#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.

For the first time in years, I actually decided that I would do my own taxes this year: No turbotax. No professional preparer. Just me, a mechanical pencil, and a bunch of forms. Because I find it to be a lot harder to get information from online instructions than the printed instruction booklets, #1GF! and I headed out to the local library on Saturday morning to pick up all the necessary paperwork.

I think the digital age has lessened the need for printed tax forms, because the first library we went to didn’t have a single one. When we asked the librarian if there were any more around, she just wiggled the giant caterpillars above her eyes, scoffed a quick “no” and returned to helping the woman having trouble downloading pictures from hotbushyeyebrows.com.

I recommended that we check another library, which happened to be in close proximity to not one, but two record stores. When we got there, the library had all the forms and instructions that I could ever want, and the librarians were so nice that I actually felt a little bad about taking four of each form. When I dove into the car with my prey, #1GF! could see from the volume of forms and instructions filling her back seat that I was ready for a long road and plenty of mistakes. As a reward for merely getting the forms, I convinced her to take me to both record stores. You know, to help my number crunching skills.

In the front of the first store was a huge “Walk the Line” soundtrack display. Ever since I saw “Walk the Line,” I’ve wanted to get a copy of Reese Witherspoon’s renditions of “Jackson” and “It Ain’t Me Babe” because (I’m torn about writing this) I think they are better than the originals by June Carter. Luckily, the store had priced the CD well out of my range for a CD that is 90% crap, so I had to find something else that would help set my tax preparing mood. I grabbed a June & Johnny Carter duet disc on the cheap and then remembered a disc that I had read about a few days back that I thought I’d blindly trust (!) another blogger’s review on. Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember the name of the band. All I could remember was that the band was a Norah Jones side project and there was a “W” in it.

There is nothing more emasculating in a BestBuy than having to ask a sales guy for a Norah Jones side project band that you don’t know the name of. Not only are you saying that you are into Norah Jones, but you’re admitting that you like her so much that you know about her side projects. And to make matters worse, you’re saying that you want that unknown CD so badly that you feel the need to hassle a clerk rather than leave the store without it. Yea. The only thing more emasculating would be if the band was called “The Little Willies,” which it is.

To bury my musical shame, we headed to the second record store where I picked up two Kid Koala CD’s (that I discovered at this site) and a Blue Note jazz/breakbeat (?) CD. As a present for #1GF!, I threw a Madonna CD on the pile that once again undermined any possible masculinity in the purchase.

After trying to hide my shame for my non-masculine musical selections by trying on every pair of cheap sunglasses in the area, I ended up buying two pairs from one of those fly-by-night sunglass kiosks in the mall. The sales guy tried to tell me that the 70’s sunglasses that I bought looked good on me, but he said it with a lot of nervousness in his voice, so I think he might’ve just thought that I was homeless and crazy and didn’t want to spook me.

From there, we headed out to get #1GF! some sneaks. Actually, #1GF! headed. My big, half-tint sunglasses made me strut. If it wasn’t 22 degrees, I’m almost positive that I would’ve been showered with bras from ladies who were hot in 1976. While I strutted and tried on even more sunglasses, #1GF! snaked a pair of sneaks for a lucky $13.

Six forms, five CDs, three pairs of sunglasses and a pair of sneakers later I was fully ready to tackle those forms…

I actually had most of the forms filled out in about an hour on Sunday morning, and then spent three additional hours trying to figure out the prescribed method for accounting for exactly $39 in non-interest income. I was almost ready to attach two twenties to the tax form with a note to just keep it, when I figured out that the $39 had to be accounted for on not one, but two additional schedules. Yea. And after all that, I ended up owing the state $11.

It was all worth it, though. You should see the glasses. If only my camera were charged, I know you’d laugh, too.

This weekend, #1GF! and I made what we thought was a reasonable offer on a house that needed work. This was only the second offer on the house in the four months that it had been sitting on the market.

The seller came down a mere $4,000 and wanted us to come up a mere $90,000. I’m hoping that I said, “good luck with that,” but it might have sounded like “pfffffffft.”

I understand trying to get top dollar, but I think that a lot of the sellers in today’s market have really lost their minds.

Because she makes me believe that I’m more than I see in the mirror every morning, I wish I had put together something better for #1GF! this Valentine’s Day. All I could come up with this year were kiddie gifts: a load of flowers, home-made burritos, and a mix CD. I should also be noted that I was working on the CD until well after #1GF! got home. I’m lucky that she has low expectations because I was 4th and inches on a macaroni heart card or seeing if the local pizza shop would arrange the pepperoni on a pizza in the shape of a heart.

