Fore!

That's golfer talk for you're about to get hit in the head with something. Last night I interjected myself into a conversation a couple of guys were having about golf. I was a great golfer for my age at eight, and I still possibly might be able to outperform some eight-year-olds. One of the duffers mentioned that he has no clubs and that the ones he borrows from his pastor are too short for his lanky frame.

I always find it remarkable that the thing on my mind is often what I find in dumpsters. New age people would attribute it to positive energy being returned in kind. Those of various differing faiths would have versions that might include God being mindful of our needs, or perhaps leaving little footprints in our lives to make us mindful of Him.

Irregardless.

Yesterday was the first time in about nine months that overtime was offered. I managed to get a couple of days by puting in for night shift. Days were out because with the mass layoffs the last several months, only old timers are left and OT is granted on a basis of senority. So I worked for twelve plus hours and found that the job is 150% more fun when you are paid time and a half. I was wound up on the adrenaline caused by sliding many tons sideways in the mud and getting paid extra to do it. I decided to chase the high with a dumpster excursion. Yes if I won the lottery I'd celebrate with a world dumpster diving tour.

Now I haven't priced clubs in, well, ever. (My dad bought me the three clubs in my junior glof bag back in the day.) I surmise, however that the 24 hours of overtime would probably get me a nice secondhand set if I was so inclined. Did I? Oh, Ye of little faith.

This reminds me of the manna from heaven story where what my family needed was found at exactly the right time in a dumpster I happend upon.

So with keywords of "Pastor" and "golf" the cosmic Google of dumpsters yielded interesting results.

I was dissapointed to find that the garbage man had beat me to the dumpsters based on the first lid I lifted, and the receiving door was shut. Not sure which door I was hoping for. Silly, I know.

I checked the next dumpster that seems to be more boxes, because this time I really do need some boxes. Lo, and BEHOLD!!!! Two golf bags with clubs in them. Hallelejuia. I still don't golf, but I am equipped! This is what I refer to in the classification of refuse streams as "neighbor trash." Ther

Bad news is I was apparently late for cookies and milk. Litterally.

There was gooey samonella laced cookie dough and dribbles of milk from leaking cartons in the bottom of the nearly empty dumpster. No, I didn't have Gill Grissom along to swab for pathogens. The reason for the cookie dough discard I was to find out later, fortunately not the hard way. Read on.

SO the milk was soured, spilled but not cryed over. The chocolate chips melted and sticky. Kind of foul smelling, the lot. (Takes the fine edge of delight of the excursion to have ones olefactory senses offended in a dumpster, but it happens.)

So, now I had an excuse to enter the store for cleaning supplies unrelated to stalking the cute clerk/dockworker. Hmm there is some dissonance between my image of the lovely Miss (Surely not Mrs?) Nametagless and the common connotation with dockworker.

I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me. I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.I will not stalk the clerk just for being pleasant to me.

I little pennace is good for the soul. I admit I was a bit dissapointed that she also wasn't working the registers.

I spent $6 on a couple of rolls of paper towels, and a spray bottle of the antibacterial version of Formula 409. (Drop me a line if you work for them and want to send me a case of it or maybe a case of cash for the plug.) I cleaned the outside of the golf bags enough that I deighned to put them in my car to take them home for more thourough refurbishment.

I found I had to clean the car a bit as well, and imagined what my 14 year old would say about my sprucing up the interior of 'her' car (She has paid $86 of very hard earned babysitting money towards its eventual purchase. Im driving it because it has no exhaust leak to give away a stealthy stalk, and it gets 40-50 mpg.) I practiced my lie. "Well I have to keep it clean in case I run into any blonds with big boobs. I must (as per usual and with the usual parenthetical asides) digress a bit here to explain. When I bought my mid-life crisis car, my (now soon to be sadly, ex-wife) said, "As long as it doesn;t involve a Blonde with Big Boobs, go ahead and have your midlife crisis. My daughter knows the story and when a brief discussion was held about the (far distant, remote) prospect of me dating someone in the future, she had said, "If you show up with a Blond with Big Boobs, I'm running screaming out of here." Left out of that discussion is why I didn't tell my wife that when you hit your midlife crisis, steer clear of burly, long-haired, bearded, husky, biker dudes. Also left out was why my daughter didn't run screaming when my wife drug such a "paramor" (and I used the term with GREAT license here!) she didn't run screaming.

Anyway enter stage right an actual Blond (actual, not necessarilly natural) with, well fairly ample mammalian protruberances or at least silocoln facsimiles of same. Not that I am knocking her er, knockers, they were nicely proportional, and she was smartly dressed and didn't return my smile directly but the corner of her mouth twitched up at my double take. I'm pretty sure that wasn't the first time she'd had a male look in her direction. I actually considered running her down and explaining that, although she is clearly attractive, my grin was at the weird coincidence of thinking the phrase Blond with Big Boobs and having one appear. I quickly thought of a stack of money and whirled, but know luck. Well, yet.

