Posts
A real man is a complex, many-splendored creature. He is rough and unrefined, yet fits comfortably in a tuxedo. His mane of glorious chest hair bespeaks kinship with God’s lesser creatures, yet he is not bound by it. God made him different. Rather than spend a lifetime pinching fleas, he developed technology, culminating in the electric beard trimmer, in order to subdue those obvious ties to the animal kingdom.
A man is competent, capable, potentially dangerous, strong. A man is not a delicate flower. A man does not loofah. A man does not know about soap varieties or why you should wash a towel that serves only to dry water off a clean person.
A real man smells of lye soap and leather and fury and brimstone.
A man is why we have razor wire. A woman would take one look at 14-foot-high barbed wire and think “I’ll keep looking” – not a man.
A man spends his first 20-30 years of life evolving into a unique organism entirely capable of caring for himself and dominating his environment (after a fashion). One day, convinced that he alone is in control, he seeks out a mate to affirm his dominance who, impressed with his manliness and general ability to destroy; chooses him as a life partner.
All is well.
Shortly after the elaborate yoking-together process is complete, everything changes. After months of subjection to the dark, mysterious, arts of womanhood; a man finds himself sitting alone in a townhouse on a Tuesday night weakly staring down a sackful of Krystals, no television, no internet, no workshop, and no wife to entertain him with lively jokes and knowledge of where stored foodstuffs are located in the mysterious kitchenette area. Two aligned synapses fire weakly in his primitive brain and the man realizes – “God would look upon this and say 'it is not good'.”
Suffering with the pain of his abdicated manliness, the man mutely stumbles about the chilly townhouse, blindly grasping at air and throwing in an occasional JUDO CHOP for good measure until finally he tires, lowering his body to sit upon the sofa. Suddenly, mid-crouch, he freezes and hears in his mind a distant female voice whispering “you are not supposed to sit upon that couch." Instead, he plunks down upon the floor, next to an empty couch, all alone.
As he sits on the floor, next to the couch that must not be sat upon, gazing into the emasculating stack of gas logs that passes for a fireplace and upon which things must not be burned or roasted; he realizes: “I am no longer in control.”
He remains, allowing the realization to wash over him. All appears lost.
Suddenly he reaches out and nudges a bowl of "company-only" pistachios off the coffee table; watching gleefully as they bounce and rattle across the floor. Satisfied, he gets up and puts himself to bed.
That bowl of nuts should never have crossed him.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Simple Simon
I enjoy cooking periodically. I don’t do it all the time, but when I do – I like to make a production of it. I also like to experiment. There have been a few noteworthy failures as well as the occasional success, but what stands out most vividly in my mind is the general shock and amazement our friends exhibit when I do chance upon a winning combination in the kitchen.
I like to cook and I couldn’t possibly care less about football. The horrible truth is out.
Someone asked me not long ago how it came to be that an individual so completely incompetent in so many other domestic areas came to know his way, comfortably, around the kitchen. I hadn’t thought much of it, but when she asked I realized there actually was a turning point. I wasn't born with it. I had an epiphany that led my otherwise peanut-butter-and-jellied feet into the kitchen many years ago – and I guess it just stuck.
In approximately 1991 Mom suggested I assist in snapping the ends off some green beans. I had been reading several historical accounts of pioneer and Native American families about that time so, I calmly responded with “I would, but that is women’s work.”
Did you ever say the wrong thing?
It happened to me.
That afternoon I found myself dropped off smartly at the front of the grocery store with a children’s recipe book in one hand, a fistful of grubby singles in the other and strict instructions not to come out until I had everything I needed to cook dinner for 4 – 5 if I wanted to eat too.
Later that evening I turned out 10 of my signature “Simple Simon Pies” – biscuit dough baked over the cups of an upended muffin tin and filled with a sautéed beef-and-ground-cheese concoction - canned green beans to garnish and $1.38 left over after coupons. Dad was, to put it mildly, “amused” at her diabolical punishments for chauvanism; hypocritical, I think, for a man who grew up with a cook and housekeeper and to this day prepares meals consisting of not more than one food group at a time.
Cooking alone (Mom retired to the couch with a book on parenting) was a bit of a challenge for an 11-year-old as I had to stand on a small footstool to reach the stovetop, but I learned to get around pretty sharp in there. Anyway - I had to…..every Tuesday night that summer.
I guess Mom’s the one to blame.
I like to cook and I couldn’t possibly care less about football. The horrible truth is out.
Someone asked me not long ago how it came to be that an individual so completely incompetent in so many other domestic areas came to know his way, comfortably, around the kitchen. I hadn’t thought much of it, but when she asked I realized there actually was a turning point. I wasn't born with it. I had an epiphany that led my otherwise peanut-butter-and-jellied feet into the kitchen many years ago – and I guess it just stuck.
In approximately 1991 Mom suggested I assist in snapping the ends off some green beans. I had been reading several historical accounts of pioneer and Native American families about that time so, I calmly responded with “I would, but that is women’s work.”
Did you ever say the wrong thing?
It happened to me.
That afternoon I found myself dropped off smartly at the front of the grocery store with a children’s recipe book in one hand, a fistful of grubby singles in the other and strict instructions not to come out until I had everything I needed to cook dinner for 4 – 5 if I wanted to eat too.
Later that evening I turned out 10 of my signature “Simple Simon Pies” – biscuit dough baked over the cups of an upended muffin tin and filled with a sautéed beef-and-ground-cheese concoction - canned green beans to garnish and $1.38 left over after coupons. Dad was, to put it mildly, “amused” at her diabolical punishments for chauvanism; hypocritical, I think, for a man who grew up with a cook and housekeeper and to this day prepares meals consisting of not more than one food group at a time.
Cooking alone (Mom retired to the couch with a book on parenting) was a bit of a challenge for an 11-year-old as I had to stand on a small footstool to reach the stovetop, but I learned to get around pretty sharp in there. Anyway - I had to…..every Tuesday night that summer.
I guess Mom’s the one to blame.
Monday, January 17, 2011
A Most Costly Miscalculation
I rarely ever get sick, but on the odd occasion it happens – its bad. I fall completely apart, my mind goes blank and I devolve into a flailing gelatinous blob of misery. My coping wheels come completely off and I end up, emotionally speaking, deep in the bottomless ditch of ultimate human suffering cursing the fates for bringing me to such low station. In extreme cases I may even stoop so low as to attempt what, for a man, is the ultimate sign of submission: an immersion bath.
If I had a large readership I might not ordinarily divulge this information, but here goes: this is the only situation in which I can be killed. And yes, that's a hat. And no - I don't want to talk about it.
I’ve been basically well for about 5 years so I guess I was due for a bout of nameless typhoid. Any other day in 2010 you couldn’t have killed me with an axe, but a few Fridays ago I realized I didn’t feel well, so I got in bed and I stayed there…..
....until Wednesday.
I tried everything Tyler could think of to make me feel better, but only one thing worked: Tyler’s full, complete, unwavering, mind-altering focus on my every need.
A man faced with his own mortality can't be confronted with simple daily tasks like toweling himself off after a shower or pouring his own water. Even that brief lack of focus on getting better and I may well have died. Advanced typhomasticolitosis is no laughing matter.
How long has it been since someone brushed your teeth for you? For me it’s about two weeks. It’s that sort of attention to detail that made the difference in my tenuous hold on life and I’m not ashamed to tell you – my singular ability to focus and carry on in the face of immense illness and adversity is why I’m alive today.
I made one ill-fated foray into the land of the living in order to pick up a prescription from the CVS drive-thru, but I coughed and moaned so loud Tyler got embarassed at the window and took me back home.
After 5 days treading the gray bordelands between Sandy Springs and the Hereafter; my gynecologist, Uncle John, was able to intervene with a timely application of antibiotic and I began the long, slow, arduous process of improvement.
As I sprawled in bed on Wednesday looking back on the immense amount of trouble and misery I caused my lovely young wife during the period of my life-threatening illness - I felt generally satisfied. Without even intending to - I had set the behavioral stage for a lifetime of spousal indentured servitude during bouts of common illnesses. I, James G. Ewing, Jr. spent an entire 5 day period completely unencumbered by any of the daily tasks completed by an ordinary person with a modicum of self-respect.
Life was good.
Then, on my last day of horrific illness - shortly after my bedside lunch, but before my afternoon pillow-fluffing and hot tea; I sallied forth on a strength-building mission into the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs I overheard the hushed tones of my lovely wife talking with a friend on the phone and I stood frozen, paling in the realization of my first gigantic marital strategic error.
I heard:
"Yeah. He's been a huge pain all week. It's embarassing really. He's had a bad cough and a headache. That's about it, but you'd think he was knocking on death's door by the gigantic nuisance he's made of himself."
