got to work.  To expound my misery, the day was hot and humid, which caused my hair to fuzz out in every conceivable direction.  Mrs. Baumerkirsch raked the comb through my hair several dozen times to no avail - my hair was not cooperating.  She leaned back, sighed, and then did something which to this day I have not been able to forget.  I can still see her, in slow-motion no-less, dropping her jowly chin, sticking out her thick pink tongue and licking the comb.  She then took the comb, now dripping with her saliva and went back to work on my hair.  I went catatonic.  I remember nothing else about the experience.  I have vague flashbacks, usually in the dead of the night, of people yelling "don't hunch", "smile" and "nickel", but I can't recall any cognizant details of the experience from that point onward.

When we got the pictures back several weeks later I was terrified to show my parents.  To their credit, they feigned anger but could only laugh.  Retakes were out of the question as they not only cost a lot but my parents weren't interested in the coorelating therapy bills that would have gone with them.  So, to finally get to the point of my story - whenever my stress level over the past seven weeks gets to the boiling point, I simply pull out the photo album and look back to my first grade picture.  Put in perspective, things really aren't all that bad.