a guy i know listed me as a reference for a job he is applying for. when talking with his potential employer on the phone yesterday, this memory kept creeping into the room making me neurotic about all of my word selections.

marty and i have been enjoying the terribly underrated freaks and geeks series together. i can't tell you how interesting it is to be watching this with someone who was neither a freak, a geek or, as with her spouse, somehow both.

although i will say i feel like a celebrity. she's so full of questions, questions i know the answers to. and she asks them excitedly, sitting on the couch with her knees pulled up to her chest, smiling widely as she works to get them out.

were there really girls who would/could push guys around? did guys really freak out about having to shower in gym? do people really dance in front of and converse with their mirror?

the answers:

1. my mom made me put the dollar bill she gave me for lunch in that funny little pocket above the regular right pocket on levis. three people knew this. myself, my mother and a girl named audrey who simply held her hand out every day she saw me before lunch.
2. at my high school, we only had to shower during swim week. me and a terribly overweight kid were the only ones with doctors notes excusing us from the program for three straight years. you see, not only did i not know how to swim, i didn't get a chest hair until i was 19, started shaving a year after that (and then only once a week until i was 25). you do the math. i was about twelve leg hairs away from being diagnosed with alopecia and advertising my pubeless groin to all of my rowdy and hirsute colleagues was simply not in the plan.
3. dammit

but don't get me wrong, i'm also learning stuff. like that the average person could feather their hair if they so desired?

although, for me, it raises another question; who wouldn't desire to feather their hair?

i've been waffling on whether or not to address a question i get every six months or so. it deals with what most refer to as my bifurcated chest.

to a newcomer, it appears my nipple lives below my pectoral muscle. those posing this question admit they find the nipple's placement odd. i'm not squeamish about fielding such queries because it is akin to asking jeffrey dahmer if he knows he doesn't fit in well at dinner parties. and to address this and many other questions asked or even thought, let me put it all on the table for you to digest and come to terms with.

i have ...
the hair of a 70's era diana ross,
the face of many people,
the upper body of E.T.,
an ass more voluminous (and voluptuous) than jennifer lopez,
the thighs of larry csonka,
the calves of stephen hawking,
and the feet of one fred flintstone.

all of this and i still found some girl to walk down the aisle with me.

granted her navel resides about two and a half inches above her pubic bone.

and to answer your next question, yes, we are selling tickets but sadly you can't afford one.

i recently heard a commercial advertising a new product, the totally silent tampon wrapper or as they put it 'you would need bionic hearing to know this tampon was being opened.'

3 seconds after hearing this i thought ...
'oh lord, you've got to be kidding me. what next?'

42 seconds after hearing this i thought ...
'but wait a minute. is this akin to plopping in the toilet. i know some people can't drop their payload if others are in earshot and do things like hold it to the point of discomfiture or padding the water with a few squares in attempt to absorb the sound (and we all know that's only about a 50-50). is announcing to others in the room that your endometrial lining has begun sloughing from your uterine walls equally embarrassing? i can see wanting to avoid advertising that.'

2 minutes after hearing this i thought ...
'i just don't know. in some respects it seems like it would be a far more embarrassing admission but i've never gone through with it so cannot say. must begin asking women if menstruation is embarassing.'

2 hours after hearing this ...
'i wish i had something that required a totally silent thing that someone needed bionic hearing to hear me using.'

1 day after.
'i never get any cool stuff.'

scientific footnote: i have always likened the sloughing of the endometrial lining to large shards of an iceberg sliding into the water even though i know that the female version must be a much more gelatinous affair but i just can't come up with a better comparison. and, don't get me wrong, i'm thankful each and every day for not having a better something to visualize this against.

bella went from absolutely loving baths to finding them acceptable to loathing them to the point that if water touches her skin she will shriek in a mad terror that brings the neighbors to our windows, hands cupped to the glass.

most recently she went on a three day jag of refusing to bathe. to put her in forcibly, while an option, was to put yourself in harms way. three days is a long time for an american to not bathe, especially when they live in my home. and especially when they pass the time playing games called DIRT and WORMS.