(pause)
"No. He's fine. At one point I actually put a cold cloth on his forehead. It was pitiful. He claims he hasn't been able to come downstairs, but I can tell by the cushions he lays around down here on my clean couch when I leave."
(silence. friend talks for a moment).
"What? No. are you kidding me? I've looked after him every minute for the last few days. Hand and foot. You think I'm missing an opportunity like this?"
"When I'm pregnant he's going to be my slave."
All is lost.
If I had a large readership I might not ordinarily divulge this information, but here goes: this is the only situation in which I can be killed. And yes, that's a hat. And no - I don't want to talk about it.
I’ve been basically well for about 5 years so I guess I was due for a bout of nameless typhoid. Any other day in 2010 you couldn’t have killed me with an axe, but a few Fridays ago I realized I didn’t feel well, so I got in bed and I stayed there…..
....until Wednesday.
I tried everything Tyler could think of to make me feel better, but only one thing worked: Tyler’s full, complete, unwavering, mind-altering focus on my every need.
A man faced with his own mortality can't be confronted with simple daily tasks like toweling himself off after a shower or pouring his own water. Even that brief lack of focus on getting better and I may well have died. Advanced typhomasticolitosis is no laughing matter.
How long has it been since someone brushed your teeth for you? For me it’s about two weeks. It’s that sort of attention to detail that made the difference in my tenuous hold on life and I’m not ashamed to tell you – my singular ability to focus and carry on in the face of immense illness and adversity is why I’m alive today.
I made one ill-fated foray into the land of the living in order to pick up a prescription from the CVS drive-thru, but I coughed and moaned so loud Tyler got embarassed at the window and took me back home.
After 5 days treading the gray bordelands between Sandy Springs and the Hereafter; my gynecologist, Uncle John, was able to intervene with a timely application of antibiotic and I began the long, slow, arduous process of improvement.
As I sprawled in bed on Wednesday looking back on the immense amount of trouble and misery I caused my lovely young wife during the period of my life-threatening illness - I felt generally satisfied. Without even intending to - I had set the behavioral stage for a lifetime of spousal indentured servitude during bouts of common illnesses. I, James G. Ewing, Jr. spent an entire 5 day period completely unencumbered by any of the daily tasks completed by an ordinary person with a modicum of self-respect.
Life was good.
Then, on my last day of horrific illness - shortly after my bedside lunch, but before my afternoon pillow-fluffing and hot tea; I sallied forth on a strength-building mission into the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs I overheard the hushed tones of my lovely wife talking with a friend on the phone and I stood frozen, paling in the realization of my first gigantic marital strategic error.
I heard:
"Yeah. He's been a huge pain all week. It's embarassing really. He's had a bad cough and a headache. That's about it, but you'd think he was knocking on death's door by the gigantic nuisance he's made of himself."
(pause)
"No. He's fine. At one point I actually put a cold cloth on his forehead. It was pitiful. He claims he hasn't been able to come downstairs, but I can tell by the cushions he lays around down here on my clean couch when I leave."
(silence. friend talks for a moment).
"What? No. are you kidding me? I've looked after him every minute for the last few days. Hand and foot. You think I'm missing an opportunity like this?"
"When I'm pregnant he's going to be my slave."
All is lost.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Christmas Comes Whenever It Wants
Christmas comes early and often for the Ewing family. Santa forced his chubby butt down our chimney in the wee early morning hours this Sunday and he's coming back on the 25th. Its two solid weeks of Christmas revelry.
We've kept him unusually busy over the years for the simple reason that we're not afraid to sidle one of the holidays out of its normal spot if it serves us - we make them work for US, not the other way around.
I believe it was about 1989 that Dad got sick of hauling wrapped presents all the way to Macon, unwrapping them, then loading them all back up so, Mom just up and moved Christmas. Does that mean we get an excessive amount of Christmas booty and we should be ashamed of our wanton destruction of Christmas and its substitution with a day marked by the expression of greed in its purest form?
No, of course not.
But it was unprecedented. No one in our family knew what to expect. Could Santa still find us? "Was he even ALIVE?"; a question Uncle Robert casually intoned into the keyhole of the coat closet where he'd locked me to think about it.
1989 was an emotional year, full of uncertainty and doubt. Would I get everything I wanted like a good American always should? "Did Santa allocate gifts in direct proportion to the size of your house (small houses - small gifts)?" "Was "Santa" really an anagram for "Satan" and was I certain "Santa" didn't take anything when he "broke into" our house?" - all questions thoughtfully posed by Uncle Robert.
No one seemed to have the answers, but my cousins and I agreed - smoking one last Carlton Menthol purlioned from Gma's purse would be the least of our naughty-list worries. Plus, we knew she'd fib for us if we got nabbed by humorless parents and do-gooder aunts; staunchly claiming she "gave us" a few Christmas cigarettes and not to worry, "they're ultralights" - just to keep us out of trouble.
It was my older cousin, Seth, who executed a perfect smoke ring from his perch on the highest peak of Gma's roof and sagely suggested that Santa was like God and Granddad - immortal and always watching. Then, he stubbed out the glowing coal on an asphalt shingle and casually flicked the butt high over my head. Impressed with his technique, I watched it fly across the roof rapidly losing speed and falling in a perfect arc -straight down the chimney. It disappeared from sight; immediately thereafter (we were told) to drop two stories straight down, bounce twice across the hearth and roll to a stop in the center of the den floor - right in front of the television.
We didn't know we were pinched until we heard Granddad's voice bellowing up the brick flue "I'VE TOLD YOU TO STAY OFF THE ROOF. YOU ARE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN AROUND MY EARS AND I AM GOING TO HAVE TO KILL YOU."
It's a good thing Christmas comes twice.
We've kept him unusually busy over the years for the simple reason that we're not afraid to sidle one of the holidays out of its normal spot if it serves us - we make them work for US, not the other way around.
I believe it was about 1989 that Dad got sick of hauling wrapped presents all the way to Macon, unwrapping them, then loading them all back up so, Mom just up and moved Christmas. Does that mean we get an excessive amount of Christmas booty and we should be ashamed of our wanton destruction of Christmas and its substitution with a day marked by the expression of greed in its purest form?
No, of course not.
But it was unprecedented. No one in our family knew what to expect. Could Santa still find us? "Was he even ALIVE?"; a question Uncle Robert casually intoned into the keyhole of the coat closet where he'd locked me to think about it.
1989 was an emotional year, full of uncertainty and doubt. Would I get everything I wanted like a good American always should? "Did Santa allocate gifts in direct proportion to the size of your house (small houses - small gifts)?" "Was "Santa" really an anagram for "Satan" and was I certain "Santa" didn't take anything when he "broke into" our house?" - all questions thoughtfully posed by Uncle Robert.
No one seemed to have the answers, but my cousins and I agreed - smoking one last Carlton Menthol purlioned from Gma's purse would be the least of our naughty-list worries. Plus, we knew she'd fib for us if we got nabbed by humorless parents and do-gooder aunts; staunchly claiming she "gave us" a few Christmas cigarettes and not to worry, "they're ultralights" - just to keep us out of trouble.
It was my older cousin, Seth, who executed a perfect smoke ring from his perch on the highest peak of Gma's roof and sagely suggested that Santa was like God and Granddad - immortal and always watching. Then, he stubbed out the glowing coal on an asphalt shingle and casually flicked the butt high over my head. Impressed with his technique, I watched it fly across the roof rapidly losing speed and falling in a perfect arc -straight down the chimney. It disappeared from sight; immediately thereafter (we were told) to drop two stories straight down, bounce twice across the hearth and roll to a stop in the center of the den floor - right in front of the television.
We didn't know we were pinched until we heard Granddad's voice bellowing up the brick flue "I'VE TOLD YOU TO STAY OFF THE ROOF. YOU ARE GOING TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN AROUND MY EARS AND I AM GOING TO HAVE TO KILL YOU."
It's a good thing Christmas comes twice.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
I Wish I Could Draw
I find myself in need of a better form of graphic communication than I can personally produce. I’m constantly in situations wherein if I could just DRAW a picture of what is actually going on compared to what I see in my mind – you would understand.
Instead, I'm forced to resort to snapping poorly-framed photos of things on my crummy blackberry thing. Now that I think about it - I wish I could use my Blackberry to take a photo of how crummy my Blackberry is right now, but I believe that’s a thought loop; isn’t it? Now I’m thinking about Eternity and what it feels like to know that you can’t die and now I’m thinking about what I’m going to look like dead, but alive in eternity. I hope I look like my 20yr old self. Now I wonder what dog food is made of, exactly, because its definitely not all meat even though dogs are carnivores.
