I spend all this time making a personalized photo Christmas card to send out to family and friends, and #1GF! comes home, takes one look at it, and says that she’ll get a card at Sears instead.

I don’t know what gets into her sometimes. Maybe “Merry Christmas” isn’t politically correct anymore.

Because we have to check on the progress of the house when #1GF! gets home from work, it can sometimes be late by the time we’re cooking dinner. On this particular day, I was eating hummus on crackers to keep me from gnawing my arm off…

#1GF!: You have hummus on your nose.
Me: [thinking she's joking] No, I don’t
#1GF!: Yes, you do.
Me: No I don’t. [looks in mirror] I do not.
#1GF!: You do.
Me: [goes into bathroom and turns on the light]
#1GF!: [calls from other room] See?
Me: Uh, I would say that’s more like in my nose.

I have no idea how these things happen.

#1GF!: Hey there’s Skateboard Man. We haven’t seen him around in a while.
Beard Man: He’s pretty old to be tooling around on a skateboard all the time, but he does some pretty good tricks. I wonder if he’s a pro or something.
#1GF!: Maybe he’s just really likes skateboarding.
Beard Man: Hey, ever wonder if we have names?
#1GF!: Like people say, “Hey here comes hat man or whatever?”
Beard Man: Yea, like that.
#1GF!: [smiling] Oooh, I don’t know. If we do, you’re probably the beard man.
Beard Man: Mmmm, Beard man. That would be so cool. [strutting] “Yo! Beard Man!” [waves to nonexistent fan] “Beard Man, Over here!” [winks and points with double gun fingers at another nonexistent fan]
#1GF!: I really worry about you sometimes.
Beard Man: Oh, don’t you worry about the Beard Man. He’s got big dreams and a solid reputation.

If people who don’t know you regularly saw you walking down the street, what nickname would they use to describe you?

#1GF! and I are sitting in Chachky’s or Flingers, and there are piles of seemingly random crap tacked up to the walls. Among the junk on the wall opposite me, there is a picture of the cast of Star Trek and a rubber Yoda mask…

Me: Hey, there’s a picture of Star Trek on that wall.
#1GF!: [turns] Yes, I agree.
Me: And there’s a Yoda head there, too.
#1GF!: [turns and turns back]
Me: You don’t know who Yoda is.
#1GF!: Uh… E.T.?
Me: [thumps head on table]

I hope you took full advantage, because we’re running out of summer fast…

Note: A sand wall must be three feet tall and three feet wide to temporarily stop an encroaching and irreverent Nantasket tide. This guideline applies to both regular and shadow people.

I have to admit that I was feeling pretty good that so many people got sucked in by yesterday’s farewell prank, but take comfort that there is justice in the world.

When I was young, I put a rubber band around the spray attachment on my parents’ kitchen sink and got a good laugh when my unsuspecting father ruined a good tie when he turned on the water. In the 20 years since then, I’ve pulled that trick out every few years on April Fools’.

This year, #1GF! busted out my trick, so when I emerged from the computer cave at lunch time and turned on the water, a stream of water shot past me and soaked the other side of the kitchen. Rather than take the rubber band off, I left it in place in hopes that #1GF! would forget about it and inadvertently soak herself with her own prank when she got home.

When #1GF! got home, I had forgotten that I was trying to prank the prankster, and I absent- mindedly turned on the water while standing in front of the sink. Not only did my double cross fail in epic proportions, but #1GF! got the bonus of seeing her prank in action.

You can thank her for serving me a cold plate of justice.

I love that you inexplicably prefer sundae spoons to regular ones.

I love that you have a really girly side.

I love the way you yell at the contestants on Ninja Warrior like they can hear you.

“So…”

“So?”

“So, what should I write my book about?”

“Well, what would you say you know the most about?”

[pauses] “loneliness.”

“Oh, man.”

“Yea, I know. Should we just watch another movie?”

It’s almost the start of the fast slide into holiday shopping, so why not save some time and effort by doing a little of your shopping online at the newly opened Dyers.org store?

By staying home and buying from my store and associate links this holiday season, you will not only avoid the shame of getting your ass kicked by elderly last minute shoppers, but you’ll be helping to keep this site going.

I write because I love to and I’m not asking you to buy anything you don’t need, but because this site is my only source of income, your purchases allow me to show #1GF! that writing for a living isn’t a pipe dream.

Hey, even if you don’t buy anything, give it a look and let me know what you think.

Thanks for your continued support!

At a cookout a couple of weeks ago, #1GF!’s three year old niece was crouching in the middle of the yard…

3 Year Old: Oh noooo!
Me: What’s the matter, honey?
3 Year Old: The ants are eating the cracker!
Me: That’s ok. It’s on the ground anyway.
3 Year Old: They’re taking little pieces!
Me: Yup. They’re taking it home.
3 Year Old: Those are probably the mommy ants taking the food back to the babies.
Me: Sure, Ok.
3 Year Old: And there’s ones on the side not doing anything.
Me: Yup.
3 Year Old: Those must be the Daddy ants…

I had to order a big ass, Nerd Certification book last night, and like a typical music junkie, I found myself padding my order with a couple of CDs. As I was piping various death metal samples out to the stereo, #1GF! was in the background doing some work.

