The Bitch Don’t Live Here!

Who the hell – (or more precisely where the hell) -- is Amy L. Ashbrook, age 31, of Omaha, Nebraska?

That’s the question that the Lovely Mrs. G. and I have been asking each other for three months now.

You see, apparently our new Omaha phone number used to belong to one Amy L. Ashbrook. And Naughty Miss Amy apparently has a bad habit of not paying off her debts.

So day and night we get calls from people (mostly collection agencies) looking for her. This, despite the facts that:

1 – We’ve never met the tramp.
2 – She’s never lived here.
3 – No, we have no frigging idea where she is now.

Our number was issued to us last December – over 3 months ago. And being standard telco protocol, I’m sure it was disconnected for a good 6 months before it was reissued to us.

So why these idiot collection agents think they can call a number that’s a minimum of 9 months from its shut-off date and harass ME about Amy’s debts to society is beyond me.

So tonight I decided to strike back at the jerks.

The phone rang at around 8:30. I was busy watching “Death Proof”, Quentin Tarantino’s latest art du film, so already I was in a wound up mood from all the blood and gore and guts (and gratuitous use of the F-bomb).

The conversation went something like this:

“Put Amy on the phone,” the voice grunted.

“Can’t do that, sweet cheeks,” I answered. (I thought embarrassing him by calling him cutesy pet names would rattle his cage.) “The bitch don’t live here.”

“Then gimme her spouse.”

“Are you not listening, dumpling? This isn’t Amy’s number.”

“It’s what I’ve got listed for her.”

“Well, your listing is wrong, honey. Like I said, the bitch don’t live here. This is my number, not hers.”

“Is this a new number for you?”

“Yes, darling.” (Even I was getting uncomfortable with the lovey-dovey names by this point...) “This was her phone number at some point in history, but now it’s mine.

“Oh.”

“All I know is that my phone rings all day with people looking for her.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. So if you happen to find Amy, will you tell her to quit giving out my goddamn number?”

And that’s where we left it. One collection agent down, a zillion more to go, I’m sure.

There’ a wonderful movie from the mid-80’s called “Amazon Women on the Moon.” It’s a sketch movie, sort of like “Kentucky Fried Movie”, for those of you who remember that. Anyway, in “Amazon Women” there’s a great sketch with Arsenio Hall (back when he was funny) having a reeeeeally bad day in his apartment while the phone rings nonstop with wrong numbers, all looking for “Thelma”.

Shortly before falling out of his multi-story window after tripping on the phone cord, Arsenio tells the caller that “The Bitch Don’t Live Here.”

So that’s my mantra from now on. Amy L. Ashbrook? The Bitch Don’t Live Here. Honey pie.

Hoops Goes Down For The Ten Count

Be honest with me – give it to me straight. I can take it.

Is it so wrong that I not give a rat's ass about the NCAA basketball tournament?

Lord, I hope not.

I know I've written about this before – last March, in fact. All of the bandwagon fans who mysteriously pop out this time of the year to talk about brackets and seeds and bubble teams and blah blah blah… These are people who couldn't have named three college basketball players two weeks ago, but now they're suddenly experts on everything about the sport.

See, the facts are simple.

1 – I just don't give a crap about college basketball. Never have. Probably never will.
2 – It'd be really hypocritical of me to now pretend that I do.

But from judging some of the negative reactions I've received over the past week when I yawn or look otherwise disinterested when the Final Four talk starts, you'd think I'd joined the Communist party or called someone's baby ugly.

"WHAAAAT???" "How can you NOT be a basketball fan?" "Don't you have at least ONE bracket?"

No, no, no. I really don't want anything to do with it. No wagers, no studying brackets, no sitting around glued to the TV watching a bunch of college kids shoot baskets. I'd rather watch paint dry.

It's not that I hate all sports – I do enjoy the Seahawks when they're on TV (and are winning); the same for the Mariners. I'll watch the World Series if nothing else is on, and of course Super Bowl Sunday is a big deal in the Gressel household, mainly for the ads. I can even tolerate about two hours of the Olympics, provided it's on my TiVo and I can fast forward through the seven gazillion commercials and heartwarming athlete profiles hosted by Katie Couric and her ilk.

