I was getting my self ready for work this morning, when I looked in the mirror and made a startling revelation.
I’m hideous.
Now, I don’t make this claim lightly, mind you. I’m a very proud person and try to take pretty good care of myself. I’m eating probably better than I ever have in my life. I’m actually getting regular workouts twice a week thanks to my Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes. And I try to keep my personal grooming habits up to date, lest someone confuse me for Timmy the one-legged homeless guy that sits out in front of my building every day.
Despite all of that - I still just find myself utterly frightening.
I also, apparently, am part werewolf.
You see, what I really find most unappealing is that I have more hair on my body than most of my friends have on their heads. This is not a good thing. Body hair just repulses me to no end. Yes, I realize its natural and all that crap, but I don’t care. It disgusts me.
Sad thing is I seem to be stuck with it. You see, despite my best efforts to get rid of it, it just keeps coming back.
I’ve tried shaving it - and that’s no good. It’s a temporary fix. Plus, its time consuming and you always run the risk of cutting yourself in places that rarely see the light of day. And, let me tell you - if there’s a more unpleasureable feeling than that of a shirt running against the grain of razor stubble on your chest, I don’t want to know what it is. It’s just an uncomfortable, horribly distracting way to deal with the problem.
Nair is just as bad. It leaves you stuck with the same stubble. The hair grows back just as fast and on top of that - the smell of Nair doing whatever unholy chemical dance it does to your hair is enough to make one bury his nose in a freshly procured pile of manure. In other words - it stinks.
Plus, God forbid you accidentally get some on your nipples. Not good times. At all.
I have yet to try the waxing route, nor do I know if I ever will. Although the concept of no body hair for a couple months at a time is appealing - as is the fact that waxing takes care of any unruly stubble as well - I don’t know if spending an hour or so having hair literally ripped from my body is worth the tradeoff. I enjoy a little pain here and there as much as the next guy - but that seems just a TAD bit extreme.
Laser hair removal seems like a solid option. Unfortunately, I’ve heard even that is not completely permanent, so you have to go in for several treatments. That would especially be true for someone like me - who again - is part simian. Plus, it’s a lot more expensive than my other options. And, if they happen to charge by the square inch? Forget it.
Part of me thinks I should just stop worrying about it and live the rest of my life as the half-man, half-Sasquatch that I am. My wife claims that my overabundance of body hair is not an issue for her. I don’t buy it. Its not that I feel like she’s lying to me, per se - I just can’t envision any scenario where she looks at me, say, as I exit the shower - chest hair matted down like a soaking wet St. Bernard - and finds anything remotely appealing there. Lord knows, I don’t.
Thus, it seems as though - at least for the interim - I’m left with no other option that to go through my day-to-day life looking like a Yeti. Granted a fairly in shape, nice smelling Yeti - but a Yeti nonetheless.
Now, if you’ll excuse me - I’m going to let the kids take turns braiding my back hair…
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Why Must I Be Such An Angry Young Man?
So those of you who also follow me on the Facebook, probably noticed the teensy-weensy bit of agitation I displayed on Friday night. And, assuming you saw that, you undoubtedly were waiting all weekend for some sort of grandiose explanation for said display.
Well, I’m here to tell you.
You’re going to be disappointed.
Of course, if you’re a regular reader, then you should be used to disappointments here, but I digress…
No, unfortunately my little outburst was nothing more than some mild irritation based on the fact that I am, at times - for lack of a better description - a whiny bitch. Last week was just a long, stressful week for me and my display on Friday was the culmination of my bitchitude.
And, although my outburst in and of itself was much ado about nothing. I’m concerned that this belies a much bigger problem with me. I’m finding that I am gradually getting more and more irritable with each passing year. In fact, I feel like at the rate I’m currently progressing, I may very well bypass becoming the stereotypical “grumpy old man” and morph straight into the Devil incarnate by the time I hit my 60s.
What troubles me is that I’m not really sure when this decline started. For the longest time, I was the mellowest person I knew Aside from my random encounters with members of the opposite sex (and, honestly - who wouldn’t that drive crazy?) I was almost always happy, rarely got irritated and generally just tried to be a fun person to be around.
Now, I still try to be a fun guy - and usually feel like I do a decent job of that. As for the first two parts of that equation, though - that’s a different story. Be it at my job, behind the wheel of my car or just trying to deal with the daily minutiae of my life, I just find myself flying off the handle over the stupidest things anymore.
Granted, there are a lot more things to be stressed about now that I’m older - money, kids, our jobs, swine flu, whether or not that video of the woman and the donkey loaded a virus on my computer - these are all valid concerns for a man in his late 30s. And it’s quite troubling. I’m used to worrying about stupid things, like my fantasy football team, if that woman who just sent me a drink has an Adam’s Apple or just a growth on her throat, and, um… whether or not that video of the woman and the donkey loaded a virus on my computer.
Okay, so some things are still the same, but you get the point - there’s a lot more to worry about when you get older. And it sucks and I don’t like it and I’m just going to have to rant about it once in a while - and if that involves me dropping a few random F-bombs along the way, then so be it.
I supposed that one of these days I’ll have to learn how to deal with things better - lest I end up with a stress-related heart attack by my mid-40s. If not, I’m sure that there are a multitude of therapists I can go to, who will be more than happy to prescribe me something to help do it for me.
Well, I’m here to tell you.
You’re going to be disappointed.
Of course, if you’re a regular reader, then you should be used to disappointments here, but I digress…
No, unfortunately my little outburst was nothing more than some mild irritation based on the fact that I am, at times - for lack of a better description - a whiny bitch. Last week was just a long, stressful week for me and my display on Friday was the culmination of my bitchitude.
And, although my outburst in and of itself was much ado about nothing. I’m concerned that this belies a much bigger problem with me. I’m finding that I am gradually getting more and more irritable with each passing year. In fact, I feel like at the rate I’m currently progressing, I may very well bypass becoming the stereotypical “grumpy old man” and morph straight into the Devil incarnate by the time I hit my 60s.
What troubles me is that I’m not really sure when this decline started. For the longest time, I was the mellowest person I knew Aside from my random encounters with members of the opposite sex (and, honestly - who wouldn’t that drive crazy?) I was almost always happy, rarely got irritated and generally just tried to be a fun person to be around.
Now, I still try to be a fun guy - and usually feel like I do a decent job of that. As for the first two parts of that equation, though - that’s a different story. Be it at my job, behind the wheel of my car or just trying to deal with the daily minutiae of my life, I just find myself flying off the handle over the stupidest things anymore.
Granted, there are a lot more things to be stressed about now that I’m older - money, kids, our jobs, swine flu, whether or not that video of the woman and the donkey loaded a virus on my computer - these are all valid concerns for a man in his late 30s. And it’s quite troubling. I’m used to worrying about stupid things, like my fantasy football team, if that woman who just sent me a drink has an Adam’s Apple or just a growth on her throat, and, um… whether or not that video of the woman and the donkey loaded a virus on my computer.
Okay, so some things are still the same, but you get the point - there’s a lot more to worry about when you get older. And it sucks and I don’t like it and I’m just going to have to rant about it once in a while - and if that involves me dropping a few random F-bombs along the way, then so be it.
I supposed that one of these days I’ll have to learn how to deal with things better - lest I end up with a stress-related heart attack by my mid-40s. If not, I’m sure that there are a multitude of therapists I can go to, who will be more than happy to prescribe me something to help do it for me.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tonight I'm Gonna Party Like Its 1989 - Part Deux...
Saturday night was the reunion itself. There was some question as to how people should be dressing for this event. Now, it should be known that, being a fairly blue-collar area, there aren’t very many places in my hometown that you would consider “upscale.” Or “trendy.” Or “suitable for public inhabitation.”
The place where the reunion was going to be held was considered somewhere in between dressy and casual - so I opted to play it safe by going right down the middle with a suit and no tie. (And, dare I say, I looked good). However, I was still somewhat concerned I would be overdressed.
My fears became more pronounced when we arrived at the establishment to see a group of people dressed in Ohio State jerseys and shorts playing cornhole out in the parking lot. My fears were then subsequently confirmed when we walked inside and were greeted by about 10 people from my class – the most dressed-up of which was wearing a golf shirt and jeans. This naturally made me feel like the douchy boss from a telemarketing office, who was out for a night with his co-workers.
The one thing I immediately noticed upon arriving upstairs to the room they had reserved for us was how small it was. Even with the 10 or so people that were there, you could tell it could get crowded quickly. And, it did.
The room quickly filled up after my arrival (and, let’s be honest – if I’m there already, what are you waiting for… aside for me to leave?) Within about a half-hour the room was pretty much full of people – and that’s not taking into account seating for about half the people that were up there – or the three big tables that were holding our food.
[And, thankfully - several of the people who showed up later were dressed up a bit, so I didn't completely look like a fish out of water. Well, at least not for the reason I was worried about looking like I fish out of water...]
Unfortunately, there was a surge of people who decided to come last minute, so our organizers (who really did do a great job getting things set up) were left with a tricky situation. Thankfully, it worked itself out to a degree. The Ohio State –USC game was on the big screen downstairs, so after a bit, the majority of people there went down to watch the game, which opened things up nicely.
The downside about the big turnout was that, I didn't get to enjoy dinner. Thanks to the crowds, the open tables filled up quickly – so there was no place to sit. By the time that some room started to open up – I was so wrapped up with moving out of everyone’s way; and trying to make sure my wife wasn’t bored out of her mind – that I forgot about trying to eat dinner.
I did not – however – forget to keep drinking. After all, we must keep our priorities straight.
In any event – the night progressed nicely. My wife found a kindred spirit in my friend Dave’s wife, so the two of them spend the evening chatting, drinking and I think at one point – planning some sort of Thelma & Louise-esque escapade that may or may not have involved killing us both and fleeing in a stolen convertible.
The highlight of the event was when some random guy who was not part of the reunion came up and asked if he could take my picture, because – as he explained it – I looked exactly like a friend of his and he had to take my picture and send it to him because he (the friend) would get a kick out of it.
This then led to a discussion between my wife and her new partner in crime about how hideous this supposed friend must have really been. I assume it was not because they felt I was equally as hideous (though neither one of them ever said as much), but more because – they said – whenever people say they have a fiend that looks like so-and-so; they in fact look nothing alike that the other person always looks like some combination of the creature from “Alien” and road kill.
After the reunion, a big group of us ended up back at the local bar where we finished up the previous evening’s activities. My wife had initially wanted to head home, but thanks to a little prodding from her new friend and I – we managed to get her out for a little more fun and some more drinks. I wanted her to be able to let loose a little bit, since she doesn’t often get the chance to do so. She would regret this the next morning.
Her Sunday started the same way as my Saturday – hung over; feeling like you’re going to vomit, with a small child bounding upon your sleeping carcass. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she was looking at being trapped in a car for nine hours to boot – so if there was any hurling to be done, it would have to be done doing about 70 MPH.
Thankfully for the both of us – there was no puking. I was slightly hung-over, but nowhere near as bad as the day before, so I was good to go – although the fact that we were two hours behind getting on the road was a bit of a bummer.
She was touch and go for a while, but she eventually made it through the day unscathed. The mid-trip stop at the Taco Bell at the Ohio-West Virginia border (a traditional drive-back stop) seemed to cure what ailed her. As it did for me – at least until Monday morning when I had a case of the dumps like you wouldn’t believe.
But, at least it brought my trip full-circle.
The place where the reunion was going to be held was considered somewhere in between dressy and casual - so I opted to play it safe by going right down the middle with a suit and no tie. (And, dare I say, I looked good). However, I was still somewhat concerned I would be overdressed.
My fears became more pronounced when we arrived at the establishment to see a group of people dressed in Ohio State jerseys and shorts playing cornhole out in the parking lot. My fears were then subsequently confirmed when we walked inside and were greeted by about 10 people from my class – the most dressed-up of which was wearing a golf shirt and jeans. This naturally made me feel like the douchy boss from a telemarketing office, who was out for a night with his co-workers.
The one thing I immediately noticed upon arriving upstairs to the room they had reserved for us was how small it was. Even with the 10 or so people that were there, you could tell it could get crowded quickly. And, it did.
The room quickly filled up after my arrival (and, let’s be honest – if I’m there already, what are you waiting for… aside for me to leave?) Within about a half-hour the room was pretty much full of people – and that’s not taking into account seating for about half the people that were up there – or the three big tables that were holding our food.
[And, thankfully - several of the people who showed up later were dressed up a bit, so I didn't completely look like a fish out of water. Well, at least not for the reason I was worried about looking like I fish out of water...]
Unfortunately, there was a surge of people who decided to come last minute, so our organizers (who really did do a great job getting things set up) were left with a tricky situation. Thankfully, it worked itself out to a degree. The Ohio State –USC game was on the big screen downstairs, so after a bit, the majority of people there went down to watch the game, which opened things up nicely.
