Some Gentle Ribbing

Yesterday, my wife and I played hookey together.

(Sort of.)

She is an SLP at a school and is on a week-long spring break. I have Tuesdays off so, together, yesterday, we went hiking and vintage shopping and crappy food eating and road-tripping and open-air snacking and it was pretty much a great day-- with the exception of traffic on the way back.

Rush-hour traffic.

The nice thing about being stuck in rush-hour traffic was that we were not returning from eight (or more!) non-refundable hours spent at some soul-evaporating job. We had enjoyed our day together, and were paying a very nominal price for our time of leisure. It was okay.

Yesterday was indeed a day for serendipity, and taciturn appreciation, of spotting chipmunks in the woods, joking around about who got to walk in front of whom on the white blazed trail, and singing the "Matter" patter trio from "Ruddigore" at the top of our lungs, even though there are three parts, and only two Aprons.

It was unusual to be in the company of my goodlady wife on a Tuesday. Sometimes, when I have the day off, I will drive to her school and have lunch with her, but that's just for forty-eight minutes. This was the. whole. day, and that doesn't happen often for us.

Something else happened yesterday that also doesn't happen often. My wife told me a joke. Like, a traditional, this-is-how-it-goes, set-up and punch-line joke. There are people who tell jokes. Most of them are Jewish and are named "Milton" and are over eighty years old, and they wear white shoes and have bits of months-old corned beef stuck onto their pilling sweaters. My wife is Jewish, but that's where the similarities between she and the Miltons of the world end. Still, at 9:15am yesterday morning, she propped herself up in bed on one elbow and, while I was putting on my trousers, she started to tell me a joke.

"So, Adam and Eve are lying in bed, okay? And Eve says--"

I cut her off as soon as I realized what was going on.

"Wait," I said, "are you... are you telling me a joke?"

"Yeah. So, Eve--"

"You don't tell jokes," I protested, actually somewhat alarmed. "What have you done with my wife, pea-pod person?"

"Shut up, just listen. So, Eve says to Adam, 'I think you're cheating on me,' and Adam's like, 'Don't be ridiculous, who would I cheat on you with, there's no other woman around but you?' And Eve says, 'Oh, I guess you're right, I'm just being silly.' And then Eve gently starts running her fingers gently over Adam's chest and he says, 'What are you doing?' and Eve says, 'Checking to see if you've had any of your ribs removed.'"

I laughed loudly, buckling my belt.

"That's awesome!" I said enthusiastically as I cackled.

Mrs. Apron furrowed her brow. I guess she hadn't expected me to have enjoyed the joke so heartily.

A couple minutes later, I cracked up again, just thinking about it. I referenced the joke she had told me, and made some comment about Marilyn Manson. My wife looked at me like I was bum-fucking a squid.

"What?" she asked, thoroughly confused. A silence followed as I tried to piece together why she was so puzzled.

"Wait-- wasn't that the punchline of your joke? That Adam was cheating on Eve with himself-- by removing ribs so he could suck on his own dick?"

Mrs. Apron stared at me.

"Jesus Christ, you are such a pervert! Think about it-- how did Adam make Eve?"

"OH!" I shouted, "Riiiight. Got it."

"Only you," Mrs. Apron moaned, shaking her head, "only you would go right to sucking your own dick."

"Well," I said, "I'd dip it in dark chocolate first."

And, don't you know, she still agreed to spend the entire day with me. What a girl.

What a joke.

What a life.

Mr. Apron's Day Off

Every other weekend, I work from 3pm-11pm, Saturday and Sunday.

As a reward for this seemingly inhuman punishment, I receive one full weekday off every single week, whether I'm working that weekend or not. Usually, my day off is Tuesday. This week, it was Wednesday.

It was not a good day off.

In fact, none of the weekdays I've had off from work have been good days off.

Why?

Because they are loaded and scheduled within an inch of their life, crammed full of seemingly innocuous events, errands, things-to-do, responsibilities or tasks that, by themselves are but mere trifles. When all piled together inside the space of one eight or ten-hour-long day, they're nothing but a total clusterfuck. Down the hatch. Up the bum. In the mud.

