What NOT to do during a Hurricane

So it’s about 9:30PM the night of the hurricane, power is off, and we’re at the height of the storm.  Two massive oak trees have come crashing through our back deck and are beginning to lean on the roof of our house.  I look out our kitchen door with my handy flashlight and can see they’re still coming…kind of moving in slow motion now.  There’s a branch about 4 inches in diameter that looks like it was sheered off at the end.  It’s about six inches from the center window in our family room and it’s coming.  To this point we’ve had no water in the house and I plan to keep it that way.  With no power (7 days thank you), and howling wind and rain, I come up with the brilliant idea.  I’ll go out to the garage and get my telescoping pole, which has a blade saw on the end of it.  With this extremely sharp tool in hand, I’ll simply walk out onto the deck and take care of business.   (For some reason, quite often I feel the need to repeat this, but I did graduate from a place of higher learning with honors)

So I announce my plan to save the homestead.  I think my son’s first comment was, “Good Luck with that.”  My wife began questioning my sanity.  There was also talk of the need to have a stun gun (all I really remember is a lot of four letter words, and one five letter word: IDIOT).  Picture people wrapped around my ankles as I try to make my way to the garage.  Long story short, I’m told unless I want to end up in divorce court I should stay in the house.  The branch winds up literally against the glass but does not break it.  But in my defense, I’d like to take a poll of all male readers to see how many would have thought my idea was a good one.

Miraculously three days after the hurricane, a bunch of fearless guys have completed dismantling the two trees and they’re off the deck and house.  The only problem is that the deck is a good twenty feet off the ground and a major section of the railing is completely gone.   Much too dangerous, so something needs to be done.  I decide with my son’s help, we’ll find the multiple pieces of decking and with nails, rope and duct tape, we’ll reconstruct what’s required to ensure I don’t have an Inspector Clouseau episode off the deck.  As we get the major sections of railing back onto the deck platform, we find that some have thick uneven pieces that protrude off the bottom.   No problem, I go into the garage and get a handsaw and decide to cut off the uneven pieces.  But they’re difficult and it’s taking forever.  I decide to go back into the garage and get my power saw to finish the job quickly.  But the garage is a complete mess and I can’t find it.  I reluctantly go back out and work at the hand saw again.   It’s still taking way too long and now I’m really ticked off.  I storm back into the garage and if I have to turn this place upside down, I’m going to find that power saw.  I’m a raving lunatic at this point.  I want to know why this garage has to be such a @#$%& mess all the time.  And I’ll accept any reason…other than it’s my fault.  (Of course if you were to look at my work desk, you’d easily know why)

I finally find the saw; grab an extension cord and head out to the deck.  We’re going to see some action now.  I get all set up and my son looks at me and asks, “Hey Dad, don’t we need power to run the power saw?”   Luckily he can run really fast.  Actually I burst out in laughter…I might have cried shortly after, but that’s not important.

Bottom line is, with the help of my new best friends from State Farm, my family and I have a lot to be Thankful for.  

Always Remember: Hug Your Family and Cherish the Good Times!

The Lighter Side of Armageddon

So I never thought I’d say this, but I miss... NJ Transit Trains.  For a very long time, they have been the Bain of my existence.  My feeling is that the Gladstone line is like the redheaded stepchild of NJ Transit.  We have only two direct trains going into the city and only two coming home.  Otherwise you have the pleasure of switching trains in either Newark or Summit, and your ride extends to about 90 minutes.  Up until a few years ago my Family was under the impression that taking the train in and coming home was like a little Club Med vacation for me every day.  (In their minds, I’d be lying back on a spacious cushioned lounge chair in my cabana wear, having drinks with little umbrellas served to me.)   My wife and daughter were enlightened one Sunday afternoon coming home from the city on a crowded train after the Marathon.  My daughter looked at my wife and asked in horror, “Does Dad do this every day?” 

