This is week 82 of The Life of Riley, a weekly post detailing my activities since I ended a thirteen year career as a corporate drone. These posts are usually long, personal, and geared more for my own memory than the reader’s entertainment. This edition was a lost episode that was written later and back-posted just to keep the dates straight.

Sunday (Day 567): Yippie Kay Yay, Window Well

It snowed overnight, so I went out to shovel while #1GF! got dressed. She felt a little guilty about not helping, but there was only four inches of snow and it would’ve been a waste of time to have two people work on it.

I came in and showered to warm up, and then made breakfast. I had my cup of coffee and stared out the window and the snow. The storm had picked up a bit, and snow was flying by the window nearly horizontally. I guess ocean views do have a price.

When I went into the TV room, I was surprised to find #1GF! watching Die Hard on cable. I was even more surprised to find out that it was one of her favorite movies, considering it doesn’t star Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts, or Susan Sarandon. I’m going to get in trouble for that last statement. I watched the movie with her, and ended up brushing my teeth at noon. Yippie kay yay, dental hygiene.

When the movie was over, I headed out to shovel a little more. An extra inch of slush had fallen, and we’ve learned the hard way that getting any water, frozen or otherwise, away from the house is a priority around here.

When I was done, #1GF! and I sat at the table and played Grass and then Target while boiling a chicken for a big pot of chicken soup. We had to stop the games so that I could spend some time tearing up the chicken. I’m convinced that tearing the chicken into small strings by hand makes the chicken soup taste better than cutting the chicken into chunks. I don’t know why or where this idea came from, but I do it every time.

The sleet turned to rain as the day went on, so by 6 PM, our pain in the ass window well was full of water again. I headed out with my trusty five gallon bucket to clean it out. The rain was so cold that it stung, so I was a little surprised that it was filling my window well instead of instantly freezing when it hit the ground.

Once the well was bailed out, I came inside an vacuumed up the water that had made it in. Thankfully, the water stop concrete was keeping the rest of the basement dry. Despite being soaked and tired of battling with the window well, I was pretty satisfied with the rest of the basement being dry. We have to take the minor victories where we can get them.

I wondered if I’d have to go back out later to empty the window well again, or if the ground would freeze up and create a flood at some time when it was less convenient (like Christmas day, when things were predicted to thaw). I spent the rest of the night exploring those stupid, stupid cable channels, watching DIY show after DIY show, and I didn’t have to go back out to empty the well again.

Monday (Day 568): Glam Bangers

I got up early and salted the Earth, because THAT’S HOW I ROLL, BITCHES. Or it could’ve been because it had finally stopped snowing and sleeting, and the salt might slow down the ice that wouldn’t be far behind. #1GF! made some coffee, and I had a bowl of cereal like I do every day, and have done every day since I was eight. Every day. It’s even the same brand. My grandfather ate prunes soaked in orange juice every single morning, so a breakfast habit might some sort of genetic trait, even if I have upgraded the breakfast food to something a little crunchier and more palatable.

#1GF! went to drop off some homemade chicken soup because her mother wasn’t feeling well, so I used the time to go out to buy a pair of jeans that didn’t have window well mud or house repair stains on them. I wouldn’t get very far.

Maybe I’m going to sound like an old, old man here, but have you tried to buy jeans lately? Every style these days looks like it’s been dragged through some mud before being put on the rack. And they put holes in some of them for people who have enough money that their jeans never naturally wear out.

Look, I just want a simple pair of jeans that have a zipper and some belt loops. I want them loose, but not quite gangster loose. And I want them to be an even color with no holes because I’ve been perfectly capable of wearing out pants since I grew out of my last pair of Toughskins. I didn’t know it, but this was apparently an impossible set of requirements in a fashion climate where boys think it’s perfectly fine to wear flip flops with jeans.

I didn’t have another option, so I walked into a store and tried on a holeless pair of jeans, even though they looked like they had been dragged behind a garbage truck full of hippies. I went to the dressing room, and the dude called me “Sir” and said I could take whatever booth I wanted. He didn’t bother to check what I had, showing that he had no concern that I’d be taking any of those jeans out with me under my jacket. I wondered when people stopped viewing me as the dope pimp daddy that I see in the mirror and hoped that it wasn’t that long ago.

I tried the jeans on, and even though the style was marked as “Loose”, they were tight on the legs as if I should be feathering my hair over one eye, listening to emo, and fiddling with a lip ring. I wondered what the hell loose meant to these kids today. Tight is for girls, new generation. Tight. Is. For. Girls. And maybe David Lee Roth. Get it? Boys are big pants people.

I already hated the jeans, but figured I should button them up just to convince myself that I wasn’t being a stodgy old coot. Even though they were a little loose in the waist, the waist was cut so low that only a glam rock star or a girl who wants to bang a glam rock star should be wearing them. I was neither of those, so I took them the fuck off and left. The fitting room dude wasn’t there anymore, so I can only assume that he went to get a portable defibrillator in case the old bearded guy had an stroke in the dressing room.

