Day 10

Day 10--A Photo of You Taken over Ten Years Ago

Ok, I swear that I have in my possession exactly one picture of me taken over ten years ago. I cannot seem to find it. My better half can attest to the fact that this picture does exist, as she has seen it.

It is a picture of me at around 8 or 9 years of age, wearing my Superman PJs, with my best friend at the time, who happened to be a girl, who was also wearing her Superman PJs, though hers had a skirt, so I guess they were Supergirl. But I was a little jealous of the skirt. OK, not really, but I think it is hilarious that she had a skirt on because she was a huge tomboy.

Also in the picture, we were holding up He-Man figurines (or possibly G.I. Joe, I cannot recall). We used to play a game called Guys, which was really just a battle royale between He-Man, GI Joe, and whatever other action figures we had. Good times. Simple times. Oh well.

So, here is a picture of what I probably looked like exactly 29 years ago:

If I had been a girl of course.

Happy new year everyone!

Day 9

Day 9--A Photo That You Took

Well, I am not much of a shutterbug, but here is a picture of an ominous DC sky I took a while back. It was taken with my phone, so quality sucks.

Notice the framing of the Capitol Building in the background, as well as how the sky gets darker as it looks to be directly above the Capitol.

Bonus Picture!!!!!

This is my car about halfway through the DC snowstorm. By the end, the entire thing would be covered.

Day 8

Day 8--A Photo That Makes You Angry/Sad

I am going to go with sad here:

That is Reagan National Airport. That is where my girlfriend flies out of when she leaves for christmas/spring/summer break. So I am not a fan. My girlfriend by the way, has a fantastic blog that you should check out because it is great.

And because that picture makes me sad, I am gonna do another one that makes me happy:

She went home for thanksgiving. I stayed in DC and spent thanksgiving alone. So the weekend before she left, she made me a turkey. A deliciously delectable turkey. I got to carve it, and she put on the finishing touches and made the turkey arrangement you see above. It was so good, my mouth is watering as I am typing this.

So that picture makes me happy, and I am now in a slightly better mood than I was when I started writing this post.

Day 7

Day 7--A Photo That Makes You Happy



PLAYOFFS!!!!

Also, these pictures of DC covered in snow are pretty cool.

Day 6--Tickling

Day 6--Whatever Tickles Your Fancy

I suppose this means I can write whatever I want. However, I am exhausted from the holidays, so how about a short list. In no particular order, my christmas gift haul (bear in mind, I had to transport gifts from Chicago to DC on only two small carry-ons):

1. Hockey Gloves
2. Three seasons of the Simpsons
3. Madden for Wii
4. Wii Remote
5. Small John Deere farming machinery (like Hot Wheels size. From my mom because I am addicted to Farmville)
6. Lego Indiana Jones for Wii
7. Cubs Pez dispenser
8. Three books: The Black Swan; Superfreakonomics; and Traffic: Why we drive the way we do
9. Zebrahead--Panty Raid
10. Lawyer Jokes Calendar
11. An old thyme hat. Kind of like a tam o'shanter, but I am not sure what is really called. (Used to be my Grandpa's)

Hope everyone had a great holiday. Back to the grind tomorrow.

Day 5--Favorite Quote

Hey look at this, five for five! I am impressed with myself. However, these posts are getting noticably shorter and shorter. I am gonna blame Christmas and the NHL's condensed schedule. I fly back to DC tomorrow, then it is work on Monday, so hopefully, this ship will get rolling again. For now, it is merely:

Day 5--Your Favorite Quote

All sunshine makes a desert

My girlfriend is not a very big fan of this quote but that is OK. You know why? Its because all sunshine makes a desert.

Day 4--Favorite Book

Short and sweet for a Very Merry Christmas:

Day 4--Your Favorite Book:

Day 3--Favorite TV Show

Here we go again. Remember that post yesterday? Well you probably read it today because I made a post two days ago as well and I am sure you figured that there would be nothing new here for at least a month; But you were WRONG!! In yesterday's post I stated the uncontroverted fact that 3% of my DVDs are movies. In today's installment, we learn how the other 97% roll . . .



Day 3--Your Favorite TV Show



Alright, let's rehash what we know. First, many of my DVDs are of the TV variety. Second, this flies in the face of the message intended by my favorite song.

We can breakdown this TV show thing by listing off what it is I own. For the most part, it falls under six television shows. Two can be voted off the island from the outset:

Firefly--Holy hell, do I love this show. Not only that, the girlfriend loves it too (it was our first television related bonding experience. Also, for some holiday, I got a card that would record 30 seconds and I sang a portion of the theme song in that way that only I can pull off (i.e. the singing sucks, but it is cute as hell)). However, the show only lasted 14 episodes, and thus cannot compete with a show has lasted at least 20 seasons.

Smallville--I love ya Smallville, but too Monster of the weeky, and well, I haven't watched a new episode in the last two seasons and I only own the first five (first four are great though, well, 2-4 is great). Eventually I will buy the rest, but repeat viewings are not very high.

That narrows the field down to four. Two dramas and two half hour comedies. One from each category has to be cut. There is no turning back. This is the final destination for two of these shows. The last hurrah, the last turkey in the pie hole, the final nail in the coffin (don't you hate those reality shows that have an hour to fill, but only fifteen minutes worth of material so they spend a bunch of time building up to nothing, going out to commercial saying "What will happen" and recapping the scenario, then coming back from commercial saying "What will happen" and recapping the scenario, infusing with 2 minutes of new material, then wash, rinse, and repeat? It annoys the fuck out of me. And yes, I am looking at you Hell's Kitchen. Arrghhh, it makes me so mad.) But anyway, as I was saying, we have already eliminated two of the top six television shows. Which remaining show will make a fatal mistake. The answer . . . . after this brief message:




Angel--I love this show, but it is a spin-off, and therefore, not as great. OK, it might be better than Buffy, but ummm, move along please. I would like to note, that I have watched the last two episodes of this series more than I have ever watched another single television program. That is worth noting.

Arrested Development--It came down to a simple question. At its best, was AD funnier than The Simpsons at its best. Simple question. Simple answer.

TV TIMEOUT FOOL!




So, as you have you guessed, that leaves Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Simpsons. And to be honest, I am trying to pick a top show, but

I can't decide, can't decide. Brain aneurysm!




the below version is sweet, yet lacks the line. Anyway, I am not deciding. Because both shows rock.

Day 2--Favorite Movie

When we last checked in with crazy Daaaaazzze Meme I was lamenting the fact that I had to pick a favorite song. And, as Gladwellians are want to do, I just went with the Tipping Point for myself and used some anecdotal evidence. 'Cause who needs the scientific method right? Well, for this day, we are about to get all mathematical. Strap yourselves in kids, because now it is:

Day 2--Your Favorite Movie

These days, movies are cheap. So long as you do not go to a theater. A DVD ranges between 10 and 20 bucks. You can sign up for Netflix and watch something like 800 movies a month for 15 cents. So it stands to reason that one should own one's favorite movie. Its not like you have to hire two unionized projectionists to run your home movie theater. Everyone has a DVD player by now. If one can access the internet, they likely have computer of some sort or even a gaming system which can play DVDs (except for the Wii, damn Wii). Additionally, through the magic of the internet one can download a shit ton of 1's and 0's which eventually form into moving pictures with sound which may or may not resemble copyrighted works.

