Haven't posted in too long. I need to find more time to write. My book has been put aside for at least a year now. I've got a lot of edits, changes, and re-writes in mind for certain parts and I'm dreading getting started. The problem is the book is my story, about my life, and my life is always changing. People's roles in my life change over the weeks and months, so the characters in the book change. The Weirdo and the Monkey are as close to a constant that I have in my life, but even they change. The Monkey is always growing and changing. Today I can ask him how old he is, and he can answer. Six months ago he would just stare at me. The Weirdo is always reinventing herself, and is about to go back to school.
Work has had some good change. I finally got promoted to Sergeant last month. I know it'll wear off in time, but I still get a thrill seeing those chevrons on my sleeve. I like being Sarge. I know everybody always feels this way, but I feel like I worked my ass off for this - and continue to. Schedules need to be done, vacation, school, and military leave all need to be accounted for. Overtime needs to be kept in check. I've been doing all this since November anyway, so at least I had a jump on learning what I was supposed to be doing.
Despite all the change, some things will always remain. I'm training somebody at work right now. I've got a training officer on my shift, but it was indicated to me that because of my good training record they wanted me to check the new guy out and make the call on whether ot not to keep him. I'm sure I'll always be training, at least on some level. I'm good at it, which stems from having a lot of patience. The Monkey holds the record for being able to run through my patience faster than anyone, but he's my child so I guess that's the universe balancing itself.
Anyway, off to the grocery store for some milk and juice.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The First Five
Five years ago today I began my career as a police officer.
I thought about it the entire time I was in the application process and the academy, but as I've said before the weight of this job never really hit me until I hit the road. I had no idea what I was doing when I first started out. I knew some stuff about the law and I was a good shot. Part of me prayed that was all I would need.
Despite my prayers, some things they just don't teach at the academy. They don't teach you how to play politics within the department. They tell you to stay clear of the bullshit knowing damn well the bullshit can find you just as easy. There is no lesson on how to go from being in a room with a dead body to being in a room with your family eating dinner an hour later. Nobody discussed how sad, then upset, and then angry you'll feel at the blind hatred you find yourself the target of. I never heard about the numbness I'd feel in a car chase or running into the woods looking for a man with a gun. I didn't understand the power I had until I had wielded it a few times. Not just the power to make an arrest or to stop someone's freedom of movement. The intoxicating feeling of walking into a place you wouldn't normally be walking into and knowing you were safe from harm or harassment. The uniform. The badge. Nobody dares to fuck with you because while the consequences are unspoken they are also guaranteed. Cars on the highway move out of your way. The thugs that your mother warned you about walk or run away when I show up. That is power. That is also one of the most dangerous and difficult things to understand. That power can lead to arrogance, which can get you killed awfully fast.
Luckily I haven't made any lethal mistakes to date. I've been scared and angry, sad and joyful. I've had my finger on the trigger a squeeze away from taking a life. I've slapped the backs of friends and enemies under the same roof. I've bled and sweat, broken a bone, crashed a car and tackled total strangers, but I'm still alive and in good working order. For that I thank God every day.
More than anything I keep remembering the words a former Sergeant once told me as I was merrily blabbering about how happy I was to have made it one full year on the job: the first five years are the hardest. Five years seemed a long way off back then, and it sure as hell feels like a long time ago now.
I'll never be perfect, but I can say with confidence that after five years I am a damn good cop. If the first five are the hardest it's not because of the work. The work never changes. It's only because it takes about that long to really find your rhythm - like walking on hot coals. Too slow or too fast and you'll get burned, but if you move at your own pace you'll make it through the fire.
I thought about it the entire time I was in the application process and the academy, but as I've said before the weight of this job never really hit me until I hit the road. I had no idea what I was doing when I first started out. I knew some stuff about the law and I was a good shot. Part of me prayed that was all I would need.
Despite my prayers, some things they just don't teach at the academy. They don't teach you how to play politics within the department. They tell you to stay clear of the bullshit knowing damn well the bullshit can find you just as easy. There is no lesson on how to go from being in a room with a dead body to being in a room with your family eating dinner an hour later. Nobody discussed how sad, then upset, and then angry you'll feel at the blind hatred you find yourself the target of. I never heard about the numbness I'd feel in a car chase or running into the woods looking for a man with a gun. I didn't understand the power I had until I had wielded it a few times. Not just the power to make an arrest or to stop someone's freedom of movement. The intoxicating feeling of walking into a place you wouldn't normally be walking into and knowing you were safe from harm or harassment. The uniform. The badge. Nobody dares to fuck with you because while the consequences are unspoken they are also guaranteed. Cars on the highway move out of your way. The thugs that your mother warned you about walk or run away when I show up. That is power. That is also one of the most dangerous and difficult things to understand. That power can lead to arrogance, which can get you killed awfully fast.
Luckily I haven't made any lethal mistakes to date. I've been scared and angry, sad and joyful. I've had my finger on the trigger a squeeze away from taking a life. I've slapped the backs of friends and enemies under the same roof. I've bled and sweat, broken a bone, crashed a car and tackled total strangers, but I'm still alive and in good working order. For that I thank God every day.
More than anything I keep remembering the words a former Sergeant once told me as I was merrily blabbering about how happy I was to have made it one full year on the job: the first five years are the hardest. Five years seemed a long way off back then, and it sure as hell feels like a long time ago now.
I'll never be perfect, but I can say with confidence that after five years I am a damn good cop. If the first five are the hardest it's not because of the work. The work never changes. It's only because it takes about that long to really find your rhythm - like walking on hot coals. Too slow or too fast and you'll get burned, but if you move at your own pace you'll make it through the fire.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Ice Cream Sandwiches
Last week while I was working I took a minute to run inside a gas station. I had a craving for some ice cream, which happens more often than I'd like to admit now that I've quit smoking. Specifically I wanted one of those Snickers ice cream bars because they are amazing.
Well I got inside and browsed the ice cream thing, and to my dismay there were no Snickers ice cream bars. It was a pretty basic selection, so I went with your basic ice cream sandwich. Didn't think twice about it. Paid my tab, got back in the car, and swung around to the far end of the parking lot so I could watch to make sure the clerk closed up safely.
I peeled the paper off my ice cream sandwich and took a bite. It was chocolaty and creamy and delicious, and like a punch to the head a memory sprang up from the abyss.
My grandmother on my mother's side had a big, beautiful house back in Syracuse. It was the perfect house for grandparents, with a big, dirty garage for us to play in with Papa, a set of red carpeted stairs we could slide, run, and fall down, and a big kitchen where Gramma made magic happen. My Gramma could cook like it was nobody's business. How many hot, delicious meals emerged from that kitchen I'll never know, but I do remember that there was more to Gramma's kitchen than just pasta. In the corner was Gramma's seemingly centuries old refrigerator. The freezer made up the bottom of the unit, so it was at the perfect level for small children. Whenever my brother, sister, cousins, and I would find ourselves turned loose at Gramma's house we would always take a moment to run into the kitchen, tug open the freezer, and help ourselves to the box of ice cream sandwiches. Gramma never ran out of ice cream sandwiches. If we spent all day over there, leaving only one left in the box, and went back over again the next day there was another box ready and waiting. Gramma always had ice cream sandwiches. I swear she must have made trips to the grocery store just to buy them.
Sitting there in my patrol car I remembered what it was like to spend hours running around, playing, just being a kid, and how great that ice cream sandwich was when it was time for a break. Isn't it funny how a certain taste or smell can bring you back to a moment or time that was dear to you? Gramma will always have ice cream sandwiches in my mind.
Well I got inside and browsed the ice cream thing, and to my dismay there were no Snickers ice cream bars. It was a pretty basic selection, so I went with your basic ice cream sandwich. Didn't think twice about it. Paid my tab, got back in the car, and swung around to the far end of the parking lot so I could watch to make sure the clerk closed up safely.
I peeled the paper off my ice cream sandwich and took a bite. It was chocolaty and creamy and delicious, and like a punch to the head a memory sprang up from the abyss.
My grandmother on my mother's side had a big, beautiful house back in Syracuse. It was the perfect house for grandparents, with a big, dirty garage for us to play in with Papa, a set of red carpeted stairs we could slide, run, and fall down, and a big kitchen where Gramma made magic happen. My Gramma could cook like it was nobody's business. How many hot, delicious meals emerged from that kitchen I'll never know, but I do remember that there was more to Gramma's kitchen than just pasta. In the corner was Gramma's seemingly centuries old refrigerator. The freezer made up the bottom of the unit, so it was at the perfect level for small children. Whenever my brother, sister, cousins, and I would find ourselves turned loose at Gramma's house we would always take a moment to run into the kitchen, tug open the freezer, and help ourselves to the box of ice cream sandwiches. Gramma never ran out of ice cream sandwiches. If we spent all day over there, leaving only one left in the box, and went back over again the next day there was another box ready and waiting. Gramma always had ice cream sandwiches. I swear she must have made trips to the grocery store just to buy them.
Sitting there in my patrol car I remembered what it was like to spend hours running around, playing, just being a kid, and how great that ice cream sandwich was when it was time for a break. Isn't it funny how a certain taste or smell can bring you back to a moment or time that was dear to you? Gramma will always have ice cream sandwiches in my mind.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Liver
So the Weirdo's dad, my father in law, finally got a liver transplant.
The call came in very early Thursday morning around 4 AM. The Weirdo woke me up as she was excitedly talking to her mom on the phone. I gained just enough consciousness to figure out if I needed to get out of bed. My brain heard that my in-laws were going to go up to the hospital first, and that we wouldn't meet them up there until a more reasonable hour - like 7:30 or 8 AM. The Weirdo then proceeded to call what seemed like 15 other people to tell them the good news about the available liver. I kicked her out of the bedroom so I could go back to sleep. I was beyond thrilled about the liver, but if I can get two more hours of sleep then seriously, GTFO.
So a few hours later we made our way up to the hospital and began the long wait. The Monkey was surprisingly well behaved, when considering the fact that hospitals are probably among the worst places to be waiting with a toddler for a long period of time. So I drove the Monkey to my mom's house. That day was also her birthday. The transplant team at the hospital said the day you get a transplant is like your second birthday, so in that sense my mom and my father in law now share a birthday, which is kinda cool.
Back to the hospital. Waited and waited, playing cards and eating hospital cafeteria food and doing anything to pass the time. Finally he was out of surgery and everything was looking OK. The Weirdo and I got home feeling exhausted. We went to sleep, only to wake up a bit later to horrifying news that there was some kind of complication. The Weirdo rushed back to the hospital, leaving me home with the Monkey.