To say that #1GF! is not a fan of death metal is a major understatement. She is a fan of me, though, and because I make her laugh and explain Star Wars/Trek references on TV, she puts up with short bursts of musical terror.

“I’m ridiculous,” I said under my breath.

“What?” asked #1GF!, quietly doing her best to ignore the auditory onslaught that is Six Feet Under.

“I’m ridiculous. I’m not listening to this on headphones, so I know you’re hearing it too. Therefore, I’m hearing it through your ears instead of my own. I can hear you silently wondering how I can possibly like music that sounds so much like someone burping over explosions. I like it, though. And it’s ridiculous.”

“Aw. How about a hug?”

[Music: GR..ooooOOOOOOWWWWWWWGGGGGHHHH!!]

“Ok. I think this one’s a love song, anyway.”

(The truly ridiculous part of the story is that not 20 minutes before this post was written, I was playing “Jesse’s Girl” (song|video) on the guitar. Yea, don’t ask. For some reason it randomly popped into my head and it’s been stuck in there for two days and counting. No amount of death metal has been able to vanquish it. Send help.)

After going out to dinner with some friends on Tuesday, #1GF! got this voicemail message from them:

“Hey I just called to tell you that we had fun last night, and I wanted to let you know that we were talking about it and we think that Jon is probably one of the funniest people we know. We’re actually still laughing about it. And my husband told me that he thought you looked like you had lost some weight, not that you need to or anything.”

Even if she was just being nice, #1GF! and I agree that flattery will get you everywhere.

(It should be noted that now that these statements have been printed on the interwebs, said statements will henceforth and irrevocably be accepted as fact, due to the complete and truthful nature of all statements that appear on said interwebs, hitherto, wheretofor.)

#1GF!,

(sappily generated with the Candy Heart Maker)

Today is a day that I’m pretty embarrassed to be a Masshole. For those that don’t know the story, Turner Broadcasting paid two guys to put up LED signs as part of a viral ad campaign for their upcoming Aqua Teen Hunger Force Movie. The signs featured a picture of a Mooninite giving the finger. Turner arranged to have signs put up in Atlanta, Austin, Boston, Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Portland, San Francisco, and Seattle. They did this two or three weeks ago.

There was a time in my life where throwing up was as common as taking out the trash. Actually, it was probably more common, but I have to say that I didn’t mind it as much. And at the time, that really didn’t seem like an issue. If you carry gum “in case you puke”, something could be wrong. If you’ve made peace with the fact that throwing up is a common part of your day, something’s definitely wrong. At least, it was for me. But that was a long, long time ago.

As far as I’m concerned these days, if your body decides that you have to throw up, I think it should be for two, or maybe three reasons: 1.) To teach the body’s owner that debauchery has a price, 2.) To make the person disgusting enough when passed out that no one wants to put their balls on them and take pictures, or 3.) Possibly to punish the person for spinning around and around in circles one too many times. That’s it. Vomiting should not come on randomly like it did to me this week.

It all started when we went to visit #1GF!’s sister this weekend. Because I was heavily involved with the semi-annual maintenance on their family PC, my inquisitive brain parts were busy forming questions starting with “How the fuck…”, while my fix-it brain parts were spending a fair amount of energy pushing the inquisitive parts out of the way, so it could get the PC fixed. With all the pushing and shoving in there, I failed to take better stock of the fact that #1GF!’s normally energetic sister had suddenly climbed under a mountain of blankets and was not the least bit interested in dinner. Although I am a wiz at diagnosing PC issues, I admit to being less than skilled when it comes to humans.

Let’s fast forward 24 hours or so when I started getting nauseous. Because I get migraines all the time, nausea creeps up on me enough that I don’t take much stock in it. I grab a coke and something bready and wait for it to pass. What I didn’t seem to notice this time was the lack of headache that one would normally expect to accompany a migraine. Like a child that can’t seem to get the attention of a dismissive parent, my body changed tactics and replaced the nausea with a very large temperature drop.

The fact that I was dressed in a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and under two blankets and a quilt did not alarm me at all, probably because, as I said, I am merely a human who troubleshoots computers. If I were a human that could troubleshoot other humans, I may have reacted differently, but I was so relieved by the repeal of the nausea that I simply amused myself by jolting #1GF! with my ice cold feet until she fell asleep.

After spending hours trying to distract myself from the minor waves of nausea and the lack of heat within my thermal cocoon, I finally started drifting off to sleep after a Valium-like dose of a late-night PBS special on the topic of the construction of the Alaskan pipeline. Because I had never been so cold inside the house without running out of heating oil, some small part of my brain must’ve finally started to worry. Just as I was drifting off, I was jarred awake by the thought, “If you fall asleep, you might die.”

“I’m fine,” I thought. “I’m just cold and nauseous.”

Then, I started churning, “I’ve never been this cold. What if I got bitten by a spider when I was cleaning out the PC yesterday? What if this is some sort of reaction? I could drift off and never wake up.”

“This is irrational,” I thought, and started drifting off again. Just as I touched sleep, I was again jarred awake by a skull on a black background in the center of my vision. And there I was, awake, irrationally nervous, nauseus, and freezing in the dark. I figured that even if I was being irrational, it couldn’t be good that I was still so cold. The only way that I could think of to get warmer was to hop in a hot shower. I snuck out of bed and made my way through the black hallway to the bathroom.