I fought the losing battle to not crane my neck around and have her drag my eyes with her all the way in to the store. I fixate on the oddest things. I noticed the left tie on her capris dangled on her calf. My eye ratched up a bit and came in line with two employees lingering at the entrance. I stared past the blond and there was Miss (I'm sure) Nametagless! In the very doorway I had just come through a minute or two before. Weird. Maybe she's stalking me.

I felt RIDICULOUS as I both tried to avoid staring in the direction of the blond, and looking like I was stalking my stalker. All the while, I still feel a little like I am being faitul to my cheating wife (and I mean cheating wife in the descriptive sense, not perjoratively.) Arrgh!

A friend often tells people that although I don't have a 'drinkin' problem, I have a serious 'thinkin' problem.

I felt pahetic as I went into the store, passing MS. NTL (much snappier moniker don;t you think?) Like I'm 14 at the dance, I want to say high to her, and I can't thnk of what to say after hi so I say nothing and hope she doesn't notice me trying not to be noticed.

I go in and browse magazines. I am way to cheap to buy one with libraries full of books and an entire interweb being filled with content even as I type. I suddenly remeber that in my trip for the supplies into the grocery story, I had gotten no groceries and I had nothing to make my lunch with for tommorow (tonight?) night. Shift work is bewildering.

I decide enough is enough, I go straight to the ham, grab a pack, then with out deviation to the bread, which happened to be next to an entrance to the loading area. I am weak. I looked. No joy. (Hey that might be a good name for her..hmm)

Soldiering on I grab mustard (the cheap store brand) and head straight for the register. Reaching my place in line I rotate a 1/4 turn to allign with the rest of the sheeple and in my periphery, there is Joy! Wow magic. Weird.

She smiles in what was either recognition, wary unease, or standard store policy greating smile. If that is company issue, they aren' paying her enough. Pretty decent wattage and to the desparate, the sincerity is self-evident if you need to believe bad enough.

I skipped straight to full on motor mouth 5th gear. In a tremendous rushs she seemed to follow. (And she is bright too! Anyone that can follow me is clearly exceptionaly gifted in intellect. pat yourself on the back brave reader for making it this far.)

I couldn;t give you verbatim. I barely have time enough in a day to speak the volume I do, let alone recount all of it and running commentary beside. I basically explained that I got there after the garbage man, but that after that someone had dumped some clubs. I explained that I was just talking clubs the night before and well, it would have been simpler If I'd written the blog, printed it, then found the clubs so that when I ran into her It could be succinctly laid out for her to read.

I reminded her that I had explained that I had a blog about diving, and let her know that if I had any readers she would be semi-famous because I had written up our last couple of encounters. She said something that sounded cheerful, and not at all creeped out as I had imagined she might. I hesitantly suggested, "I should print it out and bring it in so you can see yourself (nameless) in print.

"Yes, do!" she smiled.

Trying (and failing) to look at the signs objectively, I think she is allowing me to be encouraged. I honestly don't know where to go with that. I have no plans for my future other than to keep my chin up, meet lots of people and not rush into anything that smacks of rebound. That seems unfair to the other person, as well as limiting myself when I have no idea what I would look for in a friend, date, or whatever.

I scripted a whole approach in my head.

"You know, you really should dine with me sometime from my foraging. I promise a good meal filled with adventure. Think of the possibilities. Either this gives you a GREAT "how we met" story, or a "weirdest date I EVER agreed to" story."

If I had any readers, it would be nice to know if any know a good stalker defense lawyer.

Second Date?

I hadn't decided what exactly I would do with the beer, but had decided that it was too much money sitting there to waste. I couldn't have taken it last night through the gates to work, because it is a fireable offense to have alcohol on the property. (Even locked in the car.)

I went back this morning to retrieve it. I saw my friendly receiving dock attendant sitting just inside the back door. She gave a wave, and I had a little schoolboy flutter. I backed up to the dumpster and got out. She said something but I couldnt hear after a night over 2,300 throbbing diesel powered horses. I approached about half way to hear her repeat, "they just took it", meaning that the garbage truck had beat me to the dumpster.

"Oh," I said, with nothing more to say, and no real excuse to hang around. "You'll have to let the rest of it go to the dump for the next few days since i'm off work for a few days and won't be back up." Dumb, but I was freestyling here.

In hindsight I should have asked her if she wanted to run away with me to the big city hours away to dive exotic dumpsters for a couple of days. I wasn't that socially adept 17 years ago, and being off the market that long hasn't sharpend my skills.

Possibly why dumpsters are oft associated with skid row.

Last night I went by the dumpster again on the way into work. No produce this time but there was beer. Lots of beer.