So, those are the facts of the world we live in. And remember, my hypothesis is that everyone owns, in some way shape or form, be it legal or illegal, one's favorite movie.

I own approximately 175 individual DVDs. Of those, 5 are movies (more on this tomorrow, which will be obvious when you see tomorrow's topic--"brag more about the number of DVDs you own even though it really is not that many"). So of all my DVDs, about 3% represent theatrical movies (though one may not have been released in theaters, or at least, it should not have). Also, I have no movies on my computer, and I think I lost a couple of DVD-R's which an ex-con friend gave that had five or six movies on them. I am fairly certain that I saw the blatant copyright violations and summarily destroyed the discs.

Regardless, the point is that the defense's theory does not hold water. My hypothesis is wrong. I surveyed everyone here, and it comes out 0-1 in owning-not owning one's favorite movie. Which means I do not own my favorite movie. The shame I feel. I am not a true American. Thankfully, in my world, one person does not a hypothesis prove. I never said the rule had to be absolute. If people read this blog, I would totally put up a poll which would prove my hypothesis correct. But alas.

Anyway, to answer the question:



Gawd that is a shitty trailer. What, was everyone high in the 60's or something? This is a kick-ass fan made one set to music. None of that annoying talking (as for silent films, I recommend Battleship Potemkin)



The book is pretty good too.

Day 1--Favorite Song

Hey this looks easy. I suck at updating this blog for a myriad of complex reasons that would take at least 30 days of explanation. Instead of of spending the next two fortnights plus two days explaining, I am going to spend the 2 1/7ths fortnights doing this 30 days meme thing that I have been seeing at one place (I am so busy, I no longer follow blogs*). Thus, I am gonna give this a shot to hopefully reinvigorate my blogging spirit. But don't hold your breath. Unless you had fish tonight. Then please do.

*blatant lie, but I try to make at least 1/4th of the sites in my reader work related.

Day 1--Your Favorite Song

Jeebus Christmas. They have to make the first one this tough. I am seriously rethinking this whole meme bullshit. Picking a favorite song is like picking your favorite adopted child. You had nothing to do with its development and were probably not there for the release party, but be damned if you did not make that thing your own and love it more (in your head) that the actual creator did/does.

Favorite could mean so many things, especially when it comes to music. So fuck it, I will just pick the song that made me turn my radio down 0.8 clicks, from the Mix 101.9 to Q101, way back in the year 1996 or some such (when I was ~15. I was a late bloomer to the whole teenage angst thing.).





Turns out, the song is about TV being bad. Guess I missed that message. He should have sang television instead of subway. That would have helped. Maybe. Probably not. I am dense.

Dumbass

Matisyahu is an arrogant dumbass. In regards to his song "one day", he states, "I don't think you could write a better song for the Olympics. The song is about getting past the differences and coming together. It's about hope and unification -- that's the whole deal with the Olympics."

Ummm, the whole point of the olympics is to kick some commie ass and prove that the USA is the best country ever. Ever, ever? Ever, evah. Why do you think we added events like snowboarding? Why do you think USA basketball got ripped for winning a bronze medal? The only hope that exists is the hope that One Day everyone will feel unified because everyone speaks english.

And for the record, I probably cannot write a better song about the olympics, but I am sure there exists someone, somewhere, that can (to be fair I have not heard the song yet, I will listen to it later an amend this post if necessary) (also, if by "you" he meant the reporter taking down the quote, then you, Mr. Matisyahu, are probably correct. Sorry Rudi Greenberg of the Express).



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A Short Post About Nothing

The woman is demanding a blog post. At first I was thinking about doing a Top Ten Things I Hate About You list, but then realized that I just did a top ten list as well as that would admit that I have seen the movie of a similar title. So that was out (even though I am truely annoyed that last night she bought a portion of my X-mas gift (with me there no less), three seasons of The Simpsons on DVD, but refuses to allow me to release them from their shrinkwrapped bondage). Then I tried to think of something interesting or amazing that I have done recently, but my meager accomplishments (if there are in fact any) pale in comparison to the fact that she saved a blind woman's life the other day.

I could write about the fact that the woman has Netflixed Twilight, even though she has not read any of the books and determined that it sounds stupid (per Wikipedia plot summaries), and is going to ruin my day off tomorrow by making me watch it.

Or I suppose I could write about the fact that I quit smoking for her about a week and a half ago (Nov. 1 to be exact). And after three jittery days have seemed to nearly kick the habit (though walking out of work every day still causes my mouth to water as it anticipates those delicious carcinogens wafting over it, twice per drag). The best part of the quitting process is that I did not even have to give up beer! Though, I am no longer drinking Bud Light. At least for now. I will be back old friend.

I could write about the fact that I have very little actual work to do at work right now. But lots of people do not have a job and I do not want to sound like a dick.

So there is really not that much going on for me right now. I do not what to tell you all. Except that I am addicted to Farmville. It makes me hate myself a little. But it is addictive. Oh well. At least I am not smoking.

How I was Attacked By Wolves and Forced to Live Among Them for Six Months

Or, more accurately, the top ten reasons I suck at blogging.

1. Shitty T-Mobile. I do not get telephone service in my office, and as such, have no mobile internet in my office. I get phone service when I go to smoke, but not data service (and this is in downtown DC). Hence, I cannot email entries to my blog. Of course, I could type them out, and just save them until I am at a place where I have data service, but see #9.

2. Work. I have a job. Surprisingly, it has been just over a year since I started this job. I would not say that it keeps me busy, per se, but it does mean that I have to be someplace for at least 8 hours a day. And factor in the commute, we are looking at 9 hours. And then factor in the fact that I have spent the last 8 hours staring at a computer screen, I am not so motivated to fire up the old laptop when I get home. I much prefer staring at the television screen when I get home and bask in its warm glowing warming glow. And once you read #9 (no peeking!), you will understand that watching my ever-growing collection of The Simpsons DVDs is much preferred to moving my fingers above, and THEN applying pressure to, a keyboard.

3. Firewalls. There is one at work. I cannot access blogger from my work computer. Hence, no matter how freaking bored I get during the day, I cannot write a post. Well, I suppose I could, either long hand, in a word document that is later printed out, or even as mentioned above on my Blackberry, but as you noticed in #1, I cross-referenced #9, which remains true for this bullet-ish point.

4. Sports. Specifically, Hockey and Football. I cannot blame baseball. The Cubs were out of it a couple months ago and my fantasy baseball team nosedived after a stellar first month (I finished 11th out of 12). But Hockey, oh hockey. I play of course and that takes up one night per week. And now hockey season has started. Even as I type this I am acutely focused on the 'Hawks-Wings game (I suppose that means I am obtusely focused on writing). Sure, sure, this is the 'Hawks third game of the year, and the first two, played in Sweden, meant I could only catch the game on Saturday, but still, its HOCKEY! And the hawks will be good this year. So I have to spend a lot of time reading Puck Daddy, and Second City Hockey and Fifth Feather and Third Man In (See #9 as to why I am not including links).

And Football has started. The woman and I have a routine for football. We get up on Sunday morning and we head to the bar. We split a brunch and drink a lot. It is a lot of fun (except for the fact that I root for the Packers and she roots for the Bears). And she is friends with the bartender, so we get a pretty good deal for drinking all day. That obviously impairs my blog writing ability on Sundays.

5. Speaking of the woman, may as well include her here. She loves to go out and do things, and even though I am #9, I usually go along with her. Doing things that are not writing = not writing.

