Story doesn’t follow local man out of bathroom

PRINCETON TOWNSHIP, N.J. – An insurance adjuster encountered a violation of personal space inside the fourth-floor men’s room, yet did not share the potentially humorous encounter with co-workers.

Larry Genesee, 43, of Midco Insurance, entered the empty bathroom and took the last of four urinals, as is his custom when all are vacant. About 10 seconds into his urination, Daniel Fowler, 28, of the claims department entered and stationed himself at the third urinal, right next to Genesee.

About 30 seconds later, Genesee zipped up, washed his hands and returned to his desk without saying a word, according to witnesses.

Genesee’s failure to rant shocked those in adjacent cubicles.

“When I heard about it a few hours later, how some guy walked in and peed right next to Larry even when the other urinals were empty, I was amazed,” said Craig Denderstahl, 35, an 11-year veteran at Midco who’s worked next to Genesee for three years. “I hadn’t heard a peep from Larry, and he usually goes off on just about anything. Like last week when he delivered this 15-minute monologue about a woman who left her grocery cart in the middle of the aisle. I’d think a guy pissing next to him would be worth about 20 minutes.”

Vince Troy, 57, Genesee’s supervisor, entered the men’s room just in time to see Genesee glance quickly at the man next to him before finishing.

“I knew it would be trouble,” Troy said. “Every time something like that happens to Larry, such as the guy who was in front of him at Starbucks and ordered, like, 20 lattes, he has to fill everybody in on the details, going off on how clueless some people are. It really affects productivity. I actually have to build Larry-based downtime into our budget.”

Troy followed Genesee to his desk, hoping the employee would notice his boss and keep the rant to 10 minutes or less. Instead, Genesee remained silent.

Charlene Brevant, 47, who sits across from Genesee and has perfected what she calls a “Signature anti-Larry move” to avoid his patter – pressing the test button on her phone to make it ring, saying “I have to get this” – knew something was up when she saw her boss following Genesee to his desk.

“That only means one of two things,” Brevant said. “Either Larry was going to take it up the ass again, or something happened and Larry was about to rant.”

Taking no chances, Brevant turned toward her phone as Genesee returned to his cubicle, her finger poised over the test button. But Genesee remained silent as he studied the latest actuarial tables.

“I thought I was going to get another story like the one last week when he went on and on about how he deserves both armrests when he’s stuck in the middle seat in coach,” Brevant said. “But he goes right back to the actuarial tables, which was somewhat comforting because he has no fucking clue what they mean, so it was still Larry being Larry.”

Theresa Grivens, associate professor of psychology at Princeton, said Genesee’s unusual behavior likely is related to the gradual fading of the Seinfeld factor.

“When that show came on, America was inundated with scenes revolving around insignificant events,” Grivens said. “One week no one cares about the guy who takes the last cup from the water cooler without replacing the bottle, and all of the sudden it’s fodder for discussions, leading to one petty grievance after another.”

By the show’s fourth year, incessant babble about nothing was up 38 percent compared to the typical pre-Seinfeld year, according to the American Association for Meaningless Statistical Tracking, which also said bathroom stall doors were 12 percent shorter today than in 1963.

But the most recent study shows baseless conversations down 19 percent since Seinfeld’s last season.

“It’s a gradual decline since reruns can still be seen on four out of five cable stations,” Grivens said. “And I expect worthless observations to rise in the double digits thanks to the Seinfeld DVDs now on the market, and it could double or triple if TBS becomes the Seinfeld Station, which could happen if it fills its last two non-Seinfeld hours with reruns.”

Genesee refused to comment, saying only, “Sorry, I’ve got to get this.”

I hear the rustle first, then the soft thump of feet landing on the carpet.

Here we go again.

At this point I can predict it. He will come into my room, a perplexed look on his face, a nameless terror in his mind. He will talk excitedly about a non-existent situation, either A) asking for or B) demanding that I come and see what only he could.

Either way, my answer is always the same.

“Hey bud, need to go to the bathroom?” I say in same tone I use when asking the dog if he wants to go out.

Over the last year, this twice-a-month drama, in which my sound-asleep son seeks my assistance to battle an unknown demon that is easily slain when he empties his bladder, will play out the usual way. Frantic child roams the house, is persuaded to pee, goes back to sleep.

This night seems the same, the padding of feet on the carpet, a shadow shifting outside my bedroom door thrown by a nightlight bright enough to read by, him poking his head in and demanding via incomplete sentences that I investigate a sound or mysterious figure or (once) the disappearance of his brother, who no doubt was sleeping comfortably a few miles away at his mom’s house.

But when the steps continue down the hallway, followed by a rattle as if a dozen paper towels had quickly been stripped from the roll, I go into active-parent mode.

“Hey bud, need to go to the bathroom?”

No answer. No sound at all.

Damn. Now I am going to have to get out of bed.

Then, a faint “Mommy … ?” His voice is hesitant, cracking. Filled with fear.

I flip off the covers and flip on the light. “Bryson?”

“Daddy?”

Stepping into the hallway, I see him standing there, his hands shaking in front of him. He turns his head toward me.

“Daddy?”

His talent for facial recognition suffers during these nighttime strolls, so I have learned to assure him.

“No, I only resemble your father, I am actually a demon spawned from Hell determined to steal your soul and lead you into an eternity of suffering, bwah hah hah hah!”

Well, no, I really didn’t say that, but I’ve always wondered what would happen if I did.

“Yeah, bud, it’s me.”

“Daddy, you have to see, you have to, you have to, you have to-“

“You have to go to the bathroom,” I say, my knowledge of dealing with his nightmares pretty much beginning and ending with the toilet.

“But Daddy, I don’t know, it’s, I can’t-“

I steer him toward the bathroom, the Room of Answers. Here he will find what it is that he seeks, and I will find a relief of my own, a release from his incomprehensible chatter to which I can only nod and say, “You’re safe, you’re sound asleep, here, let’s get you to the bathroom.”

