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.

After fighting off Zotob and the other 14 worms released in the last 2 days, I was very ready to take 2 days off. Today, we got up early and developed a quick plan to meander down some secondary roads to one of the Cape’s finest beaches. If you believe the morons on the internet, like we did, that beach is Sandy Neck.

When I imagine the best beach on the Cape, I think of high, rolling sand dunes covered in sea grass that lead out to soft sand that has been bleached almost white by the sun. If the beach is on the outside of the cape, the sound of waves should thunder in my ears. If it’s the inside, the waves should lap at the shore with a gentle whooossshhhh. There should also be a couple of sets of foot prints in the sand by the water’s edge that lead into the distance, the creators of which I can’t see. And maybe there is a seagull or two that floats by on the gentle breeze.

Maybe it’s because we live on Nantasket that we’re tougher critics of beaches, but I would not say that Sandy Neck is the “best beach on Cape Cod.” It did have dunes, but the beach was pretty rocky and the view of the ocean had a big smokestack jammed in the middle of it. I would say that it’s nice insofar as Nantasket beach is nice, but I wouldn’t go the distance and say it was the best beach on Cape Cod. Maybe the person who rated it so highly was from Iowa or some land locked town in Mass and had never seen a beach before.

That’s not to say the beach was horrible. We did see both Barbi and Ken in the flesh, and 4 teenage girls who spent 15 minutes lying on top of each other in the water to have their picture taken by a 5th. Maybe the person who rated the beach the #1 beach on the Cape, knew these girls to be a regular attraction (Seriously though: When do you see 5 girls lying on top of each other in the water? When do you see 5 people in such close contact outside of a fumble in a professional football game or a rest stop? It was strange…)

After a couple of hours of sitting and trying to relax, we changed in the car like surfers, and headed cross-Cape to Hyannis to grab something to eat. We actually ate at “Not Your Average Joe’s” at the mall, which isn’t very adventurous, but we were starving and knew that the food was good. When asked by the matre’d where we wanted to sit, I could only say, “By the way we are dressed, you are probably aware that we only sit in the finest seats available,” which he seemed to find amusing before seating us at a table way in the back near the waitress station. So much for Mr. Funnyman.

After eating a meal at that time of afternoon typically reserved by people with AARP cards, we headed for Hyannis center so that I could take my half of the fun. For me, that entails picking through the used CDs at Spinnaker records. Their prices aren’t the greatest, but their selection of CDs, t-shirts, and movies is pretty good for a an independent record store on the Cape. While I picked, #1GF! excused herself to window shop up and down the main strip. 45 minutes later she returned wondering how I was progressing, which is polite #1GF! short hand for “Not to boss you around, but can we get the fuck out of here?”

Within 15 minutes, I emerged with 6 new CDs. In her mind, she had generously left me to my CD picking for a WHOLE hour. In my mind, I generously blazed through every used CD in the store in UNDER and hour. Both of us were so proud of how nice we are to each other.

From there, we headed back to the car, passing some teenagers who were dressed exactly the way MTV would have you believe that an inner city gang member would dress. As they passed, they complained that they were unfairly being treated like gang members. I had a full explanation that included phrases like “buy clothes that fit” and “pull your damned pants up,” but I’m over 30, and what teenager wants to listen to it from a guy over 30, even if he is packing more metal CDs than they could possibly stand? None of them do: Because being a teenager isn’t about figuring out the rules, it’s about complaining about how unfair the rules are.

So, I nursed a tall glass of shut the fuck up and just smiled at the #1GF!, happy that I was old enough to know that the rules aren’t really that important and lucky enough to get a couple of days off from them.

Fireworks (drama): A Japanese ex-cop with a bad attitude wears sunglasses and walks around looking tough. He shoots some people and punches others for no real reason other than he’s not happy about his wife dying. The punches somehow make people spit a pint of blood each, but even that can’t save the movie. I actually played solitaire hoping that something would happen, but nothing did. F.