There were bottles of Miller lime. Apparently my hard drinking co-workers prefer corona and actual lime to St. Louis counterfeits. There were also large cans of something called Ice House, apparently designed for two drinkers wanting to use both fists on one can. Never noticed cans of that proportion, but I am not a drinker.

As a teetotaler, this is not a great find for me, but in ordinary circumstances I would have grabbed it anyway. Its not like I don;t have friends that have or would like to develop a drinking problem. My wife had a similar brew with our oldest son's friends and reported liking the hint of lime in Bud Light Lime. Not sure whether it would be a good idea or not to take them to her. Not sure what that would say. She partied in her younger days in her hometown (where we live now). She gave up drinking entirely when she found she was expecting our oldest child. She had described herself as a problem drinker. Not an alcoholic, but simply a that couldn't say no to another. 2-3 were enough to wipe her out, but she regretted not stopping at say a beer and a half. Regardless, when I met her she hadn't had a drink for almost two years and continued her abstinence for the next 19 years that I have known her. She had a beer or two at the county fair here in her hometown last year and has resumed the occasional recreational beverage. I have been concerned but clumsy about how to express my support of her without condoning.

I never drank even a sip till we moved here. I have had a handful of drinks to show I don't look down on her drinking, but that misguided effort fell flat as she knows my heart isn't in it and can't let her hair down and enjoy a drink or two in my presence. She took to going out when I work night shift with her new found enthusiastic drinking buddies. I expressed some concern about that on many levels including the perception that a woman in a bar while her husband is at work sends a message of availability. She was understandably offended at the implication. Not my intention but its really tough to express concerns about this direction without giving offense.

Country music has been devastating me lately as I work the night shift. "I want my life back" by Bucky Covington played as the set up last night right before a song by Jimmy Wayne that seems apt. She was open and truthful with me about the fun she was having at the bar once frequented by a Supreme Court Justice. (No kidding!) She discovered shes a better pool player with a drink or two in her. She reported that the guys there are "so nice." This didn't reassure me. They were respectful. She was above reproach. She fell in love.

I can't help but blame alcohol in general and the lack of anything but bars in this small town specifically. There is obviously a lot more to the story including my own soul searched regrets about not making her feel valued and encouraging her objectification, but seeing this coming and not being able to get out of the way has been wrenching.

Jimmy Wayne More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Banana Bread!

My next visit to the dumpster, while less successful socially, (The loading dock was deserted) was a veritable cornucopia of produce. OK there were no squash or for that matter any manner of autumnal harvest extant in the find but I grabbed two boxes of decent looking produce. One was a case of bananas which were ripe, but not overly so. Also were more bell peppers some large Idaho Russets and some quite ripe tomatoes.

I chopped up a couple of peppers to munch on during my long night shift, had a banana for breakfast and got some shut-eye. If don't recall if I dreamed of Rigid s in my fitful daytime sleep.

Diving and Dating?

As I mentioned in the last post I finally started diving again despite my usual reluctance to do so when financial circumstance make it an even better idea. As mentioned in the last post I found some bell peppers for a stir fry.

I cruised up to the dumpster in my loud (chronic exhaust leak) little mid-life crisis import. I was disappointed to see the rear receiving door open. That means employees.

My usual aplomb out of practice I decided to check and see if it was worth a possible confrontation, using the divers stand-by "Just checking for boxes..." if necessary.

As I stopped an attractive woman came careening out of the bay with an empty pallet on the forklift she was operating. I am sure she would have been attractive in say an evening gown competition as well, but what is it about a woman competently wielding a piece of equipment that is incongruently sexy? Must be the influence of those old cheesecake Rigid Tools pinups. ~shrug~

Anyway it has been a harried month of working and then moving once again the things I just moved here from our old house to my new place. I haven't had a chance to reflect much on my prospects for dating in my upcoming singleton future. I had vaguely thought about various 'passing in the street' crushes over the years, and wondering what it will be like not to have to feel disloyal to my wife to pursue those avenues of thought, not to mention the scary prospect of pursuing actual women.

I was keeping an eye in her direction as much for looks of disapproval about my trespassing a much as her aesthetic appeal. I grabbed a random box out of the dumpster and placed it as clever subliminal signal atop my car. "Hey look I'm grabbing a few boxes. I am harmless."

A heard a bit of a crash and then an "Ooops!" I look over and she is reversing course nervously looking over her shoulder to see what she had backed into. Remembering a time I had backed into the beam above a receiving door with my forks extended too high, I could help but laugh. I ambled over, sure for some reason that my story about that recollection would be topical and witty. As I related the story she seemed to be listing intently with a sparkle of humor in her smoky eyes. (Most likely it was a wary "flight or flight" attentiveness she was actually projecting as she did a risk assessment on crazy dumpster guy.