My wife was concerned, before I took this job, that this would be what our "off" weekends would be like-- a haphazard and breathless attempt to jam in retreats, cultural events, shopping, and other fun things. So far, this hasn't happened yet. Then again, I've only worked one full weekend thusfar. My next one's coming up, right around the corner.

Anyway, before dwelling on the fact that a significant portion of this weekend will be spent at work amongst psychotics and sociopaths (some of whom, regrettably, will be naked), let's dwell on the unpleasantness of my days off, rather than being grateful for them. Because, really: who the hell would want to read that?

So, yes, I realize that I am potentially placing my delicate peen inside the gift horse's mouth with this post, but I accept the fact that my whining might anger those of you who are unemployed/employed with no free weekdays/think I'm an overprivileged assface with a nose the size of an Airbus A-380.

My days off, thusfar, have filled me with nothing but dread, anxiety, restlessness, frustration, a sense of utter non-accomplishment, self-loathing, irritability, and this prickly rash just beneath my--

Oh, sorry.

Anyway, apparently I am catching my wife's disease: Uneasewithstillnessosity. The symptoms are mainly a definitely irrational inability to just. fucking. be. So, if I'm not running around on my day off ticking little boxes on a to-do list that I certainly haven't had the forethought to make in the first place, then I beat myself about the head, chest, breast, neck and head with a child's size pontoon boat and assrape myself with a frozen garden hose because I am, clearly, a bad, bad boy.

I have completely squandered my day off, yet again, I have absolutely nothing to show for it, oh, and I am a crybaby little twatalot.

Did I mention that, when people drive behind me with their high-beams on, it makes me want to club baby seals? However, since they aren't too prevalent in this neighborhood, I'd settle for alley kittens. Or just babies.

Sorry, I know that particular gripe wasn't really connected to my days off, but it sort of just illustrates where I am, emotionally.

I apologize for the tone of this post (and I don't do that often). But I just feel everything.... slipping a bit. My interactions with friends are stilted and terse, my obligations to the boards I am on are being ignored or put off, chores around the house get pushed aside, and I feel like I'm not even treading water these days, as if everything is getting away from me, just enough for me to recognize it but not be able to bring myself to do anything about it. And that makes me feel like a guilty wreck, which I'm used to feeling, but not quite on this level.

Of course, this blog probably isn't helping that predicament. Because here I am, in the twenty minutes before I have to fly off to rehearsal for three-and-a-half hours, blogging on my day off, pretending I'm writing on Thursday at 7:18am, when it's really 5:19pm on Wednesday.

Ah, life.

Mission Somethings Accomplished

I was given the day off work today.

It's an unusual event, and I sat down with Mrs. Apron last night to plan out how I would spend my precious day out of the occupational clutches. Some people tan themselves on their days off. Some people go to the zoo. Some see their friends, or their shrinks. Me? Well, I had a little list.

It was called:

Mr. Apron & Kumar's Jerk Off Day List

1.) Install flakeboard in kitchen cabinet.

2.) Strip wallpaper

3.) Call paint-covered loser (the second painter with the moth-eaten sweater) and ask WTF re: quote.

4.) Cancel Closet Goy appointment.

5.) Resolve legal billing question for lawyerly mother-in-law.

6.) Pay car payment (in pocket)

7.) Pay car insurance (on mantle)

8.) Go to Staples and buy a fucking filing cabinet.

9.) Haircut?

10.) Masturbate.

11.) Vegetables for Stir Fry (sugar snap peas, bee-bee corn)

12.) Masturbate again.

13.) Pleasure drive.

14.) Banjo

15.) Blog (and help Dad with his work blog)

16.) Pick up Mrs. Apron's prescription.

17.) Pittsburgh funeral on webstream - 1pm.

It's an ecclectic to-do list, isn't it? The product of a disordered mind with with a flailing desire for structure, order and accomplishment.

Well, Johnny-- how'd he do?