Tuesdays With Morrie (drama): Morrie is an old professor who’s dying. An ex-student comes to visit on Tuesdays to learn life’s lessons. The lesson is this: If you aren’t a touchy feely hugger, then you’re afraid of something. If you don’t wear your heart on your sleeve, you need to learn to or you’ll be miserably alone. When you accept your role as a fancy panzy nancy boy, you will be happy. I had to get up and get the fuck away from this movie. You know why? Because men acting like touchy feely panzies doesn’t make me afraid, it makes me angry. I want to punch things. You want to cry at a funeral? It’s ok, just at least try to hold it back. You want to hug your friends? Fine, just do the little pat thing, not the rub thing. You want to sit around talking about feelings and needlepoint? You may want to trade in your cock for something that suits you…then join Metallica. That’s right, Metallica, I’m talking to you, you pussies. F

The Luzhin Defence (drama): A chess champion who makes me look like a social butterfly meets a supposedly hot chick to marry. Unfortunately, she’s not hot, and the movie goes in 50 directions trying to sell me a brand of crazy that I wasn’t interested in. It does this in a torturously slow manner. And they set it in the 1940’s, which I personally don’t like, but can’t fault it for. What I can fault it for is 1/2 the people having shit English accents no matter what country they were from, and the complete lack of tommy guns and mugsy talkin’. This movie was the final straw that got me banned by the #1GF! from adding things to the Netflix queue. BANNED. Do you have any idea how many Julia Roberts movies I’m going to be watching? Do you? Oh this gets the big, fat F BIG TIME! F

Hitch (comedy): Ok. Kevin James is fat and nerdy and wants to score with this hot heiress, so he hires Will Smith to teach him all the right moves. It was a a romance, but because there’s nothing funnier than a fat guy dancing, I can say that this movie worked. It’s light and funny, and I laughed a bunch of times. B+

*Banned Edition

Friday
I was supposed to have the day off, and ended up working from home all day. At what point did work take highest rating spot in my life? When will what I enjoy get more time than that which I don’t?

Saturday
I was thinking that it was odd and slightly cool that a carload of girls was so into Star Wars that they yelled, “3P0!” out the window at the #1GF! and me. “Oh that’s nice” the #1GF! said sarcastically. Knowing that the #1GF! doesn’t like Star Wars, but doesn’t hate it enough to get offended by the mere mention of C3P0, I asked “Wait, what did they yell?”

“Eat Me Out. What did you think they said?”

Sunday
I went out on my porch to read the housing section and I somehow started talking to the woman downstairs. As a pretty anti-social guy, I found it pretty interesting that we talked for an hour. Even more amazing was that the #1GF! came out and we all talked for another 2. You have no idea how much people will tell me about their lives, and how little I will provide them about myself.

Monday
Jerry Springer presented me with this point to ponder: What will the woman do for a face when the dog calls to get his ass back? I guess only Jerry and the dog know for sure.

On driving past a guy mowing the lawn…
#1GF!: [looks] I used to babysit that guy…
#1GF!: [looks again]…and now he’s bald.
#1GF!: Fuck.

The #1GF! is really the selfless type, and had a rough time telling me what she really wanted for her birthday this year beacause she felt it was a little on the extravagant side. And, man am I’m glad she did, because I think it would’ve been kind of a bitch to re-pack and return the electronic drum kit.

The way she built it up, I was worried that I would be spending what little time was available before her birthday hand carving an armoire from a single block of the finest oak with nothing but antique chisels. And what did she want? Some semi-expensive jewelry. She never really asks for anything, so I figured that even though I never really would’ve thought of it, this must’ve been something that she really wanted. And having it be relatively expensive absolves me from any creative input in the process (which was not going well this year), so I happily agreed. I shelved the idea that what she really wants is to play drums for the motherfuckin’ GAP Band reunion tour, and headed out to the store to peep some bling. I mean, how hard could it be?

As far as I could tell, the process seemed pretty simple: You walk into some fancy jewelry store with your entourage, leaving “Mixy P.” to watch the door. While you locate the biggest piece that says “Freshhhh” blinged up cursive-style and still fits around your neck, you break down the shop keep’s defenses with a witticism that makes her throw back her head and laugh hard enough to cut 10% off the deal. Then, you just say something like “Aw snap!” and you execute a complicated, but well-practiced move to pull a wad of green out of your baggy pants without having them fall down. The whole thing takes just slightly more time than Sir Mix-A-Lot’s career and gets you home in time to grab a slurpie, walk the pit bull, and let the MTV cribs crew into the house.

