Cod Tails....

This is the first of a bunch of random happenings/embarrassments that have happened to me over my 30 chaotic years.

These next events lead up to a most glamorous day in the life of a Cod....

It all started in 1985 when I was 11. I got my first real "job" delivering newspapers. I had a fairly decent sized route to begin with. A little while later some dweeb (not like me, Mr. Cool) that was doing the neighboring route quit because he couldn't cut it (the pansy). I picked up his route as well as my own. I didn't mind the extra work (or the $) at all. It kept me out of the bars and away from the prostitutes. But little did I know that another addiction would soon rear it's ugly head.

Baseball cards.

Yes, baseball cards.

They are the crack cocaine to unsuspecting 11 year old kids.

There I was, Mr. Innocent (don't laugh!) 11 year old. I had a pocket full of money and nothing to spend it on. (Remember, I'm not in the bars with prostitutes anymore...pay attention!!) Innocently enough I offered to help my Mom (aren't I sweet?) with the shopping. Actually, she dragged me out of the house kicking and screaming, but that is neither here nor there. In between temper tantrums and cruising for chicks I saw a pack of baseball cards and decided in all of my innocent childness (is that a word?) that it would be fun to purchase a pack of my sports hero's with MY OWN MONEY. Little did I know that it would turn into a terrible obsession....

I found that I couldn't buy enough baseball cards. I would be extra nice to the people on my paper route just to get more money for cards. I really didn't like any of them...well, maybe that chick with the great boobs at 17 Birch Road. Maybe I should move on...

I would look through the couch for spare change to buy more cards. I would use my lunch money for cards. My most lucrative spot for extra money was on top of the dryer where everyone would put the change that fell out of everyone's pockets. I would do anything for cards. CARDS CARDS CARDS!! I would buy pack after pack with every spare penny that I had "earned". I think that the time when I realized that I had reached my lowest point was when I got up an hour before school, rode my bike 4 miles to the only store in town that had a whole box, unopened. What a feeling! It must be like a crack whore finding one more piece of rock wedged in the copper wool from the night before.

To make a long story short, I collected roughly over 2000 cards in a year and change of collecting. At the age of 12-13, I realized that there are much better things to spend money on.....like women. And lord knows that I have been spending every freaking dime on women since then.

All that crap has been a preface for a short story that will begin here...

So, there I was....the summer of 2001. My eldest son had just turned 9 and had become an avid baseball player. He had recently been given his 1st pack of baseball cards (not by me!! I know better). He innocently asked me if I had ever collected baseball cards. "Of course" I said. I then regaled him with glamorous stories of action and adventure. After he rolled his eyes at me for a while...it happened. He asked to see them.

Fast forward to later that afternoon....

I had previously stored all 3 boxes of my personal effects (I am married, they aren't allowed in the house) in the attic/crawlspace. I had previously borrowed a ladder to put them up there, but that day I didn't have access to said ladder. So, being Super Dad I used a chair! Yeah, smart fucking move on my part.

I got up there ok. I had to have the wife hold the chair while I stood on the back of it. I then put one foot on a shelf in the closet and launched myself up. No problem. The problem surfaced while I was coming down. Stupid me, I tried to come down the same way that I went up. Let's just say that it didn't go to well.

I lowered myself down through the hole and then rested my foot on the shelf. In full disclosure, I am not exactly petite. I can't believe that those 6 drywall anchors wouldn't hold 200 pounds! The shelf then let go and down I came....sort of. I had wisely, or stupidly... your call, decided to hold on to the edge of the attic (a vertical piece of particle board that is used to box in the insulation that is blown in between the joists). Here I come, crashing down....swinging like Tarzan the whole way. I looked like I was doing an event at the Olympics. I'm not quite sure but I think that I may have done a triple sowcow at one point. Of course, after the landing I realized that I had ripped the palm of my hand off and dislocated my shoulder.

So there I am, lying on the floor with the drywall dust settling all around me wondering how to put my hand back on with my arm hanging at some weird angles. What was Mrs. Cod doing, you ask? Laughing like a fucking crazy person. I thought that she was in convulsions.

That's my wife.

What a gal.

Yeah, she loves me.