Saturday, January 31, 2009

In Which I Am Wiped Out

The Boss had minor exploratory surgery yesterday. 

She has endometriosis and polycystic ovary disease, both of which tend to cause pain for her. The surgery was mostly diagnostic, but also to remove and tissue (a la DNC) that had built up over the years. Everything was done laprascopically, and everything took about three hours.

Her oxygen saturation levels were low when she was brought out of anesthesia, so they wouldn't discharge her until they felt she was breathing okay on her own. We waited in recovery with her for three hours before they would let her go.

Everything went well and she is recovering just fine, but she'll be spending the next couple of days at her parent's house. Our apartment has a spiral staircase to the second floor (where the bathroom and bedroom are), which would be near impossible to navigate with a couple of healing incisions in one's abdomen. She's hoping to be able to come home by Tuesday, but that will all depend upon how soon she get's up and moving.

Yesterday was unbearably long. We checked her into the hospital at 9:45am, and she was scheduled for surgery at 10:50. They didn't take her in until 1:00, and was out of surgery by 3:00. We met her in recovery at 4:00, and left the hospital around 7:00. I was on the road headed for home at 7:30, and I didn't get home until after 9:00. After spending the day worrying about my wife, and listening to The Boss' mother talk my ear off, I am flat-out exhausted.

I didn't mention The Boss' surgery before this because I kept on forgetting to ask her if it was okay that I wrote about it here. She gave me the consent for it a couple of days ago, but I didn't have time to write about it until now. I miss her and wish I could be with her to help her recover, but she is in good hands with her mother. I'm sure she is doing fine, and is probably stoned out of her mind on pain medications. 

On the plus side, I get the entire bed to myself for the next couple of days. 

Sweet, sweet Z's.

Friday, January 30, 2009

In Which I Get Felt Up

Anyone who knew me in high school knew that I lived a very sheltered life. My parents didn't do it to be cruel, but rather so they could keep my sisters and I away from "negative influences" and provide what they felt to be a good environment for us to grow up in. At the time I didn't feel sheltered, but as I've mentioned a few times throughout the archives of this blog, the shock of being exposed to the Real World when I began college was a life-changing. 

Despite all the quick-learning I had to do to get "caught up" from my sheltered up-bringing, I didn't really care that I had almost no knowledge of popular music or movies, or that I didn't know who Kurt Cobain was. The thing that set me back the most was that, other than a darkened hallway kiss, I had no experience with the physical side of relationships. Had I been granted a little more freedom and knowledge before being set loose, I would have saved myself a lot of embarrassment. 

I didn't set out to, but by the end of my first semester of college, I had learned a lot about all that I had been missing in high school. I made out with a girl for the first time, grabbed my first boob, and got my first handjob and blowjob. I kissed with tongue, learned cunnilingus, and lost my virginity. Throughout the rest of that year I learned that while physical intimacy is an important facet to a relationship, one needs to have a solid emotional relationship, too. I learned that perhaps a little too late, but my scars are good reminders of lessons learned. 

The following fall semester I started dating the girl who would become The Boss. She told me that she was still a virgin and wanted to stay that way until she was married. There was no religious motive, just her own personal declaration. I was fine with that, and on my honor we were not intimate until we got married 18 months later. When the spring semester ended, we both moved home, two hours apart. I would drive to her parents house as often as I could. Up to this point, there was nothing more than light make-out sessions, despite what my parents might have thought. All of that changed that summer we were apart, and we began to do Other Things. Part of that, combined with my lack of knowledge as a direct result of my sheltered life, is what led to me going to the ER late one night. 

The first night I stayed over at The Boss' house, we fooled around as quietly as we could. Things got pretty hot and heavy, but before we reached The Point Of No Return we kissed goodnight and went to bed. I had a slight pain in my groin, but didn't think much of it. I slept fitfully that night because of it. The pain was still present in the morning, and somehow seemed to have worsened. The pain was so severe by that afternoon that I decided that I had to go home. Midway home I decided that I couldn't bear the pain anymore. I drove to the local Emergency Room and checked myself in. 

I didn't have to wait too long before a doctor came in to see me. I gave him the full story, about how I had just moved back home from college, had lifted heavy boxes the previous day, not sure what might be causing the pain, etc. The doctor snapped on a latex-free glove and told me to drop my pants. Before I knew exactly what was happening, the doctor was feeling around Down There with his cold hands.

He poked and prodded, and told me to turn my head and cough. There was some more general shifting of my Man Parts, and I was beginning to think I should have asked him to take me to dinner first. I'm not normally this easy, I'd say. Will you still be here in the morning? I was doing my best to remain distracted from the fact that another man was fiddling with my junk when the doctor stood up and removed his glove.

"Well, I don't think you have a hernia. That was my initial thought, given your recent activities. There does seem to be some swelling in your testicles, but nothing that I am overly concerned about," the doctor said, washing his hands. "The swelling should go down on its own, but if it doesn't go away within the next 12 hours, you might need to help it along yourself."

Still trying to erase the memory of another man's hands on Big Willie and The Twins, I looked at him blankly. "I guess I don't understand what you mean," I said.

The doctor shuffled his feet and looked over his shoulder. "May I speak to you frankly?"

"Sure."

"Son, you have blue-balls. It's a build-up of fluids and pressure from over-stimulation and lack of orgasm."

"Oh." I looked down at the floor, and hurriedly finished zipping up my pants. 

"It's a perfectly normal thing to happen, and it can be considerably painful," the doctor continued, making notes on my chart. "Like I said, things should improve gradually, but you would benefit from helping it along yourself. Do you understand what I mean?"

"I do," I said, still staring down. My belt had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. "But, doctor? I'm living at my parents house for the summer, and helping it along myself isn't exactly... possible. The Christian walls are thin, if you know what I mean."

The doctor looked at me for a moment, his eyes sympathetic. "Right. Yes, of course. I'll get you something for the pain."

I left the ER shortly after, slightly hunched over from the pain and feeling used and slightly dirty. Also in my possession was two very important things: a handful of Vicodin and the priceless knowledge that too much dry humping can lead to some serious pain.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

In Which I Unveil Part Four

Here is the long-awaited Part Four of the Short Story Thursday series:

(Part One, Part Two, Part Three)

---

There was a knock on the door, and Samuel Bennett turned in his chair. He leaned forward to unlock the door, and his hired help, two thick men built for brawn instead of brain, entered the small security office. A row of monitors lit up the room, each one showing a different section of the storage lot. On one of the monitors was the image of Adam Marshall, both hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel of his classic Mustang.

“All done, boss,” one of the men said. “We dumped the body in the compactor like you said. Bastard bled all over me.” He held open the front of his jacket to expose his shirt, stained with dark blood.

