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.