Thankfully there was nothing seriously wrong. So after a few days my father in law is talking, sitting up, and even cracking jokes. I've commented to several friends and family about how amazing medical technology is. Really think about this: someone died, so they took an organ out of that person, cut open my father in law's abdomen, put the organ in... and it WORKS.
There was a time when people no doubt said something like that was impossible. Makes you wonder what things that are impossible to us will be routine in the future.
The call came in very early Thursday morning around 4 AM. The Weirdo woke me up as she was excitedly talking to her mom on the phone. I gained just enough consciousness to figure out if I needed to get out of bed. My brain heard that my in-laws were going to go up to the hospital first, and that we wouldn't meet them up there until a more reasonable hour - like 7:30 or 8 AM. The Weirdo then proceeded to call what seemed like 15 other people to tell them the good news about the available liver. I kicked her out of the bedroom so I could go back to sleep. I was beyond thrilled about the liver, but if I can get two more hours of sleep then seriously, GTFO.
So a few hours later we made our way up to the hospital and began the long wait. The Monkey was surprisingly well behaved, when considering the fact that hospitals are probably among the worst places to be waiting with a toddler for a long period of time. So I drove the Monkey to my mom's house. That day was also her birthday. The transplant team at the hospital said the day you get a transplant is like your second birthday, so in that sense my mom and my father in law now share a birthday, which is kinda cool.
Back to the hospital. Waited and waited, playing cards and eating hospital cafeteria food and doing anything to pass the time. Finally he was out of surgery and everything was looking OK. The Weirdo and I got home feeling exhausted. We went to sleep, only to wake up a bit later to horrifying news that there was some kind of complication. The Weirdo rushed back to the hospital, leaving me home with the Monkey.
Thankfully there was nothing seriously wrong. So after a few days my father in law is talking, sitting up, and even cracking jokes. I've commented to several friends and family about how amazing medical technology is. Really think about this: someone died, so they took an organ out of that person, cut open my father in law's abdomen, put the organ in... and it WORKS.
There was a time when people no doubt said something like that was impossible. Makes you wonder what things that are impossible to us will be routine in the future.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Who are you?
So the other day I was watching a television show, and to make a long story short a guy ended up going to jail. There was talk about the guy - who was not a hardened, bad criminal - still being able to make a life for himself after he got out of prison. It kinda got me thinking.
In this day and age just about everything we do is documented somehow. Records are kept of almost every aspect of your life. Birth certificate. Social Security Number. Tax forms documenting how much you earned and where you earned it. Court records accessible nationwide detailing every criminal or traffic offense you've ever committed. Driver's licenses with your picture, height, and weight.
Now imagine life a hundred years ago. No driver's license. No Social Security card. No government records available on the internet. You were who you told people you were. If I wanted to live under ten different names in ten different states the only thing in my way was my imagination. In Georgia I'm Anthony the cop. In New York I'm Anthony the teacher.
The thought occurred to me that if I was to get myself arrested for, say, stealing an old lady's purse, today I would be booked into a jail where my picture and fingerprints would be taken. My information would be sent to the FBI, so a permanent record could be kept. The local court system would handle my case, and we'll say I'm sentenced to serve one week in jail. When I've finished serving my time no matter where in the country I go my record will follow me. I could leave Georgia and try to get on with another law enforcement agency in California thousands of miles away. Almost immediately they would check my record through the FBI and see that I was a purse snatching bastard, and promptly throw my application in the trash. My actions, my decisions, follow me for the rest of my life.
A hundred years ago I get arrested for stealing a purse. I do one week in jail. When I get out I make my way across the country to California. I don't have any identification, and there's no way to prove who I am, so I pick out a new name and run with it. Nobody ever learns of my old purse snatching days.
I guess it's kind of a double edged sword, our modern way of documenting everything. If someone rapes or kills someone else I want those records kept, copied, distributed, and readily available so everybody in the world knows that person is a terrible son of a bitch. The flip side of that is there are no second chances, even when well deserved. The example on television was an 18 year old kid getting busted for stealing a car. He is remorseful and apologetic. Should an 18 year old be punished - by being permanently labeled as a convicted felon - for the rest of his life? It's hard to imagine that, assuming that same 18 year old goes on to live a normal, productive, crime-free life, that when he was 58 he still wouldn't be allowed to enjoy some of the privileges that non-felons enjoy because they didn't make a big mistake 40 years prior.
Just some food for thought I guess.
In this day and age just about everything we do is documented somehow. Records are kept of almost every aspect of your life. Birth certificate. Social Security Number. Tax forms documenting how much you earned and where you earned it. Court records accessible nationwide detailing every criminal or traffic offense you've ever committed. Driver's licenses with your picture, height, and weight.
Now imagine life a hundred years ago. No driver's license. No Social Security card. No government records available on the internet. You were who you told people you were. If I wanted to live under ten different names in ten different states the only thing in my way was my imagination. In Georgia I'm Anthony the cop. In New York I'm Anthony the teacher.
The thought occurred to me that if I was to get myself arrested for, say, stealing an old lady's purse, today I would be booked into a jail where my picture and fingerprints would be taken. My information would be sent to the FBI, so a permanent record could be kept. The local court system would handle my case, and we'll say I'm sentenced to serve one week in jail. When I've finished serving my time no matter where in the country I go my record will follow me. I could leave Georgia and try to get on with another law enforcement agency in California thousands of miles away. Almost immediately they would check my record through the FBI and see that I was a purse snatching bastard, and promptly throw my application in the trash. My actions, my decisions, follow me for the rest of my life.
A hundred years ago I get arrested for stealing a purse. I do one week in jail. When I get out I make my way across the country to California. I don't have any identification, and there's no way to prove who I am, so I pick out a new name and run with it. Nobody ever learns of my old purse snatching days.
I guess it's kind of a double edged sword, our modern way of documenting everything. If someone rapes or kills someone else I want those records kept, copied, distributed, and readily available so everybody in the world knows that person is a terrible son of a bitch. The flip side of that is there are no second chances, even when well deserved. The example on television was an 18 year old kid getting busted for stealing a car. He is remorseful and apologetic. Should an 18 year old be punished - by being permanently labeled as a convicted felon - for the rest of his life? It's hard to imagine that, assuming that same 18 year old goes on to live a normal, productive, crime-free life, that when he was 58 he still wouldn't be allowed to enjoy some of the privileges that non-felons enjoy because they didn't make a big mistake 40 years prior.
Just some food for thought I guess.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Five
I really tried last night. I went to bed around 10 PM, deciding against my impulse to stay up and watch the State of the Union address. I would get a nice, full night of sleep before my long day and everything would be peachy.
Tomorrow is my long day because I get up in the morning with the Monkey, stay up all day with him, and then go to work all night. I'll sleep during the day Thursday after being up about 24 hours, and then work Thursday night. Then when the weekend hits I'll get back onto a day schedule where I'm sleeping at night. Then the whole cycle starts over. So basically twice a week I go from a day schedule to a night schedule. It's a little like a square peg and a round hole, but more like a peg that's been chipped away enough that it fits both square and round and you don't know where the hell to put it.
Well, 3 AM hit and I sat up in bed wide awake. I had a dream that I was at work and in trouble for doing a bad job approving reports. Like I had missed all kinds of spelling and grammar mistakes. Who the hell has dreams about spelling errors?
I guess work and being a supervisor has been on my mind a lot lately. If all goes well, if all goes the way I've been told it will go, I'm looking at a promotion to Sergeant in March. And yet, I'm worried. I'm worried that something will change, or somebody will change their mind. I have plenty of confidence in myself and my ability to be a supervisor. I'm worried that at the last minute they'll give it to someone else for some reason. Like move a Detective Sergeant back to Patrol Division to save the money from giving me a raise - basically the same treatment the Weirdo got at her job last year. It's like the closer it gets to March the more anxious I get. I just hit my 30th working day as shift supervisor, which qualifies me to get paid as a Sergeant. Submitting the paperwork to get the raise got me excited, but then I started wondering if the paperwork would bring just enough attention to the situation to motivate a change.
In other news, had one of those "moments" with a kid at work last week. This deadbeat son of a bitch "father" was visiting his ex wife and their son. He had watched the son all day so the mom could go to work. At first you'd think it was a good thing for him to do; put aside the troubles that ended the marriage so their son could be taken care of. Not so much. The jerk interrogated his 5 year old son all day.
Does your mom bring men over here?
Does your mom talk to other men on the phone?
Does your mom talk about me to other men?
Five years old. This poor kid wants to talk to his dad, wants the approval of his dad, but also doesn't want to talk about his mother to his dad because he knows that's a gray area. So the mom comes home just in time to catch the father in a rage.
Nobody will ever want you.
You'll never find better than me.
Whore.
This is, of course, right in front of the five year old. The verbal jabs turn to actual jabs, and the guy pins the woman down on the floor. He slaps, punches, and chokes her. Bends back her hands and fingers as she tries to defend herself. He draws blood. The five year old is crying, no doubt thinking that this is all because he talked to his dad during the day. At one point the guy snatches his son by the front of his shirt and drags him across the room like a bag of rocks. The woman got free, got a knife, and scared the monster enough to make him run out the front door of the apartment. He was long gone by the time we got there.
So I'm taking my notes and gathering all the required information. The woman decided to gather up some stuff and stay with her sister for the night. She was afraid to stay in her own apartment. As I'm standing in the hallway explaining how I would swear out warrants for the guy's arrest the five year old suddenly walked up in front of me and held his arms out to the side. He wanted a hug. I hugged the kid, realizing that it wasn't really me he was hugging. He was hugging safety, comfort, security. He was hugging the idea of a police officer and the stability that comes with them.
As we walked out the front door the five year old reached up and held my hand while scanning the woods and parking lot with his eyes. He asked me if I thought his daddy was going to attack us if we walked outside.
Not on my watch buddy.
He held my hand all the way to the car. The next morning I decided against going home and going to bed, and instead I stayed up to make sure the warrants for Battery and Cruelty to Children were signed, filed, and put onto the computer.
The way I see it, even if something goes wrong and I don't get the promotion in March, at least I can still spend my time at work locking up worthless assholes like this guy.
Tomorrow is my long day because I get up in the morning with the Monkey, stay up all day with him, and then go to work all night. I'll sleep during the day Thursday after being up about 24 hours, and then work Thursday night. Then when the weekend hits I'll get back onto a day schedule where I'm sleeping at night. Then the whole cycle starts over. So basically twice a week I go from a day schedule to a night schedule. It's a little like a square peg and a round hole, but more like a peg that's been chipped away enough that it fits both square and round and you don't know where the hell to put it.
