Well, first and foremost, let me just say what I have to say. My apologies to my loyal readers. I've been unbelievably busy lately, and I feel that I owe you, the reading public, a good explanation, and here it is. Three weeks ago I had a meeting in Buffalo... all week. The following week I had to play catch up because of missing time during the Buffalo meeting. This week I was in Cooperstown for another meeting, and honestly, this is the first chance I've had in almost a month to sit down and actually write something. Again, please accept my apology from the bottom of my cynical, sarcastic heart.
So, having said that, here's the latest.
Hmmm... where to start... well, the very latest is that my mother is getting married this weekend, or should I say "re-married?" I don't know. There's both good and bad news to this, and neither of which have to do with my mother or her husband to be. The good news is that my sister is coming into town tomorrow and she's pretty much going to be my date, because I have decided to go alone and not bring a real date. Before I get into that, let me say that our plan is simply to sit at the bar and drink... pretty much until they boot us out. Anyway, the bad news is ironically the same story. I kind of ended a relationship today with a girl that would have been my date. Trust me when I say that it was a difficult decision, but I believe that it is/was the right one. Interpret that however you like, I guess if it was the right decision, then there is no bad news... it's just... well, news, I guess. Regardless, lots of issues on both sides and I just wasn't sure if we were on the same page. But I digress.
Women, aside from the few that I work with (as far as I can tell, anyway), are nuts. I know... news flash. "This just in... the most cynical and sarcastic man on the planet actually put down in print that women are nuts... film at 11." Well, guess what... Rosebud in "Citizen Kane" is a sled, the girl in "The Crying Game" is actually a guy, there is no Easter Bunny, and women are nuts. Here's how I know; the girl that cuts my hair, Amy, is fantastic. Every time that I go in and have her cut what's left of my hair, I tell her pretty much anything. I tell her things that I would usually only tell my very closest friends and maybe a psychiatrist. Long story short, we inevitably started having the relationship conversation, and she said it. She said, "Rich, we're all nuts. It's just a matter of how much... just like all men are pigs and it's just a matter of how much." I can live with that. If she's willing to concede the former, I'll buy in on the latter. My suspicions have been confirmed. They're nuts and they know it.
Now, before I go on, I don't want to say that the aforementioned girl was nuts. Honestly, I don't have anything bad to say about her at all. Honestly, she really is a great girl. Smart, gorgeous... yada, yada, yada. There were just some "issues" and I didn't think that the whole thing would work out. Yes, I do know the difference between nuts and normal, or maybe I just think that I do, but I work with a girl that I talk to pretty much every day and she's not nuts. Well, let me retract that. She's a lot less nuts than a lot of the women that I know. There, that sounds better and I'm not going back and disagreeing with garbage that I wrote in the previous paragraph. Feel better? Good. Me too. Of course, this colleague of mine also refers to her dog as "beauty queen of only 18" and a bunch of other cutesy names, so, having said that, I guess it's really a sliding scale. I'll make sure to ask her for a list of the other pet names she has for that animal and post them here. That should be enough to keep my readers involved, at least for a few minutes.
Anyway, not to be a downer and pull out of that little story early, but I only have so much time before my sister gets here tomorrow, and the corner apartment needs a thorough cleaning. Now, granted, those of you that know me absolutely know that I could write for at least eleventy-six years on my whole "women are nuts" statement, but frankly, I don't have the time. Sorry about that. To be continued.
The other latest is that during the meeting in Buffalo, we had to write a little speech. No, it wasn't the kind of speech that you'd like to present to the company as inspiring words of wisdom, but rather something that you would more or less want read at your retirement dinner. I thought this was a pretty good idea. I mean, it gives you something to shoot for... like "blank had a great career here. He persevered in the face of adversity and never gave up and all that good stuff." Anyway, I though that was pretty cool. I don't think by any stretch of the imagination that mine was the best, and I'm not nearly conceited enough to tell you that it was, but I thought it would make a great blog entry anyway. No, I'm not going to use the one that I wrote at my company function, but rather, something that I'd like to be remembered for, and as time goes on, the one thing that people will hold close to them when I'm gone. More or less, I guess that's why I started this site to begin with. Now, if you've ever taken an English course at St. Bonaventure University (and I can't remember which one), you have to write your own obituary... not one of my favorite things, thinking of my own mortality, but it was an assignment. After that meeting, I decided to re-write that assignment. Having said that, mine would go something like this:
"Rychkid passed away this morning at the age of 93. He is survived by his wife, Diamond, 23, six ex-wives, and 24 children." No, wait, scratch that. I'll be mildly serious for just a minute here. Let's try that again.
