Space Program: It’s hard to believe that 25 years ago on this very day, we were all making fun of how bad Moonraker was. (more…)
Zambling Bling (Part Two) (Uncut)
by Bill Zam | Posted on: March 1, 2010 11:57 am - in Zamblings Uncut
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to bind them; One Ring bought at the mall when careless schmucks can’t find them.
Summary of Part One: Suffering searing back pain after hurting myself in a softball game my wife warned me not to play, with the added mental stress of losing my wedding ring, I was faced with a conundrum. Rest up, and then admit my crimes when my wife got home from work? Or spend 12 hours on a ring quest filled with mayhem and adversity? I decided to go Frodo.
Instead of The Hobbit, I was The Hobbled. It was Saturday, so I couldn’t call the Park and Rec department to see if anyone found my ring on the softball field. I was on my own.
“DAD, WANT TO WRESTLE? CAN YOU CARRY MY TOY BOX DOWNSTAIRS? CAN I RIDE ON YOUR SHOULDERS?”
Oh yeah – not completely on my own. I had our rocket-powered 3-year-old son. As soon as my wife’s car was safely out of the driveway, I laboriously loaded Michael into the car. He was thrilled when I asked him to go to the park, but didn’t know today’s trip would not involve the usual heartwarming father/son catch.
I’ve played a lot of league softball. McCaskill Park Field B is the only small town park I have ever played on that is completely surrounded by 10-foot chain-link fences and padlocked gates. Were they worried people were going to steal the massive chunks of infield-coated bubble gum? There was a narrow gap in the fence small enough for Michael, but there was no way I was getting through without a blender.
I looked up at the fence, 10 feet looking like 100 thanks to the muscle spasms. Still, the prospect of explaining both my back injury and the missing ring to my wife seemed more dangerous. After securing Michael’s guarantee that he would not move from that spot, I began to climb the Appalachain-Link Mountain.
Every move brought a surge of pain. I hadn’t climbed a fence since I was a kid, and didn’t consider the challenge of trying to insert adult sneakers into the small footholds. I wished for my cleats, now yard-miles away in the trunk of my car, but there was no going back. I managed to reach the top without an oxygen tank.
As any kid knows, you want to propel over the top of a chain-link fence to avoid cutting yourself on the exposed wires, then bend your knees to absorb the shock when your feet hit the ground. Instead of leaping, I planned to heave myself with slightly less momentum so I could flop over and hold the top of the fence while lowering myself gently.
Here’s what did happen. My reduced launch was met with a sharp twinge that numbed my leg. As I swung my second leg over the precipice, looking like a Tourette’s Division pole-vaulter, the crotch of my jeans snagged on the wire.
RIP! I twisted violently and fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.
R.I.P.? Not quite. I remember bending my knees, but I’m still not sure what hit first: my feet, my head, or my dignity. I lay on the ground with a destroyed back, no wedding ring and ripped pants. But I was still alive, with perfectly functioning eyes and ears to witness the cackling three-year-old on the other side of the fence, full-body laughing and jumping around at the funniest thing he had ever seen in his short life. He’s 10 now and I think the record still stands.
I stood with the grace of a newly born Frankenstein monster and pulled Michael through the gap. It was difficult with him laughing so hard. I didn’t have time to be mad. I was hunched over in a public park with exposed boxers and a young child. Now I had to worry about the police too.
As an infielder I shouldn’t have had to cover a lot of ground, but since I had warmed up in the outfield before the game and was busy on the bases during it, the search territory was substantial. Once I positioned it as a treasure hunt, however, I had a willing partner. After I told Michael the bounty and that he shouldn’t tell mommy, it took him less than a minute.
“Found it!!!”
Thrilled, I sprinted over to him … with the speed of a 90-year-old wearing a LifeCall necklace. It was only a bottle cap. This continued for the next hour.