6. Twitter has turned my brain to mush. If this is the future of writing, count me out. I want no part of it. (How many characters was that?) Of course, due to #9, I twitter occasionally. Not much. And my tweets make me appear to be a twit (hehehehe, see what I did there?).

7. I am old, broken, and decrepit. Oh, let us just look at my injuries in the last couple weeks or so. As I tweeted, I had me some ass surgery about a month ago. Ass surgery is not cool. You cannot even enjoy a good sit (not a typo). You cannot even enjoy a good shit. I won't get into all the disgusting details, but as #9 as I may be, recovering from ass surgery makes one want to do less. Cannot even sit on my ass and type.

Then there was the softball game from which I received a panoply of injuries. As a softball pitcher, one must be prepared for balls hit back up the middle. And occasionally one of those balls will target the pitcher's balls. I got lucky. The batter's 90 mph redirect of my pitch off his bat when about two inches below my balls and slightly to my left. I reacted in time, I think, but instinctively used my glove to cover my fun parts, which caused the ball to glance off the glove, hit my inner thigh and nailed my inner thigh before proceeding through my legs and up the middle of the infield (the batter was safe fyi). The result was a bruise the likes of which I have not seen since I was hit by a car. Needless to say, a cup will now be added to my softball uniform.

Later in that game, I hit a drive to right field, which was promptly fumbled by the right field because the right fielder in softball usually sucks. For a normal person, this would be an easy double, but because I am slower softball version of Sid Bream, I had to hustle to turn it into a double. As I was nearing the bag, the throw from the outfield came in, and I did my best skid/slide which resulted in 1) my left knee scrapping along the dirt and 2) the shortstop crashing into me as he attempted to field the throw. So, as a result of this play, I skinned my knee, resulting in a quite a large wound (that my friend's girlfriend disinfected by pouring purell on it, Ouch) and a tweaked right ankle, which after a couple hockey games, still ain't right.

So given those injuries, plus a visit to the Doctor this week where he fiddled with my ass and made it hurt more, I am taking the week off from hockey. And hence, able to write this post. My pain=Your gain.

8. Books. I have bought five or six books in the last two months and have read none of them. I have to get on that shit.

9. If you have yet to figure out what this one is, my condolences.

10. I was blackmailed into revealing that I have had sexual relations with numerous young women at my place of employment. Oh, sorry, that was someone else who makes unfunny top ten lists.

Oh well

So I was actually going to write an actual new blog post tonight. It was going to be a symphony of prose, which alternatively elicit guffaws and introspection.

Unfortunately for you dear reader, my girlfriend unexpectedly showed up at my place tonight bearing gifts of Simpsons season five and seven. So this is the hackneyed post you get.
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Greatest Hits III

I don't write here as much as I should or write long posts like I did. So indulge me as we take a trip down memory lane and I repost some of the better (read: unsucky) posts from my old blog. I may add a prologue or a post script, but probably not because I am lazy.

There is not much to say about this one, just a random story from a nice summer's day that almost turned deadly. I also like that I tagged this post, "Grave Danger (Is there any other kind?)".

Because it was so nice out, sunny but with a nice breeze, I decided to read outside. I packed up all my gear, book, smokes, lighter, iPod, coffee, and a glass of water, and headed out onto the back porch. Upon opening the screen door, I immediately saw my nemesis.

A wasp was having a grand old time hanging out on my chair. He was walking up and down the back like he owned the fucking thing. This wasp needed to be taught a lesson by another WASP. I calmly, and with as little movement as possible put down my reading gear, while the wasp continued his exercise, walking up and down the curvature at the top of the lawn chair.

Once I had dropped the dead weight, I beat a hasty retreat back into the house, seeking out the nearest magazine. I quickly found a two-month old double issue of SI. Perfect. I rolled it, and snuck back out. The wasp was where I left him, continuing his journey to nowhere. Summoning all of my Native American heritage (which is probably none), I quietly snuck up behind him, and delivered a mighty THWACK.

When I removed the magazine from the point of impact, the wasp was no where to be seen. He was not attached to the magazine nor the chair. Confused, I crouched down to see where his flattened body had landed. I did not see it anywhere. I looked high and low, but the wasp was gone. I quickly retreated into the house.

Once safely behind the impenetrable fortress that is my screen door, I evaluated my options. All my stuff was outside, including the book I wanted to read, as well as a possible super-wasp, who could not be killed by an ordinary strategically aimed magazine. But, one day I will be a lawyer. I am sure that I will walk into many situations where I will eventually be stung (though in the pocketbook, or at least the client's pocketbook), and sucked it up and headed back out to continue my search. I figured my search would be fruitless, and I could go ahead with reading my book, keeping one eye on the words and one eye to the sky.

I saw him almost at once. He was four feet from where I attempted to murder him, hidden underneath a table. Half of his body had been smashed, and he could no longer fly. He was pulling himself along the ground like the Terminator at the end of The Terminator. Only two of his legs worked, and he looked pissed. I pulled my magazine out its sheath, and proceeded to pummel the half dead wasp. He had no chance. I was left with a highly dead wasp on my back-porch, his stinger halfway out. Not wanting to touch him, I used my magazine like a putter to get him to the nearest patch of land that would not have any foot traffic.

Once I succeeded, I was able to settle into my chair, and start enjoying my book.

About ten minutes later, two additional wasps buzzed my head. I freaked out and immediately grabbed for my sword, err, magazine, but by the time I was in my Gladiator position, they were twenty feet away. They kept buzzing around, a safe distance from me, and I went back to reading, keeping one eye on them. Soon, there was no activity, but I kept alert.

Then, one of the wasps returned, and landed on the porch about two feet from me. And he brought me a present. Secured in his arms was the wasp that I had killed, and putted into the dirt. For a second it looked like the second wasp was trying to slap his dead brethren back to life, but he quickly gave up, flew away and left the dead wasp lying on the ground, two feet from my bare feet.

His threat could not have been more subtle had he left a horse's head in my bed. I fled back to the safety of my bunker.

Young and Stupid

Sometimes I think back to who I was and realize what a fucking dumbass I was. Be it six months or six years, I am almost appalled at how dumb I used to be. Granted, I think I am smart as whip right now, but I am sure in a few months, I will look back at a couple things I did this month and think, wow, how fucking stupid was I.*

I generally try to keep my emotions in check, walk around with the poker face. However, one of the instances this does not work is when I play video games. Specifically, when the video game is obviously cheating. Video games do cheat sometimes, particuallry sports game, though sometimes I just play poorly and I get fucking pissed off. When I was young and stupid, I would have to keep my emotions in check, usually. Lots of times my parents would be around somewhere, or I would be playing late. In those cases, I would not swear like a sailor or throw things or pound my fist on the desk.

If my folks were not around, it was pretty much anything goes. Cursing, throwing controllers, yelling, all that shit. I cannot remember how old I was during one particular instance, but I was probably in high school, playing Madden on the computer when I truley acted dumbly.

It was the summer time, or a vacation day, but I know that it was during the day and my parents were both at work. I was playing Madden and the game began to obviously cheat and try to ruin my perfect record. When the final gun sounded, I had lost, and I was pissed. I stormed around yelling whatever obscenity popped into my head. And then, needing a way to really, really show the Madden game how pissed I was at it, I punched the wall.