Well, 3 AM hit and I sat up in bed wide awake. I had a dream that I was at work and in trouble for doing a bad job approving reports. Like I had missed all kinds of spelling and grammar mistakes. Who the hell has dreams about spelling errors?
I guess work and being a supervisor has been on my mind a lot lately. If all goes well, if all goes the way I've been told it will go, I'm looking at a promotion to Sergeant in March. And yet, I'm worried. I'm worried that something will change, or somebody will change their mind. I have plenty of confidence in myself and my ability to be a supervisor. I'm worried that at the last minute they'll give it to someone else for some reason. Like move a Detective Sergeant back to Patrol Division to save the money from giving me a raise - basically the same treatment the Weirdo got at her job last year. It's like the closer it gets to March the more anxious I get. I just hit my 30th working day as shift supervisor, which qualifies me to get paid as a Sergeant. Submitting the paperwork to get the raise got me excited, but then I started wondering if the paperwork would bring just enough attention to the situation to motivate a change.
In other news, had one of those "moments" with a kid at work last week. This deadbeat son of a bitch "father" was visiting his ex wife and their son. He had watched the son all day so the mom could go to work. At first you'd think it was a good thing for him to do; put aside the troubles that ended the marriage so their son could be taken care of. Not so much. The jerk interrogated his 5 year old son all day.
Does your mom bring men over here?
Does your mom talk to other men on the phone?
Does your mom talk about me to other men?
Five years old. This poor kid wants to talk to his dad, wants the approval of his dad, but also doesn't want to talk about his mother to his dad because he knows that's a gray area. So the mom comes home just in time to catch the father in a rage.
Nobody will ever want you.
You'll never find better than me.
Whore.
This is, of course, right in front of the five year old. The verbal jabs turn to actual jabs, and the guy pins the woman down on the floor. He slaps, punches, and chokes her. Bends back her hands and fingers as she tries to defend herself. He draws blood. The five year old is crying, no doubt thinking that this is all because he talked to his dad during the day. At one point the guy snatches his son by the front of his shirt and drags him across the room like a bag of rocks. The woman got free, got a knife, and scared the monster enough to make him run out the front door of the apartment. He was long gone by the time we got there.
So I'm taking my notes and gathering all the required information. The woman decided to gather up some stuff and stay with her sister for the night. She was afraid to stay in her own apartment. As I'm standing in the hallway explaining how I would swear out warrants for the guy's arrest the five year old suddenly walked up in front of me and held his arms out to the side. He wanted a hug. I hugged the kid, realizing that it wasn't really me he was hugging. He was hugging safety, comfort, security. He was hugging the idea of a police officer and the stability that comes with them.
As we walked out the front door the five year old reached up and held my hand while scanning the woods and parking lot with his eyes. He asked me if I thought his daddy was going to attack us if we walked outside.
Not on my watch buddy.
He held my hand all the way to the car. The next morning I decided against going home and going to bed, and instead I stayed up to make sure the warrants for Battery and Cruelty to Children were signed, filed, and put onto the computer.
The way I see it, even if something goes wrong and I don't get the promotion in March, at least I can still spend my time at work locking up worthless assholes like this guy.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Checkers
Earlier today the Weirdo posted "walking the fine line between being hopeful and being the queen of denial". I get that. I get her. It's stuff that holds an ever-present spot near the front of your mind, but bears so much weight you just don't want to talk about it.
I don't do defeat well. I'm usually an optimist until a little ways after there's no point anymore. I remember playing checkers with my grandfather as a kid. He believed in teaching that life is tough, so he didn't just let me win. When I was down to my last checker, backed into a corner with nowhere to go and no move left to make, I would spend whole minutes studying the board looking for any last chance I had to do something about it. My grandfather would laugh, knowing the game was over, but I wouldn't give in. Finally, grudgingly, I would concede - and it absolutely ate me up to do it.
When two officers both wanted to go to the same class recently there appeared to be no way to logistically make it happen. They were both on the same shift and manpower would be too drastically affected. Enter Anthony, Boy Wonder. I sat down and figured out a plan that involved switching and changing around half of patrol division, but in the end I had a viable plan. The Lieutenant shot it down because it was unrealistic, but I had a solution. I had a move.
I am stubborn and bull-headed and I won't stop hoping for another move. The Weirdo and I, our whole family, are waiting for a phone call about a liver transplant. If the call doesn't come this minute, there's always the next minute. If not today, there's tomorrow. We still have moves open to us.
I don't do defeat well. I'm usually an optimist until a little ways after there's no point anymore. I remember playing checkers with my grandfather as a kid. He believed in teaching that life is tough, so he didn't just let me win. When I was down to my last checker, backed into a corner with nowhere to go and no move left to make, I would spend whole minutes studying the board looking for any last chance I had to do something about it. My grandfather would laugh, knowing the game was over, but I wouldn't give in. Finally, grudgingly, I would concede - and it absolutely ate me up to do it.
When two officers both wanted to go to the same class recently there appeared to be no way to logistically make it happen. They were both on the same shift and manpower would be too drastically affected. Enter Anthony, Boy Wonder. I sat down and figured out a plan that involved switching and changing around half of patrol division, but in the end I had a viable plan. The Lieutenant shot it down because it was unrealistic, but I had a solution. I had a move.
I am stubborn and bull-headed and I won't stop hoping for another move. The Weirdo and I, our whole family, are waiting for a phone call about a liver transplant. If the call doesn't come this minute, there's always the next minute. If not today, there's tomorrow. We still have moves open to us.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Quit
So I've decided to quit smoking.
I'm coming up on 48 hours without a cigarette, with help from the patch. It's weird, but it's both hard and easy at the same time. I get these little triggers all the time as I go through my day. I eat, I drive down a certain road, I make a hot cup of coffee, and I want to smoke. It's like a little lightning bolt hits my brain and for a few seconds I can't think about anything but how much I really want that cigarette.
Then it passes, and I'm guessing that's due to the patch.
I initially wanted to quit starting New Year's Day. I made it about 6 hours going cold turkey before the Weirdo told me to just go get a pack. I was miserable, jittery, and not really in much of a mood to be alive.
The patch seems to take just enough of an edge off to make it bearbale. I still want to smoke at certain moments, but because this time I'm quitting for me, quitting because I want to quit, I get through those moments.
Tonight has kinda been one giant moment of wanting to smoke. We're having some rare snow and ice in the Atlanta area, and I'm here at work. It's been stressful, to put it lightly. This is probably the most stress I've had since starting on the patch, and I'm kinda proud of myself. I was tempted a couple times to rip the damn patch off and sprint into the first ice-covered gas station I could find that sold Marlboros.
Maybe I'm just writing this solely to encourage myself, pat myself on the back for not breaking down and lighting up, but if I need to toot my own horn all day to stay off cigarettes then so be it.
Food is already starting to taste better.
I'm coming up on 48 hours without a cigarette, with help from the patch. It's weird, but it's both hard and easy at the same time. I get these little triggers all the time as I go through my day. I eat, I drive down a certain road, I make a hot cup of coffee, and I want to smoke. It's like a little lightning bolt hits my brain and for a few seconds I can't think about anything but how much I really want that cigarette.
Then it passes, and I'm guessing that's due to the patch.
I initially wanted to quit starting New Year's Day. I made it about 6 hours going cold turkey before the Weirdo told me to just go get a pack. I was miserable, jittery, and not really in much of a mood to be alive.
The patch seems to take just enough of an edge off to make it bearbale. I still want to smoke at certain moments, but because this time I'm quitting for me, quitting because I want to quit, I get through those moments.
Tonight has kinda been one giant moment of wanting to smoke. We're having some rare snow and ice in the Atlanta area, and I'm here at work. It's been stressful, to put it lightly. This is probably the most stress I've had since starting on the patch, and I'm kinda proud of myself. I was tempted a couple times to rip the damn patch off and sprint into the first ice-covered gas station I could find that sold Marlboros.
Maybe I'm just writing this solely to encourage myself, pat myself on the back for not breaking down and lighting up, but if I need to toot my own horn all day to stay off cigarettes then so be it.
Food is already starting to taste better.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
I Love You More Than I Could Ever Promise
Well the holidays are over, and we're on to a new year.
No shortage of happy memories from the past couple weeks. Christmas was great, but extremely tiring. I hardly slept at all through the weekend because aside from work we were driving all over town spending time with family. The Monkey got more toys than he (or we) know what to do with. I really enjoyed watching him open his presents because he's finally at the age where he has an idea of what's going on. Last year we would open a present in front of him and he would mostly just stare. This year he would help open, visibly show surprise, and then start trying to pull open the various boxes of stuff to start playing with it. It was great.
Then New Year's Eve came along, which is also our wedding anniversary. It was our 5th anniversary, so it was a big one. For most of the day I was feeling very romantic and mushy, thinking about spending the evening gazing into the Weirdo's eyes while we hold hands and gush about how much we love each other. In the back of my mind I knew this wouldn't fly because the Weirdo isn't big on that kind of stuff. I got my What light through yonder window breaks time in the car on the way to dinner though. We held hands and talked about our favorite moments from the past five years. I of course mentioned all the big ones, like trips to the beach we took, the birth of the Monkey, and so on. It's been a few days now, and as I've thought more about it I've realized it's all the little moments, that don't necessarily pop into memory immediately, that I also treasure. It's the simple fact that we don't have to be at the beach or in the mountains for me to appreciate her love and companionship. Even when we're just sitting on the couch together chatting about our days, or what's on tv, or the Monkey's latest discovery of his capacity for destruction, I'm happy. I'm content. Just being with her from day to day, during the ho-hum parts of life, evokes the same feelings of love and togetherness that I get when we're having a "big" moment.
At dinner the Weirdo gave me a new wristwatch, which is great because for years I have been wearing a $10 Wal Mart special. She had a jeweler engrave the following on the back of the watch:
I Love You More Than I Could Ever Promise
It's from a song, and she said she thought it was very appropriate to describe her feelings for me. I was blown away by it. If the ring on my left hand ever isn't enough of a reminder that my gal loves me, I need only shift my eyes to my wrist. I'm a lucky guy. And, that definitely provided the mushy romance I was hoping for. After that we spent most of dinner playing Angry Birds on her iPhone.
Following our wonderful dinner we went out to a bar with Bestie & the Firefighter to ring in the new year. We spent the first little while standing off to the side of the place waiting for a table to open up. An older couple suddenly had the check on their table, and the Weirdo was waiting to pounce. We finally got to sit down. Had some drinks, some laughs, and the Weirdo and I got to dance.
So we ended one year and started a new one. Here's hoping for a great 2011!
