It's word association this week at the Cheddar X, so I'll play along:
When I say:
Olympics, you say? = I'd like to screw Marion Jones
Politics = Oh, gawd, eight more months until the election. *groan*
John Kerry = Did you know he served in Vietnam? It's true.
George Bush = President of the United States
Osama = Yo Mama!
Same-sex marriage = Pretty gay.
Todd Bertuzzi = Todd what? Who's he?
Barry Bonds = Steroid slugger.
The Passion of the Christ = Cross my feet, you'll save a nail.
Beach = Hawaii.
Britney Spears = Bright future in softcore pornography. Hate to admit it, but I like that damn song "Toxic."
Paris Hilton = Bright future in hardcore pornography. Wait, what am I saying? Bright present in hardcore pornography.
Microsoft = Bill Gates is a billionaire, but my computer still crashes.
France = Cheese eating surrender monkies.
Hans Blix = Stooge
Linux = One of the big reasons I now currently have a job.
MTV = Moronic Television.
Outsource = Doomed to failure.
Hummer H2 = Good for the military; bad for the rest of the world.
Honor = Medal of.
Love = Myself.
Courteney Love = I'd like to screw Marion Jones.
One of the cruel genetic twists of fate dealt to me through the procreative canoodling of my mother and father is that, although the follicular fortitude of my cranium is found lacking, with the result being a horseshoe expanse of head desert by the age of 23, the rest of my body is fertile ground for vast amounts of post-pubescent hair growth.
In other words, there's no hair on my head, but there's plenty on my body, including huge eyebrows and excessively long and thick eyelashes.
The thing about my eyelashes is that I think they actually undergo a monthly menstrual cycle, and there's a few days each month when my eyelashes slough off en masse. And, typically, two-thirds of the eyelashes that parachute downward inevitably fall into my eyes.
There are few irritations that equal that felt when an eyelash welds itself to a contact lens. One second you're happily blinking away unhindered, and the next you're practically in tears trying to blink an eyelash off your lens, enduring a unique kind of minute pain that feels like you accidently jammed a pin into your eyelid, over and over and over again.
Once an eyelash has glued itself to a contact lens, you pretty much only have two options. You can blink into perpetuity and hope that, eventually, the deluge of tears flooding your eye as a result of irritated pain will wash the offending lash off the contact lens. Or, you can hightail it to the nearest bathroom, peel your contact lens off, and wash it with tap water. It's entirely up to you, of course, and it all depends on your tolerance for irritating pain. I tend to endure the blinking solution for roughly three minutes before making my way to the bathroom.
Today, as of 10:30 a.m., I have had to flush my eyes of no less than FIVE eyelashes, and I can't help but believe there are more on the way.
Lousy genetics.
During my fourth year of college, I bought a futon to serve as my primary device for horizontal subconscious rejuvenation, otherwise known as sleeping.
I opted for a futon because the room in which I was living was roughly the size of a milk carton, so it was necessary to have compact furniture and a bed that could fold into a couch so I had enough room for other important activities, such as opening my door to get out of my room. Seriously, when my futon was in "bed mode," the door barely opened far enough to squeeze through. Such was the joy of living in a room that was most likely originally contructed to be a closet.
Following that fourth year of college, I continued to use my futon as my primary sleeping device, even though it was no longer necessary to do so in the name of space utilization. Unfortunately, futons of that bygone era six years ago weren't constructed to endure prolonged use in bed mode, so by the second year my futon had a decidedly distressed look to it. The metal frame had started to bend in places and the mattress itself had flattened considerably from the thick man-sized fajita it originally was.
But still I continued to call upon the futon as my sole sleeping source. Even though I could feel the metal frame pushing through the mattress like a "Princess and the Pea" fairy tale (just to clear this up: I am in no way saying I'm a princess; I am, in fact, a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness). I'm not sure why I clung so tenaciously to my beleagured futon. I guess, you know, it's like a good hunting dog: you just can't put it down because it slowed down a little in its old age.
So, for the past six years, I've been sleeping on a rapidly deteriorating futon which, if used for a few months more, would probably be considered a torture device by most world human rights organizations. Still, being the stubborn male hunk that I am, I steadfastly refused to capitulate and buy a bed. Why would I need a new bed when I have this horribly disgusting futon on which to sleep?
Well, as a birthday gift from my parents, they said they'd buy me a bed if it meant I'd finally relinquish my reliance on my aging futon. Given the combination of a bad back due to a broken down futon and the promise of a free new bed, I opted to do a little bed shopping.
