Back to school,
back to the job hunt, Scrabble names, The Cribs, and drinking straws.
--It’s the first day of school up here in the Upper Pierogi
Belt, and Andy and I dropped the youngest youngling off at the back
door of the indoctrination center, then purchased two breakfast
burritos through a hole cut in the side of a McDonald’s.Just like we did every day last spring...
It’s as if the summer never happened.
On Friday they posted the teacher/student information at all the local
schools, and Toney and the boys went around and checked everything
out.Both Secrets were pleased
with what they learned; apparently they got the teachers they were
hoping for, etc. etc.
Toney seemed satisfied, as well.She
knows all the players (teachers, aides, administrators, janitorial
staff, the people who work on the copiers… I’m tellin’ you,
she’s involved), their quirks and personalities, and I didn’t hear a
single complaint from anyone.It
was an amazing turn of events.
When we were playing basketball at the elementary school over the
weekend, we went and checked the information again.The youngest Secret wanted to confirm which classes a few of
his friends would be in, and I tagged along.
And while he perused the lists taped to the window, I half-assed
scanned them as well.I don’t
know 99% of those little shits, so it doesn’t mean a thing to me.But I was amazed (once again) by the names.
I’d say a good two-thirds are Biblical.It’s the big ol’ Catholic juggernaut that dominates this
place.So there are plenty of
Matthews and Josephs, and that sort of thing, and more Marys than you
can shake a clump of frankincense at.
From what I can tell, if a kid’s first name wasn’t
plucked from the Bible, then it’s Dylan.Those are the choices:the
King James version, or Dylan.
And the last names are just amazing…I think there’s a kid in my son’s class named Daniel
Fingersandwich.And many of
them look like somebody with name-assigning authority just grabbed a
handful of Scrabble tiles and flung ‘em on a table.
“OK, there’s your name.”
“What?!What do you mean?It’s just a jumble of Cs and Zs, and not a single vowel!”
“Next.”
Indeed, whenever I find myself in a situation where somebody needs to
write down my name, I say Kay and they think I’m about to spell-out
something long and complicated.So
I say, “Jeff Kay,” and they write “Jeff K” and remain in the
writing position, prepared for just about anything.
Pass the stuffed cabbages.
--Yesterday
provided a flashback to last spring as well.I applied for four or five jobs via the internet, and spoke
with a so-called recruiter on the phone.She had a well-worn cigarettes and bourbon voice, and promised
me nothing.Which, I’m sad to
report, roughly corresponds with what I’m expecting from her...
This evening I’m apparently going to attend a “job fair” in Wilkes-Barre.And so, I guess I’m back in
the game.
This was confirmed when I tossed and turned last night, and got myself
all wrapped up in the bed sheets.By
midnight
I was afraid I might have to wake up Toney and ask her to go out to
the garage, get some pruning shears, and free me from my cottony
prison.But I was eventually
able to escape on my own.
The whole thing just makes me go <sigh>.
--Since I’m this nostalgia
jag all of a sudden, I called one of my old co-workers (or as
Nancy
calls them:colleagues)
yesterday while I was driving, and we shot the shit for a little
while.I hadn’t spoken to
anyone at my old job in several months, and was curious about how
things were going.
And man, it was like some kind of weird wrinkle in time.After we finished with the pleasantries (How’s the family?
How’s the skin condition?) the dude launched into the same old
bitch-fest I’d heard and participated in for the last half-decade.He was using all the familiar names, the insider shop-talk
lingo, the same complaints about the same injustices….
And as I sat listening to all this stuff, I think I suffered a
Utah
mine disaster in my upper colon.It
all seems so important when you’re on the inside looking out…
--Ever heard of a band called
The Cribs?Yeah, I hadn’t
either.But I noticed their
name popping up here and there, and read several rave reviews about
their latest album.So I
procured a copy through my vast network of liars and backstabbers.
Good stuff.They’re another
of those “new punk” bands, but get this:they actually write good songs.Yes, you read that correctly...I didn’t know a damn thing about them, and still don’t for
that matter, but I award the Cribs the coveted Surf Report Seal of
Approval.
--A few days ago we were at a
restaurant and the waitress brought us all a drinking straw.Toney and the boys promptly opened theirs, and put ‘em to
quick use.And, as usual, mine
remained untouched and unwrapped.
It’s because of my Dad, you see.He
called them “sissy sticks” while my brother and I were growing up,
and would mock us unmercifully if we used one.Except when milkshakes were involved…For some reason there seemed to be a milkshake exemption.
Anyway, we got into a big conversation about straws at this meal, when
I brought up my father-fueled hang-up about the things.They are pretty
silly, when you think about it.
What’s their main purpose, anyway?Are
they glass-extenders, add-on equipment for people who find it to be
too much of an imposition to occasionally ratchet their necks downward
a few inches?
I think that’s a bit ridiculous.Even
discounting my father’s, um, input, I don’t believe I’d use a
drinking straw.I’m sorry,
but I just don’t require a beverage-delivery device.I hesitate to brag, but I can handle a glass of iced tea, as
daunting as it may be, all by myself.An
external catheter is not needed.
Our am I, as Toney suggests, merely justifying an ugly deep-seated straw-intolerance?
OK, I’d better stop right there, before it gets any more stoopid.You guys have yourselves a fine, fine Wednesday (it is
Wednesday, isn’t it?), and I’ll see ya tomorrow.
It’s now time for a good ol’ #1 with cheese, no pickles, and a Coke…
I'm polishing my pole like it's
the early days of Cinemax
--