Get Off My Treadmill Miss Daisy!

Well I’m back after a bit of a hiatus.  I really didn’t want to write this story again after originally writing it back in the late 90’s.  After searching for it for this blog without any luck, I decided it was time for a re-write.  Thank God I was blessed with a good memory.  Now, on to the story.    

 When I moved to Atlanta back in 1998 I lived in a very nice high-rise condo building near Piedmont Park.   Even though my condo was less than 800 square feet, I loved living there.   I could walk to work, walk to restaurants, and even drop off my dry cleaning with the concierge.   One of the other nice benefits of the building was the fitness center.  It wasn’t very large, but it had just about everything you needed, including two treadmills.  Even though I wished there were more treadmills, I usually managed to get one on my morning visits.  On one particular morning I walked in and found that one of the treadmills was not working, and the other was being used.  “No worries,” I thought. I’ll just lift some weights until the treadmill was free.  Since there was only one working treadmill, I knew I had to keep a close eye on it to make sure I got on as soon as it was free.   So I’m working out and listening to my Discman while trying to keep my eye on the treadmill when this cute elderly white couple managed to sneak in on me.  To my dismay, the lady headed straight toward the treadmill!  Despite her age, she was much closer to the treadmill so there was no way I could get to it before she did.  I suppose I could have told her that I was waiting for the treadmill, but she was a cute little old lady, and I was taught to always respect the elderly.   I will admit that I wasn’t really happy about it, but I figured that “Miss Daisy” wouldn’t be on for very long.  As time passed, I found myself hovering around the treadmill, circling from time to time like a shark with its eye on some prey.  With the passage of more time, my thoughts and actions continued to spiral down the path to hell.  I started clearing my throat loudly, giving her the occasional evil eye, and calling her names under my breath.

My mood took a dramatic turn for the better when one of my favorite songs started playing, so I went back to the weights.  I turned the volume down a little so I could hear what was going on around me to make sure that I didn’t miss the treadmill again.  I was in the middle of a set of dumbbell curls when, out of nowhere, I heard this loud sneaker squeak (like the kind you hear on the basketball court) followed by an earth-shattering crash, combined with repeated cries of “oh God, oh God, oh dear God.”  Yes, Miss Daisy had fallen and couldn’t get up!  When I looked I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Poor Miss Daisy was wedged up against the wall behind the treadmill in the most awkward, contorted position you can possibly imagine.  She looked like she was playing Twister— lying on her neck, legs wide open, arms going in all directions, all while still mumbling “oh God, oh God, oh dear God.”  The visual and the sound of her voice still haunt me to this day.  I rushed over to her and I swear I almost blurted out in my best Morgan Freeman voice, “Is you alright Miss Daisy?” But no, I just did the right thing and made sure she was alright before helping her get up.  Unfortunately, she couldn’t get up right away.  She needed a couple of minutes to sit on the floor to gather herself and examine the various bumps and bruises.  After gathering herself, she looked at me and said, “thank you so much, you are so sweet.”  My eyes got as big as silver dollars as the guilt rushed in.  All I could think was “if she only knew” as I shamefully mumbled a quick "thank you."  I know that it really wasn't my fault that she fell, but deep down inside I felt responsible.   Fortunately, she was not seriously injured.  Needless to say, she did NOT get back on the treadmill.  In fact, sadly, I never saw her in the gym again.  I hope she wasn’t scarred for life.  Oh, and yes, after she and her husband left you know I got on the treadmill and got my 30 minutes in, but it was a real struggle because I just could not stop laughing at what I had just witnessed. 

