No, you're not dreaming. You're not hallucinating (well, maybe you are, especially if you're here in Washington). You're not fantasizing (again, maybe you are. I don't judge).
In any event, I'm back.
I'm back because I've been thinking a lot lately about a saying: it's better to regret something you have done, than to regret something you haven't done.
I don't know where this saying originated, not that it really matters. I first heard it at the beginning of the Butthole Surfers song, Sweat Loaf. Which, is also probably irrelevant, but seems somewhat apropos with how things randomly manage to happen in my life.
In any event, I'm not exactly sure why this thought has been going through my head so much lately (or, maybe I do, and I'm just not spilling it here), but the point is, it's been happening a lot lately.
For those of you who aren't aware, I used to blog a lot. I enjoyed it. I'd even go so far as to say that I was pretty good at it (which, if you know how hard it is for me to be positive about anything I do, is saying something).
I met a lot of people - virtually - through my blog, a couple of whom I still keep up with today and have even met in person. It was pretty cool, and a great creative outlet for someone like me who desperately needed one.
Then, in 2004, that all changed.
In 2004, we moved back to North Carolina, after three years living in Boston. I had jumped from a few temp jobs, looking for a permanent gig, when I came across what I thought would have been the perfect job for me - working in the Licensing Division of a certain racing organization that rhymes with ASSCAR. To make a long story short, I busted my ass there for about six months hoping to get a full-time gig with them, only to instead get myself summarily fired with extreme prejudice after blogging about how frustrated I was with their painfully slow hiring process.
(In all honesty - it wasn't that simple, and it was a stupid of me to post it in the first place. Hindsight, it turns out, is still undefeated).
Suffice to say, my blogging escapades pretty much died that day. My already fragile ego took a killshot to the head and writing just seemed unimportant. Eventually, I lost my old site and started this one. However I could never quite get the same mojo going that I had going before. I'm sure having two kids running around didn't help matters, but regardless, no matter how hard I tried, I could never get into a regular writing rhythm again. My last update - as you can see below, was almost 10 years ago.
So, why now? I can't really say. I've been talking about giving it a go again for a while, but as is wont to happen - especially with me, life seems to keep getting in the way. Honestly, I don't even know if people actually write blogs anymore. Everyone I know seems to have a vlog, podcast or both. I've thought about going that route, but I can't quite come up with a good enough concept to podcast about, and - if you've ever heard me on any of the podcasts I do show up on from time to time - talking off the cuff isn't exactly my strong suit.
Thus, here I am. If I have to try and figure out why - I suppose at the end of the day, I'm just trying to finally do one of the things that I always say I'm going to do, but never quite get around to doing. Who knows? Perhaps this can be the start of my turning over a new leaf - finally putting all those grand plans I've come up with throughout my life into motion, one stupid blog post at a time.
Will this become a regular thing again? I don't know. I'd like it to be, but I've been down this road before, so who knows? The good thing is, I've lived a lot of life in the last 10 years, so I should have plenty of good stories and material to work into blog posts, so there's that. Hell, the last three months could probably provide me enough material for a year, but that's a story for another time. (Actually, several stories, but I digress...) Plus, enough time has passed so that if I really get stuck, I can just regurgitate some of my old posts and no one will be the wiser!
So, we'll see what happens. For now, let's just mark this as one baby step towards finally getting off my ass to finally start following through on some things.
If not, at least I don't have to regret not trying...
Monday, February 11, 2019
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Hair. Hair. Long, Beautiful Hair...
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…
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…
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...]
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