Ducks Mahal

As a kid, I and my buddies teased a childhood friend in a fun way.  His name was Jack.  Every time we saw Jack we’d say, “Hi Jack,” then we’d raise our hands in the air like we were being held up at gun point.  Get it?  Hijack?  I know, silly childhood thing but we thought it was cool and so did Jack.

Well let me tell you, it wasn’t so funny when I signed on to FreeCredit.com this weekend.  I thought for sure I was getting hijacked and still am not altogether sure what all exactly happened.

If you watch as many Sunday morning political pundit TV talk shows like I do, and even more so now since we’re ALL hoping to catch a rare glimpse of the former presidential candidate John Edwards sex tapes, you will see a reoccurring ad with Ben Stein advertising Freecredit.com.  I mean, John Edwards I don’t trust, but would love to see just a little of that tape, not that I’m into that sort of stuff – much, but who wouldn’t trust Ben Stein?  So I signed on Freecredit.com and went on one hellava roller coaster.  It actually made me pissed off and made me as scared as John Edwards. After all, when the tell-all book came out written by a guy who claims to have a video sex tape of Edwards and mistress Rielle Hunter, I’m sure Edwards crawled in a hole somewhere.

I signed on Freecredit.com and then answered 943 questions.  Page-by-page they asked my name, rank and serial number, last name first, first name, middle name last.  Somewhere around question 463, they asked for vitals like social security, credit card and so on, the stuff you’re not supposed to give anyone much less blank screens on the Internetz.

I finally finished the questions on Freecredit.com and low and behind, the dang thing wouldn’t let me sign on.  So I called Freecredit.com and then the worries really started.  You IDIOT!  NEVER let a woman who is a videographer (ala John Edward’s mistress), a woman who owns lots of video equipment, set up a tripod and camera, get on her knees, wiggle her ponytail and GET IT ON FILM. 

So finally, I reached this guy at Freecredit.com named Francis.  I asked, “Francis, where are you?”  Francis said, “The Philippines.”  I said, “SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!  I just gave my vitals to a guy named Francis in the Philippines!”  I asked very calmly, “Francis, you’re not going to sell my info to anyone are you?”  Francis said, “Absolutely not.”  And there I sat believing Francis.  Oh how I wanted to believe Francis in the worst way.  I wanted this nightmare over and wake up and fix coffee and chuckle and believe none of this ever happened.  But, it happened.

So Francis asked me to verify information.  He asked the name of my last mortgage company and the number of my loan.  I haven’t had a mortgage for the past ten years.  Then he asked me the name and numbers of past credit cards.  I’ve had this one same credit card for almost 20 years now.  I pay it off each month.  I have no gas cards, no store cards, no debt.  I was crumbling in the face of these questions and then remembered a file.  It was “the” file.  I found enough info to satisfy Francis who then reset my account and you will be happy to know I have a credit score of 759 – today.  (For those out of US folks, that’s between Very Good and Excellent credit rating).  But, no telling what it will be after Francis sells it.

The Little Woman overheard my frantic phone conversation with Francis.  She was all, “Tell me you didn’t do what I think I heard you do.  Tell me you didn’t.”  I replied, “Honey, you have no idea what a fortunate man I am otherwise.  After all, I could be John Edwards.”  She replied, “Not for long.”  I replied, “Is there anyway at all you could tie up your hair in a ponytail?”  She replied, “What for?” 

I just caught myself peeking in on people through the lists of friends in comments on some of your sites. I think I can accurately call it friend’s list surfing. I’m like that.

But you know me; I had to do the research. Peeping Tom Law: “(a) Any person who shall peep secretly into any room occupied by another person shall be guilty of a Class 1 misdemeanor.”

Well maybe I peep through a computer screen, but I definitely don’t through a door or a window. I’m good on that one and Honey be happy I really have no interest in seeing you do your personal stuff on the privy. Yitty-yite, no thanks, I’m good on that one.

Let’s look at the law further:

“(a1) Unless covered by another provision of law providing greater punishment, any person who secretly or surreptitiously peeps underneath or through the clothing being worn by another person, through the use of a mirror or other device, for the purpose of viewing the body of, or the undergarments worn by, that other person without their consent shall be guilty of a Class 1 misdemeanor.”

I’m sorry I read that. Now I have ideas. Anyway, I’m good on that one also. No jail time for me anytime soon.