“Well, Silas, people who have been shot in the heart tend to do that,” Bennett said. “And what of the gun, Peter?”

“I wiped it down good and clean, and chucked it into the river,” Peter said. He shifted, nervous, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“Good job, both of you.” Samuel Bennett turned back to face the monitors. He typed a command on the keyboard in front of him, and the footage of Adam Marshal switched to a larger monitor. After studying the grim-faced witness to the murder of Danny Joiner for a few moments, he entered another command on the keyboard, and somewhere in the small office a printer came to life. It spat out three pages, bearing the grainy but strangely familiar face.

“This guy looks familiar, doesn’t he?” Bennett asked.

“I think I’ve seen him on TV before,” Silas said. “Some commercial or something.”

“He’s the guy on those commercials for that construction company across town,” Peter said. “You know, for Marshall Construction. The one with that stupid slogan, building your dreams from the ground up.”

Bennett nodded, finally recognizing the man. He entered another command on the keyboard, and the video footage of the murder and their witness disappeared. “Does one of you have my phone?”

“Right here, boss,” Peter said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He retrieved the phone and handed it to Bennett. He dialed a number, and held the phone up to his ear.

“Maine State Police, Troop B.”

“Officer Philips, please,” said Bennett.

“Speaking.”

“Jim, it’s Sam,” Bennett said, his voice quiet.

“Jesus, Sam! What are you doing calling me here? I thought I told you I couldn’t talk here at the desk.”

“This won’t take long, Jim, I promise. You’ve been on my payroll long enough to know that I only call when your services are needed.”

In the State Troopers office, Jim sighed and tapped his fingers on the desk. “What is it this time?”

“We had a little problem here tonight, and I need you to track someone down. I’ve got a name and a plate number. I’ll need you to bring him in.” Silas handed a scrap of paper to Bennett, with the plate number to the Mustang scribbled on it.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Adam Marshall.”

---

To be continued...

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

In Which I Get A Job

It has been a long time since I last wrote a First Time story, so here is another installment, about my first job.

---

The first job I had was working for a small family-owned Italian restaurant. They had a couple of restaurants throughout town, well known for their Italian sandwiches and pizza. I applied and interviewed in the same day, and was offered the job by the next afternoon. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to be doing, but I didn’t care. I had a job and my own income, and I was excited to start.

After a brief training, I worked behind the scenes. I made the pizza and spaghetti sauce, shredded the cheese for pizza, and stocked the coolers with soda and water. I emptied the trashcans and the returnable containers, cleaned the bathrooms, and changed the sign with the weekly advertisements. I scrubbed and cleaned the cast iron pizza pans, washed dishes, and mopped the floor. I did what I was told as best I could, and if it wasn’t for the people I worked with, I wouldn’t have hated the job so much.

The people I worked with liked to play pranks on the new hires. One of the girls that started at the same time I did quit after two weeks, when someone soaked her hat in bleach that gave her a chemical burn on her scalp. The guys that would train me to do new things would train me to do them incorrectly so I would get in trouble by my boss. It seemed that no matter who I complained to about it, they would do everything within their power to make my shift miserable.

I put up with their torment, and I eventually got used to it and ignored them. They focused their attention to the other new hires as they came in. After I had been there for three months, I began to spend more time up front preparing sandwiches and making pasta. I got to know the people I worked with better, and they didn’t pick on me as much. I still endured a couple of minor pranks, but the worst prank of all was yet to come.

My shift that day started much like any other. I got a cup of soda and labeled it with my name, and checked in with my boss to see what he wanted me to do. I was assigned to wash the dishes, so I put my cup down on the back shelf and got started. It took me about two hours to wash all that were there, and I was thirsty when I had finally finished. I dried my hands and went over to the back shelf to get my soda.

One of my coworkers was nearby, slicing onions. He had a smirk on his face as I reached for my cup, but I didn’t think anything of it. I grabbed my cup and took a swig. My coworker started laughing, and suddenly I realized why.

He had emptied out my soda and filled my cup with onion juice.

I gagged and choked and coughed violently. I threw the cup down on the counter and ran outside through the rear door. My stomach was lurching, and I barely made it to the dumpsters before I threw up.

I hate onions, even the smallest ones. I had taken a big mouthful of pure onion juice, taken from the strong onions the restaurant was known for using. I stood at the dumpster for a few minutes, my stomach retching and dry heaving.

When I finally went back inside, the other people I worked with were laughing at the joke. Once they saw how sick I was, they stopped. The guy who was responsible for the prank apologized, but I reported him to my boss and he got suspended from work for the rest of the week. He felt bad that I got sick from it, and offered to buy me anything I wanted off the menu. I left work that night with a large pizza that cost him almost thirty dollars.

I didn’t work there for much longer after that. The environment didn’t improve much, and I found a job at a local pharmacy that had better hours, better pay, and zero risk of getting onion juice put in my drink. I was thankful for the experience of my first job, but I was glad to finally move on.

Since then I have held six other jobs, and my first job is still the one I hated the most.

---

Anyone else have a bad work experience?

Monday, January 26, 2009

In Which I Am Observant, Part Five

Have you ever noticed that the people who work in the loudest section of the food court speak the softest and hate to repeat themselves?

Have you ever made rude gestures at someone who cut you off in traffic, only to end up having them as your waitress at the restaurant you dine at later that evening?

Have you ever been threatened by an angry homeless man after accidentally saying (perhaps too loudly) something that you didn't know was racially insensitive?

Have you ever gotten lost in a parking garage?

Have you ever had to fart so badly that when your stomach groans it sounds like a wounded dinosaur?

No?

Well, I have. What things have you experienced lately?

(Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four)

Saturday, January 24, 2009

In Which I Go Off-Roading

I saw a car off the road while driving earlier this morning, so I stopped to see if everyone was alright. The driver said that he had pulled off to the side of the road to take off his jacket, not realizing that there wasn't a shoulder on the road. His SUV quickly sunk into the snow that filled the small ditch, and he was waiting for a tow truck to come pull him out. As I drove away after the driver assured me that he was fine, I was suddenly reminded of an old memory from about five years ago. 

My dad had just purchased a mid-sized SUV with four wheel drive. He and I were out running some errands, and we got to talking about how it would be neat to go off-roading now that we had a four-wheel drive vehicle. I didn't think my dad would ever do anything like that, especially not in his new-used car, so you can imagine my surprise when all of a sudden my dad hit the brakes.

"What do you think?" he asked, pointing to a trail he had spotted just off the road. It seemed like the perfect place to try off-roading. It wasn't too steep, not too rocky, and from our vantage point it didn't look too dangerous.

