Not My Circus, Not My Monkey

But I wish it was.

I think monkeys are the coolest animals, I would love to have one as a pet. Unfortunately, my wife is vehemently anti-simian and there’s pretty much nothing short of a Forensic Files episode that will get her to change her mind. And don’t think I haven’t tried. I’ve used every argument I could dream up.

A.    A companion for me while she’s globetrotting for work.

B.     He could clean the rain gutters without worrying about falling off the roof.

C.     Someone to eat all the brown bananas she says I waste.

D.    With a squeezebox thingy and a sweet hat for my monkey I could make some extra cash when I’m hanging out at the mall.

E.     They’re irresistibly cute

My wife says she’d rather have a baby (ain’t gonna happen) than a monkey. Okay, let’s go with that for a moment.

Babies wear diapers. So do monkeys. You can dress a baby up as ridiculous as you want and they won’t complain. Monkeys can’t talk so I’d say that’s a wash. Babies

are warm and cuddly, so are monkeys. Babies require many doctor visits; vets are slightly cheaper. Babies don’t shed, so there’s that. Babies throw food. Monkeys throw their po… okay, the baby wins that one. But can a baby swing from the chandelier? I think not.

She finally suggested I get a dog.

The thought of making a friend out of something that frequently uses its tongue as a washcloth doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I believe this is why Michael Jackson wisely chose Bubbles over Fido.

Monkeys rule…dogs drool

K.G.

I am Iron Man

First off, this has nothing to do with comic books, Black Sabbath or Ozzie Osbourne, so if you're a comic geek or metal-head, I apologize. Not that I have anything against you, you are probably all really nice guys.

This is self-examination, if you will. A peeling back of the pungent layers of my psyche to expose what makes me tick. I'm saying this in the most literal sense. Truth be told, I'm not Iron Man. I dare say if I was a super hero I would probably be Cool Shoe Man or Shopping Mall Guy. As I've said previously, I'm totally in touch with my feminine side, which poses no problem unless called upon to listen empathetically to a friend, at which time I'll generally fidget, look at my watch and start thinking about what time the mall closes.

As some of you may know, I recently re-entered the work force. My days of doing it my way (i.e. sipping Pina Coladas by the swimming pool while listening to Frank Sinatra’s greatest hits) came to a screeching halt. Okay, I was actually drinking coffee while lying on the couch in my boxers, but why get technical.

After working for a few months, I've come to appreciate just how difficult work is, but I can’t complain. No. Really. I can’t. I'm surrounded by coworkers half my age and the last thing I want to do is look or sound like a wussy. Sometimes it’s hard work being so vain.

Occasionally, I must resort to some sleight of hand like the James Brown deadlift. When picking up something heavy I shout out, “Ow, somebody hep me… please." This not only covers a multitude of grunts, but also any escaping gas.

On the upside, I've become quite familiar with chemicals required to dispatch ants, roaches, bed bugs, rats, mice, gophers, etc. Not only does this make me popular with the customers, but it fills my brain with a plethora of valuable information should I ever want to do someone in (wifey, beware) without leaving any pesky Internet searches for the Forensic Files guys to find. Work can be cool and have future benefits.

On the downside, I'm on my feet all day. This presents a shoe dilemma. Should one go for comfort or style? I'd generally go for style every time because the wrong shoes can spoil even the sharpest outfit. After the first few days I caved. Don't get the wrong idea, I’m not wearing nurse-white Dr. Scholl’s, but I have ditched my B&W Converse for a sweet pair of Brooks running shoes in a metallic hue (metallic is a neutral, just ask Clinton or Stacy from WNTW) and am very pleased with the result. I guess maybe you can have it all. 

K.G.