I like to think I'm a pretty 'upbeat' sort of guy at work. Certainly, there are annoyances at my office -- not to mention complications, technical difficulties, seemingly endless meetings, sudden emergencies, unexpected problems, and a urinal handle that won't flush unless you jiggle it just right -- but I try not to let it get to me. I try to be positive. Cheerful. And mostly, in denial of the shit-tsunami that's usually surging it's way down the hall towards me.

Listening to music in the car on the way to work helps. If I'm in a determined sort of mood, I might play some driving techno stuff -- Chemical Brothers, maybe, or the Propellerheads. If I need a pick-me-up, then maybe it's edgy rock, like Smashing Pumpkins or Foo Fighters. And if I'm feeling a little down or tired, I'll pop in something jangly I can sing along with -- Blind Melon is good for that; so is Dave Matthews. And, as I was crooning along with today, so are the Refreshments.

(Yes, I was singing in my car. Yes, often at the top of my lungs. And yes, I'm a sappy damned douchebag. But that's not the point this time. Today, we're laughing at me for another dumbass thing. Do try and keep up.)

So, I made it to work. The last song I was howling along to was 'Mexico', off the Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy CD. Cool tunes, catchy hooks, nearly-naked cartoon chick on the cover. Good times.

So the lyrics were still running through my head when I made it into the building, and to my first meeting of the day.

At this point, I should probably mention that I'm one of those people who'll suddenly -- though in my case fairly quietly, due to my off-key warble -- break into song, with no obvious provocation. I'm pretty sure I picked it up from my dad -- he's got this weird, and apparently contagious, habit of singing about what he's doing, or what someone just said to him. I don't know where the hell he got it from, but he's passed the insanity down to me, and now I'm stuck with it. So I sometimes have 'conversations' like this:

Wife: 'Honey, can you take out the trash?'

Me: 'Takin' out the trrrrrash.... Ooh, I'm a-takin' out the trash... Yes, it's -- Gar-bage Day! Ooh, baby, Gar-bage Day! Hey hey!'

Wife: 'You're an idiot, you know that?'

And then, while I'm carrying the garbage out, she locks me out of the house. Yes, the lady's quite the kidder. Ha mo-fucking ha.

Anyway, there's that. There's also the whole 'humming a song in my head and then realizing that I'm actually singing it, out loud, with other humans within hearing distance' thing, which -- believe it or not -- can be even worse.

Which gets us back to this morning. Let's recap -- Mexico running through my head. Me in a good mood. And an hour-long meeting with bosses and co-workers and such just about to get under way. I've just skipped into the conference room and found a seat, while people pile in around me. I'm singing to myself, in my head, until I get to the bit just before the chorus, when I absentmindedly let a couple of bars slip out. In case you're not familiar with the song in question (and here are the lyrics [link], in case you want to play along at home), here's what the folks in my immediate vicinity heard:

'*hum* *hum* *hum-a-hum-a-hum*...

Got off in the wrong direction --
Found a hooker and lost my erection,
So I had to lie, in the letter...'

I think it was right around 'I had to lie' that I noticed the people staring at me. It took a couple of more words in the verse to put two and two together -- I'd just launched into song at the worst possible point in this little ditty, and got flat busted by at least two -- no, wait, that girl over there's not looking, but her face is really red, so at least three -- oops, hold on, the guy across the table is deliberately avoiding my eyes... eh, but most people in the office end up doing that, so maybe it's just coincidence -- busted by at least three people who just heard me spontaneously spout something about a 'hooker' and 'lost my erection' in the lull before the start of the weekly group meeting. Out-fucking-standing. Oh, the wonders this will do for my rep with these people. Goody to the max.

So, that was how my morning started today. I think I recovered pretty well -- I looked around, wide-eyed, like a shaved gerbil at a K-Y convention, and then muttered, 'Aw, shit!' and pretended to study the meeting agenda in front of me. Smooth, yes? Cool like the other side of the pillow. That's right.

And now, I'm just waiting for the bullshit to start. 'Hey, Charlie, picked up any hookers lately?' Or, 'Yo, Erection Boy -- how's it hanging?' And probably, 'You know, dude, it's okay -- there are pills for people like you.'

*sigh*

The worst part is, this snarky crap will only go on until I pull the next cluetarded brainfart move, and catch hell for that, instead. And the circle of life goes on.

