Puddintopia

Holly should have been done with it already. By now she should have a fist full of cash and be back with Jimmy, looking to score a bag of entertainment for later. Instead, she was halfway to Florida and was wrestling with an unusual bout of conscience.

She’d meant to take this guy’s leather satchel before they’d gone ten miles. Usually she pulled her trusty little Springfield 9mm out of her purse as soon as the guy she’d hitched a ride with started giving her looks that said her little skirt and red boots were doing their job. She’d never felt so much as a twinge of guilt for taking every last dime she could find on an asshole like that. In fact, she delighted in seeing the lustful gleam in their eyes replaced with first shock, and then shame. Admittedly, every now and then the shame turned to anger, but that never led to any trouble because Jimmy was always standing at the driver’s side window with his big, ugly .45 before anyone got worked up enough to start swinging.

This guy, though, wasn’t showing signs of getting worked up at all, even in ways she could take advantage of. In fact, he hadn’t given her so much as a second look. It ought to be irritating, but wasn’t for some reason.

She thought his name was Phillip, but details like that rarely stuck with her. When she slid up next to him at the counter of that backwoods diner outside of Bowling Green and ordered coffee with a fake tear in her eye, he was “the Satchel Guy.” Yesterday it’d been the “Blonde Guy with the Cadillac”, and last week they’d taken well over a grand from “the Tan Raincoat Man”.

Guys usually took their time, bought her a little lunch, and played twenty questions while trying to decide if she was a psychopath or a sexy little raven-haired gift to open later. This guy, though, Phillip or the Satchel Guy or whatever, seemed to be different. Instead of all the standard questions, he just offered her a ride, before she even finished the well-rehearsed heart-wrenching yarn about being a penniless college girl with a blown engine trying to get home to see her sick grandmother in Panama City.

After she accepted the ride, he surprised her again by how much he liked to talk.

He started by talking about salt.

“Salt has thousands of uses,” he claimed. “I never leave home without carrying a little extra, just in case. It’s one of the most common and useful items in the modern world. It’s good for cleaning, laundry, personal hygiene, and of course food preservation, just to name a few. You can’t have too much salt with you.”

Holly hid a grin with the back of hand while she watched him pick up the nearest salt shaker and slip it into his jacket pocket as he spoke.

He offered to buy her lunch, as long as she promised to pay him back when they reached Panama City. She ordered an egg white omelet and wheat toast, and somehow he talked the waitress into bringing her a whole carrot cut into narrow sticks as well.

He explained. “If I’m going to buy your lunch it’s going to be a nutritious one. Carrots are very good for one’s vision and are full of vitamins.”

The guy was obviously little bit off center, but not off-putting. Charmingly unusual. He even stole a salt shaker for her as they left the diner.

He didn’t stop talking after they hit the road. He explained the marvel of how his skin tingled after base-jumping Angel’s Falls in Venezuela. He said he wanted to watch a colt born one day because until he did, he’d just have imagine how it would make him feel happy all over, inside and out, to see a miracle like that.

She turned to him somewhere near the Alabama border. “Phillip,” she began, unable to pretend any more that he didn’t have a name, “if there was one thing you had to do with your life, what would it be?”

He didn’t even pause to consider before replying. “I’m going to swim from Panama City, Florida to New Orleans. I don’t know if I can do it, but I had a dream where God told me I could, and to take a bunch of salt with me. So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Don’t you think that’s crazy?” she replied. “How far even is that? Hundreds of miles? There’s no way.”

He shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to swim in the Gulf of Mexico. I think people should use their lives doing what they want. It’s a gift, they should use it. I’m just glad I have a reason to try.”

The further they traveled the more certain she became that he was different for more reasons than just because he wasn’t looking to take advantage of some helpless twenty year-old girl on a road trip through Alabama. He was different in another way; innocent, considerate, almost child-like. Maybe a little defenseless.

Holly had never taken anything from someone that seemed so completely without guile. So she rode along with him down I-65, hoping that sooner or later he would prove to be as selfish, ugly, and broken as every other man she’d ever met. The tops of her ears burned, though, because she knew it was a futile hope.

So she kept waiting, trying to figure out how she was going to pull that Springfield on this poor sap, or how she’d rationalize it later. Somehow, that got her all the way from the little country diner outside Bowling Green, Kentucky to somewhere just north of Montgomery, Alabama.

Jimmy, who was never more than half a mile behind them, had to pissed enough to start kicking teeth out.

They stopped at a cheap motel outside of Montgomery as the sun was just starting to creep beneath the horizon. She said they could just get one room and she’d sleep on the floor, but he insisted that she have her own. Of course, she could pay him back when they got her home.

Phillip went out to get something for dinner and Holly took a shower, hoping that would settle her mind.

It didn’t help.

Her cell phone was ringing when she stepped out of the bathroom. When she retrieved it from the bottom of her purse, the tiny screen told her she’d had four other missed calls. All from the same number.

“Jimmy,” she said, opening the phone, “everything’s fine.”

“Fine, my ass, Holly,” a gruff voice replied. “I’ve been driving for nearly six hours and here it is sundown and still we ain’t got paid. I’m going to be sleeping in the damned truck while you’re all tucked in and snuggly with that asshole. What the hell is your problem? Is he too much for you? Did you finally find one that scares you? Do you want me to come in there? I noticed he drove off for something; I could be just waitin’ for him when he gets back. We’d be out of here in ten minutes.”