The downside about the big turnout was that, I didn't get to enjoy dinner. Thanks to the crowds, the open tables filled up quickly – so there was no place to sit. By the time that some room started to open up – I was so wrapped up with moving out of everyone’s way; and trying to make sure my wife wasn’t bored out of her mind – that I forgot about trying to eat dinner.
I did not – however – forget to keep drinking. After all, we must keep our priorities straight.
In any event – the night progressed nicely. My wife found a kindred spirit in my friend Dave’s wife, so the two of them spend the evening chatting, drinking and I think at one point – planning some sort of Thelma & Louise-esque escapade that may or may not have involved killing us both and fleeing in a stolen convertible.
The highlight of the event was when some random guy who was not part of the reunion came up and asked if he could take my picture, because – as he explained it – I looked exactly like a friend of his and he had to take my picture and send it to him because he (the friend) would get a kick out of it.
This then led to a discussion between my wife and her new partner in crime about how hideous this supposed friend must have really been. I assume it was not because they felt I was equally as hideous (though neither one of them ever said as much), but more because – they said – whenever people say they have a fiend that looks like so-and-so; they in fact look nothing alike that the other person always looks like some combination of the creature from “Alien” and road kill.
After the reunion, a big group of us ended up back at the local bar where we finished up the previous evening’s activities. My wife had initially wanted to head home, but thanks to a little prodding from her new friend and I – we managed to get her out for a little more fun and some more drinks. I wanted her to be able to let loose a little bit, since she doesn’t often get the chance to do so. She would regret this the next morning.
Her Sunday started the same way as my Saturday – hung over; feeling like you’re going to vomit, with a small child bounding upon your sleeping carcass. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she was looking at being trapped in a car for nine hours to boot – so if there was any hurling to be done, it would have to be done doing about 70 MPH.
Thankfully for the both of us – there was no puking. I was slightly hung-over, but nowhere near as bad as the day before, so I was good to go – although the fact that we were two hours behind getting on the road was a bit of a bummer.
She was touch and go for a while, but she eventually made it through the day unscathed. The mid-trip stop at the Taco Bell at the Ohio-West Virginia border (a traditional drive-back stop) seemed to cure what ailed her. As it did for me – at least until Monday morning when I had a case of the dumps like you wouldn’t believe.
But, at least it brought my trip full-circle.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Tonight I'm Gonna Party Like Its 1989...
[Given that I got a severe case of diarrhea of the keyboard for this post, I have decided to split it up into two parts, to hopefully keep all of you from stabbing your eyeballs out trying to read the whole thing. I thank you.]
Well, I had my 20 year high school reunion this past weekend – and suffice it to say, it was the highlight of my life up to, and including this very moment.
Okay, that might be a stretch, but it was still a good time – despite having to come to grips once and for all that it has been 20 years since I graduated high school and I am officially becoming an old fart.
In addition to facing my own mortality, I also got to cram about a week’s worth of reunion activities, family visits and drinking into a two-day stretch. Sandwich that around two enthralling 9-hour drives and you have the recipe for a treat that plows through your innards with the ferocity of 1,000 bulldozers – not at all unlike the Subway Club that I got from the truck stop Subway that would wreak havoc on my innards early Friday morning.
But it wasn’t all drinking binges and bloody stool during my time away. Here are some of the highlights of our trip.
We got off to a shaky start: We had initially planned to be on the road around 1:00 PM on Thursday. However, due to various work obligations and unexpected visits from neighbors – we didn’t leave the house until around 1:30. My wife realized that she forgot her purse about 15 minutes later – just slipping in under my self-imposed 20 minute deadline for turning back to get any forgotten items – so we turned around to grab that. Thus, our official departure came just after 2:00. Then, add having to stop twice right after that for gas and my ill-fated Subway trip – and we really didn’t get going until close to 2:30. Yay.
Subsequently, we didn’t get in until a little after 11:00 – which would have been fine, except of course we then spent the next 90 minutes or so chatting with my dad and step-mom, which didn’t get us into bed until around 1:00 AM. That would end up being the earliest I got to bed the entire time we were there.
Friday was fairly low-key during the day (with the exception of the case of the dumps I got, thanks to my trichinosis laden Subway sandwich) – just some errand running and hanging out at my dad’s place – which was our headquarters for the trip. I am thankful for this, since I’m fairly sure had I not gotten this reprieve, I would be dead, and subsequently, not writing this right now.
Friday night was our pre-reunion get together. My wife made the command decision that she would forego coming out with me, in part to save my dad and step-mom from having to look after the kids two nights in a row, and in part to rest up for Saturday night. This would turn out to be the smartest decision she’s ever made – eclipsing marrying me by a substantial margin.
I, on the other hand, was not as smart. As is usually the case with me, I go out with the intention of not drinking all that much and end up a slobbering, slurring mess – which, as an aside – has earned me the nickname “Mr. Mumbles” when I’m out drinking with my friends.
To be fair – I thought I would be in the clear. I loaded up with a good amount of pizza before I left, plus I alternated between beer and club soda for most of the evening, which has been my years-old sure-fire solution for going out on the town without ended up a sloppy, drunken mess.
Unfortunately for me, I failed to take into account the fact that I am now 38 and not 18, and that the drinks affect me much differently than they did back in the day. Back then, when I got drunk – I knew it. I would then either be smart enough to quit drinking and sober up; or continue drinking, puke, then continue drinking some more.
Now when I get drunk, it happens much more subtly – at least to me. I usually can go all night and feel just fine… until I pass out with my pants around my ankles while sitting on the toilet. This is where my wife comes into play, as she usually sees how buffoonish I truly look, and is able to act accordingly and extricate me before I do too much damage to either of our reputations.
Without her there, I was able to drink until the party ended – somewhere around 2:00 AM. I made it home just fine – with the notable exception of my dad locking me out of the house – and got into bed seemingly good as new. Even my wife was surprised at how lucid I was.
Next morning, however, when I woke up and immediately felt as if I was going to t Technicolor yawn all over the place – it was clear to me that I may have had just a little more to drink than I had originally intended. And, although I was successful in not redecorating my father’s house with my vomit, the nauseous feeling hung with me for most of the day.
Once I got myself feeling moderately human again, it was time for more errand running, followed by a trip to visit my mom. She was helping my brother with a festival he was running, down in the little beach town by where I grew up. I knew this would make me feel a little bit better – because my brother Mike was running the festival and promised to take care of us. Plus, there would be the opportunity to people watch. And, allow me to tell you that this place is the pinnacle of people watching.
Needless to say, we weren’t disappointed. Among the highlights were at least a dozen folks with a tattoo-to-tooth ratio of 4-to-1; a very ordinary looking middle aged man walking around holding hands with a clearly annoyed, fairly hot chick at least half his age; at least three kids – somewhere in the 10-13 year old range – who weighed close to, if not over, 200 pounds eating funnel cakes; a man who was about 6-5 and weighed about 250, who was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, black jeans and had quite possibly the most impressive curly mullet I’ve ever seen; and an old woman who had a hairstyle that can be best describe as a combination between Gary Oldman’s hairdo in “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” and a military helmet.
It was quite a scene. If anything, it was a good primer to get me ready for the evening’s activities…
Well, I had my 20 year high school reunion this past weekend – and suffice it to say, it was the highlight of my life up to, and including this very moment.
Okay, that might be a stretch, but it was still a good time – despite having to come to grips once and for all that it has been 20 years since I graduated high school and I am officially becoming an old fart.
In addition to facing my own mortality, I also got to cram about a week’s worth of reunion activities, family visits and drinking into a two-day stretch. Sandwich that around two enthralling 9-hour drives and you have the recipe for a treat that plows through your innards with the ferocity of 1,000 bulldozers – not at all unlike the Subway Club that I got from the truck stop Subway that would wreak havoc on my innards early Friday morning.
But it wasn’t all drinking binges and bloody stool during my time away. Here are some of the highlights of our trip.
We got off to a shaky start: We had initially planned to be on the road around 1:00 PM on Thursday. However, due to various work obligations and unexpected visits from neighbors – we didn’t leave the house until around 1:30. My wife realized that she forgot her purse about 15 minutes later – just slipping in under my self-imposed 20 minute deadline for turning back to get any forgotten items – so we turned around to grab that. Thus, our official departure came just after 2:00. Then, add having to stop twice right after that for gas and my ill-fated Subway trip – and we really didn’t get going until close to 2:30. Yay.
Subsequently, we didn’t get in until a little after 11:00 – which would have been fine, except of course we then spent the next 90 minutes or so chatting with my dad and step-mom, which didn’t get us into bed until around 1:00 AM. That would end up being the earliest I got to bed the entire time we were there.
Friday was fairly low-key during the day (with the exception of the case of the dumps I got, thanks to my trichinosis laden Subway sandwich) – just some errand running and hanging out at my dad’s place – which was our headquarters for the trip. I am thankful for this, since I’m fairly sure had I not gotten this reprieve, I would be dead, and subsequently, not writing this right now.
Friday night was our pre-reunion get together. My wife made the command decision that she would forego coming out with me, in part to save my dad and step-mom from having to look after the kids two nights in a row, and in part to rest up for Saturday night. This would turn out to be the smartest decision she’s ever made – eclipsing marrying me by a substantial margin.
I, on the other hand, was not as smart. As is usually the case with me, I go out with the intention of not drinking all that much and end up a slobbering, slurring mess – which, as an aside – has earned me the nickname “Mr. Mumbles” when I’m out drinking with my friends.
To be fair – I thought I would be in the clear. I loaded up with a good amount of pizza before I left, plus I alternated between beer and club soda for most of the evening, which has been my years-old sure-fire solution for going out on the town without ended up a sloppy, drunken mess.
Unfortunately for me, I failed to take into account the fact that I am now 38 and not 18, and that the drinks affect me much differently than they did back in the day. Back then, when I got drunk – I knew it. I would then either be smart enough to quit drinking and sober up; or continue drinking, puke, then continue drinking some more.
Now when I get drunk, it happens much more subtly – at least to me. I usually can go all night and feel just fine… until I pass out with my pants around my ankles while sitting on the toilet. This is where my wife comes into play, as she usually sees how buffoonish I truly look, and is able to act accordingly and extricate me before I do too much damage to either of our reputations.
Without her there, I was able to drink until the party ended – somewhere around 2:00 AM. I made it home just fine – with the notable exception of my dad locking me out of the house – and got into bed seemingly good as new. Even my wife was surprised at how lucid I was.
Next morning, however, when I woke up and immediately felt as if I was going to t Technicolor yawn all over the place – it was clear to me that I may have had just a little more to drink than I had originally intended. And, although I was successful in not redecorating my father’s house with my vomit, the nauseous feeling hung with me for most of the day.
Once I got myself feeling moderately human again, it was time for more errand running, followed by a trip to visit my mom. She was helping my brother with a festival he was running, down in the little beach town by where I grew up. I knew this would make me feel a little bit better – because my brother Mike was running the festival and promised to take care of us. Plus, there would be the opportunity to people watch. And, allow me to tell you that this place is the pinnacle of people watching.
Needless to say, we weren’t disappointed. Among the highlights were at least a dozen folks with a tattoo-to-tooth ratio of 4-to-1; a very ordinary looking middle aged man walking around holding hands with a clearly annoyed, fairly hot chick at least half his age; at least three kids – somewhere in the 10-13 year old range – who weighed close to, if not over, 200 pounds eating funnel cakes; a man who was about 6-5 and weighed about 250, who was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, black jeans and had quite possibly the most impressive curly mullet I’ve ever seen; and an old woman who had a hairstyle that can be best describe as a combination between Gary Oldman’s hairdo in “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” and a military helmet.
It was quite a scene. If anything, it was a good primer to get me ready for the evening’s activities…
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Holiday Road...
Pack your bags, kids! We’re taking a road trip!
As I mentioned in one of my last posts (I don’t know which one – look it up. There’s only a dozen or so of them on here, it can’t be that hard to find. Help me out, dammit!) – I have my high school reunion coming up. Well, lo and behold, the time is upon us and the family and I will be making the always-enjoyable 9-hour trek to Ohio for the festivities.
The trip to Ohio is always a good time for me. It’s also incredibly stressful, hectic and overall just gets on my last nerve.
I can’t wait.
You see, pretty much my entire immediate family and a majority of my friends still live up there. As a result, what should be a nice, relaxing few days away from the drudgery of my every day life here, becomes a quest to try and visit as many people as humanly possible in a two or three day span. This is not enjoyable.
Well, the seeing everyone part is. The trying to do so is an ENORMOUS pain in the ass.