I learned very early on during this sleepwalking episodes that Bryson doesn’t always follow the proper bathroom-going sequence, resulting in a situation that simply makes Daddy cranky. All the necessities are there: the pulling down of the pants, the pulling up of the shirt, the grasping and pointing of the penis, the urination. It’s just not always in that order. The final and most critical part, the actual relieving of the bladder, can some at almost any step. He could raise his shirt, relieve himself and lower his pants. He can lower his pants, relieve himself and raise his shirt. Or he can start the whole thing off by relieving himself.

So I like to stand over him, reminding him of just what he needs to do to successfully complete the task.

I take his shoulders and center him next to the toilet (I have learned what a difference a few critical inches can make). I then talk him through it. Lower the pants. Lift the shirt. Now with one hand hold the shirt. With the other, grab, yeah, there you go.

Thanks to teamwork, there are no mishaps.

Yet the frightened look does not disappear, even has he thrusts his hands into the sink without turning on the water, rubbing them together for less than two seconds and then wiping them on the towel before he turns on the water.

As I turn off the water, I see that Bryson is grabbing his stomach and is slightly bent at the waist. Then he erupts, emitting the kind of long, deep, buzzsaw-like fart most associated with old men in care homes trying to impress the nurse.

Physics seemed to demand that Bryson be flying around the room like a balloon losing air. About halfway through I expected to see him slowly deflate, his body collapsing in on itself for surely every inch inside had been devoted to storing gas.

When it finally fizzled a few minutes later (or so it seemed) came the proof that he was utterly, inescapably and very deeply in sleep – he remained silent. Not a giggle, chuckle or guffaw. Such a stupendous occurrence normally would have had him bursting at the seams, laughing until his sides were sore, because when you are 9, there truly is nothing more hilarious than one’s own spontaneous noises.

Several aftershocks followed, defying science that tells us the body has a finite capacity. Through it all, Bryson continued spewing Nightspeak.

“I need you to … You have to … There’s something … I can’t …”

More stringent measures are needed.

“Bryson, let’s get you to sit on the toilet for a while, OK?”

Some primitive part of his brain kicks in at this point because the first thing he does is to lower his pants. Bryson is the typical boy who waits until the last second to answer this part of nature’s call. I have watched him countless times rush down the hallway, his pants flying at half-staff, his right hand working the waistband even loser, his left grasped tightly on his cheeks, squeezing the cleft while his bowels laugh at his puny effort to keep the inevitable at bay. And yet nine times out of 10 he makes it successfully, and on the 10^th time he does his own laundry.

With this at the back of my mind, I panic when his pajama bottoms puddle around his ankles because his is still more than two feet away from the bowl.

“Waitwaitwaitwait nononono,” I say, wondering if my version of Nightspeak will sink into his brain. “Don’tdon’tdon’tdon’t.”

I lower the seat, grab his left elbow, spin him around and plop him down.

Phew.

As he sits in silence, I once again go over all the facts with him.

“You’re safe, you’re home, you’re with Daddy who has risen from the grave to-“

No, of course not. So then why is that so tempting?

I am calm, rational and eager to go back to bed. I then try to explain what’s happening to him, why he may feel uncomfortable, experiencing the kinds of cramps that normally afflict women once a month.

No, wait, let’s cut out that last part.

“Something you may have eaten disagreed with you,” I say. “Your body is having this weird reaction to it and-“
”What do you mean disagreed?”

Wait a sec. This is a rational thought, an expected response to outside stimuli, which never happens when Bryson is sleepwalking.

His bowels have done what I could never do; awakened him.

“You see, sometimes we eat things and for some reason your tummy has a hard time with it and pretty soon you’re not feeling good,” I say.

“So what disagreed?”

“I have no idea. Sometimes it just happens.”

A few minutes later, when it seemed fairly clear the seismic shifts inside the youngster had faded, Bryson stood and pulled up his pants.

“Ready to go back to bed?”

“Yeah.”

I tuck him in, kiss his cheek, ruffle his hair and say goodnight.

“Daddy, will it disagree with me again?”

“I really hope not. But if it does, I’ll grab the video camera real quick because, honestly, it’ll be better than an episode of The Simpsons.”

Besides, I think, science might be interested as well.

Conversation between Dusty and Lizzie, neighborhood dogs, part 2

-

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

“How do you know.”

“Your nose.”

“My nose?”

“Your nose. I feel it.”

“You feel my nose?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll stop.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s good.”

“It’s good?”

“It’s good.”

“Then I’m done.”

“I’m leaving.”

“I’m following.”

“OK.”

“Where are you going?”

“Here.”

“Me too.”

“I’m here.”

“Me too.”

“I know.”

“Now where?”

“Here.”

“I’m following.”

“I know.”

“Where are we?”

“Here.”

“Here is good.”

“But now I am going over there.”

“There?”

“No, here.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Here is good.”

“Here is my bone.”

“I want a bone.”

“You can’t have a bone.”

“I want that bone.”

“Here.”

“What?”

“The bone.”

“What bone?”

“The bone in my mouth.”

“I want that bone.”

“I know.”

“I am going to take it.”

“OK.”

“You’re not letting go.”

“Here is the bone.”

“You need to let go.”

“I’m letting go.”

“Let go.”

“I’m about to let go.”

“I’m pulling.”

“You’re pulling.”

“Because you’re not letting go.”

“I want to let go.”

“Then let go.”

“I can’t let go.”

“Then I will growl.”

“I let go.”

“You did not let go.”

“I want to let go.”

“I am baring my teeth.”

“I let go.”

“You let go.”

“Do you still have your nose?”

“I still have my nose.”

“Good.”

“Very good.”

“Sniff me.”

“Here?”

“No. There.”

“I’m following.”

“Bring your nose.”

“I will bring my nose.”