“No, no, Jimmy. I got it. This guy’s nothing. I’ll take care of it. No problem.”

“You better, princess. I’m tired of waitin’. If you don’t got it done by eleven tonight, I’m coming in and takin’ care of it.”

The line clicked dead as she heard someone enter the room on the other side of the wall separating her room and Phillip’s. She dressed quickly and was just pulling a shirt over her head when she heard a knock at the door connecting the two.

“Yes?” she said through the door.

“I got us something to eat.”

Holly glanced at her purse and briefly considered pulling the gun out and greeting him with it when she unlocked the door, but still wasn’t sure how she would live with herself afterwards.

She flipped the bolt instead. “What have you got?”

He was smiling broadly as the door opened. “Peanut butter, jelly, wheat bread, celery and milk. Just like grade school. Hard to get more wholesome.”

Of course, she thought guiltily. “Sounds great.”

After dinner, they talked a little longer, and she surprised herself by telling him, honestly, how intrigued she was by the way he’d described jumping from that cliff in Venezuela. If she did nothing else with her life, she hoped to be able to feel that tingle.

Phillip just smiled and said it was time to go to bed.

Two hours later, she lay in her room wondering how she was going to get out of this mess. He was a genuinely kind, considerate person, and if she didn’t do something, Jimmy was probably going break his head open just for the inconvenience.

When she couldn’t stand lying there uselessly any longer, she picked up her purse and knocked on the door between the rooms. “Phillip?”

“Are you alright?” he asked through the door.

“Yeah, I just,” she said, “um, I’ve never itched this bad before. I think my bed has bedbugs or something. Do you mind if sleep over there?”

“No, no, that’s fine,” he replied, opening the door. Walking back to his bed, he grabbed his pillow and the comforter and said, “I’ll just sleep on the floor.”

“No, there’s no need…”

“I insist. You’re nearly half my age, I wouldn’t feel right.”

With a sigh, she climbed into bed with her purse beside her and waited. Before long, Phillip’s breathing became slow and regular. When certain he was asleep, Holly sat up in the dark and drew the gun from her bag.

Holly checked the clock by the bed: 10:50. Ten minutes to eleven, and Jimmy would not be late.

“God help me,” she whispered.

Exactly nine minutes later, she heard the handle on the room’s front door twist. She wondered if he’d paid for the key or beaten it out of the night clerk. She raised her gun. And then Jimmy burst in, the door banging against the interior wall.

She flicked on the lights, and Jimmy, seeing that he was pointing his gun at her, gave her a look of confusion. She gestured with her own gun towards the foot of the bed and he followed suit just as Phillip rose from the floor.

“What’s going…oh!” he exclaimed.

“Give me your money, all of it, NOW!” Jimmy bellowed.

Phillip raised his hands calmly. “My wallet is one the table. That’s all I have.”

Jimmy grabbed the wallet and removed everything inside. “Sixty bucks? Bullshit. What else have you got? Don’t mess with me!”

“That’s all I have, I swear it. You can shoot me or knock me around all you want, it won’t matter. That’s all the money I’ve got.”

“Don’t lie to me, asshole. Where’s the satchel? I know you’ve got a satchel. Hurry up or your head is gonna go splat against that wall!”

“Splat,” Phillip said, smiling to himself. “That’s onomatopoeia. I always thought those were funny. The satchel is there on the floor, but there’s no money in it.”

Innocent. Defenseless. In the middle of being robbed, and struck with the notion to point out unusual language. Holly’s heart was lead in her chest.

She turned her gun on her boyfriend as he pulled a thick bundle of papers from the bag on the floor. “What is this? Sunny Hills Mental Rehabilitation…Order for Release?”

“Jimmy, let it go.” It was nearly a whisper.

His face flushed crimson in anger. “You dumb bitch! We followed him all day for nothing. I’m not gonna let it go! Now I’m gonna shoot him out of spite!”

He pointed that ugly .45 at Phillip, still standing in his sleep pants at the foot of the bed.

Three loud cracks echoed through the room, two slightly higher pitched than the third.

Phillip collapsed in a heap on the floor instantly. Jimmy looked down at two red splotches growing on the left side of his chest. She’d fired twice and hit him squarely both times, right on target.

His left arm fell to his side, useless, dropping the big gun. His eyes widened in surprise. “Bitch,” he muttered and dropped to the floor.

She got out of the bed and walked over to him by the doorway. Already, he was staring at the ceiling with dead, lifeless eyes. Relief washed over her.

Phillip coughed noisily from the floor by the bed. It was a wet, gurgling, awful sound.

She knelt down beside him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. We have to get your help.” She reached for her bag to grab her phone, but he caught her arm by the wrist.

“No. Too late,” he said weakly. “Holly, I wasn’t supposed to swim in the Gulf. I was sent to you. The dream I had…about you. I’ve been sick all my life. Got hit too hard playing football in high school. My head has been messed up ever since. I wasn’t going to live a long life. You can. You will. I know it.”

His voice began to shake and slow. “Had to…get rid…of him. He was…poison…heavy. Now, you…can fly.”

Tears rolled down her face and she fought the urge to sob.

“No…tears. Fly. Look…bag.” He reached up slowly and wiped a tear from her cheek.

She clasped his hand and held it to her chest as he struggled through a few last breaths. He’d been the only man who’d ever done something beside take from her, and he was gone.