Three Women and the Missing Nuts

When I was in high school I worked at the local public library.  During the summers I worked full-time and sometimes worked from 1:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.  In the evenings the library was often empty after 8:15 or 8:30, so we started a routine of ordering sundaes from the nearby McDonald’s.  One night we sent Terri, another high school student, to get sundaes for the four of us who were working that night.  I ordered a caramel sundae with nuts, as I always did.  When Terri got back with the sundaes I was helping a patron at the front desk.  The three ladies were in the office talking and eating their sundaes.  When I finished at the front desk I walked into the office, excited that I could finally sit down and enjoy my sundae.  However, when I spotted the sundae, a look of disappointment overcame my face.  Without thinking twice, I immediately turned to Terri and blurted out, “AWWWW TERRI HOW COULD YOU FORGET MY NUTS?”  To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a group a women laugh so hard and I’m fairly certain that I’ve never been more embarrassed.  But, hey, no one ever forgot my nuts after that night.    

If You Plan to Drink and Ride A Bicycle With a Passenger, Watch Out for Police Officers Who Try to Hold You Down When You're Doing Your Pushups

The Artistic Lawyer is back, finally. After missing the entire year of 2010 for some unknown reason, I am back with my first entry of 2011. But I must warn you---this one is a bit of a departure from the norm. Although there may some comical aspects of this entry, that is really not the point. So, are you ready? Ok, let’s get started.

Last night I had a pretty odd dream. I dreamed that I went to an elegant Black-tie event with a beautiful date. (That’s not the odd part, by the way). Here’s where it get’s strange. When we left the event, we hopped on my bicycle and pedaled off into the cool evening. Yes, a bicycle, and not one of those tandem bikes with two seats and two sets of pedals. There was only one seat on the bike and my date sat on it in her beautiful dress with her legs stretched out to the sides, and I had to stand on the pedals in my tuxedo, that is, when I wasn’t pumping the pedals to get us up some steep hill.

A few miles into the ride I noticed flashing flights. You guessed it, I was being pulled over for suspicion of drunk cycling and being unfit (i.e. too out-of-shape) to transport a passenger on a bicycle. In order to avoid being arrested I had to pass a physical exam, which consisted of doing 40 pushups. No problem, I thought. I dropped to the ground and started doing the pushups. Of course the officer thought there was no way I would make it to 40 so he started getting the handcuffs ready. Much to his surprise, I was blowing through the pushups with ease. As I got to the high 20’s I started to feel something on my back. The officer was beginning to push down on me as I pushed myself up. The more pushups I did, the harder he would push down. By the time I got to 35, he was practically sitting on me trying to keep me from finishing. By the end I was straining to lift the weight of two people, as my date stood watching and cheering me on. Despite the officer’s attempts, I made it!

As I thought about that dream today, I was struck by the differences between the two people who were with me. First there was my date, who was leaving a fancy event with me on a bicycle, a true ride-or-die friend. Obviously, she was someone who would stick with me no matter what the circumstances, and cheer me on during the tough times. Then I thought of the officer, who not only doubted that I could finish the task, but physically did everything within his power to keep me from finishing. The closer I got to the finish line, the harder he worked against me to keep me from making it! As I think about it, I was at an advantage because it was obvious that the officer was working against me so I knew what I had to do to overcome his efforts. Even so, he didn’t just jump on my back to try to stop me. He started with a little pressure and gradually increased the resistance as I got closer to finishing.

Unfortunately in life the people who work against us aren’t as obvious as the police officer. That makes them even more of a hindrance to our success because we don’t always recognize them or what they are doing. What’s worse is that we often push the ride-or-die friend out of our lives, while we let the police officers continue working against us. Oh, and one other thing---as much as the officer was ready to arrest me if I didn’t finish the pushups, he was just as quick to apologize and tell me how he knew I was going to make it all along. Sound familiar to anyone?

Excuse Me! This Is Not A GEICO Commercial!