Meanwhile, I'm gonna start listening to NPR in the damned car. Sure, it's about as exciting as giving a teamster a Brazilian backwax... but at least there are no lyrics to lodge themselves in my brain and get me in trouble later. I can pretty well guarantee you that the words 'hooker' and 'erection' have never been uttered together in the same sentence on public radio before. Hell, maybe not even separately. Those guys have no damned fun at all. Perfect for those morning meetings. I'm sold.

Earlier this week, I went to a doctor-prescribed physical therapist to get some advice on my leg. I tore a calf muscle a few weeks ago, then did it again last weekend. It's apparently not that severe, as such things go -- the therapist told me he wasn't 'impressed' with the swelling or limping. I told him I'd try to do better next time. Then I hobbled out the door and keyed his damned car. Smartass.

(Nah, I didn't really do that. I had no idea which rusted-out Honda Civic in the parking lot was his, anyway. And I didn't have time to key them all. Not until he fixes my leg and I can run around again, at least.)

Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, so it was all right. I don't have anything against him, really -- other than the fact that he is a guy. This is physical therapy, dammit! And I'm a guy -- aren't I supposed to get some young, just-out-of-school, hair-flipping, ex-cheerleader blondie type? Not that that sort of thing would particularly do much for me, either, given the wife and all, but if somebody is gonna spend twenty minutes rubbing the back of my leg, couldn't it at least be someone I don't mind imagining in a pair of thong panties?

(And just for the record, I'm pretty sure this guy does not paint a fetching picture in one of those ass-floss gadgets. I can say that with a fair degree of certainly.

Hey, what can I tell you? My mind wandered. He was the only one in the room. There was leg rubbing. Leg rubbing! Meh.)

Anyway, after Sir Knead-A-Lot was done with my calf, he listed out a few exercises I should be doing, so I don't rip the thing again. Fine. There were some simple stretches -- good leg forward, bed leg back, and stretch the back of the leg as far as it'll go. No problem.

(Well, some problem, of course, since fully stretching that leg would feel a lot like having it filleted and split open like a jumbo shrimp tail. But still, they're pretty straightforward exercises. I can deal.)

Finally, though, the guy tells me this:

'Oh, one other thing -- it's good exercise for your calf to balance on that leg. Just whenever you have a minute or two, try standing on the bad leg for thirty seconds or so. That'll help strengthen the muscles.'

So, on to the 'doofus' part.

Now, I'm a good little patient -- even if they apparently won't hook me up with a 'naughty nurse' type, the bastards. (What the hell are my HMO co-payments for, anyway? Band-Aids? Tongue depressors? Board-certified fully-licensed physical therapy professionals?

Harrumph.)

So, I've been diligently doing my best to heal -- icing down, taking it easy, and yes, even doing my exercises. Including the circus-style balancing doohickey. And that's what got me into trouble today.

I was on my way to lunch, riding down the elevator, when I thought, 'Hey -- what better time and place to get in some good medicine, right? Let's get exercising.'

Before I go any further, you should also know that our building has the slowest goddamned elevator in the world. So, I had time to stretch one way, and then another way... do some ab crunches, a couple of pull-ups... and six or eight lopsided jumping jacks... before I remembered to try the balancing thing. So I gave it a shot, just about the time the elevator slid past the third floor.

So, picture this -- when the door opened on two, unexpectedly, because a gaggle of businessmen decided they couldn't haul their fat asses down one flight of stairs to the lobby, there I was. In the elevator. Standing on one leg, making that 'balancing face' -- you know, with the eyes all wide and googly and the tongue hanging out of the corner of the mouth. I tried to save face, as it were, but it was too late -- they caught me, doing a damned flamingo impression on the elevator like some brain-damaged douchebag. It didn't help that the car gave a little shimmy as it settled, sending me falling and flailing into the middle of the suits trying to clamber aboard. Perfect. Just friggin' perfect.

I almost got off the elevator right there, so I could wait a few minutes and then limp down the stairs after all the witnesses had safely fled the scene. But I decided to gut it out, and rode the rest of the way down with them. Hell, I even made the best of it -- once the doors closed, I hopped up on one leg again and gave them a 'Heh? Heh? You know you wanna try it' look.

Nobody went for it, of course, but I had a good time. At my own expense. Again. No love, folks; no frigging love at all. Come on, now. Ain't nobody gonna feel sorry for the crippled boy with the bum leg?