The following series of emails actually occured between a customer in Arizona and a corporation in New Jersey. All names are real because, frankly, they just need to be to show the utter cluelessness of people who obviously chose the wrong career when they went into customer service:

--
Name: Bryson Craven
Item Purchased: Cosmic Flyer
Where did you purchase the item? Ehobbies (online)
Question: Once the plane is about 50-60 feet from the transmitter, the engine starts to cut out. I have full power for a few seconds, then it stops for a few seconds, then full power, then nothing, and so on. I charged the battery for two hours as recommended and am in an open field with no buildings or trees within 100 yards. Do you know of any way to help me? I bought the Flyer last week and it arrived yesterday. This was the first flight and it was very frustrating because I saved up a long time to buy this (I think about three months).
--

Hello,
Send your item in along with a copy of your sales reciept and we'll take a look at it for you.
Send it to:Megatech Attn. Service Dept.8300 Tonnelle Ave.North Bergen,NJ 07047
-----Original Message-----From: Megatech [mailto:info@megatech.com]Sent: Thursday, July 29, 2004 7:57 AMSubject: Megatech Technical support
--
From: Scott Craven
Sent: Saturday, August 21, 2004 6:45 PM
To: Service
Subject:
Re: Megatech Technical support
I shipped the plane to the address below on Aug. 7. It should have been received no later than Aug. 16. Can you please give me an update on the repairs and when I might receive the plane? Thank you.
Scott Craven
-

From: tony
To: scraven
Sent: Monday, August 30, 2004 9:57 AM
Subject: RE: Megatech Technical support
Hello, We will be replacing your airplane but I will need you to pay for the S&H.
-

From: Scott Craven
Sent: Monday, August 30, 2004 5:39 PM
To: tony
Subject: Re: Megatech Technical support
Considering you have the plane, I really don't have much choice, do I?
I'm not sure if I am dealing with a customer service representative or a guy who just decides what planes to repair and which ones to replace, and I don't mean any disrespect, but this is such a terrible way to run a business. The plane doesn't work out of the box, I return it to you and I pay for shipping (I threw in the handling for free even though I assembled it, flew it as far as it would go before it malfunctioned, disassembled it, boxed it and drove it down to the UPS Store, which you must admit is far more handling than anyone did there) and now you have the gumption to charge me for shipping and handling to get the plane back.
Absolutely amazing. But as I said, I guess if I don't pay the freight, I don't get the plane back. Right?
So OK, how do you want me to pay?
-

From: tony
To: Scott Craven
Sent: Tuesday, August 31, 2004 8:53 AM
Subject: RE: Megatech Technical support
Hello,
I will need a credit card number.
http://www.megatech.com/warranty.php
-

From: Scott Craven
Sent: Tuesday, August 31, 2004 3:46 PM
To: tony
Subject: Re: Megatech Technical support
Ton,
Before I give you a credit card number, I just need to know -- are you a person, or have I been venting to a mechanized answering system designed to frustrate customers via lack of appropriate response?
Thank you.
-

From: tony
To: Scott Craven
Sent: Wednesday, September 01, 2004 9:39 AM
Subject: RE: Megatech Technical support
Hello,
A person.
-

From: Scott Craven
Sent: Wednesday, September 01, 2004 4:07 PM
To: tony
Subject: Re: Megatech Technical support
Well, Tony, you should be playing poker because you're quite, well, stoic. At this point you've probably been calling me a lot of names, wishing you could send just one of them in an email, but that would get you in big trouble and you need your job.
I really don't want to send my credit card number via an insecure email, so can you give me a phone number? Also, how about the email of your supervisor? I gather you are in a fairly powerless position, unable to address my concerns while having to put up with a customer you wish would simply go away. And me, well, I'm trying to make a point about company policy and you're the only guy so far I've had any contact with. So if I could get the email address of your boss, maybe his/her phone number, I promise to stop bugging you.
Thanks for your patience.
-

Hello,
I am the Manager of the Service Department.If you would like to have your plane shipped back you can call 1-800-242-1931 with a credit card number.
Allen Mandell

Dusty and Lizzie, Part 1:
"Hey hey hey hey, look at me look at me. Where’s your food. Do you have food? I’m going to see if you have food."
"Where are you going?"
"To see if you have food. Do you have food? I want to eat your food."
"Don’t eat my food."
"I want to eat your food. Do you have any food? I am going to see if you have any food."
"I don’t remember if I have food. Did I eat my food? I’m not sure if there is any food."
"I am going to look in your bowl for your food."
"Where are you going?"
"I am going to eat your food."
"I am going to follow you to see where you are going."
"I am going to your bowl to see if it has food. I have seen your food before."
"You are heading toward my bowl. Why are you heading toward my bowl?"
"To see if your bowl has any food. I am going to eat your food."
"Does my bowl have any food in it? I don’t remember."
"I see some food in your bowl. I am going to eat your food."
"Is there food in my bowl? I wonder if there is food in my bowl."
"Here is the food in your bowl. I can see the food. It is in your bowl."
"There is food in my bowl. It is my bowl. So it is my food."
"It is your food."
"Get away from my food."
"I am getting away from your food."
"It is my food."
"I want your food. I am leaving your food."
"Leave my food."
"I am leaving your food."
"I am going to eat my food."
"I am going to watch you eat."
"Do not watch me eat."
"I am not going to watch you eat."
"I am finished. I am going to lie down."
"I want your food. Do you have food? I am going to look in your bowl."
"I am going to lie down. What are you doing?"
"I am going to look in your bowl. To see if you have food."
"Do I have food?"
"I do not see any food."
"I don’t remember if I have food."
"There is no food. I am going to lick your bowl."
"I don’t see any food. I am going to lie down."
"I am licking your bowl."
"You are licking my bowl. I am lying down."
"I can taste your food."
"Do I have food?"