That’s me.
But usually, instead of a good thought picture – you get junk photos like this:
That’s my special little deer hunter, dead asleep in a deerstand leaning against my left leg and completely destroying my circulation. When the pins-and-needles got to be too much - overcoming my entire being in waves of shrieking dead-limb sensation - I shifted. Slightly.
"Ack! Quit jittering around" she said. "I'm trying to sleep!"
Ok. What about this:
If you have to stamp “DELICIOUS” in italics on the outside of your food packaging – I immediately know it tastes like toe joey poached in dishwater. Get it away from me.
No amount of italics or “Delicious” or “Scrumptious” wording is going to fool me. You could say EAT THIS AND EVERYTHING YOU THINK OF WILL TURN INTO AN ASTRONAUT MADE OF CHEESE and, even though that would be fascinating and I would LOVE to go to and fro throughout the earth creating astronauts made of cheese; I wouldn't touch it. It's communist. It’s communist packaging. This company is telling you what to think and you better think its delicious OR THEY WONT GIVE YOU THE ANTIDOTE.
Classic case of communism at work.
How about this one: Gunbearer Newest Ewing in a Glock hat toting my custom deer rifle out of the woods:
YES.
GO TEAM AMERICA!! She was not pleased about this picture. Tough lighting apparently.
She also generally refuses to be photographed around weapons or dead animals; but at the same time she is physically incapable of not grinning for the camera - a very exploitable trait.
Or this:
This appears to be a tough night out on the hot Macon, Ga street scene for some young hellion - sure to be followed by an exciting morning spent plumbing the depths of that porcelain-no-man’s-land at the front of the toilet with his chin bone. I hope the concert was GREAT because it has almost certainly left a mark. I also bet you dont know where your car is. Yes you do. It was impounded wasn't it? Again.
I just cover too much ground in a week of being me to get it all down in crayon.
Instead, I'm forced to resort to snapping poorly-framed photos of things on my crummy blackberry thing. Now that I think about it - I wish I could use my Blackberry to take a photo of how crummy my Blackberry is right now, but I believe that’s a thought loop; isn’t it? Now I’m thinking about Eternity and what it feels like to know that you can’t die and now I’m thinking about what I’m going to look like dead, but alive in eternity. I hope I look like my 20yr old self. Now I wonder what dog food is made of, exactly, because its definitely not all meat even though dogs are carnivores.
That’s me.
But usually, instead of a good thought picture – you get junk photos like this:
"Ack! Quit jittering around" she said. "I'm trying to sleep!"
Ok. What about this:
If you have to stamp “DELICIOUS” in italics on the outside of your food packaging – I immediately know it tastes like toe joey poached in dishwater. Get it away from me.
No amount of italics or “Delicious” or “Scrumptious” wording is going to fool me. You could say EAT THIS AND EVERYTHING YOU THINK OF WILL TURN INTO AN ASTRONAUT MADE OF CHEESE and, even though that would be fascinating and I would LOVE to go to and fro throughout the earth creating astronauts made of cheese; I wouldn't touch it. It's communist. It’s communist packaging. This company is telling you what to think and you better think its delicious OR THEY WONT GIVE YOU THE ANTIDOTE.
Classic case of communism at work.
How about this one: Gunbearer Newest Ewing in a Glock hat toting my custom deer rifle out of the woods:
YES.
GO TEAM AMERICA!! She was not pleased about this picture. Tough lighting apparently.
She also generally refuses to be photographed around weapons or dead animals; but at the same time she is physically incapable of not grinning for the camera - a very exploitable trait.
Or this:
I just cover too much ground in a week of being me to get it all down in crayon.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Technically Family
I haven't quite gotten used to being technically "married" yet, so when the full magnitude of marriage hit me on the way to the mountains for my first Officially Sanctioned In-Law-Event - I suddenly I looked at Tyler and blurted "do you realize we're family now."
She blanched.
Who knows what mental image being in my "family" conjures for her? I'm sure a snapshot of my Uncle Robert sitting in his recliner at 3AM clutching a gallon of ice cream, gray hair to his shoulders and only one shoe on; lighting a fresh Benson and Hedges off the butt of another flashed through her mind at least once.
"People keep calling me Mrs. Ewing and I feel panick-ey. I may be having an identity crisis" she coughed, blowing a handful of slobbery BBQ sunflower seeds into my passenger-side air conditioner vents.
"Lets not talk about it."
Then, after a brief pause and a slurp at her Diet Dr. Pepper:
"Have you added me to your checking account yet? I need $200."
We continued on through Dawsonville in a fog of life-merger technicalities and headed northeast for Blue Ridge.
On arrival my mother-in-law greeted me with "I heard you're on a diet. Can I get you a beer?"
God bless her. Good mothers-in-law don't just grow on trees.
The next day we awoke bright and early to the sound of cheerful toe-music and slamming refridgerators outside our bedroom door. As newlyweds - the lowest rung on the family ladder, we have been supplied with the only bedroom that opens directly into the kitchen. Its a sink-or-swim family indoctrination process that serves a dual purpose: 1). keeping me as fat as possible so I can't run away and 2). ensuring that we don't miss any conversation going on in the house - no matter what the time.
After a lovely breakfast we forayed into the wilds of North Georgia in search of a producing apple orchard that might allow us to sample their wares.
Wouldn't you know it? We found some.
Unfortunately, so did 98% of the toothless denizens of the county. Never let it be said that dentures and fresh fruit don't mix. Apparently we Georgians have developed a new technique for gumming an apple to death.
My father-in-law, Duane, and I agreed - we got lucky - the apple orchard was entirely wrapped in signs boldly announcing "Closed For U-Pick"; a bit of redneckery we understood to mean they didn't want us picking our own apples. I thought to pick a few anyway, just to prove that I'm an American and I'll pick an apple any-damn-where I please; but the scarecrow they had hanging by his neck in the front yard next to a cheerful sign in red proclaiming "APPLE THIEF" took the wind out of my sails. There are few places left in the world where you can hang a threatening man-sized effigy off the ground with a noose around his neck and not end up in the paper. This is one of them.
Tyler handled this crushing bit of no-apple-picking news with her usual aplomb and immediately tugged me into the country store. The indoor scene was a brisk business in pre-picked apples ("non-u-pick" apparently is the technical name) and hot breaded apple desserts sold to relieved Dads from all over the state. We dove into the crush of sharp-scented humanity for a peek at the non-u-picked wares. Somewhere towards the back of the building my lovely wife cheerfully flounced her ponytail at me and promptly disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the Granny Smiths; leaving me quite alone by the fresh-fried pork skins.
I lingered for a bit until several irritated stares suggested I was blocking ingress to the rock candy section, so I flung myself back into the river of rednecks and floated along, carried around the store by a wave of sticky-fingered rat-tail exhibitors.
I thought I could manfully power through until I found my wife, but I could only take so much. I clawed my way back through the crowded throng and burst into the parking lot just as my will to live shattered.
I collected myself, taking a deep breath and blinking in the bright sunshine for a moment, then I heard a cheerful "Yoooo hooo!! Ohhh whooo hoo hooo! Hallooooo!!" floating out over the crowd behind me. I turned to see Tyler standing half way back in the snaking checkout line energetically hoisting a large sack of apples over her head and grinning.
"Um! Heyylooo!!" she chortled. "Look whattt I founddddd!!! AAAPPPLLEEESS!!"
"Did you bring your wallet?"
She blanched.
Who knows what mental image being in my "family" conjures for her? I'm sure a snapshot of my Uncle Robert sitting in his recliner at 3AM clutching a gallon of ice cream, gray hair to his shoulders and only one shoe on; lighting a fresh Benson and Hedges off the butt of another flashed through her mind at least once.
"People keep calling me Mrs. Ewing and I feel panick-ey. I may be having an identity crisis" she coughed, blowing a handful of slobbery BBQ sunflower seeds into my passenger-side air conditioner vents.
"Lets not talk about it."
Then, after a brief pause and a slurp at her Diet Dr. Pepper:
"Have you added me to your checking account yet? I need $200."
We continued on through Dawsonville in a fog of life-merger technicalities and headed northeast for Blue Ridge.
On arrival my mother-in-law greeted me with "I heard you're on a diet. Can I get you a beer?"
God bless her. Good mothers-in-law don't just grow on trees.
The next day we awoke bright and early to the sound of cheerful toe-music and slamming refridgerators outside our bedroom door. As newlyweds - the lowest rung on the family ladder, we have been supplied with the only bedroom that opens directly into the kitchen. Its a sink-or-swim family indoctrination process that serves a dual purpose: 1). keeping me as fat as possible so I can't run away and 2). ensuring that we don't miss any conversation going on in the house - no matter what the time.