Scene: A local marginally fancy Italian restaurant. I'm sitting alone at the bar, drinking a glass of red wine and waiting for my wife. A woman in her thirties is standing near the door, alone. Three sips into my shiraz, she walks over to me.

All of that really happened. The rest, below -- only in my head. Welcome to my delusions.

Woman: Um... hi. Are you Charlie?
Me: Uh, yeah. I'm Charlie.
Woman: Oh, hi! I'm Denise! It's good to finally meet you!
Me: Well... um, yeah. Hi there.
Woman: So -- wow, this is awkward, huh?
Me: Er, yeah. Actually, it is, sort of. I think you might be --
Woman: You know, I didn't expect you to be so tall. That's nice. I like tall men.
Me: Yes, but -- really? Tall guys, eh? Well... thanks. But I don't think --
Woman: You know, you've still got a lot of hair for a forty-eight year old. Not in great shape, though. And really, you wore that shirt? Please.
Me: Now, look -- first of all, I'm not forty-eight. And -- wait, what's wrong with this shirt? I like this shirt.
Woman: Well, there's no accounting for taste. It's okay, it's okay -- I don't mind taking on a 'project guy'. You'd better be packing heat in those jeans, though. Now lemme taste that wine.
Me: What the -- 'project guy'? Hold on, there -- I am a catch, dammit. Honey, you are lucky to be here with me, And if you want to see what's in these pants, then you'd better --
Woman: Wait. What is that on your finger? A wedding ring? Oh, you bastard. The dating service is supposed to screen you people out. And all those emails we sent? The cybersex -- the cybersex?! You were typing with that hand the whole time? Or... or worse! Ew! Dammit! I am out of here. Asshole!
Me: Wait, you don't understand -- I'm not Charlie. I mean, I am Charlie, but not that Charlie, whoever he is. It's all a mistake -- come back. We've never even had cybersex, and... oh. Hi, honey. Boy, you got here quick. Light traffic tonight, eh? Heh. Super.
Wife: Yeah, hi. You're an idiot. Now buy me dinner.
Me: Yes, dear. Say, by the way -- what do you think of this shirt?

So, yeah -- that never happened. Actually, the girl came over and asked if I was 'Frank'. But I wonder what would've happened if her blind date had been with a 'Charlie'. Or if I'd been thinking quickly enough to pretend I was 'Frank'. I think I'd be a lot happier if I could just let shit like this go. Super.

I played softball last night. In the fifth inning, I was manning my usual position at third, when the batter skipped a hot grounder to my left. To my credit, I got in front of the ball. To my discredit, the ball hopped over my glove and hit me, instead.

Why did I miss the ball, you ask? Was it a bad hop? Was it because I was already thinking of doubling up the runner on first, before I secured the ball? Was it because I turned my head and squealed, 'Eeeeeeeeee!!' when the ball neared?

I'll leave that call to the historians. The answer probably lies somewhere in between.

At any rate, I gathered the ball, threw to second, and forced the runner. My momentary flub cost us any chance of getting another out at first base, and also cost me a painful *thwack* on my left thigh, where the ball dinged me.

(In the interest of full disclosure, I also suffered what we male person types call a 'brushing', as the ball rattled around my crotchal region. There was contact with the delicates and unmentionables, but no direct hit. Still, it was one of those moments when you think to yourself:

'Hrm, that hurts a little bit. In ten seconds, the pain will either go away, or drive me weeping to the ground in unbridled agony. I wonder which it'll be?'

This time, it went away. One game a couple of years ago, I wasn't so lucky. For the next three months, I wore a frying pan as a 'cup'. I couldn't run very well, but dammit, I was protected.)

The upshot of my fielding foul-up is that I now have an angry, painful bruise on my upper inner left thigh, just a couple of inches below where the 'rubber meets the road', so to speak. I don't notice it much when I'm sitting, but standing or walking brings the ouchie back to life. Each step is like a midget headbutting me hard in the leg, while chanting, 'Watch the ball into the glove... watch the ball into the glove...'.

(I like to take a lesson from every sports-related injury, when I can. It makes me a better player.

Also, I like to describe my injuries using scenarios involving midgets. It takes the edge off the pain. It's like Bactine for the soul.

Poetic, no?)