Bryson and I just returned from the Bay Area where we visited his grandparents and ascended such theme-park landmarks as Top Gun, Vortex and Invertigo. They are three of the coasters with height requirements that last year exceeded Bryson's stature. But this time, thanks to recreational technology, the boy was able to hit any ride in the park. His official height, as measured in the kitchen and duly registered with a pencil mark on the wall, is 53 and 1/2 inches, a half-inch short of Great America's standards for riding the big-boy rides. However, the youngster happens to be in possession of shoes that resemble those worn by Boris Karloff in the Frankenstein movies. His "Heelys" are equipped with an extra-thick heel that houses a snap-on roller-skate wheel, enabling him to lean back and skate on his heel (thus the name "Heelys," which has become a verb as in "Look at that boy heely, he is going to hurt someone if he keeps heelying that fast, though he seems under control so no doubt he's heelyed a lot"). The footgear also includes the secondary benefit of making him an inch taller (wonder of Tom Cruise wears Heelys), boosting his height to 54 and 1/2 inches, exceeding national big-boy roller-coaster standards.
As we strode through the gates at Great America, it was with the confidence of a couple of guys determined to hit every soaring, gliding and twisting ride the theme park had to offer. No more Tilt-a-Whirl crap for us. Goodbye, putt-putt cars that run on a track. See ya, ride that spins and then tilts upward in such a way as to convince you the choice not to become an astronaut was the right one (OK, we ended up on that ride at the end of the day, but only because we wanted to, not because we had to).
Bryson's destination was The Demon, a looping coaster that was one of two he could ride last year. That would be a nice warm-up, he decided, preparing him for bigger and better (and scarier, though he would not admit this) rides later in the day.
Then we passed Vortex, a stand-up coaster that had about three people in line.
"Hey, since we're here, let's try this one," I said. "Look, we can walk right on."
The only words Bryson lloves to hear at a theme park besides "Here's 10 bucks" is "Look, no line." But he was a little hesitant.
"How high does it get?" he said.
I pointed to the yellow track that swooped toward the sky.
"That high," I said. "Not very high at all."
I was trying to balance the thrill and scary factors. Too scary and he wouldn't jump right on. But if it wasn't thrilling enough, he wasn't going to waste his time.
"But what does it do?" he said.
Well, it takes people up, down and around, pretty much like any coaster, why the hell do you think we're here? But I didn't say that.
"Well, it take people up, down and around," I said.
"Does it go upside down?"
"Looks like it."
"How many times?"
Dude, I didn't design the damn thing. It's a freakin' coaster, what else do you need to know? The miles per hour and gravity force?
"I don't know. Let's get on and see."
We got into line, which in this case meant waiting behind the gates for the next car to arrive.
"This is one that you sit down in, right? Because I want to sit down."
Hmm, parental quandary here. The Vortex does indeed have a "seat" in the way a 10-speed bike has a "seat," and if you've ever hurled down a steep incline before being sent into a loop, you know that this so-called "seat" would embed itself deep into your painful parts if you did not support yourself via your lower extremeties. So you would pretty much need to stand or spend the rest of the day hunched in agony.
"It has a seat, yeah, so no problem," I said.
Parental quandary solved with fib.
"OK, because I'm nervous. I'm not scared, but I guess nervous, like really nervous."
"Don't worry about it, bud. It would be weird if you weren't nervous since this is your first big coaster."
"But will be be OK?"
"You bet. They wouldn't let anyone ride if anyone was going to get hurt."
Right, so all those newspaper stories about amusement-park injuries were, what, akin to Bigfoot sightings? My mind flashes ahead to our return to Arizona and dropping off Bryson to his mom, and he is still hunched in agony -- "That's the way I picked him up, I swear!"
The car pulled into the station and the gate swung open. Now Bryson sees the support mechanisms I called "seats."
"They don't look really big, how am I supposed to sit on it?" he said.
Very gingerly, I thought.
"Oh, well it looks like you just sort of stand a little and put the seat between your legs so you are really safe."
"But you said you sit down!"
"You do in a standing kind of way."
I push down the "seat" so Bryson can straddle it. His feet are on the floor, barely, and I silently thank the Heelys.
I pulled down the padded metal harness that secured him to the coaster, then did the same for myself.
"OK, Daddy, now I'm scared. I'm not sure I want to do this, I don't think this is such a good ride."
Too late, pal.
"Bryson, it's OK, really. I promise you that when this is over, you are going to love it and going to want to do it again. You do this ride, you can do any coaster in the park. This is the biggie."
Of course I didn't know yet about Invertigo, which sends you backward and forward as your feet dangle, but this was about not having him start to freak out.
Two minutes later, after a loop and a couple of corkscrews, we ran down the exit ramp, followed the fence to the entrance and got right back in line.
Bryson had hit the bigtime for roller coasters.
We spent the rest of the day riding each coaster in the park two, three or (in the case of Top Gun, a speedy coaster with these cool barrel rolls) four times. In between Bryson blew about $50 on arcade and midway games, winning a couple of stuffed toys that he gave to other kids in the park (seeing as how I was not about to carry them around the park all day, especially since we weren't going to take them back on the plane).

Bryson came home the other day and handed me this poem, which took be just a bit to read because of his fairly bad penmanship (like father, like son). It went like this:
"It always
makes me think
I ought to bloom
myself.
And
that's when
I start to plan
my New Year
Celebration!
I finally choose
a day
that is
exactly
right.
Even the air
has to be
perfect,
and the dirt
has to feel
good and warm
on bare feet."
Me: "Bryson, did you write this?" Him: "Yeah." Me; "Really?" Him: "Yes, I wrote it." Me, thinking the boy is a prodigy, that this is a talent I must cultivate, thinking he might be to literary endeavors what Tiger Woods is to golf, "Wow, this is really really good." Him: "Thanks." Me, nagged by disbelief because it is way too good to be true: "So this is all yours, right? You wrote it." Him: "Yes, I wrote it. I copied it out of a book, but I wrote it."
Ah well, close but no cigar.