I could write for hours about how NJ Transit has wronged me in a myriad of ways over the years, but what kind of sport is that (wait for my next article).  What’s changed are the people who ride NJ Transit.  We’ve been transformed.  On the Gladstone line you have a wide dichotomy of people.  One of the things that’s always amused me is how the first person to a seat feels they own that particular seat (a seat that fits 3 people).  They spread their stuff all over the seat.   They do the very best job they can without looking someone in the eye and confronting them, to dissuade others from sitting down.  And if you do decide to ask, “Do you mind if I sit there?”  They give you this face that says, “Can’t you see this is going to be a major imposition for me?  I’ve got my stuff everywhere…now I have to pick it all up.  That’s going to take me at least 7 seconds…is it really that important for you to sit for the next hour?”

In comes hurricane Sandy.   The Fam and I are watching the movie, “The Day After Tomorrow”, yes we’re sick people, and the power goes out.  Then two large trees fall on the house, no one is hurt but like everyone else we’re out of power… for 7 days.  Over the next couple of days the family becomes cold, cranky and we’re tired of peanut butter and jelly.  (I of course am a beacon of light and hope.  I’ve been banned from the Kings food store for trying to start a small business in their café selling ports on my Power Strips (Seriously, the people at Kings deserve a lot of kudos for staying open and helping people, they were very generous… and I’m sure after the new year I’ll be able to return). 

Being the great family provider that I am, I decide its time to scurry back into the city to put in a full warm day’s work.  (I’m not a very proud man)  So now the challenge: How to get into the city with few passable roads, bridges and tunnels…and rationed gas?

My neighbor and I team up.  Our first attempt is a 4:30AM drive to the Lincoln Tunnel.  We find an obscure park n ride lot in the bowels of Kearney.  It’s not pretty or safe looking, but there are wide ranges of people in the same boat as us who are waiting for a shuttle bus into Port Authority.  This works for a day, but with the gas shortage and the traffic back up at the approach to the Lincoln Tunnel we look for a plan B.   Plan B becomes LakeLand Bus Company.  I call on a Sunday night and ask if you can buy a ticket on the bus heading into the city.  I’m told yes, and I hang up.  I forgot to ask a very important question, “Are you running out of Far Hills like your website says you normally do.”  My neighbor and I are standing in the brisk morning air (pre-dawn) waiting until we decide to call again and ask…”Hey, where the @#&$% is the bus.  Turns out, due to the storm, they’re only running out of Summit.  So we race to Summit.  This is going to be beautiful, half of central Jersey is going to Summit to try to get into the city.  (Picture trying to jam 50 pounds of crap into a 1-pound bag.) 

I’m thinking about “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles” where Dell Griffith asks Neil Paige, “Have you ever traveled by bus before?”  We’re the last two people on the bus waiting outside the station and we’re off.  Person in front of me reclines his seat back so far I can’t open my laptop and get any work done…Its still dark and the lighting is poor so I can’t read.   I’m still Thankful.  I know if I remained home there’s a good chance I’d drive my family away and become a contestant on Divorce Court with Judge Judy.  If I thought coming into the city was problematic, going home made the ride in seem like that imaginary Club Med trip my family was picturing.  My new mantra is, “I AM THE 401.”  401 is our bus slot on the top floor of the Port Authority building complex.  So now you have the 50 into 1 thing going on.  You couple that with a billion cranky people who have no idea where they’re going or what to do in Port Authority, they might as well be in Bangladesh.  We climb our way to the top floor -think “Stairway to Heaven.”  There is a mass of bewildered humanity that’s comparable to something out of a biblical tale, but Moses is nowhere in sight.  We get to a line that is doubling back and forth at least 4 times and then trails out of the main waiting area up the emergency staircase.  We climb the staircase and get on the end of the line to the 401.  Its so depressing you can’t help but laugh…especially when there are people coming after you asking, “Is this the line for the 401?”  They really do not want to hear the answer, but you’re more than happy to tell them as it gives you some comic relief when you see the look on their faces and hear the various responses.   So at one point a NY City Policemen came to investigate us standing out in the stairwell.  I guess he wanted to make sure we didn’t get lost.  As he turns around to go back into the main waiting area a rather large individual is coming towards us to become the latest person at the end of the 401 line.  He meets the policemen right at the doorway, and to my amazement, refuses to step aside and let the Cop pass.  I’m thinking to myself, “Buddy, are you serious?  You’re not going to let the Cop pass?”  He finally comes to his senses and inserts himself into the 401 line and the Policeman heads back in.  We’re now about 3 people from the doorway and this knucklehead has decided, he’s going to plant himself permanently in this spot and not head to the back of the line.  I’ll have none of that.  I run the 401, I AM the 401.  The guy for some reason turns back to look at the end of the line and catches my eye.  In an act of  shear stupidity, I say to him, “The End of the 401 is back there” and I give him an idea of where that is with my thumb, not my middle finger, my thumb.  The guy sheepishly gets out of line and heads past us.  I’m now fully expecting to get a cell phone planted in the back of my head.  My neighbor throughout this whole ordeal has been trying to figure out how his new iPhone5 works and missed all the action.   I explain to him that the next time I pick a fight with someone twice our size; I’d appreciate it if he’d pay attention.