It was a pretty good punch, though not conventional. It was not a jab, more like a swing. Essentially, I was walking down the hall, arms at my side, and just flung my right hand behind me, as though I was on a bike and emphatically stating that I was making a left turn. My punch was true, and hit the wall in a perfect spot, right between the studs. Drywall of course, is not that strong. I did not break through the wall, but I dented it pretty good. It really is quite amazing how you can be so pissed off you punch a wall, but then once you acheive the desired result, breakage, your mood switches pretty quick to holy fuck, my dad is gonna kill me.

But that is not the worst part of the story.

With a dented wall, I was young and stupid enough to think I could fix it and no one would be the wiser. In theory, it was a good plan. In theory, communism works. But being young and stupid, theory was all I needed. I headed to the basement, secured some spackle, and went about patching the dent. I spackeled the dent, smoothed it out as best I could and prepared to move to the second phase of the plan.

Had I been smarter, I would have realized that the first part of the plan doomed me to failure. Spackle takes about 24 hours to dry. After it drys, you need to sand it. And regardless, one can always tell the where dry wall has been spackled. But I threw caution into the wind, and set about finding the paint to cover up the white spackle.

And this might be the worst part.

I could not find the paint. But I found white paint and a paint that was just a little bit darker than the paint on the hallway wall. So, I mixed them. Seemed like a good idea. Mix dark paint with light paint, you get the right colored paint. Course, I am color blind so there really was never a chance for me to tell that the colors matched. Not to mention the fact that wet paint is always a slightly different shade than dry paint.

But I had gotten this far, so I painted the damn wall with my mixed paint. Cleaned everything up, turned all the lights off in the hallway and hid in my room.

Eventually, my dad got home. It took about two hours, but it happened. I was laying on my bed trying to read, when I heard "what the hell is this?" come through my bedroom door. He was asking my little sis, but I knew I would soon have a knock on my door. There was nothing I could do. I had to tell the truth.

"Yeah, so I kinda punched the wall, and it made a little hole, so I got the spackle and patched the hole, but then I could not find the right color paint, so I mixed a couple paint buckets that I found in the basement and painted the wall."

I think my dad was shocked at my combined ingenuity and stupidity. I mean really, after hearing that story, what are you suppossed to say? He did not say much, and if I recall correctly, I did not even get in trouble. Just a few head shakes and a couple incredulous "Wow"s. My mom was thrilled I had fucked up her wall, and not just because I am her only son who can do no wrong. She had been pestering my dad to repaint the hallway. This gave him a good reason to do it.

I am still shocked that I thought that this was the best course of action. But I was young and stupid. Now when I get frustrated at video games, I just bottle the anger, and get some lumps on my neck.

image from: http://simpsonsviewertop8.blogspot.com/

*I went out with my paralegal friend a couple weeks ok, and he lives an hour out of DC (he has a shitty commute), so I would go out in his town and pass out at his place. It was a pretty standard night, drinking and shit, but when I woke up, I put on my shirt and pants and went out to smoke. My friend showed up and was like, what the fuck happened to your shirt? I look at my shirt, and there is this nasty stain on my shirt and the crotch of my pants. Based on the visual evidence, it looked like I threw up on myself. I had no recollection of me throwing up and nor did he. We went down to the basement where I slept and found no further traces of vomit. We were flummoxed, but came to the conclusion that I vomited on my shirt and pants at some point, and that was that. Cut to Monday morning, and paralegal friend informs me that it indeed was not vomit on my shirt. Instead, I decided to reheat some spaghetti and meatballs that I found in his fridge and eat it on his deck. In my drunken stupor, my aim was poor, and much of the spaghetti and meatballs I tried to shove in my mouth missed, rolled down my shirt and pants and onto his deck. My friend discovered this because of the mess I left on his deck. So yeah, should not have bought myself a shot that night. Stick to beer.

Selfish?

In the nearly a year that I have been working in the Real World at my current place of employment, two people in my group of about 22 people have passed away.

The first, was wholly unexpected. The guy was about 50 years old and had a sudden and massive stroke. He was on life support for a couple of days before passing. A week after he died, his 18 year old graduated high school. Horrible, horrible story. My grandfather had a stroke when I was about five and was never the same. I never really got to know him. Strokes and anyuerisms scare me more than anything. I was friendly with the guy, but never really talked to him at length. We tax attorneys tend to keep to ourselves.

The second, was a bit more expected, but still unsettleing. I summered where I work in 2007. I shared an office with her then. We shared the same exit door, but it is what we call a "walk-through." Her office was behind mine, with a wall and a door separating us. Our shared printer was in my bay, so I would see her at least several times a day. As just mentioned, we tax attorneys are not the most talkative, outgoing bunch, so we never engaged in any long discussions, but I still used her as a resource and asked her dumb questions like, "Where can I get more legal pads?" or "Can I recycle this, or should it be shredded first?" At the end of the summer, when I shredded a lot of my shit using her shredder, but letting her clean up the mess, I informed her that I would probably accept the offer and would see her in 2008. Turns out I wouldn't see her in '08. But I saw her twice in '09.

When I started working last Septemember I ended up in a different office. I stopped by to see her once, but she was not there. She was never there. Something had happened. Turns out, she had cancer. And not the good kind (not that there is a good kind).

And then, in early '09, someone in the group lateralled, and in the ensuing office reshuffle (I was eager to get out of my current office for a myriad of reasons, even though I had just scored a brand new desk they refused to cart to my new office), I ended up where I had spent the summer of aught seven (though it had been renovated, it now had a better bookcase and a whiteboard. Score! Crappy desk though). I took all the cool shit I had acquired in my three months in my old office, except for the desk and coat rack, and moved back into my old spot. And it essentially became my office. Sure it was a walk-through, but she was never in. The only reason someone would come into my office was because they wanted to talk to me or got me confused with the office next door where you pick up legal pads. There were drawbacks to having one's own office. Well, drawback. I usually get to the office late, around 9:30. But lots of time I do not get in until 10. Occassionally I miss the train that gets me to the office at ten and I end up in the office at 10:15. And thus, anyone walking down the hall can see that the light in my office is off. I am the only one with a key who shows up on a regular basis, and if the light is off, I am not in. I do not think anyone cares, but I am just a paranoid first year in the middle of a recession who gets worried about this shit. Sort of. I am fairly certain no one cares. As long as I get my shit done (or think I am getting it done).

But since I have been in my new old office, she has shown up twice. The first time she walked through the door and said, "Surprise!" as I frantically shoved the newspaper that I was doing the sodoku puzzle in under the desk. But I was surprised. She was not the same that I remembered. It was clear that the chemo and cancer had been very unkind to her. She was bald, wearing a neck brace, using a walker, and extremely skinny. It took a second for me to register who this was. If it had not been for a her voice, which I had not heard in 18 months, I do not think I would have recognized her. I can only hope that the look on my face did not shift from horrified to recognition and was merely confusion for a half a second before recognition. I cannot remember what I said to her after she said surprise, I can only hope that it was "Hi, nice to see you again" and not "Hi, how are you doing?"

When she came in again a month later, she looked better. She was not using the neckbrace. But she still did not look good. And it pains me that I have trouble remembering what she looked like before the cancer. I saw her almost every weekday for three months, and now I can only picture her as I last saw her (for what it is worth, when I try to construct the prior memories of her, she keeps looking like a female version of the old Rob from Get Fuzzy, which is not quite accurate).