No shortage of happy memories from the past couple weeks. Christmas was great, but extremely tiring. I hardly slept at all through the weekend because aside from work we were driving all over town spending time with family. The Monkey got more toys than he (or we) know what to do with. I really enjoyed watching him open his presents because he's finally at the age where he has an idea of what's going on. Last year we would open a present in front of him and he would mostly just stare. This year he would help open, visibly show surprise, and then start trying to pull open the various boxes of stuff to start playing with it. It was great.
Then New Year's Eve came along, which is also our wedding anniversary. It was our 5th anniversary, so it was a big one. For most of the day I was feeling very romantic and mushy, thinking about spending the evening gazing into the Weirdo's eyes while we hold hands and gush about how much we love each other. In the back of my mind I knew this wouldn't fly because the Weirdo isn't big on that kind of stuff. I got my What light through yonder window breaks time in the car on the way to dinner though. We held hands and talked about our favorite moments from the past five years. I of course mentioned all the big ones, like trips to the beach we took, the birth of the Monkey, and so on. It's been a few days now, and as I've thought more about it I've realized it's all the little moments, that don't necessarily pop into memory immediately, that I also treasure. It's the simple fact that we don't have to be at the beach or in the mountains for me to appreciate her love and companionship. Even when we're just sitting on the couch together chatting about our days, or what's on tv, or the Monkey's latest discovery of his capacity for destruction, I'm happy. I'm content. Just being with her from day to day, during the ho-hum parts of life, evokes the same feelings of love and togetherness that I get when we're having a "big" moment.
At dinner the Weirdo gave me a new wristwatch, which is great because for years I have been wearing a $10 Wal Mart special. She had a jeweler engrave the following on the back of the watch:
I Love You More Than I Could Ever Promise
It's from a song, and she said she thought it was very appropriate to describe her feelings for me. I was blown away by it. If the ring on my left hand ever isn't enough of a reminder that my gal loves me, I need only shift my eyes to my wrist. I'm a lucky guy. And, that definitely provided the mushy romance I was hoping for. After that we spent most of dinner playing Angry Birds on her iPhone.
Following our wonderful dinner we went out to a bar with Bestie & the Firefighter to ring in the new year. We spent the first little while standing off to the side of the place waiting for a table to open up. An older couple suddenly had the check on their table, and the Weirdo was waiting to pounce. We finally got to sit down. Had some drinks, some laughs, and the Weirdo and I got to dance.
So we ended one year and started a new one. Here's hoping for a great 2011!
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Merry Christmas
A bit of a rough start to Christmas this year.
I was already kinda bummed about working Christmas Eve, but I stayed positive hoping it would at least be a really quiet shift. Well, not so much. We had a car run off the interstate into a tree. We had a 3 car pile-up that became a hit & run when the guy at fault decided he was gonna get his jolly happy ass out of there. We had some damn kids throwing rocks at cars, which turned into five different people wanting five different reports about damage to their cars.
We had a demented person. A nice family came home from Christmas festivities, and as they unloaded their car a strange woman walked up, got inside their car, and closed the door. A little stunned, the family asked the woman to get out of their car. She said no. A quick 9-1-1 call later and I was talking to the car squatter. I asked for her i.d., and she handed me the Rand McNally road atlas.
Awful lot of pictures on your i.d., aren't there ma'am?
We had a domestic dispute where a grandmother insisted her 18 year old grandson be immediately thrown out of her house, where he had been living with her for years. Some people say "Merry Christmas! I love you!" in the wee hours of Christmas day.
Grandma said "Get the fuck out!"
Last, but certainly not least, I had to shoot another deer. Deer got hit, and I pulled up to see it laying in the road looking blankly off into nothing. I walked up and unholstered my gun just as the deer turned and stared at me. The freakin' deer stared at me. Then I shot it. Walked back to the victim's car to see the old lady in the passenger seat was crying because I shot the deer. I got the victim out of there, and as I dragged the deer carcass off the road - leaving a bloody smear on the asphalt - I thought to myself "Christmas Eve sure has changed from the days when I would stare out my window at night trying to spot Santa."
So maybe I had a bit of a blue Christmas for most of my shift tonight. I'm not going to let it spoil the rest of Christmas. Work is work - it's always gonna be at least a little rough regardless of what holidays come around. Even the nights that are a little rougher than usual are still a blessing so long as I get to go home to my family at the end of them.
I hope you have a very merry Christmas, because I certainly will!
I was already kinda bummed about working Christmas Eve, but I stayed positive hoping it would at least be a really quiet shift. Well, not so much. We had a car run off the interstate into a tree. We had a 3 car pile-up that became a hit & run when the guy at fault decided he was gonna get his jolly happy ass out of there. We had some damn kids throwing rocks at cars, which turned into five different people wanting five different reports about damage to their cars.
We had a demented person. A nice family came home from Christmas festivities, and as they unloaded their car a strange woman walked up, got inside their car, and closed the door. A little stunned, the family asked the woman to get out of their car. She said no. A quick 9-1-1 call later and I was talking to the car squatter. I asked for her i.d., and she handed me the Rand McNally road atlas.
Awful lot of pictures on your i.d., aren't there ma'am?
We had a domestic dispute where a grandmother insisted her 18 year old grandson be immediately thrown out of her house, where he had been living with her for years. Some people say "Merry Christmas! I love you!" in the wee hours of Christmas day.
Grandma said "Get the fuck out!"
Last, but certainly not least, I had to shoot another deer. Deer got hit, and I pulled up to see it laying in the road looking blankly off into nothing. I walked up and unholstered my gun just as the deer turned and stared at me. The freakin' deer stared at me. Then I shot it. Walked back to the victim's car to see the old lady in the passenger seat was crying because I shot the deer. I got the victim out of there, and as I dragged the deer carcass off the road - leaving a bloody smear on the asphalt - I thought to myself "Christmas Eve sure has changed from the days when I would stare out my window at night trying to spot Santa."
So maybe I had a bit of a blue Christmas for most of my shift tonight. I'm not going to let it spoil the rest of Christmas. Work is work - it's always gonna be at least a little rough regardless of what holidays come around. Even the nights that are a little rougher than usual are still a blessing so long as I get to go home to my family at the end of them.
I hope you have a very merry Christmas, because I certainly will!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Statistical Improbabilities
So last night I ended up reading through some old internet journals, and wound up reading the Weirdo's online journal from when we first started dating. There were some people that were openly (maybe even forcefully?) against the idea of us talking about marriage so quickly. She was 19 and I was 21, we had been dating for 2 months when we started openly talking about how we were getting married.
Talked to the Weirdo about it this morning too. We had a couple laughs, a couple sarcastic eye rolls thinking about back in the day.
I can't shake the feeling of being a little miffed by the doubters - even 6 1/2 years later.
I get it. To the normal, rational, logical person we were crazy. Nuts. Who talks about getting married after knowing a person for 2 months? And one is still a teenager for God's sake! I get it. Looking back, I have no doubt that every single person in our lives had their doubts - even if silently.
But then again, maybe that's the whole point. The people that loved us, that, despite their doubts, wanted the very unlikely to actually become a happy story, never really voiced their doubts. They were concerned, but they kept it to themselves because they saw how happy the Weirdo and I were together. They hoped that it really would work out for us, regardless of the statistical improbabilities.
Here's the problem with openly voicing your serious concerns about a newly budding relationship: you're setting yourself up one way or the other. If the relationship lasts, you're the guy who challenged that it would. If it doesn't, you're the asshole with the "I told you so" condescension. Furthermore, when you openly speak out against someone's new love for whatever reason you're not just being a concerned friend (most especially if you're not even a close friend to begin with). You're questioning the judgement and on some level even the intelligence of two people - two people who are busy falling in love.
So I'll end with this: people are going to fall in love. It's almost guaranteed that most of us have or will, at some point, fall in love with the wrong person. That's part of being a human being. I think the best thing you can do for a lovestruck friend is to hope for the best, wish them well, and be ready to catch them if they fall.
And after 6 1/2 years I still love my Weirdo <-->, just like I said I would.
Talked to the Weirdo about it this morning too. We had a couple laughs, a couple sarcastic eye rolls thinking about back in the day.
I can't shake the feeling of being a little miffed by the doubters - even 6 1/2 years later.
I get it. To the normal, rational, logical person we were crazy. Nuts. Who talks about getting married after knowing a person for 2 months? And one is still a teenager for God's sake! I get it. Looking back, I have no doubt that every single person in our lives had their doubts - even if silently.
But then again, maybe that's the whole point. The people that loved us, that, despite their doubts, wanted the very unlikely to actually become a happy story, never really voiced their doubts. They were concerned, but they kept it to themselves because they saw how happy the Weirdo and I were together. They hoped that it really would work out for us, regardless of the statistical improbabilities.
Here's the problem with openly voicing your serious concerns about a newly budding relationship: you're setting yourself up one way or the other. If the relationship lasts, you're the guy who challenged that it would. If it doesn't, you're the asshole with the "I told you so" condescension. Furthermore, when you openly speak out against someone's new love for whatever reason you're not just being a concerned friend (most especially if you're not even a close friend to begin with). You're questioning the judgement and on some level even the intelligence of two people - two people who are busy falling in love.
So I'll end with this: people are going to fall in love. It's almost guaranteed that most of us have or will, at some point, fall in love with the wrong person. That's part of being a human being. I think the best thing you can do for a lovestruck friend is to hope for the best, wish them well, and be ready to catch them if they fall.
And after 6 1/2 years I still love my Weirdo <-->, just like I said I would.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Chilly Bathrobe
It's been a cold, icy night. The temperature has been hovering right around freezing since the shift started, and we've had the car accidents to prove it. On a four lane divided highway earlier tonight we had two cars lose it on the same patch of black ice and wreck. One officer checked out with the first wreck. That driver had jumped the grassy median and wound up facing the opposite way from whence he came.
I pulled in behind the second driver, who had hit the ice and bounced and spun from curb to guardrail to median. One of his tires had been ripped free from it's wheel. The driver was a Hispanic guy wearing a bathrobe. Normally this is when I would start a little investigation into Mr. Bathrobe. First question would have been something like "Why the hell are you wearing a bathrobe?"
But, my mind was a little occupied. The Weirdo had just called to say she was heading home from her parent's house with the Monkey in tow. I was standing in the median panicking. There were two wrecked cars in sight, a third had rolled over a little while ago, and a fourth wreck had happened just before my shift started. There was black ice all over the roads and my wife and kid were driving home. Oh, and just minutes ago I saw a friend's Facebook status about how she had been in a wreck with her baby in the car. Because of the ice.
I lit up a cigarette, not really caring about looking professional, and covered my bases with Bathrobe:
What happened?
Uhh... I skidded.
