One of the Heard

Wherever I am, I never lack a good conversationalist - or at least a willing ear; for I am always willing to talk (and listen) to myself. Some (namely, my father) might attribute this penchant to my sizable ears, others (you know who you are!) to a barely controllable level of insanity; but whatever the case I would like to share some of the conversations of the earlier part of this week with you.

Monday, while walking down the passageway, out of the building, just another rat navigating the maze:

"A lot of people who work here have hearing aids."

"What!?"

"I SAID: A LOT OF PEOPLE WHO WORK HERE WEAR HEARING AIDS!"

"Oh, I agree. I heard you the first time."

Tuesday, while passing by some geese during my run along the Potomac:

"Hey geese! My dog REALLY loves your poop!"

He does! To him they are little snackie treats ripe for him to scoop up from the ground, and toss back into his little gullet. Ew, gross-- I know! I try not to let him. When we're on a walk through a park near our house, there is a section of path that is a veritable minefield of geesetreats.

Anyway, I was in such a cheerful, beneficent mood, I felt star struck by the geese and couldn't help but relay to them how delectable my boy has found their feces. I figured it would brighten their day.

Shortly thereafter, I came upon a woman wearing the same make & brand of running shoes that were propelling me along. She was little, and as I passed her (I may have deliberately picked it up a bit), I said [to myself] "my pair goes faster than yours!" I'd been passed and beaten by women of her singular stature before, so I couldn't help but feel like this was but another chapter in a lifetime grudge match.

The scenario reminded me a little bit of an ongoing rivalry my father used to have with a man named Muckenhopf. My father is not a small man: 6'2", around 200 lbs when he was in his best shape - hence where I got my size. This Muckenhopf character was all of 155 lbs, dripping wet and measured maybe 5'10", as I recall. He had a son Carl who was, I think, 3 grades ahead of my brother (who was one ahead of me). Carl was a "kid" who had always been regarded as a weird bird on account of reports of him being regularly seen roaming the empty hallways of school, after hours, wearing a long overcoat, head down, scrunched brow, muttering equations and striking his hand with his fist. Most considered him to be a math and science genius, but a nutjob of the first water.

Carl's father always had a crazy look in his eye -- never more so than when he streaked (which is to say he was running full tilt - not that he was naked) past my father during a running race.

Completely out of breath, sweat dripping and flitting everywhere as he shook out his arms, he'd find my dad at the end of the chute or in the post-race gathering area and inquire, "What age category are you in?!"

EVERY race we saw him in (which was as much as a couple of times a month in the spring, summer, and fall), he would play out the same scenario whether he had passed my dad or it had been the other way around, although it was the former more often than the latter - a point which I make not to denigrate my father - no, no never - but to show what a shallow, pitiful individual this carcass of a man was. The thing is, he was at least 10 years older than my dad. It didn't take us long to figure that out (like once). Clearly his son had gotten his penchant for arithmetic from his mother.

Muckenhopf’s most reprehensible display of such behavior was at a 5-mile Turkey Trot. The first place prize for the winner of each age category was a large turkey. Being so visibly malnourished with the prospect of a “Mrs. Sprat” wife and brainiac son to feed at home, he may have had extra incentive to kick butt, but Dad and I were unconvinced that such familial pressures justified wonton amnesia. Anyway, I had started out the race a little slower than usual and I was behind Dad and passed him with a couple of miles to go. As I passed him we exchanged our typical father-daughter pleasantries, but between his ta-choo-choo huffing and puffing, Dad relayed to me that the dreaded Muckenhopf was ahead of him. Ever eager to please, I promised, “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll put him away.” And put him away I did. Dad had picked it up too, but still he finished about 10-15 seconds behind zie emaciated German. While they were still in the shoot, Dad struggling to catch his breath, Muckenhopf sheepishly started to ask him the perennial question… but before the walking cadaver could get a word out, my father blurted, "I will NEVER be in your age category! Don't worry, I am NOT going to take your Turkey (you Turkey)!"

True vindication occurred, however, one glorious late summer evening. I had accompanied Dad to Easton, PA where he ran a 4-mile Master’s race on the towpath along the mighty Delaware River. I was familiar with the course and throughout the race I ran about, ostensibly cheering on the runners, but really scouting out the competition for Dad. During my recon, I determined that Muckenhopf was on his tail, about 20-30 seconds behind. I quickly scooted back up ahead of Dad (who was really working!), paced him for the last half mile and cheered him on: "Come on, Dad! Looking tough! This is a great time! -and you're ahead of Muckenhopf!" Not too long after Dad barrelled across the finish line, in flopped Muckenhopf. Physically exhausted and perhaps psychologically pummeled, he didn’t even ask the question.

So while my lifetime grudge match against little women has rarely gotten so heated (or rarely been so successful – perhaps because I have never verbally confronted them), I had to simper a little as I passed my smaller same shoe buddy on the path. Silly goose!

As the Polygon Turns: Too Punny (Episode 19)

So this morning in my inbasket, I had a "mandatory appointment" email waiting for me. Son of abitch! I thought -- actually I may have said that aloud. Because my coworkers jerked their collective heads my way and looked in askance about what had irritated me now.

"I have urinalysis A-gen!"

"Why's it gotta be his analysis?" Mojo inquired, thumbing towards Big Tony.

Eew, I thought. Eew. I know he was just trying to be funny, but Eew.

Fortunately someone quickly brought up Michael Phelps. Mojo hadn't heard that the Olympian had been photographed sucking on a bong, so I filled him in.

[Quite the little newsey one aren't I?]

Then Tony asked, "wasn't he on Corn Flakes and supposed to be on a Wheaties box next?"

"Yeah," I quipped, "only it's gonna be spelled W-E-E-D-I-E-S!"

Ah, shoot… then we were all no good!

So I went to my mandatory appointment and spent the better part of about an hour reading People magazine with an uncomfortable tension in my bladder. Gotta love it. Some lady didn’t actually have to go and sat in the stall for over 15 minutes trying… sheesh. That was just the first person I was behind – or at least after. Then when I was finally up to verify my data before taking my blessed cup into the sanctum sanctorum (to use a term of my father’s), I was asked to wait for the person who just came out, empty of bladder, full of bravado.

“”Don’t mind me, I will just be over hear dancing next to the trickling waterfall,” I said. They didn’t mind. I did. I did, but I managed. Only once have I lost it, but that is a blog for another day---maybe never.

So I did my thing, peed on command, chatted with the delightful Tech Sergeant, and went on my way; which is to say I left.

When I returned to the office, I overheard my boss asking someone else in cubicle land, “So did they give you a diploma or a graduation certification?”

“No,” I said, “but I didn’t even study.” Oh, he wasn’t talking to me. It didn’t stop me. I was on a roll.

Speaking of rolls – or at least buns. Later on, I met an old woman who is a retired Air Force General and the mother of thirteen. Still married to the father of her 13 children after 57 years, she goes by Twinkles and he goes by Big Bird. It was really sweet – she refers to her husband as “The Finest Fanny in the Force.”

How can you top that? How can you top that?

Shoot, I can't. It took me about a month to come up with this pitifully goofy entry.