"I dunno," I said. "It looks pretty decent."

"Want to give it a try?" 

I looked at the trail again, and then back at him, surprised. "Sure!"

He needed no convincing. He engaged the four-wheel drive, and we pulled off the road and onto the trail. 

We bounced along down the trail, rolling our windows down and turning the music up. The trail got more steep and the rocks got bigger, but my dad didn't seem to notice. We were about a mile down the trail now, and could no longer see the beginning of the trail behind us. The road had narrowed, and the brush on the side of the trail brushed lightly against the side of the car as we continued forward. I watched the needle of the RPM gauge pushed higher and higher, and we finally reached the crest of the hill. It was fun and exciting, but here is where things took a turn for the worst. 

My dad, who was a little distracted by something on the side of the trail, failed to see two important things: he didn't realize that we had reached the top of the hill, thus not requiring strong pressure on the gas pedal, and that the trail on the backside of the hill was covered in large, jagged rocks. With his foot heavy on the accelerator, the engine roared as we passed over the top of the hill and plummeted down.

The jagged rocks scraped and banged against the underside of the car and we bounced around savagely, hitting every bump and pothole. My dad tried to slow us down, standing up on the brake pedal. The brakes locked up and dragged in the dirt, and we were almost as the bottom of the hill when we started to slow down. We finally came to a stop at the bottom of the hill, jerking to a halt a few yards away from where a small stream washed out the rest of the trail.

My dad and I sat there in silence, catching our breath. He switched off the radio, cutting off the blaring classic rock. The insects buzzed in the tall grass around us, and the cloud of dust kicked up by our violent descent blew past in the breeze. 

Without any discussion it was clear that we weren't going to go any further down the trail, but there was no room to turn around on the narrow trail. He put the transmission into reverse, and we began to back up the hill. We hit all the same rocks and potholes as we did on the way down, and the grimace on my dad's face deepened with each impact. We drove very slowly, but eventually made it up to the top of the hill. 

The rest of our reverse trip went relatively smooth, and we were soon off the trail. When we reached the shoulder of the main road, my dad put the car in Park and shut off the engine. We both sat there, staring out the windshield.

"That was fun, eh?" my dad asked, sarcastic.

"Um... yeah. That was interesting," I said. My voice sounded thick, and I was suddenly very thirsty. We sat there for a couple of minutes before he started the car back up again, and we headed for home.

"Hey, Mike?" my dad asked just before we pulled into our driveway.

"Yeah?" 

"Not a word of this to your mother."

Friday, January 23, 2009

In Which I Have Some Good News

After a year and a half of waiting and wondering, and numerous posts concerning my want of some sort of an answer about my neurological problems, I finally have a diagnosis. 

I have myoclonus.

I am very glad to finally get an official diagnosis, but I still can't fully shut off that nagging voice in the back of my mind that I am a medical mystery. They still don't know (definitively) what the cause of this is, they don't know how to stop the symptoms, and the treatment for it is all trial and error. 

But... at least I have a name for what I have going on.

This was the diagnosis I have been seeking all along. There was some thought that it might be a form of epilepsy, but after all the various tests I have had done, my symptoms do not fit into any category of epileptic behavior. This is a good thing, as I could have had my drivers license revoked if it was determined that it was seizures. They can't rule out epilepsy completely, but there is enough knowledge to say that it is most likely not epilepsy, and most likely myoclonus.

The results of my sleep study showed that I had episodes of sleep apnea, which is thought to be triggering the movements that I have in my arms and legs while sleeping. They want to fit me with a CPAP machine to help with the apnea, but I am going to try to lose some weight first. I would much rather be on a diet than be forced to sleep with a fucking mask on my face every night. The other piece of information gained was that my younger sister's MRI scan did not show any of the Grey Matter Heterotopia that both my mother and I have, which was my speculation all along. There wasn't any indication that she might have what my mother and I have, but she does have epilepsy. There are a team of doctors at the hospital that are reviewing everything to determine if this is a genetic or coincidental problem.

Contrary to what I expected, I was not told to start any medications for my myoclonus. They want to see if sleeping better will help reduce the symptoms or not. The medications to control the movements are pretty heavy duty, so it would obviously be better to try alternate methods first. Short of my quality of sleep, the movements aren't affecting my life too greatly. I can deal with them, and hope that they improve if/when my sleeping improves.

As far as the dystonia in my hands, my neurologist doesn't think it's related to my myoclonus. He said that it might be arthritis, but I'll have to follow up with my PCP to know more about that. My neurologist also doesn't think that the fatigue I get in my legs is related either. I'll probably speak to my PCP about that, too. 

Yesterday was a long day, especially with an unexpected trip to the ER for my mother once we arrived back in Maine. We didn't get out of the hospital until after midnight, and after dropping my mother off at home, The Boss and I walked into our apartment sometime after 2am. We got a couple hours of sleep before having to get up to bring the cat to get neutered, so we are both tired today. I don't have much mental energy for much of anything else today.

I hope I explained everything clear enough, but please don't hesitate to ask any questions if you have them. I greatly appreciate your thoughts and well-wishes yesterday, and I'm glad to finally be giving you all some good news about this. 

Happy Friday!

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

In Which I Get Stitches

Yesterday, I got it into my head that I wanted to build a small bookshelf for the top of my dresser. I had all that I needed to build it: a couple of 2x4's, a hand saw, some screws, and a cordless drill. I knew that this wasn't going to be a wood shop masterpiece, and as I was taking measurements I dubbed it a White Trash bookshelf. 

I was just about done cutting all the pieces when my hand slipped and brushed against the blade of the saw. I didn't even realize I had cut myself until I felt something running down my hand. It was bleeding at a pretty good rate, and with nothing to stop the bleeding immediately at hand, I stuck my finger in my mouth and ran inside. 

I got the bleeding to stop after five minutes or so, and cleaned it out as best I could with peroxide and hot water. I knew I was out of date for my tetanus shot, and I suspected I might need a stitch or two for the cut, so I called my doctors office to let them know I was coming in.

45 minutes later, I walked out of my doctors office with a sore arm from the tetanus shot and two stitches in my finger. It was an exciting afternoon to say the least. I wont post any pictures, because the wound isn't very pleasant to look at.

---

By this time tomorrow morning, I will be en route to the bus terminal to make the trip down to Boston for an appointment with my neurologist. I want to thank all of those who responded to my plea for help a couple of weeks ago. Your donations helped make this visit to Boston for my appointment possible, and for that I am very grateful.

As with each time I make this medical pilgrimage, I’m not really sure what to expect for an outcome from this appointment. I hope to be one step closer towards a diagnosis, but I know that there is too much speculation at this point for that to be all but a speck on the horizon. It took my mother (who has the same neurological problems as I do) nine years to get her diagnosis. I don’t expect it to be that long for me. At least I hope so.