Of course, everyone tries to be accommodating – telling me they understand if I can’t make it out to see them and all that. And, I certainly believe that to be the case. Unfortunately, I carry around an enormous amount of guilt with me, and if I’m not able to adequately spend enough time with everyone then I feel like I’ve let someone down – which pretty much turns me into Nancy Kerrigan after getting blasted in her knee on the ride home.
Of course, the obvious solution to this problem would be to come up when I have enough time to make sure I’m able to get all my visits in without problem. But, that would be simplifying things and why on earth would I want to do something like that?
So, now, not only do I have to try and make time to visit with everyone, but I’m going to have to do so on an even more limited schedule than normal, as I have reunion stuff to deal with both evenings we’ll be there.
This wouldn’t be so bad if I was super-thrilled for the reunion, but I’m not.
Don’t get me wrong – its not that I’m not looking forward to it. And, I’m sure it will be a good time. It’s just that – honestly – school was a fairly uneventful experience for me. I didn’t hate it or anything like that – let’s just say that if my high school experience was like a John Hughes movie, I’d be one of the extras sitting on the bleachers while Anthony Michael Hall was trying to put the moves on Molly Ringwald. I wasn’t beaten up, or bullied or otherwise tormented by anyone or anything of the like. I was just kind of there. Wasn’t quite geeky enough to earn the ridicule of the cool kids, but wasn’t cool enough to ever get invited to hang out with any of them, either.
That being said, there’s definitely a few people there that I’m looking forward to seeing this weekend. Thanks to the advent of sites like Facebook, I’ve been able to get in touch with a lot of people from back in the day, and I’m certainly jazzed about getting to see some of them. One can hope the feeling is mutual, but I’ve learned not to get too hung up on these sorts of things.
On the bright side, I’ll get to see my parents, they’ll get to see the grand babies and I’ll get to bring back a new set of cornhole boards. And, if that’s not enough to make the trip worthwhile, I get to make a pit stop somewhere in Appalachia during the drive as well. And, that, my friends – almost makes all the agita that comes beforehand worthwhile.
As I mentioned in one of my last posts (I don’t know which one – look it up. There’s only a dozen or so of them on here, it can’t be that hard to find. Help me out, dammit!) – I have my high school reunion coming up. Well, lo and behold, the time is upon us and the family and I will be making the always-enjoyable 9-hour trek to Ohio for the festivities.
The trip to Ohio is always a good time for me. It’s also incredibly stressful, hectic and overall just gets on my last nerve.
I can’t wait.
You see, pretty much my entire immediate family and a majority of my friends still live up there. As a result, what should be a nice, relaxing few days away from the drudgery of my every day life here, becomes a quest to try and visit as many people as humanly possible in a two or three day span. This is not enjoyable.
Well, the seeing everyone part is. The trying to do so is an ENORMOUS pain in the ass.
Of course, everyone tries to be accommodating – telling me they understand if I can’t make it out to see them and all that. And, I certainly believe that to be the case. Unfortunately, I carry around an enormous amount of guilt with me, and if I’m not able to adequately spend enough time with everyone then I feel like I’ve let someone down – which pretty much turns me into Nancy Kerrigan after getting blasted in her knee on the ride home.
Of course, the obvious solution to this problem would be to come up when I have enough time to make sure I’m able to get all my visits in without problem. But, that would be simplifying things and why on earth would I want to do something like that?
So, now, not only do I have to try and make time to visit with everyone, but I’m going to have to do so on an even more limited schedule than normal, as I have reunion stuff to deal with both evenings we’ll be there.
This wouldn’t be so bad if I was super-thrilled for the reunion, but I’m not.
Don’t get me wrong – its not that I’m not looking forward to it. And, I’m sure it will be a good time. It’s just that – honestly – school was a fairly uneventful experience for me. I didn’t hate it or anything like that – let’s just say that if my high school experience was like a John Hughes movie, I’d be one of the extras sitting on the bleachers while Anthony Michael Hall was trying to put the moves on Molly Ringwald. I wasn’t beaten up, or bullied or otherwise tormented by anyone or anything of the like. I was just kind of there. Wasn’t quite geeky enough to earn the ridicule of the cool kids, but wasn’t cool enough to ever get invited to hang out with any of them, either.
That being said, there’s definitely a few people there that I’m looking forward to seeing this weekend. Thanks to the advent of sites like Facebook, I’ve been able to get in touch with a lot of people from back in the day, and I’m certainly jazzed about getting to see some of them. One can hope the feeling is mutual, but I’ve learned not to get too hung up on these sorts of things.
On the bright side, I’ll get to see my parents, they’ll get to see the grand babies and I’ll get to bring back a new set of cornhole boards. And, if that’s not enough to make the trip worthwhile, I get to make a pit stop somewhere in Appalachia during the drive as well. And, that, my friends – almost makes all the agita that comes beforehand worthwhile.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Are You Ready For Some Football?
I am, and because of that, I was talked into participating in yet another season of fantasy football.
Actually, you don’t have to do much convincing to get me to play fantasy football. I’m usually up for at least one league a year. Heck, back in my younger, crazier days I used to manage a couple different teams at a time. But, those carefree days are long since behind me, and these days I devote 100% of my football time to just one team. I’ve found it’s much easier on everyone involved.
I had made the command decision about a month ago that I wasn’t going to play in a league this year. Given my uncertain job status I figured it would be best if I took the season off to devote my time to some more important things in life – like staying gainfully employed, for instance.
However, my buddy Fredo told me he and some of his buddies were starting a league and needed some extra bodies. And, it was a day or so later that my employer decided to give us a stay of execution at work, so I figured this was the Football Gods' way of telling me that I could not let a year go by without another fun-filled season of fantasy football to potentially drive me crazy.
Thus, my poor wife is subjected to another three months of my dropping F-bomb after F-bomb when some random 3rd string running back rushes for a meaningless touchdown and subsequently causes me to lose a close game.
As a primer - for those of you of who have no idea whatsoever what fantasy football is, I say two things. First of all – I envy you. To not have this scourge be a part of your everyday life from September through December is a freedom I will never enjoy again, without the assistance of some blunt force trauma to the head leaving me with amnesia.
[Note to self: immediately hide all bats, golf clubs and anything else that could conceivably be used by my wife to suddenly start bludgeoning me over the head.]
Secondly, fantasy football is a game whereby a group of guys get together and “draft” actual players from the NFL and play games, where the players score points for your team based upon their actual game statistics. You play throughout the football season, and the top one or two teams usually win some money at the end of the year.
By the way, I will be 39 in a couple of months. Just thought it warranted mentioning.
As so, it was with all the enthusiasm of my 3-year old when Thomas the Tank Engine comes on TV, that I came into our league’s draft last night. Actually, the experience was somewhat disjointing, in that I was not at the location where the draft was taking place, but instead was listening in via conference call. This is because all the other guys were out on the coast, while I was, um… not.
So, for the record, my poor wife not only has to deal with my temper tantrums every Sunday for the next three months, but she also got to spend all of last evening taking care of both of our kids, while I drank beer and contemplated on which football players I wanted to draft for a team in a pretend football league.
And how is it that she hasn’t divorced me yet?
And, while I could give you all a blow-by-blow recap of what happened, instead I will instead just offer up some stats of my own – since this is a stats-based league, after all:
12 – Number of Teams in our league.
16 – Number of Rounds in the draft.
3:53 – Amount of time I spent on the phone listening to the buffoons on the other end drinking and slurring their picks.
4 – Number of internet screens I was toggling between, trying to get as much up to the minute data as humanly possible.
10 – Number of beers I consumed throughout the evening.
2 – Number of times I nearly spilled beer on my new laptop.
5 – Number of pee breaks I took throughout the draft.
$120 – Total amount of prize money that goes to the league winner. It’s a winner-take-all format. Yes, we’re high rollers.
1 – Number of team owners at the bar who almost got into a drunken brawl.
1 – Number of confirmed reports of team owners vomiting upon returning home.
6 – Number of times a player I wanted to draft was taken within three picks of when I wanted to draft said player, causing me to blurt out an F-bomb and – subsequently – causing my wife to either A) shoot me a dirty look; B) look like she was contemplating throwing something at me, but instead just rolling her eyes and turning away or C) start perusing the phone book for divorce attorneys.
As you can see, it was quite the eventful evening. Thankfully, I made it to the end without screwing up anything major and kept my cursing to a minimum. And, more importantly – for the first time that I can remember, I actually feel good about the team I drafted. Whether or not that will lead to success is anyone's guess, but I can tell you one thing for sure – it won't be quiet around my house on Sunday's for the next few months.
[Note to self: rip out all listings for local divorce attorneys out of phone book. Just to be safe...]
Actually, you don’t have to do much convincing to get me to play fantasy football. I’m usually up for at least one league a year. Heck, back in my younger, crazier days I used to manage a couple different teams at a time. But, those carefree days are long since behind me, and these days I devote 100% of my football time to just one team. I’ve found it’s much easier on everyone involved.
I had made the command decision about a month ago that I wasn’t going to play in a league this year. Given my uncertain job status I figured it would be best if I took the season off to devote my time to some more important things in life – like staying gainfully employed, for instance.
However, my buddy Fredo told me he and some of his buddies were starting a league and needed some extra bodies. And, it was a day or so later that my employer decided to give us a stay of execution at work, so I figured this was the Football Gods' way of telling me that I could not let a year go by without another fun-filled season of fantasy football to potentially drive me crazy.
Thus, my poor wife is subjected to another three months of my dropping F-bomb after F-bomb when some random 3rd string running back rushes for a meaningless touchdown and subsequently causes me to lose a close game.
As a primer - for those of you of who have no idea whatsoever what fantasy football is, I say two things. First of all – I envy you. To not have this scourge be a part of your everyday life from September through December is a freedom I will never enjoy again, without the assistance of some blunt force trauma to the head leaving me with amnesia.
[Note to self: immediately hide all bats, golf clubs and anything else that could conceivably be used by my wife to suddenly start bludgeoning me over the head.]
Secondly, fantasy football is a game whereby a group of guys get together and “draft” actual players from the NFL and play games, where the players score points for your team based upon their actual game statistics. You play throughout the football season, and the top one or two teams usually win some money at the end of the year.
By the way, I will be 39 in a couple of months. Just thought it warranted mentioning.
As so, it was with all the enthusiasm of my 3-year old when Thomas the Tank Engine comes on TV, that I came into our league’s draft last night. Actually, the experience was somewhat disjointing, in that I was not at the location where the draft was taking place, but instead was listening in via conference call. This is because all the other guys were out on the coast, while I was, um… not.
So, for the record, my poor wife not only has to deal with my temper tantrums every Sunday for the next three months, but she also got to spend all of last evening taking care of both of our kids, while I drank beer and contemplated on which football players I wanted to draft for a team in a pretend football league.
And how is it that she hasn’t divorced me yet?
And, while I could give you all a blow-by-blow recap of what happened, instead I will instead just offer up some stats of my own – since this is a stats-based league, after all:
12 – Number of Teams in our league.
16 – Number of Rounds in the draft.
3:53 – Amount of time I spent on the phone listening to the buffoons on the other end drinking and slurring their picks.
4 – Number of internet screens I was toggling between, trying to get as much up to the minute data as humanly possible.
10 – Number of beers I consumed throughout the evening.
2 – Number of times I nearly spilled beer on my new laptop.
5 – Number of pee breaks I took throughout the draft.
$120 – Total amount of prize money that goes to the league winner. It’s a winner-take-all format. Yes, we’re high rollers.
1 – Number of team owners at the bar who almost got into a drunken brawl.
1 – Number of confirmed reports of team owners vomiting upon returning home.
6 – Number of times a player I wanted to draft was taken within three picks of when I wanted to draft said player, causing me to blurt out an F-bomb and – subsequently – causing my wife to either A) shoot me a dirty look; B) look like she was contemplating throwing something at me, but instead just rolling her eyes and turning away or C) start perusing the phone book for divorce attorneys.
As you can see, it was quite the eventful evening. Thankfully, I made it to the end without screwing up anything major and kept my cursing to a minimum. And, more importantly – for the first time that I can remember, I actually feel good about the team I drafted. Whether or not that will lead to success is anyone's guess, but I can tell you one thing for sure – it won't be quiet around my house on Sunday's for the next few months.
[Note to self: rip out all listings for local divorce attorneys out of phone book. Just to be safe...]
Monday, August 31, 2009
She's Gone...
So, my wife left me last night.
That’s right. She’s gone. She packed her suitcase and left me alone at the house with our two kids. I’d try to explain what happened, but to be honest, I’m still somewhat shell-shocked from the whole thing and its all kind of a blur right now.
The thing is – I was kind of expecting this. And, even though I had suspected this day would come eventually – it was still a jarring moment to me.
Look, I am not a perfect person by any stretch of the imagination – and can be somewhat, um... shall we say, “difficult” to be around at times: I’m a bit needy, I’m not always the most motivated person in the world and I smell funny from time to time.