You want an accident report?
No.
You want a wrecker?
Yes.
The wrecker was called, and I stood there in the median. A big van came slushing by, and about 100 feet past me I watched the van suddenly veer left, fishtail to the left, then to the right, and somehow manage to catch it and keep going. I took a puff, imagining the Weirdo fishtailing all over the highway.
She's a good driver. She always bragged about how she really enjoyed hydroplaning in the pickup truck like a freak.
Moments later the Weirdo called, saying she had spotted my patrol car where I was working the wreck with Bathrobe. From that point I was counting in my head, estimating exactly how long it would take her to get home. Right on cue, she called again to say she was safe in the driveway.
The police stuff I can handle. Domestic dispute? Someone's got a gun? Let's do it! But give me half a reason to think my family may be in danger and I become a chain smoking nut. Thank God they made it home safe.
Hmmm.
Hey Bathrobe! C'mere a minute...
I pulled in behind the second driver, who had hit the ice and bounced and spun from curb to guardrail to median. One of his tires had been ripped free from it's wheel. The driver was a Hispanic guy wearing a bathrobe. Normally this is when I would start a little investigation into Mr. Bathrobe. First question would have been something like "Why the hell are you wearing a bathrobe?"
But, my mind was a little occupied. The Weirdo had just called to say she was heading home from her parent's house with the Monkey in tow. I was standing in the median panicking. There were two wrecked cars in sight, a third had rolled over a little while ago, and a fourth wreck had happened just before my shift started. There was black ice all over the roads and my wife and kid were driving home. Oh, and just minutes ago I saw a friend's Facebook status about how she had been in a wreck with her baby in the car. Because of the ice.
I lit up a cigarette, not really caring about looking professional, and covered my bases with Bathrobe:
What happened?
Uhh... I skidded.
You want an accident report?
No.
You want a wrecker?
Yes.
The wrecker was called, and I stood there in the median. A big van came slushing by, and about 100 feet past me I watched the van suddenly veer left, fishtail to the left, then to the right, and somehow manage to catch it and keep going. I took a puff, imagining the Weirdo fishtailing all over the highway.
She's a good driver. She always bragged about how she really enjoyed hydroplaning in the pickup truck like a freak.
Moments later the Weirdo called, saying she had spotted my patrol car where I was working the wreck with Bathrobe. From that point I was counting in my head, estimating exactly how long it would take her to get home. Right on cue, she called again to say she was safe in the driveway.
The police stuff I can handle. Domestic dispute? Someone's got a gun? Let's do it! But give me half a reason to think my family may be in danger and I become a chain smoking nut. Thank God they made it home safe.
Hmmm.
Hey Bathrobe! C'mere a minute...
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Baby, It's Cold Outside
Well, the cold has finally reached town. The air outside is hovering around 17 degrees with the wind chill. In certain ways I don't like the cold. First and foremost, as a parent the cold makes me nervous. I get worried about my toddler getting cold in our poorly insulated 60 year old house. I get nervous that the Monkey won't be warm enough in the car. Aside from the Monkey, the cold is generally irritating when you're dealing with frozen cars in the morning, leaving faucets dripping at night - which our house does automatically for us (60 years old), and a big portion of your fun, outdoor activities list made impossible for all but the legally insane.
It's not all bad though. Christmas comes with the cold, and I love Christmas. Cold weather can mean hot chocolate in a cozy living room. It can be cuddling up with a blanket on the couch watching a movie - but not It's A Wonderful Life. I tried watching it with the Weirdo once and she immediately scolded poor George Bailey for letting people walk all over him. I told her I always felt a little like ol' George - without the suicidal impulses of course. More the desire to help others. Her line was something like:
Every time a bell rings, quit feeling sorry for yourself and grow a pair.
The Weirdo and I do have a Christmas tradition we really love. We always listen to the same radio host when we're driving around at night during the holidays. It's partially for the Christmas music, partially for the nutty people that call in, and partially for the advice or musical response the host responds with. It goes something like this:
Caller: Hi, I'm just calling in to say I miss my best friend. She's in South America studying Aztec ruins and I just miss her a lot because we always spend time together on Christmas.
Host: Aww, you miss your friend don't you? You're together in your hearts. Here's a song for you.
*cue music* I want a hippopotamus for Christmas...
There are some things I like about the cold weather that aren't related to Christmas too. If I don't have to be outside long, and I can just step outside for a few moments, that rush of freezing air can be exhilarating. The cold weather also seems to bring such incredibly still nights. Summer nights are full and alive. Winter nights are so quiet and serene, like the entire world is sleeping.
Last but not least, winter gets me excited at the thought of snow. We get maybe an inch or two each winter, and it almost always falls in just one day - gone the next. I miss snow from growing up in the Northeast. I don't really miss shoveling driveways or skidding all over the road, but I do miss the fun parts of snow. I don't think I'll ever get to an age where the sight of snow doesn't make me want to go outside and start throwing snowballs. I like the idea of building a snowman with the Monkey someday.
Well, I cracked a car window to fully appreciate the cold I've been rambling about and now my hands are frozen. Time for some hot coffee!
It's not all bad though. Christmas comes with the cold, and I love Christmas. Cold weather can mean hot chocolate in a cozy living room. It can be cuddling up with a blanket on the couch watching a movie - but not It's A Wonderful Life. I tried watching it with the Weirdo once and she immediately scolded poor George Bailey for letting people walk all over him. I told her I always felt a little like ol' George - without the suicidal impulses of course. More the desire to help others. Her line was something like:
Every time a bell rings, quit feeling sorry for yourself and grow a pair.
The Weirdo and I do have a Christmas tradition we really love. We always listen to the same radio host when we're driving around at night during the holidays. It's partially for the Christmas music, partially for the nutty people that call in, and partially for the advice or musical response the host responds with. It goes something like this:
Caller: Hi, I'm just calling in to say I miss my best friend. She's in South America studying Aztec ruins and I just miss her a lot because we always spend time together on Christmas.
Host: Aww, you miss your friend don't you? You're together in your hearts. Here's a song for you.
*cue music* I want a hippopotamus for Christmas...
There are some things I like about the cold weather that aren't related to Christmas too. If I don't have to be outside long, and I can just step outside for a few moments, that rush of freezing air can be exhilarating. The cold weather also seems to bring such incredibly still nights. Summer nights are full and alive. Winter nights are so quiet and serene, like the entire world is sleeping.
Last but not least, winter gets me excited at the thought of snow. We get maybe an inch or two each winter, and it almost always falls in just one day - gone the next. I miss snow from growing up in the Northeast. I don't really miss shoveling driveways or skidding all over the road, but I do miss the fun parts of snow. I don't think I'll ever get to an age where the sight of snow doesn't make me want to go outside and start throwing snowballs. I like the idea of building a snowman with the Monkey someday.
Well, I cracked a car window to fully appreciate the cold I've been rambling about and now my hands are frozen. Time for some hot coffee!
Friday, December 3, 2010
A K-9 & 20 hours
So I'm wrapping up my second night of officially being the shift supervisor. There have been plenty of times in the past where I've stood in for the supervisor in his absence. Sarge had a vacation day or sick day, so I ran the shift. On Wednesday Sarge was moved back to a day shift, leaving me as the go-to guy for the shift. Not a stand-in supervisor, the supervisor.
Two moments stand out thus far:
Last night the shift was together, about to order up a round of late night cheeseburgers. Dispatch suddenly called my number, saying that the next town over wanted to know if we had a K-9 unit available to assist them. I asked what they needed the K-9 for. They replied that two armed suspects had just opened fire on an officer and then fled into the woods. The officer was OK - unharmed - but now they were cordoning off the woods where the two suspects had fled. They wanted the K-9 to go into the woods after the bad guys.
It was a weird mix of feelings that came flooding in after that. Given the exact same situation, if they had been asking me for my help, I would say yes and be on my way there in a heartbeat. The danger would of course be a constant reminder to be safe, but I would go without question. Those assholes needed to get caught. But they didn't want my help, they wanted my officer's help. I glanced at him across the table and he was, of course, already nodding his head to indicate he would go. I wanted to let him go just as much as I wanted to go myself, but the fact that it was my choice made me want to be damn sure I was making the right one. I held off on the approval and started asking questions. How many officers do they have out there now? How big of an area is cordoned off? Have they called for a chopper? Is there a medical crew standing by? Do they have someone that will stay with my K-9 unit while he goes through the woods?
Hmm. When did "the" K-9 become "my" K-9?
After I was reasonably assured that a small army of cops was assembling to look for the bad guys I cleared him to go. Then I sat in my car and waited for an hour. It was horrible. The tension, the anticipation, my mind running what-ifs over and over. What if he gets shot?
It's on your head. You sent him.
While waiting I of course had another officer dropping subtle hints like "I should be there helping them." Well, join the club! My response sounded straight out of Sarge's old playbook: We need adequate coverage here in our city before we can help anybody else.
Thankfully, my K-9 came back without much of a story. They walked around, didn't see anything. His call that he was returning to the city brought another new understanding of the word relief.
And then there was tonight. One of my officers told me earlier this week that she needed some training before the year is over. State law requires every officer to get at least 20 hours of training every year or they lose their arrest powers. It can be any kind of law enforcement related training, so long as it's at least 20 hours. When my shift ended yesterday morning I spent 30 minutes with the training Lieutenant figuring out scheduling and availability so I could get this officer the required training before the end of the year. We got it figured out, and I felt all happy with myself having solved the problem of someone on my shift.
I come to work tonight and let the officer know that I had it worked out. The officer tells me she had actually talked to Sergeant XYZ last night, and that Sarge had offered to get her the training she needed.
Wait a damn minute.
I could see if you went straight to the training Lieutenant with this. That would make sense. Why would you go to another shift supervisor? I almost felt like I had been cheated on. Then came the anger. Ooh you're just gonna get what you want from whatever supervisor ya can huh? I don't think so. You're going to the class I'm sending you to because this is my shift and what I say goes.
As this all played out in my head a little thought popped in there. It's something the Weirdo always says to me when I'm getting mad and loud: de-puff. Like that fish that puffs itself up. After being told to de-puff seventeen thousand times the order now apparently presents itself in my mind without the Weirdo even needing to be in the room.
So I relaxed, and figured that it doesn't matter one way or the other as long as the officer gets the required training.
So, two shifts, two nights, and I've covered both protectiveness and feeling betrayed.
Glad I've got the weekend off!
