In Which I Get Protection

(Author's Note: Here's another post from way back, this one coming to you from December 2009.)

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It had been a harrowing week, thanks to the court proceedings that drew me to testify against a feared member and leader of the local mob branch. True to the story of my life, I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and found myself scared for my life. And yet I agreed with the D.A.'s request to testify, and wound up with a 24-hour security detail to protect me from any mob low-life who might try to silence me.

I sat in the darkened living room in a safe house in an uncomfortable easy chair, looking at one of my heavily-armed security guards asleep on the couch. There was another guard by the front door, and a third by the back door leading out towards the patio. By all rights their presence should have made me feel more at ease, but I felt just the opposite. I jumped at every small noise I heard.

When the knock sounded on the front door, I just about popped out of my skin.

The guard asleep on the couch sprung up, and had his sidearm leveled at the door and his finger on the trigger before he was completely upright. The guard at the door had done the same, sliding silently off of his chair and into a crouch. The third guard at the back door hid around the corner, only the tip of his rifle visible.

There was a second round of knocks. The hollow sounds seemed almost annoyed at being forced to wait. The guard at the door motioned for me to get up. My chair creaked as I stood up, and I walked quietly to the door.

"Who is it?" I called out.

"US Marshalls, Sir," a stern voice replied. "We need to talk to you. Urgently."

"Let's see some identification," the first guard said. "Hold it up near your chest."

The first guard leaned towards the door and looked through the peep hole. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped his sidearm. "All clear," he said to the other guards in the room. "It's legit."

He opened the door, and two large men stepped inside. He held up his badge for me to see, and indeed it was legit. His partner did the same, shifting the weight of the gym bag he carried to his right hand. I acknowledged them both with a nod.

"The name is Watts," he said, and stuck out his hand. I grasped it and shook it firmly.

"What's this about?" I asked.

"Sir, our surveillance team keeping tabs on the man you testified against this week discovered plans to launch a large tactical assault against this house later tonight. We're not sure if this is threat is real, but we can't risk waiting it out to see. It's been decided that it's no longer safe for you to stay here. We're placing you in protection."

"What do you mean? Witness protection?" I stammered, my skin turning cold.

"No, not witness protection. We were given orders to place you in our Wetness Protection program."

I blinked. Did I hear him correctly?

"We've got your supplies right here," he said. Turning to his partner, he reached for the gym bag. "Simmons?"

Simmons reached down and picked up the bag, and handed it to Watts. He grabbed the zipper and pulled it open. Pulling the large flap back, I looked inside. There were at least a dozen adult-sized diapers stacked neatly side by side.

"This... this doesn't make sense. Surely you misunderstood your orders."

He laughed arrogantly. "Sir, I assure you that I heard my orders correctly, and frankly, you've got no real choice in the matter."

"But... wetness protection? That doesn't even make sense! How is that supposed to help me from getting shot up from the mob?"

"That's up to you, I suppose. Orders are orders. Now, come on. We've only got a few minutes. Hop to it."

He shoved the gym bag at me. I caught it at my chest and stumbled back a step.

"You've got to be kidding. I'm not changing into a diaper. This is ridiculous!"

Watts sighed, and turned to Simmons. They seemed to communicate through a series of shrugs and nods. Watts turned back to face me, and then grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Grab his pants!" he cried. I struggled against his strong grip, but couldn't free myself.

Simmons leaped forward and began unbuckling my belt. I kicked and thrashed my legs.

The guard who had been sleeping looked down at me, but offered no help.

"Having problems with incontinence?" he asked, as if genuinely interested.

"Get affordable wetness protection now, with new adult diapers!" Simmons said cheerily with a booming voice. "Discreet, not bulky under your clothing, super absorbent and non-constricting!"

Watts spoke up. "Available now, in a variety of sizes, at your local supermarket or pharmacy!"

---

I woke up, gasping, and sat up. I had fallen asleep the couch, and the TV was on still. I blinked my eyes to clear the sleep from them, and sure enough, the tail end of a commercial for incontinence products was on.

Damn overactive imagination.

In Which I Hold My Breath

I am fortunate enough to work from home most days of the week. I have a weekly meeting with my boss, though, and make the commute to the office once a week to attend this meeting in person. 

My office is in a fairly big town about an hour away from where I live. I grew up there, so it is very familiar to me, and sometimes I get a little nostalgic when I make these weekly trips. My commute this week reminded me why I am glad to live far, far away from it. 

You see, this town has a distinct smell.

I had previously thought it was difficult to describe, until I was on the phone yesterday with my wife, driving towards my office.

"Man, the city smells today," I said. 

"Yeah?" she asked. 

"Yeah, it always has this unique smell."

"Like what?"

I paused for a moment. 

"It smells like homelessness and despair..." I said, trailing off. I breathed in. The bread factory nearby must have been in full swing. "And sometimes bread."

My wife laughed. "What does homelessness, despair and bread smell like?"

"Oh you know... Like Walmart."

---

What does your city/town smell like?