That being said, having your life turned completely upside-down like this is one of the most harrowing experiences one can go through. It makes you think about a lot of different things. “What could I have done differently?” “Why didn’t I see this coming?” “Whose underwear are these?”
Still, you try and go on. It’s hard, though. You smell a certain smell that reminds you of her. Hear “that” song you both used to dance to. Drive by the place you first met or went on your first date or convinced her you really weren’t all that creepy. It’s all a grim reminder that she’s not there with you. And, it hurts. A lot.
The kids, thankfully, haven’t quite figured out what’s going on, yet. Fortunately, I’ve been able to keep them occupied the majority of the time since, which has pretty much kept them from asking too many questions. It’s probably for the best right now. I mean, how do you explain something like this to a 6-year old, much less a 3-year old? You can’t.
Right now, I just have to focus on trying to adjust to life as a single dad. It won’t be easy, but I think I will be able to manage. The kids are a little older now, so they’re much more self-sufficient, which certainly helps. I can work my way through the kitchen without burning down the house, so I don’t have to worry about them not eating well. As for cleaning – well, that can always be done after the kids are in bed.
All I know for sure is that this transition will be difficult, but I will get through it. My life without my wife around will be tough, but at the end of the day, I’ll have to put all my pain aside and be strong – for the sake of my kids.
I just hope I can make it until she gets back home tomorrow night...
That’s right. She’s gone. She packed her suitcase and left me alone at the house with our two kids. I’d try to explain what happened, but to be honest, I’m still somewhat shell-shocked from the whole thing and its all kind of a blur right now.
The thing is – I was kind of expecting this. And, even though I had suspected this day would come eventually – it was still a jarring moment to me.
Look, I am not a perfect person by any stretch of the imagination – and can be somewhat, um... shall we say, “difficult” to be around at times: I’m a bit needy, I’m not always the most motivated person in the world and I smell funny from time to time.
That being said, having your life turned completely upside-down like this is one of the most harrowing experiences one can go through. It makes you think about a lot of different things. “What could I have done differently?” “Why didn’t I see this coming?” “Whose underwear are these?”
Still, you try and go on. It’s hard, though. You smell a certain smell that reminds you of her. Hear “that” song you both used to dance to. Drive by the place you first met or went on your first date or convinced her you really weren’t all that creepy. It’s all a grim reminder that she’s not there with you. And, it hurts. A lot.
The kids, thankfully, haven’t quite figured out what’s going on, yet. Fortunately, I’ve been able to keep them occupied the majority of the time since, which has pretty much kept them from asking too many questions. It’s probably for the best right now. I mean, how do you explain something like this to a 6-year old, much less a 3-year old? You can’t.
Right now, I just have to focus on trying to adjust to life as a single dad. It won’t be easy, but I think I will be able to manage. The kids are a little older now, so they’re much more self-sufficient, which certainly helps. I can work my way through the kitchen without burning down the house, so I don’t have to worry about them not eating well. As for cleaning – well, that can always be done after the kids are in bed.
All I know for sure is that this transition will be difficult, but I will get through it. My life without my wife around will be tough, but at the end of the day, I’ll have to put all my pain aside and be strong – for the sake of my kids.
I just hope I can make it until she gets back home tomorrow night...
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Mr. Sandman, Bring Me A Dream...
I am exhausted today.
As a follow-up to my post the other day about feeling old - there is one other reason that I forgot to mention that is a major contributing factor as to why I feel so old anymore. I could have just mentioned this then - but felt it was a big enough reason to warrant its own post.
You see, I am always tired.
Its not that I have any problem going to sleep - in fact, it’s far from it. Nowadays, once my head hits that pillow, I’m usually out within 15 minutes, if that.
My problem is that I can’t stay asleep.
(As a quick aside: this is the point in the article where - when my wife eventually reads this - she will look disgusted, flip off the monitor and close down the computer. She has had this problem pretty much since our oldest child was born six years ago and hasn’t really had a good night’s sleep since. So, I’m sure she really appreciates me bellyaching about it. Anyhow, let’s all bid her a fond adieu now, shall we?)
Anyhow, up until recently, the biggest cause of my sleep getting disrupted was my teeny-tiny bladder filling up and requiring a midnight stroll to His Majesty’s Throne. However, lately I’ve been getting awakened by another, far more insidious source - my kids.
I should say - kid - as in my son. His M.O. for bedtime has been pretty consistent ever since we decided to put him in his big boy bed: read him a story; lights out; listen to him fuss for 30-60 minutes until he eventually falls asleep; and finally, wake up the next morning planted firmly between my wife and I.
Usually he would simply end up in our bed and I would be none the wiser until the next morning - or my midnight pee-pee run - depending on which came first. Now, as he’s gotten a little older and subsequently, a little heavier, he makes more noise when he stumbles down the hallway, and this has recently begun waking me up.
This is a problem for me, because, despite the fact that I can hear him coming down the hallway, my half-awake brain can’t quite fully process that fact, and thus when I see the little silhouette come flashing into my room, it usually scares the shit out of me. So now, not only do I have to try and go back to sleep with a little pygmy in my bed, but I have to do so with the equivalent of about 10,000 cc’s of adrenaline pumping through my system. And that’s not the type of buzz that goes away easily - it’s more like the type of buzz you need to do a couple lines of coke just to come down a little bit.
Subsequently, this then has the domino effect of making me painfully aware of every single creak, bump and movement that occurs within a three-mile radius of my bedroom, which, suffice it so say - even at the age of 38 - makes it somewhat difficult to go back to sleep.
Take for example, last evening. This was a comedy of errors that continued for a good portion of the night. I was legitimately startled no less that four different times last night. How I did not end up in intensive care in the Cardiology unit of our local hospital is anyone’s guess.
To wit:
11:15 - wakes up to hear some scuttlebutt downstairs. Go down to investigate. Turns out to be one of the cats batting a sock around the floor - and knocking over its food dish.
11:45 - the nightly entrance of our little cherub. However, instead of climbing into bed, he turns and runs back out of the room. I assume the wife told him to go back to bed. I attempt to follow suit and go back to sleep.
12:00 - hear yet another noise downstairs. Notice both cats in bedroom. Go down to investigate. Get downstairs, turn the corner towards kitchen and nearly run head-on into son, who may or may not have been sleepwalking. Check back of my pajamas for stain, thankfully there was nothing. Take him back upstairs and put him in bed with us.
1:00 - hear daughter screaming for mommy. Go to get up, but wife is a couple steps ahead of me. She gets up and tends to daughter.
1:20 - about to fall back asleep, when wife walks back into room, scaring the shit out of me again. Pulse is jacked way up - and I’m convinced I’m having a heart attack. Wife asks me to get spare mattress out of closet so daughter - who had a bad dream - can come sleep in our room.
1:25 - walk daughter back to our room. Get her set up and joke to wife that everyone is accounted for and we should be able to sleep now. Almost immediately hears something fall onto the floor downstairs. Goes down to investigate and finds empty CD case on the floor. Not sure how it got there. Contemplates taking leftover Percocet and washing it down with a couple swigs on Nyquil, but opts against it. Goes back upstairs and lies down in bed.
1:40 - almost asleep when idea creeps in that entire episode would make decent blog post. Starts jotting down notes so as not to forget. Eventually passes out for good around 2:15.
As you can see, this sort of carnival-like atmosphere makes it near-to-impossible to sleep. Now, you could simply say that I’m just completely mental and could chalk this up to some sort of unfounded paranoia - and you’d most likely be correct. However, I’ve always had an abnormally strong fear of things that go bump in the night, and sadly, even as an almost 39-year old father of two, I still succumb to that fear from time to time.
In other words: yes - I’m still scared of the boogey man. Bite me.
As a follow-up to my post the other day about feeling old - there is one other reason that I forgot to mention that is a major contributing factor as to why I feel so old anymore. I could have just mentioned this then - but felt it was a big enough reason to warrant its own post.
You see, I am always tired.
Its not that I have any problem going to sleep - in fact, it’s far from it. Nowadays, once my head hits that pillow, I’m usually out within 15 minutes, if that.
My problem is that I can’t stay asleep.
(As a quick aside: this is the point in the article where - when my wife eventually reads this - she will look disgusted, flip off the monitor and close down the computer. She has had this problem pretty much since our oldest child was born six years ago and hasn’t really had a good night’s sleep since. So, I’m sure she really appreciates me bellyaching about it. Anyhow, let’s all bid her a fond adieu now, shall we?)
Anyhow, up until recently, the biggest cause of my sleep getting disrupted was my teeny-tiny bladder filling up and requiring a midnight stroll to His Majesty’s Throne. However, lately I’ve been getting awakened by another, far more insidious source - my kids.
I should say - kid - as in my son. His M.O. for bedtime has been pretty consistent ever since we decided to put him in his big boy bed: read him a story; lights out; listen to him fuss for 30-60 minutes until he eventually falls asleep; and finally, wake up the next morning planted firmly between my wife and I.
Usually he would simply end up in our bed and I would be none the wiser until the next morning - or my midnight pee-pee run - depending on which came first. Now, as he’s gotten a little older and subsequently, a little heavier, he makes more noise when he stumbles down the hallway, and this has recently begun waking me up.
This is a problem for me, because, despite the fact that I can hear him coming down the hallway, my half-awake brain can’t quite fully process that fact, and thus when I see the little silhouette come flashing into my room, it usually scares the shit out of me. So now, not only do I have to try and go back to sleep with a little pygmy in my bed, but I have to do so with the equivalent of about 10,000 cc’s of adrenaline pumping through my system. And that’s not the type of buzz that goes away easily - it’s more like the type of buzz you need to do a couple lines of coke just to come down a little bit.
Subsequently, this then has the domino effect of making me painfully aware of every single creak, bump and movement that occurs within a three-mile radius of my bedroom, which, suffice it so say - even at the age of 38 - makes it somewhat difficult to go back to sleep.
Take for example, last evening. This was a comedy of errors that continued for a good portion of the night. I was legitimately startled no less that four different times last night. How I did not end up in intensive care in the Cardiology unit of our local hospital is anyone’s guess.
To wit:
11:15 - wakes up to hear some scuttlebutt downstairs. Go down to investigate. Turns out to be one of the cats batting a sock around the floor - and knocking over its food dish.
11:45 - the nightly entrance of our little cherub. However, instead of climbing into bed, he turns and runs back out of the room. I assume the wife told him to go back to bed. I attempt to follow suit and go back to sleep.
12:00 - hear yet another noise downstairs. Notice both cats in bedroom. Go down to investigate. Get downstairs, turn the corner towards kitchen and nearly run head-on into son, who may or may not have been sleepwalking. Check back of my pajamas for stain, thankfully there was nothing. Take him back upstairs and put him in bed with us.
1:00 - hear daughter screaming for mommy. Go to get up, but wife is a couple steps ahead of me. She gets up and tends to daughter.
1:20 - about to fall back asleep, when wife walks back into room, scaring the shit out of me again. Pulse is jacked way up - and I’m convinced I’m having a heart attack. Wife asks me to get spare mattress out of closet so daughter - who had a bad dream - can come sleep in our room.
1:25 - walk daughter back to our room. Get her set up and joke to wife that everyone is accounted for and we should be able to sleep now. Almost immediately hears something fall onto the floor downstairs. Goes down to investigate and finds empty CD case on the floor. Not sure how it got there. Contemplates taking leftover Percocet and washing it down with a couple swigs on Nyquil, but opts against it. Goes back upstairs and lies down in bed.
1:40 - almost asleep when idea creeps in that entire episode would make decent blog post. Starts jotting down notes so as not to forget. Eventually passes out for good around 2:15.
As you can see, this sort of carnival-like atmosphere makes it near-to-impossible to sleep. Now, you could simply say that I’m just completely mental and could chalk this up to some sort of unfounded paranoia - and you’d most likely be correct. However, I’ve always had an abnormally strong fear of things that go bump in the night, and sadly, even as an almost 39-year old father of two, I still succumb to that fear from time to time.
In other words: yes - I’m still scared of the boogey man. Bite me.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Working Nine to Five...
So, I was pleasantly surprised the other day, as I found out the remaining four members of our group here at work were being given a 3-month stay of execution, thus enabling us to keep our jobs until the end of November.
And, although it isn’t the permanent fix I was hoping would come along, this at the very least enables me to keep a regular paycheck coming in for the next couple months and - more importantly - kept me from having to spend the entire weekend searching for gainful employment.
However, since this is only temporary, I’ll still need to come up with a better, long-term solution. The problem with that is, my actual work experience qualifies me for little more than shuffling paperwork at a bank/mortgage company/law firm or manually masturbating caged animals for artificial insemination.