I went to another store, and I didn’t even bother trying anything on because their jeans looked grungier than the first store’s. I looked at the wall of jeans and walked out. I barely stopped myself from shaking my fist at the wall of jeans and letting out a “myaaarr. Damned modern glam banging dungarees.” Yes, I my original thought contained the word, “dungarees.” No, I wasn’t sure if people even use that word anymore.

I headed for the mall because it seemed logical that there might be a normal pair of jeans somewhere in the building, but one circle of the holiday madness that was erupting in the parking lot was enough to keep me and my big pants firmly rooted in rocket car and rolling right past in first gear. I gave up.

I’ll either wait for this dirty jean style to pass, or I’ll start wearing pants with tiny fucking boats on them. I’d rather give the impression that I’m wealthy and insane than that I’m out trying to suck off a glam rock star. But that’s just me. Wear your low cut dirty girl jeans if you want to, America, but count me out.

I went to check in on my parents and sister, but my sister was busy watching some TV show and didn’t come upstairs. I stayed for about twenty minutes before heading back out. I had dropped by unannounced, so I didn’t feel bad about them not dropping everything.

I went home and wrapped presents until #1GF! got home, which is just a kick ass manly thing to do after going clothes shopping. When #1GF! arrived, she announced that we would be helping out her mother this Christmas by taking on some of the cooking. When I heard how much we had to do, I didn’t know how it was going to be possible. When I thought about topping a day of shopping and Christmas wrapping with a lot of cooking, I would sure that it wouldn’t be long until I got my first period.

Tuesday (Day 569): Christmas Prep

I wrapped Christmas presents and then cleaned the bathroom. #1GF! made cookies. I tried to make up a recipe for apple pie biscotti, but it didn’t come out like I expected. The biscotti tasted fine, but not like apple at all. My sister came over later and we taught her how to play Grass. She decided to stay the night.

Wednesday (Day 570): Christmas Eve

With all the cooking we had ahead of us, I thought we should get up early and get started. We started cooking not one, but two turkeys at 7:30 AM. After that, we made 200 cookies of four types (chocolate chunk, peanut butter, snickerdoodle, and sugar), two quiches, a second test batch of apple pie biscotti (that didn’t end up tasting like apple pie despite having massively boiled down apple cider in it), and a pistachio cake.

During the mixing of one of the last batches of cookies, my sister asked me, “What’s that smell?”

“It’s probably the mixer,” I said, having experienced the mixer’s “I’m going on strike” smell on a batch of cookies the previous week.

“Oh shit, it’s smoking! Stop! Stop! Unplug it!”

I unplugged the mixer, and my sister threw it out into the snow. It was probably a good idea at the time, but it meant that the last batch of cookies and the pistachio cake would be made using a wooden spoon as a mixer. It was getting more like the 1800s in my house every day.

That last batch of cookies was a special recipe intended as a gift for one of my friend’s wives. It would’ve been a lot easier to get her a gift card, but the girl loves sweets, and I thought that the chewy “death by chocolate” cookie recipe I had would trump anything we might be able to buy her. I only hoped that she would appreciate the time that went into them and not think I was being a cheap ass hobo.

Once the cookies were made, I gave them to #1GF! and my sister to test. They lightly refused, but eventually took one each. The two of them didn’t even talk while they ate them. They just stared at the floor and mmmmmm’d. You can’t buy an honest recommendation like that. This recipe was a winner.

Even though my sister had been acting as a kitchen intern most of the day, she made the pistachio cake on her own. Some of my recipes are transcribed over the phone, so they can sometimes lack details that I might’ve known when transcribing. My sister knew this recipe pretty well, so she added helpful notes to the scrap of paper that this one was written on, lest I need to make the cake at any point in the distant future.

Once all the baking was done, I ate a few of the cookies (to make sure that they were done, of course) and packed the rest tins and bins. The three of us sat down to play a couple of rounds of Guillotine before my sister headed back to my parents’ house, leaving #1GF! and I to get ready to go out for Christmas eve.

Running around from house to house on Christmas eve is usually hectic, but this year, there weren’t too many stops. We picked up my sister and headed over to visit the parents of one of my longest standing friends.

I’ve known the family for thirty years, so they get treated like family. When they asked me if I wanted something to drink, I asked for a cream soda because no one ever has it. Then, I asked for a Yoohoo, which they didn’t have either (which was good because Yohoo is gross).

My third attempt was to ask for a Fresca, because in my experience, it’s a drink that only Judge Smails from Caddyshack would have on hand. My next choices were to be either a Tab or strawberry Quick, but I never made it that far because someone ran down to the basement and came up with a Fresca. The joke was cut short.

I ended up drinking a Fresca, which always reminds me of my lifeguard days because it was one of the few drinks they had on hand at the pool where I worked. If my friend’s parents were only serving those square toaster oven pizzas that are frozen in one spot and molten in another, I could’ve felt like I was 17 again. Thankfully, they did not, so I remained as much of an adult as I could despite my slowly advancing age.