After a lovely breakfast we forayed into the wilds of North Georgia in search of a producing apple orchard that might allow us to sample their wares.
Wouldn't you know it? We found some.
Unfortunately, so did 98% of the toothless denizens of the county. Never let it be said that dentures and fresh fruit don't mix. Apparently we Georgians have developed a new technique for gumming an apple to death.
My father-in-law, Duane, and I agreed - we got lucky - the apple orchard was entirely wrapped in signs boldly announcing "Closed For U-Pick"; a bit of redneckery we understood to mean they didn't want us picking our own apples. I thought to pick a few anyway, just to prove that I'm an American and I'll pick an apple any-damn-where I please; but the scarecrow they had hanging by his neck in the front yard next to a cheerful sign in red proclaiming "APPLE THIEF" took the wind out of my sails. There are few places left in the world where you can hang a threatening man-sized effigy off the ground with a noose around his neck and not end up in the paper. This is one of them.
Tyler handled this crushing bit of no-apple-picking news with her usual aplomb and immediately tugged me into the country store. The indoor scene was a brisk business in pre-picked apples ("non-u-pick" apparently is the technical name) and hot breaded apple desserts sold to relieved Dads from all over the state. We dove into the crush of sharp-scented humanity for a peek at the non-u-picked wares. Somewhere towards the back of the building my lovely wife cheerfully flounced her ponytail at me and promptly disappeared into the crowd in the direction of the Granny Smiths; leaving me quite alone by the fresh-fried pork skins.
I lingered for a bit until several irritated stares suggested I was blocking ingress to the rock candy section, so I flung myself back into the river of rednecks and floated along, carried around the store by a wave of sticky-fingered rat-tail exhibitors.
I thought I could manfully power through until I found my wife, but I could only take so much. I clawed my way back through the crowded throng and burst into the parking lot just as my will to live shattered.
I collected myself, taking a deep breath and blinking in the bright sunshine for a moment, then I heard a cheerful "Yoooo hooo!! Ohhh whooo hoo hooo! Hallooooo!!" floating out over the crowd behind me. I turned to see Tyler standing half way back in the snaking checkout line energetically hoisting a large sack of apples over her head and grinning.
"Um! Heyylooo!!" she chortled. "Look whattt I founddddd!!! AAAPPPLLEEESS!!"
"Did you bring your wallet?"
Friday, November 19, 2010
Voodoo Lunch Magic
In some families I think its probably hard for the husband to tell when the wife is mad at him. I don't know that for certain, but I guess its probably so. There's a certain personality type that hides irritation, anger, and various forms of silent fury quite well. I guess it probably shows up in husband/wife interaction from time to time.
Then, there are the sort of wives who put this in your lunch (double click, then enlarge to read):
Poison is such a historically over-used method for tumbling despots that I'm surprised it showed up so rapidly in my lunch. Surely there are much subtler tools available.
Obviously, this sort of situation adds a whole new twist to the ancient voodoo concept of "reading the bones." One can't simply crack open the lunch bag and dive right in - the contents require a certain amount of study and life-application. I suspect a careful evaluation of the contents of this bowl could well predict the future; at least the immediate future - the part between home arrival and bedtime. This particular casting of the bowl (so to speak) did not bode well; and it turns out: it was spot-on.
Did I deserve it? Sure.
Was it an adventure?
Absolutely.
Then, there are the sort of wives who put this in your lunch (double click, then enlarge to read):
Poison is such a historically over-used method for tumbling despots that I'm surprised it showed up so rapidly in my lunch. Surely there are much subtler tools available.
Obviously, this sort of situation adds a whole new twist to the ancient voodoo concept of "reading the bones." One can't simply crack open the lunch bag and dive right in - the contents require a certain amount of study and life-application. I suspect a careful evaluation of the contents of this bowl could well predict the future; at least the immediate future - the part between home arrival and bedtime. This particular casting of the bowl (so to speak) did not bode well; and it turns out: it was spot-on.
Did I deserve it? Sure.
Was it an adventure?
Absolutely.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Crowding My Action
The problem with having a blog is: ultimately your entire family wants to horn in on your action. It's not enough to have ONE person try to be funny - you post up a blog and pretty soon you've got a flock of half-crazed mini-Steve-Martins running around and it's complete chaos. There should only be ONE funny person at a time. The rest of you should clean up after the ONE funny person and generally take care of him and laugh at everything and make sure he's happy and well-primed with funny and red meats and cheeses.
Unfortunately, this is reality. Instead of an Andy Griffith life wherein everything is basically ok and you run the show and get to smoke cigarettes on the front porch while Aunt Bea washes up; you have to periodically allow a guest-post on your blog and, periodically, that guest poster will be your wife. I will grudgingly admit that occasionally she will reflect the light of your glorious funny in a somewhat-dimmer-rendition of you, and thereby also appear funny.
See below, but bear in mind: SHE'S ONLY FUNNY BECAUSE OF ME!!, so don't get distracted.
Upon returning from our honeymoon and realizing that the lovely housekeeper from the hotel didn’t come home with us; JGE and I decided to split our familial chores between us. It was our first family caucus because, apparently, “two people don’t warrant paying for a maid” in his mind.
Does that mean adding kids to our newly formed family does? My sources were unclear on that.
Basically, I agreed to the traditional womanly chores (kitchen clean up and dishwasher duty, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, dusting, laundry, etc) by uttering the simple word “yes” in agreement to the proposed bylaws. In taking on these chores, I took a giant leap back in time for all you liberated women from the 1970s who worked so hard to achieve equality among men and women.
Oops.
We decided that Jimmy’s chores would consist of the traditional manly household duties that involve tools or trash, as well as anything money, tax, or car-related, or dealing with workmen or household help of any kind.
Fair enough.
This agreement has worked out quite nicely un-altered except that Jimmy has added dishwasher duty to his chores. He acquisced during a minor evening meltdown on my part brought on by raging hormones and a white hot bolt of sheer fury at the dishwasher.
He also agreed to fix me breakfast every morning - for LIFE. WHA HA HA AHAAA!!!! Put one on the board for the home team.
All in all, we have been carrying on well. Married life is fabulous.
I do laundry every 1 to 1.5 weeks so we generally always, or almost always, or usually sometimes have clean clothes. The problem is putting away these clothes - not to mention the hunting clothes which require separate washing in non-scented detergent.
Basically, our laundry situation has slowly devolved into a massive slough of laundry despair and I have been in complete denial. I almost realized it when every single one of our laundry vestibules were unavailable, but I figured it counts if they’re clean, right?
We finally ran out of places to throw our dirty clothes because all the dirty-clothes-holders were full of clean clothes. It was an embarassment of riches, so we came up with the short-term solution of just throwing our dirty clothes in the hallway at the base of the staircase leading to the laundry room.
This solution was actually awesome. I’d come in from a run (a "run" is when I'm alone - when JGE accompanies me its a "forced march"), disrobe in the hallway, toss my clothes in the dirtystash and jump in the shower.
It was a well-oiled machine. Then, we were out of town for three weekends in a row and the generally-manageable pile suddenly turned into a massive out-of-control pile that may or may not attract wild animals.
By Tuesday morning, it was really bad. As I left for work that morning I passed the mountain of dirty clothes and made a mental note to start a load of laundry that night. I figured I'd worry about where to stash those suckers later.
While pecking away at my computer, I received a call from a cheery realtor who wanted to know if she could show my townhouse in 3 hours. This is good news. We chatted for a bit about logistics then hung up.
Suddenly, my palms began to sweat. I envisioned the dirty laundry pile. Then there were the clean piles that were everywhere, not to mention the clean clothes strewn across our bedroom from searching through the clean piles. Then I remembered breakfast…the smell of turkey sausage, fried eggs and toast was probably still lingering in the kitchen. And the guns and gear from the hunting trip that past weekend were stacked in the living room. It looked like the Branch Davidian compound if the women had gone on strike.
I immediately gchatted Jimmmay, who clearly didn’t grasp the severity of the situation:
Me: OH CRAP. Just got a call. Our house is being shown around 3:30-4:00 today. I have to go home and clean it up it's a wreck!!! and smells!!!
Me: Um, Hallloooo?
Jimmy: WHOAOAOAOA. oh man oh man oh man that is neato man oh man oh man house showings yayyyy wowwwyyy.
(and he swears that he doesn’t drink on the job)
Me: Oh man. Ooooh man. This is not good.
Jimmy: We've not been THAT messy really. Don't worry about it.