Okay, that’s not entirely true - I don’t have any actual work experience in that. It’s only a pastime for me.
Whenever I get into discussing the conundrum that is my work situation, people would always ask me, “What are you good at doing?” and I would always get stumped. I never really bothered to sit and think about the things that I’m really good at doing, and thus, it never really occurred to me.
So, that’s when I decided to sit down and really think about the things that I’m legitimately good at doing. And, it was hard. It took me almost 20 minutes. Doesn’t mean I didn’t come up with a good list, though.
And, with that, I offer you this…
Jobs that would be perfect for me:
Director of Completely Useless Information: Ever wondered the name of the actor who played Richie’s older brother for one season on Happy Days? Ever wonder what groups Shirley Manson was the singer of before she was in Garbage? Sure, you could look up Wikipedia to find these things out - or you could just ask me. I have a disturbingly large amount of completely useless information trapped in this brain of mine. Granted, I can’t remember the phone conversation I just had with my wife five minutes ago, but I can recite the lyrics to a song I haven’t heard in over 20 years like I just heard it. Clearly that has to be good for something, right?
Training Dummy: As I mentioned previously, I am an avid practitioner of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. However, as I have learned throughout my life - one’s enthusiasm towards a particular craft or activity does not always equate into success at said craft or activity. In other words, I suck. However, I have also learned that - at least during class - I seem to have a rather high threshold for pain. So, instead of paying $50 a month for people to bend and twist me like one big, sweaty piece of human origami - why not just have people pay me for the privilege? There has to be a couple bucks to be made there, methinks.
Blog writer: Um, on second thought….
Idea Guy: I’m great for coming up with all sorts of really good, conceivably profitable ideas. Unfortunately, I’m horrible with actually following through on any of them. The ideal solution here would be to team up with someone who has all the initiative in the world, but is as dumb as a rock. I know there’s plenty of the latter in the world, surely one of those folks has to have a little drive, right?
New Music Finder: One of the things in this world I truly enjoy doing is finding new music. I’m a huge fan of indie music, and nothing is more exciting than finding a group that no one has listened to before and seeing them hit it big a year later. (Well, until they do hit it big, become complete sell-outs and have one or more original members die of a heroin overdose. But, I digress…)
Man-Whore: Look, I’m a guy. I like sex. (I know, shocking, right?) My wife, God love her, tries her hardest to placate my disgusting man needs as much as humanly possible. But let’s be realistic - anyone who has been in my presence for more than 15 minutes at a time usually becomes violently ill - so how can I possibly expect her to put out for me more than three or four times a year, tops? Granted, the notion that my own wife finds me physically nauseating flies directly in the face of the logic of actually trying to get paid for performing any sort of sexual activity, but - yet again - I digress. Besides, there are all sorts of fetish videos out there (um… or so I’ve been told), so I’m sure I could carve a niche in there somewhere.
Professional Complainer: If there’s one thing I do better than anyone I know, its complain. Dare I say - I am the Babe Ruth of complaining. In fact, between my thimble-like bladder and award-winning temperament, the fact that I’m not a 90-year old man is amazing to me. My complaints are usually about the same dumb things (driving, my job, the inherent stupidity of the general public) but carry all the vitriol of a man twice my age. It’s quite impressive to be honest with you. How it translates into an actual work environment is beyond me, but that’s beside the point.
So, as you can plainly see, I have plenty to offer any prospective employer. After all, who wouldn’t want to have in their midst, someone around who constantly bitches about everything, can turn you onto great music, tell you all you need to know about the cast of Laverne & Shirley and may or may not provide sexual favors for the right price? Sounds like a win-win proposition if you ask me.
Um, then again, maybe I’d be better off looking into self-employment.
And, although it isn’t the permanent fix I was hoping would come along, this at the very least enables me to keep a regular paycheck coming in for the next couple months and - more importantly - kept me from having to spend the entire weekend searching for gainful employment.
However, since this is only temporary, I’ll still need to come up with a better, long-term solution. The problem with that is, my actual work experience qualifies me for little more than shuffling paperwork at a bank/mortgage company/law firm or manually masturbating caged animals for artificial insemination.
Okay, that’s not entirely true - I don’t have any actual work experience in that. It’s only a pastime for me.
Whenever I get into discussing the conundrum that is my work situation, people would always ask me, “What are you good at doing?” and I would always get stumped. I never really bothered to sit and think about the things that I’m really good at doing, and thus, it never really occurred to me.
So, that’s when I decided to sit down and really think about the things that I’m legitimately good at doing. And, it was hard. It took me almost 20 minutes. Doesn’t mean I didn’t come up with a good list, though.
And, with that, I offer you this…
Jobs that would be perfect for me:
Director of Completely Useless Information: Ever wondered the name of the actor who played Richie’s older brother for one season on Happy Days? Ever wonder what groups Shirley Manson was the singer of before she was in Garbage? Sure, you could look up Wikipedia to find these things out - or you could just ask me. I have a disturbingly large amount of completely useless information trapped in this brain of mine. Granted, I can’t remember the phone conversation I just had with my wife five minutes ago, but I can recite the lyrics to a song I haven’t heard in over 20 years like I just heard it. Clearly that has to be good for something, right?
Training Dummy: As I mentioned previously, I am an avid practitioner of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. However, as I have learned throughout my life - one’s enthusiasm towards a particular craft or activity does not always equate into success at said craft or activity. In other words, I suck. However, I have also learned that - at least during class - I seem to have a rather high threshold for pain. So, instead of paying $50 a month for people to bend and twist me like one big, sweaty piece of human origami - why not just have people pay me for the privilege? There has to be a couple bucks to be made there, methinks.
Blog writer: Um, on second thought….
Idea Guy: I’m great for coming up with all sorts of really good, conceivably profitable ideas. Unfortunately, I’m horrible with actually following through on any of them. The ideal solution here would be to team up with someone who has all the initiative in the world, but is as dumb as a rock. I know there’s plenty of the latter in the world, surely one of those folks has to have a little drive, right?
New Music Finder: One of the things in this world I truly enjoy doing is finding new music. I’m a huge fan of indie music, and nothing is more exciting than finding a group that no one has listened to before and seeing them hit it big a year later. (Well, until they do hit it big, become complete sell-outs and have one or more original members die of a heroin overdose. But, I digress…)
Man-Whore: Look, I’m a guy. I like sex. (I know, shocking, right?) My wife, God love her, tries her hardest to placate my disgusting man needs as much as humanly possible. But let’s be realistic - anyone who has been in my presence for more than 15 minutes at a time usually becomes violently ill - so how can I possibly expect her to put out for me more than three or four times a year, tops? Granted, the notion that my own wife finds me physically nauseating flies directly in the face of the logic of actually trying to get paid for performing any sort of sexual activity, but - yet again - I digress. Besides, there are all sorts of fetish videos out there (um… or so I’ve been told), so I’m sure I could carve a niche in there somewhere.
Professional Complainer: If there’s one thing I do better than anyone I know, its complain. Dare I say - I am the Babe Ruth of complaining. In fact, between my thimble-like bladder and award-winning temperament, the fact that I’m not a 90-year old man is amazing to me. My complaints are usually about the same dumb things (driving, my job, the inherent stupidity of the general public) but carry all the vitriol of a man twice my age. It’s quite impressive to be honest with you. How it translates into an actual work environment is beyond me, but that’s beside the point.
So, as you can plainly see, I have plenty to offer any prospective employer. After all, who wouldn’t want to have in their midst, someone around who constantly bitches about everything, can turn you onto great music, tell you all you need to know about the cast of Laverne & Shirley and may or may not provide sexual favors for the right price? Sounds like a win-win proposition if you ask me.
Um, then again, maybe I’d be better off looking into self-employment.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
What's That You Say, Sonny?
So, I went to get my hair cut the other day, and was slapped in the face with an unpleasant reality.
I’m old.
Okay, not so much “old” as in “ready to accept my AARP card” or “eats dinner at 3:00 PM”, but I’m definitely not the spring chicken I like to think I am.
I say this, because, as my barber ran the clippers through my hair and the remnants of his cosmetological (is that even a word?) masterpiece rained down on my protective sheath, I noticed an unusually large amount of dandruff in with my hair. However, upon looking further, I realized that it wasn’t actually dandruff.
It was gray hair.
Then, to make matters worse, on my way back to the office, I encountered a couple of the girls who pass out flyers for all the trendy clubs in town. They usually stand around on the corner and hand them out to all people that pass by that they deem young and/or hip enough.
I normally get these handed to me every time I walk by them. Then, the last three or so times I went by I got nothing. I thought maybe they didn’t see me and went about my business. This time, I walked by not once, but twice – to make sure they saw me. They did. I still didn’t get handed anything.
It was right then I realized that I’m getting up there in years.
Granted, it’s not that bad. I’m a couple months shy of my 39th birthday and relatively healthy [knocks on wood]. It’s not like I’m headed for a nursing home anytime soon [knocks on wood even harder].
But still, it’s not just that I have more shades of gray in my hair than a campaign promise that makes me feel old. There are other, far less subtle signs.
For example, my primary hobby/form of exercise these days is taking Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes a couple times a week. Now, although a good amount to the guys that study there are in their 20s, it is certainly not out of the realm of normalcy for older guys to train as well. Hell, the owner and head instructor at my school is 45. Of course, he also barely looks 35 and could physically hurt me in ways that I probably haven’t even imagined yet, but I digress. Helio Gracie, who along with his brothers founded the art of BJJ, practiced every day until he recently passed away… at age 95.
Still, when it comes to my training – there isn’t a night when I come home from a class without some new ache or bruise or whatever. Now, logic would dictate that if my classes are causing me that much pain, I should just quit. And, in theory that would be correct. However, it should also be noted that A) I enjoy them and B) I’m not that bright.
The aches actually become more noticeable after I’ve been stationary for a while. Like now, here at work – I’ve been sitting here at my desk for the last hour or so eating my lunch and working on this. I’ll get up in a bit and my knee will be killing me. After a couple steps it will be fine, but still. Five years ago – hell, two years ago – this wouldn’t have been an issue. Now, that’s just life.
Another sign of my age is – as I briefly mentioned in my last post – how I seemingly have traded in my own, perfectly good bladder, for that of one belonging to a 90-year old Lilliputian.
I can’t think of one time in recent memory that I’ve made it through an entire night of sleep without waking up at least once to drain the thimble – well, at least one that wasn’t assisted heavily by alcohol.
This is definitely troubling for me.
The thing that really freaks me out is when I have one of those dreams where I really have to pee. Eventually, I start going in the dream and will usually wake up shortly thereafter and take care of business.
I’m horrified of those dreams. Not so much because of the dream itself, but of the almost guaranteed fact that one of these days, I’m going to start peeing in my dream – and in my bed. I’m not even considering “if” it will happen any more. Vegas has taken those odds off the board. It’s now a question of “when” it will happen. And if you don’t think the Mrs. will stand for that more than once before she starts making me wear an adult diaper to bed – well, you don’t know my wife very well.
Still, I guess at the end of the day, there’s not much I can do about it. I’m getting old and nothing short of a James Dean-esque plunge off a twisty road in the California hills – or bathing in the blood of 100 virgins – is going to stop it. So, I suppose I’ll have to learn to accept it. For better or worse.
And, luckily for me, I’ll get my first chance at learning acceptance soon – my 20-year high school reunion is just around the corner. And I’ll be there in all my glory – with or without my Depends.
I’m old.
Okay, not so much “old” as in “ready to accept my AARP card” or “eats dinner at 3:00 PM”, but I’m definitely not the spring chicken I like to think I am.
I say this, because, as my barber ran the clippers through my hair and the remnants of his cosmetological (is that even a word?) masterpiece rained down on my protective sheath, I noticed an unusually large amount of dandruff in with my hair. However, upon looking further, I realized that it wasn’t actually dandruff.
It was gray hair.
Then, to make matters worse, on my way back to the office, I encountered a couple of the girls who pass out flyers for all the trendy clubs in town. They usually stand around on the corner and hand them out to all people that pass by that they deem young and/or hip enough.
I normally get these handed to me every time I walk by them. Then, the last three or so times I went by I got nothing. I thought maybe they didn’t see me and went about my business. This time, I walked by not once, but twice – to make sure they saw me. They did. I still didn’t get handed anything.
It was right then I realized that I’m getting up there in years.
Granted, it’s not that bad. I’m a couple months shy of my 39th birthday and relatively healthy [knocks on wood]. It’s not like I’m headed for a nursing home anytime soon [knocks on wood even harder].
But still, it’s not just that I have more shades of gray in my hair than a campaign promise that makes me feel old. There are other, far less subtle signs.