Ladies, thank your stars that I’m taken…

#1GF! Valentine’s Day Mix 2006

1. Unknown - The Love Boat Theme
2. Bobby Darin - Dream Lover
3. The Flamingos - I Only Have Eyes for You
4. The Platters - Only You (and You Alone)
5. Barry White - Can’t Get Enough Of Your Love, Babe
6. Ella Fitzgerald - Love Is Here To Stay
7. Prince - I Wanna Be Your Lover
8. Jack Johnson - Cupid
9. Ray Charles - Night Time Is The Right Time
10. Billy Joel - Just The Way You Are
11. Stevie Wonder - Isn’t She Lovely
12. The O’Jays - Love Train
13. Wilson Pickett - I Found A True Love
14. Clyde McPhatter - A Lover’s Question
15. Blacktop - Tornado Love
16. The Cure - Lovesong (Extended Mix)
17. KC And The Sunshine Band - Keep It Comin’ Love
18. The Beatles - Love Me Do
19. Jackson 5 - The Love You Save
20. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young - Our House
21. The Ohio Players - Love Rollercoaster
22. Aretha Franklin - Baby I Love You
23. Louis Prima/Keely Smith - Embraceable You/I Got It Bad And That Ain’t Good (Medley)
24. Frank Sinatra - You Brought A New Kind Of Love To Me

Saturday: Attended 4 Xmas eve parties.
Highlight: [from the other room] Oh Shut The Fuck Up!
Kid: [running into crowded room] Mom Mom Mom Mom Mooooom!
Kid’s Mom: WHAT?
Kid: [tattling on Dad] Dad just said “Shut the Fuck Up.”
Mom: [exasperated] Well…shut the fuck up then!

Highlight2: No matter how innocent “Hey, could you grab my package” may seem, you have opened yourself up to a barage of comments.

Sunday: Attended 2 XMas day gatherings.
Highlight: (Too many. Will follow up)

Monday-Wednesday: Went away to a cabin in the woods with the family.
Highlight: Uncle dad and me are standing in a room
Me:[to Dad] Hey did you give him his tickets, yet?
Dad: What tickets?
Me: The tickets I gave you.
Dad: What tickets?
Me: [rolls up sleeves] The tickets to the gun show. Oooooh yeaaaaaa.
Uncle: Seriously. You can’t be related to me.

Highlight2: Name that tune with a 100 TV tunes CD set.

Thursday: Had a doctors appointment and visited with my aunt.
Highlight: I got an ultrasound where the lady showed me some spots on my kidneys that look a lot bigger than they did 3 years ago. In a previous visit, I thought it would be funny to ask if it was a boy, to which the radiologist gave me a look that seemed to say “Stop fucking around.” This time, the radiologist beat me to the punch and asked #1GF! if she wanted to know the sex of the baby.

Friday: Went to the gym and did some shopping.
Highlight: BestBuy and Circuit City!

Saturday: Sat on my ass and did some cooking
Highlight: Made lasagna and 9 quarts of sauce with #1GF!

Theoretical…

Co-worker: So, #1GF! joined the gym, huh?
Me: Yup.
Co-worker: Your gym?
Me: Sure.
Co-worker: How long do you think it will be before you hear, “Do you think she’s pretty?”
Me: Oy.

Actual (after #1GF! had her introductory training session on the machines)…

Me: How’d it go? Did he show you how to use all these machines?
#1GF!: I guess so. I was so busy staring at those muscles.
Me: Oy.

I go to the doctor, and she goes to the gym. I only go to the doctor if an appendage is hanging off and there is no duct tape available. This is not really a good thing.

So, today #1GF! offered me a deal: if I made an appointment to get a checkup, she would join the gym. I did, she did, and now both of us are a little freaked out by accepting our ends of the deal.

Although staying healthy is the goal of both ends of the deal, I totally think that #1GF! got the short end…

Two things I did this weekend: Began recording the Cowbell CD for Jo, and started growing my annual beard for me.

After running some errands for #1GF! the following took place:

Me: Hey you want to go to Building 19 (local seconds store)?
#1GF!: Sure.
Me: BestBuy?
#1GF!: Whatever you like.
Me: Are you just giving in to me because I’ve been so good?
#1GF!: You can have anything you want.
[moment]
Me: I’ll Take Tiffany Amber Theisen.
#1GF!: What? You want another Girl??
Me: Eh. She’s got thick legs and great boobs.
#1GF!: What?? Ok. She does have good boobs.
Me: Yup.
#1GF!: Actually she has good everything, doesn’t she?
Me: Wha???