So we’re surviving on the 401 for a few days.  The bus lane going into the city works great.  Quite often I’ll thumb my nose as I’m expressing past all the common folk stuck in bumper to bumper traffic heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.  That is unless of course there is an accident in the Express Bus Lane…which happens…to me.  And there is absolutely nowhere to go.  You are stuck there until hell freezes over, which of course happened when the nor’easter hit.  Think of your worst commuting nightmare and then insert a couple of orders of magnitude.

One night last week just as I’m about to try and catch a bus on the 401, my wife calls me and says, “Whatever you do, to not try to come home now.  There are two hour delays in and around Port Authority.  They’re telling everyone to just stay put.”   What’s next, “Pestilence!?!”

After a while I walk down into Penn Station…I look at the NJ Transit train board.  I rub my eyes to ensure I’m seeing clearly…there’s a Dover Train running to Summit.  I get on the train, there is a slight delay leaving…signal trouble but we’re #5 in line to leave.   I’m in a two-seater with no one sitting next to me…it feels like Club Med.

The Bond Between a Father & Son

So my Father and I had a great relationship growing up…he taught me a thing or two, never really nagged me about my grades, or pushed me in one direction or another.  Of course I was an exemplary child so he didn’t really have a lot to be concerned with.  Remember, what goes on your juvi record, stays on your juvi record.

My Dad was a trapper as a kid during WWII.  Growing up we still had his traps tucked away in the garage.  My brother and I were told never to touch the traps…“danger”.  Naturally the couple of times I snapped the mothers on my fingers, I’d have to run around the garage screaming in silence.

My father taught my brother and I how to fish.  One of the things you learn at a young age with fishing is that any kind of squeamishness will not be tolerated.  It was usually a great time unless we were heading to the jersey shore for Flounder.  The bait used was the dreaded “Sand Worm.”  If you’re not familiar, they’re a good size worm with a billion small legs, kind of like a centipede.  The vile creatures have one terrible attribute.  They have four very strong spike-like teeth in their mouths.  If you’re 10 years old, and they grab onto the tip of your finger - not good.  Usually, I’d belt out a manly, “AAAGGGHHH”.   Then my father would turn around in the rowboat, look in complete disappointment and call me “Mary.”

The only other time we came to major disagreement was when my father thought it was time that I got a haircut.  My Dad’s feeling was if it was over the top of your ears…or if you listened to rock’n’roll music you were a Hoople-Head.  It was the 70s so I was a member in good standing of the Jersey Chapter of Hoople-Heads.

I remember after one such disagreement, I looked my father in the face and told him that when I was a father, I wouldn’t be such a royal pain.  He looked back at me and said, “Well when you get to be a Dad, we’ll see if you do any better.”  I remember thinking to myself, “Well that wouldn’t take too much.”  Luckily I had the good sense to keep that thought to myself; otherwise I’d have been picking my head up off from the floor.

Fast-forward some years…I have my first child…a son.

I’m thrilled and imagine our relationship to be something like a Norman Rockwell painting where the young son is staring up at the father in complete harmony.