For example, my primary hobby/form of exercise these days is taking Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes a couple times a week. Now, although a good amount to the guys that study there are in their 20s, it is certainly not out of the realm of normalcy for older guys to train as well. Hell, the owner and head instructor at my school is 45. Of course, he also barely looks 35 and could physically hurt me in ways that I probably haven’t even imagined yet, but I digress. Helio Gracie, who along with his brothers founded the art of BJJ, practiced every day until he recently passed away… at age 95.
Still, when it comes to my training – there isn’t a night when I come home from a class without some new ache or bruise or whatever. Now, logic would dictate that if my classes are causing me that much pain, I should just quit. And, in theory that would be correct. However, it should also be noted that A) I enjoy them and B) I’m not that bright.
The aches actually become more noticeable after I’ve been stationary for a while. Like now, here at work – I’ve been sitting here at my desk for the last hour or so eating my lunch and working on this. I’ll get up in a bit and my knee will be killing me. After a couple steps it will be fine, but still. Five years ago – hell, two years ago – this wouldn’t have been an issue. Now, that’s just life.
Another sign of my age is – as I briefly mentioned in my last post – how I seemingly have traded in my own, perfectly good bladder, for that of one belonging to a 90-year old Lilliputian.
I can’t think of one time in recent memory that I’ve made it through an entire night of sleep without waking up at least once to drain the thimble – well, at least one that wasn’t assisted heavily by alcohol.
This is definitely troubling for me.
The thing that really freaks me out is when I have one of those dreams where I really have to pee. Eventually, I start going in the dream and will usually wake up shortly thereafter and take care of business.
I’m horrified of those dreams. Not so much because of the dream itself, but of the almost guaranteed fact that one of these days, I’m going to start peeing in my dream – and in my bed. I’m not even considering “if” it will happen any more. Vegas has taken those odds off the board. It’s now a question of “when” it will happen. And if you don’t think the Mrs. will stand for that more than once before she starts making me wear an adult diaper to bed – well, you don’t know my wife very well.
Still, I guess at the end of the day, there’s not much I can do about it. I’m getting old and nothing short of a James Dean-esque plunge off a twisty road in the California hills – or bathing in the blood of 100 virgins – is going to stop it. So, I suppose I’ll have to learn to accept it. For better or worse.
And, luckily for me, I’ll get my first chance at learning acceptance soon – my 20-year high school reunion is just around the corner. And I’ll be there in all my glory – with or without my Depends.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Talking 'Bout Those Night Moves...
Well my friends, it appears as though my creative drought is officially over.
I was visited by an old friend the other night.
The “Middle Of The Night Idea For A Blog Post.”
You see, back when I was regularly writing my old blog, I would oftentimes lie in bed, unable to fall asleep. And what would happen when I was lying there with nothing else occupying my thoughts, was that my brain would go into overdrive. And before I knew it, I would start jotting down idea after idea for potential new posts. It became such a regular thing that I started keeping a notepad and pen on my bedside table, so I would have quick access to jot down whatever insanity happened to be occupying my thoughts at the time.
Naturally, once I stopped writing, those midnight ideas stopped popping in my head. Of course, it also didn’t hurt that I was getting older, had a couple kids and the stress of whatever job I was doing at the time, which subsequently made my late-night insomnia a thing of the past.
In other words, I was usually so friggin exhausted by the time I went to bed that I would be asleep within five minutes of my head hitting the pillow.
And, that is still the case now. However, I also don’t sleep peacefully throughout the night. And that is when my old friend took the opportunity to come say hello.
This is because as I’ve gotten older, I’ve developed this little issue that has basically given me the bladder of a 92-year old man. Therefore, I usually wake up at least once a night to empty the little guy out. Now normally, I’ll just get up, stumble my way into the bathroom, do what I need to do and head back to bed.
However, last night – as I was trying to avoid stepping on one of the cats on my way back to bed – I had a little creative light bulb go off in my head. I remembered putting a couple old notebooks over in the sitting room area of our bedroom, so I went over to get them. After tripping over something in the process – and thus, waking up the Mrs. – I found my notebook and pen and hurriedly scribbled my thoughts before they left my head as quickly as they got there. And, in my ADD-ravaged brain, that happens more than I care to think about.
I got back into bed, pleased in the knowledge that I would have a new topic to tackle, when all of a sudden; another great line came into my head. So, I turned over, grabbed the notebook and scribbled away. Another couple minutes later – another line. Now, I was wired. For the next 15 minutes, ideas flowed into my head like river of banality. And, somehow I managed to get them all down on paper. I briefly contemplated getting up and going into the spare bedroom with my laptop, but again – it was 2:30 in the morning on a work night – and daddy needs as much beauty rest as humanly possible.
Still, it was a major breakthrough in my almost five-year attempt to resurrect my creativity. And I was thrilled.
However, although I often get a lot of great story ideas while I’m in bed, there are a few drawbacks.
First of all – when this happens, the ideas seem to stream in one after the other. It will usually go down how it did last evening – I’ll write an idea down, try and go to sleep and get another idea about two minutes later. This will last for anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour. Not the worst thing in the world on a Friday or Saturday night, but at 2:00 AM on a Wednesday when you have to be up at 6:00 for work? Not as fun.
Then there’s the whole problem of trying to write without waking up the Mrs. Back in our old places in Boston, it wasn’t that big of a deal, because there was so much light outside, that even in the middle of the night, I could usually see well enough to write down whatever idea I had to write.
Now, it’s a lot darker around our house, and naturally – a lot tougher to try and write. Take for example, this passage on my notebook this morning:
“Constantly waking up in middle of night. Worry will eventually wojap sjh0aeu aujoaujs”
You get the point.
You would think that one way around that problem would be to type my ideas on my BlackBerry. However, that won’t work either. The internal light on my BlackBerry can be used in an emergency to guide in planes during thick fog or a blackout, so that really doesn’t work very well for discreet note taking.
However, these are only minor inconveniences in the never ending quest to keep my four dedicated readers entertained. And, let me assure you – Scott, Josh, Prince Abidjan of Nigeria and Penis Enlargement Guy – now that I am creatively free again, there is nothing to keep me from spewing out more of this inane drivel on a regular basis. Everything I do, I do it for you.
You’re welcome.
I was visited by an old friend the other night.
The “Middle Of The Night Idea For A Blog Post.”
You see, back when I was regularly writing my old blog, I would oftentimes lie in bed, unable to fall asleep. And what would happen when I was lying there with nothing else occupying my thoughts, was that my brain would go into overdrive. And before I knew it, I would start jotting down idea after idea for potential new posts. It became such a regular thing that I started keeping a notepad and pen on my bedside table, so I would have quick access to jot down whatever insanity happened to be occupying my thoughts at the time.
Naturally, once I stopped writing, those midnight ideas stopped popping in my head. Of course, it also didn’t hurt that I was getting older, had a couple kids and the stress of whatever job I was doing at the time, which subsequently made my late-night insomnia a thing of the past.
In other words, I was usually so friggin exhausted by the time I went to bed that I would be asleep within five minutes of my head hitting the pillow.
And, that is still the case now. However, I also don’t sleep peacefully throughout the night. And that is when my old friend took the opportunity to come say hello.
This is because as I’ve gotten older, I’ve developed this little issue that has basically given me the bladder of a 92-year old man. Therefore, I usually wake up at least once a night to empty the little guy out. Now normally, I’ll just get up, stumble my way into the bathroom, do what I need to do and head back to bed.
However, last night – as I was trying to avoid stepping on one of the cats on my way back to bed – I had a little creative light bulb go off in my head. I remembered putting a couple old notebooks over in the sitting room area of our bedroom, so I went over to get them. After tripping over something in the process – and thus, waking up the Mrs. – I found my notebook and pen and hurriedly scribbled my thoughts before they left my head as quickly as they got there. And, in my ADD-ravaged brain, that happens more than I care to think about.
I got back into bed, pleased in the knowledge that I would have a new topic to tackle, when all of a sudden; another great line came into my head. So, I turned over, grabbed the notebook and scribbled away. Another couple minutes later – another line. Now, I was wired. For the next 15 minutes, ideas flowed into my head like river of banality. And, somehow I managed to get them all down on paper. I briefly contemplated getting up and going into the spare bedroom with my laptop, but again – it was 2:30 in the morning on a work night – and daddy needs as much beauty rest as humanly possible.
Still, it was a major breakthrough in my almost five-year attempt to resurrect my creativity. And I was thrilled.
However, although I often get a lot of great story ideas while I’m in bed, there are a few drawbacks.
First of all – when this happens, the ideas seem to stream in one after the other. It will usually go down how it did last evening – I’ll write an idea down, try and go to sleep and get another idea about two minutes later. This will last for anywhere from 10 minutes to an hour. Not the worst thing in the world on a Friday or Saturday night, but at 2:00 AM on a Wednesday when you have to be up at 6:00 for work? Not as fun.
Then there’s the whole problem of trying to write without waking up the Mrs. Back in our old places in Boston, it wasn’t that big of a deal, because there was so much light outside, that even in the middle of the night, I could usually see well enough to write down whatever idea I had to write.
Now, it’s a lot darker around our house, and naturally – a lot tougher to try and write. Take for example, this passage on my notebook this morning:
“Constantly waking up in middle of night. Worry will eventually wojap sjh0aeu aujoaujs”
You get the point.
You would think that one way around that problem would be to type my ideas on my BlackBerry. However, that won’t work either. The internal light on my BlackBerry can be used in an emergency to guide in planes during thick fog or a blackout, so that really doesn’t work very well for discreet note taking.
However, these are only minor inconveniences in the never ending quest to keep my four dedicated readers entertained. And, let me assure you – Scott, Josh, Prince Abidjan of Nigeria and Penis Enlargement Guy – now that I am creatively free again, there is nothing to keep me from spewing out more of this inane drivel on a regular basis. Everything I do, I do it for you.
You’re welcome.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
End Of An Era...
Back in the fall of 2002, it was an interesting time in my life. I was a wayward young lad, a couple months shy of my 32nd birthday. The Mrs. and I moved up to Boston the previous fall and had just settled into a beautiful brownstone apartment in the heart of downtown Boston. I had just started a new job at a very nice, start-up mortgage company, after a hellish (and that is a HUGE understatement) year at another mortgage company.
However, as happy as I was to be free from the hellhole that was Mortgage Company #1, I wasn’t all that excited about this new job. Granted, I was glad to be there and really appreciated the opportunity for a new start with a brand new company and all that - its just that my heart wasn’t all that into it. I’m not really a finance/mortgage/banking person and I knew that, despite my new opportunity, I would only get so far in the position and that it would - like seemingly every one before and since - get stale.
It was with that thought firmly in mind, that I entered the “Find Our Next D.J.” contest, sponsored by iconic radio station WBCN.
Now, it should be known that I never had any major aspirations of becoming a radio D.J. However, of the few physical gifts I own - a good head of hair, straight teeth and a deep, clear speaking voice are the three most prominent. (Unless, of course, you include the ability to trivialize any significant event in my life into a smarmy, two-lined quip). Based on that, it was often suggested that I try to become either a TV sportscaster or radio D.J as a career path.
Unfortunately, there were just as many people from my small hometown with the small hometown mentality of “Oh, that’s such a hard career to get into, you shouldn’t waste your time with that. Try something easier instead.”
And thus, given that I had the self-confidence of the proverbial red-headed step-child, I never really bothered to pursue either career and eventually ended up toiling away in go-nowhere job after go-nowhere job. And, as is usually the case with regrets - I would, from time-to-time, think about what might have been had I decided to go that route after all.
The contest - I figured at the time - was fate’s way of giving me a chance to make up for a missed opportunity. So, I whipped up a moderately-clever letter, along with a copy of my voice over demo (yes, I have a voice over demo [end cheap plug]) and sent it off, not really expecting much of anything.
Well, lo and behold - about three weeks later I got a letter from one of the program directors at WBCN, saying that they got my letter and wanted me to come in for an on-air interview. In other words, this nobody from a small town in northeastern Ohio was getting a 3-hour shift on one of the most revered rock and roll stations in the country for a chance to get a job that might not actually drive him insane within a month. It was the chance of a lifetime.
Suffice it to say, this chance of a lifetime ended up going as well as the other two or three that I’ve had. Piss poor.
Actually, all things considered, it wasn’t that bad. I made it through the entire 3-hour shift being moderately charming, without accidentally dropping any F-bombs, slandering anyone or passing out while the mike was on. Unfortunately, the powers that be weren’t all that impressed (or, they already had someone in mind, but couldn’t get him to start until a certain date, so they used this contest as a cheap way to fill the air in between the Howard Stern and Opie & Anthony shows for a month). In either event - I didn’t get the job.
I tell this story, because WBCN recently went off the air after 40+ years as the premier rock and roll station in Boston. It will now become one of the myriad of pop music stations that litter the terrestrial radio landscape these days. And, I can’t help but think that their failure to recognize my genius and clear potential as a radio superstar played a significant part in their demise.
