A Chilly Little Poem

I'm no poet.

I don't know why I bother with a disclaimer like that. You're going to find out for yourself soon enough.

I'm Skiing Today

This might be the last day I'm alive,
but I sure hope that is not the case.
With luck I am sure I'll survive,
It won't be skill that saves me with grace.

'Cause I'll fall on my ass and snowplow my face,
Even though I have kick-ass, brand-new ski boots,
I ain't no red-faced, beer-swilling ski-bum called "Ace,"
I'm just another brittle-boned Jew with snow on his toots.

If you see me come down the slope at a high rate of speed,
Get out of my way, or your day will get truly fucked up,
For ski school and training and remediation I need,
I'm the equivalent of lobotomized, newborn, dumb pup.

I'm skiing today.
And you're praying today.
'Cause your boy Apron's in one hell of a lurch.
Like I said yesterday-- if you know what's good, get your ass back in that church.

Basically, I'm Pretty Much a Criminal

Finley, our old dog, has been chewing at his front leg-- probably to attain some amount of attention, even the negative kind, as we've been focusing on trying to beat our young dog, Molly, into submission.

Yesterday evening, I sprayed his leg with dog medication that expired two years ago.

If you could ask the nice men to put a jacket over the handcuffs so the neighbors don't have to see, I'd really appreciate it.

I don't know when I basically became pretty much a criminal, but it happened. Somehow, somewhere along the way, you lose things, just a little bit at first.

I still pay all my bills on time. Early, even. But maybe one day, I'll forget to pay the water bill. Maybe it will be in May, as I get all heady with kiss-my-ass excitement over my 31st birthday. It could be in August, as heat exhaustion melts my brain into something resembling three-year-old apple cider and coagulated buttercream.

Apparently, according to the local ski shop, I've been skiing on skis whose bindings are no longer "indemnifiable." So, I'm a criminal on the slopes, too. And I thought there I was only guilty of perpetrating crimes against the laws of fashion. Pull me over, Tim Gunn, P.D.

Sometimes, I wear the same pair of trousers for three or so days in a row. I just can't be bothered to take out my wallet, my Burt's Bees, my keys, my cellphone holster, my cellphone, and unloop my belt and then do the whole shenanigan over again with a new pair of trousers every day.

I mean, really? Every day? Come on. It's not like I shit myself or rub my ass in tartar sauce. Why should I change trousers every day? I'm a very clean person.

Except for the fact that I don't change my trousers every day.

Oh, and sometimes I go a little too long between showers. Like, long enough to forget which way the faucet turns to get hot and which way it turns to get cold. But... we don't really need to talk about that anymore.

When I'm alone in my car, I sometimes shout the "N-word" at drivers who do unbelievably annoying things in front of me-- like drive the speed limit, for instance. These drivers, especially in my neighborhood, are invariably not black. Still, it's wrong, and I know that, and it's just another reason why, basically, I'm pretty much a criminal.

Feel free to click "Un-follow this blog" now, or whenever it's convenient for you.

When people talk to me, sometimes I visualize terrible things happening to them. I have fantasies about doing some pretty off-the-wall shit, but I never do it. Like, at work, we're doing Secret Santas-- only for those who want to participate. I thought it would be hilarious to select a female coworker, and then buy her underwear (in her exact bra and panty size) and scented lotion and shit, just for shits and giggles. Because, let's face it-- my sense of humor is very fucked up and, basically, pretty much criminal.

I'd like to tell my sister that, while I love her, I don't like her. And that's kind of a criminal thing to do to a family member. In fact, short of placing a hot iron on a family member's face, I can't really think of a more awful thing you could do to a family member, to let them know that your obligation and connection to them is strictly obligatory, and that, if given the choice, you would rather be in a room with an ox suffering from nuclear diarrhea than with your own sibling-- but it's true.

And I wish it weren't. And I suppose that's something that makes me slightly less than criminal. But I really should call the vet soon.

Phoneterview

So, I have this phone interview coming up this morning and, call me a pathetic neonate, but I’m kind of scared.

I mean, I’m more conflicted than scared, actually, because part of me is very relieved that it’s a phone interview and not a real, live in-person interview.

Really, I’m just a fucking mess and I don’t know how to feel about it. I'm such a girl.

My dear, good, short wife is also conflicted, occupationally speaking, and I recently suggested that she make a Pro/Con List to help her sort through her sentiments about her current and prospective job. Then, she directed me to order her a pita pizza with pineapples and green peppers. So, there we are. Not particularly liking pineapples, or green peppers, or pita myself, I decided to make a Pro/Con List of my own to see if I could help myself determine exactly how I feel about this impending phone interview.