I had just wrapped a meeting in Atlanta’s West End and got back in my car, heading toward I-20 East. It was only a matter of moments before I was cruising and listening to my favorite afternoon sports talk show. As I drove, I was distracted by some movement on or near my shoulder, which I barely noticed out of the corner of my eye. What could it be? A piece of lint? A fly? A spider? Surely it was nothing that a quick flick of the wrist couldn’t handle. Then came the quick flick of the wrist. Then came, well, utter shock. Turns out, it wasn’t a piece of lint, a fly or a spider; IT WAS A GEICO-COMMERCIAL LOOKING GREEN LIZARD!!!!!!! Now, mind you, I wasn’t really afraid of GEICO Jr., but I have to confess the shock of it startled the **** out of me—so much so that my body clenched up, causing me to accelerate and swerve into another lane of traffic. I really didn’t really care about the honks from the 18 wheeler whose path I had dangerously crossed into. I was more concerned about this f***ing creature in my car.

There it was. Sitting on the front passenger floor mat—chilling like it belonged there. There was nothing I could do about it. I was still driving. But I was NOT going to be denied. I was going to get GEICO Jr. out of my car—dead or alive. First, I had to get off the Interstate so I took the next exit. GEICO Jr. was still sitting there when I stopped in a parking lot of a strip mall. I looked around for something to use to get this thing out of the car. The only things within reach were some mail and a three-ring binder. Yes, the three-ring binder was going to get me out of this situation. I grabbed the binder and took a whack at the lizard. Success—or so I thought—I hit the lizard but not hard enough or in the right spot. But I did leave some damage; that little bastard was bruised all over the back. Yes, there had to be some damaged organs, internal bleeding, or something wrong with that little mf’er. Despite its injuries, it just scurried around the floor and eventually under the seat. I got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side to try to get rid of this thing. I moved the seat forward. The lizard ran to the back. So I moved to the back. I tried to guide GEICO Jr. out of the open door. No luck. The lizard wasn’t having any of it. I had no choice. I had to take another whack at the lightning quick creature. Damn it! Missed. Now it was under the seat again. So I slid the seat backward. GEICO Jr. ran to the front. But as soon as I got to the front of the car, my little tormentor ran under the seat. So I moved the seat forward and it ran back to the back. This went on for about three more times.

In the midst of all of this seat moving and lizard chasing, I picked up something else I didn’t really want—a spectator. It was a young man who was asked me if everything was ok. (I imagine it did look kind of crazy) I explained that I was trying to get a lizard out of my car. He looked at me, put his palm up (as if to tell me to talk to the hand) and said, “nah, bruh, I’ma let you handle dat.” I mumbled under my beath, “Fine, mf’r; I didn’t ask for your help anyway.” Unfortunately I did have to get out of there. I had another appointment to get to, about five minutes away. When I arrived I looked in the back and there was GEICO Jr., just sitting there. I had a clean shot. WHACK! Missed again. As I sit here typing this, I imagine GEICO Jr. is still sitting under the seat trying to recover from that bruised back. I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to get rid of my unwanted passenger. Should I buy some Raid and try to poison it or set a mousetrap (I don’t think there’s such a thing as a lizard trap and if there were what would you put in it?) or just try to wait him out? Suggestions, please? GEICO Jr. has got to go!

Never Spit on A Dying Rat

Other than Michael Jackson, most people I know hate rats, and understandably so. You can add my sister to the list of rat-haters thanks to a traumatic childhood experience. My two sisters and I were playing in our grandmother’s yard when we came across a big old country rat. The interesting thing was that something was clearly wrong with this rat. It was stretched out on the ground and breathing extremely fast, as if it had just run a marathon. For some unknown reason, seeing the rat in that condition really intrigued us. We all gathered around the rat, initially expecting it to get up and run but it just continued to lie there, with its breathing getting more and more labored. In our amateur veterinarian opinions, the rat was inching closer and closer to death.