To celebrate our anniversary my wife took me to a Sushi bar Saturday night and was all, she whispered, “Hey Ron, why are you talking to all these people you never met before?” I whispered back, “Honey, why are you a buzz killer? It’s a Sushi bar; we do that at a Sushi bar. That’s why they call it a bar. Why, do you need attention?” To which she whispered back, “Yesss, that would be nice.” Well, since she was fix’in to buy me my weight in raw fish I suppose being her gigolo was the least I could do.

But, what do you think?

A. Am I weird?
B. Am I weird b/c I’m fearlessly social?
C. Am I weird (other)?
D. Should I be visiting people I never met before?
E. Should I wait for them to say something to me?
F. What if they never say something to me?
G. What if I’m in a grocery store and I strike up a conversation with let’s say – you, and you try to avoid me at first but in a few seconds you realize this guy (me) really is something special and there is something about me you really like and like I’m really charming and on my game and quick and funny and realize I’ve done it again and forgot the two in the two-for-one chicken special and have to leave and run back to the meat department and pick up the two in the two-for-one chicken special and run back to the counter and like, you’re gone?
H. Do you mind if I surf your friends?

If you can image a very young lad dressed in a Boy Scout uniform ushering drunk men and fancy women to their seats before each New Orleans Saint’s football game forty years ago, you would be imagining me.

In 1971 the Saints drafted Archie Manning who played quarterback ten seasons with the Saints. Archie is the father of Peyton Manning, (quarterback of the Indianapolis Colts) and the father of Eli Manning, (quarterback of the New York Giants). Archie and the Saints played at Tulane Stadium until 1975 the Superdome was built. While I can’t call myself a native of New Orleans because I was born in another state, my parents moved here when I was one. I grew up here. I have always remained a Saint fan.

The Saints franchise was founded in 1967 and since then has served as a symbol of our standing in the US. You see, I think we Americans look to our football teams as representations of who we are compared to the rest of America. Arguably economy, politics, education and even baseball somehow seem to take a second to football. I realize football is not for everyone, but pretty much here, especially in the south. On last night’s game against Brett Favre and the Vikings, the overtime victory was a nail biter to the end. Last night’s victory assures our first ever Super Bowl appearance, we have finally arrived. What makes this even more intense for me is I live five miles north of where Brett Favre grew up, a 45 minute drive to New Orleans. Favre is a local hero. Favre says he’s always been a Saint fan, except for last night I suppose.

On February 7, the Saints will face the opposing Peyton Manning and his team the Indianapolis Colts at the Super Bowl. This will be as emotional for us as it will be for the Mannings. Both young Mannings are born and bred Saint fans. Both have won Super Bowls with their respective teams, an accomplishment their father Archie never achieved as a Saint.

The Mannings are dearly loved by New Orleans and so are the Saints. Why all these planets have lined up this way is a mystery. If you can imagine for us this Super Bowl game will be a tear jerker from start to finish. We will cheer with the Mannings and wish Peyton well, for he is a son of New Orleans like his father and we know his father will cheer for him. We will cheer for our team the Saints and wish them well. The Saints have finally reached top drawer standing in the NFL. We will cry for the 43 years of never experiencing the honor of being NFC Champions much less a shot at the Super Bowl, an honor every other team in America has had. We will cry for the devastation of Hurricane Katrina both in New Orleans and on the Mississippi coast and for our struggles to rebuild when everyone wrote us off. No matter the outcome, of course we hope we win, the rest of the world will watch a game, we will watch an anointing. Bring plenty of hankies.

On this day, in that boundary year closing the 20^th century and opening the 21^st, on that setting down, I reached into a bag of dreams, a broken man, a tired man, a lonely man, I gave my life into God’s hands.  I prayed God would give me a companion, an Eve to help me live again.  He gave me you.  It was exactly what I needed and more so today.

I love you honey.

Happy Anniversary.

In that year Don Henley released a hymn for our marriage, words I never forgot.  For My Wedding:

“For my wedding, I will dress in black
And never again will I look back
Ah, my dark angels we must part
For I’ve made a sanctuary of my heart

To want what I have
To take what I’m given with grace
For this I pray
On my wedding day…

…So what makes us any different from all the others
Who have tried and failed before us
Maybe nothing, maybe nothing at all
But I pray we’re the lucky ones; I pray we never fall

To want what we have
To take what we’re given with grace
For these things I pray
On my wedding day”

I started this year in super shape.