Two moments stand out thus far:
Last night the shift was together, about to order up a round of late night cheeseburgers. Dispatch suddenly called my number, saying that the next town over wanted to know if we had a K-9 unit available to assist them. I asked what they needed the K-9 for. They replied that two armed suspects had just opened fire on an officer and then fled into the woods. The officer was OK - unharmed - but now they were cordoning off the woods where the two suspects had fled. They wanted the K-9 to go into the woods after the bad guys.
It was a weird mix of feelings that came flooding in after that. Given the exact same situation, if they had been asking me for my help, I would say yes and be on my way there in a heartbeat. The danger would of course be a constant reminder to be safe, but I would go without question. Those assholes needed to get caught. But they didn't want my help, they wanted my officer's help. I glanced at him across the table and he was, of course, already nodding his head to indicate he would go. I wanted to let him go just as much as I wanted to go myself, but the fact that it was my choice made me want to be damn sure I was making the right one. I held off on the approval and started asking questions. How many officers do they have out there now? How big of an area is cordoned off? Have they called for a chopper? Is there a medical crew standing by? Do they have someone that will stay with my K-9 unit while he goes through the woods?
Hmm. When did "the" K-9 become "my" K-9?
After I was reasonably assured that a small army of cops was assembling to look for the bad guys I cleared him to go. Then I sat in my car and waited for an hour. It was horrible. The tension, the anticipation, my mind running what-ifs over and over. What if he gets shot?
It's on your head. You sent him.
While waiting I of course had another officer dropping subtle hints like "I should be there helping them." Well, join the club! My response sounded straight out of Sarge's old playbook: We need adequate coverage here in our city before we can help anybody else.
Thankfully, my K-9 came back without much of a story. They walked around, didn't see anything. His call that he was returning to the city brought another new understanding of the word relief.
And then there was tonight. One of my officers told me earlier this week that she needed some training before the year is over. State law requires every officer to get at least 20 hours of training every year or they lose their arrest powers. It can be any kind of law enforcement related training, so long as it's at least 20 hours. When my shift ended yesterday morning I spent 30 minutes with the training Lieutenant figuring out scheduling and availability so I could get this officer the required training before the end of the year. We got it figured out, and I felt all happy with myself having solved the problem of someone on my shift.
I come to work tonight and let the officer know that I had it worked out. The officer tells me she had actually talked to Sergeant XYZ last night, and that Sarge had offered to get her the training she needed.
Wait a damn minute.
I could see if you went straight to the training Lieutenant with this. That would make sense. Why would you go to another shift supervisor? I almost felt like I had been cheated on. Then came the anger. Ooh you're just gonna get what you want from whatever supervisor ya can huh? I don't think so. You're going to the class I'm sending you to because this is my shift and what I say goes.
As this all played out in my head a little thought popped in there. It's something the Weirdo always says to me when I'm getting mad and loud: de-puff. Like that fish that puffs itself up. After being told to de-puff seventeen thousand times the order now apparently presents itself in my mind without the Weirdo even needing to be in the room.
So I relaxed, and figured that it doesn't matter one way or the other as long as the officer gets the required training.
So, two shifts, two nights, and I've covered both protectiveness and feeling betrayed.
Glad I've got the weekend off!
Friday, November 26, 2010
Turkey Picker
I had a really great Thanksgiving today.
You might not have guessed that would be my final opinion of the day if you had been around this morning. The Weirdo and I went out with my brother and sister last night. My sister lives in Philadelphia, which is a bit of a drive from Atlanta, so I don't get to see her very often. In addition to the usual Thanksgiving traditions we wanted to go out drinking while she was in town. So we started with dinner and some surprisingly good beer, and then it was coffee and drinks at a cafe. There was a nice moment at the cafe, when we were all sitting around the table laughing and talking way too loud. We were out in the city with people we love having a good time. It was exactly how I pictured "Happy Adult Life" when I was young. Took a great picture with my brother and sister outside the cafe.
Then it was off to the bars. I drank way too much, and at some point my brother started pole dancing. Ended the night at this odd little bar that we will almost assuredly return to with Bestie & the Firefighter. Can't really explain it, but the beer was cheap, the dance floor was full, and the music ranged from Sweet Caroline to Thriller.
It was a consciousness-in-spurts car ride back to my parent's house, where the Monkey was sound asleep and I quickly followed suit. Four hours later the Weirdo was awake, tired, and irritated at her husband's hangover. We got home and I went back to sleep. She later told me that while I slept she watched all the shows on the DVR that we normally watch together because she was mad at my uselessness. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I reminded her of the numerous times I have taken care of things without complaint when she drank herself into oblivion or caught some nasty cold. We pretty much dropped it, though in my head I silently crowned her the Double Standard Queen of Hypocrisyland.
Once I was back among the living we went to my parent's house for Dinner # 1. At the start of the feast my dad went around the table asking everyone what they were thankful for. The Weirdo said "Sober husbands" and fired the death look at me. No she didn't - but you believed it, didn't you? As my dad went around the table he, as a joke, asked the Monkey what he was thankful for. Maybe it was because my dad spoke to him, maybe it was because everyone at the table was looking at him, but immediately upon being asked the question the Monkey held up a piece of tomato and shouted DAAAH! Not even two years old and his comedic timing is perfect. What a kid!
After dinner the men tossed a football back and forth in the front yard while the women sat on the patio talking, sipping drinks, and yelling at us when the ball came too close. The Monkey was running all over the yard, and I had one of those mental pictures burned into my head for all eternity of the Monkey running across the yard smiling and shouting, the wind blowing his hair up and away from his face.
In the early evening we left my parent's house and went to Dinner # 2 at the Weirdo's parents' house. The feast there was great too, but was enhanced by the multitude of children. There was the Monkey of course, but also a two and a half year old, a one year old, and a week old infant. The Weirdo and I love kids. We get excited talking about the future and a crazy house full of kids running around. When our kids are older we want to have Cousin Camp at our house during the summer. Where the idea of roughly eight kids in your house terrifies most people, the Weirdo and I relish the thought of it.
At one point I stepped outside for a smoke. The kids were inside running and making messes, the adults were tending to the kids and talking and enjoying time together. I took a moment to really appreciate how much I loved the Weirdo's family. My family, I corrected myself. They are my family every bit as much as they are the Weirdo's. The thought occurred to me that if something unspeakable happened, if I lost the Weirdo, I would still be there on Thanksgiving. I would be picking up that cute little one year old and making funny faces at her. I'd be looking at toys on sale with the two and a half year old. I'd still be the designated turkey picker - which is the incredibly important job of picking all the meat off the turkey after dinner has ended. I would be there with the Weirdo's family - my family - because I wanted to be there. I finished my smoke and went back inside just in time to discover the Monkey had an absolutely foul smelling diaper.
And so, like I said, I had a really great Thanksgiving today. I try to learn something new every day, and maybe today's lesson is this: whether you're out drinking, playing football, or turkey pickin', Thanksgiving is about being there with your family and remembering just how lucky you are to have them.
You might not have guessed that would be my final opinion of the day if you had been around this morning. The Weirdo and I went out with my brother and sister last night. My sister lives in Philadelphia, which is a bit of a drive from Atlanta, so I don't get to see her very often. In addition to the usual Thanksgiving traditions we wanted to go out drinking while she was in town. So we started with dinner and some surprisingly good beer, and then it was coffee and drinks at a cafe. There was a nice moment at the cafe, when we were all sitting around the table laughing and talking way too loud. We were out in the city with people we love having a good time. It was exactly how I pictured "Happy Adult Life" when I was young. Took a great picture with my brother and sister outside the cafe.
Then it was off to the bars. I drank way too much, and at some point my brother started pole dancing. Ended the night at this odd little bar that we will almost assuredly return to with Bestie & the Firefighter. Can't really explain it, but the beer was cheap, the dance floor was full, and the music ranged from Sweet Caroline to Thriller.
It was a consciousness-in-spurts car ride back to my parent's house, where the Monkey was sound asleep and I quickly followed suit. Four hours later the Weirdo was awake, tired, and irritated at her husband's hangover. We got home and I went back to sleep. She later told me that while I slept she watched all the shows on the DVR that we normally watch together because she was mad at my uselessness. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I reminded her of the numerous times I have taken care of things without complaint when she drank herself into oblivion or caught some nasty cold. We pretty much dropped it, though in my head I silently crowned her the Double Standard Queen of Hypocrisyland.
Once I was back among the living we went to my parent's house for Dinner # 1. At the start of the feast my dad went around the table asking everyone what they were thankful for. The Weirdo said "Sober husbands" and fired the death look at me. No she didn't - but you believed it, didn't you? As my dad went around the table he, as a joke, asked the Monkey what he was thankful for. Maybe it was because my dad spoke to him, maybe it was because everyone at the table was looking at him, but immediately upon being asked the question the Monkey held up a piece of tomato and shouted DAAAH! Not even two years old and his comedic timing is perfect. What a kid!
After dinner the men tossed a football back and forth in the front yard while the women sat on the patio talking, sipping drinks, and yelling at us when the ball came too close. The Monkey was running all over the yard, and I had one of those mental pictures burned into my head for all eternity of the Monkey running across the yard smiling and shouting, the wind blowing his hair up and away from his face.
In the early evening we left my parent's house and went to Dinner # 2 at the Weirdo's parents' house. The feast there was great too, but was enhanced by the multitude of children. There was the Monkey of course, but also a two and a half year old, a one year old, and a week old infant. The Weirdo and I love kids. We get excited talking about the future and a crazy house full of kids running around. When our kids are older we want to have Cousin Camp at our house during the summer. Where the idea of roughly eight kids in your house terrifies most people, the Weirdo and I relish the thought of it.
At one point I stepped outside for a smoke. The kids were inside running and making messes, the adults were tending to the kids and talking and enjoying time together. I took a moment to really appreciate how much I loved the Weirdo's family. My family, I corrected myself. They are my family every bit as much as they are the Weirdo's. The thought occurred to me that if something unspeakable happened, if I lost the Weirdo, I would still be there on Thanksgiving. I would be picking up that cute little one year old and making funny faces at her. I'd be looking at toys on sale with the two and a half year old. I'd still be the designated turkey picker - which is the incredibly important job of picking all the meat off the turkey after dinner has ended. I would be there with the Weirdo's family - my family - because I wanted to be there. I finished my smoke and went back inside just in time to discover the Monkey had an absolutely foul smelling diaper.
And so, like I said, I had a really great Thanksgiving today. I try to learn something new every day, and maybe today's lesson is this: whether you're out drinking, playing football, or turkey pickin', Thanksgiving is about being there with your family and remembering just how lucky you are to have them.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
A Baby & A Knight
First and foremost, I want to say congratulations to my brother in law and his wonderful wife, who gave birth to their son this morning. I haven't met the new baby yet, but I should get to see him in the next day or two.
