I decided that I don't really want to have to rely upon the library for my internet consumption. This was made a little more clear to me after an experience I had on Tuesday.
I was sitting at a desk, typing for my new kinda-job. Which I suppose I should explain. I found a job. Kinda. I am doing freelance writing for OrangeSoda. Not the full time career I was hoping for, yet probably at least a foot in the door. Anyways.
I was writing. I little fat Mexican man came and sat across from me. At some point, he apparently decided that lifting his shirt up to practically his nipples would be a good idea, followed by rubbing his hands up and down on his buddy (gut) for about an entire minute. Now, I like lifting up my shirt and rubbing the bear skin of my buddy just as much as the next asshole. But MAYBE not in the public library. He just gazed out the window, and rub, rub, rubbed away.
At first I just stared at him. Thinking that he would probably subside within an 8-12 second time frame. But he just never stopped. So after about 45 seconds of staring at his buddy, belly button, nipples, and the gigantic scar that snaked its way up the center of his chest, I decided I should probably get out my phone and record him. He repeated the buddy rub at least 6 times, probably amassing to a grand total of at least 4 straight minutes of shirt-up-buddy-rub.
As much as I actually really actually enjoyed this experience, I decided that it was time to get the interweb in my own home. So I called Qwest and now I have one more bill, amongst a googolplex of bills.
I've decided that being a grownup kind of sucks sometimes. I feel like I have money going in 50 different directions every single month. In reality, that number is closer to 9. But still.
I wonder how many bills the buddy rubber has? Maybe that's what he was pondering, upon looking out the window and stroking his ample buddy, just how he was going to make ends meet this month. Maybe lifting up my shirt and rubbing my buddy will help me sort out my life confusions. At worst, it will feel great. And in public, even.
25.3.10
20.3.10
A quick path to self loathing
It is fairly difficult to describe the nearly insatiable self loathing that one feels upon consuming an entire loaf of bread and a large ice cream scoop worth of whipping cream. Not moderately low fat Cool Whip, mind you, but full on heavy cream based fatty sugary Carrabba made whipping cream. And, said cream having been consumed by dipping bread in it. Nothing makes a guy feel fatter, nor more pathetic than that. Especially when said creamy carb consumption occurred in the midst of a day of Jamba Juice, 2 bowls of cereal, 2 bowls of oatmeal, various Vanilla Wafers, a bowl of shrimp pasta, some calamari, a bunch of fajita steak and bell peppers, and a pack of Kazoozles. GET REAL.
The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.
I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.
I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.
Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.
I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.
I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.
Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.
The next morning when I woke up, I had gained back two of five previously lost pounds. Way to go, fatty.
I have come to realize, over the last few months, that my eating habits have been particularly terrible for a long time, and I have been making an attempt to do better. The day where I ate some of EVERYTHING, was actually sort of a fluke. I was at work for 11 hours, and I only took one table the entire day. Which meant I had a lot of time to stand around and think about how good a loaf of bread dipped in whip cream would be.
I find that when I am bored, I want to eat. Which I think is pretty normal. I'm just really bad at giving in. Like I think about all of the vanilla wafers hiding in dry storage at work, and I want to eat every last one of them. So since that terrible two pound day, I have been trying pretty hard not to bored eat.
Working in a restaurant where finding a meal that weighs in at less than 1000 calories is nigh unto impossible, consequentially makes it nigh unto impossible to avoid eating like obesity sounds like a great life plan. Especially when I am there for 12 hours at a time. Whenever I bring a person who scarcely fits into one chair a heaping plate of pasta drenched in lemon butter, alfredo sauce, and a whole lot of potential ass growth, I just want to get my own pasta, sit down, and grow our asses together. Everything looks SO GOOD when I am hungry. Or bored. Or whatever.
I have recently discovered that I really like plain pasta with some Romano cheese grated and mixed into it. Simple, and pretty low fat. I guess there are a lot of carbs there, but...life goes on. I love bread probably even more than Kazoozles (maybe)and therefore will NEVER be able to truly limit my carb intake. Sorry body, you're just going to have to deal with every carb.
I guess my attempts at a less damaging way of eating go in conjunction with my goal to return to a level of physical fitness where I felt good all the time, and mountain biking was actually fun. Where walking up a flight of 10 stairs didn't take my breath away. Which sort of sounds romantic, getting one's breath taken away. Except for when it is in reference to ascending a very short incline. I have been cycling pretty consistently for the last two months or so, and can now therefore, walk up at least 25 stairs before losing my breath. Probably another 2K10 miracle.
Besides being the year of the miracle, the wall of shame, and the super sizing of government bureaucracy, 2K10 is also going to be the year where Fishkins made the journey back down to 180 lbs, and finally felt good in a pair of mid thigh length swimming trunks.
9.3.10
The beginning of the end
I have been thinking a lot about dating lately. About the apparent futility of it, up to this point in my life. I think if I had back every dollar that I spent on every failed relationship or fruitless date that I have ever been on...let's just say I probably wouldn't have to be driving Javier with the absurdly loud muffler any more.
I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.
I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.
I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.
I went on a date the other night. I figure I spent around 40 bucks. NBD. However, I was thinking yesterday while I was at work (I have a lot of time to stand around and think between the hours of 2-5) that 40 dollars worth of Kazoozles would have brought me an infinitely greater measure of happiness than that date. I mean, come on, 40 Kazoozles? At LEAST 7 days of happiness.
I think I'm going to start making dating decisions based upon a Kazoozle happiness ratio. I will calculate the amount of money I expect to reasonably spend. And if I think that purchasing an equal amount of Kazoozles would probably make me happier, date canceled.
I have a feeling I'm going to be eating a lot of Kazoozles.
When stringy blonde hair just isn't enough
So I guess I sort of took a small break from blogging. I have been applying for a job (that I didn't get) and during the application process, I just didn't much feel like blogging. One of the things they asked me to do, was name the worst band in history. So I did. And it was OBVIOUSLY Nickelback. I'm a little worried that maybe whomever was reviewing what I wrote, was a big Nickelback fan, and for that reason I did't get the job. Or maybe it was just simply the fact that there were probably a hundred applicants, and with that many, at least a few are bound to be better than I am, albeit hard to believe. Anyways.
I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.
The WORST band in history.
Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.
Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.
You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.
I think that I have a good appreciation for a wide range of music. I certainly do not hate everything popular. I’m not one of those people. I like the Killers just as much as the next guy who’s just too young to have appreciated Depeche Mode in the 80’s. But, that said, there certainly IS a lot of garbage on the radio. For whatever reason people seem to be drawn to crappy, overproduced music like T-cells to a pathogen. People are always flocking to bad rock ballads, scratchy, angry vocalists, and stringy blonde hair. I guess I’m narrowing it down at this point. I’m referring, of course, to Nickelback.
The WORST band in history.
Ironically, as deserving of the aforementioned title as Nickelback certainly is, they were deemed the most influential band of the decade by Billboard. If by “influential” Billboard was referring to the resurgence of chin length bleached blonde hair amongst angst ridden teen man-boys, or the rise of tattoo-esque designs on t-shirts and jeans with pre-fabricated holes—they might be spot on. But if this alleged influence was indeed in reference to music…I’m slightly confounded.
Who (artist wise) was Nickelback influencing? Creed? One can’t influence one’s roots. So who then? I would argue that Nickelback didn’t do a single original or groundbreaking thing throughout the first decade of this century. They provided no new sound, no intelligent or life altering lyrics. Simply a load of angst driven drivel, great for head banging and inspiring the consumption of Natty Ice.
You want an influential band? Take Radiohead, for instance. They practically revolutionized rock and roll. They created an entirely new style of music and a revolutionary way of distributing music. By releasing In Rainbows in 2007 as a download for “whatever people thought it was worth,” they were doing something truly influential. Radiohead made a difference by what they brought to music not by singing about joining the mile high club, owning a bathtub big enough for 10, or any other manner of cheap sexual innuendo. Thanks for nothing Nickelback.
21.2.10
12.2.10
YOU HAVE TO READ THIS
Whenever I am the recipient of an email forward, in conjunction with the inherent eyeroll, there is always a mental "ugh." Because getting a forward is such a disappointment. Because Bill Gates really ISN'T sharing his fortune with everyone who forwards this. But in addition to the feelings of annoyance, I am also often filled with at least a small amount of curiosity. Not concerning the content of the actual forward, but rather about the nature of THE forward itself. Part of nearly every forward that I have ever received, is this line in the subject: FWD FWD THIS IS A MUST READ! Or, DO NOT DELETE THIS ONE! Or, YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS! Nothing makes me want to read something less, than when I am implored in caps to not delete it, or that I have to see it. I have deleted many a forward that was a must read, and my heart still beats. I have not been stricken down by the hand of God.
Is that why forwards exist? Because so many people, upon receiving one, and seeing the subject line claim of ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE, really believe that they are about to witness something absolutely unbelievable? What does it feel like to read YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS, and feel completely compelled to have to see this? Or, to have one's finger frozen an inch above the delete key (probably just poised on the mouse, in reality) unable to descend, because of having been commanded to NOT DELETE THIS ONE.
As one who does not receive many forwards, I have some questions about them. Most claim that THEY MUST BE SEEN. As opposed to what? Forwards that say, "This is of probable moderate to little interest for most human beings, and therefore the continued forwardation of this is not mandatory." I might actually read such a forward. Rather than a forward created by waddever asshole decided that such a joke, piece of info, picture, video, mantra, religious message, or whatever, needed to be seen by every single mother on the planet and then subsequently forwarded to every living friend and relative of those mothers.
My mother loves forwards, God bless her. I think basically every mother does. And to her credit, she only VERY occasionally sends me the forwards that REALLY MUST BE READ. Like I learned about how not to get smashed to death in an earthquake. Or how not to get scammed by phony census people trying to steal my crapy credit score. If you want, I can forward you those. But I might change the subject lines to, "read if you are bored, or don't want to die horribly in an earthquake." See how that worked? It gave me the option to NOT read, followed by slyly compelling me to read or maybe die horribly. I guess I should start creating forwards.
Maybe I can get monies for that, since I can't find a real job.
Is that why forwards exist? Because so many people, upon receiving one, and seeing the subject line claim of ABSOLUTELY UNBELIEVABLE, really believe that they are about to witness something absolutely unbelievable? What does it feel like to read YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS, and feel completely compelled to have to see this? Or, to have one's finger frozen an inch above the delete key (probably just poised on the mouse, in reality) unable to descend, because of having been commanded to NOT DELETE THIS ONE.
As one who does not receive many forwards, I have some questions about them. Most claim that THEY MUST BE SEEN. As opposed to what? Forwards that say, "This is of probable moderate to little interest for most human beings, and therefore the continued forwardation of this is not mandatory." I might actually read such a forward. Rather than a forward created by waddever asshole decided that such a joke, piece of info, picture, video, mantra, religious message, or whatever, needed to be seen by every single mother on the planet and then subsequently forwarded to every living friend and relative of those mothers.
My mother loves forwards, God bless her. I think basically every mother does. And to her credit, she only VERY occasionally sends me the forwards that REALLY MUST BE READ. Like I learned about how not to get smashed to death in an earthquake. Or how not to get scammed by phony census people trying to steal my crapy credit score. If you want, I can forward you those. But I might change the subject lines to, "read if you are bored, or don't want to die horribly in an earthquake." See how that worked? It gave me the option to NOT read, followed by slyly compelling me to read or maybe die horribly. I guess I should start creating forwards.
Maybe I can get monies for that, since I can't find a real job.
11.2.10
When dreams actually mean something
On Monday, I picked up the final piece of my suit (the jacket) from Macy's, where it was being tailored for about 3 weeks. Takes a lot of time, apparently, to lengthen sleeves by 2 inches.
While waiting for someone to help me, I was browsing some various colognes that were on a table. I'm not really a big cologne guy. I've been wearing the same thing for 5 years.
