Apparently, I Need to Write it Down

I sat down on Saturday night (be thankful that I'm not cool) and said to my wife something I have definitely said before:

"What am I blogging about? Shit-- I've had at least six different ideas in the last two days and I know I've said, 'Oh, that would be a good idea for a blog...' and now I can't remember fuckall any of them."

"Well," said the venerable Mrs. Apron, "you need to write these things down-- you don't have the memory of a... a..."

"A sixteen-year-old?" I suggested.

"No, not that," she said.

Then what? A tree-sloth? I don't know. I'm reasonably convinced that my mind is about on-par for where I am chronologically in life and gender-- slightly deteriorating, with some gaps and air-holes, cluttered with information that is largely irrelevant, and thoroughly involved in pondering the perplexing and pugnacious profundities of pussy.

But my dear lady wife is right: I do need to write things down, lest I forget them.

My memory for important things, like when I'm supposed to be working, and the order in which paperwork is to be completed during the 7:00am shift, is stunningly bad. I have wasted untold amounts of copy paper at work because I have photocopied 114 treatment sheets before signing off on them, having to throw out all the copies I made, sign off every single sheet, and start all over again with the photocopier. I can actually feel the searing glares of nurses burning the hairs off the back of my neck while I monopolize the aging Xerox machine. It's rather unfortunate.

Ridiculous trivia, though, I'm spot on for. Hit me up for some stupid, banal bit of nonsense, and I'll be right there-- as long as it has to do with airline disasters, bits and pieces of any Volkswagen Beetle manufactured from 1958-1979, "Monty Python", the Victorian era, or the Civil War and you'll get a spontaneous reply that has at least an 87% chance of being correct. I can tell you how many buttons Graham Chapman's vest had on it in the "Confuse a Cat, Ltd." sketch from Season 1, Episode 5 of "Monty Python's Flying Circus."

[Answer: 6 buttons (and he stammers slightly on the word "Stockbroker Syndrome")]

But, clearly, when I have to be somewhere, it needs to go into my phone with an alarm that goes off one hour prior to the event. I have never actually needed this reminder to remind me of an event I'd previously forgotten about, because I guess the mere act of putting the appointment in my phone is rehearsal enough to remember the event, but I'm sure the time will come when an alarm will go off and I'll say,

"Holy shitballs! That was TODAY?!" and I will be very grateful for modern technology and I will thumb my nose at the Amish who still insist on writing things down and sleeping with horses FTW ("for the warmth.")

Because I need to write down blog topics for the future, I've come up with some that weren't (obvs) the ones I forgot, but I'm hoping that, when my well runneth dry as wells sometimes do, I'll look back on this post and go, "Holy shitballs! There are some perfectly Apronworthy blog ideas RIGHT HERE!" Also, if any of these blogprompts appeal to you and your vanity, feel free to get thus inspired.

* SUPER APRON

This blog topic would center around the greatest what-if of all: What if I were a super-hero? I mean, I am, but one with a costume and powers and a girdle and such. What would my powers be? Would I look good in a wetsuit and a cape? Would I fight for good or evil, or both? Or would I be the sort of super-hero who is, um, a pacificst? If I were a super-hero, would I still think about pussy all the time? God, I hope so.

* FLIGHTS FOR THE DYING

I think this was an actual post that I'd thought of writing, and might have even discussed with Mrs. Apron in the car somewhere-- where paper & pen isn't always handy. My father's uncle perished in Israel a while ago, and ever since, my father has been engaged in supercomplex legal wrangling (mostly over the phone, but, recently, for four days in person in Israel) to sort out the very topsy-turvy nature of my uncle's will. When I mentioned my father's difficulties to an Israeli friend of mine, she expressed an interest in talking to my father because her own father passed away in Israel and she's having a hell of a time getting his affairs in order, too.

"What? Is dying in Israel that fucking complicated?"

"If it's such a hassle," my wife said, "nobody should ever die there."

"Right," I said, "El-Al should start a "Flights for the Dying" program, and have specially-outfitted planes with no seats, just mountings for ambulance cots to click into and they could ferry terminally ill motherfuckers to countries where dying is less involved. They could call these specially-designed planes, "Morad Flights."

That's funny because my grandfather's name was "Morad" and, in Hebrew, it means, "On the way down."

* SOMETHING MEANINGFUL

This wasn't anything specific, but I've started to notice that there is a fair amount of nonsense and horseshit on this blog, so I thought maybe I'd try to write something halfway meaningful one day. You know, give it kind of my best shot and then basically go back to being a retard.