Me: Well I hope they love it! Oh CRAP. The vents in the two guest rooms are still half hanging from one screw. I thought you were going to fix those! I tried pushing them up last week but they need another screw
and our laundry. This is so bad - and I’m swamped at work today
Jimmy: Take two toothpicks and break them in half
Me: Huh?
Jimmy: Stuff them in the screw holes of the vent then rescrew the screws and the toothpicks will take up space in the hole and help provide substance for the threads to grip.
Me: One screw is missing, plus - I ain't got toothpicks.
Jimmy: Did you try to tighten the one screw? Ok, use a matchstick with head broken off instead of toothpick.
Me: Oh man. I have no matchsticks.
Jimmy: Clearly, you are not a man. Ok, I’ll fix it with my handy bucket o' screws that Gene Maddux gave me.
Me: I may just tape it. Tape will have to do.
Jimmy: No tape. Just pull a screw out of another vent.
Me: Gaaah! Ok, I’m running home, I’ll be back.
Apparently a constant litany of bootleg solutions are my husband's plan for holding up his end of the domestic bargain. We are in trouble.
What happens when one day our child falls out of a tree and sprains an arm? Am I going to come home to my child’s arm wrapped up around a chainsaw bar and Jimmy saying that’s all he could find to stabilize the arm?
As I pulled into the garage, I realized the situation was much more serious than I realized. The garage was full of wedding presents still in their boxes. I walked in and was greeted by even more wedding presents that lined the entire staircase up the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about those.
The next approximately 32 minutes involved me running around the house like a maid on crank - cleaning up the living room, stashing things here and there, airing out the definitely smelly kitchen, moving all of the presents to what hopefully resembled a neatly organized stack in the garage, emptying approximately 2/3 of a Glade air freshener can all over the house (God bless Glade), moving guns to the garage and discovering that, based on the immense amount of camo covered gear now in there, the garage closet has now apparently become our hunting closet. I was on warp speed.
Then there was the laundry. I have never stuffed that many piles of clean clothing in so many drawers, hidden shelves, the armoire, and any other location I could think of that wasn’t a logical space where a potential home buyer would feel bold enough to open. An armoire is personal, right? That doesn’t come with the house so they shouldn’t be looking in there. Thank goodness for my extra-tall bed. You better believe things got stuffed under there.
As for the pile of dirty laundry, that was relocated to the inside of both the washer and dryer, full to the brim. It took three trips to get all of the clothes up to the laundry room.
And the vents, you ask? Turns out, not only was a screw missing in each of the two vents, but we also don’t seem to have a screw driver in the house (I thought husbands came with tool kits?). I therefore had to use a dull knife to unscrew a screw from a floor vent and attempt to stuff it in the ceiling vent, which of course didn’t work. I resorted to my grand idea of tape. But all I could find was flimsy scotch tape, which doesn’t take to ceilings too well. In the end, one vent was temporarily fixed and one vent was hopeless. I said a prayer that the potential homebuyers just wouldn’t look up when they entered the room.
As I finished the world’s fastest and most amazing house cleaning job, I surveyed my work, arms akimbo, as I gasped for air. I must say I was quite pleased.
Later that evening, when I returned home to my shiny, clean, good-smelling, organized house, I discovered the realtor never came.
...And I apparently misplaced someone's "favorite deer rifle."
Editor's note: I found my very expensive, highly accurate, custom 7mm-08 deep-woods rifle, literally, hidden under a throw pillow.
That settles it: The Natural Born Hunter is being domesticated.
Unfortunately, this is reality. Instead of an Andy Griffith life wherein everything is basically ok and you run the show and get to smoke cigarettes on the front porch while Aunt Bea washes up; you have to periodically allow a guest-post on your blog and, periodically, that guest poster will be your wife. I will grudgingly admit that occasionally she will reflect the light of your glorious funny in a somewhat-dimmer-rendition of you, and thereby also appear funny.
See below, but bear in mind: SHE'S ONLY FUNNY BECAUSE OF ME!!, so don't get distracted.
Upon returning from our honeymoon and realizing that the lovely housekeeper from the hotel didn’t come home with us; JGE and I decided to split our familial chores between us. It was our first family caucus because, apparently, “two people don’t warrant paying for a maid” in his mind.
Does that mean adding kids to our newly formed family does? My sources were unclear on that.
Basically, I agreed to the traditional womanly chores (kitchen clean up and dishwasher duty, cleaning bathrooms, vacuuming, dusting, laundry, etc) by uttering the simple word “yes” in agreement to the proposed bylaws. In taking on these chores, I took a giant leap back in time for all you liberated women from the 1970s who worked so hard to achieve equality among men and women.
Oops.
We decided that Jimmy’s chores would consist of the traditional manly household duties that involve tools or trash, as well as anything money, tax, or car-related, or dealing with workmen or household help of any kind.
Fair enough.
This agreement has worked out quite nicely un-altered except that Jimmy has added dishwasher duty to his chores. He acquisced during a minor evening meltdown on my part brought on by raging hormones and a white hot bolt of sheer fury at the dishwasher.
He also agreed to fix me breakfast every morning - for LIFE. WHA HA HA AHAAA!!!! Put one on the board for the home team.
All in all, we have been carrying on well. Married life is fabulous.
I do laundry every 1 to 1.5 weeks so we generally always, or almost always, or usually sometimes have clean clothes. The problem is putting away these clothes - not to mention the hunting clothes which require separate washing in non-scented detergent.
Basically, our laundry situation has slowly devolved into a massive slough of laundry despair and I have been in complete denial. I almost realized it when every single one of our laundry vestibules were unavailable, but I figured it counts if they’re clean, right?
We finally ran out of places to throw our dirty clothes because all the dirty-clothes-holders were full of clean clothes. It was an embarassment of riches, so we came up with the short-term solution of just throwing our dirty clothes in the hallway at the base of the staircase leading to the laundry room.
This solution was actually awesome. I’d come in from a run (a "run" is when I'm alone - when JGE accompanies me its a "forced march"), disrobe in the hallway, toss my clothes in the dirtystash and jump in the shower.
It was a well-oiled machine. Then, we were out of town for three weekends in a row and the generally-manageable pile suddenly turned into a massive out-of-control pile that may or may not attract wild animals.
By Tuesday morning, it was really bad. As I left for work that morning I passed the mountain of dirty clothes and made a mental note to start a load of laundry that night. I figured I'd worry about where to stash those suckers later.
While pecking away at my computer, I received a call from a cheery realtor who wanted to know if she could show my townhouse in 3 hours. This is good news. We chatted for a bit about logistics then hung up.
Suddenly, my palms began to sweat. I envisioned the dirty laundry pile. Then there were the clean piles that were everywhere, not to mention the clean clothes strewn across our bedroom from searching through the clean piles. Then I remembered breakfast…the smell of turkey sausage, fried eggs and toast was probably still lingering in the kitchen. And the guns and gear from the hunting trip that past weekend were stacked in the living room. It looked like the Branch Davidian compound if the women had gone on strike.
I immediately gchatted Jimmmay, who clearly didn’t grasp the severity of the situation:
Me: OH CRAP. Just got a call. Our house is being shown around 3:30-4:00 today. I have to go home and clean it up it's a wreck!!! and smells!!!
Me: Um, Hallloooo?
Jimmy: WHOAOAOAOA. oh man oh man oh man that is neato man oh man oh man house showings yayyyy wowwwyyy.
(and he swears that he doesn’t drink on the job)
Me: Oh man. Ooooh man. This is not good.
Jimmy: We've not been THAT messy really. Don't worry about it.
Me: Well I hope they love it! Oh CRAP. The vents in the two guest rooms are still half hanging from one screw. I thought you were going to fix those! I tried pushing them up last week but they need another screw
and our laundry. This is so bad - and I’m swamped at work today
Jimmy: Take two toothpicks and break them in half
Me: Huh?
Jimmy: Stuff them in the screw holes of the vent then rescrew the screws and the toothpicks will take up space in the hole and help provide substance for the threads to grip.
Me: One screw is missing, plus - I ain't got toothpicks.
Jimmy: Did you try to tighten the one screw? Ok, use a matchstick with head broken off instead of toothpick.
Me: Oh man. I have no matchsticks.
Jimmy: Clearly, you are not a man. Ok, I’ll fix it with my handy bucket o' screws that Gene Maddux gave me.
Me: I may just tape it. Tape will have to do.
Jimmy: No tape. Just pull a screw out of another vent.
Me: Gaaah! Ok, I’m running home, I’ll be back.
Apparently a constant litany of bootleg solutions are my husband's plan for holding up his end of the domestic bargain. We are in trouble.
What happens when one day our child falls out of a tree and sprains an arm? Am I going to come home to my child’s arm wrapped up around a chainsaw bar and Jimmy saying that’s all he could find to stabilize the arm?