The Weirdo, the Monkey, and I were up at the hospital last night while she was still in labor. The Weirdo was in the delivery room helping out while I had the monkey out in the lobby. I hadn't been in that part of the hospital since the Monkey was born, and it brought all kinds of memories flooding back. I remembered the lobby being filled with family and friends, all full of anticipation. I thought about walking back and forth down that long hallway to give updates to everyone in the lobby. Most of all, I remember feeling almost numb at times when the Monkey was being born. Like my mind was on a loop saying "Look what's happening! You're about to become a father! Remember every second of this! Look look look!" I remember when the Monkey's head was out but the rest of him wasn't the doctor started turning his head. I instantly thought the doctor was nearly breaking my half-born child's neck and was ready to knock her out of the way.
Just being in the maternity wing is a little exciting. To think that so many lives start there, so much joy is delivered all in one section of one hospital. I'd be lying if I said I didn't catch a little baby fever while I was there. I cooled off a little when the Monkey removed his shoe and dunked it in my sweet tea.
The Monkey and I went home for the night, leaving the Weirdo in the delivery room. I put him to bed and settled in for the night. Around 3 AM my phone went off with a new text message from the Weirdo asking if I was awake. I texted back that I was, and she called me a few minutes later. The Weirdo had a sinus infection that had gone from crappy to really bad in a pretty short time. She had a fever over 102 and felt awful. The problem was I had the car since I had the Monkey, so she had no way home. She asked if I would come get her.
I jumped up as if spring loaded. This was a rare opportunity! The Weirdo actually asking for help! The Weirdo is a very strong, independent woman and I love that about her. The other side to that is I don't get to play knight in shining armor for her too often. So I got the Monkey up and loaded into the car by 3:15. He woke up in the car and looked around before turning to me with a puzzled look and asking "Mama?"
How a toddler under 2 years old seems to intuitively know his mother is the reason he was pulled out of bed in the middle of the night is beyond me. He already knows a lot about women for his age.
So I got the Weirdo home and the Monkey back to bed. Made her breakfast in bed this morning and took care of the Monkey all day. Grabbed lunch, some groceries, and her prescription while the Monkey napped. Spent the evening catching up with the DVR. I'm sad that we didn't get to go have that time at the hospital with the new baby, but glad that I got to take care of my girl today. It fills that deep, instinctual need that guys have to feel like they've taken care of their family.
And now, the Weirdo and the Monkey are both soundly sleeping, the house is warm and secure, and there's food in the fridge for tomorrow. I can go to bed a happy man.
The Weirdo, the Monkey, and I were up at the hospital last night while she was still in labor. The Weirdo was in the delivery room helping out while I had the monkey out in the lobby. I hadn't been in that part of the hospital since the Monkey was born, and it brought all kinds of memories flooding back. I remembered the lobby being filled with family and friends, all full of anticipation. I thought about walking back and forth down that long hallway to give updates to everyone in the lobby. Most of all, I remember feeling almost numb at times when the Monkey was being born. Like my mind was on a loop saying "Look what's happening! You're about to become a father! Remember every second of this! Look look look!" I remember when the Monkey's head was out but the rest of him wasn't the doctor started turning his head. I instantly thought the doctor was nearly breaking my half-born child's neck and was ready to knock her out of the way.
Just being in the maternity wing is a little exciting. To think that so many lives start there, so much joy is delivered all in one section of one hospital. I'd be lying if I said I didn't catch a little baby fever while I was there. I cooled off a little when the Monkey removed his shoe and dunked it in my sweet tea.
The Monkey and I went home for the night, leaving the Weirdo in the delivery room. I put him to bed and settled in for the night. Around 3 AM my phone went off with a new text message from the Weirdo asking if I was awake. I texted back that I was, and she called me a few minutes later. The Weirdo had a sinus infection that had gone from crappy to really bad in a pretty short time. She had a fever over 102 and felt awful. The problem was I had the car since I had the Monkey, so she had no way home. She asked if I would come get her.
I jumped up as if spring loaded. This was a rare opportunity! The Weirdo actually asking for help! The Weirdo is a very strong, independent woman and I love that about her. The other side to that is I don't get to play knight in shining armor for her too often. So I got the Monkey up and loaded into the car by 3:15. He woke up in the car and looked around before turning to me with a puzzled look and asking "Mama?"
How a toddler under 2 years old seems to intuitively know his mother is the reason he was pulled out of bed in the middle of the night is beyond me. He already knows a lot about women for his age.
So I got the Weirdo home and the Monkey back to bed. Made her breakfast in bed this morning and took care of the Monkey all day. Grabbed lunch, some groceries, and her prescription while the Monkey napped. Spent the evening catching up with the DVR. I'm sad that we didn't get to go have that time at the hospital with the new baby, but glad that I got to take care of my girl today. It fills that deep, instinctual need that guys have to feel like they've taken care of their family.
And now, the Weirdo and the Monkey are both soundly sleeping, the house is warm and secure, and there's food in the fridge for tomorrow. I can go to bed a happy man.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Deer, Speed, & Ass Cheeks
It all started when "I Got A Feeling" started coming through the car speakers. The song wasn't even half over before the first of three out of the ordinary events of the night got started.
Car wreck with a deer. Got there and saw an old pickup parked on the shoulder. The deer was still alive but badly injured. Seeing an animal in pain is just horrible. The poor deer couldn't even stand up. It tried, but it's broken body was nothing more than dead weight. A few moments after I got there it just laid it's head down, waiting for the inevitable. I couldn't help but wonder: if a deer realizes it's going to die and looks completely defeated, what must that feel like for a human being?
So I stopped traffic on the highway, praying to God that none of the headlights had any small children behind them. I walked up close to the deer. It looked at me, then looked blankly off into nothing. There was no flight or fight response, just the assumption that I was a predator and it's time was up.
A single shot rang out in the night. The deer did that awful twitchy thing for a few seconds, and then I let traffic go. While waiting for the wrecker to get there I remembered that a person had been killed very near this same spot only a few weeks ago. My imagination flared up and I immediately had thoughts of a ghost possessing deer to run out into the road in front of oncoming traffic.
Great, I shot the ghost's deer.
The driver's son showed up to give him a ride home, as his truck's radiator was trashed. The son took a moment to walk over and have a look at the deer. He was a hunter, and mentioned that the deer would be no good to eat because of the wreck.
Don't taunt the deer ghost dude. Not cool.
A few hours later I was on the interstate running the laser, looking more for people going 20 under (likely DUI) than actual speeders. The headlights all blur together after a while, and real speeders aren't as common as you might think. The vast majority of cars on the highway are going between 10 and 15 over, which is not enough to get my attention. I was out there for about an hour and had only gotten one, and I had a growing need to get to a bathroom. Stupid free fountain drinks for cops. Suddenly I noticed one set of headlights was moving a hell of a lot faster than all the other headlights. In the maybe half second it took to bring up and aim the laser I realized those headlights were going really, really fast.
106 in the laser display. 65 on the speed limit sign.
The car blew past me without hitting the brakes. I slammed my Crown Vic into gear and punched it, kicking up dirt and gravel on the side of the road. I floored the gas pedal. 70. 80. 90. The speeder, a Honda, didn't seem to be getting much closer. At 115 I hit the blue lights and flipped the siren on. I was still about 500 feet behind the Honda, but slowly gaining. This was the moment of truth. The Honda had barely slowed, if at all, from when he first shot by me. I wasn't entirely sure if this was a pursuit or if the driver was waiting to see if I was willing to work to get him.
A few seconds after the blue lights lit up the highway I saw the Honda brake and begin moving to the right. Thank God. We pulled over onto the right shoulder a full 2 miles from where I had been sitting. My hands shook just a little bit as I put it back into park. Going from sitting in one spot bored half to death for an hour to suddenly racing down the highway at breakneck speed plays absolute hell with your nerves.
The driver hung both hands, one clutching his driver's license, out the window of his car. I walked up and aimed my flashlight into his car. The driver briefly looked up at me with sad eyes, and then dropped his head down to his chest. He looked exactly like that deer.
Finally, a couple hours later, I was in the mood for another free fountain drink. I bounced into my favorite gas station just after 4 AM. I walked through the door and, like most cops, took just a moment to note my surroundings. There was my buddy the clerk behind the counter, and a woman walking down one of the aisles towards me. I began telling the clerk the tale of my 106'er on the interstate as the woman passed by me. My voice may have faltered when she did. The woman from the front appeared to be dressed normally. When she walked by me it was revealed that there were no backs to her... um... I guess you might call them pants. Where the back of her pants was supposed to be was instead a very thin and completely transparent mesh of sorts. There was a piece of fabric in an inverted V shape that covered her BoomBadaHeyHey. So basically it was legs and ass cheeks walking through a gas station at 4 in the morning.
As a happily married man who tries very hard to be a gentleman, I took the high road and hid in the corner until she left. It's only a few degrees above freezing outside tonight, so I mentally willed the clerk behind the counter to ask her the question burning in my mind: aren't you cold?
I got back to my car just in time to see the poor girl drive off down the highway... right towards ghost deer.
May God have mercy on herass cheeks soul.
Car wreck with a deer. Got there and saw an old pickup parked on the shoulder. The deer was still alive but badly injured. Seeing an animal in pain is just horrible. The poor deer couldn't even stand up. It tried, but it's broken body was nothing more than dead weight. A few moments after I got there it just laid it's head down, waiting for the inevitable. I couldn't help but wonder: if a deer realizes it's going to die and looks completely defeated, what must that feel like for a human being?
So I stopped traffic on the highway, praying to God that none of the headlights had any small children behind them. I walked up close to the deer. It looked at me, then looked blankly off into nothing. There was no flight or fight response, just the assumption that I was a predator and it's time was up.
A single shot rang out in the night. The deer did that awful twitchy thing for a few seconds, and then I let traffic go. While waiting for the wrecker to get there I remembered that a person had been killed very near this same spot only a few weeks ago. My imagination flared up and I immediately had thoughts of a ghost possessing deer to run out into the road in front of oncoming traffic.
Great, I shot the ghost's deer.
The driver's son showed up to give him a ride home, as his truck's radiator was trashed. The son took a moment to walk over and have a look at the deer. He was a hunter, and mentioned that the deer would be no good to eat because of the wreck.
Don't taunt the deer ghost dude. Not cool.
A few hours later I was on the interstate running the laser, looking more for people going 20 under (likely DUI) than actual speeders. The headlights all blur together after a while, and real speeders aren't as common as you might think. The vast majority of cars on the highway are going between 10 and 15 over, which is not enough to get my attention. I was out there for about an hour and had only gotten one, and I had a growing need to get to a bathroom. Stupid free fountain drinks for cops. Suddenly I noticed one set of headlights was moving a hell of a lot faster than all the other headlights. In the maybe half second it took to bring up and aim the laser I realized those headlights were going really, really fast.