Unfortunately, I opted to do bed shopping with my girlfriend in tow. Now, even though my girlfriend would not be the primary user of the new bed, that didn't stop her from promoting beds that best suited her preferences. Whereas I tend to favor harder sleeping surfaces, such as carpet over concrete, my girlfriend tends to favor softer sleeping surfaces that feature more give than a rock thrown into a bucket of mud.
Back and forth we went, with my girlfriend trying out and insisting that beds softer than warm chocolate were the way to go, while I tried to find the hardest bed in the store. She'd convince me to try out one of her human swallowing soft beds, and then I'd convince her to try out one of my oak-hard, spine straighteners. Neither of us liked the others choices.
Clearly, we had reached an impasse. The stalemate was broken, however, when I pointed out that it was MY bed, not hers, and that it was MY birthday present, not hers. Although I think she plainly understood the logic of both points, that didn't stop her from glaring angrily at me in such a way that promised I would be alone in my new hard bed for the foreseeable future.
I've always known that my futon was small when compared to actual beds, but knowing that hardly prepared me for the arrival of my queen-sized purchase. I dragged the broken carcass of the futon into the spare bedroom and made space for the new bed arrival.
Once I had the new bed in place, I was absolutely astonished at the sheer size of the beastly thing. I had purchased Mt. Bederest! It's surface is a full three or more feet off the ground. It requires ropes and grappling hooks just to climb aboard. For my girlfriend, who tends to lean to the shorter end of the species, climbing into bed is practically a workout regimen. She has to rest midway up the bed face to catch her breath and bring up fresh supplies for the rest of the journey upward.
Ultimately, it's a really nice bed, even if it is somewhat large. Still, I sort of miss my futon. I guess after six years of lower back torture, my futon kind of grew on me. Which is appropriate, I guess, because after six years, there are almost certainly parts of me growing on that futon.
I'm lazy right now, so I'll just post an old post that I think is funny. Plus, my foot hurts today, and that reminded me of this, so. . .
It's generally understood by myself and most of my old high school classmates that I was pretty much considered a geek. I was one of those brainy guys who didn't study but managed to attain the A honor roll any way.
Regardless of the obvious benefits in the real world, being a brainy guy in high school is a guaranteed ticket to being a social pariah. I was accused of "reading the dictionary" and "going through encyclopedias for fun," neither of which were true.
Despite my brainy designation, I was perhaps guilty of doing some of the dumbest things imaginable, which only contributed further to my geeky image and added to the verbal tauntings of my classmates. Perhaps no other act resulted in more mental high school trauma than the time I shot myself in the foot with a B.B. gun. This was a very stupid thing for a brainy guy to do.
My freshman year of school loomed before me, it was the weekend before football practice began, and I was out walking with my Crossman 10 pump air rifle firmly in my grasp. I believed myself to be the blackbird assassin, and with my trusty mutt, Ray, bounding playfully by my side, we were a daunting duo to say the least. I can't really explain the appeal of shooting birds with a B.B. gun, and the thought actually disturbs me today, but at 15 years old, I considered it quality time. My dog, also, seemed to enjoy the outings, although I suspect he was just happy to be outside, where he could empty his bowels without fear of reprisal.
Ray was an enthusiastic rabbit chaser. And, even though he possessed half the speed and one quarter the intelligence of most rabbits, he managed to come close once in awhile, with 20 feet being considered "close." On that particular day, Ray surprised a rabbit, and, judging by the startled yip, himself as well. The two spooked and confused animals started an awkward chase in which Ray actually had the edge, and I absentmindedly lowered my gun just over my left foot to watch the show.
In a surprise move, Ray managed to make contact with the rabbit, and I overreacted to the close call by pulling the trigger, initiating a series of events that ultimately led to a steel ball crashing through my shoe and lodging firmly in the joint of my little toe. And it really kind of hurt. I hobbled hurriedly homeward, where I explained my situation to my father. He gave me a deeply concerned look, which most fathers probably give sons who have committed acts so stupid, they can only be rewarded with deeply concerned looks.
Then, it was off to the hospital, where I was certain there would be a crack team of experts who specialized in the removal of B.B.s from the feet of stupid kids. Much to my surprise, my crack team of experts seemed genuinely unprepared for the task. They took a series of x-rays, which proved what I already knew, namely that there was a metal ball lodged in my foot. I was, however, surprised at just how well a B.B. showed up in an x-ray. You may be curious as to how long it takes a crack team of experts to remove a B.B. from a foot. The answer, in my case, was four hours.