In Which I Flashback

(Author's Note: I have more than 400 posts from the original version of this blog, so from time to time I'll be recycling them. Here's one from September 2011.)

If I was a young, impressionable kid, and I saw this at the store, I'd be horrified:

Once I got over the excitement of seeing one of the characters I've seen on TV on something tangible, I'd start to realize what was awfully wrong about it. 

First of all, she's obviously been in a tragic steamroller accident, because she's very, very flat. I would then imagine that someone tried to save her from the steamroller but only succeeded in stretching her arms and hands out like Stretch Armstrong, and somehow her gargantuan hands got turned into cup holders. Clearly something awful happened with her legs, as they're pretty short. Maybe they only look short because of her ginormous arms and torso. 

This is a prime example of going to far for the sake of product tie-ins. When I was a kid, my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle underwear was enough for me.

In Which I Make Things Awkward

I accepted the fact that I am socially awkward a long time ago. There is no sense in trying to deny it, as it would be like trying to deny that gravity is what keeps us from floating off into space. Besides that, there is only so many times one can experience awkward and embarrassing social situations in pretty much every aspect of their life before realizing that the common denominator to all those situations is themselves. 

A prime example of this is what happened at the grocery store this past weekend. 

My items were on the belt at the checkout line: a four-pack of blueberry muffins, a dozen eggs, a gallon of orange juice, a cheap bottle of champagne, and a jug of store brand drain cleaner. I fully realize that one of those things really didn't belong, but outside of items for breakfast that morning, I had been forgetting to pickup the drain cleaner all week and I finally remembered. 

The cashier greeted me and started to scan my items. Everything seemed normal enough, but when she got to the drain cleaner she gave me a curious look. 

I wasn't sure what to say, so I figured I'd crack a joke.

"Ever had a mimosa with splash of Drano in it?" I asked.

Her curious expression turned to one of surprised suspicion.

"It really cleans you out," I continued.

She cast a look to her co-worker who was bagging my items at the end of the checkout lane, and then looked back at me. She laughed nervously and took a step back. 

It was then that I realized that I, a man in his  early thirties, probably shouldn't be joking about mixing alcohol and corrosive chemicals together with a cashier who probably wasn't old enough to vote in the last presidential election. 

Probably shouldn't joke about that with anyone, really. 

---

Let's be embarrassed together. What socially awkward things have you done? 

In Which I've Done Some Thinking

Dear Son or Daughter,

I apologize for not knowing how to introduce this letter. I'm writing this to you long before your mother and I will try to conceive you. You don't exist in this world just yet, but that doesn't mean I haven't spent a fair amount of time thinking about you. I haven't shared these thoughts with anyone yet, and I wanted to tell you first. Not even your mother knows that I'm writing this, so lets keep this between you and me for now, okay?

Your mother has been asking me to have a child (that would be you) for a while now. The part of her that people call the Biological Clock has been ticking very loudly for her, and for the past year I've told her that I am not ready. This saddens her, as she wants to meet you pretty badly. She and I have talked about you (or at least the idea of you) in length, and she understands now when I say I am not ready to be a father.

I'm sure you are curious as to my reasons why, and to be honest, it took a while for me to figure it out for myself. You won't fully understand this until you are in this position yourself someday, but the main thing is that bringing a child into this world is a huge responsibility. Your mother and I are still pretty young, and there are times right now where we have trouble taking care of just ourselves. Life has given us a few lemons, as the saying goes, and I want to make sure that we can at least provide you with some half-decent lemonade before you come along. 

The other big reason, I'll admit, is a purely selfish one. I like the relationship I have with your mother right now, and I want a little more time with it being just her and I. I want to be able to enjoy some of our younger years together, to build our life to a point where the only thing that we both feel is missing from it is you. 

I want to make sure you know that my saying "I'm not ready to be a father" doesn't mean that I don't want you, my child. The thing is, I do want you. Contrary to what your mother thinks, I want you pretty badly, too. Sure, my heart strings might not get as strong a pull as your mother's do when we see a cute baby at the mall, but it still happens. 

You see, I want to feel you kick and hiccup while you grow inside your mother's womb. I want to hold you just after you are born and feel my life change. I want to look at you and see that you have my eyes and her nose. I want to help you learn to crawl, to walk, to ride a bike, to drive a car. I want to sit through tea parties and make blanket forts and scrub the crayon off the walls. I want to ground you when you do something wrong and reward you when you do something right. I want to watch you grow up faster than I thought to be possible. And yes, I want to worry constantly about your safety, and I want to be the one to provide that for you as long as you'll let me. I want everything that comes with the privilege of being your father, whatever that might be.

So, with all of that out of my mind and down on paper before you, I hope its not confusing to you why I still want to wait a little while to meet you. It all boils down to the fact that I may be an adult in the eyes of the world, but I feel that I've still got some growing up to do. I want to be as good a father as I can be to you, and its going to take me some time to get there. If you don't understand that now, I know you will understand it someday.

Be it with sugar and spice, or with snaps and snails, I love you wholeheartedly, my child.

Your (at-some-point-to-be) Dad