So last night my neighbor and I took the kids to the local water park and since we were only to be there a few hours, I didn't want to go to the fuss of renting a locker. We stowed all the valuables in the car, locked the car (an important step and one encouraged by law enforcement professionals) and proceeded into the park with towels and, of course, the car key, which I secured in the Velcro pocket of my new swimsuit that I bought largely for the fact it had a Velcro pocket (and the fact my previous swim suit tended to billow in the water in such a way as to become a flotation device around my chest, as well as the way it tended to cling tenaciously to every nook and cranny of my body when I emerged from water, which is not so flattering when you look like me). With key secured, we slid down many slides and took part of the activities in the wave pool, which was mostly bobbing. Emerging, I felt for the key and found it where it should be, in a suit that did NOT cling to my body, thereby sparing nearby strangers the embarrssment of experiencing my shortcomings and feeling the need to give me sympathetic looks. Next up was the lazy river, an attraction in which you float, lazily, in a lazy current. And as I got up from the tube, my hand when automatically to my cro-- er, pocket, and, hmm, no bulge. But I had a key, so there should have been. A bulge, I mean.
No key.
No (expletive deleted for fear of offending censors) key.
Fuck!!!! (Expletive not deleted to express righteous anger).
The authorities were duly informed, who responded quickly and decisively with two guys walking slowly around the lazy river. Surprisingly, they found nothing. Despite their best efforts to appear concerned ("You the guy with the key? Sorry"), we wondered if perhaps we would be better served by telling them one of our kids had just crapped in the lazy river, and they might want to think about draining it if they thought a floating turd might have an effect on the park's reputation. But no, I merely sent out Bryson and Hannah and Ryan to take a few laps and look for it, and they did, informing all those around them what they were doing, so as I waited at the point where people departed the river, I lost track of the number of times I heard, "You the guy who lost the key?" followed by, mumbled of course, "What a dumb shit."
But then out of nowhere, a word of success. They had located a youngster who did indeed recover the lost key, with the word "Toyota" emblazoned upon it and, seized by the opportunity to help his fellow man, promptly tossed it over the fence of an adjacent miniature golf course. Well, initial word was "Tossed." About 20 minutes later, with myself and a lifeguard combing the nearby vegetation, the toss was more accurately described as a "hurl," and then, a bit later, as "He totally whipped it."
Resigning myself to the loss of one key, my friend Paula called our neighbor Julie, who had keys to Paula's house, where there was a garage door opener to my house, inside of which, on a kitchen counter, was a spare set of car keys. Twenty minutes later she arrived, I took possession of said keys, and we were able to escape without ever meeting the fine lad who found the key and mistaked the adjacent miniature golf course for the lost and found department.
And that was my night.

So a Bryson story -- I picked him up from school Thursday and on the way out, his mom said to me, "We had a talk about sex. I'll tell you more later." Seeing as how she wanted to talk to me first before I brought it up to Bryson, I asked Bryson about it (because that is the kind of ex-husband I am, and speaking of which, not too long ago I was in her classroom and one of the parents came in and heard Bryson call me dad, so the parent says to her "Is this your husband?" and she stammers, pauses, stammers some more and says, "He's, uh, that's Bryson's dad" as if I am some sort of dirty little secret, which I am, not that there's anything wrong with that).
"Bryson, your mom tells me you had a talk."
"A talk?"
"Yeah, about, you know, stuff."
"About what stuff?"
"Boy and girl stuff."
"You mean S-E-X?" (yes, he spelled it out)
"Yeah, that's it."
"We talked about it."
"What did you say? What did she say?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because she said I can't tell anybody."
"Well, I'm pretty sure she was talking about your friends. Besides, bud, you're not going to tell me anything I don't already know." (I was hoping this was true.)
"OK."
"So what do you know?"
Pause, as if wondering if he would get in trouble. "That boys have different things than girls and girls have different things than boys."
"You already knew that."
"But when they kiss and stuff, and their privates touch, the girl's thing goes into the guy's thing and the guy's thing goes into the girl's thing and you can have a baby. That's when it's S-E-X."
I pause, wondering if he's going to spell it the rest of his life. "You know, that's pretty true. There's a little more to it than that, but it gets real complicated." (Boy, does it.)
"Like how?"
"That's a story for another time." (When you're 24.)
That's all.

Welcome to the first of an occasional series of Stuff That Really Bugs Me.

Coming home today from work. I am in the left lane, no cars between me and the next light in about a quarter mile. In the right lane is a Jag, windows so darkly tinted I can only assume someone is in the driver's seat. But what do you know, I'm wrong as the Jag slowly cruises over into my lane about a foot (seriously, no more than 12 inches) off my front bumper. No signal, just a cruise over because, as you know, those who drive Jags also own the road. It's right there in the owner's manual. Under the header, "Since you pay as much for yearly insurance as most people pay for their entire car, all asphalt within five miles of your car is yours so use it as you wish with disregard to laws and others."

Now the question is, do I honk? I had to slow down as soon as I saw the alleged driver make a move and saw he was going to make it over without contact. I was ready for him, knowing his ownership of the pavement. If I honked, he may have tapped his brakes out of sheer instinct learned during the days he did not own a Jag and with it the road. If he tapped his brakes I could have tapped his bumper, the noise of which would be heard by every Jag mechanic within 10 miles (though since we were in Mesa, I doubt there were any within 10 miles). And that Jag mechanic would be in the market for a fourth boat. And since the cops would arrive, note that it was a Jag, point out to me just how much of the road the alleged drive owned, I would not only be ticketed, but be responsible for repairs, and there goes my kid's college education fund. So instead I merely screamed at him, shaking my fist like an old codger, and wondered how much I was withdrawing from the Karma bank for venting my fury at someone who owned the kind of vehicle that entitled them to the right of way wherever, whenever. Of course, I silently hoped that within the next mile, said Jag would be T-boned buy a Hummer, which also owns the road and is way bigger.