When she finished sobbing, Holly looked through his bag. It was stuffed with his medical and mental health records. But at the very bottom, in a little pocket to the side, she found five hundred dollars and a plane ticket to Venezuela.

She picked up her bag, surprised at its lightness without the weight of her handgun, and pushed the cash and ticket inside. Slinging it over her shoulder, she stepped over the body of her former boyfriend and opened the motel room door.

Without hesitating, she walked out the autumn night, into a world that suddenly seemed brand new.

She had a plane to catch, but first, she had to find some salt.

I know that plenty of people will have shiny rivulets of tears cutting worm trails into their SPF-50′d cheeks when Tuesday rolls around. We are thick in the middle of Labor Weekend once again, signaling the end of summer and, theoretically, the arrival of fall. Unlike most people, though, I don’t see it as such a terrible thing.

I like autumn. A lot. This should come as no real surprise to anyone who’s being reading my rants for the past few months, because if nothing else, fall is supposed to bring with it a moderating of average temperatures. Yes, I will admit that I am coming to enjoy summer almost as much as your average American. It’s great when you can spend time at the pool and enjoy days of frolicking* in the sun. That said, I don’t like needing to change my clothes, underthings included, the minute I walk out into the heat. And in this part of the world, there’s no shortage of 90-degree days.

Related side-note: the puddinette and I took the older boys to the Renaissance Festival today. For the record, this was the first year in…well, ever, that I can recall attending it and being a sodden, squishy mess before even walking though Ye Old Main Gates.

I am thus hopeful that this fall might indeed include some moderation. It seems like for the majority of fall seasons in my adult life have consisted of extended summer highs, about a week of jacket weather, and then an immediate switch to the unpleasant, joint-freezing cold of winter. It makes me sad when we reach Thanksgiving and I’ve already transitioned into my heavy coat, because, for me, there are few moments as singularly enjoyable in life as standing under a partly cloudy sky in a crisp fall breeze that’s got just enough chill to make your nose run ever so slightly while you huddle into your jacket.

Beyond the initiation of fall and the end of ridiculous, soul-crushing, Hell-resembling heat and humidity, Labor Day brings other wonderful, noteworthy changes. For instance, you’ve got the start of football and the end of baseball.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I loves me some baseball. In fact, I believe I’ve watched more Cincinnati Reds games this year than any other year since before I got married. But around here, baseball has been an iffy proposition for the past decade or so. Generally, the local MLB club would come out of the gate strong in the spring and pique my interest, only to fade by mid-July leaving me with no sporting options to spectate besides the Pro Bowling tour or Saturday morning bass tournaments. Yes, fishing on TV. And trust me, fishing in real life can be agonizing enough; watching it on TV will lead to incidental lobotomy. In years like this, you’re glad when baseball is over so you can just stop thinking about it.

On the other hand, if one’s baseball team is performing well, Labor Day marks the time when the race for playoff spots begins. The Reds have been good this year, and I’m looking forward to seeing them play some autumn ball. We’re right on the doorstep of the best part of the season.

As for football, well, it’s football. I’m not sure I have the proper words to describe my love for it, but if I were going to try, that would certainly be another post.

Of course moderate temperatures and sporting events aren’t the only wonderful things about fall. Three of my four children have fall birthdays, and October brings both my anniversary and Halloween, which is hands-down my favorite holiday. Oh, and the seasonal beers released this time of year make me positively giddy, but that, too, is another post.

So, yes, I realize that many people get a little sad as Labor Day weekend comes to a close, when they eat that last bite of potato salad and slide the winter cover over the grill. To them, I say this: buck up, people. There’s still plenty of good stuff coming your way.

I can’t wait to get out the jackets.

Pud’n

*For the record, I have never frolicked

Yesterday was one of those days; not one of those days, thankfully, but rather the kind where you feel like you’re in constant motion. It was the type of day where every single second you’re doing something that needs to be done while thinking about the two other things that you’ll be doing after that. To some degree, that’s how most of the days roll around stately Puddin Manor. Usually, though, the excess action wears down a bit after dinner. The Puddinette gets a breather from overseeing the puddinlings while I leisurely spend the evening watching The Attitude survey the aquarium with a look that says, “Those fish need some cars.”

Yes, that’s right, he dropped not one, but two Matchbox cars into the aquarium. I guess he decided the fish might want to go for a ride.

Anyway, last night our typical evening wind-down period was pre-empted by Life. The Puddinette had a Girlz Night Out dinner scheduled and my recreational hockey team had a playoff game. Good stuff, no doubt, but a complete break of the normal routine nonetheless.

Now, in the past, I’ve gone on and on about the importance of Keeping the Daily Schedule. And I wasn’t wrong, not by a long shot. Still, as adults, parents, and human beings, the occasional break from routine is not only good for the soul, but helpful in reinforcing the psychological structures that keep us from going completely ’round the bend. Little breaks here and there are a big reason the Puddinette hasn’t found me at the breakfast table one morning wearing an “I’m with Stupid” t-shirt, pink fuzzy leg warmers, and a propeller beanie while spooning Smirnoff and Raisinets into my Mini-Wheats.

Mad props and much thanks to Grandma, by the way, for volunteering to keep an eye on the youngsters while the wife and I did our respective things. Without her, one of us would have had to alter important, carefully laid plans. My children are lucky to be blessed with grandparents that are so loving and willing to give of themselves.