As I pulled into the garage, I realized the situation was much more serious than I realized. The garage was full of wedding presents still in their boxes. I walked in and was greeted by even more wedding presents that lined the entire staircase up the kitchen. I had completely forgotten about those.
The next approximately 32 minutes involved me running around the house like a maid on crank - cleaning up the living room, stashing things here and there, airing out the definitely smelly kitchen, moving all of the presents to what hopefully resembled a neatly organized stack in the garage, emptying approximately 2/3 of a Glade air freshener can all over the house (God bless Glade), moving guns to the garage and discovering that, based on the immense amount of camo covered gear now in there, the garage closet has now apparently become our hunting closet. I was on warp speed.
Then there was the laundry. I have never stuffed that many piles of clean clothing in so many drawers, hidden shelves, the armoire, and any other location I could think of that wasn’t a logical space where a potential home buyer would feel bold enough to open. An armoire is personal, right? That doesn’t come with the house so they shouldn’t be looking in there. Thank goodness for my extra-tall bed. You better believe things got stuffed under there.
As for the pile of dirty laundry, that was relocated to the inside of both the washer and dryer, full to the brim. It took three trips to get all of the clothes up to the laundry room.
And the vents, you ask? Turns out, not only was a screw missing in each of the two vents, but we also don’t seem to have a screw driver in the house (I thought husbands came with tool kits?). I therefore had to use a dull knife to unscrew a screw from a floor vent and attempt to stuff it in the ceiling vent, which of course didn’t work. I resorted to my grand idea of tape. But all I could find was flimsy scotch tape, which doesn’t take to ceilings too well. In the end, one vent was temporarily fixed and one vent was hopeless. I said a prayer that the potential homebuyers just wouldn’t look up when they entered the room.
As I finished the world’s fastest and most amazing house cleaning job, I surveyed my work, arms akimbo, as I gasped for air. I must say I was quite pleased.
Later that evening, when I returned home to my shiny, clean, good-smelling, organized house, I discovered the realtor never came.
...And I apparently misplaced someone's "favorite deer rifle."
Editor's note: I found my very expensive, highly accurate, custom 7mm-08 deep-woods rifle, literally, hidden under a throw pillow.
That settles it: The Natural Born Hunter is being domesticated.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Feeeeeeelllinngggssssss, Oh So Wond'rous FEEEEELLLINGGGSSSS!!
We had an ongoing pre-wedding disagreement about Tyler’s wedding-day performance. She feared she would suffer from giant wracking sobs while walking the plank, err – aisle; and embarrass herself.
Based on her performance during “The Time Traveler’s Wife” a few weeks ago I, on the other hand, was supremely confident she would do just that. That was the disagreement. She was not sure she would lose it, but she was concerned about it. I was 100% positive she was going to flip out.
I can honestly say that I’ve never seen someone wail so steadily and consistently through a film before. I may have shed a tear during Braveheart and Forest Gump, but never have I ever been subjected to a steady stream of flowing tears and miserable sobbing such as this; and over something we PAID for.
Ruined it.
I couldn't even make fun of the story line without getting a taste of The Elbow of Silence. A guy randomly travels in-and-out of time and Rachel McAdams is all he has to look forward to? Blech. If it were me - at the very least I'd have been shooting evil dictators, or sneaking onto the space shuttle, or something interesting.
I got her back though. Ernee The Attornee and I took her to see "Let Me In" - a newly-released vampire movie. She's already terrified of the dark, horror movies, parking garages, and being home alone so she generally refuses to see anything involving violence, darkness or "creatures."
To get her in there we told her it was a comedy; then when it was over I had to peel her rigid catatonic limbs off the arm rests.
BWAH HA HA HAHAHAHAHA!!!
Based on her performance during “The Time Traveler’s Wife” a few weeks ago I, on the other hand, was supremely confident she would do just that. That was the disagreement. She was not sure she would lose it, but she was concerned about it. I was 100% positive she was going to flip out.
I can honestly say that I’ve never seen someone wail so steadily and consistently through a film before. I may have shed a tear during Braveheart and Forest Gump, but never have I ever been subjected to a steady stream of flowing tears and miserable sobbing such as this; and over something we PAID for.
Ruined it.
I couldn't even make fun of the story line without getting a taste of The Elbow of Silence. A guy randomly travels in-and-out of time and Rachel McAdams is all he has to look forward to? Blech. If it were me - at the very least I'd have been shooting evil dictators, or sneaking onto the space shuttle, or something interesting.
I got her back though. Ernee The Attornee and I took her to see "Let Me In" - a newly-released vampire movie. She's already terrified of the dark, horror movies, parking garages, and being home alone so she generally refuses to see anything involving violence, darkness or "creatures."
To get her in there we told her it was a comedy; then when it was over I had to peel her rigid catatonic limbs off the arm rests.
BWAH HA HA HAHAHAHAHA!!!
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Live Short and Prosper
A brief follow-up word on The New Regime under which I have been duped and enslaved:
Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.
Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.
Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”
The new life will “help me live longer.”
The question is: do I want to?
Operating autonomously as an adult these many years now, I had grown subconsciously accustomed to certain niceties of singlehood. Certain “freedoms” if you will. I’ve recently discovered that certain of those certain freedoms have certainly departed to parts unknown.
Such as:
1. The freedom to not have someone’s packing-plant-cold-feet pressed against my warm buns all night.
2. The freedom to arise after 7AM without someone poking me repeatedly in the chest, arms, and back and pressing that someone’s (freezing) nose against my face while repeating over and over “Um. Hallo. Hallo? Are you Awake? Wakey, wakey, eggs & Bake-ey” every minute, on the minute, from 6AM onward.
3. The freedom to taste food without lipstick on it.
4. The freedom to not carry a woman’s credit card, lip gloss, and drivers license in my pocket to every party I attend.
Those freedoms have been stripped from me entirely; not unlike the bedsheets which are stripped from me at approximately 6:12AM daily and replaced by a pair of running socks tossed callously at my chest. The old life was good. The new life is apparently “healthy.”
The new life will “help me live longer.”
The question is: do I want to?
Friday, October 22, 2010
Guest Post: Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq.
I generally only allow guest posts under extreme duress. However, I believe the following email received from my good friend Salman "Strib" Stribling, Esq. is entirely worth your attention.
For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet. Not that big of a deal. When my lovely wife (henceforth referred to as MLW) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.
Heck no, we don't need a plumber. I can handle a clogged toilet!
I could not unclog it. I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught. Whatever unholy thing was lurking under that murky water had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of murky destruction.
Being a man of finer tastes as I'm sure you're aware; I did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid smell of this magnitude; especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp.
It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to utter foulness; but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in sheol was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution. I tried to convince MLW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there. With four children I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the Roto Rooter man, but surprisingly, she preferred to call a plumber.
I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home-related, refused.
I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore apart my own inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths. Much to my distress, I found nothing.
I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because - you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves. My car has done that on numerous occasions. So, I left.
Imagine my consternation upon my return to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair. It had not magically fixed itself. I, a full-grown educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home. I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.
As the matter had grown somewhat more serious, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool. Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offfense move. Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things.
Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight. I am sure it has a technical name.
I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger.
I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling. Nothing. I plunged some more. Nothing. Finally, I had MLW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.
It was awful. I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.
I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.
MLW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the other side of the fence. The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself.
The plan was working smoothly. I handed the first bucket to MLW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out. The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday. I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic childsludge. I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"
Want to know what is even funnier? When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could generate, breaks. The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing. The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.
Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom.
When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice. It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash of filth. It was on the walls, cabinets, filled my shoes - everything. Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth. I was powerless to stop it.
I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from MLW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting. I just stood there. I earned it.
This woman is quick. If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.
Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil. He gets that attribute from MLW's side of the family.
I then burned my clothes, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime. I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever.
In the future, when MLW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".
Editor's Note: Perhaps this fact has escaped your attention, but as I myself am schooled in the ways of Toilet Scuba, it hasn't escaped mine: Strib, in his total ingorance and obvious innner turmoil - dove in bareback. Skin-on-toiletwater. That is totally unnecessary. Friends: two hefty sacks double-bagging that arm will save you much of young Strib's turmoil and distress.
For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet. Not that big of a deal. When my lovely wife (henceforth referred to as MLW) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.
Heck no, we don't need a plumber. I can handle a clogged toilet!
I could not unclog it. I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught. Whatever unholy thing was lurking under that murky water had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of murky destruction.
Being a man of finer tastes as I'm sure you're aware; I did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid smell of this magnitude; especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp.
It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to utter foulness; but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in sheol was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution. I tried to convince MLW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there. With four children I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the Roto Rooter man, but surprisingly, she preferred to call a plumber.