Bryson (my 9-year-old son who has shown quite and aptitude for looking both ways before crossing, unless he is in a parking lot)came home the other day and handed me this poem, which took be just a bit to read because of his fairly bad penmanship (like father, like son). It went like this:

It always
makes me think
I ought to bloom
myself.

And
that's when
I start to plan
my New Year
Celebration!

I finally choose
a day
that is
exactly
right.

Even the air
has to be
perfect,
and the dirt
has to feel
good and warm
on bare feet.


Me: "Bryson, did you write this?" Him: "Yeah." Me; "Really?" Him: "Yes, I wrote it." Me, thinking the boy is a prodigy, that this is a talent I must cultivate, thinking he might be to literary endeavors what Tiger Woods is to golf, "Wow, this is really really good." Him: "Thanks." Me, nagged by disbelief because it is way too good to be true: "So this is all yours, right? You wrote it." Him: "Yes, I wrote it. I copied it out of a book, but I wrote it."

Ah well, close but no cigar.

Just for kicks I went on E-Harmony and posted my info, and then was told by EHarmony to be patient because this is a very scientific procedure that weeds out all but those who are Truly Destined to Be a Match. And so I may not here from anyone for quite some time, if at all, but when I did be certain that the caring data-gatherers and compassionate numbers-crunchers truly sweated blood, not to mention shed a few tears, in finding the person that was meant to be yours forever. And then within a few hours I was told the person Truly Destined to be my Lifelong Match wanted to initiate sharing of personal information. Knowing this was the person I surely was going to be with the rest of my life, I quickly returned to the site to answer in the affirmative. Yes, dearest, let us exchange personal information. I want to know so much more about you, other than that the three things you most value in a relationship is honesty, trust and intimacy. After all, we both consider ourselves conservatively liberal, and the fact we are both spiritual but not religious certainly seals the deal for me. I want you, Rosie from Mesa, more than I've ever wanted anyone in my life. And that is when I ran into the catch. To get in touch with my new and faceless beloved, the woman chosen for me by a team of relationship experts, I would have to pony up $50, and would that be Visa or Mastercard? Of fickle fate, how can you treat me so cruelly. Though I am willing to spend the rest of my life with you, Rosie of Mesa, I am not willing to shell out $50 to see if you truly are sensitive and caring, or become one of those intimate friends who might one day say about you that you love to laugh, a truly unique and precious quality, one that I treasure. So I am afraid I will never know the bliss of loving a school administrator making $30,000-$44,999 per year. And what I will truly miss most is that we will never share those times you consider most rewarding, from volunteering at a domestic-abuse shelter to sitting in front of a fire with a good book.

But as despair overcame me, not an hour later Marjorie from Avondale came into my life, an angel who, like me, enjoyed a quiet night with friends over meeting new people at a popular nightclub. As I was about to share those insights that make me who I am, such as how I rate as a 7 on a scale of 10 my ability to open up about things troubling me, that horrid fee leaped up and slapped me in the face once again. And so it continued. I am sorry Jo from Tempe, Elizabeth from Gilbert, Veronica from Phoenix. Please, I beg you, forget all about me. Drop me from your People You Have Contacted te Exchange Information list. I am not worthy of your love.

There are only two things I really dislike at work, besides being there: working on the same floor as the cafeteria, and birthday cards.

Going by the odor that permeates the 8-square-cubicle region I inhabit five days a week, cafeteria workers are content to offer two selections every day: bacon in the morning and steamed broccoli in the afternoon. The bacon I wouldn't mind if not for the latest study showing that secondhand odors for popular breakfast meat cause bad cholesterol to skyrocket in sedentary males. As far as the broccoli, well, that's just so wrong. It likely stems from a grudge borne by the cafeteria lady who is not amused by people who constantly pay for their food in loose change.

After a while the nose ignores the smells, allowing you to return to what's important, and by that I mean surfing the Internet on company time. But the birthday cards, well, that's another story.

I try to imagine the first time someone passed around a card at work, knowing it had to celebrate a boss's birthday because no one had to suck up to their colleagues.

"Hey, I've got a Birthday card for the boss. Sign it and pass it on."

"I will at my next break. Which is Tuesday."

"Well, I need it by tomorrow. It'll just take a second."

"That's exactly why Emma was fired last week. Remember? That one time she paused in the midst of coughing? And just because she had TB. No, I've got to keep up. Besides, I don't have a pen."

"That's not a problem. Look, you're bleeding pretty profusely from your fingertips. Just use that."

"I can't just sign it. I have to say something nice and clever. I really can't think of anything."

"Well, how about thanking him for that time last week when he admitted he'd briefly thought about taking the lock of the bathroom door, and then the opium wore off?"

"OK, just give it to me. Hey, this thing is full of other people's marks. There's not enough room to write."

"But you don't know how to write."

"I was thinking about scrawling, but no, I can only squeeze in my X and that's it."

There is way too much pressure involved in the birthday-card process at the workplace. If you sign first, you have plenty of room but what you write will be scrutinized by the rest of your colleagues. No matter that you are a productive employee appreciated for your contributions. One misstep on the birthday card will mark you for the rest of your time.

"Good morning, Mr. 'Best Wishes on Your Special Day.' Did you take a course from Hallmark to come up with such a clever and innovative saying."

But if you sign near the end, card space is at a premium. You may even have something exceptional to say, making a witty reference to something that has recently occurred or, better yet, an inside joke. But there's just enough room to say, "Have a happy," for which you draw disapproving looks from the card's addressee.

"You know, I thought you were funnier than that. But now I know you just suck."

The key is to get in at the right time. About midway through, when there's still room on the card if you actually have something to say, and enough literary contributions on it so you might be able to hide a quick "You're not getting older ... no, wait, you are" without anyone noticing.

Better yet, abolish the whole practice. And if we could also outlaw broccoli, my office area would be a much better place.