We spent a little time hanging out and then headed out to see some of the Christmas lights in the area. We went to an ex-coworker’s neighborhood, and the guy has added more houses every year to a coordinated light show. There were six houses and numerous trees and bushes blinking to music that was broadcast over an FM transmitter. The show must’ve taken a lot to put together (and is still the ultimate in geeked out Christmas decorations around here), but it wasn’t as good as previous years.

We drove through another popular neighborhood for lights and then headed back to my parents’ house. #1GF! and I didn’t stay that long because it had been a long day. We sat for a little bit before heading home to bed.

Thursday (Day 571): Christmas Punks and Idiots

We got up early and headed to my parents’ house for Christmas morning. We thought ahead, and dropped off all of the presents and some of the food the night before, making the morning smooth and uncomplicated. I had a minor migraine, but I tried not to acknowledge it because Christmas only comes once a year.

We listened to classic rock the whole way there because #1GF! and I had both completely overloaded on Christmas music over the previous few months. A number of radio stations had gone full-time Christmas at some point in October, and we couldn’t take one jingle bell more.

At my parents’, we ate french toast, quiche, and breads, and opened presents all morning. I was a little worried that I hadn’t bought enough stuff, but it all seemed to work out OK. We all gave each other memberships to the same warehouse shopping club (which seemed appropriate considering the national economic outlook), and everyone seemed pretty happy with their gifts.

In the afternoon, we went to #1GF!’s family’s house to repeat the process, which was just as fun. By 8PM, it felt like it was 2AM, so we packed the car with our new stuff and headed home. We drove along in silence, and my brain used the time to have mental arguments with the plumber that can boiled down to “Fuck me? No, no, fuck YOU!” And BLAM, I was pulled back into the real world by the sound of something hitting the side of the car.

#1GF! and I looked at each other. “It was probably a cat. I had a cat run right into my car door once,” I said.

“We should go back.”

“Definitely. It better not be some fucking punk throwing snowballs.”

Sure enough, right where we heard the sound, there were snowballs all over the street. It was right in front of a small building that looked more like a motel than an apartment complex. We pulled in the parking lot and waited for some sign of life. You know there was some kid behind a doorway making a poopoo in his pants because the car he was so psyched about nailing was waiting outside his door. We waited another couple of minutes.

“Fuckin’ punks. You believe that shit? On Christmas? Let’s get out of here,” I muttered quietly.

#1GF! complied, but you could tell her driving hands had been replaced with choking hands. We headed out of the parking lot, and got back on the road. Not two miles from there, some shit for brains decided to make an emergency, last second, left turn right in front of us even though there wasn’t a single car behind us for a mile. #1GF! narrowly missed T-boning the car, and was not happy about it.

“What the FUCK is going on with people tonight?” she said.

When we got home, we were both a little pissed, but at least I had gotten over my migraine. We hopped into bed, having the day only slightly tainted by the events that were freshest in our mind. We quickly drifted off into a deep sleep.

Friday (Day 572): I Pity The Tiny Fools

#1GF!’s family came over to see our house and hang around for a little while. When the kids looked into my game closet, they said, “Who’s that?” while pointing to the Mr. T head and velvet painting that have a prominent place of honor on the middle shelf.

“That’s Mr. T,” I said.

“Who’s Mr. T?” they asked.

I just stood there gakking and gukking because I never really thought that I would face a day when children didn’t know who Mr. T is. I thought Mr. T was universal. Hindered from expounding like I normally might, I managed to stumble out, “Who’s Mr. T? Who’s Mr. T? Well, he’s only the most awesome guy in the world is all.”

The kids seemed to consider this for a moment and deem it an acceptable answer. It was good that they let it go because there’s nothing sadder than an old person making a big deal about their generation’s idols long after their expiration date. Seriously though, how can you not see the awesomeness in Mr. T?

When #1GF!’s family left, the house suddenly seemed quiet and empty. We had the energy to keep going with family related holiday endeavors, but had run out of events to attend. We plopped ourselves on the couch to slow down, and ended up watching TV all day.

Saturday (Day 573): All’s Quiet

It was pouring like hell all day, so we kept an eye on the basement and laid around watching TV and eating Christmas leftovers. The basement didn’t flood, so it was a pretty good day.

What I Learned

• One of #1GF!’s favorite movies is Die Hard.
• We are in a period where men’s jeans are designed to give the impression that the wearer is sucking off glam rock stars in their spare time. Jeans of this type shall henceforth be referred to as a pair of “glam bangers”.
• No matter how much boiled down apple cider you put in a batch of biscotti, it will not taste like apple pie.
• Snickerdoodle cookies have nothing to do with Snickers bars, which was highly disappointing.
• The recipe I have for death by chocolate cookies completely overpowers a woman’s need to communicate.
• Our school systems are failing, because kids have no idea who Mr. T is.
• Sometimes simply having no negatives in a day can make it seem good.

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