The worst part about all of this is not knowing what it is. If it was Multiple Sclerosis or Epilepsy or even the brain tumor they’ve speculated about, at least I’d know what it is. I would accept a diagnosis of cancer at this point, if just to finally know what all of this is. It is unbelievably frustrating for me, and for my doctor I’m sure, to go to these appointments being hopeful for an answer but walking away feeling just as confused and lost. This experience has been like, and pardon my use of the cliché, a never-ending roller coaster... One that straps you in and doesn’t let you off, throwing you for loop after loop of high-rising emotions and anxiety, loneliness and questioning, depression and fear.

While I know I won’t get a diagnosis this time around, I know that I can at least expect to get some more information. There will be some comparing of the MRI scans of myself, my mother, and my younger sister, to see if there are any similarities between all three. We know already that both my mother and I have Grey Matter Heterotopia in the same region of the brain, but it is unknown if my younger sister, who has petite-mal seizures, has it, too. In addition to that, I hope to talk about the sleep study I had done in September. If I can’t get a definitive answer, I’ll take as much information as I can get.

Tomorrow is sure to be a long day, but at least the weather looks like it will be decent. I’ll be back on Friday with a post detailing the information gained at this appointment, and possibly some pictures of The Boss’ cat Liam, who is scheduled to be neutered on Friday.

As always, I’ll be updating via Twitter as much as I can, and you can send short messages to my cell phone by e-mailing me at badassgeek(at)vtext(dot)com.

See you on Friday!

Monday, January 19, 2009

In Which I Review "Duma Key"

A couple weeks ago, through an e-mail conversation with Moonspun, I found out that she and I were both reading the same book. It was a relatively new release by Stephen King, titled "Duma Key", and we agreed that when we were both finished reading the book that we would review the book together in joint posts. This is my review of it.

---

In the beginning, "Duma Key" presents itself to the reader like any other King novel. If you are a fan of King's works, then you know how quickly he hooks you in, grabbing your interest with the subtle descriptions that make the clearest mental picture. In that respect, it starts out in the traditional slow manner, filling you in on the characters and setting the scene for how the main character got to the current point in his life. It is told from the main character's point of view, as a retelling of previous events. 

The main character, Edgar Freemantle, is rehabilitating in Florida's Duma Key from a construction-site accident that nearly killed him. The accident cost him his right arm, and the recovery his marriage, but as he begins his new life on the Key he rediscovers his old talents with painting. As his talents progress, the drawings and paintings take on an other-worldly horrible and dangerous ability, something that becomes evident when it is all too late. I'm not going to give you a further synopsis of the book; if you want that you can follow the link to King's website and read it there. 

Stephen King doesn't disappoint with this novel. He bares the emotions of every moment to the reader, regardless if it is ugly and horrible, nightmarish or beautiful. You have no choice but to accept that what you are reading is the pure and simple truth, and King does that with ease. Everything he writes has a place in the book, and he weaves the characters lives together so seamlessly. This book thrills and excites and scares the reader, all the while forcing you to imagine and realize the power that the main character wields through each stroke of his paintbrush. It progresses at a good speed, but the pace quickens considerably towards the end. After the climax and resolution, the book ends in an unexpected and heartbreaking manner. Despite this, I felt the book ended where it should. Do not read this book if you expect a happy ending. It left me feeling sad and empty, but ever thoughtful.

As with my previous experiences with King novels, this was a very hard book to put down. It is an easy read, as it is plainspoken and there aren't any difficult words to wonder about. There is a lot of action and suspense, and definitely moments of terror and fear. Because of this (and the same goes for just about any King novel), I would not recommend reading this book at night or shortly before bed. The crystal clear images he depicts with his words will keep your eyes wide open.

Now, here comes the point where you'll ask if I would recommend this book to anyone else. The answer is simple: Yes. Absolutely, yes. This novel will entertain you and scare you. It will make you laugh just as easily as it will make you cry. It will exceed your expectations, and you'll fail to accurately describe it to anyone who asks you, "So, how's the book?", just as I have failed to do so here. 

---

If this at all intrigues you, I highly recommend reading this book. Go out and buy it, borrow it from the library or a friend, whatever you need to do. If you are a fan of Stephen King, you will love it. If you've never read anything by King, this would be the perfect introduction to his world. Either way, I will be thoroughly surprised if you do not like it even just a little.

Be on the lookout for Moonspun's review, coming soon!

Saturday, January 17, 2009

In Which I Get Tagged

Today, in lieu of a post that requires mental strength to write (I have none today), this post will comprise of two things I have been tagged for in recent days. The first being the meme that A Reason 2 Write tagged me for. Read on...
  1. Where is your cellphone? On my desk.
  2. Where is your significant other? At her parents house.
  3. Your hair color? Brown.
  4. Your family? Yes, I have them, and I like them occasionally.
  5. Who you miss the most? The Boss's old cat, because her death made her sad.
  6. Your favorite thing? My iPod.
  7. Your dream last night? Scarlett Johannson. Whipped cream.
  8. Your dream/goal? To not be homeless someday.
  9. The room you're in? My office.
  10. Your hobby? Writing, photography, and writing music.
  11. Your fear? Car accidents.
  12. Where do you want to be in six years? Someplace different. Chicago?
  13. Where were you last night? Asleep, drooling on the couch.
  14. What you're not? Either rich, skinny, or hung like a horse. 
  15. One of your wish list items? This.
  16. Where you grew up? Auburn, Maine.
  17. The last thing you did? Answered question 16.
  18. What are you wearing? Boxer briefs, SmartWool socks, jeans, and a Van Halen t-shirt.
  19. Your TV? Heavy as fuck, with a gigantic 20" screen.
  20. Your pet? A demonic hell-beast bastard Maine Coon cat.
  21. Your computer? A geriatric Dell Inspiron 1000 laptop.
  22. Your mood? Tired.
  23. Missing someone? Always.
  24. Your car? The love of my life, my 1998 Ford F-150 V8.
  25. Something you're not wearing? Lipstick.
  26. Favorite store? Any place gadgets are sold.
  27. Your summer? Yes, I'd like it back, please.
  28. Love someone? Most of the time, yes.
  29. Your favorite color? Black.
  30. The last time you laughed? Yesterday afternoon.
  31. The last time you cried? In October, when seeing The Boss sad about her cat's death.
The other meme I was tagged for came from Kat. I have to list 10 Honest Things about myself...
  1. I am quite possibly addicted to Mountain Dew.
  2. I drool when I sleep. And when I say drool, I mean it's like my mouth is a faucet for drool. I have to change my pillowcase fairly often. It's quite gross.
  3. When I was a Resident Advisor in college, I had alcohol in my mini-fridge. I lived in an alcohol-free dorm, and I was underage. The night I put the alcohol in my fridge, I busted two parties where alcohol was present and got two kids arrested.
  4. I enjoy watching Jeopardy when it's Teen Week, because the questions are easier and it makes me feel smarter.
  5. I knew I was in love with The Boss the first time we went out to eat together, three months after we had been dating. She ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and finished her meal before I did. She also burped loudly. 
  6. I cannot keep a houseplant alive, no matter how much I try. 
  7. I hate country music. I tolerate it in small amounts because The Boss likes it, but otherwise it makes me want to pull my hair out. 
  8. The closest thing to porn that I own is the DVD of "Wild Things". 
  9. When I worked for a hotel and conference center, I would volunteer to help clean up after big weddings or parties. People thought I did it just to be nice, but I only did it so I could have access to all the empty returnable bottles and cans. I would clear almost $30 from the returnables from one party. 
  10. I drink close to a half gallon of water each day. I am always thirsty, but test negative for diabetes.
Feel free to copy these meme's on your own blog if you'd like.

