Slow on the Uptake.

For those a little slow on the link update thing. . . we've moved.

Ashmarlin has moved

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The 100

This is it. The big one. OK, so it's not really that big of a deal but this does mark my 100th posting. And that feels pretty good. Next week I actually do have something at least a little bit big - I'll be launching a new blog. Stay tuned.

Just a Tiny Patch

The other day while looking in the rear-view mirror, I noticed a few grey hairs. We’ve had nearly constant rain for the past month but on that day, the stars seemed to align and the sun shone through the clouds in the same split second I checked the mirror. It’s reflection revealing a peppering of grey across my scalp.

Later I mentioned it to Linda and all she said was, “You don’t really have that much. Just that one tiny patch above your left ear and a few random ones everywhere else.”

Today I’m adding to the patch of grey.

Just a Thousand?

While eating lunch today I noticed the man sitting in the booth across from me. This was in a local hamburger establishment called ‘Burgerville’ whose menu boasts of ingredients produced locally and includes items only available in season. These items tend to rotate on and off the menu about every month or so and are advertised with huge posters that hang in nearly every window. Currently on display is the ‘Grilled Coho Salmon Sandwich’, which includes a description beneath it using words like ‘frisée’ and ‘lemon aioli.’ It’s a description that seems out of place next to red plastic booths and the smell of french fries. I’ve been to several different locations and each has the same veneer of sticky grease coating the tables. Burgerville likes to add to this ambiance by bringing one’s food out to them rather than offering it at the counter. It’s a nice touch that isn’t fooling anyone.

So while I waited for my food I couldn’t help but notice the man across from me. He was mostly bald with what remained cropped short. The blue t-shirt he wore looked like it was pulled that morning from the dirty clothes hamper and advertised what I assumed was his employers construction firm. In his ear he wore a bluetooth headset flashing at the ready and he was slouched so low in the booth his knees touched the bench across from him. When a woman delivered his food I think he slouched an extra half an inch and asked, “Hey you got any thousand?”

Really? So we’re shortening “thousand island dressing now?”

Flip, Flop, Flip, Flop

We’ve all been frustrated while trying to straighten the bend in a wire coat hangar. I’m not talking about straightening one out to roast marshmallows over a campfire on or to construct a scratching tool for use beneath a cast. I’m referring to the rehabilitation process of making a bent hangar work again as a coat hangar.

The tendency is to take a corner in each hand and attempt to bend the wire back to its original shape. My personal preference is to employ my thigh, while bending the hangar across it. I’ve seen people use the arm of a couch or the edge of a countertop as well. The result is the same, however, with the bend doing nothing more than flipping from one side to the other rather than actually straightening.

I don’t make it a habit of sharing much detail about my coworkers but from time to time I notice something that can’t go without mention. The other day, while speaking with our admin about some travel arrangements, I noticed she picked up a bent coat hangar. Her name is Mychl, which is pronounced the same as the more common spelling - ‘Michelle’, though there’s nothing common about her. Armed with the energy for two and the common sense of three, she’s the office equivalent of a Tasmanian Devil. At least that’s what I imagine pretty much every time I see this woman; mid-fifties, dark curly hair that’s slightly wile, spinning, bouncing, and maybe even foaming at the mouth a bit as she’s constantly solving 17 problems simultaneously.

So Mychl picks up this hangar and begins attempting to straighten it while answering a question about my travel itinerary. She begins by working the hangar across the edge of her desk but it simply flips then flops back and forth with no real result. Frustrated and needing to burn off a bit more energy while stuck solving my simple problem, she places the unresponsive hangar across her chest. I’m guessing in her mind she’s thinking, “I bet I can get more leverage on this little sucker if I can just pin it here between the top of my ribcage and my left boob.” The problem is the hangar is doing it’s best to remain bent. Flip, flop, flip, flop - above the boob, below the boob, above, below.

“Hey Mychl, could I borrow that a minute so I can gouge my eyes out?”

Flip, flop, flip, flop.

Outerwear

No post today. Out on the golf course testing an update to some of the outerwear I'm working on. See you Monday.

Legal Eagle

A couple of days ago an attorney friend of mine asked me for a favor. Between family lawyers and the friend ones, I probably know a couple dozen attorneys and like keeping them on the speed dial. Just last month, for example, when forced to deal with a frustrating insurance issue regarding the family car, I consulted with an attorney brother, an attorney brother-in-law, and two attorney friends. There’s something about a little legal jargon that makes me feel invincible in the midst of conflict. I like to pepper the conversation with big lawyerly terms gathered from my lawyer crowd, hoping to scare my opponent into capitulation. Things get heated, though, and I’m not always sure when to use the right term. When this doesn’t work I blame it on my adversary’s inability to detect nuance and the fact they weren’t born with a brain. Next I resort to less subtle jousts like, “Well, when I spoke with my attorney about this, they recommended such and such.” This tactic generally proves even less fruitful.

So the other day when my friend asked for a favor I quickly said yes. It seems he’d had some legal problems of his own and when the legal jargon tactic followed by statements like, “You realize I am an attorney,” didn’t work he turned to me. And why not? I’m no attorney but then he was way past the legal route and came looking for some more specialized work.

It turns out my friend was heading to small claims court and needed a person not directly involved in the case to serve papers to the defendant.

“Perfect,” I said then added, “You realize I have a bit of experience with this sort of thing, don’t you?” And while I’ve technically served papers before I did spend a year as a private investigator looking into insurance fraud cases. But like I told him - that’s a totally different story for another time.

I caught a lot of people though. Unfortunately yesterday turned out a bust as the defendant didn’t live at the expected address. I’m on the case though and will now turn to my killer private eye skills to track them down.

See This? It Hurts.

As a kid, maybe when I was six, I jumped off the stage at our church and sprained my ankle. It was in the evening, as I remember it, following our usual church services. My parents were visiting with friends in the lobby when the news arrived and their response was something I became quite used to hearing, “I’m sure you’re fine,” they said. My father is a doctor and after a closer examination of my swollen ankle added, “If you don’t slow down you’re going to really pay for it later, when you’re older.”

The weekend before beginning the fourth grade I shattered my upper jaw, broke my nose, and nearly lost my upper four front teeth. This particular injury introduced me to casts for teeth, which I wore for four months. It was putty colored and closely resembled the color of juicy fruit gum. For kicks I’d flash my toothy cast in class then wait for my teacher’s reprimand, “No gum chewing, Christian. Spit it out.” What I didn’t have to wait for was parents and the one about slowing down or paying for it later.

At twelve I broke my little toe and at fifteen I cracked my sternum; each bringing the same response, “You’ll be fine but you’d better slow down or you’re gonna pay.” When I was eighteen I broke my left foot while skateboarding. I cracked a bone my father the doctor referred to as the ‘cuboid’, which is cube shaped and apparently takes a lot to break. Then we consulted with a surgeon about putting a pin in place where I heard him say, “I can fix this but you’re gonna feel it later.”

This wasn’t the last bone I broke, in fact things got much worse in the injury department long before they improved. Each time, though, I effectively ignored the warning and continued merrily along.

Last night as I got up from the couch I let out a little whimper. When Linda asked if I was OK I responded that my entire body always hurts. “I mean what’s wrong with me?” I asked. “My hip hurts so bad I’ve been limping for 3 weeks. My left foot aches nearly constantly. I wake up in the night with so much pain in my shoulder and wrists I can’t go back to sleep.” And then I added, “What did I ever do to deserve this kind of constant pain?”

Hmmmm.