As everyone knows who lives three point eight miles south of the North Pole and two-hundred miles north of the Equator at, in or near the North American Continent, an arctic chill rolled into places like, where I live, and sent nightly temps into the low teens. We don’t do low teens here. And thusly, Audubon Ron’s pipes have been frozen for three days, that is until they thawed yesterday in a burst of warm glowing sunshine and gave indication that main tee intersections, such as under the kitchen sink, wash room and rear bathroom cracked and sent water gushing all over the under of Audubon Ron’s house.

Concurrent to the pipes and the sunshine bursting into Niagara, just moments before the playoff game, New England and Baltimore that is, Audubon Ron’s throat started to feel scratchy and forehead a little on the feverish side and today Ron has raging temperatures in high 102s range. So it’s cold outside and hot in Ron’s head not to mention he’s starting to smell and really needs to go to the bathroom.

To which, Audubon Ron’s wife responded yesterday by quarantining Ron from her immediate proximity, wearing an operating mask and going shopping, leaving Ron alone, smelly and crazy.

So, here I sit, here, at the keyboard, verklempt, stymied, worked over, TKO’d, dick knocked in the dirt (metaphorically speaking at this point), wondering, what did I do to deserve this? I have the answer. Obviously, it’s karmic identity theft. My karmic credit score has been ruined because I don’t have Free Karma Credit Score.com. I’m paying for someone else’s mistake because I didn’t do anything to deserve this. I’d say it’s my fault, but I’m not absolutely sure it is.

I have to figure what pipe parts to buy. That requires me crawling under the house on my back, and on my front, (now the dick in the dirt is not so metaphoric) in the cold, wet, dank dirt, futzing with pipes and running a fever. But, I’m motivated I tell you.

The ole dawg needs a flea ever so often to remind it it’s a dawg.

I’ll let you know how it goes in early March after the thaw, if and only if I’m alive by then.

P.S. The pain in my hip from arthritis, mild in comparison.

***

Addendum after post:  I fixed the pipes. If only I can fix the flu, minor set back. The below is called a masterpiece.

In the biggest way, grande even, I, this man, have everything a man could want. I have an intimate relationship with, as Bossy would say, “Gah.” I have a warm companion. Trust me; this is important to a man who once tried to love ALL the girls. She’s the only. I have good meals. Like because, I’m cooking ALL the time. But if some of you pot-and-pan bucking for primetime Saturday morning cooking show savants gone wild Roma tomato don’t give it a break, this bar might have gone up a few feet in early “0-10.” We just might have to call you out-in a cooking throw down. This ole coon still has a few tricks nah.

Which reminds me, are you going to say “O-10” like you said “O-9” or will you say 10 or just no frills attached 2010. I don’t know. It could be an exhaustive decision.

So what did the Duck Man get from the Little Woman for Xmas? Well, let me start first with what the Little Woman’s mom sent for Xmas. She sent Ron duck paraphernalia and a great cook book. She sent the Little Woman a phallic looking Egyptian artifact looking thingie. My guess is she found it at a thrift store, soon to return to a thrift store. I attempted to exchange it with Suburban Kamikaze for copy editing favors but no takers. I had no idea what it was at first and neither did the Little Woman, but you should have seen the expression on the Little Woman’s beaming face when she saw it. I was all, this could be working in my favor.

This is what it was designed to do.

Now the Little Woman hit the stores in full metal jacket bracketing in on the Target with precision shot for the hubby. And this is what she got, the list I wrote her completely ignored, probably littering the parking lot of some mall somewhere near the swamps of Mississippi.

I got a 4 quart stainless steel pot. I actually wanted that.

I got a “da-kine” rice cooker. No, this is da-kine. You don’t got da-kine? Well get da-kine. Srsly.

And I got this – a vacuum cleaner.

And this thing does R2D2 thingamabobs. Intense. 19 amps to boot. I feel so powerful!!!

So I was journaling with a friend, Laura at Foolery and mentioned I give names to all my vacuum cleaners – always have. The last one was Shelia. This one is Betty, Betty the Bissell. To which, Laura replies, “I’m sure you wore Sheila out. Betty will be very popular. : )”

Now that just sucks, okay!