before having children marty vowed to not have one of those soiled and buger encrusted toddlers that other people were afraid to touch or be touched by. 86 hours into the water fast i asked marty about this missive. she half raised a hand in dismissal. upon seeing this gesture my mind placed this parental ideal in the junk drawer, next to 'will not throw food in restaurants' and on top of 'will not play in own feces' (that's one of my own).

hours later marty was sleeping in some part of the house. i in another with alex on my chest. i was stirred from sleep by someone poking me in the arm and talking to me. i began nodding in agreement and handing the remote over and promising to handle it, whatever it was, later if i could just snooze for five more minutes. bella continued to speak and i continued to lie there with closed eyes:

dad, i don't need to take a bath tonight.

bella, you haven't had a bath in three days

but ...

skipping tonight would make it four, so no deal.

but, i put special scasoli on so i don't need to.

you put what on?

i put special scasolee on so i don't need to.

what is scasolee?

no dad. vascolee?

bella, i don't know what you're saying.

vascoleen dad. vascoleen!

what? Vaseline?

yes. dad. i put Vaseline on.

where?

everywhere.

(i squint my eyes open to see bella naked and every visible shred of skin shiny, slick. and i'm talking from hairline to the tops of her feet.)

ok bella, go tell your mother.

ok dad.

(as she turned to leave i could see that even her backside had sludgy streaks of petroleum coating it.)

there have been points in my life where i feared a man's sperm supply was finite. i mean, i know everyone says this is not the case, but i also knew if there was a bottom to the bucket, i might be on a pace to get to it. i can even tell you how the imagined conversations played out in my adolescent brain between myself and an as of yet unidentified future wife.

the scene always starts moments after the doctor informed us that i had somehow used all my guys up, even though it has never been proven to be a scientific possibility. the doctor would then explain to my wife how it's really quite impressive that i found the energy, compunction and alone time necessary to entirely deplete my stock. my wife would not be moved or wowed by the doctor's opinions on the matter or that i'm, by his estimation, a medical marvel of sorts. she would instead be totally absorbed on how she was going to explain to her friends, family and as of yet unidentified second husband that the man she initially chose to spend her life with squandered all of his gametes before he was ever handed a high school diploma.

thankfully i was wrong (see exhibits one & two).

although now that i think about it, both of these children were conceived while vacationing with e-love.

a favorite food item of mine has long been a baked potato liberally doused in colby jack cheese, spring onions and sour cream. on very special occasions i may even spatter some bacon pieces on top to treat my aching palette.

saturday i was doing the dishes. i was possibly thinking about such a decadent spud while doing so. meanwhile an interview with a food photographer came on the radio. he was detailing the rigors of shooting different cuisines and how all of these artificial measures had to be taken to make the food look fresh out of the oven, frozen stiff or whatever the case may be. he revealed how to perfectly simulate an oven-fresh, piping hot potato, one simply had to take a totally water-condensed tampon, heated and shove it down into the fluffy white manna to simulate those hot spirals of steam one gets when first piercing the brown pod. works every time, he assured the interviewer.

yeah, well you know what else works every time? planting imagery in my head of my favorite food being immersed or otherwise wrapped around doctored feminine hygiene products. show some respect for the world around you! you bragging dolt!

all parents and potential parents have fears. will my child be healthy? will my child be happy? will my child succeed in what they want to do? while we all have them not everyone is forced to face them head-on. not everyone is actually dealt one of these blows to cope with, adjust to and move on from. while maybe not a foreseeable item for me, one of my greatest fears regarding a child of mine was realized last week.

it has come to my attention that the most particular of my friends is struggling through a dilemma.

it would seem his wife dropped her shiny new clie palm pilot in a public toilet. he and i thought the same thing, 'oh suck, now i've got to buy another pda'. she thought something entirely different though, something along the lines of 'how am i ever going to dry off my pda now that i just fished it out of the toilet'.

i leave you with a message i know to be fact; all things are disposable given the proper conditions.

marty was passing through an intersection yesterday when an suv running a red light t-boned her. the point of impact centered on the passenger side rear door and the collision sent marty's car into the neighboring lane where the car came to a slow stop.

no one was hurt. i can't even begin to tell you what kind of ziggurat needs to be erected to the germans for their automotive prowess. the center point of this collision was 15 inches away from 2 month old alex's head. he was pulled from his car seat unscathed, screaming his tiny, diapered ass off, but unscathed. it's friggen amazing. especially when you look at the car. the entire passenger side is a complete disaster with both doors having been pushed in about six inches.

when marty called me at work, and after confirming everyone was ok, i was ravenous for details. how fast were you going? 40mph. who was at fault? the other person. how's the car? bad shape. was it a man or a woman? woman. was she talking on a cellphone? uncertain but the car behind her said she was messing around with something. what did she say to you? nothing.