We agreed that nothing at all had happened here and the crushed rodent control 'thingy' must have just disintegrated entirely on its own.

For reasons of my need currently and historically for validation, I felt the urge to explain my presence without pretense at the dumpster. I explained, hesitantly but with a vulnerable pride that I was diving. I regaled her briefly with a couple of dive anecdotes. (Though brief is obviously not my strong suit.)

She continued her warm smile, and I felt some acceptance.

I needed that.

Not exactly a date per se, but it felt good to know that there is apparently a wide world of cuties out there that may not run screaming at my social graces.

Update Ramble

Been a long time since I have updated this Blog. The job I took a year and a half ago takes long hours (up to 15 hours a day including commute) and takes place outside of a small town that one would think would have few opportunities for diving. I, naturally had done a bit of scrounging, mostly on the job of things destined to be wasted. Can't think of many examples at the moment.

Sadly, after 17 years of marriage my wife and I are headed for a divorce. It isn't the first time she has felt that way, but this time she has chosen to move on, and I have rented a cute little pink house for the kids and I. We had recently bought a little house in the country for $44k with only $1750 down and a reasonable payment of $750 a month for a year then only $550 for the remaining 10 years of the note. This was to be the replacement for the most recent chapter of my real estate investing saga. I had been a home owner for the last 24 years when at age 19 I purchased my first home. I have a long track record of buying at the top of the market. This time I leverage to the hilt at the top, then found myself marginally employed (hence the move to where I am now and the blue collar job.) When the job cut back the overtime and the per diem pay for those with out of area residences, the house had to go. I went from $6.5K to $8K in take home a month to $2,400. Kind of tough to pay a first and second mortgages totaling $2,600 and live well on the negative $200 a month discretionary portion. I was, at first feeling put upon to give up the new house to my wife, but on reflection, the loss happened when the market crashed, and my investment out his is minimal in dollar amount, even if it was a great emotional salve to have a place to go to to call my own. I think it is for the best. Financially I always land on my feet, and will recover. This way she has a place of her own for her time with the kids. We are sharing custody of the four youngest with the oldest at 20 ostensibly fending for himself. Minus the occasional outburst of emotion I am sure are common in we are proceeding as amicably as we can. (Fingers crossed.) I love her still, but have to let her do what she feels she needs to do to take care of herself.

Anyway, on to the point of this blog, the diving. There is one grocery store in the town. It is a chain specific to my state that was started by thrifty Lebanese immigrants at the turn of the century. In my old major metropolitan city, I found that they didn't have the best produce stocked in their dumpster. I had theorized that the reason is that they do a lot of baking and prep work at each actual store location for their deli and fresh bakery items.

The choicest dove for items at any grocery store are perishables that are odd-sized, or nicked or otherwise usable, but not attractive in appearance. I think they wisely grab those things for their deli salads, and sandwiches and so forth.

I went a couple of days ago and found only a couple of bell-peppers. I made a nice stir fry for the kids. This was the second visit of the day. The first visit before my 12.5 hour shift yielded nothing but I did run into another hard core diver. I recognized him as such from his broomstick with a hook affixed to it. I eschew such conveniences, preferring the belly-busting classic divers head-down-feet up pose. After shift there was one over ripe avocado, some rotten tomatoes and the peppers. Slim pickings, but satisfying to find something.

One of the things I have noticed about my diving trends over the years is that I am still a bit psychologically averse to the poverty such activity connotes. When I have been truly without material wants, I dive with real aplomb. When times are lean I look over my shoulder more and feel less than socially acceptable.

On a logical basis, lean times are the best reason to dive, but I struggle. Nationally of course the recession has hit hard. In our major city, my wife recently drove one of the main streets when back for a visit and relate3d to me many of the places that had gone under in the year and a half since we left. The most surprising to me in this downturn was the Army-Navy surplus store that had been an institution since just after World War II. You would think that they would thrive in a down turn. Maybe the shabby chic look of Uncle Sam's olive drab is being avoided by people trying their best to look presentable on a shoestring in favor of Chinese imports at WalMart. Thrift stores I have seen seem busy, but with customers leaning towards the out of date versions of fashionable brands. Slumming isn't as cool when we all live in foreclosure riddled neighborhoods.


The next post was actually the reason I went to the library to have a chance to jot down.

Stopped for a snack.

I was coming home after an extremely long day. 12 hours with the persistant vibration of an immense diesel under me, followed by a slow and careful 4 hour trip home in a car capable of twice the speed. I knew the last few miles would take me past my green-grocer as I like to call the dumpster behind Safeway.

I decided a little fresh fruit would make a nice snack for after the anticipated welcome home. I was actually leaning into the dumpster when my wife called again to see how I was progressing on packing and preparing for the trip home which was to be the next day. I lied again for the 6th or 7th time that night and dashed home with a box of fruit and a grin.