(Get it, vacuum cleaner?  Sucks?  Oh never mind, you’re a tough audience tonight).

P.S. Now, this one doesn’t own a vacuum cleaner.  Lawrence Livermore Labs has her house quarantined and under seizure because she is growing stuff in there, all sorts of stuff they need to ex-am-in.   See what I’m say’in?

2010 is all about jamming the radio frequency of the young and the restless.

Golly, I never realized, until now, how cursory and depthless I (me, moi) am until I committed to writing a book and in some small effort, can’t make sense for the lives of hand full of characters I created.

I never realized how difficult it is to admit that my colloquial writing has no economy.  The effort to converse in the way I speak is changeable and I can speak in a tone less vulgar.

I never realized how hard it is to write a book.  I never realized how picayune I have become over research and exactness and order.

But I will.  I am persistent.  I am unconventional.  I am malleable.

The discomfort in the pit of my stomach is nagging and I will teach it nagging doesn’t work.

I will change.  The book will change.  The book will change me.

Or is it Old Angzine, or Old Lame Dime, which makes no sense what so ever.  It is Auld Lang Syne and it means time goes by.  It’s Scottish.  Yawn.

Well, we say goodbye to 2009 and thank goodness.  I don’t know about you but 09 was the suckbuttenous year EVER for me and I see no green fields on the horizon.

The only dividend is we are now only two years away from 2012 when the world will come to an end.  That’s a relief.

So, do I have any New Year’s Revolutions?  I suppose I could work up a few.  Here are the top ten.  I resolve to:

1. Take up smoking for the kids.  (Thanks Buckwheat, see you at the Super Bowl)
2. I didn’t drink nearly enough in 09.  We’ll fix that in 2010.
3. I’m actually flying without life insurance.  How dangerous.
4. I will not comment on any blog with word verification.
5. I will do penis stretching exercises more routinely.
6. I will do those old chores after I get laid off, which should be somewhere around March or April, maybe May.
7. I promise not to kill anyone, okay I hardly promise.
8. I’m not working for anyone; I’m my own boss now.
9. I will finish the book.
10. I will be nicer to my wife.  (I gave myself at least one Mulligan here because I’m already awesomely awesome to her and a thoroughbred handsome stud muffin to boot).
11. I’ll throw in an 11 for lagniappe.  I promise to stay handsome.

Top that.

Hysterical. I should say hysteria. That was the state of mind in which the Little Woman came through the door yesterday evening.

Me: What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you crying? Did something happen at work?

Little Woman drops purse and laptop bag in the middle of the floor and walks over to the wine, pours a huge glass and with tears streaming down her face asks, “Can we go to the back porch? I need to smoke.”

So we go straight to the back porch.

Me: What? Did something happen at work? Did you get in a wreck? WHAT?!!

LW: Well…

Me: This is torture. Please, no build-up, no wind-up; please, don’t make me go through this, just tell me.

LW: I didn’t kill it.

Me: Good. Kill what?

LW: The squirrel.

Me: What? You killed a squirrel?

LW: No, I didn’t kill it I told you.

Me: Then who did?

LW: I don’t know.

Me: Why are you crying? Okay, I’m going back in if you don’t get to the point.

The Little Woman starts the waterworks again. I can’t leave her this way.

Sidebar: The Little Woman is a mental health therapist by profession and an animal rescue person by nature. She drives a Honda Fit with the back loaded with boxes and bags of dog food, cat food, leashes, bowls, you name it. When she sees a stray or injured animal, she’s on it like an EMT Paramedic. She is on the rescue.

The Story: I’ll cut through the red tape and get to the point. I didn’t actually hear the whole story until this morning. Apparently, she found a squirrel holding its nose with both front squirrel paws and bleeding from the mouth. She picked it up and put it in a box and then put the box in her car. When she came back to look, the squirrel apparently climbed out of the box and somehow wedged itself between the driver’s seat brackets and the console. She could see the poor little thing was still breathing satisfied that at least it was protected from the local cats. After work, she couldn’t get it dislodged from between the console and seat brackets and then pulled the seat back.

At this point I will spare you the gory details.

Me: Where is it?

LW: (Really hysterical at this point) On top of the trash can in a garbage bag.

Me: Do I have to clean blood from the upholstery?

LW: Maybe.

Me: I’ll take care of the body. I’ll clean up the mess. No one will ever know it happened.

This one is for the books.