106 in the laser display. 65 on the speed limit sign.
The car blew past me without hitting the brakes. I slammed my Crown Vic into gear and punched it, kicking up dirt and gravel on the side of the road. I floored the gas pedal. 70. 80. 90. The speeder, a Honda, didn't seem to be getting much closer. At 115 I hit the blue lights and flipped the siren on. I was still about 500 feet behind the Honda, but slowly gaining. This was the moment of truth. The Honda had barely slowed, if at all, from when he first shot by me. I wasn't entirely sure if this was a pursuit or if the driver was waiting to see if I was willing to work to get him.
A few seconds after the blue lights lit up the highway I saw the Honda brake and begin moving to the right. Thank God. We pulled over onto the right shoulder a full 2 miles from where I had been sitting. My hands shook just a little bit as I put it back into park. Going from sitting in one spot bored half to death for an hour to suddenly racing down the highway at breakneck speed plays absolute hell with your nerves.
The driver hung both hands, one clutching his driver's license, out the window of his car. I walked up and aimed my flashlight into his car. The driver briefly looked up at me with sad eyes, and then dropped his head down to his chest. He looked exactly like that deer.
Finally, a couple hours later, I was in the mood for another free fountain drink. I bounced into my favorite gas station just after 4 AM. I walked through the door and, like most cops, took just a moment to note my surroundings. There was my buddy the clerk behind the counter, and a woman walking down one of the aisles towards me. I began telling the clerk the tale of my 106'er on the interstate as the woman passed by me. My voice may have faltered when she did. The woman from the front appeared to be dressed normally. When she walked by me it was revealed that there were no backs to her... um... I guess you might call them pants. Where the back of her pants was supposed to be was instead a very thin and completely transparent mesh of sorts. There was a piece of fabric in an inverted V shape that covered her BoomBadaHeyHey. So basically it was legs and ass cheeks walking through a gas station at 4 in the morning.
As a happily married man who tries very hard to be a gentleman, I took the high road and hid in the corner until she left. It's only a few degrees above freezing outside tonight, so I mentally willed the clerk behind the counter to ask her the question burning in my mind: aren't you cold?
I got back to my car just in time to see the poor girl drive off down the highway... right towards ghost deer.
May God have mercy on her
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Long-Term Storage
The Monkey is getting to the point where he could be making his first permanent memory any time now. I don't know exactly how old I was, but I do remember being in diapers. So what, two years old? The Monkey is fast approaching his second birthday and I'm beginning to wonder what his first memory might be.
I'm forming memories of him all the time. Just to name a few:
Recently he's decided he likes sitting on the back porch swing with me. He'll be playing out back, picking up sticks and rolling his trucks across the deck, when suddenly he'll come tromping over and climb up next to me on the swing. He never sits too close - he still needs his space. That's a child of the Weirdo for sure. So he'll climb up and I push the swing. He'll look out into the yard, seemingly lost in wonder at the sight of the world. And then just for a few moments he'll look over at me and smile, or babble, or just look at me while I talk to him.
The other night it was time for bed. The Weirdo and I told the Monkey this, and he of course went into "But how can you put me to bed while I'm so cute and loving on you?" mode. The Monkey crawled up onto the couch and tucked himself between her and the couch cushions. He laid there with her, doing his very best impression of an infant, while every few seconds cutting his eyes up to see if I was still there.
It's little moments like these that will stay in my mind forever. But what will be his first memory? Will it be one of these moments that is meaningful to me, or will it be some random point in time when his little brain finally figures out the whole long-term storage thing?
Regardless of when he starts making his first memories, I hope they're good ones.
I'm forming memories of him all the time. Just to name a few:
Recently he's decided he likes sitting on the back porch swing with me. He'll be playing out back, picking up sticks and rolling his trucks across the deck, when suddenly he'll come tromping over and climb up next to me on the swing. He never sits too close - he still needs his space. That's a child of the Weirdo for sure. So he'll climb up and I push the swing. He'll look out into the yard, seemingly lost in wonder at the sight of the world. And then just for a few moments he'll look over at me and smile, or babble, or just look at me while I talk to him.
The other night it was time for bed. The Weirdo and I told the Monkey this, and he of course went into "But how can you put me to bed while I'm so cute and loving on you?" mode. The Monkey crawled up onto the couch and tucked himself between her and the couch cushions. He laid there with her, doing his very best impression of an infant, while every few seconds cutting his eyes up to see if I was still there.
It's little moments like these that will stay in my mind forever. But what will be his first memory? Will it be one of these moments that is meaningful to me, or will it be some random point in time when his little brain finally figures out the whole long-term storage thing?
Regardless of when he starts making his first memories, I hope they're good ones.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Blah
Feeling like absolute hell at work right now.
The shift was chugging along happily when all of a sudden my nose was bothering me. Then I started sneezing. Before I knew it my eyes were watering, I was sneezing almost constantly, and my nose was somehow both stuffed up and running.
Just a couple more hours to get through, and then it's home for some wonderful sleep.
Had a great weekend with the Weirdo & the Monkey. Party on Friday night was a lot of fun, even if the Weirdo went home early. Got to actually have some drinks with some friends! Seems like such a big deal to me because it happens so rarely these days. Not complaining, just commenting. Drinking gets too expensive anyway. Although I would like to drop in to the new bar in town still. Hmmm..
Made a lot of progress on the house since the tree fell too. The street department guys pretty much did everything except delimb the tree - which I did with a hand saw. That was a great idea. Tree is gone now, and the stump/trunk shoved back into the neighbor's yard from whence they came.
Anyway, back to the grind.
The shift was chugging along happily when all of a sudden my nose was bothering me. Then I started sneezing. Before I knew it my eyes were watering, I was sneezing almost constantly, and my nose was somehow both stuffed up and running.
Just a couple more hours to get through, and then it's home for some wonderful sleep.
Had a great weekend with the Weirdo & the Monkey. Party on Friday night was a lot of fun, even if the Weirdo went home early. Got to actually have some drinks with some friends! Seems like such a big deal to me because it happens so rarely these days. Not complaining, just commenting. Drinking gets too expensive anyway. Although I would like to drop in to the new bar in town still. Hmmm..
Made a lot of progress on the house since the tree fell too. The street department guys pretty much did everything except delimb the tree - which I did with a hand saw. That was a great idea. Tree is gone now, and the stump/trunk shoved back into the neighbor's yard from whence they came.
Anyway, back to the grind.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Three Moms, Three Kids
The last twelve hours have given me three different looks at kids and their moms. I thought I'd share:
The first was the Monkey. Just after I clocked in at work I went back home to our neighborhood. Met up with the Weirdo, the Monkey, and a few more family members that were taking the Monkey and his cousin trick or treating. It was a slow night for Halloween, so I got to take the Monkey up to the doors of several houses and get some candy - most of which he probably won't eat. The Monkey, not quite 2 yet, was having a great time. He was walking and babbling, enjoying the company of his family while occasionally stooping to put a nice looking rock or leaf into his jack-o-lantern candy bucket. He didn't have a care in the world and was only concerned with whatever stimulus he received from one moment to the next. I headed back to work, leaving the Monkey with the Weirdo. Happy times!
Fast forward a few hours.
A mother calls 9-1-1 because her 9 year old has run away - again. She brought her kids to work with her because she has no childcare available to her. The 9 year old had just been punished today because he had gotten in trouble at school. So, the mom wouldn't let him go trick or treating tonight. Having missed his opportunity for free candy the 9 year old took off from his mom's work. I found him walking a few blocks away, and when he saw me he started running. I caught him and brought him back to mom. I had a few minutes to talk to the kid.
I hate my mom.
I don't want to live with my mom.
And so on and so forth. He didn't really hate his mom. She didn't give him everything he wanted and always let him have his way so he was angry. The mom said each time he didn't get his way he would try to run away.
A few more hours later.
Teenager with a blown tire on I-85. On his way back to Alabama, coming from a concert here in Atlanta. He was struggling just a little with changing his tire, so I helped him out. He surprised me when he said he was thankful his mother had showed him how to change a tire. I guess I kinda expected him to say his dad had taught him. The Weirdo would not be pleased at my gender-based assumptions. She might tell me to go blog about it.
Anyway, I guess weather you're trying to be a good mother to a toddler, a preteen, or a full-blown teenager with a driver's license, there really is no set job description. That's probably true for good fathers too. Trick or treating, punishment, or emergency road service - it's all included with a million more things.
A big thank you to all the good parents out there!
The first was the Monkey. Just after I clocked in at work I went back home to our neighborhood. Met up with the Weirdo, the Monkey, and a few more family members that were taking the Monkey and his cousin trick or treating. It was a slow night for Halloween, so I got to take the Monkey up to the doors of several houses and get some candy - most of which he probably won't eat. The Monkey, not quite 2 yet, was having a great time. He was walking and babbling, enjoying the company of his family while occasionally stooping to put a nice looking rock or leaf into his jack-o-lantern candy bucket. He didn't have a care in the world and was only concerned with whatever stimulus he received from one moment to the next. I headed back to work, leaving the Monkey with the Weirdo. Happy times!
Fast forward a few hours.
A mother calls 9-1-1 because her 9 year old has run away - again. She brought her kids to work with her because she has no childcare available to her. The 9 year old had just been punished today because he had gotten in trouble at school. So, the mom wouldn't let him go trick or treating tonight. Having missed his opportunity for free candy the 9 year old took off from his mom's work. I found him walking a few blocks away, and when he saw me he started running. I caught him and brought him back to mom. I had a few minutes to talk to the kid.
I hate my mom.
I don't want to live with my mom.
And so on and so forth. He didn't really hate his mom. She didn't give him everything he wanted and always let him have his way so he was angry. The mom said each time he didn't get his way he would try to run away.
A few more hours later.
Teenager with a blown tire on I-85. On his way back to Alabama, coming from a concert here in Atlanta. He was struggling just a little with changing his tire, so I helped him out. He surprised me when he said he was thankful his mother had showed him how to change a tire. I guess I kinda expected him to say his dad had taught him. The Weirdo would not be pleased at my gender-based assumptions. She might tell me to go blog about it.
Anyway, I guess weather you're trying to be a good mother to a toddler, a preteen, or a full-blown teenager with a driver's license, there really is no set job description. That's probably true for good fathers too. Trick or treating, punishment, or emergency road service - it's all included with a million more things.
A big thank you to all the good parents out there!
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