I’m a dangerous fella, with my pink umbrella…
I am a native Oregonian. My parents migrated from Missouri and Idaho in the ’40s, and I’ve lived here all my life, except for a summer in Seattle. Rain has always been a way of life. The lush green beauty wouldn’t exist without nature’s nourishment.
An ongoing thought amongst natives is that umbrellas are for pussies. I was of this school of thought for a long time. (A native takes his ballcap off in the rain so it doesn’t get ruined. Your scalp will dry faster.) Somewhere between the influx of citizens from other states and the weather pattern that reduced rainfall the last decade or two, I’ve started adjusting my view, now that the rain is back full force.
I spend ten percent of my life on public transportation. I’ve discovered that after three or four good soakings, my clothes get that wet-dog smell.When it’s mixed with festering sweat, the stench can be overwhelming. I don’t have to worry about the festering sweat part, since I shower at least once a day. I hate contributing to the general stinkiness of the bus, and don’t wash my coat every time I do laundry, so what to do?
The other day I got on the bus, and someone had left their umbrella on the seat in front of me. On the far side of town, a fellow got on, saw the umbrella, and gave me a dirty look. Without making excuses, I picked up the umbrella so he could sit. When my stop came up, there was a torrential downpour happening outside, so I took the umbrella.
I’ve been packing it around for about a week now. I haven’t been teased, although the very young women in my life want one now. (Xmas is coming…) I manage to stay dry all night, and not a scent of Fido anywhere.
And if anyone recognizes their umbrella? Well, I would hand it over without question, thanking them for allowing me to keep it company all week.
I guess a true native Oregonian uses umbrellas. He just doesn’t pay for them.
Can I call it a recycling thing?
Terrifying Reminders
The other day there was a rare moment at my house. Everyone was up and milling around at the same time! Since the adults work different schedules at all hours of the day, and the kids monitor (within reason) their own sleep patterns, it doesn’t happen often.
I was wearing the usual middle-of-the-night outfit, a tee shirt and an old pair of cutoff sweats. The sweats haven’t worn through, but are obviously paper thin. A four-legged family member reminded me.
“Get your GODDAMN NOSE out of my asshole!” I felt the cold nose prodding my backside. I spun around, confronting the dog. My sister and nephew were standing there, staring and trying not to laugh. The dog had a quizzical expression. “It isn’t yours!”
My sister smiled, and the nephew looked perplexed. What the hell, he’s almost fourteen. Time for a little life lesson.
The Ultimate Food Coma?
Thirty-four hours of sleep.
Fortunately, that was the second half of my weekend. The first part was normal.
My Thanksgiving/Black Friday celebration went off without a hitch. ThatGirl had most of the cooking started by the time I got there, and my chores involved grabbing things from high shelves, or popping a bottle of sparkling Italian wine. Carving the turkey was fun. I used her finest serial-killer kitchen blade, and dispatched that sucker post haste!
Dinner was fantastic. The post-dinner amusement was the Blazer game, but a nap trumped that, so we TiVoed and watched it in the middle of the night. (Note to self: give the Blazers an extra thirty minutes of TiVo time, to catch that last 13 seconds.) ThatGirl took my usual role, staying up and wandering the house in the middle of the night. I slept until one in the afternoon.
After breakfast, she dropped me off at home. Even though I’d slept all morning, a nap sounded good, so I indulged. Snoozing through college football games, starting the movie Scream, then promptly passing out again. Such was the routine until Sunday morning. I should be well rested, right?
I woke at 6 AM, feeling horrible. I was freezing, unusual for my cold-climate preferences. I spent the day shivering under a blanket. I had plenty of football to watch, to the point where I was sick of it. (Never thought that would happen.)
My biggest concern was work. I can’t afford to miss a day. (I have the Republican health plan: never get sick.) I figured the best plan of action was to sleep as much as possible, funnel ibuprofen down the hatch, and hydrate.