When I closed the door and flicked the light switch, the sudden burst of bright light burned my eyes, as waves of nausea washed over me. I turned the shower handle as hot as it would go, and while waiting for it to warm up, I weighed the pros and cons of throwing up in every single receptacle in the room, just in case I was presented with an opportunity to choose. As soon as I reached into the shower and my fingers touched the falling water, my choice was made for me.

I dropped to my knees and heaved. My body stiffened, and the force only made it to my chest. “Fuck,” I groaned, “Fuck.” And then I tightened again as if every cell was trying to pry itself away from me.

And I threw up like I hadn’t done in years. By then, #1GF! was at the door and trying to get in, and I was waving her off. Whatever was in me, it wanted it out, and I wasn’t going to let anything distract me from letting it go.

And I threw up again. And again. And then, for a minute, it all stopped.

Despite being baptized with an icy sweat, it was the best I had felt all day.

After I collected myself a little, I showered, changed clothes, and tried to go back to bed. My temperature started to normalize, and I thought relief was on the way. Unfortunately, by now we all know my record on human diagnostics. As soon as I warmed up, the nausea came back. The warmer I got, the worse I felt. I would eventually have to wait for #1GF! to fall asleep before returning to the cold linoleum floor of the bathroom where, using my sweatshirt as a pillow, I would see only flurries of sleep. My subconscious would only wake me up once wondering whether I was having a heart attack because one of my arms had gotten caught under me and gone numb.

There was a time that sleeping on the bathroom floor was common, but that was a long, long time ago. And even though I can see the holes of mortality have worn through the invincible armor of my youth, I can’t say that I’d trade a moment of where I am now to mend them.

In my haste to avoid any actual writing by cramming this blog full of crappy video links, I failed to mention a few things recently…

One: MABeGroMo

I failed to mention the start of MaBeGroMo on December 1. I started on November 7th to beat the holiday rush. Like women synching their menstrual cycles, Team Beardo at work started around the same time without discussion or provocation. My beard is now two months old. How’s yours?

The first week of vacation was spent on Christmas and family related activities which was a heck of a lot of fun. To minimize their shopping effort, I had given my parents a Christmas list of CDs and even marked all the ones that would be really easy to find. I then promptly forgot about it. As I opened each CD on Christmas morning, I was like Grandpa Alzheimer, getting genuinely shocked that they had found all these obscure CD’s that I really wanted. My parents actually went through the trouble of only buying CDs from my list that I didn’t mark as easy to find, including a CD that was a compilation of songs from the only LP that I miss losing in my house fire. It was a compilation of early electronic “music” from the Columbia-Princeton Electronic Music Center. As if that wasn’t good enough, my sister got me a velvet painting of Mr. T, which now sits next to the first item removed from my burnt house: my Mr. T. head bank. Both now guard my living room against foo’s.

After Christmas, we tore into all of the new card and board games, and when we all weren’t trying to figure out the obscure rules to games like Munchkin and Killer Bunnies, my sister and I took stole a couple of hours to play co-op and head-to-head games of Guitar Hero II. There is a picture of the event floating around a memory card somewhere that perfectly expresses how we both felt at the time. I was seated and relaxed, my feet up and a pillow behind my back like an musician who needs a stool on stage. My sister, on the other hand, stood in a certified rock stance, with the pained and horrified expression of someone who was playing against the devil for their very soul. To even the playing field, I played expert to her medium, but I have to say that she solidly whooped me a couple of times.

After the first week, the Christmas festivities came to a close and my sister returned to her coast, leaving #1GF! and I with nothing to do but slow down and unplug. The average day would start by waking up naturally at 8 AM without nightmarish earworms being jammed into my brain by the one FM station that actually comes in on our clock radio. On the off chance that I chose to shower, the natural mental quiet would make the shower feel like a real shower, rather than the damp, looping, musical Chinese water torture that I face on most normal work days.

In the interest of conserving nature’s resources, I would usually skip the shower and transfer myself directly to the big, purple couch to enjoy breakfast and an episode of Jerry Springer. Afterward, a portion of the day would be spent on emptying the DVR, watching shows from Peekvid, or chipping away at six seasons of Trailer Park Boys.

My sister gave me three of the six seasons of the Canadian comedy on DVD for Christmas, and once we chewed through that hysterical shit blizzard, we watched the remaining three seasons by searching for them on Daily Motion (Shows are marked with season and episode numbers such like S01E01 for “Season 1 Episode 1″ so that you can watch them all in order.)

To tell you the truth, I may have overdosed on the show, because at one point while playing a web-based game, I told #1GF! that I sucked at the game because I could figure it “oot”. She stared at me and cautiously asked “Did you just…”
“I did,” I said, ” but I didn’t mean it.”

Somewhere around 2 PM, I would eat lunch, start talking like Bubbles from the show, and maybe remember to brush my teeth. Then, I would return to the couch until I got back into bed at 11 PM.

I didn’t think about work.
I didn’t check e-mail.
I didn’t blog.
I didn’t even turn on my PC.

And, now I have returned to the connected world once again. Welcome me back, bitches.