A couple of notions to dispel, 1) you do not necessarily have more patience for your kids by having them later in life…unless of course you’re 90 and can’t remember what they did 5 minutes ago.  There used to be a phrase about being a “90s kind of Dad”.  It had a connotation of being progressive, patient, and generally “with it.”  When trouble comes calling, I always start out being a 90s kind of Dad.  Unfortunately the usual case is that I quickly degenerate and sail back through the decades to a 50s Dad where my knuckles are dragging on the ground and then my head explodes.  With my son’s help I’ve become an expert at time travel.

Number two, your kids will not necessarily be good at or like the things you did growing up.  Early on my wife enlightened me with a key phrase, “Its not about you, its about him.”  Blah Blah Blah!  Okay I get it…I may not like it, but I get it.

But what I really appreciate now is the incredulous look on his face when I suggest we do something together.  It’s as if he’s saying, “What in your wildest dreams would possess you to think that was even an option.”  It’s so touching…I see a lot of yard work in his future.

But there is some payback I get to enjoy now, some without even trying…too hard.  I’m an embarrassment to my kids.  For instance, we’re out to a late breakfast with friends at rural diner in PA.  I decide to wear my Chicago “Cubby-Bear” tank top.  Now granted this shirt is about 20 years old and has seen better days, but it’s a classic, so I wear it…a lot.  As we’re waiting for a table, my wife and I notice that my son is looking at me with a pained face of disapproval.  My wife looks at me, then at him, and in a tone that suggests she agrees with him (Thank You Very Much!) asks, “What, too much skin?  My charming son’s response, “No, Too Much PELT.”  In retaliation I explain to him it’s a hereditary condition and he can expect his coat to arrive in less than a year.

My son just got his driver’s license.  Considering how much he’s told me he already knows about life in general and that he doesn’t need my advice, I have a new level of stress and insomnia that I never dreamed possible.   You’d think considering everything I’ve learned from the volumes of mistakes I’ve made in my life…he’d want my advice. …”Never use a weed-whacker when wearing flip-flops; Remember, Swiss Army knives do NOT have a lock on the blade; Motorcycles = Danger; Never ingest gasoline”…need I say more.

How "I" Won LOTTO

Get the Kleenex ready, this is a painful one.  So I’m up on Cape Cod with my girlfriend visiting her parents.  They’ve retired and we’re staying at their condo in Harwich Port.  Her folks are two of the most laid back people you’ll ever meet.  After retiring, her Dad took up painting and became very good at it.  He sells his work once a week in the summers during “Art in the Park” day.  When he’s not painting, he’s farming a plot of land set aside by the town.  Her Mom’s part of the “Newcomer’s” association, and in a job that was meant for her, she works part-time for the Census.  They live a very modest life…that’s about to change…shortly.

We go out early in the morning and bring back the Boston Globe and then head back out again.  We’re gone for an hour or so and come back to the condo.  My girlfriend’s Mom is waiting in the doorway.  She’s got a smile on her face that resembles a cat that might have just eaten a mouse, or that she’s just won Lotto.  You see one of the “perks” associated with the Newcomer’s group is that each week you get “something” free.  This past week it was a free Mass-Millions lottery ticket.  We ask her what’s up and she tells us, “It seems all six of my lottery ticket numbers match the Mass Millions numbers listed in the Boston Globe.  First things first – not that I’m an untrusting soul, but I needed to verify this myself.  I put on my accounting visor and check it out.  Sure enough they match exactly.

“WE’RE RICH!!!”  It’s amazing how quickly things become “We” when $10 Million dollars are involved.

 

Almost immediately I had a Seinfeld moment.  Think George Costanza and the white discoloration on his lip.  I’m thinking that God would not let this good fortune happen to me without some sort of repercussion.  I do a quick check of major body parts and everything seems to be okay (nothing terribly strange or way out of the ordinary… I have a broad spectrum of what’s acceptable).    It’s time to PAR-TEE!

