If I could go on a weekend vacation anywhere in the U.S., I would go to Miami. I’ve never been there and I’m dying to go.
I couldn’t help, lately, but think that my cleaning lady was stealing. Little things, a DVD or a pair of nice socks. So I decided I’d take action. I put $5 bills in random places throughout my house. After she was done cleaning I would check the house to see if all the $5 bills—all eight of them—were still in their place.
Well, this past week, they weren’t. At least not one of them. One of the bills, which I’d put in a drawer under my bathroom sink, was gone. It had blatantly disappeared. So, instead of confronting her about it, I wrote her a check for $5 less than I’m supposed to. $60 instead of $65. She looked at the check and said, “Why is it only $60 this time?” I was prepared for this question. I replied, “Oh, no, I paid you $65. The other $5 was in cash.”
Her: “I don’t understand.”
Me: “The other $5 was in cash. The money you took from the drawer under the sink in my bathroom.”
Her: “I don’t understand.”
Me: “Yes you do.”
Her: “Okay, $60 is okay. See you next week.”
Me: “No you won’t. You won’t be cleaning for me next week. Or ever again.”
It wasn’t as much that she stole from me—which I know she’s been doing for a while now—but that she wouldn’t admit it. Even when I confronted her about it she stood there shaking her head and denying it, like I was a fool. Time for me to find a new [trustworthy!] cleaning lady. Anybody know a good one?
There aren’t enough people with love and compassion in their eyes, are there?
My brother’s name is Carl and it’s because he’s named after Carl Linneaus. When we were kids some of his friends starting to call him Curl and then after a while they’d call him Curly (even though his hair wasn’t curly, it was straight). Somehow Curly turned into ‘Z’ and for the rest of our childhood I knew my brother as ‘Z’.
Dad didn’t think nicknames were funny; he thought they were stupid. Carl was Carl and that was it. Deep down, I’ll bet that Carl wanted Dad to call him ‘Z’ but obviously it wasn’t his choice. At baseball games, everyone in the dugout is screaming, “Come on, ‘Z’! Get a hit!” People in the stands are echoing them, yelping, “You can do it ‘Z’!” All by himself, down near the outfield, Dad stands silent. With two strikes, or maybe after a bad swing, you might hear him—and you know it’s him—because it’s the only time you’ll hear ‘Carl’, and it’ll sound something like: “Carl! Focus! You know what to do!”
If you look far into the distance you might see the baseball headed fast for the woods behind the fence. Below the ball and the sky, you’d see the backs of the outfielders, facing yonder, awed by the power of the hit. The pitcher’s face would be in his mitt.
Or if you look just down at home plate, at the catcher, you might see him rolling the ball back to the mound. The catcher gives his teammates a nod as they head to the dugout, the inning now over. You’d see ‘Z’ running opposite, towards his side. He’d spit in the dirt and descend, the coach patting his back and ‘Z’ looking for a pack of sunflower seeds to chew on.
Either might happen and I’d say they happened the same amount.
I took an aerobics class yesterday—not my idea, dragged by some friends—and boy did I sweat! People always talk about how after you work out you’re supposed to feel great but not for me. I got home, showered, sat on the couch and could barely move the rest of the day. How do people exercise before work? Never.
I’m thinking about buying a bird because I had one when I was kid and I loved it. It was a parakeet. Is that the best kind of bird to buy?