This is how you do not want to wake up on a Saturday morning -- "Oooowwwww, my eye, my eye, it hurts so bad!"

Well, hello Bryson and good morning. Me, I'm fine, thanks for asking. And you?

"Myeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeye-"

Ah, there seems to be a problem with your eye. Is there something I can do to help?

"Myeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeye-"

OK, let me get dressed and we'll

"Myeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeye-"

Oh yes, a wonderful morning today. I didn't see anything sticking out of his eye like, say, a hot poker, but clearly something was wrong. However, I had to interpret that special language that kicks in when in 8-year-old is not feeling all that well, a language that focuses on the pain and absolutely nothing else.

I am, of course, at a loss to fully explain exactly what was happening because 1) it was early and my own eyes were now burning due to the bright light of dawn and B) I was in my underwear, and I rarely think clearly in my underwear (to which some women may attest).

So I respond the only way I know how.

"What's wrong with your eye?"

Dumb question.

"Ithurtsithurtithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts-!"

Think I've got it. I ask him to come closer. Yeah, the eye is red and puffy. On closer inspection, I confirm there is definitely no hot poker sticking in it. I am comforted. He is not.

"OK, I know it hurts. Tell me exactly where though."

"Hereherehereherehereherehereherehereherehereherehere-!"

Apparently eye pain is directly connected to the inability to pause between words. Must be something in the visual cortex that tells the rest of the brain, "We'renotpausingnotevenforasecondsothere."

Great.

Looks like it's time for the ER. "OK, bud, you need to get dressed, you're going to need to see a doctor."

Surprisingly he does react as he usually does -- "No, they'll give me a shot." The boy would rather risk death than have his skin punctured. So his eye must really hurt.

We head over to Mesa General, where he was born. On the way, lots of questions.

"Are they going to give me a shot?"

"Will it take a long time?"

"Are they going to give me a shot?"

"Are they going to take my eye out to fix it?"

"Are they going to give me a shot?"

Standard answer -- "I have no idea." Except on the taking-the-eye-out query. That was a "Probably not, unless it falls out accidentally." No, didn't say that. He was not in the mood.

So we arrive, and I answer the dozens of questions required by insurance companies for the purpose of making sure they are willing to spring a few hundred bucks to save a kid's eye. The ER is empty save for a woman who looks as if she'd been waiting about four days. She is sprawled across four chairs, eyes closed, robe draped over her, a thick plastic foot brace on the floor in front of her. I see no blood, explaining what seemed to be a very long wait.

Last time we were here, Bryson was 3 and suffering from a very high fever. Thanks to the beauty of triage, we went right in.

Now triage was against us. Eye injury? That's somewhere between a fractured hand and a "It just hurts really bad." Unless Bryson suddenly started vomiting blood, we were in for a long wait. Now that I was hoping for that. Until at least the fifth hour of waiting.

I had called Bryson's mom, of course, and she shows about an hour into the weight, husband and 2-yr-old Jason in tow. She sits right next to Bryson, hugging him, squezing his hand. Oh yes, the cavalry had arrived. I saw the light in Bryson's eye (the good one) -- "Thank God, mom's here, now I won't die."

Or I could be exaggerating.

Finally a guy in scrubs comes out and asks for Bryson. The five of us head to an office built for maybe two, three if a child is included.

Bryson's mom: "Can we all come in?"

Guy in scrubs, who is a nurse despite what he is trying to look like: "No."

Bryson's mom: "Oh, because I was hoping Bryson's brother and his other dad could come-"

Guy who is not the doctor: "No."

The guy who is not the doctor is very cool.

More questions, including, "What the heck did you do to this kid's eye?" Not in those words, but you could tell the guy was asking questions as if CPS was looking over his shoulder.

"So, son, what happened? Were you with someone when it happened, like, an incident where maybe someone got maybe carried away and did something to hurt your eye, like maybe a significant male in your life, because dads get angry, especially single dads, and blame their children for-"

Wait, it isn't really that way. I just get a little sensitive about it. But Bryson did say-

"It was a hammer?"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, I was hitting a rock and something got in my eye."

"Ah, I see."

The obligatory accusing look follows ("Most good parents don't let kids drive drunk, or play with hammers").

Hey, I was putting up this stupid badminton net in the back yard and needed a hammer to put in the stakes and the next think I know Bryson's playing diamond miner. Boom, a fleck hits his eye, and he didn't complain about pain until this morning.

After I am tried and convicted of felony lapse of parenting, we get to see a real doctor, who uses a bright light and then this glowing fluorescent substance to determine there is no hot poker sticking in Bryson's eye. There is, in fact, nothing in his eye. But there is a scratch, to which he applies antibacterial goo and then, yes, an eyepatch. Arrrrgh, mateys.

So when everything was done, on the way home we stopped at Hot Pokers R Us and I bought one for Bryson to play with because, as everyone knows, that sort of thing fits into my parenting plan.

And that's been my life.

"Beep ... be-boop."

Huh? What the ...? Look at the clock. 2:47 a.m., which in real time is approximately 2:07 a.m. since the clock is set 40 minutes or so ahead, because that way when I wake up to go to the gym, I see 4:15 which is a lot more palatable than a real time of 3:35, which is just ungodly.

Ok, 2:47. What the hell woke me up? I listen. Nothing. No, wait. A tinkling of metal. A scratch of fabric. A creak.

I know what that is. My dog, Dusty, has risen from his spot on the couch in the adjacent room (yes, he gets a spot on the couch, my one and only pet indulgence as long as you don't count his place at the dinner table). The metal clinking of his tags comes closer and I see a dark spot next to my bed that vaguely resembles him. If it is not him, I am either dreaming or in trouble.

I pat the bed next to me. "Up."

He jumps and rather than doing the usual (turning in a circle for 10 seconds and lying down with his nose against his butt, perhaps a position we would all chose if we could, and we were alone) he slinks next to me and sits, pushing his noise into my face.