Calvin Klein, I'm never wild about. Smells to musky for me. Like a slick old business guy. Stings the nostrils. Sean Jean, I feel like I'm not allowed to wear because I'm not black. And the name "Unforgivable" just sounds cheesy to me. Although, finding a cologne name that isn't outrageous is pretty hard. This is how I feel like the conversation would go:
"Mmm, what are you wearing?"
"Unforgivable, baby."
"Ew, don't call me baby."
"Sorry."
Anyways.
There was a bottle of Versace. It didn't have some cheesy-assed name. Just "Versace Man." What man can't feel respectable wearing that? Plus it smells DELICIOUS. So I drenched my chest, and went to work. And let me tell you, smelling Versace MAN all day rather than garlic and meat was heavenly. So I have been debating since then if I wanna pony up the cash and buy it.
Last night, I had a dream. I went to Smith's Marketplace and was looking at cologne (weird.) And I found the Versace, and decided to buy it. Ben Stiller was working one of the check out lines. Except for he had this real greasy, side slicked hair that was apparently supposed to be a disguise. Because I guess he liked to work there (in disguise) a couple of times a week. And I was trying to be sneaky, and take a picture of him with my iphone. He was talking a mixture of "Spanish language channel beechez," guy from Anchorman, and Tony Wonder from Arrested Development. I got my picture, he sold me the Versace, and I woke up pist that I didn't really have Ben Stiller pictures on my iphone. Or Versace. Also, that Ben Stiller didn't work at the local Smith's Marketplace.
I'm pretty certain that was the most sure sign I've ever had that I should purchase something. Also, another garbage can to separate my recyclables.
While waiting for someone to help me, I was browsing some various colognes that were on a table. I'm not really a big cologne guy. I've been wearing the same thing for 5 years.
Calvin Klein, I'm never wild about. Smells to musky for me. Like a slick old business guy. Stings the nostrils. Sean Jean, I feel like I'm not allowed to wear because I'm not black. And the name "Unforgivable" just sounds cheesy to me. Although, finding a cologne name that isn't outrageous is pretty hard. This is how I feel like the conversation would go:
"Mmm, what are you wearing?"
"Unforgivable, baby."
"Ew, don't call me baby."
"Sorry."
Anyways.
There was a bottle of Versace. It didn't have some cheesy-assed name. Just "Versace Man." What man can't feel respectable wearing that? Plus it smells DELICIOUS. So I drenched my chest, and went to work. And let me tell you, smelling Versace MAN all day rather than garlic and meat was heavenly. So I have been debating since then if I wanna pony up the cash and buy it.
Last night, I had a dream. I went to Smith's Marketplace and was looking at cologne (weird.) And I found the Versace, and decided to buy it. Ben Stiller was working one of the check out lines. Except for he had this real greasy, side slicked hair that was apparently supposed to be a disguise. Because I guess he liked to work there (in disguise) a couple of times a week. And I was trying to be sneaky, and take a picture of him with my iphone. He was talking a mixture of "Spanish language channel beechez," guy from Anchorman, and Tony Wonder from Arrested Development. I got my picture, he sold me the Versace, and I woke up pist that I didn't really have Ben Stiller pictures on my iphone. Or Versace. Also, that Ben Stiller didn't work at the local Smith's Marketplace.
I'm pretty certain that was the most sure sign I've ever had that I should purchase something. Also, another garbage can to separate my recyclables.
Avoiding a cat invasion
My toilet is being a real piece of shit right now.
I had a leaky faucet in my bathroom sink until about a week ago, when my landlord came and fixed it. Perhaps this was merely coincidental, but that very same day that he fixed the sink, the toilet developed a slow leak. I feel like they must somehow be correlated, although I can not imagine how he could have screwed up the toilet by fixing the sink. Although, the water in the toilet bowl was curiously low when I came back that night. Verrrry curious.
Anyways, there is a slow (or maybe in reality not so slow) leak in the toilet water tank, which causes the water level (in said tank) to drop a couple of inches every few minutes. Which then causes it to refill itself. Aside from simply being annoying, and a stellar waste of water, my life is being endangered every time I shower.
During every showering endeavor, I can expect to experience no fewer than 3 scaldings, depending upon the duration of the shower. A typical shower for me ranges anywhere from 6-12 minutes, depending upon several factors: is this a post work shower? A woke up sweaty shower? In that case, probably 4-6 minutes. In the case of the former, probably closer to the 12 minute range, as it takes time to sluice the Carrabba filth from my body. Not to mention, after standing up for 12 hours, a long shower feels nice. So, in a 12 minute time period, I can expect at LEAST 4 scaldings.
Today, I decided to time my post work out entry into the shower with a toilet refilling, in an attempt to avoid the 3-4 scaldings I thought would be included in the necessary showering time frame. I managed to escape with only 2 scaldings, although the toilet tried its damnedest to get me a third time, as a refilling occurred a mere second after I shut off the water.
I can typically gauge when the scaldings will occur, by the sudden drop in water pressure. At which point I jump to the end of the tub, out of range of the certain 2nd degree burns. The problem is, when the water pressure returns, there is still a measure of scalding water emitted from the faucet, which has gained strength enough to hit my feet, so there is no complete escape. And so I end up hopping from one foot to the other until the water has returned to normal heat. Embarrassing mental image.
I swear, I'm going to go missing for a couple of days. I reckon it would probably take up to 3 for people to really miss me and attempt some sort of investigation. And I fear that I shall be found naked on the bathtub floor, scalded to death, without a shred of dignity remaining. Although, maybe the cat lady below would wonder why my water had been running straight for a couple days, and send her kitty minions on a reconnaissance mission to find out just why I was taking a 2 day shower.
I don't want those cats in my house. I need to get this fixed.
I had a leaky faucet in my bathroom sink until about a week ago, when my landlord came and fixed it. Perhaps this was merely coincidental, but that very same day that he fixed the sink, the toilet developed a slow leak. I feel like they must somehow be correlated, although I can not imagine how he could have screwed up the toilet by fixing the sink. Although, the water in the toilet bowl was curiously low when I came back that night. Verrrry curious.
Anyways, there is a slow (or maybe in reality not so slow) leak in the toilet water tank, which causes the water level (in said tank) to drop a couple of inches every few minutes. Which then causes it to refill itself. Aside from simply being annoying, and a stellar waste of water, my life is being endangered every time I shower.
During every showering endeavor, I can expect to experience no fewer than 3 scaldings, depending upon the duration of the shower. A typical shower for me ranges anywhere from 6-12 minutes, depending upon several factors: is this a post work shower? A woke up sweaty shower? In that case, probably 4-6 minutes. In the case of the former, probably closer to the 12 minute range, as it takes time to sluice the Carrabba filth from my body. Not to mention, after standing up for 12 hours, a long shower feels nice. So, in a 12 minute time period, I can expect at LEAST 4 scaldings.
Today, I decided to time my post work out entry into the shower with a toilet refilling, in an attempt to avoid the 3-4 scaldings I thought would be included in the necessary showering time frame. I managed to escape with only 2 scaldings, although the toilet tried its damnedest to get me a third time, as a refilling occurred a mere second after I shut off the water.
I can typically gauge when the scaldings will occur, by the sudden drop in water pressure. At which point I jump to the end of the tub, out of range of the certain 2nd degree burns. The problem is, when the water pressure returns, there is still a measure of scalding water emitted from the faucet, which has gained strength enough to hit my feet, so there is no complete escape. And so I end up hopping from one foot to the other until the water has returned to normal heat. Embarrassing mental image.
I swear, I'm going to go missing for a couple of days. I reckon it would probably take up to 3 for people to really miss me and attempt some sort of investigation. And I fear that I shall be found naked on the bathtub floor, scalded to death, without a shred of dignity remaining. Although, maybe the cat lady below would wonder why my water had been running straight for a couple days, and send her kitty minions on a reconnaissance mission to find out just why I was taking a 2 day shower.
I don't want those cats in my house. I need to get this fixed.
4.2.10
Same as a babe
Greatest discovery so far of 2K10--the bidet is always lukewarm as long as the toilet has not been flushed any time recently. Hypothesized, tested, confirmed. Not that this means that I use the bidet for anything other than occasional, recreational cleaning, since I don't actually poop. Just like girls.
Right?
Right?
2.2.10
Santo obamanos
Every single night around 7, my frontal lobe revolts against the peaceful state of the rest of my brain, the result of which is a horrible drilling sensation in the middle of my forehead. What are you even doing up there, you asshole frontal lobe?
Today, the drilling sensation is actually starting early. I didn't realize this until I had already loaded every single clothing that I own into side by side Wascomatt Jr's at Rose's laundromat. I think I probably overloaded both of them, so I worry as to the level of cleanliness that my clothing shall attain. It took me about 10 minutes to cram all of my clothing inside, as various articles kept spewing out--a sure sign that a 3rd Wascomat was probably required. As long as the sickness is soaked away, I'll be satisfied. It isn't as though I wallow around in filth, and actually need a heavy duty wash. Just cleaning away the natural man scent acquired after 7-10 wearings (for pants) or 3-6 (for shirts) or 1 (for undergarments, I'm not a total dirt bag, after all.)
I was sick all last week, possibly with a swine flu (it's hard to know) so my house accrued a level of clutter and filthiness not heretofore experienced. Which meant I spent about 2 hours cleaning and disinfecting, hence the over sized laundry loads due to bed linen cleansing.
I'm not sure what it is about coming to the laundromat that makes me think about miracles, but I always do. Perhaps it is the chola with the sparkly diamond (probably cubic Z's) piercing sundry locations on her face sitting nearby, her golden Virgin Maria Santa hanging round her neck, reflecting the dying sun, splaying refracted light across my Wascomatt Jr. double loaders, which causes me to ponder miracles. This week, 2K10 blessed me with 2 more miracles.
First, I rarely get sick. Usually no more than twice a year, often less. When I do catch an illness, it is typically a 2-3 week ordeal. My body apparently hates being full blown sick, and so rather attempts to spread out the various symptoms over a few week period. I typically start with a sore throat. Then, days later, sore throat slowly morphs into maximum sinus congestion which, days later again, becomes a wretched hacking cough. Never all at once. This week however, I was blessed with every sickness at the same time, and have somehow miraculously started the new week basically healed, except for the drilling pm headaches. Which may be a separate thing entirely, since I almost never get headaches. Perhaps a brain tumor in an embryonic phase, growth triggered by dusk.
The second miracle, involved taxes. I didn't make an incredible amount of money this year, but upon reviewing my W2, I supposed that I had paid the government significantly less than what I imagined the government would think it deserved. Probably by a few hundred dollars. So imagine my surprise when, upon doing my taxes, I found out the government wanted to give me 62 dollars back. Gracias, Santo Obamanos.
Por favor, dear Santo Obamanos, please continue to rain upon thy humble countryman every such 2K10 blessing his tender little heart desires, most especially an economy that isn't tan jodido a la verga, that thereby he may acquire gainful employment.
Today, the drilling sensation is actually starting early. I didn't realize this until I had already loaded every single clothing that I own into side by side Wascomatt Jr's at Rose's laundromat. I think I probably overloaded both of them, so I worry as to the level of cleanliness that my clothing shall attain. It took me about 10 minutes to cram all of my clothing inside, as various articles kept spewing out--a sure sign that a 3rd Wascomat was probably required. As long as the sickness is soaked away, I'll be satisfied. It isn't as though I wallow around in filth, and actually need a heavy duty wash. Just cleaning away the natural man scent acquired after 7-10 wearings (for pants) or 3-6 (for shirts) or 1 (for undergarments, I'm not a total dirt bag, after all.)
I was sick all last week, possibly with a swine flu (it's hard to know) so my house accrued a level of clutter and filthiness not heretofore experienced. Which meant I spent about 2 hours cleaning and disinfecting, hence the over sized laundry loads due to bed linen cleansing.