For the record, the Puddinette had a fantastic dinner with the ladies, while undoubtedly mocking me without mercy. In other words, she had a darned good time. Unfortunately, Black Team Hockey wasn’t quite so lucky. We were down two goals with two minutes remaining. We did manage to tie the game up with just 13 seconds left. But then, 13 seconds and one mental collapse later, our opponent slapped one past our goalie at the buzzer.

It was a helluva game, though, and nothing to be ashamed of. Also, it’s a middle-aged men’s beer league. They are no trophies, no cups, no highlight reels. Just the enjoyment of playing with guys you like hanging out with and making fun of each other in the locker room. At my age, with everything else happening in life, that’s better than having my name inscribed on a cup.

Well, other than the coffee mug that says, World’s Greatest Lover*

Pud’n

*I don’t really have one of those

After last night’s epic (and no doubt pulitizer-worthy) post detailing the preferred wardrobe of the technically-inclined individual, I have a confession to make: I got way sidetracked. It happens a lot more than you might think. I’ll sit down at my keyboard, prepared to spit out an insightful 500 words about whatever topic I’ve been contemplating all day, like how facebook has become free therapy, why felines don’t like baths, or how my children break my heart by growing up in tiny ways each day.

You know, because those are all pretty similar themes, right? I may not be consistent, but at least I’m consistently random.

So, anyway, I have a weakness; I can’t just launch full-steam into my topic du jour. For whatever reason, if I want to complain about gel-based toothpaste or explain my dislike of creamed corn in agonizing detail, I usually have to begin with something like my breakfast cereal or the joy of extra-large first grade pencils and then transition into my main point.

See? I just did it again.

The question, then, is what was supposed to come of yesterday’s blue denim-based introduction? Obviously, the answer could only be lip balm.

Wait. Lip balm? Yes. Hold your horses, we’ll get there.

First, another shameful confession: I’m a multi-day pants wearer.

Undoubtedly, many of you wrinkled your noses as you read that, thinking how utterly disgusting it is that I would debase myself by wearing the same pair of pants to work…twice. Never consecutively, of course, lest my secret be noticed. By my coworkers. Who read Puddintopia. D’oh!

I guess that cat’s out of the bag now.

In that case, let’s be completely honest; I write software for a living. I don’t know how many of you have ever seen a software engineer plying his trade, but allow me to offer you quick example of a typical day:

Man, software engineer, enters office and unpacks laptop. He sits. He begins typing in incomprehensible codes. Hours pass. Powerfully caffeinated beverages are consumed. Man stands to use the restroom, consumes food largely lacking any nutritional value, resumes typing incomprehensible code (while sitting). Late in the afternoon when no one is watching, Man checks his MMORPG’s guild forums for player updates (still seated). Man stands, packs his laptop, and leaves.

Ok, so maybe that’s slightly embellished. Still, there’s a lot of truth in all that. In other words, while I’m at work, I sit around. A lot. Frankly, not too much dirty happens while you sit in an office chair. I’m sure the pants can take it.

I said previously, my work-attire changed around the first of the year. It used to be Dockers, but now it’s Levi’s. As a result, my business casual pants have been hanging in the closet, alone and forgotten, for most of the year, except for when I visit customers. And that’s how it came to be that two weeks ago, when I pulled down the navy-colored pair for a quick, one-day road trip, I found that they were second stagers.

I knew because I found my missing tube of Carmex.

For those of you unaware, Carmex is the crack of lip balm. And when I say that I mean it; the stuff is hardcore and habit-forming. A kid usually starts with a gateway balm, an original Chap-Stick first, and then maybe a cherry-flavored before long. Sooner or later, often in the cold, dry months of winter, they take their first hit of Medicate Blistex. After that, it’s a fast ride down a slick spiral.

Countless times I found myself wandering a dark alley at night with a faded, empty, yellow and red tube clenched in my quivering hand, looking for a dude name AR-rex to get me a quick fix. ‘Cause when your lips go all dry and start to chap, they sting and burn, and that’s when you start licking them for a little moisture. But that little bit is just a tease that evaporates in the harsh summer night and they get dryer and more chapped, but you keep licking and licking because you can’t help yourself. Sooner or later, they finally crack and you end up looking like Clint Eastwood in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Except without the poncho, and nowhere near as cool. But dried out, cactus-like. Eventually everything ends up spinning while you stagger around, begging passers-by for a waxing, medicinal hit.

Hi, my name is Puddin, and I’m a lip balm abuser.

Along the way, though, I got lucky and my tube ended up forgotten in a pair of pants in the closet. Sure, I noticed it was missing, but I was too busy to stop at Walgreen’s for a fix, and one Carmex-clean day led to the next. Somehow, I strung together two days, then three, then four, a week, and then a month. Enough days in a row that I finally managed to break that menthol strangle hold.

Until I found the stash in those pants, a full tube, begging to be used. Come on, Puddin, you’re gettin’ a little chapped there, just take the one hit. You’ll be in control.

But I knew better. I have friends who’ve gotten off it. Some, like me, by good fortune, and others by using a substitute. I hear Burt’s Bee’s can help you out of the hole. But I knew enough to know that if I spun that scarlet cap off the tube, it’d be climbing back in for good. Thank God that cap is red, the color of failure.

It’s sitting on my nightstand still, unopened. But I can’t throw it away. I need it, as a reminder never to let that monkey back on.

Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself.