“I got it!” Sunglasses lens. “Dad, come quick!” Sunflower seed wrapper. “Woo hoo!” Tobacco tin.
The discoveries were getting less valuable and more disgusting, and I felt ashamed for dragging him into this mess. We went home with sorrow in our hearts and holes in our pants. Fine, just me. Michael was as happy-go-lucky as ever.
My naked finger felt more awkward now than it had the first time I put the ring on. I had risked injury for a brief return to my glory days, but I felt like an inglourious basterd for being inconsiderate of my family and I was paying for it mentally as well as physically. The finger would have pointed at me accusingly if I weren’t trying so hard to hide it.
I must have looked Charlie-Brown pitiful when my wife got home late that night, because her infamous glare was gone and I could tell she felt bad for me. For the first time that day I remembered that my wife wouldn’t fault me for accidentally losing a physical symbol. She had reassured me when I proposed that it’s not the ring that counts, but the emotional bond. While she rubbed Icy Hot on my back, I confessed the whole story. She laughed in all the right places, which was even more comforting than the massage.
The next day, we went shopping for a new ring. Symbolic talisman or not, my wife still needed to let the world know that this limping lummox, terrific at softball but a sorry liar, was spoken for. I picked out a plain, gold band nearly identical to the original and she put it on me at the jewelry store. Standing in front of a salesperson at a glass counter is hardly comparable to standing before a man of the cloth, but we were still in the presence of God.[1] It felt absolutely right being bonded to this woman again, for better or for worse. I had felt both this weekend.
When we returned home I put the receipt for the second ring in my wallet. Though I could barely bend over, I opened my nightstand drawer, threw the wallet on top of some loose papers, and heard a strange, metallic clang. I moved aside the papers and saw the first ring staring up at me, right where I had placed it for safekeeping.
You see, when I play sports, I sometimes remove my ring. These days, both of them. Maybe I was wrong about the significance of rings as symbols, because each time I put the two rings back on, I think about that day and I’m reminded why I love my wife twice as much as before.
[1] The Lord is within us and all around us, and also works Sundays from 11-6 at Belden Jewelers now that the blue laws have been repealed.
Tags: anniversary, back pain, bling, bling bling, chain link fence, children, Dawn detergent, derek jeter, down the drain, drain, Elin Nordegren, engagement ring, engagement story, father and son, fence, finger, forget your anniversary, Frodo, gamer, home run, how much to spend on an engagement ring, jewelry, jewelry for men, lie, lose ring, lost and found, lost ring, lying, lying to your spouse, macho, manly, marriage, metal detector, Michael, nanny, one ring to rule them all, park, parks and recreation, ring down the drain, ripped pants, search, shortstop, softball, string around your finger, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, Tiger Woods, tough, two rings, wedding, wedding anniversary, wedding ring, weekend warrior, zambling
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to bind them; One Ring bought at the mall when careless clowns can’t find them.
Summary of Part One: Suffering searing back pain after hurting myself in a softball game my wife warned me not to play, with the added mental stress of losing my wedding ring, I was faced with a conundrum. Rest up, and then admit my crimes when my wife got home from work? Or spend 12 hours on a ring quest filled with mayhem and adversity? I decided to go Frodo.
Instead of The Hobbit, I was The Hobbled. It was Saturday, so I couldn’t call the Park and Rec department to see if anyone found my ring on the softball field. I was on my own.
“DAD, WANT TO WRESTLE? CAN I RIDE ON YOUR SHOULDERS?”
Oh yeah – not completely on my own. I had our rocket-powered 3-year-old son. As soon as my wife’s car was safely out of the driveway, I laboriously loaded Michael into the car. He was thrilled when I asked him to go to the park, but didn’t know today’s trip would not involve the usual heartwarming father/son catch.
I’ve played a lot of league softball. McCaskill Park Field B is the only small town park I have ever played on that is completely surrounded by 10-foot chain-link fences and padlocked gates. Were they worried people were going to steal the massive chunks of infield-coated bubble gum? There was a narrow gap in the fence small enough for Michael, but there was no way I was getting through without a blender.