There’s a lot of dancing and hi-fiving going on in the tiny living room of the condo.  Ya know how sometimes you can get a song stuck in your head.  Mine was, “I’m going to be a Millionaire.”  And that was the only verse the song had.  My girlfriend…or should I say, “Bride to Be” is on the phone calling the Lottery Commission looking to find out where we can pick up “our” millions.  She starts screaming at us to be quiet; she can’t hear the person on the phone.  Since this is an important next step to our riches we put a momentary can on our celebrating.  Girlfriend gets off the phone and looks at us as if we’d lost the lottery… which was the case, the Boston Globe had a misprint.  The last number we had was 25, and the real number was 45.  We scream, “We’ll sue, we’ve been mentally traumatized!”  We call the Globe.  They’re sympathetic.  They say, “Oh yeah we had a misprint, click.”

It’s never pretty when a grown man cries, but this episode was particularly ugly.  When I was able to control my sobbing, I called the jewelry store back, told them we just had a family crisis of epic proportions, and I wouldn’t be needing the layaway plan any longer.  That night we had planned to go to a nice restaurant called Captain Linell’s.  As we moped through dinner, more than one time the comment, “We could have owned this place” could be heard.

Postmortem: I did…eventually propose to the girlfriend.  Unfortunately for her, she said yes.  Now we live a very rich fulfilling life together with our two kids, two cats and a dog.  Gee isn’t that swell.  

Dream of Olympic Gold becomes Nightmare

For a couple of years my wife and I lived outside of Chicago.  My wife introduced me to an interesting guy at her job named Pat Botts.  Growing up Pat lived next door to Bill Murray of SNL fame…quick side story:

Bill Murray’s sister used to babysit for the five Botts kids.  One night Bill came over to “help.”  Just before Mr.  & Mrs. Botts came home; Bill had the kids put ketchup all over their faces, and necks.  Then he had them lay out all over their front porch steps as if they had been massacred.  (Brilliant, even at a young age)

Pat and I had one thing in common from our pasts, we both wrestled in high school.  Pat told me about an over 30 league that he and some of his friends were messing around with.  They actually had sanctioned tournaments.  This is about the time a guy named Dave Schultz, (In his late 30s) was one of our USA Olympic hopefuls.  We’ll forget about the fact that a multi-millionaire was funding Dave and his team so they didn’t really need day jobs.  Nevertheless, at this point if you were standing next to me you could probably see smoke coming out of my ears as I’m thinking, “I’m in my late 30s.  All I need to do is get some serious practice time in, win a couple of tournaments, and I’m on my way.”  We’ll forget about the fact that I hadn’t stepped on a mat in over 15 years.  Probably the most amazing thing about this thought process is that I wasn’t even drinking.

So now it’s time for the first practice after work at a high school gymnasium.  I show up, look in the gym and see a bunch of amazingly well put together YOUNG men.  They were mostly kids that had just graduated college and were PE teachers.  Even the few guys that were my age were buff and by looking at them practice; I could see they had stayed current.  Reality has now come rushing back to me.  I’m not sure what I was expecting to see; maybe I was hoping to see a bunch of old men with long gray beards and canes.  Now I’m thinking to myself, “Were you out of your @#$%& mind!?!, you are about to get Annihilated.”  I can’t even run away at this point because Pat has seen me and I can’t have him report back to my new bride that I’m a Fraidy Cat.   Of course that’s a judgment call.  It was either that, or have him report back I had been totally humiliated for 90 minutes.

It’s Go Time:  For an hour I hang on a lot better than I had thought I might.  We’re doing take downs now from a standing position.  At one point a 22 year old shoots in on my legs and I’m able to fight him off by putting one of my legs between his two.  That’s not important, but what was, is that he picked me up off the ground and the two of us came crashing to the matt; me first on my side and him on top of me with his knees on my rib cage.  We both heard a crunch and he immediately got off me.  I spring to me feet figuring the worst, check myself out and to my amazement, no damage… We continue wrestling for another 20 minutes and then everyone calls it a night.  As I sat on a locker room bench, I swore I’d rather be lit on fire than do that again.  This won’t be an issue.