Pud’n

I used to wear Docker-style casual pants to work on a daily basis, and I hated it. I hated it because being a software engineer, I’ve always preferred to adorn myself in what my family has, for years, mockingly referred to as “programmer-wear”. Programmer-wear is, of course, based on a foundation of basic denim blue jeans. None of that fancy stuff mind you, no funky washes, name brands, or stuff with pre-made rips and/or tatters.

If I’m going to wear holey pants, by gum, you can bet I’ll be bringing my own holey.

Honestly, I can’t for the life of me figure out why anyone would pay extra for jeans that already faded or torn. They’re paying more for pants they’re going to get less use out of and I can’t see any way that that’s not just plain silly. Real jeans aren’t “broke-in” for about a year, in my estimation. At that point they’re soft and probably showing a little well-earned fray. Earn that fray on your own, dammit, don’t let a faceless machine in some factory in China earn it for you!

I’m sorry, is that my cheap showing?

So, anyway, we technical types wear jeans. It’s a rule; I’m sure it’s in the bylaws somewhere. Occasionally, you might see a pair of cargo pants or something else exceedingly casual, but denim is unquestionably king.

What else does programmer-wear entail? Casual shirts, of course. T-shirts and, when necessary, polo-type collars are the name of the game. Typically, you’re going to see a lot of wrinkle-free, low-maintenance type of stuff too. Technical people are, as rule, not often given to concerns about whether one’s shirt looks like it spent the night being slept on by a spasmodic cat. In fact, most of my people don’t own irons unless it came with a wife or girlfriend. Before I met the Puddinette, I had access to one only through my roommate and brother, who, as a school teacher, apparently was expected to wear respectable-looking attire.

That said, the t-shirt is the natural preference for programmer-wear, and the most widely accepted will fall into one of three categories: the faded concert tee, the promotional product tee, and the technical-mocking tee.

The technical-mocking tee is the favorite, of course, although the promotional tee is a close second. It’s usually given away as swag from some technical conference or by a vendor unaware that we’re largely too oblivious to be bought by something as subtle as a free shirt. The promo tee is huge, regardless of whether it comes with a penguin, apple or multicolored flag, because it means that someone somewhere thought we were important enough to give us gifts! Sadly, most of us never realize that it’s not so much our importance as it is our ability to dependably act as a walking billboard that makes the techie a good target for free stuff.

Everyone loves a good technical-mocking tee because they usually offer a form of clever derision, an inside joke, or some common piece of techie information largely unknown by people with actual social skills. My tribe delights in mocking people without their knowledge; passive aggressiveness is key to the survival of the species. Fine examples include shirts like this one, that one, or those with messages like, “There’s no place like 127.0.0.1″.

Odds are good, though, that if you participated in any physical contact with a member of the opposite sex at some point in high school, you don’t have any of these in your wardrobe.

Thankfully, I was granted a reprieve from the business casual dress code around the beginning of this year. It’s denim daily for me now, baby. Sadly, I’m not sporting t-shirts that publicly declare my stance on the contentious Han Solo Issue. But I’m ok with the collared polo, as long as it doesn’t develop the “flying nun”.

So why have I taken all this time to so clearly define exactly what “programmer-wear” means?

Christmas is coming, duh. And XXL is the universal size for nerds.

Pud’n

I work at a pretty cool place. As with anything else, of course, it’s not without the occasional challenge, but that’s beside the point. Today’s point is that it’s cool because everyone in my department gets a Blackberry, paid for by the company. In general, I like stuff I don’t have to pay for; gadgets that I don’t have to pay for are some of my favorite things on the planet.

A few of my coworkers, though, have, for various reasons, chosen to carry an additional, personal phone. At least three of them have iPhones. Now, no matter what Crackberry people try to tell you, the device simply does not compare with an iPhone in the areas of design and ease of use. The Blackberry is an incredibly useful tool; the iPhone, however, is a piece of technological art.

One night last week, disaster struck. One of the iPhoneys*lost the use of her favorite Apple device. I won’t go into details of exactly what happened beyond simply stating that there may have been a ker-splash. Since then, the poor girl has moped, whined, and complained daily about how horrible her life is without her precious lifeline to the greater online world.

Quite frankly, I’m tired of listening to it.

Every day, she tells me how she’s suddenly deaf, blind, and mute without her iPhone. No mobile facebook (gasp!). No email (egad!). No instant access to the internet (oh, the humanity!). I’ve tried and tried to tell her that the Blackberry she keeps on her desk, alone and forgotten, can do 90% of everything that her iPhone could do. Apparently, though, it’s not Apple. Worse than that, there’s no touchscreen, which means struggling with a trackball and physical keyboard like it’s some form of medieval torture device.

“What will it be for the prisoners today sir, The Rack, or Iron Maiden?”

“No, no, Igor, get me (ominous music) …the Blackberry!”

Yesterday, after complaining again that she was losing touch with all her friends because she couldn’t check facebook, I pulled off the proverbial padded gloves and told her to quit whining and just use the Blackberry’s Facebook app. You know, like the rest of the poor, iPhone-less schmucks do it.

She replied that I was dead to her.

Ok, so, I’m willing to admit that maybe I could be a tad more sympathetic. After all, I’ve lived in the modern world all my life. I barely remember what it was like without word processing software; I wouldn’t want someone telling me to wheel out the 1972 Smith Corona and get typing just because my Windows PC showed me the Blue Screen of Death.

Here’s the thing: there’s one
very good,
very personal reason that I’ve have no sympathetic capacity for someone living briefly without an iPhone.