1.) I did not even attempt to install the flakeboard in the kitchen cabinet. No way. Didn't get near it. Requires a drill. Drills scare me. It's why I don't go to the dentist and avoid construction sites certain porn sites.

2.) What? There's wallpaper that needs to be stripped? Where?

3.) Right. So, I called the stumbly, erratic, paint-covered, poorly-dressed painter. His mom answered the phone-- the one who either dines on meth or enjoys repeatedly slamming her head onto formica surfaces.

Me: Hi.

Her: (Silence.)

Me: Um... hi. Is Brian there?

Her: Who?

Me: Uh... Brian?

Her: Oh! Er.... No.

Me: Okay. Well, can I leave a message?

Her: Sure.

Yeah, "sure" is right. Sure, he'll get that message-- just as sure as this blog will one day be an international best seller. Just like I just won the UK Lottery again (third time this month!). Just like my scent is an instant female lubricant.

Sure. I might as well have left the message with his cat.

4.) Closet Goy = Cancelled.

Closet Goy Receptionist: Well, I'll have her give you a call back and you can discuss it.

Me: Uh, no, I don't think you understand. I don't want anybody to be giving me a call back, because there is nothing to discuss. I cancel. Period."

Whore.

5.) Legal issue resolved. My mother-in-law sometimes doesn't know her own email address. This presents problems.

6.) Car payment paid. Only $5,736 left till I completely own.... a Ford Focus. Yeah.

7.) Car insurance paid. Come hit/steal/immolate my Ford Focus!

8.) What? We need a filing cabinet? Where?

9.) What? I need a haircut? Where?

10.) You know you're having a real busy day off when there's no time to masturbate.

11.) We had leftover matzah-ball soup for dinner. Fuck the stir-fry.

12.) See #10.

13.) Well, I drove a lot today. None of it was pleasurable.

14.) Played banjo from 4:17pm-5:06pm. Fingers & shoulder hurt.

15.) Blogged this morning, oh, and now! How fucking meta!

16.) Picked up the prescription. Now my wife will be free of acid reflux for another month.

17.) Attempts to view the Pittsburgh funeral ceremony subverted by no video link on the webstream. I could have just listened, like old timey radio days, but who has the patience/imagination for that?

Here were the things I did today that weren't on the list:

* Drove the dog to the groomer. He looks and smells so fantastic I can't stop kissing the big, gray bastard.

* Mailed a copy of my book to the webmaster of an anti-Mumia blog. He's agreed to post selections on his site. Can you say "royalties?!" Actually, can you say "death threats?!"

* Drove a copy of my book and a donation check to the Officer John Pawlowski Memorial Trust Fund to the 35th Police District, and was brought in to meet the Captain. He was touched. "Can I take this home with me tonight?" he said, referring to the book. "You can do whatever you want with it," I said. Better he take the book home than the check.

* Drove to the hardware store (three fucking times) to buy one door knob, then another, then return both. A vain effort to replace the obscenely filthy, mung-covered door knob on our kitchen door. Ended up just scrubbing the existing door knob with a "Chore-Boy" steel-wool and windex. All of the mung eventually came off, running in brown and green rivulets down my hand, causing me to gag. Door knob looks excellent, though. Realized that product names like "Chore Boy Steel Wool," "Aunt Jemima Pancakes," "Uncle Ben Rice," and "Good Little Negro Industrial Varnishing Exfoliant" are offensive and should be abolished, along with antiquated sport team names like "The Cleveland Indians," the "San Francisco Homosexual Panics" and the "Palo Alto Retards."

* Bought my wife a pair of shoes (coral red Keens-- cute!) at a swanky boutique. Not necessarily my style since Mrs. Apron turned me onto T.J. Maxx, but I was in the neighborhood killing time while the groomer was finishing perming my dog's asshole. The makeup-caked sales associate gave me the bag and said, "And here's your shoes and receipt and, by the way, you're the best husband in the world."

Awww.

Not quite. If I were, I would have installed that fucking flakeboard in the kitchen, too.