I'm not sure what it is about coming to the laundromat that makes me think about miracles, but I always do. Perhaps it is the chola with the sparkly diamond (probably cubic Z's) piercing sundry locations on her face sitting nearby, her golden Virgin Maria Santa hanging round her neck, reflecting the dying sun, splaying refracted light across my Wascomatt Jr. double loaders, which causes me to ponder miracles. This week, 2K10 blessed me with 2 more miracles.
First, I rarely get sick. Usually no more than twice a year, often less. When I do catch an illness, it is typically a 2-3 week ordeal. My body apparently hates being full blown sick, and so rather attempts to spread out the various symptoms over a few week period. I typically start with a sore throat. Then, days later, sore throat slowly morphs into maximum sinus congestion which, days later again, becomes a wretched hacking cough. Never all at once. This week however, I was blessed with every sickness at the same time, and have somehow miraculously started the new week basically healed, except for the drilling pm headaches. Which may be a separate thing entirely, since I almost never get headaches. Perhaps a brain tumor in an embryonic phase, growth triggered by dusk.
The second miracle, involved taxes. I didn't make an incredible amount of money this year, but upon reviewing my W2, I supposed that I had paid the government significantly less than what I imagined the government would think it deserved. Probably by a few hundred dollars. So imagine my surprise when, upon doing my taxes, I found out the government wanted to give me 62 dollars back. Gracias, Santo Obamanos.
Por favor, dear Santo Obamanos, please continue to rain upon thy humble countryman every such 2K10 blessing his tender little heart desires, most especially an economy that isn't tan jodido a la verga, that thereby he may acquire gainful employment.
31.1.10
A matter of shame
It has finally happened. That thing that I KNEW was coming. That moment I have DREADED for the last year. That thing that I have suspected was a likely inevitability for the last 2 or 3 years. The thing about which I have mocked my best friend from high school for the last few years. I refer to, of course, the wall of shame.
A wall of shame, by definition (probably in Wikipedia) is a shrine located in the parental homestead, dedicated to the marital prowess of every child that crawled forth from the homemaker's womb. All the children, that is, save ONE. So, the wall of shame then pertains to the one celibate sibling remaining--his or her wall of shame.
Now, the intensity of the shame associated with this most dreaded wall is dependent upon a few different variables. The first and foremost being, the unwed child's age status in relation to the rest of the siblings. If, for instance, the youngest child is the owner of the wall of shame, said wall would be infinitely less shameful. For a time. However, as one's birthing rank increases, so does the level of shame exponentially and consequentially increase.
My friend, for example, is number 3 of 4. Having only one married younger sibling somewhat lessens his level of shame. Except for the fact that his younger brother has been married about 3 years. Which brings me to the next variable--time length.
One's shame is increased in conjunction with the longevity of said wall's existence. I am certain there is a measurable amount of shame (probably a metric equation) that is accrued with each year. In his case, it would be 3. Pretty damned shameful.
Also, some amount of shame may be accrued depending upon the number of years that one has remained single, as compared with the married siblings. For example, I have another friend with 4 married sisters. She happens to be the youngest, which greatly reduces her level of shame off the bat. However, every single sibling was married by 20. She, being nearly 24, has added a heaping shit load of shame to her wall.
Unfortunately, I have pretty much every variable to consider with my own wall of shame.
I was talking to my sister last week, who informed me that my baby brother was engaged. I had talked to him at Christmas, and he had informed me that were things to continue progressing in a similar manner, said engagement would most likely occur. So I was sort of expecting this.
I am the oldest. STRIKE ONE. Major shame associated with my wall from that variable alone. My next sister down has been married for about 3 years, my baby sister for almost a year. 3-4 liters of shame, at the very least. And me, being nearly 28, will be likely be single anywhere from 6 to 10 years longer than my siblings. Hectoliters of shame to be sure.
In fact, in relation to the rest of the extended family at large, the only cousins who remain unmarried are a 19 year old missionary, and a 17 year old female. God help me if she pulls a similar feat as my baby sister. The shame would be too much.
It was a weird feeling when I found out my brother was engaged. At first, I laughed. Because I didn't really know what else to do. Because my life equation is so very different than his. Because to me, he is still just a little guy, barely home from a mission. Yet he is taking such a huge step in the direction of "adulthood," one which I for whatever reason have yet to take. I can't imagine having been married for the last 6 years. I don't think I was ready.
After laughing in incredulity, it really sank in. I AM the last. I really really am. At that point, I felt very melancholy. Which I wasn't expecting. Although I had spent some time dreading this particular occurrence, I really thought that I, for the most part, didn't care. Wouldn't care. But I cared. I really did. For the first time, I felt left out. Like I had failed. Like I would no longer fit. Like this would put me on such a different wavelength than the rest of my siblings, that things would no longer be the same.
At that point, I needed a McRib. And a cheeseburger. God knows, NOBODY EVER needs a McRib and a cheeseburger. And 2 gallons of Dryer's Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mint ice cream. I drove to the nearest McDonald's (at midnightish) and sat in the drive through for a minute. I thought about the ground up patty of mystery meat, pressed into the shape of a riblit, slathered in bbq sauce. And then thought, "What the hell am I even doing? I don't want that thing even a little bit." Shoving that filthy thing down my gullet was as bad an idea as I had recently entertained. So, I aborted mission and went for the Dryer's thin mint instead.
Let me clarify something; I am NOT some marriage hungry fiend, wallowing in sorrow from failure after dating failure. I really am OKAY with being single at this age. It will happen for me when it happens. I'm not in a hurry. However, on a different (albeit somewhat related) level, I'm still a little bummed about being the last. About my most thoroughly shameful, wall of shame. I'm just bummed about the dynamic change, and all of the familial wondering about just WHEN I'll get married. It gets old.
Now, after a week, I am okay with it again. My life time frame is just different than that of my siblings and most of my cousins. And I'm okay with that. There is not ONE damn thing wrong with being 27.6 and unmarried. Not a thing.
As long as my seminal vesicles don't dry up, who cares if I'm in my 30ies before I trick some girl into marriage?
A wall of shame, by definition (probably in Wikipedia) is a shrine located in the parental homestead, dedicated to the marital prowess of every child that crawled forth from the homemaker's womb. All the children, that is, save ONE. So, the wall of shame then pertains to the one celibate sibling remaining--his or her wall of shame.
Now, the intensity of the shame associated with this most dreaded wall is dependent upon a few different variables. The first and foremost being, the unwed child's age status in relation to the rest of the siblings. If, for instance, the youngest child is the owner of the wall of shame, said wall would be infinitely less shameful. For a time. However, as one's birthing rank increases, so does the level of shame exponentially and consequentially increase.
My friend, for example, is number 3 of 4. Having only one married younger sibling somewhat lessens his level of shame. Except for the fact that his younger brother has been married about 3 years. Which brings me to the next variable--time length.
One's shame is increased in conjunction with the longevity of said wall's existence. I am certain there is a measurable amount of shame (probably a metric equation) that is accrued with each year. In his case, it would be 3. Pretty damned shameful.
Also, some amount of shame may be accrued depending upon the number of years that one has remained single, as compared with the married siblings. For example, I have another friend with 4 married sisters. She happens to be the youngest, which greatly reduces her level of shame off the bat. However, every single sibling was married by 20. She, being nearly 24, has added a heaping shit load of shame to her wall.
Unfortunately, I have pretty much every variable to consider with my own wall of shame.
I was talking to my sister last week, who informed me that my baby brother was engaged. I had talked to him at Christmas, and he had informed me that were things to continue progressing in a similar manner, said engagement would most likely occur. So I was sort of expecting this.
I am the oldest. STRIKE ONE. Major shame associated with my wall from that variable alone. My next sister down has been married for about 3 years, my baby sister for almost a year. 3-4 liters of shame, at the very least. And me, being nearly 28, will be likely be single anywhere from 6 to 10 years longer than my siblings. Hectoliters of shame to be sure.
In fact, in relation to the rest of the extended family at large, the only cousins who remain unmarried are a 19 year old missionary, and a 17 year old female. God help me if she pulls a similar feat as my baby sister. The shame would be too much.
It was a weird feeling when I found out my brother was engaged. At first, I laughed. Because I didn't really know what else to do. Because my life equation is so very different than his. Because to me, he is still just a little guy, barely home from a mission. Yet he is taking such a huge step in the direction of "adulthood," one which I for whatever reason have yet to take. I can't imagine having been married for the last 6 years. I don't think I was ready.
After laughing in incredulity, it really sank in. I AM the last. I really really am. At that point, I felt very melancholy. Which I wasn't expecting. Although I had spent some time dreading this particular occurrence, I really thought that I, for the most part, didn't care. Wouldn't care. But I cared. I really did. For the first time, I felt left out. Like I had failed. Like I would no longer fit. Like this would put me on such a different wavelength than the rest of my siblings, that things would no longer be the same.
At that point, I needed a McRib. And a cheeseburger. God knows, NOBODY EVER needs a McRib and a cheeseburger. And 2 gallons of Dryer's Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mint ice cream. I drove to the nearest McDonald's (at midnightish) and sat in the drive through for a minute. I thought about the ground up patty of mystery meat, pressed into the shape of a riblit, slathered in bbq sauce. And then thought, "What the hell am I even doing? I don't want that thing even a little bit." Shoving that filthy thing down my gullet was as bad an idea as I had recently entertained. So, I aborted mission and went for the Dryer's thin mint instead.
Let me clarify something; I am NOT some marriage hungry fiend, wallowing in sorrow from failure after dating failure. I really am OKAY with being single at this age. It will happen for me when it happens. I'm not in a hurry. However, on a different (albeit somewhat related) level, I'm still a little bummed about being the last. About my most thoroughly shameful, wall of shame. I'm just bummed about the dynamic change, and all of the familial wondering about just WHEN I'll get married. It gets old.
Now, after a week, I am okay with it again. My life time frame is just different than that of my siblings and most of my cousins. And I'm okay with that. There is not ONE damn thing wrong with being 27.6 and unmarried. Not a thing.
As long as my seminal vesicles don't dry up, who cares if I'm in my 30ies before I trick some girl into marriage?
21.1.10
15.1.10
Oh, the regret
Tonight, I saddled myself with my biggest regret so far of 2K10.
2 friends and I went to Chili's. Because what the hell else is open after 10 pm that isn't some form of fast food? Although arguably, Chili's isn't too many steps above fast food. Maybe like a step and a half. If, on the scale of food steps, fast food is like step three, proceeded only by a microwaved cheese hot dog, or a slice of bologna on white bread slathered in mayo, Chili's would then be about step 4 point 5.
After sitting in the booth a few moments, I looked to my left and saw what appeared to be the most awkward situation I have ever witnessed, without knowledge of what was actually occurring. There were 2 guys sitting in a mini booth. The guy on the left was sitting with his hands on each corresponding leg, looking either above the head of his date/friend, or awkwardly around at the television. Or sometimes down at the table. The guy adjacent to him had his hands folded in his crotch, and was staring slightly down and to his right, a look of such despondence plastered on his face, I expected him to pop a cyanide pill at any moment.
For 20 minutes this occurred. Well, let me rephrase. For 20 minutes, NOTHING occurred. Not a word was exchanged. Food sat untouched. No eye contact. The guy on the left would occasionally swivel his head here or there, but never really looking at his counterpart. The other guy, eyes glazed, stared at nothing, occasionally twiddling his fingers in his lap.
I wanted so very badly to ask just what was going on. And thus is my regret, that I did no such thing. So instead all we could do was sit there and surmise the meaning behind the almost palpable awkwardness. Was it a first date, and there just wasn't enough random shit on the walls to foster 45 minutes of conversation? Because I noticed for the first time, that Chili's is a little more low key than other similar establishments when it comes to finding every single random shit in existence to hang on the wall.
Perhaps we arrived just moments too late to witness the finale of their relationship, and the ensuing silence was the bi product of a harsh breakup. There just wasn't anymore to be said.
