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In a previous episode, I had a terrible run in with Men’s Warehouse but in that Today’s Man is out business and Men’s Warehouse has launched a Big and Tall line (euphemism for “we fit fat people”) I gave them a try.  The fellow that met me at the door had bleached teeth and unsurprisingly, a really nice suit.  He asked me what I wanted and I gave him the standard description for what I want in a suit, 2 button (otherwise I look like I have boobs, or at least more so), single-breasted, dark blue, cuffed pants, slightly short in the arms.

He asked me my name, I told him:
Lee (salesman): Terry, have you had trouble buying suits before?
Me: Yes… One of your stores in fact.
Lee: I know what you’re problem is.
Me: What’s that?
Lee: You’re not fat, and there’s clothing out there for you.

Clothing for non-fat people.  How amazing!  He picked out some things for me to try on, and I was swimming in them.  He said they were perfect, I told him I normally wear a smaller size (God, I don’t say that much) and he shooed me to the authentic Hispanic seamstress.  In a flurry of hand motion, pins were put into places, fabric was folded, smooth salsa was on the radio and when she was done, Lee stepped in, looked at the seamstress and said in his nasal New York Jewish accent “Marisa, que bueno”.   I agreed.

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In a previous episode, I had a terrible run in with Men’s Warehouse but in that Today’s Man is out business and Men’s Warehouse has launched a Big and Tall line (euphemism for “we fit fat people”) I gave them a try.  The fellow that met me at the door had bleached teeth and unsurprisingly, a really nice suit.  He asked me what I wanted and I gave him the standard description for what I want in a suit, 2 button (otherwise I look like I have boobs, or at least more so), single-breasted, dark blue, cuffed pants, slightly short in the arms.

He asked me my name, I told him:
Lee (salesman): Terry, have you had trouble buying suits before?
Me: Yes… One of your stores in fact.
Lee: I know what you’re problem is.
Me: What’s that?
Lee: You’re not fat, and there’s clothing out there for you.

Clothing for non-fat people.  How amazing!  He picked out some things for me to try on, and I was swimming in them.  He said they were perfect, I told him I normally wear a smaller size (God, I don’t say that much) and he shooed me to the authentic Hispanic seamstress.  In a flurry of hand motion, pins were put into places, fabric was folded, smooth salsa was on the radio and when she was done, Lee stepped in, looked at the seamstress and said in his nasal New York Jewish accent “Marisa, que bueno”.   I agreed.

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Gregg Wilson was over my house.  I can’t quite remember why but it was past midnight and we were hungry.  Gregg is one of the few friends I have that’s “In College” and has the budget, clothing and tastes associated with that.  I wanted to do my guerrilla measurement work but Applebees was priced out of Gregg’s range.  We instead opted on purchasing cold cuts to assemble into sandwiches followed by a date with the sandwich press.

At Wawa, I ran into Rick Spross, Gary Spross’s dad, a man I don’t think I’ve seen for about four years and while he’s an optometrist during the day, he looked like a vagrant in his Eagles sweater and non-descript gray took and he struck up conversation.  I proceeded to utter a phrase set with a fantastically high innuendo density.
Rick Spross: So, what’ve you been up to?
Me: Gregg and I were at home in my room dicking around when we got hungry for a meat sandwich of some sort.  Gregg, the hungry cheap bastard didn’t want to go out with anyone else and said he looked horrible so I picked up some hard salami that he could down one we’d heated things up.
Rick Spross: Oh…

I’d try to make a Modern English joke in there about the sandwich toaster but I don’t think it’s worth the effort.

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For the first time in like 8 months I judged a PTQ for PT: Hollywood.  Pro Tour Qualifiers are events at which Magic players can qualify for invitation-only events. PTQs are interesting events in that there’s a confusing mix of n00bs, semi-pros and absolute pricks.  The event was held in a church basement and it was nice juxtaposition of seeing cards like Ghastly Demise and the cadaver-eating Ichorid against a background of “Opening the Door to the House of the Lord” or “Praying So God Can Hear You”.

I semi-blew a call round 1 where there was a mutual failure to communicate, but it had to involve a player that calls “Judge” if his opponent sneezes.  After the fact, I heard some creative re-tellings of what happened involving me slapping someone and flying salmon.  On the plus side, the combination of cramped space and sweaty unbathed men usually results in a stinky venue by round 2, this place didn’t smell until clear into round 4.  The church kids are probably in for an aromatic treat on Monday.  We also had to announce during the day that men should not go into the Women’s Room.  Later, the Men’s room floor was replaced by Lake Tinkle and players started bragging about how far back they could be and still hit the puck, now I know how lakes expand.

The final note of the day was my attempt at using the Broken Window Theory for trash collection.  Normally, trash is picked up when it hits a critical amount, but today I was much more aggressive thinking that the presence of trash promotes dropping shit.  I have theorized that Magic players and campers have a gland that produces trash but I’ve not confirmed this.  Anyway, this worked great until the 5th round when I took my lunch break.  When I returned, there were mounds of pack wrappers and I think I saw a tumbleweed made out of crap commons.  It worked for a while, at least.

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A co-worker mentioned she’d bought 15 pounds of cereal from a bulk foods distributor, after I stopped laughing thinking about a 15 lb bag of Wheaties I poked around for a distributor and found bulkfoods.com and checking in their dried fruit section found the section divided into Sulfured and Non-Sulfured Fruits.  That makes me feel safe.

I think their candy section should be “with small razor sharp metal bits and without small razor sharp metal bits”.

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I regularly bake and bring cakes and such to work and on Wednesday I brought peanut butter brownies but forgot to take the knife I used home.  I use a large chef’s knife because well, I bought an extra during a buying binge brought on by a combination of Amazon Prime, One Click Purchasing and 20% off homewares.  The knife had been cleaned by someone (thanks, anonymous coworker!) and placed rather plainly on my desk, where I imagine it’s sat for two days scaring and peaking the curiosity of passersby.  I put it in the pen slot in my desks center drawer and later scared the shit (figuratively) out of a coworker who rooted into my desk to borrow a pen only to find the knife sitting there.

In the discussion afterwards we decided to put a label of some sort on the knife and these recommendations fell into some general categories:

  • Warning: “Don’t touch my pens!” or “The cake is a lie!”
  • Women’s Name: Either something cute or mellifluous “Becky” or “Samantha”
  • Women’s Name: Creepy or Crazy “Mildred” or “Ophelia”
  • Title: “The Lasseratrix”, “Razor’s Envy” or “Truthbringer”
  • Emotion: “Passion” or “Desire”

Tell me what you think.

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Yesterday on the train, the person sitting next to me was reviewing her email when I noticed the name at the top: Annie Aungst. Annie Aungst? I hope her name was Annie Angst and she changed changed it. That’s the name of a porn star, roller derby contestant or fem-punk rock frontwomen, not someone who worked for the United Way or some other non-profit. I wonder if she’s ever having problems getting money as a client said “I gave in to Aungst” or something equally ambiguous.  I hope she has a Boston or norther accent in capable of the long “aww” noise required to differentiate Aungst from Angst.  Either way, what if she had a kid?  They’d practically be the emo poster-child.