But there's the one sport I'll go out of my way to watch – Boxing. Yes, put two guys in the square ring and let them beat the snot out of each other – now THAT'S entertainment. I thoroughly enjoy my World Championship Boxing, and would much rather sit through an Arturo Gatti fight or a Vladimir Klitchko battle than any Final Four crap.

So give me a good old fashioned heavyweight championship bout – 12 rounds of boxing for the IBO/WBC/IBC Heavyweight Championship of the World. Keep it fair, keep it clean, keep those blows above the belt. When the bell rings, come out fighting.

Doesn't that sound like more fun than listening to squeaking tennis shoes for two hours?

I think so.

Party On!

You've got to hand it to the people in my new hometown – they do enjoy a reason – any reason – to party. But perhaps they should pace it a little bit?

* * * * * *
Police Make First St. Patrick's Day DUI Arrest at 7:20 a.m.

The Omaha Police Department had barely begun its special St. Patrick's Day traffic patrols when it nabbed its first drunken driver.

The daylong effort began at 7 a.m., and within 20 minutes someone had been picked up for driving under the influence, said Sgt. Laurie Scott.

By about 10 p.m., officers had made nine DUI arrests, issued 114 citations for speeding and made a couple of felony arrests, she said. Scott expected the pace to pick up as people began heading home from the revelries.

Omaha officers were called to a nightclub near 114th Street and West Dodge Road just before midnight to break up a fight. Two people were taken to hospitals with injuries that were not considered life-threatening, a 911 dispatcher said.

The Sarpy County Sheriff's Office added seven law enforcement officers to patrol county roads Monday night. Three people were arrested on suspicion of drunken driving, he said. One person was arrested for driving with a suspended license.

Douglas County Sheriff's deputies doled out four drunken driving citations during a weekend enforcement effort leading up to Monday's St. Patrick's Day celebrations.

Deputies also gave out two open container citations and two citations for minors in possession, said Sheriff Tim Dunning. The numbers were "pretty normal" for a weekend, he said.


* * * * * *

Yes, give the locals something to drink about - a sporting event, a semi-holiday, the fact that the sun is up - and they'll be at one of the many bars, taverns, or assorted watering holes around here. I swear that Omaha has more sports bars than any place I've ever seen; God only knows what its like on Game Day. (I guess we'll find out this fall...)

A lady I work with was scheduled earlier this week to have carpel tunnel surgery on her hand, but her surgeon had to push it back by a few days. Why? Because he had to do 7 surguries for broken jaws from St. Patty's fights.

Think about that. Seven broken jaws. One doctor.

Makes you wonder how many other surgeons in town had them lined up outside their door, waiting for the same thing?

I'm glad we stayed home that night. And New Years Eve. And Cinco de Mayo. And any other convenient excuse the locals have to get plastered, just for the hell of it.

So here's ol' Tommy BOy's advice for today -- get yourself a designated driver. Because getting popped for a DUI before breakfast would really suck. Plus you might spill some, and it'll clash with the puke on your "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" shirt.

On My Own Again

The Lovely Mrs. G. and I have been semi-jokingly calling the past 6 months "The Year We Lived Apart." Doesn't that sound sad?

It's not that we don't like each other – far from it. We're still madcap newlyweds, 11 years and counting. It's just that our jobs have forced us to spend a little bit more time apart than we'd normally prefer.

It all started last fall when I was in Omaha working for my wonderful new employer, and Mrs. G. was still in Sioux City, trying to sell our house there. I lived in a crappy by-the-week shoebox-sized hotel room in Omaha for 6 weeks, heading home to see the fam only every couple of weeks or so.

In January Mrs. G. went to spend a week with her fam in Montana. Then I spent a week in the Bay Area for work. And now Mrs. G. is gone for 7 weeks of job training – 6 weeks in Dallas, followed by a week in Kansas City.

So over the past 6 months, Mrs. G. and I will have spent 15 weeks – or just about 3 ½ months - apart.

I told you it was sad.

Mrs. G. left this morning for Dallas – she'll be back around Mother's Day, with just a brief stopover for a day before her trip to Kansas City. She's thrilled with her job (and so am I), and we both knew that one of the big job requirements would be that she'd have to travel to this training school, but the reality of being apart for another 7 weeks really didn't hit us until this weekend.