Maybe they had made love for the first time, and it was silent, staring, hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy's first time. And afterward, he felt really bad, and so swivel head was like, "calm down. I'll take you to Chili's." But 2 fajitas later, all was STILL not well on the gay front. And the awkward silence simply grew thicker, as hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy dwelt upon the ramifications of consummating the team switch.
The one reason for which I couldn't bring myself to ask them, "Hey guys, why are you the most sad right now?" was a fear that the answer would be horrible, like "Because his mom just died, a-hole." Or, "Because he just found out he has the HIV, a-hole." So rather than risk it, we just sat and observed the FUNNIEST awkwardly silent couple I have ever seen.
And I now teem with regret for not asking. Maybe they were just a couple of awkward buddy dudes, out for a night on the town.
But I VERY much doubt it.
Just a little recreation.
2 friends and I went to Chili's. Because what the hell else is open after 10 pm that isn't some form of fast food? Although arguably, Chili's isn't too many steps above fast food. Maybe like a step and a half. If, on the scale of food steps, fast food is like step three, proceeded only by a microwaved cheese hot dog, or a slice of bologna on white bread slathered in mayo, Chili's would then be about step 4 point 5.
After sitting in the booth a few moments, I looked to my left and saw what appeared to be the most awkward situation I have ever witnessed, without knowledge of what was actually occurring. There were 2 guys sitting in a mini booth. The guy on the left was sitting with his hands on each corresponding leg, looking either above the head of his date/friend, or awkwardly around at the television. Or sometimes down at the table. The guy adjacent to him had his hands folded in his crotch, and was staring slightly down and to his right, a look of such despondence plastered on his face, I expected him to pop a cyanide pill at any moment.
For 20 minutes this occurred. Well, let me rephrase. For 20 minutes, NOTHING occurred. Not a word was exchanged. Food sat untouched. No eye contact. The guy on the left would occasionally swivel his head here or there, but never really looking at his counterpart. The other guy, eyes glazed, stared at nothing, occasionally twiddling his fingers in his lap.
I wanted so very badly to ask just what was going on. And thus is my regret, that I did no such thing. So instead all we could do was sit there and surmise the meaning behind the almost palpable awkwardness. Was it a first date, and there just wasn't enough random shit on the walls to foster 45 minutes of conversation? Because I noticed for the first time, that Chili's is a little more low key than other similar establishments when it comes to finding every single random shit in existence to hang on the wall.
Perhaps we arrived just moments too late to witness the finale of their relationship, and the ensuing silence was the bi product of a harsh breakup. There just wasn't anymore to be said.
Maybe they had made love for the first time, and it was silent, staring, hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy's first time. And afterward, he felt really bad, and so swivel head was like, "calm down. I'll take you to Chili's." But 2 fajitas later, all was STILL not well on the gay front. And the awkward silence simply grew thicker, as hands-folded-in-the-crotch guy dwelt upon the ramifications of consummating the team switch.
The one reason for which I couldn't bring myself to ask them, "Hey guys, why are you the most sad right now?" was a fear that the answer would be horrible, like "Because his mom just died, a-hole." Or, "Because he just found out he has the HIV, a-hole." So rather than risk it, we just sat and observed the FUNNIEST awkwardly silent couple I have ever seen.
And I now teem with regret for not asking. Maybe they were just a couple of awkward buddy dudes, out for a night on the town.
But I VERY much doubt it.
Just a little recreation.
14.1.10
Stained
At times, one may find him or herself faced with the most harrowing of circumstances, where action can only be necessitated through the most desperate need. A moment where one's heart must rise above crippling fear, although the terror be a raging torrent of inadequacy, self doubt, and utter dread.
I speak of having to face spiders, of course.
Every time I think that I have taken a huge step in the direction of a recovering SISSY, I am reminded that I am a spectacular coward.
I entered my kitchen last night in search of some form of sustenance. As I passed the fridge, I noticed a little green dangling spider, suspended from the bottom of my cabinets, hanging almost equidistant between the 2 sinks. My immediate reaction was a resounding gasp, followed by (or in conjunction with) an approximate backward leap of 1 foot, and a consequential "shit." At that point, I began to immediately scan the room, and also my brain for the best and safest manner in which to dispose of the ungodly creature. Time was of the essence, because the spider was slowly inching its way up the silk line, into my cupboard. Or wherever his spidery heart desired, upon reaching the apex.
The only thing I could think of, was grabbing a paper towel, draping it across my open palms, and then quickly clapping the spider into oblivion. Which was a real big problem for me, because that would mean that there would only be a very thin layer of cheap papery substance between the spider and my skin. SCARY. I sat there a moment, contemplating which thought I loathed more; the spider possibly escaping into my home, or smashed between my hands so feebly protected. "Quit being a bitch," I berated myself, and clapped away.
At that moment, upon feeling the spider's tiny body crushed between my hands, I felt like I had climbed a small, difficult mountain. I had never slain a spider in this manner. In fact, even the destruction of a centipede, earwig, or other similar creature will typically involve no fewer than 5 wadded inches of toilet paper or paper towel separating my hand from the deed. And then I have to smash unnecessarily hard, to ensure absolute death, and then quickly toss the carcass into the nearest toilet bowl for a burial at sea. In clapping the arachnid, I had overcome a fraction of my dreadful fear. I let the paper towel gently fall from my hands, and drift to the counter top. Upon landing, it unfolded. Enter vision--smashed spider. Cue repeat--resounding gasp, backward hopping "shit." Also--add some minor wrist flailing.
All dignity lost. Again. Every time.
I think the root of my spider (and general bug) fear can be traced back to an uncle I once had. I say once had, because he decided that family was less important than other clandestine, devious pursuits. But I always thought he was wayyyy cool. I mean, the dude said "damn," and "hell," with wild abandon. Was a democrat. And had an earring (left ear.) And had a tee pee in his back yard (north side.) And had tomahawks. Which could be thrown from or near the tee pee (from south to north, never east to west.) The guy was a rad uncle. Also, he was terrified of spiders.
I recall being in a movie. Galaxy Quest, featuring Tim Allen and Alan Rickman. There was a part where a bunch of flying space spiders began to approach the ship. My uncle said, "Ohhh damn, (probably) I'm not going to like this part." Now me, thinking he was cool, also thought it might be cool to be even MORE afraid of spiders than what was natural. So I think my impressionable mine programmed that most irrational fear to further dictate the remainder of my body-to-spider physical reactions, for the duration of my life. The crippling fear. The swearing. The wrist flailing.
Thanks for the arachnophobic stain, uncle. At least the earring never took.
I speak of having to face spiders, of course.
Every time I think that I have taken a huge step in the direction of a recovering SISSY, I am reminded that I am a spectacular coward.
I entered my kitchen last night in search of some form of sustenance. As I passed the fridge, I noticed a little green dangling spider, suspended from the bottom of my cabinets, hanging almost equidistant between the 2 sinks. My immediate reaction was a resounding gasp, followed by (or in conjunction with) an approximate backward leap of 1 foot, and a consequential "shit." At that point, I began to immediately scan the room, and also my brain for the best and safest manner in which to dispose of the ungodly creature. Time was of the essence, because the spider was slowly inching its way up the silk line, into my cupboard. Or wherever his spidery heart desired, upon reaching the apex.
The only thing I could think of, was grabbing a paper towel, draping it across my open palms, and then quickly clapping the spider into oblivion. Which was a real big problem for me, because that would mean that there would only be a very thin layer of cheap papery substance between the spider and my skin. SCARY. I sat there a moment, contemplating which thought I loathed more; the spider possibly escaping into my home, or smashed between my hands so feebly protected. "Quit being a bitch," I berated myself, and clapped away.
At that moment, upon feeling the spider's tiny body crushed between my hands, I felt like I had climbed a small, difficult mountain. I had never slain a spider in this manner. In fact, even the destruction of a centipede, earwig, or other similar creature will typically involve no fewer than 5 wadded inches of toilet paper or paper towel separating my hand from the deed. And then I have to smash unnecessarily hard, to ensure absolute death, and then quickly toss the carcass into the nearest toilet bowl for a burial at sea. In clapping the arachnid, I had overcome a fraction of my dreadful fear. I let the paper towel gently fall from my hands, and drift to the counter top. Upon landing, it unfolded. Enter vision--smashed spider. Cue repeat--resounding gasp, backward hopping "shit." Also--add some minor wrist flailing.
All dignity lost. Again. Every time.
I think the root of my spider (and general bug) fear can be traced back to an uncle I once had. I say once had, because he decided that family was less important than other clandestine, devious pursuits. But I always thought he was wayyyy cool. I mean, the dude said "damn," and "hell," with wild abandon. Was a democrat. And had an earring (left ear.) And had a tee pee in his back yard (north side.) And had tomahawks. Which could be thrown from or near the tee pee (from south to north, never east to west.) The guy was a rad uncle. Also, he was terrified of spiders.
I recall being in a movie. Galaxy Quest, featuring Tim Allen and Alan Rickman. There was a part where a bunch of flying space spiders began to approach the ship. My uncle said, "Ohhh damn, (probably) I'm not going to like this part." Now me, thinking he was cool, also thought it might be cool to be even MORE afraid of spiders than what was natural. So I think my impressionable mine programmed that most irrational fear to further dictate the remainder of my body-to-spider physical reactions, for the duration of my life. The crippling fear. The swearing. The wrist flailing.
Thanks for the arachnophobic stain, uncle. At least the earring never took.
12.1.10
Spandex escape plan
Turns out that I can pick up the interweb from the eastern most corner of my kitchen. The expected 2K10 miracles are already piling up. Unfortunately, 2K10 has not yet seen fit to provide me with a proper kitchen seat (or table, for that matter,) so my ass and a microwave are sharing a cart on wheels.
Today I was setting up my rollers (an apparatus which, combined with my mountain bike, becomes a stationary exercise device) in the kitchen, and had just climbed on my bike when I got a call from Patty the cat lady down stairs. On our previous meeting, where she managed to ensnare me for 40 minutes, she informed me that she had a television which had been rendered obsolete due to her purchase of a high definition television. Which she told me all about. She wanted to know if at a future date, I would carry the useless TV to her car, so she could take it to DI. I said sure. She was calling to collect on this favor.
I decided that remaining in spandex shorts and zero shirt would be my best possible escape plan. I didn't think that a 70 year old cat lady had any interest in having another 40 minute conversation about cat dander with a shirtless guy in spandex shorts, with a padded ass. She informed me that she needed to go to the bathroom, but that she would be ready for me in about 10 minutes. It wasn't difficult to deduce from the given time frame just exactly what would be occurring in the bathroom. Thanks.
So, approximately 12 minutes later (I decided to give an extra 2 minutes for unknown variables) I descended into a haze of smoke to retrieve the television. As she opened the door, I noticed that her eye looked like it was about to rot off of her face. It appeared that she had contracted a dreadful eye infection. Which, she clarified for me a moment later when she said, "I have a dreadful eye infection. It migrated from my ear. Don't worry, it isn't contagious." At least there was that.
She also seemed surprised that I had arrived in spandex, sans shirt. Now, let me point out that I am in no way thrilled with the current state of my body. Quite the contrary, I am rather ashamed of my buddy (stomach) at this particular juncture in my life. But I wanted to get trapped in her house for a chat infinitely less than I didn't want her or anyone else to see me shirtless, in spandex. "Aren't you freezing?" "Yeah, but I'm just getting ready to exercise. Sooo, where is the TV?"
2 minutes later, I had loaded the TV in her car, and was opening my front door, ready to bolt upstairs, letting her know that if she needed anything else heavy moved, to let me know. All the while, trying REALLY hard not to stare at her festering eye.