NOTHING?!? this was the response i wasn't prepared for. i asked marty for clarification.

t: do you mean she didn't say anything important or she really didn't say anything?

m: she didn't say anything. i never spoke to her. what did you want her to say?

t: how about i'm sorry. i'm sorry for being such a complete idiot and endangering you and your childrens' lives. i'm just sorry.

m: well maybe she was shook up too. i mean she probably recognizes what she did.

t: you see, by not apologizing i'd say she doesn't. i'd say she doesn't appreciate that she just made us a one car family for the next month. or that if they total the car, we're out the 1000 bucks we just put into it last week. that she just cost us 20 - 40 plus hours of our life in trying to get all of this squared away. i'd say that she doesn't appreciate that she could have killed your child. i mean i'm not asking for a lot here but a simple apology seems quite in order.

i can't exactly explain why i'm so enraged by this minor detail. my best guess is fear. the thought of what could have happened on this day terrifies me to the marrow and i want the person responsible to simply own that. and i know how that sounds and i can already hear mike mumbling something about me being a petty fool and the rational side of me knows all of this. all that truly matters is i've got three healthy family members sleeping in this house right now and we're not at the hospital or worse. i do know all of this.

but the other thing i know is how much i hate shopping for cars so just say your sorry dammit if for nothing else, for making me have to go shopping for cars!

if you see me on the street and i look different, it's the belt. i've only recently begun wearing one and am very self-conscious about it. this pointless strap of leather goes against everything i believe in, clothing wise and is the one article of clothing i wear that serves no function other than to scream out to all that see me that i am a total whore to industry and too wrapped up in what others think to think for myself.

some days making a living sucks.

when you see guys biking in a tight, single file row, it's called drafting. conceptually, its the same thing you see in auto racing. the basic premise goes that the person in front takes all the wind and you just float behind them exerting a fraction of the energy to achieve the same speed.

Man Who Screams Like Woman received a primer on the art of drafting from a friend because they are about to bike across the state of iowa together. it would seem that cooperative drafting has quite the rituals around it, for both safety and efficiency. for instance the guy in the front of the draft-line is not responsible for watching the road. he's busy working his ass off trying to keep a strong pace for the people behind him. the second man in line is charged with spotting any obstacles in the path where upon he alerts the front man.

additionally, when the lead man's time is done he announces this in some way so the next guy can get ready to step up and the third guy can prepare to birddog the road. the lead guy might yell 'i'm off' or something of the like and swing out of line falling to the back. the physics of the whole dynamic jettison the pack ahead of him where they will slow down a bit to let him catch up. once he's caught up he'll yell 'back on' so they can resume a hearty clip.

the first, and last, time i ever participated in a group ride which included drafting i was behind a stocky female i called sergeant bilko (in my head only). we didn't do all the fancy calling out and stuff because, well frankly, we didn't know about such etiquette. i spent most of the time staring at my front tire as it related to her back tire. it gets to be quite mesmerizing at about mile 30 and you'll find yourself zoning out. zoning out until you hear a funny noise and look up only to catch, square in the face, a gelatinous wad of chunk-laden snot shot from bilko's nose under her armpit (ala farmers blow). i heard/saw her loading up the other barrel and only just escaped the second salvo to the very great chagrin of the guy behind me.

in summary;
1. drafting is an efficient way to travel
2. there are numerous reasons to have rules
3. big girl equals big snot
4. it is totally possible to exfoliate/burn three layers of skin off your face and live to tell about it.

as noted yesterday i recently purchased an electric toothbrush. something i didn't mention is that another thing i'm doing now is i read the instructions for things that i buy. i haven't done that since i could make noise with my armpit. and i couldn't read before that. if you do the math that does mean i've never read instructions.