I take no joy in their destruction. There is no happiness in my heart over this - instead, just a serene feeling in knowing that those who fail to realize my supreme greatness will be eventually sentenced to an eternity wallowing in damnation - or being forced to play Britney Spears and Lady Ga-Ga CDs over and over and over again.
Consider yourselves warned...
However, as happy as I was to be free from the hellhole that was Mortgage Company #1, I wasn’t all that excited about this new job. Granted, I was glad to be there and really appreciated the opportunity for a new start with a brand new company and all that - its just that my heart wasn’t all that into it. I’m not really a finance/mortgage/banking person and I knew that, despite my new opportunity, I would only get so far in the position and that it would - like seemingly every one before and since - get stale.
It was with that thought firmly in mind, that I entered the “Find Our Next D.J.” contest, sponsored by iconic radio station WBCN.
Now, it should be known that I never had any major aspirations of becoming a radio D.J. However, of the few physical gifts I own - a good head of hair, straight teeth and a deep, clear speaking voice are the three most prominent. (Unless, of course, you include the ability to trivialize any significant event in my life into a smarmy, two-lined quip). Based on that, it was often suggested that I try to become either a TV sportscaster or radio D.J as a career path.
Unfortunately, there were just as many people from my small hometown with the small hometown mentality of “Oh, that’s such a hard career to get into, you shouldn’t waste your time with that. Try something easier instead.”
And thus, given that I had the self-confidence of the proverbial red-headed step-child, I never really bothered to pursue either career and eventually ended up toiling away in go-nowhere job after go-nowhere job. And, as is usually the case with regrets - I would, from time-to-time, think about what might have been had I decided to go that route after all.
The contest - I figured at the time - was fate’s way of giving me a chance to make up for a missed opportunity. So, I whipped up a moderately-clever letter, along with a copy of my voice over demo (yes, I have a voice over demo [end cheap plug]) and sent it off, not really expecting much of anything.
Well, lo and behold - about three weeks later I got a letter from one of the program directors at WBCN, saying that they got my letter and wanted me to come in for an on-air interview. In other words, this nobody from a small town in northeastern Ohio was getting a 3-hour shift on one of the most revered rock and roll stations in the country for a chance to get a job that might not actually drive him insane within a month. It was the chance of a lifetime.
Suffice it to say, this chance of a lifetime ended up going as well as the other two or three that I’ve had. Piss poor.
Actually, all things considered, it wasn’t that bad. I made it through the entire 3-hour shift being moderately charming, without accidentally dropping any F-bombs, slandering anyone or passing out while the mike was on. Unfortunately, the powers that be weren’t all that impressed (or, they already had someone in mind, but couldn’t get him to start until a certain date, so they used this contest as a cheap way to fill the air in between the Howard Stern and Opie & Anthony shows for a month). In either event - I didn’t get the job.
I tell this story, because WBCN recently went off the air after 40+ years as the premier rock and roll station in Boston. It will now become one of the myriad of pop music stations that litter the terrestrial radio landscape these days. And, I can’t help but think that their failure to recognize my genius and clear potential as a radio superstar played a significant part in their demise.
I take no joy in their destruction. There is no happiness in my heart over this - instead, just a serene feeling in knowing that those who fail to realize my supreme greatness will be eventually sentenced to an eternity wallowing in damnation - or being forced to play Britney Spears and Lady Ga-Ga CDs over and over and over again.
Consider yourselves warned...
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Let's Get Ready To Rumble...
So, the UFC held their most recent event this weekend, and much to my delight, a couple buddies called up and asked if I wanted to get together to watch it.
And then, much to my chagrin, they suggested heading out to the local watering hole to do so.
Now, usually, when we want to get our monthly dose of controlled violence – one of us will purchase the pay-per-view broadcast and we’ll all get together at the house of choice, have some drinks, watch the fights, get a little crazy and maybe have a circle jerk or two.
Okay, I made that up – we don’t drink.
Seriously, though – it is by far a much more enjoyable experience to watch the fights at someone’s house. There are no crowds, you don’t come home smelling like smoke – unless you want to, you’re not overpaying for watered-down drinks, someone usually supplies some food and you can actually hear what the announcers are saying.
And, most importantly, you don’t have to go out to a bar.
Back in the day, I used to enjoy heading out to a bar to watch a game or a big fight. The crowd usually provided a nice backdrop – especially if you were all rooting for the same team. You didn’t have to worry about cleaning up afterward and if you were lucky enough to meet up with a fine young lady, you could always head back to your place for a little “postgame discussion.”
Now, however, as I have gotten older, I have also gotten cheaper, more anti-social and less single. Thus, the draw of the bar scene has dwindled significantly for me. This is especially true on fight nights. Sure there’s some fantastic people watching to be had, but with that comes a much less desirable element to contend with.
For, example, there’s “Fight Guy.”
Fight guy is an interesting breed. You can normally find him in his natural habitat – which is either at a sports bar showing a UFC event or coming out of the Hot Topic or PacSun store in your local mall. He’s usually wearing a two-sizes too small Affliction or Tapout t-shirt, ripped jeans (regardless of the temperature outside), chain wallet, multiple tattoos and at least one random piercing. He also has a permanent scowl on his face that becomes increasingly more pronounced as the night goes on (and the drinks go down).
Subsequently, he’s also the guy who forgets that he’s just some random jerk off in a bar and not one of the guys fighting on the TV. Therefore, he’s looking for any reason whatsoever to get into a fight with someone. Be it an accidental bump, perceived glance at his date or just walking within arm’s reach – it doesn’t matter. If “Fight Guy” decides its time to go – its time to go, and you don’t want to be anywhere near him when that happens.
Unless, of course, you have a modicum of self-defense skill – or just know better and stand up to him – in which case he’ll turn tail and continue sipping on his Sex on the Beach. Unfortunately, Fight Guy casts just an imposing enough shadow that most men who cross his path will back down – which only empowers him. It’s fascinating to watch from afar – not at all unlike watching jackal pick at the remains of a zebra in the wild – but utterly terrifying if you happen to be unwitting recipient of Fight Guy’s wrath.
Thankfully, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid Fight Guy up to this point. Fortunately, Fight Guy sticks out like a sore thumb, so he’s easy enough to avoid if you’re paying attention. However, his mere presence makes every trip to the restroom a perilous one – as you never know what may set him off at any given moment.
And though most people with an I.Q. over 10 can easily outwit Fight Guy, you’re best off to be as far away as possible when it happens, just in case.
And then, much to my chagrin, they suggested heading out to the local watering hole to do so.
Now, usually, when we want to get our monthly dose of controlled violence – one of us will purchase the pay-per-view broadcast and we’ll all get together at the house of choice, have some drinks, watch the fights, get a little crazy and maybe have a circle jerk or two.
Okay, I made that up – we don’t drink.
Seriously, though – it is by far a much more enjoyable experience to watch the fights at someone’s house. There are no crowds, you don’t come home smelling like smoke – unless you want to, you’re not overpaying for watered-down drinks, someone usually supplies some food and you can actually hear what the announcers are saying.
And, most importantly, you don’t have to go out to a bar.
Back in the day, I used to enjoy heading out to a bar to watch a game or a big fight. The crowd usually provided a nice backdrop – especially if you were all rooting for the same team. You didn’t have to worry about cleaning up afterward and if you were lucky enough to meet up with a fine young lady, you could always head back to your place for a little “postgame discussion.”
Now, however, as I have gotten older, I have also gotten cheaper, more anti-social and less single. Thus, the draw of the bar scene has dwindled significantly for me. This is especially true on fight nights. Sure there’s some fantastic people watching to be had, but with that comes a much less desirable element to contend with.
For, example, there’s “Fight Guy.”
Fight guy is an interesting breed. You can normally find him in his natural habitat – which is either at a sports bar showing a UFC event or coming out of the Hot Topic or PacSun store in your local mall. He’s usually wearing a two-sizes too small Affliction or Tapout t-shirt, ripped jeans (regardless of the temperature outside), chain wallet, multiple tattoos and at least one random piercing. He also has a permanent scowl on his face that becomes increasingly more pronounced as the night goes on (and the drinks go down).
Subsequently, he’s also the guy who forgets that he’s just some random jerk off in a bar and not one of the guys fighting on the TV. Therefore, he’s looking for any reason whatsoever to get into a fight with someone. Be it an accidental bump, perceived glance at his date or just walking within arm’s reach – it doesn’t matter. If “Fight Guy” decides its time to go – its time to go, and you don’t want to be anywhere near him when that happens.
Unless, of course, you have a modicum of self-defense skill – or just know better and stand up to him – in which case he’ll turn tail and continue sipping on his Sex on the Beach. Unfortunately, Fight Guy casts just an imposing enough shadow that most men who cross his path will back down – which only empowers him. It’s fascinating to watch from afar – not at all unlike watching jackal pick at the remains of a zebra in the wild – but utterly terrifying if you happen to be unwitting recipient of Fight Guy’s wrath.
Thankfully, I’ve been lucky enough to avoid Fight Guy up to this point. Fortunately, Fight Guy sticks out like a sore thumb, so he’s easy enough to avoid if you’re paying attention. However, his mere presence makes every trip to the restroom a perilous one – as you never know what may set him off at any given moment.
And though most people with an I.Q. over 10 can easily outwit Fight Guy, you’re best off to be as far away as possible when it happens, just in case.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Mr. Sticky Fingers...?
So, as if I needed another reason to completely dislike my boss - and trust me, I have a myriad of them - I think I caught him trying to steal something from my desk the other day.
Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. I didn’t catch him in the process of doing anything other than waddling to and from my cube, but I do think I thwarted his efforts. Allow me to explain.
My cube at work is - for the most part - fairly run of the mill. I don’t have a lot of garish decorations, save a few pictures of the family and some of my daughter’s artwork. However, I do have two little “conversations pieces” that sit atop my shelf: a picture of me taken with the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders (yes - plural and yes - the real ones) and a little plastic reindeer that “poops” out brown jelly beans. The former really needs no explanation - the latter was a small Christmas gift from my sister to celebrate my overly infantile sense of humor.
In any event, these two things have sat atop the shelf on my cube pretty much since I’ve been here. They’re just kind of out of the way and not really noticeable unless you’re back here and happen to be looking directly into my cubicle.
I mention this, because of what happened the other day - I was sitting back at my desk about 15 minutes or so from the end of the day, when all of a sudden, my boss comes down the aisle. The look on his face clearly indicated to me that he wasn’t expecting me to be here. Why, I have no idea. Perhaps he thought he laid me off already, I’m not really sure.
Anyhow, he makes a quick look towards my neighbor’s cube, which I found odd, since he knows she leaves at 4:00 every day. Then he looks over at my cube, and I happen to notice that in his hand is the exact same reindeer as is on my desk, only missing its head. And he looks at me with this sheepish grin and said, “Oh, you have one of these too. Heh. Mine broke. Great minds think alike, eh?” And then turned around and walked away.
Although it struck me as odd when it happened, I really didn’t think anything of it. Honestly, the strangest thing about it at the time was that he was even over there in the first place, since he never comes over to our aisle - and when he does, it’s not just to make small talk.
Then I was reminded of something that happened about a week or so earlier. I had walked into his office to have him sign something and gave him my pen. He signed the paper and then looked at the pen as though he had never seen one like it before.
“This is a really nice pen. It writes really well - where’d you get it?” he asked. I told him that I got them at Target or wherever and went back to my desk. When I got back to my desk, I knew I had an extra one of those pens, so I went back to his office and tossed the extra on his desk. (Hey - don’t judge me. When you’re looking at an uncertain job future - it doesn’t hurt to butter up the guy in charge of whether you stay or go. I make no apologies).
Anyhow, he takes the pen and thanks me for bringing it in. Then, just as I turn around to leave, I happen to catch a glimpse of the pen container by his phone and see - THE EXACT SAME PEN I JUST GAVE HIM AND HE ACTED LIKE HE’D NEVER SEEN BEFORE!
Then, I got back to my desk and made a second realization - I didn’t have an extra one of those pens - I should have had an extra TWO of those pens, since they came in a 3-pack. Sure enough, I looked around on my desk and the third pen was nowhere to be found. I chalked it up to an odd coincidence at the time, but looking back at it now - in conjunction with the pooping reindeer incident - and I have no choice but to believe one sad, indisputable fact.
The fat prick has been pilfering from my desk.
Of course, I can’t do anything about it. I don’t really have any concrete proof - though I think both of these “coincidences” definitely give me cause to think that’s probably the case. Besides, even if I did have proof, I’d still be in the same boat I’m in now, so there’s no point splitting hairs.
So now, not only do I have to go through the next month knowing that this a-hole is planning to lay us off at the end of the month, but refuses to admit it - I now have to do so with a fairly strong assumption that he’s been stealing things from my desk as well.