Enjoy your weekend!

Friday, January 16, 2009

In Which I Am Frozen Solid

Anyone who has turned on the news in the past couple of days has seen reports of how cold it has been in some areas of the country. To say that it was cold outside this morning, at -24 degrees (that's air temperature, not accounting for windchill), would be an understatement. Put it this way... I spit on the ground, and in less than ten seconds it was frozen. That is pretty damn cold, if you ask me.

For those of you who have never experienced cold like this, I really can't explain it with enough accuracy, other than to say that it's just simply and utterly cold. Add in some wind to drop the temperature even more, and you wouldn't be crazy to call it fucking cold. Since cold weather affects different people in different ways, let me mention a couple of things that happen to the (male) human body when exposed to such frigid temperatures:
  • Your nose hairs freeze,
  • Your nipples become hard and threaten to cut through your shirt,
  • Your eyes water in the cold wind, and the tears freeze on your face,
  • Big Willy and The Twins shrink and shrivel up inside you,
  • The joints in your knees and ankles creak nosily,
  • All coordination is lost in the hands from wearing gloves.
Luckily we haven't had much snow up here in Maine this week, so I haven't had to spend a lot of time outside. It is pretty dangerous to be outside for extended periods of time, in these conditions. The talking heads on the news say that it has been a long time since we've had temperatures this cold here in Maine, and I believe it. It seems crazy to look forward to temperatures being in the 10's and 20's, as is the forecast for the next couple of days, but that would feel balmy and comfortable after a day like today. 

Here's a look at the current temperature where I live:


There was a 89 degree difference in temperature, from inside my apartment to the outside temperature. I went outside dressed in six layers, and I was still cold. 

Doesn't that make you want to move here? 

Thursday, January 15, 2009

In Which I Make A Decision

Every once and while at the BAG household, a situation will present itself. The situation, sometimes unpleasant in nature, usually requires prompt resolution by either myself or The Boss.

Applicable situations include, but are not limited to the following:
  • Who gets out of bed to shut the bedroom light off at night,
  • Who reprimands the cat when he's gotten into something,
  • Who decides what to have for dinner,
  • Who chooses what to watch on TV,
  • Who takes the trash out,
  • Who loads or unloads the dishwasher,
  • Who cleans the catbox, etc
As is most often the case, neither one of us jumps at the opportunity to attend to the situation. Thus, a time-honored method is used to mediate the problem:


We take this very seriously. 

The victor of the best-two-out-of-three round challenge gets to gloat about their success, while the loser begrudgingly attends to the situation at hand. For example, here is a run-down of last night's challenge. The loser of said challenge must get out of the warm, toasty bed and shut the bedroom light off.

Because we know each other's tactics so well, the first couple rounds end up in a tie with both of us throwing rock. I make an ill-advised move and lose the next round to scissors-beating-paper. The next round immediately following my loss I throw a change up rock-beating-scissors, tying the score 1-1. 

In the third and final round, the tension in the room is palpable. We count off to deliver the final throw, and...

The Boss delivers a lethal blow of scissors-beating-paper, and lets out a primal yell of victory.  

She snuggles up with the blankets, and there is no exchange of words as I throw back the covers and get out of bed. I switch off the light, and get back into bed. My side of the bed is now ice-cold.

As I lean in to kiss The Boss goodnight, I notice the smug grin on her face. I smile back at her, and kiss her gently.

"Goodnight, Mike. I love you," she said.

I shut off my bedside lamp, and the room falls into darkness. We lay there in silence, ready for sleep...

... when I shatter the silence with a bedspring-rattling fart. 

The Boss groans in disgust and flaps the covers up and down to get rid of the horrid, eye-watering smell. The rush of cool air floods in, removing any warmth that might once have been.

Settling in once the smell dissipates, The Boss kicks me hard in the shin.

"Asshole."

It is now my turn to smile smugly.

"I love you, too." 

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

In Which I Am Creeped Out

It was our first night in our new apartment, late in October last year.

After a long day of packing, lifting, moving, carrying, sweating, and cursing, I wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and go to sleep. I had made four trips back and forth between our current-yet-soon-to-be-former apartment and our new apartment, and the aching in my joints supported that fact.

The fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling light made a faint tinkling noise as I flipped on the light switch in the bedroom. I slowly peeled off my clothes, leaving them in a pile in the corner. I changed into a fresh pair of boxers, and fell into bed.

The sheets were cool and my eyelids were heavy. I rolled over onto my back and placed one arm over my eyes, shielding them from the light on the ceiling. I sighed heavily, willing the muscles in my back to loosen.

“Long day, huh?” The Boss asked. She entered the room and pulled the door closed behind her.

“You can say that again,” I said. I threw in a low moan, hoping to illicit some sympathy. It didn’t work. I pulled my arm back, reaching over to my nightstand and turning on my lamp. “And you want to know what the best thing is? I get to do it all again tomorrow.”

“Fun!” The Boss said, feigning excitement. She changes into pajamas, and after shutting off the lights, gets into bed beside me. Her nightly routine of shuffling around underneath the covers begins as she searches for the most comfortable position. As customary, I retreat to the far side of the bed, laying on my side until she feels content. Finally still, she pulls the covers up to her chest, and looks at the ceiling.

“Are those fingerprints?” she asked. A slight quiver in her voice catches my ear, so I roll over onto my back again.

“What?”

“Fingerprints. Are those fingerprints on the ceiling?” She points up at the wood paneling on the ceiling. I rub my eyes and focus them on the ceiling above, illuminated by my bedside lamp.