I’m 17 shades of envious green over the office iPhoneys.

There, I said it. I want to be an Apple-ite. I want to worship at the altar of Steve Jobs. My car should sport some cool apple decals! I want an iPhone and an iPad and an iMac so badly I’ve considered offering one of the kids in trade at The Apple Store. I mean, I can make more of them and the Puddinette’s always wondering what it’d be like to have another baby anyway.**

I want to be able to sync with iTunes and get the App for that. Yes, sure, the Blackberry has apps. But not the really, really cool ones. And I want my mobile facebook experience to be cool, just like using it on a PC. The Blackberry app for facebook is clearly a red-headed step-child.

I want to be able to send text messages too. I can’t text, and it’s shameful. The company doesn’t pay for it. And no, I can’t pay for my own texting; I’ve asked. So while all the rest of the civilized world sends texts flying back and forth like tennis balls, I have to sit in the dark and wait for someone to shoot me an email…how quaint. Kids walking past me at the park ask their parents why that old-fashioned man is sending lame emails from his phone. Parents wisely shush them politely and hurry them past me, to get them away from the creepy man.

The Puddinette can text, and she refuses to learn how our remote control works.

My DAD can text.

So. There, I’ve come clean. I used to be the guy that would cheerfully drop unspecified wads of theoretical money for the newest, cool piece of technology. Along the way, I’ve somehow become a luddite who refuses to carry more than one gadget in my pocket and is too chea…chea…frugal to pay for the phone service I really want because there’s a perfectly good (free!) phone given to me by my gracious employer.

I think there must be some kind of mathematical formula where one’s willingness to spend foolishly declines as the number of his or her dependents rises. I bet there’s even a graph available to show me exactly how that proportion works out.

In fact, I bet there’s an app for that, too. Too bad that can’t help me out.

Pud’n

*I just decided this is a word. I will be using it frequently.

**just kidding. Mostly.

If you’ve seen Mundane Haiku #8, then you should have a pretty good idea of what I was doing last night instead of writing.

As a result, today was full of the (capital T) Tiredness. Yes, that’s me, with the being tired. All tuckered out. Sleepy even. I’m not talking the usual bone-deep fatigue that I get after playing an 11 PM hockey game, which hinders falling asleep until about 2 in the morning because I’m all jacked with the sports-related adrenaline. Instead, this is the kind of concentration sapping tired where you find yourself staring, all slack-jawed and drooly, at an illustration of Cookie Monster from one of your toddler’s board books. The kind of thing where you snap back to the real world, but can’t recall how long you’ve semi-catatonic and think the fuzzy blue guy might have been telling you to bake a batch of chocolate chips.

Or, maybe that was the kids asking for cookies.

I just realized that minus the part about the kids, the description of today’s brain-numbness is also a pretty accurate depiction of a hazy college dorm room a few hours before daylight on a Saturday morning.

See? I told you: randomness.

Being tired seems to completely rob my brain of the ability to process information analytically, while triggering weird, creative stuff. So, problem solving? Not so much. But the odds are good that after seeing a soccer mom in the mini-van beside me in traffic, I’ll instantly concoct some ludicrous back story about her being a lethal spy for the Egyptian government that goes by the codename “Granny Smith” and has a glass eye that’s a multi-purpose weapon and antibacterial gel dispenser.

Yes. Well. Ahem.

Like I said, though, the problem solving is hard when I can’t think clearly. So, tiredness is so good for creativity, not so good for doing other important things, like accomplishing stuff at work.

Luckily, I stuck with it and managed to figure a few things out today anyway. Coffee, it turns out, is exceptional at cutting through brain-fog. It’s an indispensable assistant when logic is required. That’s especially true of what I drink, an iced concoction that’s four shots of espresso and a few meager tablespoons water. It’ll clear out the cobwebs and put hair on your chest all at the same time.

All things considered, I don’t mind the occasional fuzzy-brain too much, except of course, what I said about work. Still, it’s good to have days where one’s imagination rules the roost. It’s something that, starting with puberty, most of us tend to shy away from and rarely return to later. That’s why I’m ecstatic to have written so much this year. I’m letting my mind wander about untethered and feeling very much like a kid again.

Which brings me to tonight’s assignment. It occurred to me that I’ve written no fiction for Puddintopia since I stopped posting updates for Thom (who’s become Tom, by the way, but that’s another post). This needs to be remedied! Therefore, I’d like to do something fiction-y this weekend. I want help, though. Since I’ve managed somehow to build a group of regular readers, I’d like to give you a chance to mess with me.

I want ten words. Nouns or verbs only, please, no adjectives, adverbs, conjunctions, etc. Give me ten words, and I’ll try to weave them into something hopefully not craptastic. So be one of the first 10 people to post a single noun or verb in a comment below (and yes, anonymously is fine if you fear the Government Watchers) and I’ll use your word in the piece, as long as it has a common, accepted definition. Sorry, no Seuss words, this time.

The comments are open. Get your words in now!

I’m must be exhausted to try something this foolish.

Wait, was I saying something?

Pud’n

Sometimes, life conspires against you. Sometimes you’re looking for the simple route, but the only decent road you’ve got takes the long way. Sometimes, no matter how much you want to do the right thing, you get nothing but a kick in the face.

Obviously, I’m talking about lunch.