Since I’m a negative sonofabitch, I’ll do us all a favor and start with the...

PRO

• Prospective employer/interviewer gets no visual.

Call me excessively self-deprecating, but this first point cannot be mitigated or ignored. They that hold the cards to my future will be utterly unable to deduct points for poor posture, Jenga-teeth, sweaty palms, coffee odor(s), haphazard, untamable Jew hair, eccentric neckwear and dress shoes from the early 1970s. In a word, I’m amazed that I was ever hired, by anybody, prior to the advent and implementation of the phone interview.

Tight.

• (Related to first bullet-point), I can react however I want to their questions.

When they ask me how I dealt with a challenging situation at my current or former job, or if I could be any zoo animal in the eastern hemisphere, which would it be and why, or what do I consider to be a professional weakness of mine, I can roll my eyes, make jerk-off motions with my hand, lie down supine on the floor, give the dogs the finger, pretty much whatever the hell I want as long as I don’t let anything audible slip. Like my boxers to the floor.

BOO-YA!

• I don’t have to obsess over being late.

This is a huge, huge deal. No innocent motorist will fall victim to my frothing road-rage, there will be no feverish gripping of the already careworn eight-year-old steering wheel of my car, there will be no frantic, near epileptic search for a parking garage in downtown Philly (the last time I was engaged in this pursuit, I put the car in an underground lot for five hours and was charged $29.00) and I will not go through all of these gymnastics and near aeronautics just to arrive twenty-five minutes early only to be directed to a vinyl chair in some stuffy waiting room so my heart rate can slow down to somewhere near 144 BPM.

• Absolutely no chance at being caught staring at interviewer’s breasts.

Yes, it’s happened before. I mean, I don't know if I was caught, really, but, whenever I engage in this act, I almost invariably get caught. And, no, I'm definitely not immune from doing it at a job interview. What can I say? I am only a man and, therefore, evil and retarded.

And now, where I am most comfortable, I’m tempted to call it “Home” but, for these purposes we’ll just go with….

CON

• Prospective interviewer/employer gets no visual.

I know, I know, I know—this point not only appeared in the “Pro” section, but it appeared first! What is wrong with me, O Evil & Retarded One? Well, see, while there are definite and clinically-proven negative attributes to my physical presentation, there are also things that work in my favor which, in a phoneterview, the interviewer will not observe.

For starters, now that “Pirates of Penzance” and “Peter Pan” are over, I no longer sport regrettable, Victorian-era facial hair (i.e., large, walrus-style moustache that swept down to my jawline and sideburns that, well, did the same. I’m clean-shaven, with a nice haircut, and I look at least twenty-five years, and a century-and-a-half younger than I did just a month ago. I mean, I’d do me. I mean— hire.

Another thing that tends to work in my favor at in-person interviews is that I dress very, very well, unlike, presumably, a significant portion of job-seekers in my age-bracket. Because I absolutely love dressing up in shirts and ties, you can tell that I don’t just put them on for job interviews, and I certainly don’t opt for the pre-packaged $17.99 shirt-and-tie from TJ Maxx. No, I actually have class and dignity and I like to think that it shows. But not during a phoneterview.

In personal conversations, especially when I am asked to talk about my ideals concerning truth, justice, about my personal philosophy, and/or being honest and respectable, you can almost watch the tears welling up in my eyes, such a sensitive, integrity-filled pussyburger I am—and I suspect prospective employers like interviewing people who they know won’t dick them over, steal from the safe, or rape the boss’s daughter or hamster. Hopefully, in the phone interview, they’ll be able to hear my voice crack with sincerity.

• If you’ve ever spoken to me over the phone…

…you know that I sound like a fucking idiot at best, and a hard-of-hearing mental patient off his meds at worse.

When I don’t have a person’s face and lips to watch like a hawk to enable me to process what they’re saying and interpret their body language, I’m basically dead in the water. If you’re fooled into thinking that I’m eloquent and facile with words because of what you may have read or may have though you read on this blog, well, it’s just a charade of a façade. You’d have better luck asking a dying donkey for directions to the Holiday Inn in Boise than you would having a semi-coherent telephone conversation with me.

• I can’t impress anyone by being early.

Because that impresses people.

So, there it is, kidderoos: my Pro/Con List. I don’t know exactly where it leaves us, or me, except that it’s 7:18am, and my phone interview starts in fifty-seven minutes.

Unless, of course, I call early.