"The Rychkid passed away today at his palacial estate in South Florida. He was 94 years old. He is survived by a tremendous group of friends, and thousands of loyal readers. While he did enjoy watching the New York Yankees win their 58th world championship, he never did make it to the big leagues. He did, however, witness Major League Baseball ban the entire Boston Red Sox organization for all eternity due to personal hygiene infractions, and numerous abuses of pine tar. He ran a website called "thecornerapartment," and was able to brighten up a reader's day by simply overstating the obvious and putting into print what most of us are thinking every day. He wrote about things that were going on in his life, attempted to make light of virtually everything... even when his mother re-married, his father dated a woman he lovingly referred to as "Frankendeb," his sister flashed the DJ at his favorite bar so that she could sing karaoke, he got tossed over a table in Las Vegas and slammed his head off the wall while wearing a cowboy hat, and who could forget the story about the five months when he sat in front of his computer writing about how much being unemployed sucks. He could bring a smile to anyone's face (except for that asshole that works the door at Mad Dog's in Allegheny... what a punk). He always said, "if I can make someone chuckle for a second a day, my efforts here have not gone to waste." Everyone looked forward to having the pleasure of spending time with him. His uplifting personality was an inspiration to us all, and he will be missed."
Something like that, anyway.
On with the show... more of the latest.
At the meeting this week, part of the event was a team building activity. My company put together a softball tournament for everyone in attendance. It was a ball. It was a ball right up until the third inning of the first game. Let me tell you why.
As I am such the quintessential athlete, I got the glorious duty of playing third base; the hot corner. As I dreamed of actually being Alex Rodriguez, with his gold glove caliber performance at third and the most beautiful swing in all of Major League Baseball, a co-worker hit a shot down the third base line. I sprung into action like a cat; made a beautiful backhand stab, gloved the ball, recovered, came up, turned, and fired a frozen rope to first base for the out. I will tell you this; at that moment in time, I was Alex Rodriguez. Anyway, before the MLB scouts could swarm the field and offer me $25.2M/year, I felt one of the most horrible pains ever in my, well... groin area. It was like someone cut a hole in my upper thigh, reached up, and yanked down... very, very sharply. In layman's terms, it fucking hurt. Now, remember... it was the third inning of the first game. What I have neglected to tell you is that I went on not only to finish that game, but played another two after it. Good move? Not so much. However, being the team player that I am... never mind, I'm not going to attempt to justify it. It was stupid. There, I feel better.
Anyway, later that night, my company had this big dinner for us, complete with lobster, booze and gambling... three of my very favorite things. Let me tell you... every step was like a new experience in pain. I don't mean the take-a-couple-Tylenol type of pain... I mean the take-17-Vicodin-and-about-a-pound-of-morphine type of pain. Once again, long story short, I figured I could simply drink the pain away. Yeah, that didn't do nearly enough. Well, I'll spare you all the juicy details... went back to the hotel, had a drink and went to bed. This is where it gets really horrible.
The really horrible part is that I didn't get a wink of sleep. This really sucks because for one, I was drunk, and for two, the reason that I couldn't sleep was that every time I moved even a little bit, the excruciating pain had me wide f'ing awake. So now, it's 6:30AM, I'm conscious, sober and have to be in a meeting at 9AM. It's a damn good thing that I was up that early, because I needed that extra time. I rolled out of bed like a feeble geriatric patient, and hobbled my way to the shower. My roommate, Mike, took mercy on me and went downstairs to get some Tylenol. I can't thank him enough for that. Anyway, after spending a good half hour in the shower, balancing on one leg, I made the effort to get dressed. Honestly, it was like there was some sadistic midget standing next to me, kicking me in the balls for an hour. If you've never had that done, don't.
I finally made it downstairs and into the meeting room, right on time. People were staring at me every time we took a break because I was walking around like I needed a wheelchair or walker or gurney or something. So, let me paint a little picture for you. No sleep, excruciating pain, can't walk, in a meeting. Clear? Good. Email me and I'll see if I can give you more details. With a little help from coffee and God I successfully made it through the meeting, drove 3 hours back home, and somehow managed to get my suitcase back to the safe confines of the corner apartment. I'll have to remember the next time that I get an A-Rod fantasy to ignore it. If this is the kind of pain that real athletes have to go through fairly regularly, I'll stick with my sales gig.
Unfortunately, due to my injury, I had to miss both dodgeball and bowling this week. Bummer. Pulled muscles really, really suck.
Whew... well, that's the latest. I better stop typing before carpal tunnel sets in and I can't pick up my sales bag.
Odds are that the next time you log on to my site, my mother will be married, and I will be hungover. That should be a fun post to read.
For now, I must be going... gotta clean in anticipation of my sister's arrival. And I almost forgot... gotta send that email for more cutesy dog names. I wonder if she's got any single friends.
Until next time...
R
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