A month ago, her mother and hospice worker came in to remove her personal items from her office. I did not realize it at the time, but she had likely taken a turn for the worse. My two bosses stopped by to chat with her mother, and though I had my headphones on, I usually keep the volume very low while working, and was able to hear what they were chatting about. No one had a bad thing to say about her. But at least they got to know her. She worked for us for 25 years. I got the impression that my bosses understood her fate, but were thought she could beat it. They understood the importance of standing behind her, and doing whatever was in their power to keep her in her proper position after she beat it. I was only overhearing, but I was very proud of my bosses. These are people you want to work for.

She did not beat it though. She passed over the weekend.

And I feel a bit selfish. No one where I work has as private an office as I do. We have an open door policy. However, the doors facing the hallway are always kept close. Hence, my office door is always kept closed. The other similarly situated offices are walk-throughs. Important people sit in the back office. Hence, others are always walking through the walk-through office. Other offices are offshoots of a lobby area, where the hallway doors open up into a lobby area that provides access to six or eight offices. Sure these offices can have their doors closed, but it is not really the way we roll. And thus, I am in a walk-through that no one walks through in an office with an open door policy where I cannot keep my door open.

Therefore, I have a more private office than most. As mentioned, no one comes into my office unless they want to talk to me. Rarely do people want to talk to me. Usually, it is just my bosses, either to hand me a case or pontificate about potential fantasy trades. Or occassionally, my paralegal friend stopping by because I am late in grabbing him for a smoke (his office is closer to the elevators). No one ever stops by to chat. And a random person will stop by to discuss something work related, though I can usually anticipate that because I have asked them to look at something.

So, for the most part, I can do whatever I want in my office without fear of pop-ins. This is nice for doing crosswords, sudoku, trying to get around the firewall, and, as was the case the other day, having some serious gas. The other night I decided to make a tuna casserole. I used a one of the big cans of tuna (not bulk size, but pretty big). As such, around 2 the next day, I had some serious gas. I started ripping farts left and right and straight down into my chair. If a fart is particularly nasty, I will light a match, but for the most part, if I have to fart, I let it rip, smell factor be damned. With another person sharing my office space, or with an office that people regularly walk-through, well there is a time to breathe and there is a time to squeeze, though that can lead to disasterous results.

Point being, I was sad to learn that she had passed. But I fear I may have been sadder to learn that seven months of private office may be coming to an end soon. I like having my own space. When the wind blows a certain way, I like knowing that I can break wind if that is what I desire. I wonder if a part of me hoped that she would beat it, so she could keep doing what she was doing, so that I could be ensured another five to seven years with a private office (assuming I stay here that long of course). Of course, it is not just the lassiez-faire farting I enjoyed. It was printing random crap. Playing brickbreaker while bored. Surfing the intertubes (to the extent the firewall allows me. Oh, and has anyone else noticed that google reader now starts showing the URL of the site you are readering, rather than treating it like a flash page where the only URL exposed was reader.google.com. What is up with this? Upcoming post on how google is becoming evil btw). Printing out the latest sports guy column and reading it at my desk as oppossed to on the computer so it looks like I am reading shit for work and not slacking on the intertubes.

So this is my apology to her. I am sorry I did not get to know you better. I know there is so much that I could have learned from you. Just today, I was struggling with a basic question about tax law that you would have known. Had you been there, I would have asked. I am sorry I did not ask more questions in the past. I am sorry I am selfish. I saw the e-mail saying that you had passed, and my heart hurt because you helped me in the past. I could have used your help in the future. But then I went to smoke with paralegal friend and told him my fears about the high mortality rate in my group. And I thought about how your passing would affect my private office. And I thought about how I could just take your case of bottled water and no one would care.

But mostly I am sorry that I did not get to know you better (yeah, its a repeat). I saw you many times for three months and I do not know anything about you. I am sorry. You are tougher than me. I wish I could have done more.

"I Screwed Up"

Those were the words I uttered to my boss when I walked into his office yesterday morning.

It happens to everyone. You screw up. You fail. Does not make it any easier. Fear of failing causes procrastination, making excuses, and can result in failing to do anything. Everyone knows this. I cannot tell you anything you cannot learn in Psych 101 (I assume, I never took it, which makes me unqualified to speak on, oh let's just say anything).

I suppose I could have made excuses. But that would have looked pretty stupid considering I sent my boss an e-mail last week saying everything was going as planned. And at that time, I really thought it was. In that e-mail I stated I needed X, Y, and Z, and that I should get them next week. Everything was on track. We were cutting it a little close, but there was no reason to worry.

Then, Monday afternoon, the mail came. I got the letter I was looking for. Read it and said, "What the fuck?" I got Y. I got Z. But there was no X. And X was the most important part. At first I got pissed. They did not send me the information I specifically requested. Then I looked through the case file. I did not actually request it. Oops.

I am fairly certain I told them about X on the phone. But X was not in the writing. Oops.

So, I cursed myself for about twenty minutes. Then ate lunch. Then decided to bite the bullet and tell my boss what was going on. Head into his office and, hello, he is gone for the afternoon. At first I was annoyed. I fucked up, won't someone help me. Won't someone please think of the children!?

Turns out, this was a good thing. I went back to my office, and instead of wallowing in my own misery, thought to myself, how can I make this right? There was no way to make it perfect, my fuck up had pretty much sealed that, but there is always an answer, and I set about considering my options. I eventually settled on the proper course of action and did the paperwork and drafted the shit I needed to accomplish that course of action.

So, Tuesday morning (well afternoon actually, I had a bunch of shit and meetings and crap and other types of malarkey to do in the morning, point is, soon as I had a free minute) I went into my bosses office and announced that I screwed up. I explained what happened and how it happened and how it got to the point that a fuck up like this could have caused this problem (i.e. excuses, not all my fault, but I take full responsibility because really, it is my fault). So we talked about it for a while, and worked out a solution, which happened to be the same one I had come to. So when he said, how soon can you have this drafted, I was able to say, it is right here.

Now, in the grand scheme of things, this is not that important (and really, what is?). I did not miss some sort of hard and fast, no questions asked deadline. It can potentially make me, my boss, and my department look bad. But not that bad. It is still unfortunate, simply because this should not have happened. And if the big boss comes calling, it is my boss that is going to take the heat, not me. I have not even been there for a year. The big boss would consider it a failure of management.

But because I went into my boss's office; because I owned up to the error; because I came in with a solution; well, I do not think my boss will mind getting any crap about this screw-up.

And most importantly, I have recognized the error of my ways. I screwed up. It happens. But now that I recognize my screw up, I have to learn from this. I cannot make this error again. If I do, well, I suppose I either get fired or allow my boss to grift me in a fantasy trade.

Greatest Hits II

I don't write here as much as I should or write long posts like I did. So indulge me as we take a trip down memory lane and I repost some of the better (read: unsucky) posts from my old blog. I may add a prologue or a post script, but probably not because I am lazy.

I just posted a long-ass tribute to my girlfriend, of which I meant every word, but this edition of my greatest hits relates to when I was not so lucky in love. Or, more accurately, when I was quite loved, but had no idea that such love even existed. So join me, as we reminisce about my love life, as it existed nine years ago.

There are probably several stories from my younger days that are worth telling. However this is the one I want to tell. Just as Mike from Barely Legal Blog worked at Kroger, I did so too. However, I do not have ten stories to tell, just one (though I was wearing the polo that Mike instituted).