Sure enough, there are dark red fingerprints all over the ceiling. The entire ceiling is covered in them, some in bunches, and others spread out like a handprint without the palm. A chill sets into my spine.

“Yeah, I think they are fingerprints,” I said. “That’s strange.”

“Are they made in blood?” The Boss asks. She turns her face away.

“In blood? No, I don’t think so.” I continue to stare at the hundreds of smudged prints above me. “I think they are just stains. You know, like wood stain. It must have happened when they installed the ceiling.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. How else could they have gotten there?” I said, putting an air of confidence in my voice that I didn’t really feel. I felt uneasy, but pushed away the thought. It’s a new house, and it’s the first night here. This place is bound to feel a little creepy at first.

“I don’t know…” The Boss said. “It’s kind of creepy.” She shivers and, rolling to her side, pulls the blankets up to her chin.

“It is, I guess. Just don’t look at it,” I suggest, and kissed her on the nose. “Whoever installed the ceiling obviously didn’t let the wood stain dry long enough before touching it. I just don’t understand why they wouldn’t have touched it up.”

“Okay.”

We lie there in silence for a few minutes before we kiss each other goodnight.

---

As much as I rationalize how the ceiling got marred with fingerprints, I keep circling back to this one horror-movie image in my mind. You know, where some evil un-dead pre-teenager with a grudge and greasy hair crawls around on the ceiling with bloody hands… Suffice to say, I had a fitful night sleep that night, with all the nightmares.

My overactive imagination, while good for writing fiction, does not help when confronted with situations like this.

Monday, January 12, 2009

In Which I Am Introspective

I don't remember where I found this, but I cannot stop thinking about it...

---
It comes to me at night.

In the time between closing my eyes
and opening them,
it tears me up and I bleed again.

Quietly, my mind in pieces,
I am forced to rebuild what remains, but 
how can I expect to survive today,
being all of this, broken?

It comes to me again now...

Now a grip that chills my heart
into beating faster, now teeth to rake my
lungs, holding breath.

I lay still, here, 
blinking away the dark...
and failing to patch the hole
you left behind.

---

I know this is a little heavy for a Monday morning, but how does this make you feel?

Saturday, January 10, 2009

In Which I Beseech You

Unless you are a freshman at Badass Geek University, you all are probably well aware of my various neurological problems, and the fact that I may have a brain tumor. If this is all news to you, I urge you to follow the links I provided and get yourself up to speed so you're not confused by the rest of this. I'm going to briefly run down the symptoms I've been dealing with as a refresher, so if you don't want to follow the links you don't have to. Since June 2007, I've had problems with the following:
  • Involuntary leg and arm movements
  • Short-term memory loss
  • Slurred speech
  • Vision impairment
  • Decrease in motor skills
While there is no definitive cause to the symptoms I'm having, my neurologist (a Harvard professor and doctor at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston) speculates that it is due to an extra piece of grey matter in my brain, known as Grey Matter Heterotopia. This is the same piece that they speculate may be a tumor, but it is so far down into my brain that they won't know for sure without surgery. This "extra brain" is on the section of the brain that, among other things, controls motor functions. 

Since they began in June 2007, my symptoms have progressively worsened. I started out with just the leg/arm movements while sleeping, and the movements continue to occur while sleeping 95% of the time. The quality of the sleep I get is very poor. I have gradually gained the other symptoms I mentioned over the past year and a half, most recently some dystonia in the muscles in my hands, arms, and legs. This means the muscles get more fatigued and have less endurance than they previously had. None of this greatly impacts my day to day life right now, but still prohibits me from functioning as my "pre-June 2007" self had.

Despite having health insurance, large parts the multiple visits to my neurologist and various testing that I have had done hasn't been covered, leaving me with some pretty hefty medical bills that don't fit into our budget. I've asked the hospital for financial assistance, but since I am not a Massachusetts resident they can't help me. I have to make payments on these bills to continue to be seen at the hospital, but I can't afford even the minimum amount. Combine that financial stress with the cost of actually making the trip down there and back (whether driving or taking the train, it's still almost $100 round trip), and we're at the point where we have to choose which bills we can pay, and which one's we can't. There is no availability for overtime where The Boss works, I can physically can't work any more hours at my job.

All that said, I have another appointment with my doctor in Boston in a couple of weeks. I don't think I need to say how important it is that I go, as there are lots of things to discuss, including the results of a sleep study I had done in September. I'm confident that they are going to send me home with some medications to try, to see if anything can control what I have going on. 

In preparation for the trip down this month, The Boss and I took a look at our finances. No amount of budgetary gymnastics that we tried is yielding any extra money.

Here is where the beseeching that I mentioned in the title of this post comes in.

Some of you may have noticed that I've placed a Donate button over on the sidebar. I'm not asking for your money, but if you want to help and can do so without jeopardizing yourself, The Boss and I would be immensely appreciative. With any donations, I'll offer my blog and/or web design services to the best of my knowledge and abilities, or a matted picture from my photography store

I know that money is tight for a lot of people, and I feel horrible for even thinking about writing this knowing there are families in worse situations than I am in, but I wouldn't do it unless I felt I had to. I hate asking for help, regardless of who it's from, but I figured that this was worth a shot.

If anyone has any questions about anything here, don't be afraid to ask.

I hope everyone has an enjoyable weekend!

Friday, January 9, 2009

In Which I Get Graced

There's been an interesting trend whirling around the neighborhood lately. The wind blew it my way during a brief e-mail conversation with my favorite Californian, Miss Grace. I'm sure you all know about it, so I won't waste your time describing it. The end result is that I've been asked five radical questions, and now I have answer them...

1) To what extent do you edit yourself on your blog? If you were going to compare your blog to your real self, how similar or different are they?
I try my hardest not to edit myself with my writing here, and generally speaking, I don't have to. The only people I know personally that read this blog are The Boss and maybe a trusted friend or two, and I've worked hard to keep it that way. I enjoy the feeling of being able to speak freely, but I still try to keep my writing (and language) clean and mostly about my life, in the off chance that my blog does get found out by other members of my family. Even with all of that aside, at the end of the day I write for myself and for the entertainment of others. I'll share what I'm comfortable sharing, and I'll use whatever language I feel best gets my point across. 