I looked up at the fence, 10 feet looking like 100 thanks to the muscle spasms. Still, the prospect of explaining both my back injury and the missing ring to my wife seemed more dangerous. After securing Michael’s guarantee that he would not move from that spot, I began to climb the Appalachain-Link Mountain.
As any kid knows, you want to propel over the top of a chain-link fence to avoid cutting yourself on the exposed wires, then bend your knees to absorb the shock when your feet hit the ground. Instead of leaping, I planned to heave myself with slightly less momentum so I could flop over and hold the top of the fence while lowering myself gently.
Here’s what did happen. My reduced launch was met with a sharp twinge that numbed my leg. As I swung my second leg over the precipice, looking like a Tourette’s Division pole-vaulter, the crotch of my jeans snagged on the wire.
RIP! I twisted violently and fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.
R.I.P.? Not quite. I remember bending my knees, but I’m still not sure what hit first: my feet, my head, or my dignity. I lay on the ground with a destroyed back, no wedding ring and ripped pants. But I was still alive, with perfectly functioning eyes and ears to witness the cackling three-year-old on the other side of the fence, full-body laughing and jumping around at the funniest thing he had ever seen in his short life. He’s 10 now and I think the record still stands.
I stood with the grace of a newly born Frankenstein monster and pulled Michael through the gap. As an infielder I shouldn’t have had to cover a lot of ground, but since I had warmed up in the outfield before the game and was busy on the bases during it, the search territory was substantial. Once I positioned it as a treasure hunt, however, I had a willing partner. After I told Michael the bounty and that he shouldn’t tell mommy, it took him less than a minute.
“Found it!!!”
Thrilled, I sprinted over to him … with the speed of a 90-year-old wearing a LifeCall necklace. It was only a bottle cap. This continued for the next hour: sunglasses lens, sunflower seed wrapper, tobacco tin. The discoveries were getting less valuable and more disgusting, and I felt ashamed for dragging him into this mess. We went home with sorrow in our hearts and holes in our pants. Fine, just me. Michael was as happy-go-lucky as ever.
My naked finger felt more awkward now than it had the first time I put the ring on. I had risked injury for a brief return to my glory days, but I felt inconsiderate of my family and I was paying for it mentally as well as physically. The finger would have pointed at me accusingly if I weren’t trying so hard to hide it.
I must have looked Charlie-Brown pitiful when my wife got home late that night, because her infamous glare was gone and I could tell she felt bad for me. For the first time that day I remembered that my wife wouldn’t fault me for accidentally losing a physical symbol. She had reassured me when I proposed that it’s not the ring that counts, but the emotional bond. While she rubbed Icy Hot on my back, I confessed the whole story. She laughed in all the right places, which was even more comforting than the massage.
The next day, we went shopping for a new ring. Symbolic talisman or not, my wife still needed to let the world know that this limping lummox, terrific at softball but a sorry liar, was spoken for. I picked out a plain, gold band nearly identical to the original and she put it on me at the jewelry store. Standing in front of a salesperson at a glass counter is hardly comparable to standing before a man of the cloth, but we were still in the presence of God. It felt absolutely right being bonded to this woman again, for better or for worse. I had felt both this weekend.
When we returned home I put the receipt for the second ring in my wallet. Though I could barely bend over, I opened my nightstand drawer, threw the wallet on top of some loose papers, and heard a strange, metallic clang. I moved aside the papers and saw the first ring staring up at me, right where I had placed it for safekeeping.
You see, when I play sports, I sometimes remove my ring. These days, both of them. Maybe I was wrong about the significance of rings as symbols, because each time I put the two rings back on, I think about that day and I’m reminded why I love my wife twice as much as before.