So far, so good. I just woke up, and feel normal! Well, mostly. I’m a little spacy after all that sleep, but I’ve lost that icky, shivering feeling. The lungs are clearing up, and the chronic cough is receding.
Here’s hoping I feel this perky later today, when I’m back facing the public again. And if the public gives me a hard time?
It’s germ warfare!
When Black Friday Comes…
Did you know that Thanksgiving Eve is one of the biggest drinking holidays of the year? While no longer a practicing alcoholic, (I perfected my technique years ago) I thought I was aware of all the cool “holidays.” This was a news flash. (Literally, but I’d heard this from a bartender on Tuesday as well. Perhaps the same one?) I went to work expecting the worst, and wasn’t surprised when two highly intoxicated old white guys got on the bus. They had a hard time standing up, and refused to sit down, so the driver pulled over. “Y’all need to pay, or get off.”
Their skewed logic was that since the bus was going downtown anyway, why couldn’t they ride? When the driver, an older black gentleman, insisted, I saw a first. They said, “It’s because we’re white, isn’t it?” White guys playing the race card?
“No, it’s because you’re drunk!” They stumbled off, cussing. We had a good laugh.
The 24-pack cube of Milwaukee’s Best Ice they carried seemed like overkill, but they would have plenty to keep them busy while waiting for the next bus. Buh-bye!
The Mean Season
It’s that time of year again.
No, not the Christmas jingles, I’ve already bitched about that. (And probably will again.) It’s the season where people turn mean.
Mystery of the Mattress Woman
During this dark and rainy season, I have found yet another reason to be bummed out. Mary Kae Irvin, the longtime spokesperson for SleepCountry USA, has been replaced. I’ve admitted my less-than-pure desires and thoughts, and others have written to let me know I’m not alone.
The new gal looks like a smaller, deeper-voiced version. Did they think I wouldn’t notice? (“She’s like the last girl, only better!”) Sorry, marketing geniuses. The cuddly, curvy Mary Kae was just fine. If you were going to replace her, couldn’t you have come up with an original look?
Not that there’s anything wrong with the new gal. I’m just slow to accept change. (I still consider Brian Johnson of AC/DC the ‘new guy’.) Is it just me? Is it an old-white-guy thing? The term ’set in his ways’ has been around forever, so I guess not. Women in my life are always getting me to try new things. I’m like the proverbial sailor; I’ll try anything once. (Mostly!) Then, typically, I will pronounce the old way superior and continue as usual.
Autumn is a season of change. The leaves have changed color, and most are now resting in piles in the parking spots of the city. Soon there will be new ones. A new year approaches, the cycles continue.
I tell myself to roll with the punches, and accept that which I cannot change. (Or keep the same.) But that doesn’t always mean I have to like it. I will miss the smiling face of Mary Kae Irvin telling me to go buy a mattress, but not as much as seeing her face in the middle of the night when I blink one eye open to see what time it is.
To the woman who launched a thousand perverted fantasies, I salute you!
Cashier in Training
My sister is in spring-cleaning mode. She’s learned from me that if you do spring cleaning in November, you only have to do it every year and a half. Throw in laundry and teenage friends of the nephew sleeping over, and you have a busier than average Saturday.
The Ozzman Cometh and Goeth
“I can’t fucking hear you!”
Funny, Ozzy. I was thinking the same thing! I remember when my ears would ring after a concert.
As regular readers know, I went to the Ozzy Osbourne show last night. I want to rave wildly, but just can’t muster up the conviction. Out of five stars, I would give it three. Why?
Mama, I’m coming home…
Time for the last leg of the journey, dropping Uncle off at his new home. Ready for a second overnight excursion, we pointed toward Vancouver.
Over the Mountain
After five and a half hours squeezed into a plane seat, it felt good to stand. After a bathroom break, I looked around. There was a floor-to-ceiling display about bears, and what to do if you got up close and personal with one. I snapped a picture of it for future reference. It was there for a reason.
I made my way out of the secured area, where two cops were watching one old man read a book. Yep. I was in Idaho.
