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

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#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.

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

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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]

#1GF!: [laughing] Are you going to leave me now?
Me: [whips out notebook to transcribe conversation for internet]
#1GF!: OH COME ON.
Me: [puts notebook away] I’m making you watch Star Wars when we get home.
#1GF!: You made me watch Star Track.
Me: Please tell me you said that on purpose.
#1GF!: Maybe, but you made me watch it.
Me: No, I never did.
#1GF!: You did. There was a ship and it was going to crash into the mothership.
Me: [amused that #1GF! used the word "mothership"] Never.
#1GF!: You made me.
Me: Wait. Are you talking about Lord of the Rings?
#1GF!: No, I slept through that. This was a whole series.
Me: ?
#1GF!: [as if my testicles were suddenly beamed off the planet] There was a love interest…
Me: [staring]
#1GF!: [staring]
Me: Wait, you’re not talking about Battlestar Galactica…
#1GF!: You’re right. I am.
Me: [whips out notebook again]
#1GF!: You might as well keep that thing out because it’s not going to get any better.

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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.

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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.

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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.

I love that even though you hate my beard, you don’t make me miserable about it.

I love that you make days of doing nothing seem perfect as long as we’re together.

I love that you still think I’m funny even when I know I’m not.

I love that even though you can troubleshoot PC’s and networks, I still have to explain basic geek culture references to you.

I love your height, your width, your strengths and your flaws.

I love that half smile you get when I’m jumping around trying to make you laugh.

I love that your heart is too big for your body.

I love that we both have an odd left/right handed mix.

I love that you fight to do things for me before I can do them for you.

I love that you have faith in me and make me feel like I could actually do something great someday.

I love that after six years you still look at me like it’s puppy love.

I love that we bend our dreams so that they weave themselves together.

I love that you don’t try to change or erase the parts of me that you don’t understand.

I love that I have more fingers on my left hand than the number of times that we’ve fought.

I love how people react to us as a pair.

I love that you give me leeway and choice.

I love that my parents would jokingly question what would motivate you to stick with me.

I love that you ask and remind way past the point when I should be told and harassed.

I love that you kick my ass at web games and card games, yet you are hysterically uncoordinated with video games.

I love that you say strange things like “I love you, bitch”.

I love that the best part of going places is driving there with you.

I love that you would rather kiss me with a booger on my nose than ruin the moment (I have proof).

I love that you found a way for me to enjoy my birthday.

I love that you think other women think I’m as good looking as you do (they really don’t, but…).

I love how you will sit through geeky movies with me without pointing out how stupid the capes or lasers are.

I love that we had a mysteriously secret relationship for years.

I love that my life before you seems remote and impossible and that I can’t imagine my life without you in it.

I really do miss you when you’re gone.

When I’m with you, I feel more like myself than I ever have.
When I’m with you, I feel like I’m more than I really am.
When I’m with you, it seems like a perfect summer day, no matter what the weather.

You make me feel stronger.
You make me feel lucky.
You make me feel alive.

I wish that I could give you more and I always want to impress you.

All my heart are belong to you.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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“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?”

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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!

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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…

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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.)

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“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.)

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(sappily generated with the Candy Heart Maker)

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When it was finally revealed that the whole amounted to nothing but a bunch of advertisements that would, with any luck, be the least threatening thing gracing some lucky college kid’s dorm room, our embarrassed mayor had the people who put up the signs up for Turner arrested and charged with distributing “hoax devices”, under a statute used to prevent people from distributing fake bombs to cause a panic. He also claimed that he had his lawyers working on a case to sue and possibly level criminal charges against Turner Broadcasting. The mayor claimed a $500,000 damage figure, which had to be repeated several times because I don’t think that the microphone was positioned close enough to his asshole to hear.

When I talked about this, I was surprised to hear that a lot of the people actually agreed with the Mayor. In their minds, these guys should have known that lite-brites hung up around a city would be construed as a bomb threat in a post 9/11 world. Advertising should have a permit. There is no room for jokes. Anything could be a bomb and should be regarded with suspicion and treated with overreaction.

Yet, on one of the news reports, they talked to a guy at Fenway Park who had known about the signs for weeks and thought they were just a funny prank. In Seattle, a police Sergent was quoted as saying, “At this point we wouldn’t even begin an investigation, because there’s no reason to believe a crime has occurred.”

Frankly, I agree. Let’s be honest. These things don’t remotely resemble bombs. They look like Lite-brites. At worst they might be a choking hazard for children under three and possibly the mayor of Boston.

To continually call them “devices” on the news instead of “signs” incites unnecessary concern. To charge these two guys with trying to panic the public is nothing but an idiot Mayor looking for a scapegoat to make him look like less of an idiot. To passively accept these overreactions makes Massholes look like a panicky bunch of pussies who don’t deserve the tattered scraps of freedom that are gradually being pulled through our fingers.

When what is funny makes you afraid, and when the smallest actions get massive overreactions, how can a citizen remain free?

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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.

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