Saturday

What do you get when you combine a wireless mouse, a PC that’s hooked up to the TV, and a bunch of flash based games? In my house, you end up with a stinky, bleary-eyed couple who skips showering and orders out for food because they are so focussed on beating each others scores. Good times. Gooooooood times.

Sunday

After washing off a days worth of gaming stink, we raided Michael’s and Home Depot, gathering ideas for all sorts of new and useless projects to eat spare brain cycles. Although we did not go so far as to buy a soap making kit, we bought plenty of stuff that will probably end up being pulled from the back of a closet in a couple of years with a quizzical, “Now, what the hell did we buy this for?”

I took a four day weekend this week. I can’t say that it went as planned…

Day 0: Notar Hero

After last week, all I wanted to do on Friday night was escape into a few hours of Guitar Hero II. I put on my free GHII winter hat, applied the free sunburst sticker to the guitar controller, and waited for the PS2 to warm up. Unfortunately for me, the awesomeness that is Guitar Hero proved to be too much for my crotchety old PS2, and it revolted with a series of growls and grinds that made game play impossible.

After a little investigation, I found that I had to do a more advanced version of my last PS2 dismemberment, this time not only removing the laser, the laser guides and the snake motor screw, but I actually had to melt and bend a plastic clip to give the laser a better ride up and down the screw (meow). Needless to say, now that the PS2 is at the tail end of its life cycle, I am finally well versed at repairing it and have ithumming along better than when it was new.

Note to self: In a pinch, a hair dryer will not miraculously act like a heat gun no matter how MacGuyver the idea seemed at the time.

Day 1: Raked/ran errands

I went raking at #1GF!’s family’s house. On the ride down, we listened to Howard Stern on her brother’s satellite radio, and I found that even though I throw around more f-bombs than an angry trucker with sore nuts, I got really tired of hearing swears on the radio. I guess there is just something about DJ’s having to dance around swears that seems more fun than the swears themselves.

Within a few hours of our arrival, the gutters were cleaned, the yard was raked, and we were on our way back home. On the way back, #1GF! was beyond delighted that her brother had a remote control to the truck radio, and sat in the back seat flicking through the channels in her own impromptu version of “Name that Tune“.

the day ended with us running some errands and picking up some delicious chicken cutlets, which I ate while jamming through the easy and medium levels of GH2.

Day 2: Attended a wake for a good friend’s grandmother

It’s a strange to admit, but when people in my family die, I sometimes dream about them the night they pass away. It has happened for a few of my family members, and although it doesn’t happen all the time, I get nervous when people that I know are the only other people in my dream.

On Thursday night, I had a dream that I heard a noise in my living room. When I went to investigate, I found a friend that I’ve known for 26 years standing there looking confused. When I asked him what he was doing in my living room, he just sort of stared at me and said he had no idea. When I woke up, I spent a few hours convincing myself that my dream had nothing to do with my superstitions, and it only happened for family.

Two days later, my friend called to let me know that he had been with his grandmother when she died on Thursday night. I didn’t mention this to him, and I’m not claiming anything other than it’s weird. If I was superstitious, I might say that “family” is not always about blood.

Day 3: Broke up with IPOWERWEB & found out my aunt died

I talked about the ipowerweb fiasco yesterday, but that was relatively minor compared to the news of my aunt passing away.

About a year ago, my aunt had been diagnosed with three to six months to live. She had beaten her diagnosis by a long shot, and was actually doing relatively well, when she took a sudden downturn and within 48 hours had passed away.

My aunt had a raspy laugh that came from her toes, which was hard to resist joining in with, and like all of my Mom’s siblings, she had been blessed with a quick wit and a great sense of humor.

For only the second time in my life, I will be a pall bearer. And even though I can’t do anything to repay her for all the laughs she gave me over the years, I have to say that I’m honored to have been asked to do this for her.

Day 4: Waited…

Wakes and funerals are difficult by nature, but waiting for them to arrive can be tough, too. I couldn’t really relax yesterday because my aunt’s wake and funeral are coming up. It’s not that I think that wakes and funerals are grueling affairs, but waiting for them brings out those feelings of being a little helpless, a little distracted, and a lot like you’ll never know the right thing to say to those people who feel worse than you do. I wasted time and ran errands until I went to dinner with my parents, yesterday, but if I were smart, I might’ve spent the day living.

A couple of weeks ago, we drove by an open house that had been on the market for quite a long time. The first time we came across this particular place, it had been for sale by owner, and the owner happened to be in the yard. I pulled up and asked as politely and unobtrusively as I could how much he was looking to sell it for. He asked me what I wanted to pay. Trying not to press him, I asked him for at least a ballpark figure of what he was looking for. He then actually quoted me “a million dollars”. Because I know the market in my area pretty well, I laughed and drove off, assuming that he either wasn’t really serious about selling or was completely out of his mind.

Months later, when the house hadn’t sold, the guy partnered with a broker to try for $700k, which was just about as ridiculous as asking a million. When I made an appointment to actually see the inside of the house during that period, I found the guy arguing with my broker in the street when I drove up. Because my broker is a sweetheart, it was at that point that I realized that the guy wasn’t crazy. This guy was of the classification “Assholis Majoris”.

