vituperation

June 19, 2002

No matter what my wife may say - and I suspect she will try to lie to you, because that’s the sort of evil woman she is - I didn’t ask the photographer yesterday to take pictures of me lifting weights. That was all the photographer’s doing, not mine.

I might’ve volunteered to display my bicep, but I never ASKED to be photographed lifting weights.

What a day yesterday was…

It all started on my walkjog, when I had to face down a possum that turned out to be a skunk when I got right up on it. We had a staredown, which he ultimately won because when he realized staring at me with his eyes wouldn’t win, he turned his ass-end toward me and raised his bushy tail. Knowing my limitations - though if we’d had those red beans Monday night instead of shrimp and pasta, I might’ve given him a run for his money in the stinky spray department - I beat a hasty exit.

He tried to circle around me for a flank attack, but I was too speedy. See? That running stuff DOES pay off.

Then, just as I was getting back home, a certain swishy and fancypants cat came sashaying across a neighbor’s yard, headed towards our house after a night of mad gallivanting. He was flitting along, happy as a clam, until he saw me coming and froze like a deer in headlights, right in the middle of the neighbor’s driveway.

“Oh, Faaaaaaaaaaanthypanth,” I lisped at him, because it’s hard not to talk to such a swishy cat that way.

He stared at me.

“Oh, thwishyboy!” I said, and started walking toward him. Is it any wonder my neighbors have nothing to do with me?

His reverie broke, and he made a beeline across the driveway, through the flowerbed, and around the side of my neighbor’s house. He streaked toward the fence between the houses - the sun was rising, so I had no trouble seeing him despite the fact that he’s blacker than a moonless midnight - and made a beautiful leap up the side of the fence, so he could go into the back yard and presumably into the house, where he could pretend he’d been all along. He sailed through the air (he’s very light in his proverbial loafers), his silky black fur streaming out behind him.

And hit the fence about six inches from the top.

He hung there for a second, held in place by the force of the forward momentum of his body. One paw stretched desparately for a grip on the top of the fence, but was still a couple of inches too short. He started to slide down the fence, and his paws beat a mad tattoo as he ran in place against it. Ultimately, he ended up on the ground with a graceless thump.

Where he promptly had to sit down and lick himself for a bit.

Work kicked my ass all day yesterday, and then I had to come home early for my 2:00 interview for the paper. The interview lasted about 45 minutes, and was pretty fun. When I originally talked to the reporter, I was under the impression that the story was going to be about my donating a quantity of food to a local food bank (basically I’m donating a pound of food for every pound of fat I lost over the last couple of years), but somewhere along the line she apparently decided to just make me part of a bigger story she was writing for Independence Day.

Such is life, I suppose. I wish she’d told me she was changing everything around before Robyn and I carried all the damn food downstairs and put it on the kitchen table. Of course, now I guess I won’t feel so bad if I call the TV stations to cover the delivery of the food.

After she left, the photographer took about fifteen THOUSAND pictures, most of which I’m sure make me look more like an idiot than I normally do. Pictures with the food, pictures smiling, pictures looking thoughtful off into space, pictures in my old fat pants smiling, pictures in my old fat pants holding my arm out like a moron. And then she wanted me to go change into workout clothes and lift some weights while she took pictures.

While she scampered all around our garage taking pictures. I kept waiting for her to say “work it!”, but she didn’t.

I worked it anyway.

I’d tell you who the picture in Monday’s entry is, but it’s only 4:50 CST.

Sorry Nance, I guess you’ll just have to wait.