I just wasn't ready for another 40 minute conversational trap. I feel like I can deal with that once a month if necessary, but it has not been nearly a month. I think successfully avoiding that trap was just another 2K10 miracle. Unfortunately, the chola adjacent to the cat lady happened to come out of her house and see me and my buddy. But she was wearing True Religion jeans with extra thick white stitching.
So like I CARE what she thinks.
Today I was setting up my rollers (an apparatus which, combined with my mountain bike, becomes a stationary exercise device) in the kitchen, and had just climbed on my bike when I got a call from Patty the cat lady down stairs. On our previous meeting, where she managed to ensnare me for 40 minutes, she informed me that she had a television which had been rendered obsolete due to her purchase of a high definition television. Which she told me all about. She wanted to know if at a future date, I would carry the useless TV to her car, so she could take it to DI. I said sure. She was calling to collect on this favor.
I decided that remaining in spandex shorts and zero shirt would be my best possible escape plan. I didn't think that a 70 year old cat lady had any interest in having another 40 minute conversation about cat dander with a shirtless guy in spandex shorts, with a padded ass. She informed me that she needed to go to the bathroom, but that she would be ready for me in about 10 minutes. It wasn't difficult to deduce from the given time frame just exactly what would be occurring in the bathroom. Thanks.
So, approximately 12 minutes later (I decided to give an extra 2 minutes for unknown variables) I descended into a haze of smoke to retrieve the television. As she opened the door, I noticed that her eye looked like it was about to rot off of her face. It appeared that she had contracted a dreadful eye infection. Which, she clarified for me a moment later when she said, "I have a dreadful eye infection. It migrated from my ear. Don't worry, it isn't contagious." At least there was that.
She also seemed surprised that I had arrived in spandex, sans shirt. Now, let me point out that I am in no way thrilled with the current state of my body. Quite the contrary, I am rather ashamed of my buddy (stomach) at this particular juncture in my life. But I wanted to get trapped in her house for a chat infinitely less than I didn't want her or anyone else to see me shirtless, in spandex. "Aren't you freezing?" "Yeah, but I'm just getting ready to exercise. Sooo, where is the TV?"
2 minutes later, I had loaded the TV in her car, and was opening my front door, ready to bolt upstairs, letting her know that if she needed anything else heavy moved, to let me know. All the while, trying REALLY hard not to stare at her festering eye.
I just wasn't ready for another 40 minute conversational trap. I feel like I can deal with that once a month if necessary, but it has not been nearly a month. I think successfully avoiding that trap was just another 2K10 miracle. Unfortunately, the chola adjacent to the cat lady happened to come out of her house and see me and my buddy. But she was wearing True Religion jeans with extra thick white stitching.
So like I CARE what she thinks.
11.1.10
Confusing numbers
Entered 3 very VERY old people into Carrabbas. I approached the table, less than thrilled. 3 sets of eyes peered at me from behind thick, gold rimmed glasses. Wispy, white hair in various states of sparsity. Eyes squinting, upper lip raised and crinkled into the the area just beneath her nose, mouth ajar, looking most confounded, one crone said, "Now, I might be retarded, but what are these numbers?"
Didn't really so much expect her to say that.
"Um, those numbers would be the prices."
It is a bad sign, whenever this query is posed. It typically means that the patron is unfamiliar with a menu that doesn't actually have a dollar sign next to numbers, and is therefore unaccustomed to eating places fancier than Denny's. Like, they are shocked that the 14 doesn't refer to the amount of shrimp they will be getting, or 23 ounces of filet.
"Now, we seen on a commercial that you got a special for all you can eat pasta, all you can eat soup, and all you can eat salad for $7.99" (I'll include the dollar sign here to avoid confusion.)
"Sorry, we don't offer infinity pasta, soup, and salad for $7.99. I think that was probably a different restaurant."
"No, now I'm pretty sure it was this one."
"Well, I'm fairly certain we have no such specials. In fact, we don't even have TV commercials. Maybe it was Olive Garden?"
"No, I think it was here."
"Perhaps Macaroni Grill?"
"No, that don't sound right."
"Well, we do have a special for a 7 oz top sirloin and grilled scallops and shrimp for 17 dollars."
She looked on the verge of panic at that suggestion. "Well, maybe I should call my brother and see if he is somewhere else?"
"Gosh, you should probably do that. Sounds like a GREAT idea. I bet he is at Olive Garden."
They left. THANK GOD.
One more reason why I hate my job. And yet another miracle from 2K10.
Thanks again, 2K10.
Didn't really so much expect her to say that.
"Um, those numbers would be the prices."
It is a bad sign, whenever this query is posed. It typically means that the patron is unfamiliar with a menu that doesn't actually have a dollar sign next to numbers, and is therefore unaccustomed to eating places fancier than Denny's. Like, they are shocked that the 14 doesn't refer to the amount of shrimp they will be getting, or 23 ounces of filet.
"Now, we seen on a commercial that you got a special for all you can eat pasta, all you can eat soup, and all you can eat salad for $7.99" (I'll include the dollar sign here to avoid confusion.)
"Sorry, we don't offer infinity pasta, soup, and salad for $7.99. I think that was probably a different restaurant."
"No, now I'm pretty sure it was this one."
"Well, I'm fairly certain we have no such specials. In fact, we don't even have TV commercials. Maybe it was Olive Garden?"
"No, I think it was here."
"Perhaps Macaroni Grill?"
"No, that don't sound right."
"Well, we do have a special for a 7 oz top sirloin and grilled scallops and shrimp for 17 dollars."
She looked on the verge of panic at that suggestion. "Well, maybe I should call my brother and see if he is somewhere else?"
"Gosh, you should probably do that. Sounds like a GREAT idea. I bet he is at Olive Garden."
They left. THANK GOD.
One more reason why I hate my job. And yet another miracle from 2K10.
Thanks again, 2K10.
10.1.10
Sorry environment, but i really like books
I've decided that, despite being told that books are an evil, earth destroying entity due to the vast tree consumption, ink, dye, and bleach pollution integral to paper production, I shall still seek to have an eventually ginormous library collection.
Honestly, I hate polluting streams and poisoning wee fish and sundry crustaceans as much as the next nature lover. However, I think I LOVE paper even more than I love the aforementioned fishy crustaceans.
I suppose I feel that, of all of the everyday items that we consume as human beings which are, on some level, harmful to the environment (not talking about global warming here, but obvious, tangibly recordable chemical pollution) books are perhaps one of the most noble. Pollution in the name of literary advancement seems to be a great deal easier to stomach than say, the superfluous use of plastic. I mean, it is difficult to purchase anything that isn't packaged 2 or 3 times over in plastic. Store clerks seem almost offended when one tells them that a 5 gallon plastic bag won't be necessary to carry a package of tick tacs to out to one's car. So, I guess when I think about books in that context, I can't help but think, WORTH IT.
I realize that with the digitalization (don't care if that is really a word or not) of nearly EVERYTHING, the argument against the necessity of actually printing books is quite valid. However, there is just something about holding a physical copy of a book in one's hand that seems to be an integral part of the experience. I love reading something phenomenal online, or on a blog, or whatever, but I love even more having that physical copy in my hands. I love the smell of the paper and the ink, the feel of the pages on my fingers. The weight of the book, the crack of the spine. The feeling of satisfaction upon reading the last page, closing the book, and placing it on the shelf. And remembering the way the book made you FEEL every time you see it on the shelf. I don't want to lose part of the reading experience. I realize that the words and the content are the same whether digital or not, however I don't want to lose the physical part. I don't love my ipod like I love my favorite books. I love the artists on my ipod, but the machine itself I couldn't care less about. When that guy dies, I'm pist because I have to buy a new one. Inside and out, I love my books. Perhaps this is selfish on my part; but I don't think that I am alone in this sentiment.
I have decided that I am going to attempt to purchase 1 book a week, for the remainder of my life. I realize this is a rather lofty (and costly) goal, but I really want to have a vast library. And 15 dollars on a book is a much more worthy expense than 15 bucks on a buffet, or some other such nonsense. It was upon purchasing 2 books this week that I made this decision; Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathon Safran Foer, and All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. If anyone has any suggestions for upcoming weeks, I'd love to hear them. I'd like to know your favorite book, and exactly WHY it is your favorite. Perhaps it will end up on my shelf, and you and I together can singlehandedly destroy the environment whilst strengthening our hearts and minds.
Honestly, I hate polluting streams and poisoning wee fish and sundry crustaceans as much as the next nature lover. However, I think I LOVE paper even more than I love the aforementioned fishy crustaceans.
I suppose I feel that, of all of the everyday items that we consume as human beings which are, on some level, harmful to the environment (not talking about global warming here, but obvious, tangibly recordable chemical pollution) books are perhaps one of the most noble. Pollution in the name of literary advancement seems to be a great deal easier to stomach than say, the superfluous use of plastic. I mean, it is difficult to purchase anything that isn't packaged 2 or 3 times over in plastic. Store clerks seem almost offended when one tells them that a 5 gallon plastic bag won't be necessary to carry a package of tick tacs to out to one's car. So, I guess when I think about books in that context, I can't help but think, WORTH IT.
I realize that with the digitalization (don't care if that is really a word or not) of nearly EVERYTHING, the argument against the necessity of actually printing books is quite valid. However, there is just something about holding a physical copy of a book in one's hand that seems to be an integral part of the experience. I love reading something phenomenal online, or on a blog, or whatever, but I love even more having that physical copy in my hands. I love the smell of the paper and the ink, the feel of the pages on my fingers. The weight of the book, the crack of the spine. The feeling of satisfaction upon reading the last page, closing the book, and placing it on the shelf. And remembering the way the book made you FEEL every time you see it on the shelf. I don't want to lose part of the reading experience. I realize that the words and the content are the same whether digital or not, however I don't want to lose the physical part. I don't love my ipod like I love my favorite books. I love the artists on my ipod, but the machine itself I couldn't care less about. When that guy dies, I'm pist because I have to buy a new one. Inside and out, I love my books. Perhaps this is selfish on my part; but I don't think that I am alone in this sentiment.
I have decided that I am going to attempt to purchase 1 book a week, for the remainder of my life. I realize this is a rather lofty (and costly) goal, but I really want to have a vast library. And 15 dollars on a book is a much more worthy expense than 15 bucks on a buffet, or some other such nonsense. It was upon purchasing 2 books this week that I made this decision; Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathon Safran Foer, and All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac McCarthy. If anyone has any suggestions for upcoming weeks, I'd love to hear them. I'd like to know your favorite book, and exactly WHY it is your favorite. Perhaps it will end up on my shelf, and you and I together can singlehandedly destroy the environment whilst strengthening our hearts and minds.
7.1.10
Wendover no parents 2009 all night christmas adventure miracle featuring "how to be a gentleman" and "the melancholy death of oyster boy "
I had a feeling that 2K10 was going to be full of miracles. I think I first had this notion on the eve of Christmas eve. Patrick and I had decided to postpone our Vegas no parents 2009 cheese factory Christmas Adventure miracle until the new year. Which would unfortunately make it a post-Christmas adventure miracle. Which, frankly, just didn't feel right to me. So on the eve of Christmas eve, Patrick and I were toiling away at Carrabbas. Twas a busy Christmas eve eve. I suddenly felt drawn to Wendover--the arm pit and/or asshole of north-western Utah. I suppose arm pit is more appropriate, considering the geographic location. However, it wasn't the Utah side in which I was interested. I wanted WEST Wendover Nevada, where I knew lady luck would give us a super good time.
I think I'm going to go ahead and skip to the miracle, which is the most important. We wandered over 4 casinos, trying to find a $1 roulette table, to no avail. Amidst my wanderings, I passed several slot machines with beaver themes. Being a natural fan of the beaver (I swear to you, I am ONLY talking about the animal here)I was tempted by each beaver machine I passed.