As we went through, our suspicions of the asking price being overly inflated for a three bedroom, one bath bungalow were confirmed. We politely held back our chuckles and shared wide-eyed expressions as the seller walked us through pointing out the “features” of the house. When we saw that the seller had pretty much torn apart the kitchen in a failed renovation attempt, he actually told us, very matter-of-factly, “The price is $700 now. You want me to fix all this, the price is going up.”

We did all we could to be polite, but all three of us actually all burst out laughing.

Since then, the house has been sitting on the market and slowly dropping in price. We hadn’t seen it months, and because it was under a new broker, we figured we’d drop in and refresh our memory. When we pulled up, we saw the seller standing on the front porch. It was then that we realized that the guy had merely partnered with a broker and was still trying to sell the house himself. I can tell you that I had to actually spend time convincing #1GF! that going into the house would be worth dealing with its biggest flaw again. She agreed on the condition that we wait for another couple to walk in and distract the seller.

Shortly, another couple caught the seller’s attention, leaving us free to look at the house unmolested. We actually entered the house, looked at the whole thing, and left without the guy even knowing that we were there. Like suburban ninjas, we would just listen for his fat, blathering mouth and quietly move opposite it. And like every good ninja, #1GF! even left a mysterious calling card by taking the time to sign the guest book as “Debbie Doobey” before we made our exit.

While our tactics made what would’ve been a potentially bad experience a little more fun, I did find it a little amazing that a couple of non-criminal types could enter and exit a small house in the middle of the day unseen. When I consider that we weren’t trying all that hard to be stealthy, yet three other people roaming the house had no idea that we were there, I’m seriously considering giving up my technology lifestyle in favor of an investment in smoke bombs and black suits, because how hard could being a ninja be?

While reading another article about dirty keyboards…

“If a researcher puts out an article that claims that something (keyboard, cell phone, etc.) is dirtier than a toilet seat, they should be forced to lick either a toilet seat or the item they claim is dirtier. If they lick the toilet seat, the article gets published. If not, they are told to go back into the lab, suck down a tall beaker of shut the fuck up, and do some real research for a change.”

While doing the daily puzzle…

Co-worker 1: I need a Seven letter word for Satan.
Co-worker 2: J-o-n-D-y-e-r

While Walking down the beach…

Old man: [to woman] Alcohol is like an aphrodisiac to me. Oh, it makes me so Hoahny”

While talking to a 21 yr. old…

34 YO: Yea. All that emo stuff? I can’t get into it. I grew up on SSD, Minor Threat, The Misfits, and Slayer. The whining usually just ends up pissing me off.
21 YO: You know skaters don’t even wear big shorts anymore?
34 YO: What?
21 YO: Yea, they all wear tight pants and have bad haircuts like Emo kids.
34 YO: WHAT?
21 YO: Yup.
34 YO: How do they do tricks in tight pants?
21 YO: I don’t know.
34 YO: Oh, that’s just wrong.

While getting ready for work…

#1GF!: How do you like the new Slayer?
Me: Awesome.
#1GF!: That stuff seems like it’d be easy to play.
Me: (The comment caught me so off guard that all I could do was give a confused, “No,” pretend to play air guitar, and say “fast.”)

While trying to get some work done…

Person 1: Hey, what do those guys say before they die?
Person 2: What are you talking about?
Person 1: Akabaka?
Person 2: [Thinks for a minute] Oh my god. You need to retake diversity training.
Person 1: What?! Nobody knows it!
Person 2: It’s Allahu Akbar. And you need to get to diversity training now.
Person 1: What is it again? Abakaba?
Person 2: Oh man. Allahu Akbar.

While listening to music…

Co-worker 1: I was just listening to a nice death metal song, and the singer ruins it by screaming, “IIIII. IIIIII Flushhh my soooouuul down the draaaiiiin.”
Co-worker 2: Did you say “nice death metal?”
Co-worker 1: Yea. It was going good, too. When I listen to a song, I want enough screaming that I can’t possibly decipher how retarded the lyrics are.
Co-worker 2: I hear that.
Co-worker 1: That line just made me picture some guy in black clothes trying to clean his bathroom with Evil.
Co-worker 2: If he was really evil, he would’ve crapped his soul right on the floor for someone else to clean up.

A couple of weeks ago, #1GF! and I walked into the complex gym for an early morning workout. Because it was half passed early, the lights were off and no one seemed to be there, except, in the hall, neatly placed, sat a lonely pair of sneakers.

Confused, we both stood for a minute listening for any sign of life.

Hearing nothing louder than our own breaths, I gave the “raised eyebrow point at the men’s room” gesture, which is listed in most military manuals as “You want me to check the men’s room for some sort of creepy barefoot naked guy?”

Of course, I got the nod from the commander, and in I went.

There was no one in there.

After shrugging the “all clear” sign, I motioned for #1GF! to follow me into the workout room. Once the door was shut behind us, I actually said the following:

“I know you probably want to check the ladies room, but if there’s a big, bloody suicide in there, it’s going to ruin any chance of a workout. There’s obviously no noise coming from in there, so if there is a body in there, it’s not going anywhere in the next 30 minutes. So, do you mind if we check after we work out?”

Considering that the owner of the lonely shoes was never found, was my statement an indication of a deep character flaw or merely good time management?