I get home; sit on the bed and reach down to untie my shoes.  Mind-bending pain shoots through my upper torso.  For three weeks my wife had to put on and take off my shoes and socks.  

About 3 or 4 years later, I’m in a New Jersey YMCA.  I walk past an exercise room and there are two large individuals who are literally beating the cr@p out of each other.  I don’t know what possessed me, but I asked them what they were doing.  They said it was Brazilian Wrestling, and asked me if I wanted to try.   There was no problem fighting off the urge.  In a microsecond I was transported back to my poor man's Foxcatcher experience.  Then Fraidy Cat quickly came to the rescue.

Why I Like to Hurt Myself…I Mean, Work Out.

So I know I need to get more exercise…actually a more accurate statement would be, “I know I need to get exercise.”  But now I’m beyond any point of reasonable condition.  I came to this conclusion when I was sitting on the couch watching an exhausting episode of “Man Vs. Wild” and sprained my groin muscle when I crossed my legs. 

That’s it!  Something has to be done!  I either need to find a potion that can lob 30 years off my body… or the dreaded…go back to a gym and begin working out …on a regular basis.  It sounds simple enough, but I know I’ll go once or twice and then…dripping in guilt, I’ll find good reasons that I can’t make it any longer.  One of my popular reasons for not going…”If I got just a little bit more sleep today, I’ll be better rested to go work out tomorrow.”  Naturally tomorrow never comes.   About 10 years ago I had a YMCA membership and religiously I’d workout for 40 minutes, 3 days a week before work.  I’d shower like a mad man, race to the train and then continue sweating through my clothes during the hour plus commute into the city.  People really appreciated me.

This lasted for about 3 years.  It ended one day when I was at the Y and I noticed a guy working out near me.  He didn’t look any bigger than me but he was lifting so much more weight than me I was almost embarrassed to be in the same room.  So that day, I made the declaration, “It’s Time to Step it Up!”  With a new sense of purpose and determination I arm the curling machine with a man-size amount of weight and proceeded to throw my back out.  That was about 7 years ago, which brings us to my current situation.

I’m at my son’s high school sports charity event.  They have a silent auction going on.  There is a membership to Sado Fitness Consultants…personal trainers.  They’re not cheap…at all, and believe me, I know cheap.  But I also know this is the only way I can force myself to do it.  I need to make a serious investment and put an embarrassing amount of money on the line.  (The kind of money that my Dad or Grandfather would say, Are you out of your @#$%^ mind?)  Anyway it’s a good cause and I really need the help.  I show up to meet my trainer.  He’s a young guy, I’d say, late twenties or early thirties.  He’s a good salesman.  He puts me through a bunch of tests, feeds the results into a computer and comes to the conclusion that he can help me.  I’m thrilled.  As it turns out, I have good genes, it’s just that I’m a lazy sh*t and need to find a couch that isn’t so comfortable.   Modern technology is a wonderful thing.

They start by asking if you have any injuries, which I thought was very considerate.  I tell them I have some lower back problems (I decided to only tell them about one area of concern figuring if I put all my cards one the table they’d laugh me out the door.)  I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure they forgot all about my back issues after the first session… and of course I’d rather injure myself then remind them. 

These workouts are only 45 minutes long; but the theory behind it is, you’re literally doing some sort of exercise for almost the whole 45 minutes…or until something gives…again, think groin muscle.  My second session is with Gary the young assistant trainer.   Gary is a very nice kid, but after he told me he’s 22 years old, I decided that I hate him.  The workouts that Gary is putting me through while challenging are actually a bit easier than the manager’s.  The workouts are starting to get harder though; I’m not liking it at all.  I have a real problem when I open my mouth and have no ability to take in oxygen.    I’m also finding it real irritating when I’m struggling to finish a final rep and I’m told my posture isn’t exactly perfect.   Even stretching hurts.  I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I thought that after a while I’d “get into it.”  That’s not happening at all.