I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home-related, refused.
I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore apart my own inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths. Much to my distress, I found nothing.
I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because - you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves. My car has done that on numerous occasions. So, I left.
Imagine my consternation upon my return to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair. It had not magically fixed itself. I, a full-grown educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home. I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.
As the matter had grown somewhat more serious, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool. Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offfense move. Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things.
Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight. I am sure it has a technical name.
I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger.
I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling. Nothing. I plunged some more. Nothing. Finally, I had MLW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.
It was awful. I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.
I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.
MLW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the other side of the fence. The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself.
The plan was working smoothly. I handed the first bucket to MLW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out. The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday. I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic childsludge. I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"
Want to know what is even funnier? When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could generate, breaks. The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing. The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.
Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom.
When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice. It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash of filth. It was on the walls, cabinets, filled my shoes - everything. Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth. I was powerless to stop it.
I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from MLW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting. I just stood there. I earned it.
This woman is quick. If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.
Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil. He gets that attribute from MLW's side of the family.
I then burned my clothes, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime. I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever.
In the future, when MLW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".
Editor's Note: Perhaps this fact has escaped your attention, but as I myself am schooled in the ways of Toilet Scuba, it hasn't escaped mine: Strib, in his total ingorance and obvious innner turmoil - dove in bareback. Skin-on-toiletwater. That is totally unnecessary. Friends: two hefty sacks double-bagging that arm will save you much of young Strib's turmoil and distress.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A Regime Change
"Welcome to your new life" said my new wife, grinning, totally unfazed by the last 2 miles of my sweaty flailing and constant grumbling.
"We'll start running again at the next telephone pole."
I stood slumped over the slate-shingled mailbox of one of Buckhead's wealthier denizens, grasping both sides of the brick box and breathing rapidly into the open slot in lieu of a paper bag.
"You go on. I'll catch up" I wheezed.
"Please let go of the mailbox, you're embarassing me. Stretch your calves. That will help. Then get moving."
I helplessly watched her go; trotting merrily down the street, wandering in-and-out of traffic at will - leaving me psychologically deflated and podiatrically ruined on my favorite curb.
As if the sight of my massive frame lumbering along behind a skinny 6-foot blonde wasn't enough to emotionally wreck me, she proceeded to run halfway down the block then, to my horror, turn and progress back in my direction; merrily bopping along to an inaudible melody. When she reached me, shambling along the curb at an embarassing crawl she began, literally, jogging in circles around me shouting forms of encouragement like "just to the next mailbox" "you can do it" and "If you start running again now, you can have toast at home." At one point she ran behind me prodding me along like a water buffalo in the traces.
"It would be much easier if you would just cooperate" she chirped, prodding me one last time before zooming past in an undernourished blur of pink running gear.
She was right. It was easier to just keep running. At least that way the kids passing by on the school bus don't point and laugh.
I hate kids.
Week three of marriage: Blow Ye Violent Winds of Change.
"We'll start running again at the next telephone pole."
I stood slumped over the slate-shingled mailbox of one of Buckhead's wealthier denizens, grasping both sides of the brick box and breathing rapidly into the open slot in lieu of a paper bag.
"You go on. I'll catch up" I wheezed.
"Please let go of the mailbox, you're embarassing me. Stretch your calves. That will help. Then get moving."
I helplessly watched her go; trotting merrily down the street, wandering in-and-out of traffic at will - leaving me psychologically deflated and podiatrically ruined on my favorite curb.
As if the sight of my massive frame lumbering along behind a skinny 6-foot blonde wasn't enough to emotionally wreck me, she proceeded to run halfway down the block then, to my horror, turn and progress back in my direction; merrily bopping along to an inaudible melody. When she reached me, shambling along the curb at an embarassing crawl she began, literally, jogging in circles around me shouting forms of encouragement like "just to the next mailbox" "you can do it" and "If you start running again now, you can have toast at home." At one point she ran behind me prodding me along like a water buffalo in the traces.
"It would be much easier if you would just cooperate" she chirped, prodding me one last time before zooming past in an undernourished blur of pink running gear.
She was right. It was easier to just keep running. At least that way the kids passing by on the school bus don't point and laugh.
I hate kids.
Week three of marriage: Blow Ye Violent Winds of Change.
Friday, October 08, 2010
Aphrodisiac
I hear that certain Asian cultures believe the raw oyster is nature's most powerful aphrodisiac.
Me? I'm an American, so I can't be certain.
I cannot attest to their powers on a standalone basis, but I'll tell you that spending 5:00AM - 5:20AM on a Thursday night screaming raw-oyster-flavored bubbles into the toilet will get you a shoe thrown in your general direction, but not much more.
In "sickness and in health" couldn't have prepared her for this.
Me? I'm an American, so I can't be certain.
I cannot attest to their powers on a standalone basis, but I'll tell you that spending 5:00AM - 5:20AM on a Thursday night screaming raw-oyster-flavored bubbles into the toilet will get you a shoe thrown in your general direction, but not much more.
In "sickness and in health" couldn't have prepared her for this.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Sometimes You Just Know
When I was little Mom told me that on a lovely spring day years before; she was seated in the garden outside her college sorority house when Mom felt Dad, who was standing behind her, lean gently in as if to whisper in her ear. She thought to herself "what lovely thing will he say to me next?"
Dad said: "Jenny, I think you've got a bald spot."
Mom, horrified, turned to him and said "Have you lost your mind?"
I guess with such forebears it is no great surprise that I managed to marry someone who interrupts my work day to relate such as the following:
Tyler: My friend asked me this afternoon how I knew you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
I told her you had a flat-screen TV with DVR and that was it! I knew you were the one.
Dad said: "Jenny, I think you've got a bald spot."
Mom, horrified, turned to him and said "Have you lost your mind?"
I guess with such forebears it is no great surprise that I managed to marry someone who interrupts my work day to relate such as the following:
Tyler: My friend asked me this afternoon how I knew you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.
I told her you had a flat-screen TV with DVR and that was it! I knew you were the one.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Guess What We've Been Up To Lately?
Let's hear it for honeymoon activities, eh? How'boutcha? Eh?
In the event it has escaped your notice that I've been mysteriously absent for the last week immediately following my nuptials - that is what's been up. We were not in a monastary contemplating eternity. We were honeymooning.
It's an ugly truth, but it's true. Why fight it?
I love it that the freshly-honeymooned, when asked "how was the honeymoon?!?" so often burst into a vivid litany of their various sporting and outdoor pursuits. It's another of society's many transparent falsehoods that I desire to debunk.
Contrary to popular belief we have, in short, not been kayaking. Nor have we been parasailing, snorkeling, or sunbathing. We didn't watch Manatees or swim with Dolphins. Why would I? I hate animals with blowholes. They're very off-putting.
We didn't scuba.
I never surfed.
We just didn't. I cannot tell a lie and at this point - I lack the energy to put forth the normal farcical responses.
For those of you who've either given us terrible advice (Mark Stephens) or been kind enough to make completely inappropriate suggestions (Uncle Robert) let me just say that Mark's signature "move" The Vertical Souffle - which allegedly involves a luggage rack, two gallons of coconut oil and a fair amount of dexterity - does not sound that great to me. To my Uncle Robert: thanks, but what in the world am I going to do with a fan made of ostrich feathers and a leapoard skin suit?
My Dad asked the ubiquitous "How was the Honeymoon?" question yesterday and I said "I think I threw out my back." He paused, then tactfully rejoined with "Well, how was Florida?" and I said "We were in Florida? All I saw were curtains and a ceiling. Could've been Ohio. I never could tell."
I knew I had struck a chord when I heard George howling in the background and realized: the whole family is on speakerphone.
So, to all you honeymooning parasailers out there let me just say this: You're Retarded.
While its true that candy can be dandy and liquor certainly is quicker: at least sex won't rot your teeth.
In the event it has escaped your notice that I've been mysteriously absent for the last week immediately following my nuptials - that is what's been up. We were not in a monastary contemplating eternity. We were honeymooning.
It's an ugly truth, but it's true. Why fight it?
I love it that the freshly-honeymooned, when asked "how was the honeymoon?!?" so often burst into a vivid litany of their various sporting and outdoor pursuits. It's another of society's many transparent falsehoods that I desire to debunk.
Contrary to popular belief we have, in short, not been kayaking. Nor have we been parasailing, snorkeling, or sunbathing. We didn't watch Manatees or swim with Dolphins. Why would I? I hate animals with blowholes. They're very off-putting.
We didn't scuba.
I never surfed.
We just didn't. I cannot tell a lie and at this point - I lack the energy to put forth the normal farcical responses.