Tags: anniversary, back pain, bling, bling bling, chain link fence, children, Dawn detergent, derek jeter, down the drain, drain, Elin Nordegren, engagement ring, engagement story, father and son, fence, finger, forget your anniversary, Frodo, gamer, home run, how much to spend on an engagement ring, jewelry, jewelry for men, lie, lose ring, lost and found, lost ring, lying, lying to your spouse, macho, manly, marriage, metal detector, Michael, nanny, one ring to rule them all, park, parks and recreation, ring down the drain, ripped pants, search, shortstop, softball, string around your finger, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, Tiger Woods, tough, two rings, wedding, wedding anniversary, wedding ring, weekend warrior, zambling
Zambling Bling (Part One) (Uncut)
by Bill Zam | Posted on: February 1, 2010 10:54 am - in Zamblings Uncut
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to bind them; One Ring bought at the mall when careless schmucks can’t find them.
As my wedding anniversary approaches, there’s no need for me to tie a string around my finger; and no room, with my two rings clanking together as a constant reminder.
The engagement ring is without question the most important indicator of how much a man loves a woman. If you believe that, I hope you got a pre-nup, because there are plenty of women with rocks three times bigger than my wife’s who only use their diamonds to scratch obscenities into the paintjobs of mistresses’ cars. Elin Nordegren’s ring was reportedly the size of a golf ball, which is handy now that she’s probably using that famous back-window backswing to tee off on it.
I’ll admit that playing “size doesn’t matter” with the ring helps me justify the unspectacular (if lovely) ring my broke ass purchased for my wife, as well as the fact that I bought it for her after she said yes. Before you label me unromantic, you should know that the proposal and eventual engagement and wedding ring deliveries involved car keys, mix tapes, graphic design, an elaborate pulley system with a flying Santa Claus and for good measure, a letter to the dead. That, however, is the story of my wife’s two wedding rings. This story is about mine.
Whether we agree on how much a guy should spend on a ring, it’s accepted fact that the man gets screwed in the exchange. This didn’t bother me, given that my strongest opinion on jewelry other than the one you’ve already read is that people who say “joolery” should be imprisoned. Before I got married you would be hard-pressed to even find me wearing a watch.[1] However, I did agree to join the Til Death Do Us Party and wear a wedding band. It felt foreign at first, but now I wear it all the time, unless I’m swimming or cruising bars looking to commit adultery or playing sports.
As with many husbands, sports got me in trouble. My battles with back pain are well documented, and at age 30 they were in full swing. Unfortunately, a full swing in softball would guarantee me a half-day of recuperation after a league game. However, it didn’t stop me from giving 110 percent because I am manly and tough and what many people would call a “gamer,” or “stupid.” After injuring myself in several consecutive games, my supportive wife delivered the pitch: “If you hurt yourself tonight, don’t come home.”
Since I had to watch our three-year-old son while she worked the next day, I assured her I would use the utmost caution (i.e., lied). I had the game of my life. Usually a third baseman, I filled in at shortstop that night and hit two dingers, converted several unassisted double plays, and made a leaping catch that would have made Derek Jeter proud. It felt like I never came down.
Until the next morning, when the adrenaline flowing through my veins became paralytic poison. Fighting through the pain, I awoke before my wife and gently roused her from sleep to explain honestly and apologetically what had happened. Ha ha! Of course I didn’t. I snuck out of bed early to create the appearance that I was completely healthy.
For my next mistake, I began washing dishes at 7 a.m. What wife would not be suspicious of that? At first I pondered important issues, like what algorithm Dawn uses to calculate “2X concentrated scrubbing power.” After a few minutes hunched over the sink with increasing discomfort, however, I wondered if the spray nozzle hose was long enough to hang myself with.
That’s when I noticed my wedding ring was gone. I quickly pulled the rubber seal off[2] the garbage disposal and fished my hand inside as far as it could go, probably breaking a few bones in the process and finding nothing but dish scum. This explains why I was caught completely off guard when a stern voice behind me asked, “Is there something you want to tell me?”