For four agonizing hours, a doctor, whom I was convinced obtained his medical license from a box of Lucky Charms, dug unsuccessfully in my foot using a glorified tweezers. They brought in a special x-ray television monitor, which they used to navigate to the metal orb that they consistently couldn't remove. Finally, just as I was about to demand that they leave my foot alone, Dr. Mengele freed the ball from my toe and held it triumphantly for all to see. Then he threw it away. I was sewn up, given a pair of crutches, and sent on my merry little way.
Unfortunately, my crack team of experts didn't offer any advice as to how I should tell my classmates what I had done come Monday morning and the first day of football practice. Initially, as I crutched my way into the locker room, every face was etched with concern. That concern gave way to boisterous laughter after I told them what happened.
I think I told the same story roughly 50 times that day, mostly to people who didn't believe me the first 49 times. On that fateful day, I spiraled forever into the realm of geekdom, never to emerge. I was no longer one of the brainy guys. I was that brainy guy who shot himself in the foot with a B.B. gun. Even the other brainy guys shunned me.
I guess I should blame myself for the whole incident, but I find that it's easier to blame Ray for almost catching that rabbit.
Stupid dog.
UPDATE: But, you know, it pays to stay positive, particularly through hard decisions.
My mind keeps coming back to this one house. I toured it a couple of weeks ago with Melissa and the father of a friend of mine, Mike, who tells me straight up what he thinks, so he's invaluable both as a wise voice when it comes to house hunting, and a strong will who can keep the sales-hungry realtors at bay. As it turned out, the realtor I chose, Debbie, is really great and isn't pushy in the least, and she's a total freakin' babe (trust me, the picture doesn't do her justice).
I bid on the house a couple weeks ago, but I was outbid by, like, $6,000, so I had pretty much given up on it. But, the people who outbid me ended up balking for piddly little reasons that I can barely believe, so the house is still on the market, and Debbie believes I can still get it for about $125,000. It's a steal, really, and yet I find myself wavering. The unknowns of home-ownership keep me unsteady, and following the nerve-wracking bid process from a couple weeks ago, I'm loathe to go through it all again.
But, I can't escape the feeling that the house is a absolute gold mine just waiting for a lucky soul to snap it up. It's huge, for one thing, with over 2,500 square feet of space, which would make my meager worldly goods seem absolutely paltry when the enormity of the space swallows them whole.
All the big ticket maintenance items have been taken care of: news windows, new roof, fairly new furnace. I wouldn't have to sink gobs of cash into the home once I bought it, which is a huge bonus.
Cosmetically, the house is a nightmare. Built in 1958, its decor hasn't aged a day. The woman who lived there since the house was built, was a meticulous house-keeper, so it's like a time-warp back to 1958 every time I set foot inside. Thick green carpet and thick green drapes are the first things you see in a gigantic living room. And that carpet, I tell you, was put down not a day after 1959. But, that carpet hides a secret: gleaming-as-they-day-they-were-tacked-into-place hardwood floors. All the upstairs rooms, through covered in frighteningly dated carpet, hide hardwood floors just screaming to be set free. Then there's the paint. There's a pink bedroom, and when I say pink, I mean PINK. Pink carpet, pink walls, AND a pink ceiling. It's like walking into a swirl of cotton candy. The kitchen is small and sports appliances that were no doubt state of the art in 1958, right down to the push button range that looks like a command console used by Capt. Kirk.
There also a porch, bigger than any porch I've ever seen, and it has more potential than should probably be legal. The basement is largely unfinished and features a maze-like hodge podge of half-completed projects, including an attempt at a family room that looks like the gathering place of a witches coven, complete with ancient gas fireplace adorned with a coat-of-arms and wall sconces that look the lighting of choice for the Crypt Keeper. But, again, the basement is huge and is just screaming to be remodeled and updated. And it's all cosmetic and not nearly time-critical.
Mike assures me I won't find another home for this price with all the big ticket items already taken care of, and of course Melissa is mentally already moved in and is scoping out paint swatches for every room in the house, and I have to admit I've taken quite a shine to the abode.
Now it's just a matter of getting past this allergic reaction I have to spending large sums of money and going into debt, and I just don't know if I can get past that, at least not yet. So, I toggle between wanting to call Debbie and set up a bid appointment and just swearing off home ownership completely and cowering in a corner to weep.
This just sucks. It's exciting, but it sucks.