"Beep ... be-boop."

Dusty turns his head and utters a small and submissive sound, like he does when I retrieve the vacuum cleaner from the closet (as opposed to the way he barks and growls when a dog walks past our home, his courage boosted by the door that removes him from the possibility of confrontation).

We wait, me because I hope whatever is chirping will just run out of power and go away, Dusty because he is wavering between fight and flight, with flight having a definite advantage.

"Beep ... be-boop."

Dusty: "Mmm, mmm."

Me: "Stupid dog."

Dusty turns back to me and thrusts his nose under the pillow, no doubt learning (as every 3-year-old knows) that if you can effectively bury yourself under bedding, the threat no longer exists.

Because my 5-year-old Australian shepherd mix, fearless defender of hearth and home, is frightened by one of my son's toys that apparently has risen this night to attack with the one thing no dog can hide from -- random yet incessant beeping.

I throw off the covers and rise. The clock: 2:52.

"C'mon, let's go figure this out."

Dusty doesn't move. It's all on me to take on the dreaded chirping.

I enter my son's room and flip off the light. This does not wake him since this night he is at his mom's and, thankfully, safe from toys that go "beep."

I sit in his chair. I wait. I have no idea what the hell is making the noise. I do not feel like rummaging through drawers and shelves of toys, 98 percent of which he no longer he realizes he has (though his fully enabled Kid ESP -- which alerts him the second I throw out so much as a Lego brick causing him to immediately ask for said item and throwing a fit when I tell him I pitched it -- keeps me from throwing out any of his prized crap). So I sit and wait until I hear the noise. And I don't for at least 15 seconds, at which time I rise and head back into my bedroom knowing I've done my best for, let's see, 2:53 in the morning.

Dusty awaits word of the hunt. I scratch his neck and give him a nod. He licks my hand, which means either "You are my hero" or "If you forget to feed me just once, my first bite will be from the spot I just marked."

I slip beneath the covers and--

"Beep. Be-boop."

Dusty, realizing his master failed in his quest to find and eliminate the threat, does the only thing he knew how to do.

He lays on top of me knowing that when the chirp mounts its inevitable attack, it will get both of us.

No problem, I can sleep like this. Until I feel a ripple. Then a steady vibration.

Dusty, faithful watchdog, is shivering.

Had this been a real emergency, like some guy bursting in swinging a chainsaw, no doubt my faithful companion would have lunged for the intruder's throat, ripping out the attacker's larynx before he could scream.

But an ax-wielding murderer is not a chirp. No, a chirp, especially one of mysterious origin, is, well, downright bloodcurdling.

Thus my dog shivers next to me for, ;et's see, now it's 3:20. No beep for at least five minutes.

He begins to settle down. I promise him that in the morning, he and I will mount a hunt that the chirping has never seen, tracking it down no matter how many drawers we have to look in.

And if we don't find it, then I just go ahead and throw out 98 percent of the crap in my son's room. And when his ESP kicks in, I will tell him we had to do it for Dusty's sake.

And then I will hand him my credit card and drive him to the toy store so he can buy a lot more crap he'll never play with.

White chocolate. Hey, I don't know what you were expecting when you opened this particular blog (notice I used the second person, as if someone would actually find this thing among the millions of other blogs written by people with so little to do that they share the types of things that otherwise are too insignificant to share in the annual Christmas letter). This is not one of those blogs that open with how I got up that day, whether or not I awoke with the morning erection only to waste it once again with an emptying of my bladder, and what kind of coffee I happen to drink (which I don't. Drink coffee, that is. Because I do drink. Oh yes.)

I am writing this as if no one will ever see it (excuse me, when did you come in?), in a literary vacuum, because in space, no one can hear you rant unless you do it in front of the Hubble Telescope, which can quite possibly read your lips (and at $20 billion or whatever it cost, it better be able to do that in addition to creating) those pretty screensavers.

So I repeat: white chocolate. What the hell is up with white chocolate? Who got the great idea that removing the cocoa improved nature's most perfect substance? Why don't we just erase the blue from the sky? How about taking the wetness out of water? Why don't we just strip every tree out of the Brazilian rainforest? Wait, we're doing that. But it still doesn't excuse white chocolate, which makes about as much sense as unsweetened Kool Aid. Or those Oreos with the red cream, which taste the same as the regular Oreos except that when your kid vomits because you don't have the nads to tell him 32 Oreos are enough for one day, its utter redness stands in stark contrast to the beige carpet and even a sandblaster won't remove it. Stupid red Oreos.

I could take white chocolate as a stand-alone product, limited to only those shut-in pasty-faced no-taste toothless geeks with the stupid "I'm from Arkansas" grins whom you see only on Tuesdays as they stand in the back of the local 7-11 next to the drink machines where they anxiously await the delivery of the new Slurpee flavor to go with Coke (and it's ALWAYS cherry, but they're still surprised). But then white chocolate spread. To Oreos (no problem, see above). To Hershey bars. To Nestle Crunch.

But then came the most unholiest twist of all. You can now find white chocolate Reeses Peanut Butter cups, bastardizing the One True Candy. Maybe we are only a test market (living near Phoenix, land of sun-dried retirees, we are often used as a test market because when someone dies, old age is naturally assumed). But this is not a product that should have gotten to the shelves. This is a product that should not have ever been allowed off the drawing board. And anyone who buys this crap that is no better than chocolate-factory sweepings needs to be held accountable. Maybe to the point of sharing a jail cell with that geek at the back of the 7-Eleven, who surely will earn jail time when, one day, the Slurpee guy adds pina colada to the other stainless steel barrel, causing said geek to want to go berzerk. (I was not going to say "berzerk," I was going to say "John Malvo on someone's ass," but on my first post, I do not want to come across insensitive.

That's it. I need a beer. And a good excuse to write Reeses and ask them when we are going to see a black vanilla peanut butter cup.