We decided it was time to end the adventure miracle. Patrick wanted to put $1 dollar in 1 machine. He did, and won 10 bucks. The first miracle. I decided that I needed to find one of those beaver machines. So Eleanor and I wandered around until I spotted one; Busy Beaver Dam Builder. I knew it was the one. I fed it a dollar. It was a penny slot, so I had up to 100 tries. I decided to push the button that used 15 tries at once. After that, wackiness ensued. So much dam building, log sawing, sexy (to a male beaver) female beavers dancing. And then I suddenly had 3200 credits. Since the math region of my brain suffers from some form of retardation, it took me a few moments to realize what that number meant. 32 bucks. Thanks, 4th grade level math. I cashed out, and got the hell outta there.
I think I shall attribute this miracle to 2K10, rather than 09. 09 was a mean old whore, and therefore deserves no miracles attributed to her. I rather think that 2K10 exercised a little bit of early magic, and sent a warm up miracle my way.
Thanks, 2K10. You are already the best.
Some pictures from the Adventure Miracle.
Dressed in Sunday best, ready for the adventure miracle to begin.
Eating as many chips as possible, on the way to the miracle.
Eating as many cuties as possible on the way to the miracle.
Just basking in the miracle.
Just stalling for a miracle.
Just laying on a miracle.
Just laughing at a miracle.
Just topping off a miracle.
Just like, a way indie miracle.
This was self indulgent. I apologize.
Oh, one other miracle I forgot to mention. The mustache is GONE.
I think I'm going to go ahead and skip to the miracle, which is the most important. We wandered over 4 casinos, trying to find a $1 roulette table, to no avail. Amidst my wanderings, I passed several slot machines with beaver themes. Being a natural fan of the beaver (I swear to you, I am ONLY talking about the animal here)I was tempted by each beaver machine I passed.
We decided it was time to end the adventure miracle. Patrick wanted to put $1 dollar in 1 machine. He did, and won 10 bucks. The first miracle. I decided that I needed to find one of those beaver machines. So Eleanor and I wandered around until I spotted one; Busy Beaver Dam Builder. I knew it was the one. I fed it a dollar. It was a penny slot, so I had up to 100 tries. I decided to push the button that used 15 tries at once. After that, wackiness ensued. So much dam building, log sawing, sexy (to a male beaver) female beavers dancing. And then I suddenly had 3200 credits. Since the math region of my brain suffers from some form of retardation, it took me a few moments to realize what that number meant. 32 bucks. Thanks, 4th grade level math. I cashed out, and got the hell outta there.
I think I shall attribute this miracle to 2K10, rather than 09. 09 was a mean old whore, and therefore deserves no miracles attributed to her. I rather think that 2K10 exercised a little bit of early magic, and sent a warm up miracle my way.
Thanks, 2K10. You are already the best.
Some pictures from the Adventure Miracle.
Dressed in Sunday best, ready for the adventure miracle to begin.
Eating as many chips as possible, on the way to the miracle.
Eating as many cuties as possible on the way to the miracle.
Just basking in the miracle.
Just stalling for a miracle.
Just laying on a miracle.
Just laughing at a miracle.
Just topping off a miracle.
Just like, a way indie miracle.This was self indulgent. I apologize.
Oh, one other miracle I forgot to mention. The mustache is GONE.
2k10, year of the miracle
I think that 2K10 just might be the year of the miracle. One of the first miracles occurred this very day, in this very laundromat.
I am in a laundromat. I guess the sentence previous to the previous sentence alluded to that fact. Well, not even alluded. Stated. Perhaps a miracle even proceeding the miracle which today occurred in this very laundromat, is the fact that there is a laundromat 1 block from my residence that offers free wifi. The miracles are piling up. Cool, 2K10.
Upon arriving at Rose's Laundromat, I was a little dismayed to find that the apparent cost of 1 washing cycle was $1.75. Seeing several different styles of machine scattered about the place, I was hopeful to find cheaper machines. The Speed Queen would allow one to wash one's clothing for a paltry savings of 25 cents, but also looked like a real piece of shit. So I decided to stick with the Wascomat Jr. W-74, and pony up the full buck seventy five, even though we are in a recession.
Also, due to the recession, I was thinking about merely doing a load of whites, since what I most needed cleansed was my white work shirt. I gently fed a dollar bill into the change machine, which subsequently spit it back. Apparently my George Washington was a bit too crinkled for the taste of this particular mechanical diva. I found the 2 most uncrinkled bills I had, and shoved them in, and listened to the consequential shower of change. What a thrill, that sound. Makes you feel like you are winning something, even though you aren't even winning one single thing.
I retrieved my handful of quarters, and noticed that it seemed to be a much bigger handful than I had expected. Upon counting, the machine had blessed me with 14 quarters, rather than the 8 which I had expected. A post-Christmas miracle. Exactly the number of quarters needed for 2 loads in the Wascomat Jr.
I have a feeling that miracles shall abound in 2K10. Here are a few miracles I am expecting:
The acquisition of a grown up job. With my pitiful resume, the recession, and 78% useless History degree, this shall be a miracle indeed.
The acquisition of a wife. 2K10 just might be my year. I have been alive for 28 years. I think this miracle is approaching past due.
The acquisition of free internet in my household. I just have a feeling someone is going to have an open connection into which I shall be able to tap in the early months of 2K10.
Javier will get through 2K10 without catastrophic failure. My Honda Civic is going to run like a champion, all year long. I'm not going to have to sink 1600 dollars into him like I did last year.
The cat lady living below me will either give up smoking, or give up the ghost. I'd prefer she give up smoking, but I'll accept perish, that I no longer have to acquire lung cancer every time I unlock my front door.
The acquisition of 4 cats, should the cat lady perish. Wait. That would be a horrible miracle. I don't even want those cats.
Whatever else, 2K10 HAS to be better than 09. Right? RIGHT?
I am in a laundromat. I guess the sentence previous to the previous sentence alluded to that fact. Well, not even alluded. Stated. Perhaps a miracle even proceeding the miracle which today occurred in this very laundromat, is the fact that there is a laundromat 1 block from my residence that offers free wifi. The miracles are piling up. Cool, 2K10.
Upon arriving at Rose's Laundromat, I was a little dismayed to find that the apparent cost of 1 washing cycle was $1.75. Seeing several different styles of machine scattered about the place, I was hopeful to find cheaper machines. The Speed Queen would allow one to wash one's clothing for a paltry savings of 25 cents, but also looked like a real piece of shit. So I decided to stick with the Wascomat Jr. W-74, and pony up the full buck seventy five, even though we are in a recession.
Also, due to the recession, I was thinking about merely doing a load of whites, since what I most needed cleansed was my white work shirt. I gently fed a dollar bill into the change machine, which subsequently spit it back. Apparently my George Washington was a bit too crinkled for the taste of this particular mechanical diva. I found the 2 most uncrinkled bills I had, and shoved them in, and listened to the consequential shower of change. What a thrill, that sound. Makes you feel like you are winning something, even though you aren't even winning one single thing.
I retrieved my handful of quarters, and noticed that it seemed to be a much bigger handful than I had expected. Upon counting, the machine had blessed me with 14 quarters, rather than the 8 which I had expected. A post-Christmas miracle. Exactly the number of quarters needed for 2 loads in the Wascomat Jr.
I have a feeling that miracles shall abound in 2K10. Here are a few miracles I am expecting:
The acquisition of a grown up job. With my pitiful resume, the recession, and 78% useless History degree, this shall be a miracle indeed.
The acquisition of a wife. 2K10 just might be my year. I have been alive for 28 years. I think this miracle is approaching past due.
The acquisition of free internet in my household. I just have a feeling someone is going to have an open connection into which I shall be able to tap in the early months of 2K10.
Javier will get through 2K10 without catastrophic failure. My Honda Civic is going to run like a champion, all year long. I'm not going to have to sink 1600 dollars into him like I did last year.
The cat lady living below me will either give up smoking, or give up the ghost. I'd prefer she give up smoking, but I'll accept perish, that I no longer have to acquire lung cancer every time I unlock my front door.
The acquisition of 4 cats, should the cat lady perish. Wait. That would be a horrible miracle. I don't even want those cats.
Whatever else, 2K10 HAS to be better than 09. Right? RIGHT?
31.12.09
What i learned in 2009
I have been thinking a lot about 2009 over the last few days. As the end of each year approaches, I typically find myself waxing nostalgic about a great many events gone by, teeming with regret over others, and petrified with fear that I may find myself a year from now facing year 2(insert a high number here, probably 6-9) without a great deal to show for it. I like to, in this circumstance, attempt to mentally catalogue the things that I have learned, be they positive or negative, so that by 30 I may reach a state of relative perfection/nirvana. So here are a few of the things that I learned throughout the last 365 days.*
1. Passing a kidney stone is an activity apparently not only reserved for men in their mid-late 40's. Also, passing a stone is every bit as unpleasant an endeavor as I had imagined it would be. I mean, so many times that I lay awake at night, or beneath a blanket of clouds, or sitting in the calm, sublime quiet of nature, pondering the likelihood of a future passing, and just what such an even would mean for my bowel region. Imagining, amidst the scuttling clouds, or in between dreams, the fiery agony of a tiny, pin sized stone forcing its way through the narrow tracts of my abdominal plumbing. I guess what I'm saying here, is I learned that passing a stone is a real BITCH.
2. Hearts (especially my own) are finicky. They betray us at the moment least expected. Perhaps mine functions mostly improperly.
3. I am not as eternally immune to puking my guts out as I thought. 14 years of strict vomit avoidance came to a close, as I puked a record 4 times this year. Some of that puking may have been my own fault.
4. Living alone and getting trapped into occasional 40 minute conversations with the cat lady from the dwelling below, is very much preferable to living with daily toilet seat urine, constant and every present rotting refuse in the kitchen sink, and carpet that turns bare feet black. Even if that conversational snare involves discussing cat dander, skin and inner ear problems, missing wind chimes and watches, 2 year old Dodge Calibers, the merits of a 5 disk CD changer, the life, times, rescue scenario, and history of (and personal introduction to) at least 4 different cats, the scalding nature of her shower if I happen to flush my toilet, and the 1600 dollars a month paid to her by social security for having been a working woman all her life.
5. Graduating from college has put me no closer to obtaining a "grown up job" than have every fantasy book I have read over the last year. And I read WAY more fantasy books over the last year than I did college books throughout my distinguished academic career. I guess what I'm saying, is I might as well have pursued a fantasy degree, for all the bloody good history has done me.
6. Related to number 5, a history degree was a poor, pooooor life decision. And in this economy rife with absurd government spending, and no large scale job recovery in sight, history may have very well damned me to a much longer career in the food service industry than I had heretofore desired.
7. I hate serving food to people. But I suppose I have been learning this the last 3 years. But I REALLY learned it this year. It sort of really sank in when I realized that graduating college didn't mean an insta-job as I had always expected it would. "Just getting a degree is all that matters." -Lots of People. BULLSHIT.
8. Being an uncle is about as great as I could have ever imagined. And in conjunction with that, I don't think I am quite as excited to have my own little bundle of screaming, pooping, puking, fussy joy as I thought I was. Had someone offered to sell me a mostly cute baby for under $50 dollars several months ago, I'd have probably made such a transaction. Until I realized how much those things don't sleep, how much breast feeding sucks (no pun intended,) how limited one's actions, activities, and comings and goings become, and how much those things cry and get pissed off at basically nothing. I'm suddenly okay that I am childless. I shall continue to enjoy my niece. Until she cries or poops. Then, off to find my sister.
9. I apparently have a propensity to be, what I assume is a realist, but really is more likely a pessimist or a cynic.
10. While owning a motorcycle does make for easy dates, it has yet to secure me the wife I had always assumed it would. Perhaps I simply need to give it more time.
11. I have discovered that I love cuties at least equally as much as I love candy, and have therefore been able to greatly reduce my artificial sugar consumption through a treat paradigm shift; natural treats instead of high fructose corn syrup.