It was so long ago, I cannot even remember what year it was. I think it was the fall semester of my sophomore year in college, when I came to be employed by the Kroger in my college town. A friend of mine had recently begun working in the Deli there, and told me it was an easy job and they were hiring. Me needing money to pay those older than me to procure beer for me, decided that the Deli at Kroger’s was the perfect job. I quickly set about filling out an application and was hired (I think there may have been an interview, but who knows). I naively figured that this would be a good chance to hang out with a friend of mine, and getting paid to do so. This assumption turned out to be erroneous quite quickly. We both worked at night, but since we were both part-time, we were generally paired with a full-timer, and thus worked on different nights. Apparently there were some people in town who felt that working in the Deli at the Kroger was a career. After all, there were Union benefits (biting my tongue).

I generally spent my three nights a week working with Bertha. Bertha was a regular townie. She looked the part and acted the part. She was maybe a hair over five feet. She also had a nice pair of coke bottle glasses. In other words, the three-month old honey ham was more appetizing than her. While we worked together, she talked incessantly, not really to me (or so I thought), but at me. I usually grunted a reply, but because I was too nice a guy I could not tell her to shut her hole. She would yammer on, and I would say things like “yup,” “MMM-Hmmm,” “that’s interesting,” “wow,” “huh,” and “cool.”

To this day, I have no idea what she was talking about 90% of the time, but in the three months I was there, she told me one story twice; How she found her husband. From what I could decipher, one day Bertha decided she needed a husband. To accomplish this monumental task, she set up three dates. The details of the first date escape my memory, but it probably involved the guy seeing her, excusing himself from the table, and fleeing through the bathroom window. At the second date, the guy did not show up, even though Bertha was to pick him up at his home. But, as Bertha told me, she had a great time with his parents. Apparently, this guy still lived with his folks, and then skipped out to prevent meeting her, and his parents were forced to deal with her. According to Bertha, they were very nice folks (which I do not dispute, there were some folks around these parts that are salt of the earth), and she proceeded to hang out with them for a few hours.

Fortunately, on the third date Bertha struck gold. She met her soul-mate, Billy. Three dates was all it took to find love. If only that could work for us white-collars. Anyway, when Bertha met Billy sparks flew and they each knew that the other was the one. After all, Bertha worked in the Deli and Billy worked in the Meat Department, both at Kroger. It was a match made in heaven, or at least a recipe from the Kroger Bakery. After what was probably an exciting and eventful courtship, Bertha and Billy got married.

However, shortly after I began working in the Deli with Bertha, they began going through some problems. Unbelievably the marriage began to fall apart. This of course, was completely unknown to me, because I never listen to what people have to say. Had Bertha said something to me, I probably would have grunted. Of course, that may have happened, and Bertha found my grunt to be the sexiest thing ever. Because I came into work one day, and Bertha was scheduled, but no where to be seen.

With Bertha gone, a kid my age, (but not in school, though a cool guy nonetheless) named Tom was forced to stay late and work with me. As I recall, I was scheduled to come in an hour before Bertha, so after about an hour and a half of hard Deli work, the word began to trickle down. Bertha and Billy broke up. They had a huge fight the previous night, and no one knew where Bertha was. I, of course, did not care, I was more concerned about who would help me close up the Deli that night. I spent the better part of an hour convincing Tom to stay and help me close up. I talked him into staying until closing time, though not until closing procedures were completed, but that was good enough for me. Then the bombshell came.

To be continued….

********************************************

I heard it moments before the manager called me into his office. Tom had been walking around, and heard the gossip, soon to be confirmed by the manager. He informed me that Bertha and Billy had had a big fight the night before, and Bertha informed Billy that she was in love in with me. SHE WAS IN LOVE WITH ME!!!

I was floored by this revelation. A wet noodle could have knocked me over. A feather duster, a sombrero, a dishrag, hell even a drop of water could have knocked me on my ass. I did not even like this woman. All I did was give her a passing acknowledgment when words passed through her lips. Not to mention the fact that she was a solid 15 years older than me. I would not have given her the time of day had she passed me on the street. I don’t think that I was even that nice to her. I just said the occasional, “yep,” “uh-huh,” or “that’s great.” Was she so starved for attention that this was all she needed to fall in love with someone?

As I said, moments after I found out that I had unwittingly broken up a marriage, the manager called me into his office, and basically confirmed the rumor. Bertha had broken up with Billy because she was in love with me. The manager then proceeded to tell me that what I did on my own time was none of his business, just so long as it did not interfere with work. Had I not been so shell-shocked, I would have made it clear that I never so much as touched Bertha (OK, so maybe I brushed up against her tits once, but it was an accident). Still numb, I left his office with the knowledge that it does not pay to be nice.

The story is not done there though. All this happened within the first two and half hours of my shift. I still had half of it let to go. The rest of the day was filled with Kroger employees from every department casually walking by, peering into the Deli to see who had caused the latest drama. I wanted to hold up a sign saying, “I HATED BERTHA. SHE IS AN IDIOT. I NEVER DID ANYTHING. SHE IS READING INTO THINGS THAT ARE NOT THERE.” I did not get a chance however, as there were a lot of people asking for Lorraine Swiss Cheese that day.

The coup de grâce came about 20 minutes before closing time. A man and woman walked up to the Deli counter. Trying to put the whole thing behind me and be a cheery Kroger employee, I asked if there was anything I could help them with. They said, “Do you know [lawschoolrules]?” I said that was me. The man said, “Well its nice to see who that bitch left my brother for” and walked away. “Oh Fuck,” was the only thing I could think. That brief exchange taught me a very important lesson.

The next twenty minutes were anxiety ridden. The only thing I could think about was how many guys would be hiding behind my car waiting to break my legs. Would it just be Billy? Billy’s Brother? Both? Does Billy have more friends or brothers or uncles or nephews or bothers-in-law? They knew what I looked like. I had one saving grace though, Tom. I figured Tom would be there to help me out, he was a good guy, he would certainly escort me to my car.

Nope. As soon as the clock hit 10 he was gone. I don’t think he even said goodbye. Just punched out and left. As I wrapped up the corned beef I began thinking about how much a tire iron to the knee would hurt. I wondered if I had the balls to scream, “RAPE!!” But I sucked it up; I left the store with no escort, no gun, no brass knuckles, no nothing but my own fear. I walked out of the automatic doors and saw no one waiting in the shadows. I pressed on, my fists clenched ready to start swinging at anyone who came near. I made it to my car without any trouble, but knew that there was still a chance for violence. I got, started the car up, and drove away without incident. I was relieved, after all it had been the second time in my life I had been presented with the fact that I might get my ass kicked in a parking lot (the first time required sweet talk since the angry people were actually there).

The repercussions of this day were few. I quit shortly thereafter, partly because of this, and partly because of something else, which I cannot talk about (the Bar would have my ass). I occasionally ran into some of my other co-workers (at the time this happened my friend had already quit), and learned that Bertha and Billy had worked things out. So, officially I did not unwittingly break up a marriage, I just nearly unwittingly broke up a marriage. It was close I am sure, but God has plenty of other reasons to send me to Hell. I did see Bertha about a year later. I was doing some late night shopping at the Kroger and she was working the register. She did not acknowledge me, and I did not acknowledge her. But she looked pretty much the same, and it was at that point that I decided to never be nice to anyone ever again.