* JEWISH HARRY POTTER

Um, this idea is stupid, but it just popped into my head, and I have kind of a reputation for saying whatever pops into my head, so here we go:

I thought I'd write a spoof of Harry Potter where all the characters are Jewish. Um, that's it. Hilarity, righteous indignation, and semitic offense ensues. And I get sued by the Anti-Defamation League. It's a hot party. Complete with lox and bagels.

EXPELIJEWMUS!

Ass Backwards. Literally!

Don't you hate when people just can't seem to use the word "literally" correctly? As in, "Dude. It is seriously going to be raining cats and dogs. Literally."

Well, then I hope the street-sweeping crew is going to be hitting my neighborhood after that rain breaks, because, if not, we're all going to be slipping on a lot of kitty entrails and matted blood and fur all over the fucking place. It's a good thing I just changed my windshield wipers and had them affixed with those high-absorbency industrial sponges.

Yesterday, I was ass backwards. Literally. As in, the ass of my boxer shorts was on top of my penis. As in, I was wearing my undewear the wrong way 'round. Literfuckingally.

Getting dressed as I do at 5:20 in the morning, these type of things are bound to happen. Sometimes, at eight or nine o'clock in the morning, I'll look down at myself and, usually a very fastidious dresser and matcher, I will be disappointed at my ensemble for the day. There may be gray socks with brown trousers, or a dubiously-colored undershirt. All of my collared shirts are wrinkled. I refuse to iron dress shirts-- especially to go to work in a psych hospital? Who's going to notice? The 300 pound, frothy-lipped black gentleman who walks out of his room holding his micropenis in his hand asking for a cup of apple juice and an Ativan?

So I don't sweat my apparel, though I would like to have my underwear on correctly.

I knew something was not quite right, you know, down there, but I didn't realize what it was until the end of my shift. I had peed three times during the day, but never noticed the under-roo debacle because *gulp* I often pee sitting down.

Yes. I pee like a girl. Laugh at me. I don't care. Go ahead, laugh. There's Mr. Apron, peeing like a Mrs. Apron! Hahahahahaha. That's pretty fucking funny, isn't it? You like that shit? Yeah. I pee like your sister. Get over it.

Anyway, I'll bet your sister pees standing up.

OH, DAMN! No, I di'int!

Anyway, yes, I di'id.

So, my underwear was on backwards. Not to read too much into it, but I definitely think you can apply backwards underwear to life, if you try hard enough. I mean, we're all backwards, lacking in attention to detail, fumbling our way through the menial and sometimes very important tasks of life and, sometimes, we just, well, step in the wrong way.

I don't remember the circumstances surrounding the other times in my life that this has happened, but I sure remember the first time. I was a freshman in high school, a wormy, skinny, weird, unfortunate freshman in high school and I was trying to find friends the only way I knew how-- by trying be funny. So, on the late bus, populated with theatre dorks, football dickheads, and cheerleader sluts-in-training, I casually announced, in my charming, self-deprecating way, that I realized something so funny in 5th period-- that my boxers were on the wrong way.

There was silence for a minute or two. Then, a freckle-cheeked, towheaded football player broke said silence.

"Oh, yeah? Is that so your boyfriend can fuck you easier-- with the pisshole by your asshole?"

And.... scene.

Hi, I'm Still Gay.

I could sense that, with some of my recent posts positively oozing with heteronormity and vag-seeking testosterjit, some of you might be wondering to yourselves, "Wait-- am I still reading a blog written by the gayest, straight, married man alive?"

And I'm here to reassure you that, yes, you most certainly are.

Permit me to elaborate:

* As Vivian, the stock elderly lady B&B innkeeper, was showing us around her reconverted 1850s barn B&B, the phrase that most consistently escaped my lips as we were shown her antique armoires (with original brass finials!), her miniature floral creations that she exhibited that morning at a local flower show (she won first and second place!), and the view, dappled with lamb's ears, mini cabbages, and pink roses was, "Oh, isn't this just lovely!"

Oh. Isn't that. Just. Lovely. Yes, it's just lovely. Faggot.

* Yesterday morning, I woke up at 5:15am, worked for eight hours in a psychiatric hospital trying to keep spitting, swearing, masturbating patients from killing each other (and themselves!), sped home, only to bust my ass at the gym, and then return descend to the dark garage to cut cork flooring with a Ryobi circular saw with carbide-tipped blade (and edge guide!) for two more hours. Any straight man worth his salt and the hair on his massive, clementine-sized balls would crave, and demand, bloody red meat. Me? I was lusting after a, say it with me now: salad.

* Given the option and/or opportunity, I will always, always choose to eat pizza with a fork and a knife-- just like my great grandmother. And Liberace.

