Surviving Late Hours and Tin Cans

Most people work 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. These are what I refer to as “human hours.” I work 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. These hours get their name from the people who are doomed to work them: factory employees and serial rapists. If there is one thing I’ve learned working the factory rapist shift, it’s that night news is seldom good news, save for the occasional reports of vampires getting hit by cars. On most nights, I sit by the police scanner waiting for something interesting to happen so I can make a phone call: “Hello. Is this Cynthia McDaniel? There’s a couple people listed under that name in the phone book, so let me ask you this: Have any of your children been murdered tonight?” In these situations, my decades of experience at being an insensitive jerk allow me to remain impervious to the impassioned sobs of widows, amputees, orphans or whoever else I’ve been instructed to shamelessly harass in the name of journalism.

The only downside to working at night is that other humans aren’t around during the day to help me when disaster strikes. Yesterday, I was opening a can when my can opener broke, putting me on a collision course with starvation. I only had two chances for survival: I could drive all the way across town to a store and buy a new can opener, or I could walk into the next room and rummage through my tool box. I returned the kitchen with a hammer, a screwdriver and a plan that teetered on the thin line between brilliant and suicidal. I placed the metal tip of the screwdriver against the can and struck the tool’s handle with a mighty blow from the hammer. A slight dent appeared in the top of the can, but the food still remained separated from my by a seemingly impenetrable tin force field. I must be doing something wrong, I thought, since the top of the can was surly designed to be chiseled off in the event of catastrophic can opener failure. My solution was to swing harder. Gradually, I could see the can giving way under my determined blows. The dent in the top grew ever larger, until finally, in a dramatic spray of tomato matter that covered the walls and my person, I created a small but glorious hole in the can. I finished the job with a pair of scissors, which I used to slice apart the can with all the skill a surgeon would use if he happened to be operating on a badly mangled cylindrical patient made of tin.

Such incidents have led me to the conclusion that maybe I’m not thriving on the night shift after all. If I hadn’t reached that conclusion on my own, I could have found out by turning on the TV when I get off work. The commercials on basic cable advertise exactly three types of businesses after midnight: call-in sex lines, online colleges, and personal injury attorneys. The message is clear: If you just got off work, you’re a lonely man who needs to better his position in life through continuing education or frivolous lawsuits. Luckily, I sustained more than a few injuries in my cunning duel with a can of diced tomatoes yesterday. I think I’ll sue the can opener company for making a faulty product and God for inventing fruit. Sure, he told Adam and Eve not to eat it, but what about the rest of us? A warning label would me helpful.

Given the current newsroom situation, I’ll probably be a night reporter for at least the next few months and an incompetent cook for the rest of my natural life. I still don’t have a working can opener, however, so I’d be surprised if my natural life extended much beyond the next couple of hours.

Marriage Fun

Last weekend, I had to go to a Catholic marriage preparation class. It was mostly for my fiancée since I am perfect in all ways and clearly need no instruction. Based on the class, I learned that marriage is only about two things: God and fighting. After four or five hours of intense doodling, the only new concept I really learned concerned the “listening pen” or something to that effect. I’d give you the exact name, but I wasn’t really listening. When one partner has the pen, only he or she is allowed to talk. I have difficulty picturing this problem-solving method working in a real-world situation that wouldn’t end with a pen being stabbed through someone’s sternum. Oddly, the class was silent on proven marital problem-solving techniques, such as binge drinking and then throwing ninja stars at each other.

When you have a sharp object sticking out of your eye, your husband’s latest error – probably loading the dishwasher wrong or framing you for double murder – seems almost trivial. (Photo courtesy of http://www.locopuyo.com/shuriken.gif)

Now that I think about it, the marriage class was flat-out wrong when it came to good communication. I’ve found over the past four years that the ability to ignore nearly everything a woman says is critically important to a successful relationship. When reading a book, I usually skim the pages to pick out the most important elements and to get to the point quicker. The same thing can be done in human conversation. Here’s something Lola might say on a typical day: “It was a long day at work.” No reasonable human being can be expected to pay attention for seven consecutive words. What I would actually hear would be something closer to this: “I … day …shark.” After Lola finishes speaking, she typically look at me for some verification that I’ve heard what she just said. The only way to fake this verification is to fill in the blanks as quickly and accurately as possible: “Yes, I’m sure you did have a fun day jumping six school buses on a scooter while punching a shark.” And thus would conclude another flawless conversation on my part.

A shark cries out in pain after yet another workday pummeling from Lola. (Photo courtesy of http://www.duiops.net/seresvivos/galeria/tiburones/
Great%20White%20Shark,%20South%20Africa.jpg)

I can’t stress enough how much I didn’t need that marriage preparation class. Those relationship secrets that I didn’t learn on my own I picked up from watching my roommate, who’s been with his girlfriend for less than a year. Their conversations typically don’t end with someone being hit with a ninja star, but they’ll learn the error of their ways as they go along. When he does something incompetent, his girlfriend finds it cute or endearing. He’ll fail to load the dishwasher properly, and his girlfriend will swoop in the save the day, demonstrating her maternal instincts and love for her boyfriend. When Lola finds out that I failed to load the dishwasher properly, I throw the listening pen at her eye and dive for cover. Rather than being cute or endearing, my recurring failures are seen as yet another inconvenience she’ll have to deal with for the next 60 years. After you date someone for four years, you still learn something new about them every day; it’s just that after a certain point, all of the surprises are bad. In a very real sense, long-term relationships are the gift that you wish would stop giving.

Day 1352: Surprise! I have bladder control issues and a sexual attraction to albino elk. I hope that’s not going to be a problem.

This weekend, Lola and I have to go back to another marriage preparation class. This one is about natural family planning. For reference, it’s the method that was supposed to prevent the conception of roughly half my siblings. Children are always a gift from God, but, according to the Catholic Church, sometimes it’s okay to lock the door and pray that he forgot it’s your birthday.