not only am i now reading the instructions, i'm heeding them. for instance point five from the braun people reads:

5. never drop or insert any object into any openings.

the problem is they do not specifically apply this tenet to their product. therefore, i'm forced to take it as general advice. one would think they might say "do not insert this item into electrical outlets, lest you may have a bad day" or "do not prod humans smaller than you with this device because that would pretty much make you a dick and karma would dictate some larger human will later violate you in a like manner."

given my quandary, problems abound.

there are three garbage bags sitting NEXT to the dumpster behind my house. they're mine. i put them there. i'm fearful of placing them INTO the actual dumpster.

a man pushed me at the ATM because i wouldn't put my card into the slot. he didn't even give me time to explain. he just called me a name involving the rather troglodytic term 'moron' and cut in line.

i've urinated on the bathroom floor eight times since getting my toothbrush. i have tried explaining the reason to marty, i even showed her the instruction pamphlet, which i now carry in my wallet for quick reference, but she just grabbed it from me, crumpled it in her raised fist, threw it back at me and told me to stop pissing on her floor.

i wrecked my car after swerving to avoid going through a tunnel and then almost got hit by another car once i realized i inserted myself in my car in the first place. that close shave knocked me out of my inserting things into other things stupor.

however, the instructions for some elbow patches i just bought tell me to never think about something i'm unaware of. this may get worrisome.

oh, and happy birthday to the raised fist one.

i don't make bets very often. the few times i do, i'm certain i will win (exept where e-love is concerned). yesterday i was presented with such an opportunity. the bet: if you put a dime on the floor beneath the urinal in the men's bathroom, would it still be there an hour later. the wager: lunch. my position: yes, it would absolutely still be there one hour later, one day later, one lifetime later (barring the janitorial process).

all men should know where i'm coming from but women may not so allow me take just a moment to explain this rationale. i'm sure you ladies have possible notions of how a male attends to his liquid business but there is minutia involved that most wouldn't be privy to. now i know those that are married or co-habitating have a semblance of understanding because there are drops and smatterings of your partner around your own lavatory. you may on occasion marvel at the quantity or the distance it traveled from the commode but assuming you're only living with one guy at a time, these thoughts are still wildly deficient. now what i need you to do is imagine the mayhem created by 100 men sharing one urinal over a span of 9 hours. furthermore, consider a man's attention to such matters in their own home and then project how their nature may change in a public forum where they are not solely responsible or held accountable for the cumulative effect.

for instance, in the morning when the bathroom is pristine from the night's cleaning, men just step up and do their deed. as early as ten am you may have to move anywhere from 6-12 inches back as to not stand in the shiny pool beginning to form under the urinal as brought about by the hapless shakes and miscalculations of previous patrons. by 3pm you may find yourself a full two feet away with legs apart as not to be standing in this accumulated swill.

so given this you can imagine my certainty when someone said they were going to set a dime in the epicenter of this mayhem at 2:30pm and that it would still be there come 3:30. i know, sheer madness. but this fella was confident as was i, so the dime was dropped at the appointed hour. for obvious reasons we could not stand watch over the urinal so i cannot say if the silver lucre lasted 10 or 55 minutes, all i can report is that it did not last the full 60. i repeat, it did not last the full 60.

shocked and staggered and now uncertain of the far-reaching ramifications of this study, i will buy this lunch but i will buy it with paper currency. and i will accept only paper currency in return, as my change in that from this day forward coin will never again touch the hand of troy lane dearmitt. never!

and oh yeah, everyman submissions are due tonight by midnight.

so last night we went to a family story time deal at our local library where this very animated lady read all of these great stories and sang billowy songs about hanging, chopping, squishing and burning turkeys, given the coming holiday and all. i'm here to tell you that interspersing a gobble, gobble in-between these horrific tales of mutilation does not right the wrong done in terrorizing these young children so.

all right. so we all know that i was the only one horrified by these images but all i'm saying is clucking funny and fanning your arms about doesn't help soothe my cringing nerves in any way. at least marty was kind enough to give my knee an empathetic pat while i sat staring at the macabre library lady.

so bookpimp was moaning the other day about this.