* I still wear neckties on the weekends. I don't wear them to work because 1.) people already think I'm a doctor, just for wearing collared shirts and, 2.) you're much easier for a psych patient to strangle when you're already wearing a noose around your neck, even if it's a super-cute one, with lots of carrots and one hungry little embroidered bunny rabbit.

* I bought lots of clothes for my wife for her birthday.

And they all fit her.

And she loves all of them.

And that pretty much proves that I'm the gayest straight man you know. Still not convinced?

* Last week at work, they asked me if I wanted to work a double shift. "Oh, I'm sorry, I can't," I said. "Why-- you've got another job?" the scheduling oppressor asked me. "No," I replied, "I have rehearsal on Wednesday nights. For.... an operetta I'm... in."

Yeah.

See, I could have just said, "Sorry, I'm busy," and, as the mixed look of fear, confusion, and revulsion crossed the face of the work scheduler and he backed away slowly from me as if I had just diarrhea'd out my eye sockets while buttonhole-pounding his mom, then, and only then did I realize that I should have said just that. But, I didn't. Because, hi, I'm (still) gay.

Just like you always knew I was. Lover.

In Case You Didn't Know By Now: I'm Retarded

I got called "retarded" at work yesterday. Fortunately, it was by a patient, and not a coworker.

During orientation, we were warned that the patients would call us all kinds of names and slurs. As I believe I've mentioned before, "motherfucker" is the most frequently utilized moniker in Zombieville, a perennial favorite of both staff and patients. I've only been on the unit for two weeks, and I've already been called lots of names, and I'm frequently asked if I'm Jewish ("And why is that important to you?" is usually my reply) but it took being called "retarded" to really stop me in my tracks for a moment. It's easy to know how to respond, or to choose not to respond, when someone calls you a motherfucker, or a fuckhead, or a cunt-bitch, but I have to admit that, yesterday, I was temporarily stymied as to the appropriate response to being called "retarded."

Because I was called "retarded" by a young man with mental retardation.

The patient -- we'll call him "J" so I don't get fired before I'm ready to quit -- was sitting with me at a table that is bolted to the floor to prevent it from becoming a non-aerodynamic though dangerous projectile. I was on a 1:1 watch with J, because he was caught having sexual intercourse with another patient last week. Patients are not permitted to have sex on the unit, rather making it like the Lutheran college I attended, where those who were bold enough to purchase condoms at the school store were looked at by the clerk as if they were buying a magazine featuring pictures of dildo-bearing black chicks ass-raping squirrels.

So, "J" is being monitored for having sex on the unit. "J" has mild mental retardation, along with a host of other mental maladies. He perseverates endlessly, asking what time it is approximately every two minutes, asking when he is going to see his social worker every minute-and-a-half, and every five minutes, asking you what your name is. Today, I sat on a 1:1 with "J" for two hours straight. "J" barely moves his mouth when he speaks, and, because he does not articulate, it is extremely challenging to understand what he is saying. The psych techs who have been there for years are obviously better at decoding "J" than I, but I'm getting there. However, when Q-102 is blasting in the activities room and a 6'7" leviathan is doing a spontaneous rap about needing "a white girl with extensions in her hair" it makes hearing "J" that much more difficult. So, I asked him to repeat one of his monotonous requests two or three times, and he blew me off in frustration saying, "You retarded."

Which I did understand, thank you very much.

Just as I was about to remonstrate "J" for calling me retarded, I caught myself. If I say to "J" that it is wrong to insult somebody with a term like that, aren't I insulting him? Doesn't that vilify "J" and his condition?

"You know, J, it isn't nice to call people 'retarded'."

Hmmm.... Didn't sound right to me.

When I discussed it last night with Mrs. Apron during one of on-the-elliptical debriefing sessions, she said that addressing "J" for the inaccuracy of the statement would have been the way to go. But that still didn't sit right with me. Does that mean it's okay to call a gay person "gay" or a person with mental retardation "retarded"? Or to say, "Jew!" to me? I mean, it's accurate, sure, but is it right? And, furthermore, would "J" have understood the distinction?

I made my choice as to how to proceed, but I wasn't sure it was the right choice. Are we ever? I let it go. I let it go for ten minutes until "J" and I were sitting together in a relatively comfortable silence and I waited until the moment was as right as it was going to be for this kind of thing, and I leaned over to him and I said,

"J, do you remember, a little bit ago when you called me--"

"Sowee," he said.

"Thank you, J," I said, "I really appreciate that."

"I sowee," he said, looking through me.

"I would never call you a name," I promised, visualizing my coworker who had called J a queer in front of me just a few days ago, as I watched and said nothing. The new guy. The coward.

"I know," he said. "Wha you name?"