Three Stories That Show How I am a Retard, a Jerk and I Smell Funny

I’m Retarded

Have you ever had a spastic moment and realize that someone caught you doing it?

Yesterday afternoon I needed some caffiene. I’ve been drinking a lot of tea lately versus coffee, primarily because it tastes better (at least the free stuff we get here at work) but also because I can get by on a cup of decent black tea—caffiene-wise—and I don’t have to resort to 47 packets of Sweet N’ Low and four fluid ounces of creamer at 236 calories per microgram.

So I’m in the break room with my cup and I pull out a package of Earl Grey and retrieve the bag complete with string successfully. As I try to ease the bag into the cup, I realize that it is swinging as it dangles from the string between my fingers, making it somewhat difficult to control the descent. My first try misses wide right, the bag sliding down the side of the cup. Instinctively, I lift the bag back up, upon doing which the bag catches the edge of the cup and spins as it swings even more. I try to be quick like cat and dunk the bag into the empty cup with a fast snap of the wrist, but I only succeed in hitting the counter with the bag.

My third try results in the bag missing the rim completely and swinging comically around the outer edge of the entire rim, as though consciously circling but afraid to go all the way in. At this point I laughed a little to myself, thinking I was experiencing a solitary moment of surreality. I tried again, and missed. I tried one last time and as the bag sailed past the outside edge of the cup I became suddenly and very intensely aware of a presence behind me.

I turned my head and saw a co-worker, standing in the doorway to the break room with one eyebrow arched high on her brow. As soon as it was clear I knew she was there, she burst into laughter. “I was wondering how long you were going to try and get that in there,” she remarked with eyes full of mocking mirth. I sheepishly scooped the entire tea bag into my palm and forcibly crammed it into the cup.

It took an inordinately long time for that particular cup of tea to brew.

I’m a Jerk

Nik and I watched “Grey’s Anatomy,” the episode that aired immediately following the Super Bowl two nights ago. We watched it on delayed TiVo-vision because she hadn’t finished the previous weeks’ episode.

It doesn’t particularly matter for this story, but I feel inclined to clarify that I don’t necessarily like the show; it drops the soap so often as to be hazardous. If you don’t believe me you only need to watch this one episode in which there are so many coincidences and unfortunate circumstances that probability, rationale and disbelief are not just suspended but actively persecuted and martyred in horrific fashion.

Consider this particular set up: A young paramedic responds to a call in which a man has a gaping chest wound. In order to stop the bleeding she thrusts her hand into the wound. Meanwhile a major character goes into labor and waits for her husband to arrive. In his rush to get to the hospital the husband gets into a car crash and has to be rushed to (the same) hospital. Another lead character goes to work performing brain surgery on the injured husband while the other doctors learn that the wound being plugged by the paramedic was caused by an unexploded homemade mortar shell, forcing them to try and evacuate the surgical ward and call the bomb squad.

Of course the doctor performing brain surgery doesn’t want to be the one who effectively killed a colleague’s husband so he stays in spite of the evactuation and so on. The point is that even one of these things happening would be an unlikely occurrence, but all of them at once defies logic at every level.

Anyway, as we’re watching this the tension begins to mount as the paramedic learns about the bomb and is instructed to keep her hand on it to prevent it from potentially exploding were she to remove her hand from the wound, and also to keep the patient with the wound alive (her hand is supposedly keeping him from bleeding out). She starts to freak out as an anaesthesiologist left in the room with her waxes dark about the effects of a detonated bomb on humans. “Pink mist,” he describes the resulting tissue from close range detonation. The girl starts to panic as he selfishly and stealthily hands off his duties to her and slides snake-like out of the room.

Eventually our heroine tries to convince the paramedic not to pull her hand out and run; but she does anyway and after a slow-motion scene of the rest of the doctors ducking for cover we find the main character standing in place of the paramedic, hand in the wound holding the bomb in place. There is a pulsing heartbeat soundtrack and the camera holds steady on the lead as she stares in horrified awe at her hand, wondering what she’s just done. The film speed slows to a crawl and Nikki leans closer to the TV, riveted.

So what do I do? I tap her on the back.

“Boom!” I say.

I should point out that Nikki hates—hates—to be startled. Part of her loathing of loud noises is the little jolt they give a person. I know this. I’ve known this for more than eight years, and yet I cannot help myself. In my defense, I think that was the first time I’ve ever scared her purposefully since I met her. She hit the ceiling and screamed. Then she shot me the fabled Look of Death. She didn’t speak to me for an hour afterward.

Eventually I got her to talk to me and I pointed out that one scare in six years of marriage is a pretty good track record. I howled as I reminded her that if nothing else I had saved it for the perfect moment. It couldn’t have been better, I mean really. Eventually she conceded, “Yeah, you got me good.” She paused. “You’re still a jerk, though.”

She’s right about that.

I Smell Weird

We got our taxes done last night. There was a pause because the place we go to get them done was pretty packed so we dropped off our paperwork so they could get started and went to kill some time. After lunch we decided to stop into the local Barnes and Noble where they have (of course) a Starbucks and some comfy chairs where you can read books and magazines free while you sip your mostly unpleasant, highly overpriced, coffe-like beverages.

As we approached I saw a new menu item: The Toffee Nut Latte. I’m a sucker for new and different. So without any hesitation at all, I ordered one. A small. I refuse to use Starbucksese, doubly so since it’s completely nonsensical: How is a “tall” the smallest they offer? It’s dumb. Anyway, I got my beverage and settled in with Programming Web Services With Perl to enjoy my beverage.

In the end it was kind of nice, nutty and Nik pointed out that it tasted quite a bit like caramel corn. I sipped it until it was done, read for a few more minutes and then we gathered up to head over and finish the taxes.

After we finished (we’re getting a refund this year!) we headed home to watch a bit of TV before I had to retire for the night. I started winding down, so I headed into the bathroom. I washed my hands, I scrubbed my face and brushed my teeth vigoruosly, like always. Then I crawled into bed and drifted off.

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