Good Cop Bad Cop – My friend Gary decides to go through a personality swap with his boss.  He decides that it’s his turn to be the sadistic taskmaster.  But now I’ve got a Bad Cop – Bad Cop situation.  So it’s been a week and a half since I’ve gone and I show up for my beating.  (And I’m paying for this.)  I’m being brutalized mercilessly and have given up any concern about hiding how bad I feel.  In between exercises I’m clinging to any piece of machinery that will support my weight and allow me to gasp for air.  I’m hurried along to the next exercise when in desperation, I tell Gary, “Hey buddy, I’ve got T-Shirts older than you.  Why don’t you go pick on someone your own age.”

When I finish, I walk over to the Manager and ask him how many sessions I have left on my contract.  (I signed up for 27, but I’m thinking maybe, at the most, I have 8 left)  He tells me, “Oh you’re in good shape, you have 15 left.”  I’m not sure, what kind of look I had on my face, but I know inside I was saying, “Oh Crap!”  I swallow my well-deserved Advil and prepare for the minimum two days of sore muscles. 

It’s now been two weeks since I’ve gone.  I’m actually afraid to go back now because it was only a week and half between sessions the last time and I almost didn’t make it out alive.  I have a real concern that I could become a statistic.  So I got that going for me…

The Ghost of Christmas Parties Past

So it’s about 7PM and my friend Tom is calling me from a very high-end work related holiday party.  It’s at the top of the 666s in NYC, and since his wife couldn’t make the party he wants me to come as his guest.  I’ve been telling Tom for a couple of days that I just can’t make it.  I’m at my year-end and I’m buried to my eyeballs in work.  Tom makes one last attempt.  He tells me that they have “Shrimp the size of the palm of my hand”, and Champagne is flowing like Niagara Falls…I shouldn’t miss this event.

With considerable angst, I finally agree with Tom that I should go to the party, and I do.  (I’m so weak)

I qualify this move one last time.  I say are you sure this is going to be all right?  Tom says sure…just when you get to the base of the building, tell security that you’re me…then call me right away and I’ll meet you at the top of the elevators.  I ask why do I have to be you?  Why can’t I be me…is there something wrong with me…outside of the obvious.  I’m told that I’m worrying too much about small details...and to just give him a call when I get to the base of the building and that when I get to the top, Tom would usher me in.  (I rationalize that even if I’m caught, how much hard time could I do for crashing a Christmas party…but then again my hair…what’s left of my hair, is blonde; I wouldn’t last long in jail.)

After switching multiple elevator banks, I finally get to the top.  Tom is waiting.  I’m moved quickly past the welcome desk, a nametag is slapped on my chest, and I enter an extremely cool party that I have no business being at…on a couple of levels.  The prehistoric size shrimp are still roaming the floor, and much to my delight really good champagne (as least it tasted really good) is flowing like a soda fountain.  (If there is one drink that can hurt me more than most, it’s Pagne – see my next blog on Why I gave up drinking.)

So now I’m in 7^th Heaven.  I’m juggling monster size shrimp, consuming mass quantities, and incorrectly assuming everyone is appreciating all of the jokes I’m telling.  This becomes painfully apparent when the person throwing this party stops by the small table that Tom and I are sitting at.   Again, the party I have no business being at.  She says hi to Tom, introduces herself to me and asks who I am…

Well…after our conversation was over, Tom looks at me and gives a bit of Monday morning quarterback advice.  He says, “All you would have needed to say was, “Hi, I’m Steve, I work for XYZ Company, nice to meet you.”  Unfortunately, I didn’t say that.  By that time, my thinking cap was on a little crooked, and I decided to take another path.  Instead, I completely misjudge the lady’s capacity for humor, look her straight in the eye and say, “I’m Tom’s Significant Other!”

Her response was more physical than verbal.  The best way to describe it was she jumped a bit, almost as if she had mistakenly sat on a hot coal.  Very soon after that she excused herself and Tom imparted his thoughts about my choice of words.  Security never showed and we had a more subdued remainder of the party.  I suggested to Tom that he might want his name tag back.

To this day, Tom reminds me on an annual basis how he no longer gets an invitation to that party.