#1GF! said to me, “I’m always amazed by people like you. I just don’t understand how people get so into music. It must be genetic.”

As far as I know, I don’t think my parents were music junkies. Actually, I think that musical addiction is like a scar left over from a some previous social affliction. Think back to High School. The popular kids didn’t wander around with headphones on. They had plenty of people to talk to. It was the misfits that replaced communicating with tuning everything out with a set of headphones.

And it’s a vicious cycle. The more you wear headphones, the less you talk. The less you talk, the worse the social skills become. The worse the social skills become, the more you wear headphones…

And then headphones become less of an escape method than an escape of their own. And at that point, the brain is re-wired, and the scar is formed. And the injury might be healed, but you can never get rid of the scar tissue.

Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s genetic.

How can you explain your musical addiction?

#1GF! and I went into a Barnes & Noble to grab a coffee the other night while I picked up a book that Chris’s Mom wanted me to read. We were pretty jovial going in, which was promptly doused by the coffee guy behind the counter. I can’t say that he was rude in any way, but he completely resisted any attempt that we made to engage him in any friendly banter.

At the time, I thought to myself, “People have bad nights. He’s obviously having one. Plus, how much should a person have to smile and pretend that taking coffee orders is some great social experience for eight or nine bucks an hour? How much customer service do we, as customers, expect? We expect that guy getting the shitty wage behind the counter to kiss our asses and be our best buddies for the 2 minutes that we grace him with our presence. If they don’t, we think that they’re assholes or suck at their jobs.”

So. My question is. How much do you think that the people that you come in contact with owe you for just being you?

#1GF! was test driving an 2005 Acura TL…

#1GF!: [steps on gas] Ooooohh. ooohoohhhhh. mmmmmmm…
Me: Are you ok?
#1GF!: [slowly] Oooooh yes. Don’t you like the car?
Me: [a little freaked by the horsepower whore who has replaced #1GF!] Um, obviously not as much as you.
Car Dealer: [leans up from from back seat] I have to say… Those are some of the better noises I’ve heard while test driving this car.

I have no idea what the hell I ate yesterday, but when I farted in the shower this morning, I actually uttered “OH JESUS!” and ran back and forth from spigot to towel rack in a primal panic trying to escape. I was so blinded by revulsion that there was only a sliver of sanity keeping me from barreling through the shower curtain and onto the floor like some smelly, soaking Frankenstein monster.

The only thread stopping me was the thought of the #1GF! busting through the door fully expecting Armageddon, only to find me ass in the air tangled in a shower curtain staring up at her shocked face. The only words that I could hear myself muttering before she killed me or died laughing were simply, “Sorry. Farted.”

And then as fast as I had been besieged, I was suddenly and miraculously released, returning me to the business of getting 99 and 44/100 percent clean.

While listening to another CD from my CD challenge, I found myself up on the couch again, playing air guitar to Van Halen’s “Unchained.” This time, my imaginary audience was outside the windows at the front of my apartment.

From behind me, I heard an exasperated #1GF! say, “You seriously don’t care if I’m watching you.”

Just so she wouldn’t feel left out, I ran over to the kitchen side of the stage and played to her for her a bit.

“Switch!” I said, which I seem to always say when switching between air guitar, air bass or air drums, so as not to confuse anyone who might be secretly taping. “I’m Michael Anthony, now.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?” asked a sauce cooking #1GF!
“Uh, it’s Van Halen’s bass player? Mr. Michael Anthony?” I said before heading back to the more appreciative side of the couch.
[back bending jump]
“Downstairs must love you.”
[throws air guitar into the air and catches it perfectly]
“IT’S CLASSIC VAN HALEN!”
[wide eyed "I don't understand you" staring while still maintaining enough composure to entertain the crowd through the pain]
[wide eyed "there's something wrong with you" staring]
“Seriously. You don’t feel that?”
“No. Sorry.”
[waves over security to remove the hot chick from the stage]

I understand that air guitar might not be socially acceptable, but if it’s in your own home and it’s classic Van Halen, an automatic exception should be given. I read somewhere that the reaction is hard wired into anyone one who has ever heard the song during their teen years while flying around town in a late model Firebird. If you were wearing work boots and sporting a mullet at the time, it burns the reaction in instantaneously.

So, it’s not really my fault. The best you can do is to get me help. No, Wait. Don’t. Yes, do. No, no, please don’t.

Ok. Fine. Whatever you do, just wait until after the show so the fans don’t see.

Switch!

The third person to take my “Get to Know You CD Challenge” dropped off not 1, but a double CD set for me today. In return, I decided to fill his long standing request for me to burn him some “dealer’s choice” Slayer and Kyuss CDs.