12. Number 11 was misleading; I still eat a lot of high fructose corn syrup.
13. Each year I find I love more people than I did the year previous. Being somewhat of an antisocial person, I thought this number would likely plateau. I guess this year especially, I have learned that I have a greater capacity to love people than what I had previously suspected.
14. This capacity unfortunately, seems to escape me in the realm of permanent female companionship. I've got philia-agape down, now I just need to work in an eros-agape combo for the win.
15. After 10 plus years, I will never EVER grow tired of NOFX.
16. I am not allergic to bees and/or wasps, as was made evident by the dual stinging I received at the hands (asses, really) of 2 very cruel creatures during the summer. On the same day, no less. While on a motorcycle.
17. Idaho bees apparently hate me way more than Utah bees.
18. I have the ability to ruin most subsequent kissing, upon breaking up with someone. Good luck girls. And sorry?
19. The likelihood of my own personal wall of shame seems ever more eminent. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a wall of shame, it is thus; a wall in one's parents' home which showcases the triumphs of wedlock amongst the various siblings of the household--all save one. And the wall is potently more shameful if the one happens to also bear the title of "first born." WIth both baby sisters married, and a baby brother well on the road to successful post missionary 3 month courtship, I seem doomed to suffer a fate worse than embarrassing high school pictorial revelation--THE WALL OF SHAME.
20. I'm not nearly as afraid of 28 as I was of 27.
21. Even after a year, a bidet is STILL the best 90 dollars I have ever spent. EVER.
22. After 2 months of intense effort, the left side of my face grows a much more respectable beard than the right side.
23. Respectable, in reference to my beard, is probably relative to, say, a Native American. Or a 15 year old boy.
24. Even if you are a strangely unattractive female working at the 7-11 (not that an unattractive person working at 7-11 is strange, mind you) a mostly obese female patron will still take a great deal of offense if you ask her, "So when are you due?" Especially when said obese female's boyfriend says, "Ouch," and then chuckles in response. I suppose there are a lot of lessons learned there. First and foremost, you never ever, under any circumstance, for any reason, whatsoever, at all, in any situation, ever, ask an obese female "when she is due." Never ever. EVER. Secondly, an obese female who has just been asked this question can stare an almost palpable, noxious look of death so potent, that man cannot even know, nor angles tell the true consequences of being on the receiving end of such a look. Thirdly, if ever I have an obese girlfriend/wife/friend, I shall never take her into 7-11 after 10:30 pm on new year's eve.
These are the things which have most readily come to mind, upon pondering the important life lessons learned in 2009. As more come to me, I shall let them be known. Because I know you all hang on every word, every experience noted in the annals of this blog. Because my life is SO interesting. Because everything I learned in 2009, you should certainly take into account and personally apply. Ignore these lessons at your own peril.
Go ahead. Take a big girl into 7-11. DARE YOU.
God bless, and happy new year.
*please note the time this was posted. SAD.
1. Passing a kidney stone is an activity apparently not only reserved for men in their mid-late 40's. Also, passing a stone is every bit as unpleasant an endeavor as I had imagined it would be. I mean, so many times that I lay awake at night, or beneath a blanket of clouds, or sitting in the calm, sublime quiet of nature, pondering the likelihood of a future passing, and just what such an even would mean for my bowel region. Imagining, amidst the scuttling clouds, or in between dreams, the fiery agony of a tiny, pin sized stone forcing its way through the narrow tracts of my abdominal plumbing. I guess what I'm saying here, is I learned that passing a stone is a real BITCH.
2. Hearts (especially my own) are finicky. They betray us at the moment least expected. Perhaps mine functions mostly improperly.
3. I am not as eternally immune to puking my guts out as I thought. 14 years of strict vomit avoidance came to a close, as I puked a record 4 times this year. Some of that puking may have been my own fault.
4. Living alone and getting trapped into occasional 40 minute conversations with the cat lady from the dwelling below, is very much preferable to living with daily toilet seat urine, constant and every present rotting refuse in the kitchen sink, and carpet that turns bare feet black. Even if that conversational snare involves discussing cat dander, skin and inner ear problems, missing wind chimes and watches, 2 year old Dodge Calibers, the merits of a 5 disk CD changer, the life, times, rescue scenario, and history of (and personal introduction to) at least 4 different cats, the scalding nature of her shower if I happen to flush my toilet, and the 1600 dollars a month paid to her by social security for having been a working woman all her life.
5. Graduating from college has put me no closer to obtaining a "grown up job" than have every fantasy book I have read over the last year. And I read WAY more fantasy books over the last year than I did college books throughout my distinguished academic career. I guess what I'm saying, is I might as well have pursued a fantasy degree, for all the bloody good history has done me.
6. Related to number 5, a history degree was a poor, pooooor life decision. And in this economy rife with absurd government spending, and no large scale job recovery in sight, history may have very well damned me to a much longer career in the food service industry than I had heretofore desired.
7. I hate serving food to people. But I suppose I have been learning this the last 3 years. But I REALLY learned it this year. It sort of really sank in when I realized that graduating college didn't mean an insta-job as I had always expected it would. "Just getting a degree is all that matters." -Lots of People. BULLSHIT.
8. Being an uncle is about as great as I could have ever imagined. And in conjunction with that, I don't think I am quite as excited to have my own little bundle of screaming, pooping, puking, fussy joy as I thought I was. Had someone offered to sell me a mostly cute baby for under $50 dollars several months ago, I'd have probably made such a transaction. Until I realized how much those things don't sleep, how much breast feeding sucks (no pun intended,) how limited one's actions, activities, and comings and goings become, and how much those things cry and get pissed off at basically nothing. I'm suddenly okay that I am childless. I shall continue to enjoy my niece. Until she cries or poops. Then, off to find my sister.
9. I apparently have a propensity to be, what I assume is a realist, but really is more likely a pessimist or a cynic.
10. While owning a motorcycle does make for easy dates, it has yet to secure me the wife I had always assumed it would. Perhaps I simply need to give it more time.
11. I have discovered that I love cuties at least equally as much as I love candy, and have therefore been able to greatly reduce my artificial sugar consumption through a treat paradigm shift; natural treats instead of high fructose corn syrup.
12. Number 11 was misleading; I still eat a lot of high fructose corn syrup.
13. Each year I find I love more people than I did the year previous. Being somewhat of an antisocial person, I thought this number would likely plateau. I guess this year especially, I have learned that I have a greater capacity to love people than what I had previously suspected.
14. This capacity unfortunately, seems to escape me in the realm of permanent female companionship. I've got philia-agape down, now I just need to work in an eros-agape combo for the win.
15. After 10 plus years, I will never EVER grow tired of NOFX.
16. I am not allergic to bees and/or wasps, as was made evident by the dual stinging I received at the hands (asses, really) of 2 very cruel creatures during the summer. On the same day, no less. While on a motorcycle.
17. Idaho bees apparently hate me way more than Utah bees.
18. I have the ability to ruin most subsequent kissing, upon breaking up with someone. Good luck girls. And sorry?
19. The likelihood of my own personal wall of shame seems ever more eminent. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a wall of shame, it is thus; a wall in one's parents' home which showcases the triumphs of wedlock amongst the various siblings of the household--all save one. And the wall is potently more shameful if the one happens to also bear the title of "first born." WIth both baby sisters married, and a baby brother well on the road to successful post missionary 3 month courtship, I seem doomed to suffer a fate worse than embarrassing high school pictorial revelation--THE WALL OF SHAME.
20. I'm not nearly as afraid of 28 as I was of 27.
21. Even after a year, a bidet is STILL the best 90 dollars I have ever spent. EVER.
22. After 2 months of intense effort, the left side of my face grows a much more respectable beard than the right side.
23. Respectable, in reference to my beard, is probably relative to, say, a Native American. Or a 15 year old boy.
24. Even if you are a strangely unattractive female working at the 7-11 (not that an unattractive person working at 7-11 is strange, mind you) a mostly obese female patron will still take a great deal of offense if you ask her, "So when are you due?" Especially when said obese female's boyfriend says, "Ouch," and then chuckles in response. I suppose there are a lot of lessons learned there. First and foremost, you never ever, under any circumstance, for any reason, whatsoever, at all, in any situation, ever, ask an obese female "when she is due." Never ever. EVER. Secondly, an obese female who has just been asked this question can stare an almost palpable, noxious look of death so potent, that man cannot even know, nor angles tell the true consequences of being on the receiving end of such a look. Thirdly, if ever I have an obese girlfriend/wife/friend, I shall never take her into 7-11 after 10:30 pm on new year's eve.
These are the things which have most readily come to mind, upon pondering the important life lessons learned in 2009. As more come to me, I shall let them be known. Because I know you all hang on every word, every experience noted in the annals of this blog. Because my life is SO interesting. Because everything I learned in 2009, you should certainly take into account and personally apply. Ignore these lessons at your own peril.
Go ahead. Take a big girl into 7-11. DARE YOU.
God bless, and happy new year.
*please note the time this was posted. SAD.
28.12.09
Fat suits
Why is buying a well fitting suit in Utah about as easy as finding a blonde headed girl with flare jeans, Ugg's, and a Bumpit artificially elevating the hair around the crown region of her head who DOESN'T think that Twilight was the greatest thing ever written/moviefied? I realize that was a confusing sentence. Let me break it down.
You will never find a fake blonde with Ugg's and a Bumpit who does not think that Twilight is a masterpiece. And for whatever reason, finding a suit that isn't tailored to fit an obese mutant with a giant crotch and an unnaturally tiny waist is night unto impossible.
I don't get it. From what I can tell, fashion is and has been moving in a fitted direction. Gone are the days when having a 34" opening at the bottom of one's pant leg is considered awesome. So why then, has the suit industry not figured this out? I mean granted, I was suit shopping in Dillard's and Macy's. However, I hardly doubt I am alone or a minority in my desire for a suit that doesn't feel like wearing sweat pants. I don't know what sort of person needs an extra yard of fabric in the crotchial region. And someone with a 34" waist certainly isn't filling up that extra crotch baggage with a gigantic, penis concealing pannis.
Pleats. Who is still putting pleats in pants? Again, it makes the crotch area look fat, with all that extra bunched up fabric. Why do I need enough leg room for 3 legs in my pants? Why does anyone? I understand that skinnies aren't for everyone. But why not make the suits fit nicely? Fit, is the key word here.
So I browsed through suit, after "tailored" suit, and all pants were like fat suit pants, minus the fat. Baggy sweats with giant crotches. Maybe it is the local culture? The fact that most people buying suits are going on missions and therefore have no care for fashion? Or are old men who are in Bishoprics, and therefore are oblivious to the importance of pleat avoidance?
Finally, after a great deal of searching, I was able to find a "fitted" suit that was sold in separate pieces. But the vast majority of suits through which I sifted were tailored to fit an imaginary person with 30" thighs, a watermelon sized pannis, and a 34" waist. Although I have aspirations to someday fit that profile, for now I will stick with the fitted suit.
You will never find a fake blonde with Ugg's and a Bumpit who does not think that Twilight is a masterpiece. And for whatever reason, finding a suit that isn't tailored to fit an obese mutant with a giant crotch and an unnaturally tiny waist is night unto impossible.
I don't get it. From what I can tell, fashion is and has been moving in a fitted direction. Gone are the days when having a 34" opening at the bottom of one's pant leg is considered awesome. So why then, has the suit industry not figured this out? I mean granted, I was suit shopping in Dillard's and Macy's. However, I hardly doubt I am alone or a minority in my desire for a suit that doesn't feel like wearing sweat pants. I don't know what sort of person needs an extra yard of fabric in the crotchial region. And someone with a 34" waist certainly isn't filling up that extra crotch baggage with a gigantic, penis concealing pannis.
Pleats. Who is still putting pleats in pants? Again, it makes the crotch area look fat, with all that extra bunched up fabric. Why do I need enough leg room for 3 legs in my pants? Why does anyone? I understand that skinnies aren't for everyone. But why not make the suits fit nicely? Fit, is the key word here.