Since the rat either didn’t notice us, didn’t care about us, or couldn’t do anything about us, my youngest sister decided to play around with it a little. She found a long stick in the yard and took it over to the rat. Of course, I was trying to figure out what she was about to do. Then she took the stick and poked the rat in its side. The right’s body moved a bit, but otherwise there was no reaction; just more heavy breathing. At that point, we were convinced that the rat was completely harmless and would meet its demise in that spot in the yard. We even thought about having a rat funeral. Then my sister decided to get a little bolder. She slowly inched closer to the rat and took her foot and nudged the rat gently. Again, the rat’s body moved a bit but otherwise there was no reaction; just more heavy rat breathing. Then she started leaning over the rat. A big wad of spit fell from my sister’s mouth directly between the rat’s eyes, splattering all over its face. Without warning, the rat sprung to life and made a bee-line straight toward my sister. Almost as quickly, my sister, panicked by the sudden turn of events, turned and started running away from the rat. The rat proceeded to chase her for about 100 feet before it veered off toward the woods. To this day, the sight of that rat chasing my sister remains one of the funniest things I have ever seen. But it raised the question of why it took the spit to piss off the rat and make it spring to life. Being a thinker, I tried to put myself inside the rat’s mind. All I could come up with was: “you can kick me, or even hit me with a stick, but if you spit on me, that’s your ass!” You’ve been warned. Govern yourself accordingly.

When You Gotta Go, Don't Go There!

Sometimes in everyday life you stumble across a classic comical moment. I was at an auto repair shop when I walked by the restroom to go to the waiting area. I saw the funniest sign ever on the door. It read, "NO NUMBER 2's. NUMBER 1's ONLY!"

Butt Out At Work

While at work one day I was feeling really restless so I decided to walk across the street to take a Starbucks break. I don’t drink coffee but I just needed to get out of the office. I hung out there for about 30 minutes before heading back across the street to the office. Just before I got to my office I was greeted by a co-worker who wanted to talk to me. He followed me into my office and before I could sit down, he calmly interrupted me and asked, “Jonathan, do you realize that your pants are split open in the back?” I’m like, what is this dude talking about, is he crazy? I reached around to see if I could feel the split. Oh shit! Not only could I feel the split but my hand went all the way through to the back of my leg! The freaking pants were split from the belt line to the knee, as if someone took a razor and sliced them open! All I could think was, “how the f*** did that happen? Then I had to wonder how long it had been like that. Did I walk all the way from the Starbucks with my ass out? And of course the most pressing issue was what I was going to do about it.

By this time, my co-worker had left, undoubtedly feeling that the problem I had was more pressing than the one he wanted to talk about. I started brainstorming, trying to figure out how to solve this problem without walking out of my office and flashing everyone who happened to cross my path. I started thinking about who in the office was approximately my size. Bingo! Russell. Maybe my friend Russell had some extra pants in the office.

I dialed his office. “Russell, I’ve got an odd question to ask you. Do you happen to have an extra pair of pants in the office? “Ahhh, why do you ask?” he replied. “Well, somehow I managed to split my pants in the back and my butt is, well, pretty much completely out.” As you might imagine, all I heard for the next five minutes was non-stop laughter. After composing himself, he told me that he was actually leaving shortly to play golf, and had brought a change of clothes. (I was in luck.) He offered to bring me the pants he was wearing after he changed for the golf outing. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how I felt about wearing someone else’s pants, especially pants someone was taking off to give to me. Well, what other choice did I really have?

Always a man of his word, Russell dropped by my office with the pants, but not before laughing hysterically for a few more minutes, especially after I showed him the split, which was an unannounced condition for getting the pants. After he left I thought I might be able to slip his pants over the pants I was wearing. No way. First, I couldn’t easily pull them up. When I did I couldn’t button them. But worse, they looked absolutely ridiculous, a bunched-up, wrinkled, crinkled mess. I had to face it; I was going to have to wear dude’s pants. And I did. And it worked out fine. The next day I brought the pants back to the office, dropped them off at the cleaners in our building (pre-paid of course), and gave Russell the claim ticket. I looked him in the eye and, in my most serious voice, told him to never mention this shit to anyone—yeah right. Needless to say, I was always grateful to him---the man who would give you the shirt off his back, or the pants off his ass!

Morale of the story: Always keep a change of clothes at work. You just never know what might happen.