The other night I had a dream that the baby was a muppet. And, he liked me. It was probably the best dream I've ever had. If the baby doesn't come out like a muppet, I'm not going to lie, I'll be a little disappointed. I'm just saying, if the baby happens to be made of felt I'm only going to love it that much more.
In other news, Rachel and I have just come back from our first excursion to Kansas City. The point of the trip was pure business, for pleasure has left us long ago. And, by business, I mean Adam trying to get a job. Wait, what? What job could possibly be in store for a theatre major? Well, the answer is obvious. There is only one logical thing a theatre degree can bring you: a career as a police officer. That's right, soon you just might hear, "Freeze! Adam Martin, FBI." (The FBI part is supposed to be said/read like Billy Dee Williams trying to mack as well as sell you a Colt 45.) But, first, I have to become a police officer. Thus, the business trip to Kansas, where Adam took part in the Lawrence Kansas police recruitment test. In preparation, Adam has racked his brain (skimmed through a book from Borders), become more observant (watched more television), and has taken up running (kind of) and weight lifting (sort of). So, instead of walking into the test as a 135 pound puny mortal, I walked, head held high, as a 138 pound demi-god, ready to put criminals and standardized testing in their place. Needless to say, I arrested arithmetic, read the Miranda rights to reading, and murdered (in the line of duty) memorization.
Because the twelfth grade standardized test said that I was capable of being a policeman, the city of Lawrence extended me an invitation for an oral (not that kind of oral, but still funny) interview a week later. Thus, I was able to return to the majesty of Kansas City two days later (the only reason I had to leave was to work one day at my precious wine cellar), not to mention call in sick to Target (Who, coincidentally, thought I quit and were surprised when I showed up for all of my scheduled shifts, which raises the question, what makes you think I quit when I keep showing up for work? But, I digress...)But, wait! Adam and Rachel are brokity-broke-broke, how were they able to get Supercop back to Kansas City for a twelve minute interview? The answer is simple, dear readers: unused airline vouchers that were supposed to be for our wedding back in February, that coincidentally, added up to the number of dollars to fly Adam. Thus, free baby, free flight.
Now, going for the oral (quit giggling) examination is a very nerve wracking ordeal. This interview could make or break my candidacy. This one interview, according to my book skimming at Borders, is the most difficult, because you sit in front of three to four officers and they all evaluate if you have what it takes to be a cop. So, for preparation, I orally (STOP!) interviewed myself all night at the wine shop, lifted weights/ran (slept in), and bought a snazzy new shirt and tie with a year and a half old gift card from Express (the middle American version of Marc Jacobs). With everything in place, what could go wrong? I mean, I had a free airline ticket, free clothes that actually fit, a free place to stay, and Robocop's body. Yes, I was pumped. And, then it happened. The omen.
The night before the interview, I had the pleasure of staying with Krista and Joel, and was engaged in an exhaustive game of Risk, when Krista offered to iron my shirt. Being a man, and naturally saying, "Why didn't you offer earlier, that's your job as a woman, isn't it?", I graciously accepted, and she began ironing away... for almost an hour, which, even for a woman, is dedication. The next morning, I rise early, shower, mooch from my hosts' shaving supplies, and go to grab my shirt, only to find it crumpled on the ground. Now, you can call it fate, or you can call it Krista, but the moment I saw that, the only thing I could think was, "Holy GodFearingShit... I'm screwed."
Joel was gracious enough to wake up and drive me to my interview (after all, he is the host, and technically that is his job, but, I didn't want to point that out) that morning. We arrived early, ate a small breakfast at McDonald's, and then I went in for the interview at the police station. Now, I don't know about you guys, but when I think of police officers, I think of three things:
1. Cops.
2. The Police Academy Movies
3. Reno 911! (Which is basically a combination of the two aforementioned)
So, it goes without saying that my natural inclination is to expect to be interviewed by Steve Guttenberg, Bobcat Goldthwait, and that guy from 'Reno 911!' who wears those really short shorts. I mean, who wouldn't, right?
But instead of meeting this:
I ran into this:
+
Yes. That's right. Not even Hightower was there.
I mean, I can handle Hightower, at least he had a sense of humor, but former linebackers who read that I was a theatre major could only be thinking one thing: Sissyboy. Not even my newly shaved head and Robocopian physical demeanor could save me from the following conversation that would inevitably ensue later in the day when they were reviewing their notes:
Linebacker 1: What did you think of applicant 54739?
Not Hightower: 54739? Oh, you mean Sissyboy?
Linebacker 1: Oh, that was Sissyboy?
(LAUGHTER IS HEARD THROUGHOUT THE PRECINCT)
Linebacker 1: But, seriously.
I was articulate. I was thorough. I was not, however, a meat-head. Twelve minutes later I walked out in a daze, feeling not like Robocop, but a bloody, limbless Peter Weller before he became Robocop. You can never tell with those interviews, which is partly the point, but right then I pretty much resided in myself that the smooth Billy Dee phrase of, "Freeze! Adam Martin, FBI." will forever be replaced with the booze addled and teeth grinding phrase of, "For an extra fifty-nine cents, you can upgrade that to a large."
The decision to proceed will be made in two weeks. And, that will make for an interesting blog.
Until then, some baby news.
Rachel is currently caught up on all of her testing, and despite a small scare where she might have contracted gestational diabetes which would have resulted in what doctors seriously call 'a fat baby', she's a-okay. Everything is on some right course, and Sam will be here soon. Which is exciting.
To close this post, here are some highlights/observations from the past week:
1. Krista and Joel are probably the coolest people I know (and also live in the coolest loft in the coolest part of Kansas City, which also makes me hate them).
2. The best bar-b-que I've ever had is from a gas station.
3. Museums don't like it when you climb on their shuttlecocks.
4. Although you may be able to learn English from watching the Police Academy movies, it is not a great reference for being an actual police officer.
5. Risk is a very long game, and possibly endless, and that is why your best bet is to fortify Australia and wait for the right moment to unleash the fourth sequel to Crocodile Dundee on an unsuspecting world.
6. Hellboy (Wanted) was pretty terrible.
7. Babies cannot be made of felt.
8. Both Joel and I had a crush on Tina Turner as children.
9. Kansas City feels like home.
10. In a drum off between a bunch of dirty hippies and an inner city drum squad, it is safe to say that the hippies got served (and hired to drum for a wedding)... Yes, this really happened.
11. Kansas City does not have Cash (see below).
(Fat dog full of hate.)
So as not to end with a picture of Cash, here is a picture that I believe sums up the moment:
(We did not die of dysentary, however, we do need an axel.)
End blog.
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