Like the first time you have a regular converstation with a stripper, the reality of the process does not live up to your vision. You walk into three or four jewelery stores with no entourage b/c they’re all busy playing playstation, eating your chips, and letting the pit bull shit on whatever he damn well pleases. The clerks are all out of “Freshhh” necklaces, and the four finger ring that says “Fly Girl” is being held for someone with a name that uses a unique interpretation of English spelling. Even if it wasn’t, you find that it’s so far out of your price range that you’d have to sell your trademark “Love” and “Hate” radio Rakim four finger rings and maybe your custom BlingMobile to afford it.

So you just look at some earrings or something. You look at them, they sparkle. You look up close you see the flaws. You look at 10 or 12 pairs and they all start looking the same. When the clerk mentions a “Perfect 10 Event,” you reply with “Oh no, I couldn’t. I no longer do competitions. It’s just too much pressure.” You can almost hear the crickets when she explains to you like you’re an idiot that she was referring to getting 10% off if you open a credit card account. From then on, you pretty much stare at her moustache and wish that all the magnifying glasses had girly pictures in them. Eventually, you just pick the nicest pair that seems to sparkle, and get home in time to watch “Houses”, the Cribs knockoff for people who won’t spring the $50 extortion fee for the MTV.

Personally, I don’t understand bling at all. If I had my choice between the bling and really nice electronic drum set with a rotating cage and hanging chain cymbals, I think I’d probably blow them both off and buy a couple of CD’s and put the rest in the bank. With me it’s all about the usefulness of the item multiplied by the price divided by the length of time in days before I either break or lose it. But, I’m a dude. And a clutzy one. There is no petite flower in this skin.

As for her, I didn’t think that she really wanted the jewelery at all. I just assumed that she was afraid that once she learned how to drum on the rotating cage, chain cymbal, electronic drum set, she would be forced to tour with the Gap Band and end up leaving me for some long haired rock guy who she’d eventually find out had herpes. And she probably thought to herself, “Fuck that. I better just ask for some jewelry. Jewelry beats herpes any day.”

So, when the #1GF! got her bling for her birthday, I had no idea that she would react the way she did. Her eyes sort of glazed over, and I must admit that I really am under the impression that I could’ve had my way with her right there on the glass case. And for what I paid for the damn things, I think the clerk might have excused herself to get the windex. Had I known that women get so exited about tiny, shiny rocks, I would’ve implemented this into my patented chick catching strategy long ago. I thought it was just something that people did in the movies or something where giving electronic drum sets seems cliche.

I heard that they were shooting a new Scorsese film in a shipyard not too far from the house, so the #1GF! and I drove down to the set to see if anything cool would happen. After 10 minutes of standing in the dark staring through a fence at a guy cooking hot dogs next to a warehouse, we gave up, leaving the other late night derelicts to their staring.

Within 3 minutes of getting in the car, I annoyed the #1GF! with rants about how bad their Boston accents will be and how I really should’ve better spent my time standing outside the fence by yelling “I love you Leatahdo DiCraprio!” while holding up a friend of mine’s name and number on a poster board. After an hour or so of this nonsense, I had advanced through a scenario where I was standing outside with a bullhorn yelling “lets go Reatahdo, lets go [clap][clap]” and DiNero coming out to kick my ass. I would obviously be grabbing my crotch and telling the old fart to “Analyze THIS!”

When it seemed like I could stretch it no further, I made a little L out of the toothpaste on the #1GF!’s toothbrush and told her that it was in honor of Leahtahdo and that I was the kingathaworld…

I think that there is definately a price to pay for being the #1GF!. And sometimes that price is high.

Ever get things done despite yourself and enjoy it? Ever sit with someone and just feel like you’re home? Where the hours are long and comfortable enough that time just floats by you like an inner tube on a slow moving river? Where walking a mile in the rain just to get coffee seems reasonable and comfortable because your contentment can’t be rinsed away? Where you make things that you’ve never made before simply because you have someone around who will appreciate them? That was this weekend.

Ever have one of those days where every minute makes you twitch? Where everything that you do seems like a complete waste of time? Where every keystroke you find that you are spending more and more effort trying to keep your jaw unclenched? When as soon as you can leave, you don’t waste one spare minute getting out the door and you don’t care where you drive to as long as it is as far as you can get from where you are right now? Where you actually worry that the next bump in the road might accidentally sever the tongue graciously preventing your teeth from grinding themselves down to stubs? That was Monday.