I had a bunch of work to do today and, as is common when that’s the case, I decided to work through lunch. Yes, I’m sure there’s a bunch of reasons that’s a bad idea: mental fatigue and burnout and all that. But when the rubber meets the road and you’re staring a project deadline in the face, you have to decide if you really want to tell your five year-old that you can’t read to her at bedtime because you have work to do. Do you want to carry that guilt around because you pissed an hour away at midday while reading the latest Kardashian gossip online* while stuffing your face at your desk?

And no, quickly recounting the E! Online headlines to you daughter framed as a bad princess story does not make it okay. Quit thinking that you can just tell her the cautionary tale of the Spoiled, Wicked Step-Sisters Famous for…um…Being Famous or Goldilocks and the Enchanted Ankle Sensor. How about we take the high road for once?

Indeed, my decision was an easy one; I would be working while I noshed. The problem then was that The Voice really wanted a sandwich. It often wants sandwiches, because sandwich makers are usually enabling enough to offer a plainly ridiculously size loaf of bread jammed with meat. As I said, it’s not often that I order a reasonably-sized sub.

Size considerations were irrelevant, though, because while I do have sandwich options for lunch, they all involve at least a fifteen minute drive. The idea was to spend the hour working, remember? Sadly, in the immediate vicinity of the office, the food options are limited. Truth is, I kind of work next to the ghetto. Not smack dab in the ghetto, thankfully, but near enough that I probably have better access to a variety of high-quality controlled substances than I do high-quality take-out.

Of course, there are a handful of fast-food options, yes. But I do my best to avoid fast food whenever possible. I’ve done plenty of damage to my body in the past 37 years; the last thing I need to do is feed it fast-food value meals that are the caloric equivalent of all the food consumed in an average third-world country today. Why yes, thank you, I’d love a half pound of high-fat meat on a bun and a trough of fries. Can I get that delivered to Sierra Leon? Sally Struthers asked me to help.

Also, did you not read about The Voice? The last thing I need to do is go into any establishment offering a Super-Size/Royal-It/ Embiggenate option. The Voice never saw an up-size it didn’t like.

So, my choices were thus limited to mediocre Chinese take-out or mediocre Chinese take-out.

Surprisingly, I went with the mediocre Chinese take-out. The hot and sour soup isn’t bad, if you can get past the sensation of injecting sodium directly into your bloodstream.

IF nothing else, the Chinese place is quick, at least; I was there and back at my desk in five minutes. Upon my return, as I began to eat and work, I was struck with two odd thoughts regarding my lunch:

1. How is it that tiny little Chinese places have soup heated to nuclear-detonation temperatures? Every time I peel the lid off of one of those foggy plastic containers and slurp up that first spoon of hot and sour, the skin melts away from the roof of my mouth like those dudes in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I couldn’t make something at home that hot if I summoned every BTU available from my stove, oven, fireplace, gas-grill, and outdoor fire-pit and focused them into a single beam of Ultra-Mega-Jedi-Light-Saber Heat. Clearly, they must have a dragon keeping the soups warm in the back.
2. Why must the people working in the kitchen at tiny Chinese restaurants scream constantly as if arguing? I used to think they were pissed at each other, permanently. Probably for having to work with a dragon. Nowadays, though, I think it’s just how things work. Kind of like how the waitress at the Waffle House has to be in exactly the right spot relative to the cook to call the hash brown order or the scattered, smothered, and chunked won’t come out right. Likewise, if the General Tsao’s isn’t ordered with a threatening tone, it somehow won’t be spicy.

Unfortunately, my mediocre Chinese take-out was less than outstanding. Shocking, I know. It might have gone a long way towards actually being mediocre, but I ordered the Chicken and Broccoli, extra spicy. It wasn’t spicy. It was just chicken with broccoli.

They must have been having polite day in the kitchen.

But at least I got to read to my kids before bed.

Pud’n

An old friend that I used to work with in the way-back time (before there was a Puddinette or clean laundry on a regular basis) sent me an email today with a brief message. I’m sure he probably would have preferred to send me a text message, but I can’t send or receive texts (and yes, that’s another post).

At any rate, his message was delivered succinctly in just the email’s subject line: “They are leveling the old office.”

The place was one of those connected office condo-complexes where you’d usually find a dentist, a general practitioner, maybe an ambulance chaser, a CPA or two, and a few small, eternally optimistic businesses that no one really understood but continued to struggle on in the face of lost sales and disappointment.

We worked for one of those.

My initial reaction was not that surprising. Fitting was my first thought, which was quickly followed by long overdue.

Unfortunately, the place had been mostly vacant for a long time, and really, it hadn’t been very nice since even before then. The offices inside were a depressing combination of dirty tans, and I’m pretty sure the carpet was original when Nixon was in office. It might have been plush back when I was in elementary school, but by the time I started working there, it was pretty threadbare. Familiar paths of discoloration were worn into it so well that they seemed like runners.

My friend and I referred to the décor as Early Brady Brunch because it was that dated. So, yes, the place was pretty much a dump, and it made no difference whatever you tried to do to spruce it up. It was just unspruceable. The doors squeaked, the screen doors were hopeless, and the toilets were a permanent shade of something I’d rather not describe. And apparently getting the building owners to even change light bulbs in the outside lights was much akin to herding a deaf wildebeest into an active volcano.

So, yes, long overdue.