For those of you who've either given us terrible advice (Mark Stephens) or been kind enough to make completely inappropriate suggestions (Uncle Robert) let me just say that Mark's signature "move" The Vertical Souffle - which allegedly involves a luggage rack, two gallons of coconut oil and a fair amount of dexterity - does not sound that great to me. To my Uncle Robert: thanks, but what in the world am I going to do with a fan made of ostrich feathers and a leapoard skin suit?
My Dad asked the ubiquitous "How was the Honeymoon?" question yesterday and I said "I think I threw out my back." He paused, then tactfully rejoined with "Well, how was Florida?" and I said "We were in Florida? All I saw were curtains and a ceiling. Could've been Ohio. I never could tell."
I knew I had struck a chord when I heard George howling in the background and realized: the whole family is on speakerphone.
So, to all you honeymooning parasailers out there let me just say this: You're Retarded.
While its true that candy can be dandy and liquor certainly is quicker: at least sex won't rot your teeth.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Ruined
During a recent dinner discussion wherein I attempted to convince My Future Bride (MFB) that I am worth the effort and small, occasional, difficulty created by my unique personality and various idiosyncracies such as: inability to clean things, ability to complain about food, inability to wash clothing regularly, inability to effectively communicate plans, inability to choose clothing to wear, inability to avoid hunting trips, ability to complain about waiting for anything....etc....this happened to me:
Me: Pfft. I'm totally worth it. You know it! Don't "front."
Tyler: Hm. I'm not so sure. I think you should probably shape up. Also, don't say "front".
Me: Please. Shape up!? HA! It's too late!! I've already woo'd you with my ways!!
Tyler: ....and now I'm woo-ined.
Me: ....
Tyler: Get it? "Wooined?" Like "Ruined?!"! Get it!?!?"
Me:....
After Saturday at 7PM I've officially signed up for 50 more years of bad puns and shoes on credit.
Somebody stop me.
Me: Pfft. I'm totally worth it. You know it! Don't "front."
Tyler: Hm. I'm not so sure. I think you should probably shape up. Also, don't say "front".
Me: Please. Shape up!? HA! It's too late!! I've already woo'd you with my ways!!
Tyler: ....and now I'm woo-ined.
Me: ....
Tyler: Get it? "Wooined?" Like "Ruined?!"! Get it!?!?"
Me:....
After Saturday at 7PM I've officially signed up for 50 more years of bad puns and shoes on credit.
Somebody stop me.
Attack Mantis
Even the natural world does very strange things to me on a daily basis. I pulled out of the parking lot on Friday, checked my side-view mirror to merge left and when I looked back; this is the sight that greeted me:
HOLY CRAP.
A 29-Foot-Tall Praying Mantis, attacking a Kia.
I consider the experience "startling."
I promptly blew my gum down into my dashboard air vents (forever) and slammed on brakes; slinging empty styrofoam cups and .22 bullets all down into my floorboards, and splashing coffee on the Fulton County Certified Marriage License which has been riding shotgun since last Thursday. Now, when I turn on the A/C the air in the left vent smells like stale Dentyne.
I don't believe in aliens, but I definitely believe in Ghosts, The Legendary HawgBear, Gustave The Killer Crocodile and Killer Praying Mantises - the Praying Mantis being somehow the most disconcerting of the four.
I think it's those weird dead-eyes and how, without ever seeming to move fast, they still manage to kill and eat everything that gets near them. That's a horrifying combination of characteristics to pack into a 29'-foot-tall carnivorous insect pedestrian that eats its mates.
Speaking of mates; did you know I'm getting married in exactly 3,410 minutes?
HOLY CRAP.
A 29-Foot-Tall Praying Mantis, attacking a Kia.
I consider the experience "startling."
I promptly blew my gum down into my dashboard air vents (forever) and slammed on brakes; slinging empty styrofoam cups and .22 bullets all down into my floorboards, and splashing coffee on the Fulton County Certified Marriage License which has been riding shotgun since last Thursday. Now, when I turn on the A/C the air in the left vent smells like stale Dentyne.
I don't believe in aliens, but I definitely believe in Ghosts, The Legendary HawgBear, Gustave The Killer Crocodile and Killer Praying Mantises - the Praying Mantis being somehow the most disconcerting of the four.
I think it's those weird dead-eyes and how, without ever seeming to move fast, they still manage to kill and eat everything that gets near them. That's a horrifying combination of characteristics to pack into a 29'-foot-tall carnivorous insect pedestrian that eats its mates.
Speaking of mates; did you know I'm getting married in exactly 3,410 minutes?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Grown Man For Sale: Hairy. Needs Constant Supervision
I've been in a veritable morass of wedding excitement lately. It's inescapable, and so are the people who delight in announcing your daily countdown to matrimonial servitude.
"You're getting married Saturday!! How many days is that? 5??! I think its 5!! Cheryl honey, how many days is that? FIVE?"
Cheryl (breathily): "Oohhhh! Five!! I think so!! It IS five!! Here let me count" (Cheryle starts waggling her fingers and ticking off days) "Lets see. Monday, Tuesday . . . .FIVE!! I think its FIVE!! Can you believe that? FIVE DAYS"
Oh, I believe it.
First of all, you know quite well it's 5 days. I can understand a fair amount of ciphering if we're shooting for September 25, 2042; but we're talking about next Saturday. You don't have to count it out for me on your fingers or even estimate it in hours. No, seriously.
I'm just saying - I'm aware. I'm the one who got myself into this thing in the first place, so trust me when I say: I'm on board with the date. I couldn't tell you for sure details of any sort, but I know where to be and what time to get there. I also know where I live, what pizza is made of, and how to skin a bear; in case you were wondering.
To keep myself on an even-keel I've developed a few not-funny pre-wedding jokes lately. Know what's "not funny?"
"Hey Tyler don't drink that!!! It's bad for the baby!!!" very loudly in the bar line is "Not Funny"; suggested The Elbow of Silence.
Consistently getting the name of the wedding venue wrong? Also not funny.
I am the Un-Funny.
The only problem is; I've changed dates, times, and names around so much - now I'm afraid I've confused myself.
I need constant supervision.
"You're getting married Saturday!! How many days is that? 5??! I think its 5!! Cheryl honey, how many days is that? FIVE?"
Cheryl (breathily): "Oohhhh! Five!! I think so!! It IS five!! Here let me count" (Cheryle starts waggling her fingers and ticking off days) "Lets see. Monday, Tuesday . . . .FIVE!! I think its FIVE!! Can you believe that? FIVE DAYS"
Oh, I believe it.
First of all, you know quite well it's 5 days. I can understand a fair amount of ciphering if we're shooting for September 25, 2042; but we're talking about next Saturday. You don't have to count it out for me on your fingers or even estimate it in hours. No, seriously.
I'm just saying - I'm aware. I'm the one who got myself into this thing in the first place, so trust me when I say: I'm on board with the date. I couldn't tell you for sure details of any sort, but I know where to be and what time to get there. I also know where I live, what pizza is made of, and how to skin a bear; in case you were wondering.
To keep myself on an even-keel I've developed a few not-funny pre-wedding jokes lately. Know what's "not funny?"
"Hey Tyler don't drink that!!! It's bad for the baby!!!" very loudly in the bar line is "Not Funny"; suggested The Elbow of Silence.
Consistently getting the name of the wedding venue wrong? Also not funny.
I am the Un-Funny.
The only problem is; I've changed dates, times, and names around so much - now I'm afraid I've confused myself.
I need constant supervision.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Horrifying Glimps of The Future
I was pulling through the drive-through liquor store at Weiuca and Roswell in search of bachelor-party supplies the other day and was shocked and saddened to see this:
It is a horrifying picture of what's in store for us in the next 5-7 years. It is as if the heavens opened and tried to warn me of my fate.
But I wouldn't listen.
Also, to these guys - please don't go out in public. Its fine to have kids, but you're supposed to hide them from your buddies and pretend they don't exist until they're 5 or 6.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
It is a horrifying picture of what's in store for us in the next 5-7 years. It is as if the heavens opened and tried to warn me of my fate.
But I wouldn't listen.
Also, to these guys - please don't go out in public. Its fine to have kids, but you're supposed to hide them from your buddies and pretend they don't exist until they're 5 or 6.
www.jimmyewing.blogspot.com
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Hey Guys Watch This!
The whole point to a bachelor party is proving to your best friends that you're too stupid to die.
Plus, if you can set your own chest hair on fire with a grill lighter and live to tell about it - you have conquered the single life.
You may as well get married.
Plus, if you can set your own chest hair on fire with a grill lighter and live to tell about it - you have conquered the single life.
You may as well get married.
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