I glanced over my shoulder towards the bright light that was certainly my wife with flames coming out of her eyes and desperately tried to figure out a way to explain the missing ring,
“You hurt your back again, didn’t you?” she asked.
She hadn’t noticed the missing ring at all! Overjoyed at my good fortune, I bounced upright and turned around. Stabbing pains shot through my spine, making me wonder if I had left a carving knife protruding from the drying rack, but I masked the anguish. What a gamer.
“No! It’s sore, but I’m fine.”
“Do you need me to stay home from work?”
“Don’t be silly! Michael and I have all sorts of fun things planned,” I said, forcing my bloody, soapy left hand into my jeans pocket. “Have a great day.”
In retrospect, my wife, who is sharper than a protruding carving knife, didn’t believe me for a second. She was going to make me pay by leaving me for 12 hours with a hyperactive toddler.
As she got ready for work, I stretched my hamstrings whenever she wasn’t looking and stretched my mind for possible ring locations. It wasn’t in the sink. It wasn’t in the cup holder or glove compartment of my car, or my equipment bag. These were all logical spots since I typically removed the ring to play sports. Aha! My glove! Maybe it fell off into the mitt while I was MVP’ing all over McCaskill Park Field B. I fingered that glove like a first-year gynecology resident and shook it like a British nanny.[3] No ring.
Suffering searing back pain compounded by mental stress, I was faced with a conundrum. Take four Motrin[4] now, put on some cartoons for Michael, and take my medicine again later when my wife got home? Or spend the next 12 hours on a ring quest filled with mayhem and adversity? I decided to go Frodo.
The Return of the Ring? Come back next month for PART TWO.
Tags: anniversary, back pain, bling, bling bling, Dawn detergent, derek jeter, down the drain, drain, Elin Nordegren, engagement ring, engagement story, finger, forget your anniversary, Frodo, gamer, home run, how much to spend on an engagement ring, jewelry, jewelry for men, lie, lose ring, lost and found, lost ring, lying, lying to your spouse, macho, manly, marriage, metal detector, nanny, one ring to rule them all, park, ring down the drain, search, shortstop, softball, string around your finger, The Lord of the Rings, Tiger Woods, tough, two rings, wedding, wedding anniversary, wedding ring, weekend warrior, zambling
One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to bind them; One Ring bought at the mall when careless clowns can’t find them.
As my wedding anniversary approaches, there’s no need for me to tie a string around my finger; and no room, with my two rings clanking together as a constant reminder.
The engagement ring is without question the most important indicator of how much a man loves a woman. If you believe that, I hope you got a pre-nup, because there are plenty of women with rocks three times bigger than my wife’s who only use their diamonds to scratch obscenities into the paintjobs of mistresses’ cars. Elin Nordegren’s ring was reportedly the size of a golf ball, which is handy now that she’s probably using that famous back-window backswing to tee off on it.
I’ll admit that playing “size doesn’t matter” with the ring helps me justify the unspectacular (if lovely) ring my broke ass purchased for my wife, as well as the fact that I bought it for her after she said yes. Before you label me unromantic, you should know that the proposal and eventual engagement and wedding ring deliveries involved car keys, mix tapes, graphic design, an elaborate pulley system with a flying Santa Claus and for good measure, a letter to the dead. That, however, is the story of my wife’s two wedding rings. This story is about mine.
Whether we agree on how much a guy should spend on a ring, it’s accepted fact that the man gets the short end of the exchange. This didn’t bother me, given that my strongest opinion on jewelry other than the one you’ve already read is that people who say “joolery” should be imprisoned. Before I got married you would be hard-pressed to even find me wearing a watch. However, I did agree to join the Til Death Do Us Party and wear a wedding band. It felt foreign at first, but now I wear it all the time, unless I’m swimming or cruising bars looking to commit adultery or playing sports.