So I browsed through suit, after "tailored" suit, and all pants were like fat suit pants, minus the fat. Baggy sweats with giant crotches. Maybe it is the local culture? The fact that most people buying suits are going on missions and therefore have no care for fashion? Or are old men who are in Bishoprics, and therefore are oblivious to the importance of pleat avoidance?
Finally, after a great deal of searching, I was able to find a "fitted" suit that was sold in separate pieces. But the vast majority of suits through which I sifted were tailored to fit an imaginary person with 30" thighs, a watermelon sized pannis, and a 34" waist. Although I have aspirations to someday fit that profile, for now I will stick with the fitted suit.
27.12.09
Christmas heart attacks
I think the worst thing about Christmas time, is the inevitable end and the subsequent return to real life. Back to my lonely hovel in SLC. Back to a job that makes me want to blow my brains out (possibly with my Christmas .45) on a daily basis. Back to an ungodly commute through wretched miles of construction and icy roads. Back to wondering if and or when my gutless Japanese-Mexican dream machine Javier will break down again, thus raping me of all financial security. Again. Back to the impossibility of finding a job which doesn't involve servitude with a fake smile, and thanking the fat, greedy, ungrateful masses for their patronage while silently cursing them in my heart, wishing for the aforementioned .45. Back to searching the many job forums, sifting through endless employment opportunities for which I am unqualified and for which 300 other (probably more qualified) people shall be applying. At least my bed in SLC is better than my Nephi bed. And I have a bidet. So I suppose there is THAT to look forward to.
I'm going to miss my siblings who are scattered about Utah, mostly in the far northern region. I'm going to miss threatening to feed my 4 month old niece cuties and shrimp cocktail, while her mother threatens me with an awful, screaming death. I'm going to miss food spreads; cheeses, shrimps, crackers, meats, cauliflowers, nuts, cookies, more meats, breads, treats, snacks, and then probably more treats and possibly even more snacks. I'm going to miss feeling like a heart attack is eminent at any moment, and the feeling that I can't eat even one more bite of something. And then subsequently eating several more bites of EVERYTHING. I'm going to miss not being surrounded by homeless vagrants when I use the interweb. I'm going to miss playing Scategories and thoroughly kicking everyone's ASS. I'm going to miss white elephant family gift exchanges, particularly the creature head constructed out of a deer asshole. This exists. Sort of a family heirloom. Mostly, I'm going to miss the comfortable feeling of being at home.
Come back soon Christmas. Stop taking so long to get here every single year.
Actually, I take that back. Take your time, Christmas. By the time you pass next year, I'll be on the waning end of 28. Which means 29 is next. Which means 30 comes right after that.
Dear God, spare me from single at 30. Dear Santa, please give me a 2011 Christmas wife, or a Christmas heart attack. Either will do.
I'm going to miss my siblings who are scattered about Utah, mostly in the far northern region. I'm going to miss threatening to feed my 4 month old niece cuties and shrimp cocktail, while her mother threatens me with an awful, screaming death. I'm going to miss food spreads; cheeses, shrimps, crackers, meats, cauliflowers, nuts, cookies, more meats, breads, treats, snacks, and then probably more treats and possibly even more snacks. I'm going to miss feeling like a heart attack is eminent at any moment, and the feeling that I can't eat even one more bite of something. And then subsequently eating several more bites of EVERYTHING. I'm going to miss not being surrounded by homeless vagrants when I use the interweb. I'm going to miss playing Scategories and thoroughly kicking everyone's ASS. I'm going to miss white elephant family gift exchanges, particularly the creature head constructed out of a deer asshole. This exists. Sort of a family heirloom. Mostly, I'm going to miss the comfortable feeling of being at home.
Come back soon Christmas. Stop taking so long to get here every single year.
Actually, I take that back. Take your time, Christmas. By the time you pass next year, I'll be on the waning end of 28. Which means 29 is next. Which means 30 comes right after that.
Dear God, spare me from single at 30. Dear Santa, please give me a 2011 Christmas wife, or a Christmas heart attack. Either will do.
17.12.09
Sold some gift cards to a murderer
the other day.
This guy came in to Carrabbas about 11 in the morning. He expressed interest in purchasing some gift cards, and I was happy to oblige him, as we are having a contest. He bought 500. After he left, my manager informed me that the man had recently slain his brother in law. I was mostly pist because last year he bought like 3000. I guess that million dollar bail hit his pocket book pretty hard.
Apparently his meth-head brother in law decided it would be prudent to attack him with a chair. The accused then proceeded to shoot him in the chest about 8 times. Which seems about right, if you think about it. A chair VS 8 bullets. I mean, a chair is way bigger than those bullets, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some crack head beat me to death with a chair.
I just think that maybe it wasn't so smart for the accused to shoot the chair wielder 8 times. Possibly a little excessive. I think it might be a little difficult to claim pure self defense on that one. Unless of course the scene was akin to a movie. Maybe crack head took a couple in the chest, and just kept advancing with that menacing chair raised above his head. Maybe after a couple more, he just started to laugh, and said something like, "You think mere bullets can stop ME?" At which point, he continued to advance, and the accused continued to shoot.
More likely the accused probably just really really hated crack head, and was caught up in the thrill of burying as much lead in his chest as was possible in a 4 second time frame. Think he's gonna be in trouble.
Lessons to learn here: Chair VS gun, a bad idea. Crack + chair = poor decision making. Crack head brother in law + chair + 9mm = too many bullets to avoid a nefarious murder charge. I guess the ultimate lesson--drugs and small guns are bad for both parties.
This guy came in to Carrabbas about 11 in the morning. He expressed interest in purchasing some gift cards, and I was happy to oblige him, as we are having a contest. He bought 500. After he left, my manager informed me that the man had recently slain his brother in law. I was mostly pist because last year he bought like 3000. I guess that million dollar bail hit his pocket book pretty hard.
Apparently his meth-head brother in law decided it would be prudent to attack him with a chair. The accused then proceeded to shoot him in the chest about 8 times. Which seems about right, if you think about it. A chair VS 8 bullets. I mean, a chair is way bigger than those bullets, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let some crack head beat me to death with a chair.
I just think that maybe it wasn't so smart for the accused to shoot the chair wielder 8 times. Possibly a little excessive. I think it might be a little difficult to claim pure self defense on that one. Unless of course the scene was akin to a movie. Maybe crack head took a couple in the chest, and just kept advancing with that menacing chair raised above his head. Maybe after a couple more, he just started to laugh, and said something like, "You think mere bullets can stop ME?" At which point, he continued to advance, and the accused continued to shoot.
More likely the accused probably just really really hated crack head, and was caught up in the thrill of burying as much lead in his chest as was possible in a 4 second time frame. Think he's gonna be in trouble.
Lessons to learn here: Chair VS gun, a bad idea. Crack + chair = poor decision making. Crack head brother in law + chair + 9mm = too many bullets to avoid a nefarious murder charge. I guess the ultimate lesson--drugs and small guns are bad for both parties.
8.12.09
A christmas miracle
Every now and then the Virgin Mary appears in a tree trunk. Or on a tortilla. Or some other miraculous location not involving a tattooed chest. When such an event occurs, the Catholic community often erects some form of a shrine to protect the location of the holy appearance. Although, in the case of the Virgin in the tortilla, I am not sure what they did with that. Perhaps it has been preserved in some sort of a frozen sanctuary.
I used to think that such things were just silly coincidences. Until I had my own such experience.
Last night I was at work. Sometimes, when bored and hungry, I cut the middle out of a loaf of bread and eat it. I typically only do this toward the end of the night, when we have an overabundance of bread left over, which shall soon be tossed out anyway. I am not a completely amoral person, simply cutting out the middle of an entire loaf of bread when there are starving people all over the state, nay, world.
After consuming the center piece, I was left with a doughnut shaped husk, which still contained about an inch and a half of soft center bread. So I dug out most of what remained with 3 fingers. One of my co-workers, Jen, who happens to be my arch nemesis, had a plate of food in the back. She being nowhere in sight, I placed the chunk of middle-bread on her plate, surmising that she would probably enjoy it with her meal.
Moments later, she approached me, asking what it was supposed to be. I replied that I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. She said, "You mean you didn't do that on purpose?"
"Do what on purpose?"
"This."
And then she showed me the miracle.
Unknowingly, my hand had been blessed upon extracting the middle-bread. This perfectly formed creature, possibly a sheep or a cow, was unwittingly sculpted by my apparently holy hand. With Christmas being very near, this can be none other than one of the stable animals that was present at the birth of our Lord. Perhaps the cow, who lent its manger. Or the sheep, who provided a measure of wool for the manger lining.
I may have to reconsider the enmity shared between me and my nemesis. This may have been a sign to bury the hatchet. Although, if that were the case, I would think that I'd have extracted a dove from the center of the bread, rather than a sheep/cow.
I'm so confused.
I used to think that such things were just silly coincidences. Until I had my own such experience.
Last night I was at work. Sometimes, when bored and hungry, I cut the middle out of a loaf of bread and eat it. I typically only do this toward the end of the night, when we have an overabundance of bread left over, which shall soon be tossed out anyway. I am not a completely amoral person, simply cutting out the middle of an entire loaf of bread when there are starving people all over the state, nay, world.
After consuming the center piece, I was left with a doughnut shaped husk, which still contained about an inch and a half of soft center bread. So I dug out most of what remained with 3 fingers. One of my co-workers, Jen, who happens to be my arch nemesis, had a plate of food in the back. She being nowhere in sight, I placed the chunk of middle-bread on her plate, surmising that she would probably enjoy it with her meal.
Moments later, she approached me, asking what it was supposed to be. I replied that I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. She said, "You mean you didn't do that on purpose?"
"Do what on purpose?"
"This."
And then she showed me the miracle.
Unknowingly, my hand had been blessed upon extracting the middle-bread. This perfectly formed creature, possibly a sheep or a cow, was unwittingly sculpted by my apparently holy hand. With Christmas being very near, this can be none other than one of the stable animals that was present at the birth of our Lord. Perhaps the cow, who lent its manger. Or the sheep, who provided a measure of wool for the manger lining.
I may have to reconsider the enmity shared between me and my nemesis. This may have been a sign to bury the hatchet. Although, if that were the case, I would think that I'd have extracted a dove from the center of the bread, rather than a sheep/cow.
I'm so confused.
No sleeping
I guess I never thought I'd have to rely upon a homeless shelter to provide me with internet usage. Here I sit, surrounded by vagrants in worn, puffy coats and beards that have certainly not seen a trimmer of any sort in months, if not years. Their heads in the loving embrace of crusty, stained beanies, filthy hair cascading out the back, some times in a pony tail, other times spilling over the shoulders like a polluted waterfall. Others have been short on hair for years, yet what remains is wildly unkempt. A man nearby softly mutters to himself sitting sideways in a chair, legs dangling over the arm, dripping boots leaving dirty brown rivulets of snow melt down the upholstery on the side. The stench of stale sweat comes and goes, undulating with the passage of bundled up men passing to and fro. Many sit or wander expressionless, with faces rendered implacable after years of vagrancy and rejection. Some are gathered in groups, talking about God knows what listless, homeless, possessionless, jobless, and often hopeless men talk about. The depth of the snow. The frigid, pitiless wind. The insatiable hunger of drug or alcohol addiction. Lost family. Disloyal friends. Failed dreams. Perhaps hope.
As a man in a dark blue uniform gently prods a sleeping lump of rumpled coat, informing it that sleeping is forbidden, I remember I am in the Salt Lake City library. Which is sort of synonymous with a homeless shelter. Only with way more books, and strict laws against slumbering.
As a man in a dark blue uniform gently prods a sleeping lump of rumpled coat, informing it that sleeping is forbidden, I remember I am in the Salt Lake City library. Which is sort of synonymous with a homeless shelter. Only with way more books, and strict laws against slumbering.
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