An Epithalamium to My Woman

Last Thursday, I was talking with my girlfriend over Skype and I mentioned a post that I wanted to do involving Filter, Tipper Gore, Robert Gates, and libel. She was excited for me to write it, and sadly, I never got around to it. I hope this suffices (and yes, I know it is not a poem, as the title may suggest, but whatever. I am still working on that sonnet though).

As I write this, it is our 9 month anniversary. If you do the math (or grab the 2008 calendar out of the trash), you will see that our first date was on Election Day. It truly was a historic day (though oddly enough, neither of us voted for the same person and neither of us voted for Obama).

The odd thing about our relationship (I might use "odd" a lot, my apologies) is that we have spent about half that time apart. She is a law student (rising 2L), which means lots of nice long breaks from DC. There is Thanksgiving, a month for Christmas, spring break, and of course the place we are mired in now, the three month summer vacation. If you had the first few weeks where we were just casually dating (which I do, because everyday with her is better than my best day without her), one gets to about 4.5 months of away time. Which sucks.

But it is also good. I will not say great, because it sucks so much, but one could say that it has been great for our relationship. Kind of. Well yes, it has. Beginning around Thanksgiving time, we have had some epic g-chats (though before this, we had marathon text messaging sessions (on of the reasons I had to upgrade my phone plan (and eventually went with a blackberry so I could email her while I was working (except I dont get service where I work so I just use my work e-mail (I am sure the all-seeing eye thinks I am hilarious)(gmail blocked at work (bastards!)))))). So over Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, with finals between them there was not a lot of quality "us" time, we talked about lots of things. We really got to know each other.

But I think that my nature is one of the reasons this really helped our relationship. I am not much of a talker. I fumble words; have trouble getting thoughts out; feel the pressure of having to talk and can not come up with the words (for instance, I have spent about 45 minutes typing what you have read up to now. If you read it, it would take a minute, said it, maybe three). But with the typing, I am fucking Casanova. All the sweet things that my brain cannot communicate to my mouth, my brain has no trouble sending to my fingers. It was through this forum that I could really convey to her how much I really liked her. She recently read through some of our old g-chats (after I mention some really cute parts of them to her) and said to me that she could not believe how much I liked her and how she did not pick up on it.

I understood how she did not though. I am generally a very guarded person, and even though I was attracted to her from the moment I saw her standing in the King St. metro parking lot, I was still quite keen on protecting my feelings. She is much like me in this respect. But to her credit, she made the first move. Well, really the first and the second. She knows the first move, I might tell the rest of you about it sometime. But she made the second. And I am glad she did, because I am a wimp.

After our lunch date (oh yes, I called in sick to work on Election Day to have a lunch date with a girl I hardly knew), she suggested we take a walk around Olde Towne Alexandria. During lunch, we mostly discussed law school (read: me explaining to her why law school sucks and no one should repeat my mistake (although I am glad I went, odd right?)). But after lunch, we took a walk, which shocked me that she suggested it. I am not the most entertaining lunch guest. But we walked down to the Potomac, down where the anchor is on King St., and I made one of my infamous "smart-alec jokes." She laughed, and she would later tell me this when she stopped thinking of me as crazy possible stalker rapist, and started thinking of me as a sweet guy she could use for his law knowledge (operative word being "sweet").

If pressed, I would say that the definitive point in our relationship for me was the night I had to spend in the hospital. It occurred sometime in January (yay two months!). It was a Friday or Saturday night when my body began to revolt. My stomach clamped down on me, shrinking itself to at least 1/1,000 of its size (I assume). Anything I tried to put in came right back out. Anything that was there, would not come out. Bent over in pain, I refused to do anything. "This shall pass," I said. My girlfriend thought otherwise and agreed to stay with me that night. Around five in the morning of a sleepless night, me writhing in pain, she insisted we go to the hospital. I said I was ok. She said HOSPITAL! I said, lets call the nurse hotline on my health insurance, see what they say. Damn nurse said hospital. So I let my woman drive me to the hospital. I tried to be calm with her driving my car, but between the gut-wrenching pain and her inability to begin stopping 18,000 yards before a stop sign, I was a little freaked out. Miraculously, she got me to the emergency room in one piece (that was sarcasm dear). But I would later learn, that this was a test for her.

Most people do not like hospitals. I know I hate them. I have hated them ever since my little sister was born. It had been a difficult pregnancy, and when my mom was recovering, only my dad was allowed to see her. My two older sisters and I were left in the waiting room. For a six year old, I was pretty fucking pissed. All I wanted was " TO SEE MY MOMMY!!!!" I do not think that I threw a tantrum. I tried to be tough. I understood what was going on. But in that moment(s), I hated my dad because he got to see my mom and I did not. It was an early lesson that life is not fair.

I am still not sure why my sweetie hates hospitals, though I can venture a few guesses. And all of those guesses make me understand why she hates them. But she parked my car and came into the waiting room with me. I think she had her laptop or at least a casebook or two with her. It was a good chance for her to do homework. Bleeding guys are not that much of a distraction.

Eventually, they called my name and I got to go in the back, where they make ER patients wait even longer. They did a test or two (I was most worried about appendicitis), and then made me drink liquid cum. It was a huge glass of yellowish liquid, viscous, but flavored with powdered lemonade (still gross). I got about 3/4ths of it down before throwing it all back up. They still insisted on a scan of some sort (damn kick-ass health plan), to which I submitted. But when I got back, they stuck me back on my cot in my "room." I say room because I was in the hallway, surrounded by a couple curtains.

But during this, and this is the part my girlfriend does not know, was that all I wanted was her. I wanted her next to me. I wanted her to hold my hand. I wanted to hear her tell me everything was going to be ok. After three hours, and the doctors not being able to figure out what was going on with me, I broke. I tried to be tough. My girlfriend made it into the waiting room, a big step for her. Getting her in the back room, with all the sick people, I did not want to do that to her. But I had to. I needed her there. I told the nurse that my girlfriend was in the waiting room, and could she (nurse) please get her (gf) and have her (gf) sit with me. And she came. It is a little strange to say that one of your happiest moments is to have your girlfriend walk into the emergency room, see her eyes light up when she sees you, and just be so thankful that she came, even though the pain you are in still throbs in your temples.

I am not exactly sure when I first asked for the pain medication, if I had to guess I would say it was shortly before my girlfriend showed up, though it might have been shortly after. I just know, that lying there, in the hallway, my ass hanging out (damn hospital gown), the only thing I wanted was to see her.

The hospital eventually kept me overnight, and my girlfriend agreed to stay with me. I was hooked up to an IV and the hospital required me to piss into a jug. So I pissed in a jug in front of her. And I was ok with that. I even made jokes about that (though that may have been the drugs). But she stayed with me. In the hospital. All night. We even tried to watch a movie on her computer (old and black and white), but I fell asleep after five minutes. But she was there. All night. We laid in the hospital bed together until 6 am when the nurse said the Doctors might not be too keen on such relations (its not like we did anything, I was either too doped up or in too much pain to say or do anything remotely sexy).

But the girlfriend thinks that the night we spent in the hospital was when I thought I could fall in love with her. But in reality, I fell in love with her when I was laying in the hallway cot, only wanting her by my side, but understanding (I am not sure if I understood then, but i respected) her disdain for hospitals, hoping that I would be in and out of the hospital, and when I understood that I was not, asking the nurse to get her, and then my girlfriend walked through the doors. If there was a drug that could preserve what I felt when I first saw her walk in there, I would be an addict. I was so happy. The pain was momentarily gone. All I wanted to do was reach out to her and hold her and feel her against me. And know that when she is close, everything is gonna be alright.