To compare my blog-self with my real-self, you'd probably find them similar enough, but my blog-self is more interesting. I have fewer inhibitions on speaking my mind here, because I have a chance to rehearse and proofread what I say before the whole world hears it. There is no Delete button when speaking, as much as I wish there was. In person I tend to be fairly reserved, more of an observer than a participant. The image of myself that I give off here is more true than the image I give off in person.
2) Would you rather keep your head shaved shiny bald, or never cut it again?
Being an insanely sweaty guy, I would have to go with a shiny bald head. I can't stand my hair long, anyways, but add into the mix a guy who sweats even on the coldest day of the year? Yeah, it wouldn't be a pretty sight.
3) If you could change a single behavior of The Boss (not a personality trait, just a behavior/habit), what would it be?
The part of me that values my testicles being attached to my body would urge me to say "Nothing! My wife is perfect!", but in honesty, that is simply not the case. Being forced to choose one thing I would change, though? Whenever there is something she'd like me to do, instead of just asking me the question out straight, she says, "Can you do me a favor?" This bugs me to no end. If you want me to do something, just ask me. Don't make me ask what the favor is, because then you make me think that I have a choice. Do I want to get you a cup of tea/rub your feet/buy you a giraffe? No, but I'll consider it if you ask me nicely.
4) You can choose one blog post to represent who you are/what you're about, and the rest disappear forever. Which one do you pick?
The post that best represents who I am or what I'm about? Definitely the post I wrote back in October 2008, where I talked about all the accidental self-inflicted injuries to my nutsack. After all, I am nothing if not clumsy as fuck, and I enjoy making others laugh at my expense. 
5) You're getting on an airplane this afternoon. Where are you going?
To Santa Cruz. Clean off your couch, I need a place to sleep.
---

Anyone else want to play? 

Leave a comment proclaiming your desire to have me interrogate you. 

Thursday, January 8, 2009

In Which I... Well, You'll See

I know this won't come as a surprise to everyone, but I managed to accidentally hurt myself again.

What did I do this time, you ask?

Well, yesterday... I fell down a flight of stairs.

I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but then again, falling down the stairs does not require a degree in Rocket Science. I've given it some thought, though, and I've narrowed it down to two possible scenarios:
  1. I wasn't paying attention and misjudged where the stair was, or 
  2. The staircase shrunk slightly at the exact moment that I stepped down.
I'm thinking the latter of the two is the more likely situation. 

Either way, down I went, sliding down the staircase on my right ass cheek. In the process of hitting all 9 stairs before I hit the bottom, I threw my cellphone clear across the room, kicked off both of my (hard-plastic soled) slippers, and took out a couple books resting on a window sill at the bottom of the stairs. Once I hit the floor I rolled away from the stairs, and sat there for a minute or two.

A quick self-diagnosis revealed that other than a pair of bruised heels, a sore ass cheek, and an over-extended right knee, I was no worse for wear. 

We've all heard it said that you learn something new every day. Yesterday I learned that while it is much quicker to go down a flight of stairs on your ass, it is much safer to go about it the old-fashioned way... One foot at a time, and with one steady hand on the railing. 

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

In Which I'm Not Like Mel Gibson

I never thought I'd ever have to say this, but I am not like Mel Gibson. And by saying that, I mean more than the obvious reasons (ie, that I'm not an actor, I don't know what women want, and I did not have a huge part in the graphic retelling of the birth and subsequent death of Jesus in ancient Arabic with English subtitles). I mean it in the sense that I never make remarks that can be viewed as anti-Semitic.

Except this one time.

Late last week, The Boss and I went out to dinner as a late celebration of our four-year anniversary. I had a long day at work, and perhaps I wasn't thinking clearly. When our food arrived, I couldn't help but stare at what was placed in front of me:


I know that isn't the clearest picture, but am I crazy to see a swastika? Right there, formed out of delicious bacon, on top of my hamburger? 

In the middle of the restaurant, I cried out, "Holy shit, there's a fucking swastika on my burger!"

The Boss, shocked, dropped her silverware on the table with a clatter. "What?"

"Right there. On my fucking burger. A swastika!"

A pause.

"Oh my god, you're right!"

We sat there in silence, trying to stifle our laughter. 

"I hope there aren't any Jew's around, lest they get offended," I said, not truly aware that there were other people sitting in booths around us.

The Boss glared at me and whispered harshly, "Keep your voice down!"

"I'm sorry... I just didn't know that I ordered the Anti-Semitism burger. I think I got the wrong plate. Wait, is Hitler here? Or Mel Gibson?" I looked around the restaurant.

In a fit of laughter, The Boss forces a mouthful of Pepsi up her nose. 

"And the swastika is made out of bacon! That's another nail in the coffin! A swastika made out of a non-kosher food product forbidden by Jews!" I exclaimed. 

A felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see our server, looking very serious. 

"Sir, is there a problem with your food?" she asked with a grave look on her face.

"No, there's no problem. It's just... there's... well, look! At the bacon!" I stuttered, pointing at my plate.

Barely glancing at it, she said, "I see the resemblance, Sir, but I must ask you to keep your voice down. You're disturbing the other patrons." She glanced nervously at a family in the corner of the restaurant. "If you'd like, I can get you another burger without... the bacon."

"No, no... This one is fine. I'll be quiet."

The server smiles, and turns to The Boss. "How is everything with your food?"

"Fine. Just fine," The Boss said, her face turning a deep shade of embarrassed red.

"Glad to hear it. Enjoy your meal." The server turns and walks away.

The Boss and I sit in silence for a few moments. I'm looking down at my plate, trying hard not to smile. As I reach for the ketchup bottle near the salt and pepper shakers, The Boss clears her throat.

I look up, and I see The Boss staring at me, her arms folded across her chest. From her eyes came a look like cold, razor-sharp daggers that would have killed me if mere looks had the power to. 

"Don't say another word. Just eat your fucking Nazi-burger."

I did. 

And even though I felt bad for saying those politically incorrect and uncouth things, that burger was delicious. 

Monday, January 5, 2009

In Which I Am Ashamed

I've had this weighing on my mind for a while now, and I just can't take it any longer. It's like a dark cloud hovering over me, an oppression that keeps me from sleeping some nights for fear that my secret will inadvertently slip out of my mouth in mumbled tones. The amount of energy it takes to contain this is exhausting, and my endurance is wearing down, grinding on my sanity. 

I haven't found a way to tell The Boss yet, but I know that I'm only hurting her by keeping this a secret for so long. I've made it a point to sit her down tonight and confess everything, and I'm hoping she'll take it well. I've never done anything like this before, and I know it's going to hurt her in so many ways to hear this, but for the sake of our marriage, I need to come clean. You see...

... I'm having an affair.

It started a couple of months ago. 

When we first found each other online, I was intent on keeping our relationship platonic. After all, I am married, I am not a cheater, and I love my wife despite the fact that she punches me when I snore. We conversed via e-mail for a couple of weeks, and after a string of enticing conversations, we agreed to meet. I told myself that this would be a one-time thing, that I would satiate my emotional needs and be done with it. I meant for it to end there, but I didn't prove to be strong enough to do that.