I obviously had to go through nearly the entire collections of each to figure out which ones I was going to burn. I obviously also had to stand on the furniture with a low slung air guitar powering my way through them to aid me in my decision making process.

In the middle of all this, #1GF! arrived home. Over the years, #1GF! has learned to tolerate small doses of Slayer, and was taking the volume and ferocity of the metal with amazing poise… until she saw me give the sign of the devil to the imaginary crowd. She stopped what she was doing and stared at me stunned.

#1GF!: “WaitWaitWait. Did you just salute the crowd?”
Me: “Hell yea, I did [throws the horns up again for the people in the back].”
#1GF!: “Do you do that even when I’m not here?”
Me: “Do you really think that I vary this performance based on whether you’re here?”
#1GF!: [staring]
Me: [spread legged, low slung, foul-faced shredding]
#1GF!: “Oh that’s a deal breaker. We are NOT having kids.”

The Chosen:
Kyuss - Welcome to Sky Valley (right hand index)
Kyuss - Blues for the Red Sun (right hand pinky)
Slayer - Seasons in the Abyss (left hand index)
Slayer - God Hates Us All (left hand pinky)

Odd Reaction 0:

A car load of 17 year old kids are sitting in the car next to the lovely and talented #1GF! and I in a convenience store parking lot. A startling “AWRIIIGHHHHT!!” is heard once “Hotel California” comes on the radio. What the hell is wrong with kids these days?

Odd Reaction 1:

#1GF!: I think the way you laid out the CDs is really cool…
Me: Thanks.
#1GF!:…but it’s just so personal, now.
Me: ?
#1GF!: The pictures.
Me: It’s the same information that I always put, it just has pictures now.
#1GF!: Yea, but they’re so personal.
Me: They’re just the CD covers. I used to link to the covers…
#1GF!: I know. Before you were like, “Hey, go look at these CDs I bought…”
Me: yea…
#1GF!: And now it’s like you’re standing there holding them up for people.

Because we had a day off and no plans, we decided to revisit Cape Cod on our second day off. We drove alternate routes on the way down and back, traveling on the outside of the cape on the way down and on the inside on the way back. Normally the trip from bridge to tip is a couple of hours, but if you take alternate routes, it seems shorter because you see more than the typical highway monotony.

Do you seriously have any idea how many mini golf courses there are on the Cape? No matter where you are, you can’t throw a rock without hitting a giant whale par 3 or a lighthouse par 4. The number of mini golf courses is only topped by the number of friggin Christmas tree shops, which you can’t spit without hitting. Which I would if I didn’t think it would fly out the window and come back and hit me in the forehead. I hate the Christmas Tree Shop.

If you are unfamiliar with the Christmas Tree Shop phenomenon, it has nothing to do with Christmas at all. It’s simply a place where women go to buy things to clutter up their homes. And if your a man, stay the fuck out of there. I don’t care if you share an effeminate side, a penchant for ladies’ undergarments or a craving for cock. No common ground will save you. If you are not dripping with estrogen, they’ll eat you alive in there.

The only time I set foot in a Christmas Tree Shop was with my ex wife. Because her family made such a big fuss about the place, I could only assume that they owned a special plow with which to plow the merchandise directly into their cars. As a flea market fan myself, I thought that the place sounded interesting and figured, “Why not?”

I’ll tell you why not: because it’s not a flea market. It’s like a craft fare/fire sale bomb exploded in there. I walked about 15 feet into the store and was so inundated with low priced crap that I was completely overwhelmed. There wasn’t a manly item in the store. Hell, besides the elderly, broken down shopping cart slaves that some women tote with them shopping, there weren’t any men in the store. It was like accidentally wandering into the ladies unmentionables section and getting stuck there.

Within 10 minutes, I found myself staring into a basket of wooden apples.

“What are these, wooden? Who the hell needs wooden apples,” I asked no one in particular.

No fewer than five middle aged women lurking in the aisle simultaneously turned to me and berated me about exactly why people need wooden apples, why I had my head up my ass, and why if my ex wanted to buy wooden apples she should not be questioned on her purchases because I was a stupid, stupid man.

They didn’t explain wooden apples to me in a gently, “you poor man” kind of way. They were not kind. They were vehement. They defended a middle aged woman’s right to squander their poor bastard of a husband’s paycheck on whatever useless horseshit they wanted. They were on the attack. Over wooden fucking apples.

I turned to the ex wife standing outside of the gauntlet and just said “What the fuck? I’ll be in the car,” and walked the fuck out of that store never taking the stamp to allow re-entry. And since then, I haven’t been back.