For the last 3 nights, teenagers have been keeping you awake all night by getting screaming drunk at the complex pool. You’re getting old enough that you want to call the cops, but not that old that you don’t want to jump the fence and beat the fuck out of each and every one of them.

It’s not all the kids’ fault, though. Part of the tired is because you have been going to the gym every day for the past 40 days in a row. You have absolutely no reason for this behavior. You’re not training for anything, you’re not stressed about anything, and you really don’t give a flying fuck about six pack abs. I am betting you don’t make 10 more days because the fat kid in here really wants a cookie.

Even though you’re not really enjoying the gym, you did enjoy the second annual Hull outdoor car show this weekend. They picked the perfect weather to close off the main strip and line it with hot rods. Because the event was free, you were surprised by the number and variety of cars. You saw ZZ-Top style ‘33 Fords, Big Daddy Roth style T-buckets, a dragster with a parachute, and a ‘74 Dodge Swinger with a 6 barrel carb that nearly made your dinky move. You saw some Ferraris, a Lamborghini Murcielago, 2 Lotus Esprits, 2 Lotus Elises, some 50’s Chevys, and a tricked-out El Camino with an assload of hydraulics.

When #1GF! saw the El Camino, she looked at you and proclaimed very matter-of-factly that it was Krunkin’. You told her that she had no idea what she was talking about, to which she proclaimed that she did. She went further to tell you that it was still krunkin’, despite any protest you could make. You didn’t think that this was right, but you had no idea what the fuck krunkin’ even meant, so you were not on very good ground to debate. Plus, she had already walked away grinning to look at a chopped down Ford.

While standing there alone listening to all the gearhead chatter, you realized what it must be like for a person who knows a little about computers to listen to you talk. You figured you must make people pretty tired.

You saw a lot of really professional show cars, but you also saw a bunch of cars that looked like they could’ve been parked on the street from the night before and people just assumed that they were in the show. You noticed that one of them even had crumbled Cheezits in the door handle, which prompted you to consider paying the $12 to bring your EVO down without so much as washing it. You were also going to make claims that it had extensive “megatronics” and ran on a mixture of “rice and Jesus.” Any questions about the collection of swimming trophies in front of it were to be answered with a simple “Fuckin’ A.”

(Un)Fortunately, you did none of this because you were too damned tired from the gym.

(Remind yourself to read this next year to get the KrunkMobile ready for the 3rd annual car show.)

On the Phone With My Dad…

“Repeat this to #1GF!”
“Ok”
“Why”
“Why…”
“Are you still with him.”
“…are you still… Hey.”

With Iron Maiden’s #1Fan…

“Man, do I have an ear worm.
“Uh oh.”
“No, don’t worry. I can’t really infect anyone else with this one.”
“Huh?”
“It’s by G. G. Allin.”
“Oh boy.”
“It’s called ‘I wanna fuck myself‘”
[LOL]
“Really. It’s unbelievably catchy.”

While Catching Up With an Old Friend…

“I love the whole #1GF! thing. It’s so Japanese Anime. #1GF! [chops the air].

With #1GF!…

“Hey did you see Darryl’s comment?”
“Yea, even on paper he does a better Popeye than you.”
“He was doing David Lee Roth!”
“Whatever. It was still better.”

While we were driving around looking at the million and a half houses that have suddenly flooded the market this past weekend, I made an attempt at a Popeye imitation when #1GF! asked me change a disc prematurely.

It ended up being the worst Popeye impression that I have ever heard, so I tried again and failed miserably a second time. And then a third. Not accepting that my attempts were becoming progressively and exponentially worse, I found myself sitting there making attempt after attempt while #1GF! stared at me.

“Are you ok?”
“Yes. I’m fine. I’m trying to do Popeye, and I can’t.”
“Popeye? Popeye? Oh my god. I thought something was wrong.”
“I know. It’s awful. I just can’t do it.”
“Do you even know what Popeye sounds like?”
“Sure I do.”
“I really don’t think you do.”
“I do.”
“I’m going to buy you some Popeye thingys there. Videos or something.”
“Skoodly diddly?”
“Just stop.”
“Skibbidy bibbidy?”
“Stop.”

Since then, my Popeye imitation has devolved into me just wandering around saying Skibbidy bibbidy bobbidy in my own voice and maybe following it up with gug gug gug. Not only does it lack any hint of effort, but Popeye never even said Skibbidy bibbidy bobbidy.

Don’t bother asking me to do it for you, because it just won’t happen. You’ll save time and get the same comedic value out of saying “Skoodly Doodly” in your own voice. The best you can hope for is that you’ll catch me unconsciously mumbling skibbidy bobbidy at my desk.

*His name is Dave Coulier.

#1GF! has been pretty frustrated by the sneaky fuckheads at the car dealership who dragged us through a week of negotiations and blew a pretty sweet deal by trying to pretend that all factory-fresh cars arrive at the dealer with 76 miles on them (not to mention having the balls to state that there wasn’t another car like it available on the east coast and that the factories were no longer shipping 2006 models!). To me, any car with over 9 miles is either a demo or used, so the dealer wasted a lot of our time and energy. Originally thinking she had a good deal, #1GF! is still waiting to get her deposit back.