So we're "apart," but we're not "apart." It's not fun, but it's also not forever. We'll chat on the phone and email several times a day, and I'm going to fly down to Dallas to see her a couple of times during her stay. (I've threatened to bring a suitcase filled with dirty laundry with me when I come, because I am a Dumb Male, after all.)

I hate to use the term "co-dependant" to describe our relationship, because that's not accurate by a longshot. We just sincerely like each other. I enjoy her company as much as her companionship, and not having her around just feels…strange.

But like I said, it's not forever. We'll get through the next 7 weeks, and then we'll be together again. She'll do well in training school, and me? With any luck I'll have plenty of clean clothes to wear, provided I can figure out where in the dryer the soap goes…

Moon River

Here's yet another reason why we left Iowa…

Yesterday afternoon the Lovely Mrs. G. and I were driving back to Omaha from Sioux City on Interstate 29. We'd gone up for the weekend to see Miss Katie and Baby Emmy for Easter, which was a lot of fun. Babies rule.

Anyway, there we were, heading south, minding our own business and commenting on how damn glad we were to be getting out of Sewerville. And along next to us pulls up a SUV with Iowa license plates, honking their horn.

And the lady (using that term loosely) in the passenger seat is mooning us.

Now, three things to point out.

1 – It's Easter Freaking Sunday.
2 – She's at least our age, i.e. early 40's.
3 – She really could've used a Brazilian, if you catch my unshaven drift…

I ignore the rather unappetizing sight for a while, then when she finally sits her rottencrotch back down and waves to me, I wave back – holding my cell phone, and signaling that I'm dialing Nine One One.

The SUV then speeds WAAAAY up, thinking they're getting away from me before I can get their license plate. (Too late.)

So tell me, America – who the hell would think hanging your hairy B.A. in the car window on Easter Sunday would be a good idea, especially when what you're showing really isn't worth the effort? I mean, I didn't stare or anything, but from what I could tell what she was offering up certainly wasn't what you'd call "attractive". Or "well groomed."

I apologize now if you just threw up in your mouth a little bit. I know that I did.

Obviously there's a mental shortage in that family. Maybe she should be wearing a helmet and be on the short bus instead? Or maybe we should just chalk her up to being just another Iowa Idiot.

Yep, thank God we're outta there.

Sweater Day!

I'm going to do this – you should, too.

* * * * * * *
Fred Rogers tribute includes Sweater Day

PITTSBURGH - A tribute to children's public television pioneer Fred Rogers will include an effort to get people everywhere to wear a sweater on what would have been his 80th birthday.

March 20th is being promoted as "Sweater Day" to honor Rogers, who died of cancer five years ago. A sweater was his trademark garb on "Mister Rogers' Neighborhood."

David Newell, who played speedy deliveryman Mr. McFeely on the show, appears in a YouTube video that touts the event.

"Sweater Day" is the capstone to a six-day celebration planned by Family Communications Inc. of Pittsburgh. Rogers created the company to produce his show.

* * * * * *

A lot of people mock Fred Rogers, but I always considered him to be the role model that a lot of small children could use in their lives. When I was a little kid way back in the "only 4 TV channels available" days of 1970 (I know kids – it's hard to fathom, isn't it?), I joined Mr. Rogers, Daniel the Striped Tiger, King Friday, and the gang every afternoon in the Land of the Make Believe. His show was on Seattle's PBS station every day at 4:00, and it was a great way for a (fairly innocent) 5 year old with a vivid imagination to spend his afternoon.

Mr. Rogers spoke directly to you with honesty and sincerity, and never relied on insults, put downs, or double entendres to get a cheap laugh. (No fart jokes, either.) He had no secrets – he showed us how things worked behind the scenes, but invited us to actually use our imaginations or to get up and play a little bit. No interactive video games, no sitting on your butt, your brain slowly turning into ooze. He was a friendly man with the big smile who wasn't going to hurt you, wasn't going to yell at you, and wasn't going to teach us words that would lead to time-outs.

I wish more kids today would be able to enjoy his show – it's a thousand times better for you than anything you'll learn on SpongeBob or RugRats.

So break out your sweaters, kids – wear 'em proud, in honor of Saint Fred. One of the good guys.