And people wonder why I don't like bankers...
Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. I didn’t catch him in the process of doing anything other than waddling to and from my cube, but I do think I thwarted his efforts. Allow me to explain.
My cube at work is - for the most part - fairly run of the mill. I don’t have a lot of garish decorations, save a few pictures of the family and some of my daughter’s artwork. However, I do have two little “conversations pieces” that sit atop my shelf: a picture of me taken with the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders (yes - plural and yes - the real ones) and a little plastic reindeer that “poops” out brown jelly beans. The former really needs no explanation - the latter was a small Christmas gift from my sister to celebrate my overly infantile sense of humor.
In any event, these two things have sat atop the shelf on my cube pretty much since I’ve been here. They’re just kind of out of the way and not really noticeable unless you’re back here and happen to be looking directly into my cubicle.
I mention this, because of what happened the other day - I was sitting back at my desk about 15 minutes or so from the end of the day, when all of a sudden, my boss comes down the aisle. The look on his face clearly indicated to me that he wasn’t expecting me to be here. Why, I have no idea. Perhaps he thought he laid me off already, I’m not really sure.
Anyhow, he makes a quick look towards my neighbor’s cube, which I found odd, since he knows she leaves at 4:00 every day. Then he looks over at my cube, and I happen to notice that in his hand is the exact same reindeer as is on my desk, only missing its head. And he looks at me with this sheepish grin and said, “Oh, you have one of these too. Heh. Mine broke. Great minds think alike, eh?” And then turned around and walked away.
Although it struck me as odd when it happened, I really didn’t think anything of it. Honestly, the strangest thing about it at the time was that he was even over there in the first place, since he never comes over to our aisle - and when he does, it’s not just to make small talk.
Then I was reminded of something that happened about a week or so earlier. I had walked into his office to have him sign something and gave him my pen. He signed the paper and then looked at the pen as though he had never seen one like it before.
“This is a really nice pen. It writes really well - where’d you get it?” he asked. I told him that I got them at Target or wherever and went back to my desk. When I got back to my desk, I knew I had an extra one of those pens, so I went back to his office and tossed the extra on his desk. (Hey - don’t judge me. When you’re looking at an uncertain job future - it doesn’t hurt to butter up the guy in charge of whether you stay or go. I make no apologies).
Anyhow, he takes the pen and thanks me for bringing it in. Then, just as I turn around to leave, I happen to catch a glimpse of the pen container by his phone and see - THE EXACT SAME PEN I JUST GAVE HIM AND HE ACTED LIKE HE’D NEVER SEEN BEFORE!
Then, I got back to my desk and made a second realization - I didn’t have an extra one of those pens - I should have had an extra TWO of those pens, since they came in a 3-pack. Sure enough, I looked around on my desk and the third pen was nowhere to be found. I chalked it up to an odd coincidence at the time, but looking back at it now - in conjunction with the pooping reindeer incident - and I have no choice but to believe one sad, indisputable fact.
The fat prick has been pilfering from my desk.
Of course, I can’t do anything about it. I don’t really have any concrete proof - though I think both of these “coincidences” definitely give me cause to think that’s probably the case. Besides, even if I did have proof, I’d still be in the same boat I’m in now, so there’s no point splitting hairs.
So now, not only do I have to go through the next month knowing that this a-hole is planning to lay us off at the end of the month, but refuses to admit it - I now have to do so with a fairly strong assumption that he’s been stealing things from my desk as well.
And people wonder why I don't like bankers...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Dead Man Walking...
So, I am officially on the job hunt.
This upsets me more than you can possibly imagine. I can not think of a more unenjoyable set of circumstances if I tried – at least, one that doesn’t involved the words “anally raped.”
It should be telling as to how much of a distaste I have for the job hunting process, that I have spent the last five years working a job that has completely drained me of any sort of creative, original thought I had left in my head. I knew this would be the case going in, yet instead of finding myself something a little more suited to my personality – I took the regularly scheduled paycheck and settled into professional ambiguity.
But, alas – all good things (or this job) must come to an end, and so I’m in the process of mentally preparing myself for what figures to be long (hopefully not) and uncomfortable (most definitely) trip through the job-hunting fantastic.
Now, I’m sure you’re reading this, thinking to yourself, “But why would you look down on the opportunity to better yourself, not only professionally, but quite possibly financially as well?” Well, I can answer that in one, simple word.
Interviewing.
I’ve often said that I could make the most successful reality series of all-time by just showing job interviews. While all job interviews are different, they share three very big similarities: they’re almost always awkward, uncomfortable and quite messy – not at all unlike sex with me. The only difference there is that one would make for great television and the other should not be viewed by anyone, under any circumstance whatsoever.
What makes the interviewing process so unnerving for me is that I am not a salesman under any circumstance – and an interview is the ultimate sales job. You have to convince some random stranger or strangers that you – above all of the other schmucks that they will talk to – are the greatest schmuck of them all, and thus, most deserving of this golden ticket that is the job opening they are dangling in front of you. It’s a daunting task for even those with the greatest of self-confidence – for someone who has the self-confidence of a 12-year old girl with acne, braces and Coke-bottle glasses like myself – it’s a nightmare.
Actually, that’s not entirely true – I do have a tremendous amount of confidence in my abilities – I’m relatively smart, am able to get along with most people and can adapt to just about any situation. It’s just that I absolutely abhor having to tell that to anyone. I don’t enjoy having to sell myself – and especially don’t like having to try and do it to some recruiter on a power-trip.
Take, for example, the man I spoke with the other morning. This was a man, with the personality of a DMV worker, who literally was scolding me for applying for a job that was going to be (admittedly) a decent drop in pay for me. However, it would also be permanent, have benefits, paid time off and – most importantly – room for growth, which are all things I am not the recipient of at my current job. When I mentioned this little fact to him, he growled to me in reply, “Well, you can’t put benefits in the bank.”
Now, I realize that not all experiences are like this and that most recruiters are probably nice enough people. It’s just that when you’re gun-shy about something already, having this sort of experience right out of the gate does not make one want to jump back in the waters. Its like I’m about jump into the ocean and I’m the chum in the middle of a bunch of sharks.
Be that as it may, I’ve known this time was coming for a while now, so there’s no point hiding from it any longer. Daddy gots to feed his family, so I guess its time to dust off the ol’ suit and practice my best car-salesman smile – because I’ve got a well-used, but still-reliable 1970 model that I need to move off the lot today.
This upsets me more than you can possibly imagine. I can not think of a more unenjoyable set of circumstances if I tried – at least, one that doesn’t involved the words “anally raped.”
It should be telling as to how much of a distaste I have for the job hunting process, that I have spent the last five years working a job that has completely drained me of any sort of creative, original thought I had left in my head. I knew this would be the case going in, yet instead of finding myself something a little more suited to my personality – I took the regularly scheduled paycheck and settled into professional ambiguity.
But, alas – all good things (or this job) must come to an end, and so I’m in the process of mentally preparing myself for what figures to be long (hopefully not) and uncomfortable (most definitely) trip through the job-hunting fantastic.
Now, I’m sure you’re reading this, thinking to yourself, “But why would you look down on the opportunity to better yourself, not only professionally, but quite possibly financially as well?” Well, I can answer that in one, simple word.
Interviewing.
I’ve often said that I could make the most successful reality series of all-time by just showing job interviews. While all job interviews are different, they share three very big similarities: they’re almost always awkward, uncomfortable and quite messy – not at all unlike sex with me. The only difference there is that one would make for great television and the other should not be viewed by anyone, under any circumstance whatsoever.
What makes the interviewing process so unnerving for me is that I am not a salesman under any circumstance – and an interview is the ultimate sales job. You have to convince some random stranger or strangers that you – above all of the other schmucks that they will talk to – are the greatest schmuck of them all, and thus, most deserving of this golden ticket that is the job opening they are dangling in front of you. It’s a daunting task for even those with the greatest of self-confidence – for someone who has the self-confidence of a 12-year old girl with acne, braces and Coke-bottle glasses like myself – it’s a nightmare.
Actually, that’s not entirely true – I do have a tremendous amount of confidence in my abilities – I’m relatively smart, am able to get along with most people and can adapt to just about any situation. It’s just that I absolutely abhor having to tell that to anyone. I don’t enjoy having to sell myself – and especially don’t like having to try and do it to some recruiter on a power-trip.
Take, for example, the man I spoke with the other morning. This was a man, with the personality of a DMV worker, who literally was scolding me for applying for a job that was going to be (admittedly) a decent drop in pay for me. However, it would also be permanent, have benefits, paid time off and – most importantly – room for growth, which are all things I am not the recipient of at my current job. When I mentioned this little fact to him, he growled to me in reply, “Well, you can’t put benefits in the bank.”
Now, I realize that not all experiences are like this and that most recruiters are probably nice enough people. It’s just that when you’re gun-shy about something already, having this sort of experience right out of the gate does not make one want to jump back in the waters. Its like I’m about jump into the ocean and I’m the chum in the middle of a bunch of sharks.
Be that as it may, I’ve known this time was coming for a while now, so there’s no point hiding from it any longer. Daddy gots to feed his family, so I guess its time to dust off the ol’ suit and practice my best car-salesman smile – because I’ve got a well-used, but still-reliable 1970 model that I need to move off the lot today.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Wah!!!
I’m feeling like I really need to do something to get over this non-writing hump. Every couple months or so, I feel like I’m ready to start writing again, then something happens – maybe I’ll throw an old post up or something – and then I go back into hibernation.
It’s quite frustrating to say the least. Personally, I blame the douche bags that fired me from NASCAR, because I’m sure whatever blockage this is, it’s directly related to some sort of unresolved issues I have, due to those humorless assholes firing me after writing on my old blog.
You’d think that after almost five years, I’d be over this whole episode already. Of course, you have no idea about the myriad of psychoses I’m suffering from that are preventing me from doing so, either. Granted, the fact that I work in such close proximity to the old office doesn’t help. Nor does the fact that I still see a lot of the people I used to work with there – and I every time I see them, they still give me the same look that says, “Hey, didn’t that loser used to work with me?” and it makes me want to punch them in the face. Hard. The fact that I can now actually do so without fear of getting my ass handed to me in the process doesn’t diminish the feeling any in the slightest.
Granted, the logical move here would be to find myself a job somewhere far away from uptown, and – subsequently – the NASCAR offices. Of course, with the current job market being what it is, combined with my lackluster pedigree, that’s not going to happen anytime soon, either.
And, just to add one more obstacle to deal with – I’m always putting extra pressure on myself to come up with something really clever and/or witty to put up here. My old blog was a good mixture of stuff that was primarily funny (or so I was told), some random observations and a little self-pity induced whining – not unlike what I’m doing right here. For some reason, with this new site – I’ve felt as though if it’s not funny, it’s not worth posting and subsequently don’t bother.
What I need to do is just what I’m doing now – just start writing down whatever thoughts come into my head, get them out there – stream-of-conscious style and post them. At least get the practice, get myself warmed up to the idea of posting regularly again and go from there. Besides, it’s not like I’m not the only one reading this shit anyhow, right?
It’s quite frustrating to say the least. Personally, I blame the douche bags that fired me from NASCAR, because I’m sure whatever blockage this is, it’s directly related to some sort of unresolved issues I have, due to those humorless assholes firing me after writing on my old blog.
You’d think that after almost five years, I’d be over this whole episode already. Of course, you have no idea about the myriad of psychoses I’m suffering from that are preventing me from doing so, either. Granted, the fact that I work in such close proximity to the old office doesn’t help. Nor does the fact that I still see a lot of the people I used to work with there – and I every time I see them, they still give me the same look that says, “Hey, didn’t that loser used to work with me?” and it makes me want to punch them in the face. Hard. The fact that I can now actually do so without fear of getting my ass handed to me in the process doesn’t diminish the feeling any in the slightest.
Granted, the logical move here would be to find myself a job somewhere far away from uptown, and – subsequently – the NASCAR offices. Of course, with the current job market being what it is, combined with my lackluster pedigree, that’s not going to happen anytime soon, either.
And, just to add one more obstacle to deal with – I’m always putting extra pressure on myself to come up with something really clever and/or witty to put up here. My old blog was a good mixture of stuff that was primarily funny (or so I was told), some random observations and a little self-pity induced whining – not unlike what I’m doing right here. For some reason, with this new site – I’ve felt as though if it’s not funny, it’s not worth posting and subsequently don’t bother.
What I need to do is just what I’m doing now – just start writing down whatever thoughts come into my head, get them out there – stream-of-conscious style and post them. At least get the practice, get myself warmed up to the idea of posting regularly again and go from there. Besides, it’s not like I’m not the only one reading this shit anyhow, right?
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