I never expected to feel so good after being with her. I am ashamed to admit that I enjoyed the thrill of doing something I knew I wasn't supposed to do. We did nothing physical that first time, we just met up for drinks and light conversation. We spent a while staring at each other in silence, not sure of what to say. And yet, somehow, the act of just being near someone new made me crave more. There was this electricity... this spark in the air... I couldn't just let her go. Before we went our separate ways after our first rendezvous, I asked her if we could meet up again. She agreed.

We would meet up again four days later. 

On that day, I waited impatiently for her to arrive at our arranged spot. The anticipation was like a drug, and when I finally saw her, her scent... that sweet, alluring scent... it was intoxicating. I couldn't keep my hands off of her, and she didn't resist. I tore into her, and she into me, until there was nothing left. When I finally pulled away, I was exhausted, but satisfied. My mind, swimming and hazy with bliss, raced with thousands of different thoughts and a thousand different emotions. A fair amount of time passed until I could make any sense of them, and when I finally did, my heart was heavy. 

I knew what I was doing was wrong, but the connection I had with her was so strong! Each time we met she left me reeling. There was passion, there was energy, there was variety, there was suspense! It was new and exciting each time, and the more we saw of each other, the closer we became. Our visits ostensibly became more frequent, and consequently, more intense. I found myself lacking control over the situation, being fueled by a side of myself that I had never encountered before. There was no arguing with how I felt. I wanted her, I needed her, and there was not much the more sensible side of me could do to contest this. 

We continued to see each other a couple times a week in similar fashion, for three months.

Once we were three months into our secret relationship, I began to notice a change with her. When we were together, her behavior would sometimes get erratic, almost unhealthy. This happened on more than one occasion, and while I put up with it at first, it put a strain on us. Her addictive appeal was now irreparably tarnished, and she sensed that. We agreed to take a break, but on that drive home, remembering that look in her eyes as we parted, I realized that we had, instead, mutually agreed that it was over.

The full extent of what I had done didn't hit me until I arrived at home that night. The shame was staggering, and I could barely stand to look at myself in the mirror. How could you do this? I constantly asked myself. I had worked up enough courage to talk to The Boss about it a dozen times after the affair was over, but could never bring myself to do it until now.

I feel I have the strength to tell The Boss about it now, because I received an e-mail from my other woman late in the night on New Year's Eve. It was apparent that she had been drinking, but even with her misspelled words and lack of punctuation, I realized she was right:

Deerr Michael
Itz ovurr beatween us Imm sorreey it had to ennd this way
Isle alwayz remembr u
luv










I'll always remember you, too, Little Debbie. 

Those three months of Fudge Round-Oatmeal Creme Pie-Swiss Roll-filled bliss were a great distraction and as close to Heaven on earth as I've ever been...

... But it had to end some time. 

Saturday, January 3, 2009

In Which I Seek Therapy

Have you ever had a bad day, or been pissed off at all the stupid people in your life?

Have you ever tried with all your strength to turn that frown upside down, but to no avail?

Have you ever needed something, nay, anything, to help bring you out of that funk?

Look no further, my friends, for I have created the perfect solution:

Metallica brand Whoopie Pies (patent pending) is the only product scientifically proven to lift you out of that seemingly irreversible bad mood, by combining angry metal music with a popular and delicious chocolate dessert. No other product has been proven to be more effective at relieving anger and stress in a risk-free way, in clinical trials performed by a (very) partial third-party. 

Directions For Use: 
  1. Open box, and remove CD. 
  2. Insert CD into stereo, and select track one, "Fuel".
  3. Consume one (1) whoopie pie while listening to the song. Be sure to chew thoroughly to avoid choking. If desired, keep a glass of milk nearby to quench thirst.
  4. If the calming affect is not achieved after one (1) song and one (1) whoopie pie, repeat steps above, substituting track one for the next track on the CD, "Sad But True".
  5. If there is still no relief after two (2) songs and two (2) whoopie pies, please stop. DO NOT OVER INDULGE. Contact your physician or therapist.
I can personally vouch that Metallica brand Whoopie Pies are extremely effective, especially when pissed off at your boss for being a rude, condescending bastard.

Give 'em a try, but use in moderation. 

P.S. Please forgive my lame Photoshopping skills. This was a quick mock-up, as I'm still waiting for Metallica to get back to me with their response to my endorsement deal.

Thursday, January 1, 2009

In Which I Do Things Differently

If you are anything like me, you are tired of reading blog entries about people's New Year's Resolutions. Don't worry, that's not what this post is going to be. I'm not making or writing down any real resolutions this year for two reasons: I don't enjoy feeling like I failed myself, and I kind of already wrote a post like that a few weeks ago.

While I'm not going to subject you to more of the same torture by way of listing resolutions, I am going to talk about some things that I will do differently in 2009...
  • I will put on my pants with my left leg first, instead of my right.
  • I will alternate picking my nose between my left and right index finger.
  • When sitting on the couch with The Boss, I'll aim my farts at her instead of away.
  • I will shave more than once every quarter-year.
  • I will ignore The Boss' pleas to not burp in the cat's face.
  • I will say what I mean, and mean what I say. 
  • I will let my voicemail answer call's from family members who I don't care to talk to at that moment.
  • I will sing along to music while driving without holding my cellphone to my ear so it seems that I'm actually talking on the phone, not singing.
  • I will blame my lack of politically correctness on ignorance.
  • After dealing with asshole doctor's at work, instead of fuming silently, I will page their beeper's to telephone numbers for explicit phone sex.
  • I will not tolerate watching anything that has, in any capacity, Ms Looks-Like-A-Foot herself, Sarah Jessica Parker.
  • I will not feel guilty saying "No" when my employer calls me on my day off and asks me to work.
  • I will stay up to watch the ball drop on New Year's Eve next year, instead of going to bed before 10pm.
I've never been one to celebrate the new year. The last time I truly celebrated it, The Boss and I had only been dating for about a week, which would be four years ago now. We had our first kiss that night. I can't be entirely sure about this, as no one was timing it and there wasn't a representative from the Guinness Book present, but it was quite possibly the world's fastest kiss. We were both nervous for it, but it was a memorable night because of it. 

It was additionally memorable because I accidentally spilled my drink on her lap and somehow managed to drop a slice of pizza (with extra sauce) on her left boob. Whenever she wants to embarrass me, The Boss will bring up that night. I was apparently a little off my game that night. But, at least we have the memories.

I hope that everyone who partied and drank last night had fun, and that those who didn't party are managing to control their smug grins as they talk loudly around those who have hangovers.