The friendly plateau that is my private life makes staring up from a hopeless corporate valley seem so much more grey than could ever be achieved from the sum of its furniture. But the way she parts the clouds and floats me down that river in those off hours makes it seem like a perfect summer day. No matter what the weather.

And because her, I float down the river in that inner tube with the sun warming my face and the water cooling my feet; my fingers trailing along just enjoying the ride.

And because of her, I slowly become less of a man. Less fierce. Less compressed. Less alone.

PostSecret
I don’t think I’ve found anything lately on the web that has expressed the notion that we’re all not so alone than the post cards sent in anonymously to http://postsecret.blogspot.com. And sometimes that can be helpful in simply turning a day around.

If you laugh every time your GF says things like, “I love you, bitch” or substitutes the words “bee shit” for “honey,” you are probably in love. If the same situation makes you either instinctively crap your pants or look around wildly for your shiv, you are probably in prison.

Oral
Today, I got my teeth cleaned, and it took over an hour because I had a really nice talk with a 48 year old hygenist who had her husband leave her after being married through 25 years and 2 kids.

I didn’t know this hygenist before today, she seemed completely stable, and you really have no idea how many people open up to me with their life stories for no reason whatsoever.

I also found out that I grind my teeth enough to have worn them down to nubs, and how Sensodyne works.

Manual
Him: Hey, so how’d the tests go?
Her: Everything looks perfect.
Him: Did your mom go with you?
Her: Yea she’s right here.
Him: So, if someday we weren’t able to have kids, I’d have to go get m’ boys tested, then.
Her: We don’t need to worry about that, right now.
Him: Well, do you think your Mom will come along if I have to go in for testing?
Her: [muffled talking] She says she’ll hold your hand.
Him: [Silence]
Her: [Silence]
Him: I hope she means either before or after.
Her: She really has no idea what she just said.

Two cool things happened to me today: A high level manager suggested that it may be beneficial to sit down talk with his boss about my career (or lack thereof), and my GF earnestly said that I could quit my job if I really needed to.

Who’s livin’ the life, wage slaves? Me, that’s who. If anyone needs me, I’ll be sitting on the couch fanning my sugar mama.

A week of a solid vacation in Hawaii will wipe out any stress that may have accumulated over the past few months. On one’s first day back, one might briefly entertain the idea that one doesn’t belong in the basement before being distracted by the accumulated workload. After nearly an hour of unconsciously dribbling coffee down one’s shirt, one knows that he does.

But now, I’m a nerd that hiked for 5 hours just to stand 2 feet away from 2000 degree lava. And accidentally cut my hand and bled all over it.

I may have superpowers now, but I’m not sure. I’ll know more when my LavaMan Super Suit is finished.

From TV: “I must leave you…My Beyonce’s are coming back.”
Me: Wait. Is there more than one Beyonce, now?
GF: [silence]
Me: Like a group or something?
GF: Fiance. Her fiance is coming back. What’s wrong with you?

Most towns in Massachusetts are just beginning to get the snow removal process underway after this week’s storms. Consequently, pedestrians’ only option is to walk icy paths between three foot snow banks.

While walking back to the car after dinner with Joey and the GF, I think I slid out of control two or three times in the mere one block it took to reach the front of Club 58. Thanks to Massachusetts smoking bans in restaurants, there were three fairly typical town-ettes standing outside enjoying their cigarettes in the cold.

For maximum comedic effect, I couldn’t have timed it better, because just as I got within arms length of them, I took what we refer to in the area as a major digga (explanation for non-townies). I’ve never claimed to have been suave, and I’ve been tripping over my own feet since a gangly 12 years old. Instead of developing a system to stop the root cause of the problem, my brain has developed a method of dealing with the aftermath. It ignores the things that make me constantly trip, but like a cat, it orders my body parts into a major flailing production in the air that results in a safe and a perfect landing. I never seem to hit the ground. It’s a gift.

Anyway, I have no idea what I did when I hit the ice in front of Club 58, but I know I twisted 180 degrees to land on my gloves almost in a push-up 10 inches from the smokers.