As with many husbands, sports got me in trouble. My battles with back pain are well documented, and at age 30 they were in full swing. Unfortunately, a full swing in softball would guarantee me a half-day of recuperation after a league game. However, it didn’t stop me from giving 110 percent because I am manly and tough and what many people would call a “gamer,” or “stupid.” After injuring myself in several consecutive games, my supportive wife delivered the pitch: “If you hurt yourself tonight, don’t come home.”
Since I had to watch our three-year-old son while she worked the next day, I assured her I would use the utmost caution (i.e., lied). I had the game of my life. Usually a third baseman, I filled in at shortstop that night and hit two dingers, converted several unassisted double plays, and made a leaping catch that would have made Derek Jeter proud. It felt like I never came down.
Until the next morning, when the adrenaline flowing through my veins became paralytic poison. Fighting through the pain, I awoke before my wife and gently roused her from sleep to explain honestly and apologetically what had happened. Ha ha! Of course I didn’t. I snuck out of bed early to create the appearance that I was completely healthy.
For my next mistake, I began washing dishes at 7 a.m. What wife would not be suspicious of that? At first I pondered important issues, like what algorithm Dawn uses to calculate “2X concentrated scrubbing power.” After a few minutes hunched over the sink with increasing discomfort, however, I wondered if the spray nozzle hose was long enough to hang myself with.
That’s when I noticed my wedding ring was gone. I quickly pulled the rubber seal off the garbage disposal and fished my hand inside as far as it could go, probably breaking a few bones in the process and finding nothing but dish grime. This explains why I was caught completely off guard when a stern voice behind me asked, “Is there something you want to tell me?”
I glanced over my shoulder towards the bright light that was certainly my wife with flames coming out of her eyes and desperately tried to figure out a way to explain the missing ring,
“You hurt your back again, didn’t you?” she asked.
She hadn’t noticed the missing ring at all! Overjoyed at my good fortune, I bounced upright and turned around. Stabbing pains shot through my spine, making me wonder if I had left a carving knife protruding from the drying rack, but I masked the anguish. What a gamer.
“No! It’s sore, but I’m fine.”
“Do you need me to stay home from work?”
“Don’t be silly! Michael and I have all sorts of fun things planned,” I said, forcing my bloody, soapy left hand into my jeans pocket. “Have a great day.”
In retrospect, my wife, who is sharper than a protruding carving knife, didn’t believe me for a second. She was going to make me pay by leaving me for 12 hours with a hyperactive toddler.
As she got ready for work, I stretched my hamstrings whenever she wasn’t looking and stretched my mind for possible ring locations. It wasn’t in the sink. It wasn’t in the cup holder or glove compartment of my car, or my equipment bag. These were all logical spots since I typically removed the ring to play sports. Aha! My glove! Maybe it fell off into the mitt while I was MVP’ing all over McCaskill Park Field B. I shook that glove like a British nanny. No ring.
Suffering searing back pain compounded by mental stress, I was faced with a conundrum. Take four Motrin now, put on some cartoons for Michael, and take my medicine again later when my wife got home? Or spend the next 12 hours on a ring quest filled with mayhem and adversity? I decided to go Frodo.
The Return of the Ring? Come back next month for PART TWO.
Tags: anniversary, back pain, bling, bling bling, Dawn detergent, derek jeter, down the drain, drain, Elin Nordegren, engagement ring, engagement story, finger, forget your anniversary, Frodo, gamer, home run, how much to spend on an engagement ring, jewelry, jewelry for men, lie, lose ring, lost and found, lost ring, lying, lying to your spouse, macho, manly, marriage, metal detector, nanny, one ring to rule them all, park, ring down the drain, search, shortstop, softball, string around your finger, The Lord of the Rings, Tiger Woods, tough, two rings, wedding, wedding anniversary, wedding ring, weekend warrior, zambling