for me this is is not a sign of the apocalypse but rather simply a long overdue measure. to me, eating the crust on bread is like eating the rind of an orange or the wrapper of a candy bar. just cuz it's there doesn't necessarily dictate that it's meant to be ingested.

now something i do hate is our society's neurosis about convenience because if truly analyzed it is not so much about time saving as it is about sheer laziness. from yogurt in a tube to peanut butter and jelly mixed in a squeeze bottle there just seems to be no end. and given this i'm wondering why the hell i'm still asked to apply my salt separately from my pepper.

the sad thing is you know some greedy-ass company somewhere has actually looked at this. can you in any way imagine dedicating your professional life to creating a vehicle that would allow the morton folks to combine the salt and pepper together. although challenges would exist because the very fine salt keeps moving to the bottom, damn it and then when you tip it to shake something out you get mostly pepper but when upside down that wily salt races to the top and when it gets there comes out more rapidly than the pepper. damn the constantly moving salt. i'd love to be that guy. after reporting that it looked like it just wasn't going to work because the salt is finer and heavier and my boss would fly into a rage. "dammit dearmitt, cannot is not an option. won't work is unacceptable. you WILL figure out how to make our Sepper product work. we cannot expect people to just continue to pass salt AND pepper shakers up and down the dinner table. it's un-american. and i won't have it. not on my watch by god and so help us and get back to work dearmitt you sniveling little nay-sayer!"

i'd quit that job quick and start working on my own dream-child; the odorless bowel movement in a tube for when you just don't have to go. and you know i'm all about co-branding this with the handi-wipe folks and while i'm at it i'll hit up those waterless hand-cleanser people and i'm sure someone could figure out how to package it all up in a convenient, pocket sized, recyclable aerodynamic piece of belt-wear.

Someone told me this funky thing about breathing air previously breathed by others. because our atmosphere is finite, air moves around the world, gets used, recyclyed and used again. Given this, if you are 30 years old you have most likely had air that Einstein, Shakespeare, Ceasar and JFK breathed coarse through your own body. Pretty cool eh.

Before you get too stoked about it realiz...

my barber has been on vacation for the last two weeks, so will everyone please, please, stop staring at my hair.

so someone told me they did not think yesterday's menu confession was all that crazed, thus negating at least their opinion that i'm bent. given this surprising development, i'm compelled to throw another log on the fire in pursuit of my seemingly simplistic goal.

bookguy is driving from cleveland to st louis today to visit. this morning, while he packs at his home, i will be boarding a plane in saint louis, en route to cleveland. at 10:42 my plane lands. at 11:00 i will climb into bookguy's waiting truck where we will pull onto the highway and begin the 9-hour driving trek to st louis. i've yet to share this plan without the listener looking at me with a wondrous stupor in their eyes, their expression unmistakable. my adoring wife even added an eyeroll for good measure.

now that i possess your attention, please realize that 10, 20 even 30 years from now i will still fondly remember the day i flew to cleveland only to climb into a oversized truck and drive right back to saint louis with my good friend bookguy. should someone ask you a year from now to recall what you did on friday, june 07, 2002, you will most likely not remember this same day with a like vividness, assuming of course you do not have a similar itinerary which i can assure you, you do not.

now don't worry about me, it's not like i'll get sleepy while driving because in this respect bookguy and i are like an old married couple, where i'm not allowed behind the wheel. it's simply understood that bookguy drives and i sit by his side entertaining him all the while. early in our relationship, we used to sit closer, close enough for him to put his arm around me. when i asked him why we don't do that anymore, he replied "i'm still sitting in the same place, you're the one way over there."

perhaps there's good reason he's in the captain's chair and i'm holding the soda.

for those on the get troy committed consortium, allow me to proffer additional evidence. for those participating in the troy is the most anal man on the planet group, allow me conclude your effort. and, for those who like to occasionally dine with walt and i, allow me to remove the mystery of what will be slopped in front of you on any particular evening.

while we each have our own reasons, a few months ago marty and i moved to a monthly menuing system. on marty's part she has been trying to keep our food budget somewhere near the allotted amount. i have been petitioning to know what we are having that night so the ingredients are ready for use (meaning not frozen) and accounted for (meaning not at the store). and, collectively we recognize that it probably isn't ideal to have our family meals at 9:30pm given the little human we are now responsible for. given these factors we now sit down at the end of the month and create a menu for the coming month. rules follow:

1. we alternate who gets to pick the meal from day to day
2. sundays are new dish night
3. mondays are staple night
4. fridays and saturdays are left open
5. tuesday through thursday rotates between rice, meat, fish, pasta and a wild card dish
6. and lastly, should you wish to dine with us, you must tell us before sunday, shopping day, so we may get extra stuff for your gullet. note: steak night works on a strict first call first come basis and if marty doesn't like you, she requires you pay for your own cut so kiss up well.

given this lengthy introduction, i now welcome you to visit the recently completed What I'm Eating section of dearmitt.com.

additional note: only the recipes we deem keepers are committed to the recipe index for your own use and edification.

i want to be a cowboy. or rather, i used to want to be a cowboy. i've had a change of heart and now know what a flawed and filtered impression i had of the life of these wild bills. in my youthful daydreaming mind i envisioned the romantic days of the cowboy lifestyle. this adolescent portrayal may have been mildly antiseptic. antiseptic because i did not take into account things like the wicked s...

things found in bella's diaper this weekend during changes: urine, feces, a jenga block and one domino.

so if you ever play dominos at my house, handle the double-six at your own risk.

while filling my cup with water from the drinking fountain yesterday at work, i heard a toilet flush in the bathroom next to me. as i listened to that i watched the water pressure from the spigot i was using droop to nothing and then chug its way back to form a few moments later. i'm perfectly comfortable saying i would very much like to see a little more disconnectedness with my drinking water and an unseen person's bowel movement.

i certainly hope i have demonstrated that when i see something i want, need, crave and covet i can whore up with the best of them. grail like in its majesty the shiny bauble now rests in my recently washed and thoroughly exfoliated hand. we've been unduly and unjustly kept from one another, but not again, never again, will i abandon you my sweet. i will carry you in your protective sheath near my heart, clipped at the waist or tucked in the man-purse but you will be on my person at all times. my living will is being adjusted as we speak and as of this moment i will never share my bed with another.

ok bookpimp, i'm done. i'm finally and exhaustively done.

recently while filling up the car at this archaic gas station i ran inside to pay in that they had not yet discovered credit card readers at the pump. it would seem the smoke-free environment had also eluded this establishment in that a white cloud billowed out the front door like i was on the set of ron howard's backdraft. after returning to the car, marty asked me if i had partaken in a carton of cigarettes or just hung out in the mouth of someone who had.

it was at this precise moment that a synapse in my brain registered a connection between carrying that memento out of the gas station and the special-heinous bathroom situation at my office building i spoke of earlier in the week (post super bowl vapors). the question is, am i transporting, on my person, the flatulatory swill of half the guys on my floor? i mean are these colonesque particles forever fused into my apparel and epidermis, because i can assure you they are forever etched into my mind.

and, before you belittle my neurosis please understand that these aren't your typical pencil-necks. these are men who move towards the bathroom with a confident conviction, proudly cradling a folded newspaper under their arm and loudly cracking it straight while in the stall.

but the funk. for the sake of debate, let's agree i am wearing it and it goes where i go and i'm unaware because my sensitive nasal receptors have been obliterated by the nefarious atoms which are almost visible to the naked eye given their extra volatile payload. do you think someone is going to alert me to this obvious problem? how do you tell someone that it doesn't necessarily smell like they stepped in something but that instead something pretty damn wicked stepped on them, twice, and squished and slid their feces-painted foot all over their person and that a conventional shower will not even begin to eradicate the foulness that has been imprinted on their soul and that even if you were to get into outbreak-like measures you'd be getting closer to a fix but still not in the ballpark and that you would most likely require some government issue exfoliater hidden in the vaults beneath the pentagon to begin correcting the irreparable damage certainly caused by whatever tattooed its aroma on you because at this very moment you not only have the stench of the ten people you came in direct contact with but you also are the proud possessor of rectal mites from the ten people each of those ten people had prior contact with and did i mention that you currently have about nine minutes to live.

i would not be comfortable telling a stranger this. bookguy sure, a stranger, no.