I’m a little difficult in these situations. I’m a fighter. I’ll go down to the dealer and make them hammer out a check. Then, I’ll call the corporate offices and tell them how “disenchanted” I am with the unscrupulous practices of the dealer and how poorly it reflects on the car brand. Then, I’ll threaten to file a police report for fraud. Having a pit bull can certainly make you feel safe, but sometimes when you just want to relax, I know that holding on to the leash can wear you down. So, I’ve tried to lay off, stop barking, and try to cheer her up a little.

They say that the easiest way to make someone happy is to give them unexpected gifts at unexpected times, so this week, I tried give her something small every day.

Monday: White flowers and some leeway.

Tuesday: The opportunity to live with someone who has earned the title of “Guitar Legend” by beating the Medium level of Guitar Hero. …And some pink flowers.

Wednesday: A clean bathroom.

Thursday: Steve Miller’s Greatest Hits CD (I just heard her giggle when she found it.)

Friday: Unknown. Is there anything that tops a clean bathroom? (suggestions are welcome).

So, this past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to see #1GF!’s niece perform in a dance recital. Given that I have had testicles since birth, I was sort of against doing the dance recital thing, but there was no real way to attend the niece’s birthday party while missing the recital. I really think it was cleverly planned as a package deal by the womenfolk of the family.

On the drive up, we noticed that on the official Cow Hampshire border sign, they’ve replaced the slogan “Live Free or Die,” with “You’re going to love it here.” I don’t know who pulled off that slight of hand, my friends, but being allowed to pussify the U.S.’s most kick-ass state slogan is like jamming Mr. T. into pink hot pants, calling him Mr. Theresa, and thinking no one would notice or care. And I pity that shit, my friends. I pity it to hell. Once they slip the death reference out of the slogan, it won’t be long before they’re forcing bikers to wear brain buckets and charging sales and income taxes. Then, Taxachusetts citizens will have no taxless, barbarian neighbors to the North to threaten our officials with, and we’ll all end up at the mercy of big government. So, do us all a favor and put the damned slogan back before you wreck everything.

Anyway, once we were safely “loving it” across the border in Massachusetts’ fastest growing new suburb, we headed to #1GF!’s niece’s dance recital which was to be attended by the little one’s teacher, “Miss Alexis,” who I would only refer to as “Missile X’s” complete with missle sounds and forearm crossing, superhero exploding X noises (for the kids benefit of course).

I have to say that I was a little confused when we were actually introduced to Missile X’s because in my day, an elementary school teacher was a pudgy, middle-aged woman in a long skirt and stubby heels who was addressed by her last name, not her first. Given the number of years that I was a recipient of a fine, public education, when I’m set to meet a teacher, that’s what I’m expecting. If you introduce me to a nice looking twenty-something with a nose ring, I’m going to retreat in confusion and just listen to the drums to “Hot for Teacher” that have involuntarily filled my head until drowned out by whatever Shirley Temple music the recital happens to start with.

Once the show started, I spent a lot of time laughing my ass off at the really young kids who couldn’t have been corralled into a routine even if they could’ve been stopped from waving. In the middle of thoroughly enjoying the sixth or seventh act in a row, I suddenly thought to myself, “Oh fuck. Have I finally crossed that age where I actually like dance recitals? Shit, I think I have. Double shit. From here it’s only a short jump to putting the hat collection in the rear window of my car or stuffing rolls and sugar packets in my pockets at restaurants. We can safely say that if I ever had a temporary visa to Coolsville, someone, somewhere officially just tore it up for good.”

Then, at some point toward the end, the recital got a little weird. I’m no prude, but when pre-teen girls start doing gyrating booty-shaking dances to thump-thump music, I get a little embarrassed. When it happens in the middle of a dance recital, I now know that I officially get creeped out. The girls looked as uncomfortable dancing as people were watching it, and I just sort of stared at the floor until the whole thing was good and over. If I get a vote, I’m voting that we save that shit for the buxom, legally-aged glitter critters at the Conference Room Mashpee.

After the recital strangely and abruptly ended without the expected bowing encore, we headed back to the cabin for the birthday party. The kids are always a blast, and I think my favorite moment was when one niece wearing green pajamas turned to the other and said, “Hey. Make pretend that you hate green,” and then ran out of the room squealing, chased by a sister who for that moment suddenly sought to destroy anything green. I love it when kids come up with strange things like that.

Soon after, we had to hop in the car to start the long trek back to home, leaving me to reflect on the day in between picking CDs to keep #1GF! calm in the nighttime downpour that invariably seems to manifest itself on the ride home from the state formerly known as “Badasssss.”

I worked 40 hours in 4 days, then had a 3 day weekend on which I ripped 50 CDs, drove 2 hours to Maine to buy 2 pairs of socks, and had 3 people over. On Easter, we made 12 blueberry muffins, 2 quiches, 2 pounds of potatoes, 1 pound of bacon, and a tropical fruit salad.

Tropical Fruit Salad:

Chop into bite sized chunks and put into a big bowl:
4 kiwis
3 oranges
2 mangos
1 pineapple

Make the juice:
Thaw 1.5 cups of frozen strawberries and throw in a food processor with 1 tablespoon of sugar
Blend until you have a strawberry liquid

Put it all together:
On the bottom of a bowl put a few scoops of strawberry yogurt.
Cover with fruit
Drizzle strawberry juice on top

Grab your balls or talk about NASCAR before anyone accidentally calls you Brenda or Nancy.