“SHUT UP!” one yelled (why they yell shut up, I’ll never understand) and pointing to one of her nodding companions said, “She just slipped in the same spot like 2 minutes ago!” Then, the “Areyouok?Areyouok?’s arrived and receded like a crashing wave. Now, I swear that normally I am a pretty quick-witted wise ass, but unfortunately, I think my brain’s fall control mechanism must’ve completely sucked all the neurons from the wit center of my brain. All I could think of while on my hands was the Culture Club song:

I’ll tumble for ya, I’ll tumble for ya…

Shit. Falling is not embarrassing. Having the best witty thing that you can think of to make light of the situation be a based on a 20 year old song by a fucking drag queen that that none of these kids would even remember, nevermind appreciate: Now that’s embarrassing. Upon further reflection, the remark probably would’ve sucked even 20 years ago. Oh, the horror. I just swallowed a tall glass of shut the fuck up and got up and said,

“I’m fine. Thanks. No really. I’m fine.”

It was the best I could do. The GF, in her nurturing nature, started in with questions about my ankle surely being twisted because of the 180 degree turn, and the townies were exchanging huddled smiles and cackling about how crazy the fall was, as I merely stood up, composed myself, and continued on my way to the car.

Five feet away stood two townie guys barely in their early 20’s discussing the fall in cool, quiet tones that are only appropriate for 22 year olds and Clint Eastwood movies. As I passed, I had a moment of cool when one quietly said,

“Dude, that was an awesome fall.”

Which I ruined completely by opening my big, fat mouth for the first time with:

“I fall all the time. I’m like a falling ninja.”

I didn’t look back for a reaction. I just winced and walked on. Only if I’d been wearing a “Caution: Falling Ninja” T-shirt could I have been less cool.

I suddenly realized that I have been writing 4-5 times a week in this blog for over 3 years now. I probably should go back and fix all the crappy grammar and confusing sentence structure, but I have this impression in my head that my back posts are wonderfully amusing and witty. Like watching a movie as an adult that you loved as a kid, I’m afraid that the second look may not live up to the eloquent prose I remember it to be.

Truthful news flash: I’m a bad speller, and I forgo the rules of grammar often enough to know that going back to edit a bunch of posts that only I read is as big a waste of time as revamping the crappy colors and structure of the site itself. Time is scarce and needs to be dedicated to loftier projects.

Like becoming the best street racer in the underground before the GF gets home. Word.

If you are at work, and you ask out loud, “Hey, how fast can the millennium Falcoln do the Kessel run?”, there is a good chance that you may be a big, fat nerd. If you do not fear strange looks from your co-workers, there is a good chance that your co-workers may also be big, fat nerds. If you get an immediate response and use the phrase, “That’s what I thought,” then both may be true. If you argue over whether the answer “12 parsecs” is correct, because Han Solo clearly described the ship as doing the Kessel run in under 12 parsecs, even I could probably teach you what it means to be cool. If you consult with any type of hard copy (Star Wars Trivia guide, Living like Luke, The Jedi Handbook, etc.) to prove you are right, you win. But, on so many levels, you lose.

If you live in Hull, you got 3 feet of snow yesterday, and the hurricane force winds created massive snow drifts that were taller than you by a foot before the plow even got there. You are also facing 8-10 inches tomorrow. 8 days ago, you experienced 2 straight days of 60 degree weather.

If I am offered 2 degrees and sunny or 32 and snowy, I’m taking the snow even if its 3 feet and leaves a 7 foot drift outside my door. If you offer 3 feet and 2 degrees, I’m staying in and playing the PS2.

If you take your garbage out in a blizzard, you will wade through waist deep snow and 40 MPH winds to get to the dumpster. In the short walk, your frozen beard will make you look like Mr. Cold Miser. Because life is a comedy, when you get to the dumpster chute and you inadvertently fling one of your gloves in, you will hopefully smile before sliding down the chute after it while your GF doubles over laughing at you.

If you attempt to further entertain your GF by diving off a 10 foot high rock head first into a 7 foot snow bank, after you finish wiggling your legs in the air like you were stuck, you may be surprised at the kids 25 years your junior laughing an waving out of their windows. You will feel young until you later think, “Man, thank goodness there wasn’t a stick in there to take my eye out.”