The worst part of this particular welt is the location. Not because it's a particuarly painful or a sensitive area, but because soreness in that region might usually be expected to develop from something much more interesting. So now, I stand up and feel the pain, and think:

'Ouch. Man, what wild, kinky escapade was I on to hurt... oh, right. Softball. What was I thinking?'

Terribly disappointing, to say the least. What's worse than engaging in a passionate night of wild and acrobatic abandon, then forgetting about it? Not engaging in a passionate night of wild and acrobatic abandon, momentarily thinking that you might have, and then realizing that you didn't. Bitches.

And what's even worse than that?

When I went to bed last night, my thigh was already purpling up and swollen. As I hopped under the covers, my wife -- reading in bed at the time -- noticed the bruise peeking out the bottom of my boxers, and said:

'Ouch. Man, what wild, kinky escapade were you on to hurt... oh, right. Softball. What was I thinking? G'night.'

Clearly, my mystique has faded. Or more likely, was never all that mystiqious to begin with. I'm sure it's healthy that she knows there's only one way I'm likely to get bruised and sore outside the house -- on a court or field, through my own athletic ineptitude.

Still. Doesn't somebody have to believe that this monstrosity came from an activity where the gloves weren't the only things made of leather, and the shin guards weren't for sliding into second? Anyone? Bueller? Hello?

In this house, it's my wife who's in charge of buying things. This should surprise no one who knows us well at all. My wife is the practical, down-to-earth, well-reasoned, wicked smart, and generally wonderful sort of person who can be trusted with important purchases.

I, on the other hand, am the blithering, addled, pants-on-backwards sort of moron who shouldn't be allowed to operate an electric toothbrush without adult supervision. But sometimes I get to help. I like to help.

Take, for instance, our most recent grocery list, which can be seen here [LINK].

This is one of my wife's typical grocery shopping lists. Note the responsible choices she makes on our behalf. Nutritious foods, like 'yogurt', 'fruit', and 'asparagus'. Necessities, such as 'milk' and 'dishwasher detergent'.

Even her penmanship is commendable. A handwriting analyst would look at this list, noting her bold strokes and elegant loops, the curvature of her 'c' and the strong confidence oozing from her 's', and say:

'Now here's an impressive young woman who appears to have it all figured out. Watch out for her!'

Typically, I leave the grocery planning in her more than capable hands. Getting involved in the process would only muck things up, and we'd end up with nothing but three weeks' worth of HoHo's and prune juice to eat. Again.

Once in a while, though, I make a small request. I'll notice that we're out of, say, Jiffy Pop or jalepeno bean dip, and I'll mention it to the missus. Her response, invariably, is this:

'Okay, put it on the list.'

She says this to test me, of course. She realizes that under most conditions, I'm not going to actually touch the list. Remember, I'm like Garey Busey at a free vodka giveaway -- no good can possibly come from getting me involved.

Besides, my wife will pick up anything important that we need. She eats most of the same foods I do, so she's all over it when we're low on the basics -- bread, OJ, salsa, cold cuts, and the like.

(And beer. Did you notice that, on the list? Beer! I didn't tell her; she listed it all by herself.

God, do I love that woman.)

This week, though, we were out of pickles. Sammich pickles -- and my wife doesn't make sammiches at home. She prefers hot meals, made on the stove or in the microwave. I'm not allowed to play with 'burny things', so I make sammiches instead. With pickles.

So I told her we were out of pickles. She said, 'Put it on the list!' So, finally, I did. As you can see. [LINK]

See how I don't exude 'responsible adult' so much? I imagine that same handwriting expert as above, examining my wobbly 'P' and misshapen 'K' and proclaiming:

'Now here's a four-year-old child who appears to be mildly retarded. Watch out for him!'

*sigh* The barbs I endure for my kosher dill slices.

Having already sullied the list once, I decided to scour the kitchen, looking for other low supplies the missus might miss. Mostly, we were okay -- popcorn, check. Microwave burritos, check. Lik-M-Aid, with emergency supply of Stix, check. Only... hey, that bag of Chips Ahoy in the pantry is looking a little light, isn't it?

Yes. Yes, it is. [LINK]

See? I told you I liked to help. I'm not about to actually go into the store, of course -- and she'll probably strap me to a chair and feed me prune juice when she sees the new list -- but at least I can feel as though I'm part of the process.

And I'll be able to make a decent sammich, with dessert to boot. Grocery shopping is fun!