How was my birthday weekend, you ask? Well, I got out early on Friday and wisely spent the found time enjoying lunch and meandering through the local Circuit City with my coworkers. After we went our separate ways, I headed over to the nearest record store to pick through every used CD they had. I think I left with a half dozen for pretty short money.

Because another of my bastardly co-worker gave me a CD of covers (his third full-length contribution to the CD Challenge), I spent the first half of Saturday combing through my collection trying to come up with a decent response. After breaking a hundred tracks, I realized that I might have been obsessing a bit (like the Cowbell and Actors-turned-singer Collections) and sought out a bar of soap and a comb. I then got a nice visit from #1GF!’s Mom, who brought me gifts and homemade lemon squares. After chowing myself silly, #1GF! and I headed to my parents house for lasagna and board games. There, I got the gift of laughter, which I fully understand, and the gift of fashion, which I obviously do not. Lemon squares + lasagna + laughter = a pretty kick ass day.

On my actual birthday, #1GF! and I drove all the way down to the Cape for the sole purpose of hitting a used record store. I suppose we could’ve gone in town and hit way more stores, but the sun was shining and I was less interested in buying CD’s than enjoying the company. After such a nice ride, #1GF! was really good about letting me go about my business and even cut me off at the register to buy me the half dozen CD’s that I picked out. On the way home, not only was she really good about listening to the sappy stylings of Nat King Cole, but almost seemed to enjoy her first listens to Face to Face and the New Bomb Turks.

In a punk pop stupor, I forced #1GF! to drive me all the way back to the Abington Ale House, where you get your dinner free on your birthday. I had never had a free birthday meal before, so I thought it would be sort of cool in an “I’m 97 years old, where’s my free tapioca” sort of way. Everyone knows that you get a free birthday meal in the Ale House, so when it’s your birthday, there are a bunch of other cheap pikers around you that are having birthdays, too, which I thought was pretty cool. There was a little 12 year old girl having a party, there was crotchety, old man Sheldon behind me, and there was “Jimmy A.”

Jimmy A. was a heavy-set, middle-aged guy who wore a black baseball cap sitting high on his head like an old veteran might wear. He was sitting with another heavyset guy with thick glasses who looked like he might be more of a responsibility than someone he normally went out for drinks with. He was sitting right across from us, and for 90% of the meal he was merely a part of the background scenery.

After the waitress (who was a complete sweetheart) cleared away my chicken pot pie and delivered a cup of pudding with a candle in it, she sang “Happy Birthday.” When she was finished, “Jimmy A.” came over, introduced himself, and wished me a happy birthday, too. He then told me it was his birthday, and shook my hand like some old guys do to old friends, where they sort of shake with one hand and slap the back of your hand with the other. He then wished me well, and went back to his table and resumed his free dinner. It was oddly fucked up and really nice at the same time. And that little gesture made my dinner. Well, that and the free pudding.

Like a couple of 90 year olds, #1GF! and I were on our way home by 6:30 to wind down and watch a little TV. After we went to bed, I stayed awake until long after my birthday was over, staring at the red glow of the alarm clock and thinking about how lucky I am to have made it another year.

(Because I’m not really good with the phone, I just listened to all my birthday messages and laughed my ass off. Thanks!)

Proof I’m Getting Old

1. At the gym, when rolling back to do some dumbell bench presses, I heard enough rapid fire, muffled cracking noises that it sounded like someone had lit a whole pack of firecrackers inside my chest cavity. In truth, it sounded like Chinese New Year in there.

2. I don’t have a myspace page, and I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Further proof: I can’t fucking believe I just used “fuss” in a sentence.

3. When I recently saw the year a person had to be born in to buy cigarettes, I realized that it was the same year that I made out with that fat chick in the 3rd row at the Monsters of Rock Concert. Even after all these years, you still suck, Dan Dokken.

4. On my way out the door this morning, I got frisked by #1GF!.

Me: What are you doing?
#1GF!: [matter of factly] Seeing if you have your phone.
Me: So, you frisk me? Couldn’t you just ask me? When exactly did I cross that age when my answers are suspect enough that you have to pat me down rather than ask?

5. My 34th birthday is in 5 days.

6. When I was assigned seat #69 in a work move, I didn’t high five anyone.

Proof I’m Still Young

1. My sister sent me a birthday card on which she not only changed the “You’re 4!” to “You’re 34!” but she didn’t even attempt to conceal that the card was originally sent to a four year old by someone named “Aunty Dora.” Instead, she just penned in “+ your sister” right below Aunty Dora’s signature. People do not do that sort of thing to their respected elders.

2. I still have a blog, it has a skull on it, and I’m a l33t hax0r with mad sk1llz.

3. I think they should stop trying to raise the driving age, start trying to lower the drinking age, and make shirts illegal.

4. #1GF!’s final response to point #4 to above: “I just pat you down whenever I get the chance.”

5. I’m still hoping to be able to sock away enough to be able to afford the naughty nurse in addition to the skilled one when they put me in the home in 30 years.

6. When I got assigned seat #69 in a work move, I wanted to high five everyone.