Except, that wasn’t where my thoughts ended. On the heels of that was a twinge of melancholy, and that took me completely by surprise. The place had become an empty husk of an office complex that probably had more teenagers hanging on the grounds at night than tenants during the day. And, honestly, the last stages of working that job had been one of most unhappy experiences of my professional life. There was truly a sour taste in my mouth at the end, so I couldn’t believe I was feeling nostalgic.

But although Time can be a thief, it also heals and provides clarity. I see now that things happened the way they needed to and that nothing could have been done to prevent the end when it came. That particular ship had been sinking for so long that we’d all just learned to overlook the water we were up to our necks in.

On top of that, something else occurred to me. I spent years of my life working in that office, and they weren’t all frustrating. There were good times too, plenty of them. We’d play after-hours games of Quake, frequently, and the smack talk would get as thick as molasses. When the weather was nice, we’d grill brats and JTM burgers for lunch on a Coleman camp stove on the little porch outside. Sure, the porch was terrible, but a steaming bratwurst with a dab of horseradish and mustard makes you overlook a lot of faults.

I grew up a lot through all my time in that office. When I started there, I was a wet-behind-the-ears know-it-all in my early twenties. When the end finally came I was nearly thirty and a little wiser, but only wise enough to finally understand all that I didn’t know.

A demolition company leveled that office complex today, and frankly, it needed to be done. The physical structure is probably nothing more tonight than a pile of rubble and rebar, drywall and dust. But the place will always live on in my memories; memories of gladness and pain, success and failure. Mostly, they are the memories of the period in my life when I truly matured out of childish ways and into the first faltering steps of real adulthood beyond.

Some part of that dump of a building will always be with me. And it makes me glad to know it.

Pud’n

Yesterday afternoon, I told my co-workers that the family and I would be checking out another dog today. I promised them that if it worked out, I’d be sure to post a picture of the newest addition to our family.

We’ll get to that in a minute.

On Tuesday last week, the last day before school, the Puddinette took the kids to a local animal shelter to visit a new potential family friend. She always likes to do something fun on the infamous Last Day of Summer before School, and that certainly fit the bill. Who doesn’t enjoy going to meet loveable new doggies?

Somewhat to my surprise, the Puddinette sent me an instant message after the visit saying that the dog seemed great, and that she loved the kids and they seemed to like her. Having been on the lookout for a canine pal for a while and having had one or two seemingly good matches slip through our fingers because someone else got to ‘em first, I was afraid to do nothing. Losing out getting a new dog is only slightly less disappointing than seeing your outlandishly tall McDonald’s swirly ice-cream cone do a header onto the pavement.

But…it was Tuesday afternoon, and since I’m a software engineer that pretends to write rather than an actual writer, I work a normal day like a normal person. For those of you that aren’t aware, Animal Shelters have some extremely flexible, work-friendly hours. Well, they’re work-friendly if you’re a professional welfare recipient or you happen to work nights. I don’t really fall into any of those categories, so getting out there to meet that prospective pooch between 10 AM and 4:30 PM on a weekday just wasn’t feasible.

So I called them to drop a hold on her and said we’d be there Saturday morning so I could check her out. Based on what we’d seen so far, I was optimistic she might be the one but still felt the need to make sure she wasn’t the kind of animal that would rip your hand off if you try to take her bone away.

There’s only room enough from one food Voice in our house.

So we waited out the week, and I spent last night with the usual fantasy visions of a devoted mutt panting happily at my heel while the wind whips through my hair on a bright, warm spring day.

I was even going to promise to eat my broccoli.

So, anyway, I promised a picture. Here it is:

.

(Thanks to Disney for letting me link a picture of Pluto; I look forward to the cease and desist letter*.)

So what happened? Well, we arrived at the shelter, giddy with the prospect of taking home a new pet. We found our new friend in her cage, and she happily licked my fingers through the metal.

Ah, she’s cute.

I knew she’d show plenty of shine for the kids while inside the shelter, but that’s really only half the equation, especially with a dog purportedly with some beagle mixed-in. So we asked the staff to take her for walk outside since I wanted to see how she would react out there, as well as whether or not the older boys would be able to control her on a leash.

Now, I’d like to tell you that as soon as we got her outside, we spent an hour playing fetch and the kids ran back and forth across the yard with her until eventually everyone fell into a heap of giggling and tummy rubs.

But…

Unfortunately, as soon as we got her outside, our new friend immediately lost interest in us completely. And I don’t just mean she start doing some sniffing around from the clump of weeds to a tree to the bush to the sidewalk. No, no. I mean we were instantly and totally forgotten; we might as well have been a heap of peas on a toddler’s dinner plate. That dog hit the yard and charged away from me so hard and fast that you’d have thought I was following her with a vet’s coat and a loaded hypodermic. She nearly pulled my arm off. My kids had no hope of controlling this animal.

I’m thinking she might do some fine work strapped to the Anheuser-Busch carriage, though.

At any rate, it took me about 16 seconds to realize that she just wasn’t the dog for us. Which was about 15 seconds longer than she needed to start making a run for the Mexican border. I can only assume she’s wanted in connection to drug trafficking.

Once we knew this wasn’t our girl, it took quite a bit of time to get her back inside without dragging the poor thing. I hope that whoever ends up adopting her has a good fence. A big fence. Tall. And strong. Otherwise they’re likely to find a basset-shaped hole in the side of it soon after they take her home.

So, anyway, today was not the day. Someday, we’ll find the right dog to share in our pandemonium.

For now, the quest continues.

Pud’n

*Just kidding, sweetheart. There’s no need to fear the Disney legal machine.