So that is the story of when I knew that I loved my girlfriend. The story of when I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her is much more mundane. She had recently left for the summer, so I had not seen her for a couple of weeks. I was sitting on the couch, hand down my pants Al Bundy style, when this odd feeling washed over me. I became disconnected, but completely connected to myself, electricity ran through my body, I became numb, my jaw felt like it was no longer attached to my face, my eyes could not focus on anything, I was completely and totally stunned. It just hit me. I was gonna marry her. I knew it. One day, she is gonna be my wife. One day, we are gonna be old, sitting in rocking chairs watching the sunset in Greece, and be even happier than we are now. I just knew it.

If you watch TV, you have seen the e-harmony commercials. In them, the bride and bridegroom talk about how much they had in common and how great it was that e-harmony facilitated that connection. Thats great. My best friend from my younger years met her husband on e-harmony. And that is great. Its just not for me.

My girlfriend and I have a lot in common. I am a lawyer, she will be a lawyer. Family is very important to us (though more so for her, I define family as mom, dad, and sisters, she defines it as everyone who may or may not be related to me). We both like reading. We both love Arrested Development (ok, she had no clue what it was before I made her watch the DVDs). We both think building the Lego DeathStar together would be a good relationship test.

And we have a lot more that is not in common. She is a people person. She loves meeting new people. I hate people. They annoy me. She can walk up to anyone and make friends. When she moves to a new city, her first task is to make friends with bartenders, which she does quite well (our second "date" involved me meeting her at her favorite bar. When she ordered drinks they were alcohol fueled and cheap. When I ordered drinks (and she was not around) they were alcohol light and expensive). Alright it may not be her first task, but if it is a task for her, she does quite well.

Whenever we talk about the proper way to raise kids, we disagree. Whenever we talk about a political issue, we disagree (or I take an ad hoc position and she shows me the light until I agree with her). Religion: disagree. Cigarettes: disagree. Buffy: disagree. Watching movies: disagree (I prefer TV shows. I like the development involved. Fact: In nine months, we have never had a date that involved going to see a movie). Jefferson v. Hamilton: Disagree. Going out v. Staying in: Disagree. Relationship with cousins: Disagree. Enjoyment of eating seafood: Disagree. Enjoyment of eating any quasi-exotic food: Disagree. Section of the used book store to browse through: Disagree.

That is just a sampling. But that is perfect for me. I spend all day with me, the last thing I want is someone who is exactly like me. I want someone who challenges me. Someone who makes me try new things. We agree on the important things: Marriage; Yes, Kids; Yes. But everything else, well that will take some work. And I want someone who is going to disagree with me on things like how to raise the kids. All the great bands made their best albums when the members were at each others throats. Example #1, #2.

I know that we are not a band. But we have a thing called compromise. As of right now, my belief in God is lacking. But I want my kids exposed to it, but not brainwashed, so that they can make their own decisions. I will be married in a Greek orthodox church, so long as it is understood that I do not believe that Jesus Christ is my lord and savior, though I desperately wish I could believe that. What I feel everyday with my woman, how much I care about her, how much I want to be with her, how great and happy she makes me feel, is real, the idea that a benevolent or unmerciful god is out there, is not. Its an issue, I do not deny that. I do not think it is insurmountable because we love each other, and we can find a way.

And I think that way about a lot of issues. We have different thoughts about many different issues. But I do not want someone like me. I want someone that sees the world differently. That can enlighten me, that can teach me things. Not a day goes by when she does not provide some new insight into some sort of issue.

And I don't want to spend another day of my life without her there to guide me. We have had dumb fights in person, we have had serious fights over IM, and vice versa, but not a minute goes by that I do not love her. Sorry for the double negative. I love her all the time. She has been in Greece for the last three weeks, and I think about her constantly. She has been away from me since the middle of May and I miss her terribly. She is the piece that completes me, and with 4.5 months of having her with me, I have spent the other 4.5 months lost. I just want her back so that I can feel whole again.

There is no doubt in my mind. I am going to marry her. The future is what it is. Maybe we will face obstacles we cannot overcome. I do not think we will though. Everyday since I have met her has been something special to me. I find myself amazed that I have met, and fallen in love with someone so fantastic. And the kicker is that she loves me too. I can be my nerdy, dorky self in front of her, and it still makes her laugh. And the sound of her laughing is the one sound that I could listen to for all of eternity.

So baby, on our nine month anniversary, I did not get you any presents. i did not write out the post I promised to. I wrote this. I hope you like it.

Because I love you so much, you are my Thumper, you are the most perfect thing that has ever come into my life. When you come back in sixteen days, I cannot imagine ever letting you go again. I know I have to, for thanksgiving and such things, but you are the one for me. I love you. When I talk to you on skype and I have to say that I need to hang up because it costs too much, it breaks my heart. I wish I had the ability to give you everything you ever wanted, to talk to you whenever you wanted, for as long you want. And I am sorry I cannot do that yet.

But, the one thing I can guarantee you is that you have my heart, you have my soul. Baby, Aug. 21 is going to be the best day of my life because that will be the day that I know that I get to spend to the rest of my life with you.

Confidential-ish to My Thumper

Hey sweetie. This one is for you. Just imagine I am singing and all the man/woman's are reversed.



I cannot wait until you come back to me.

(oh, and just focus on the salient parts of the song)

No no no no no no no

Just before graduating law school, I was talking with a kid who mentioned that he had just gotten glasses and blamed law school for ruining his eyes. I laughed and remarked that law school had not had that effect on me.

I was justing sitting in my office and realized that I was holding a piece of paper quite close to my face as I read it. This is not good. I will now spend the rest of the day trying to read things from far away.

Fuck.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Greatest Hits I

I don't write here as much as I should or write long posts like I did. So indulge me as we take a trip down memory lane and I repost some of the better (read: unsucky) posts from my old blog. I may add a prologue or a post script, but probably not because I am lazy.

We begin this trip with a story from the summer after my first year of law school. I did not get a law related job, and other than going on some OCI's I did not really try. Live and learn right? Instead, my philosophy was to live with my parents for the summer and live off my tax refund (which was about $3,800). Well, that plan worked great for a month. I went out, drank a lot, saw the Cubs, drank some more, went to concerts, drank a lot more, and then suddenly, I was running out of money. I had to get some sort of job, so I took the first one that came along. I spent a month and a half after my first semester of law school putting garbage bags into boxes. But it gave me drinking money.

I cannot honestly say that I was having a good time at this point. I was seriously second guessing my decision to go to law school (major justification for it: It beat actually working). So I did what I did and wandered through life (and shockingly did not do anything that was character and fitness application worthy (though there was the night of the five mile walk)). So without further ado, I present to you A Normal Thursday (originally written in two parts, so it will be long):


I have already mentioned in this space that my summer job decided to make overtime mandatory. You can explore my entries to see the exact specs of my job (except for what I do of course). The company's idea of mandatory overtime is to come in for an entire extra 12 hour shift. This particular week, my normal schedule was to be off on Thursday and Friday, and work Saturday, Sunday and Monday. With mandatory OT in effect, I was forced to work on Friday. This did not please me. This did not please me at all.

Thursday became my favorite day of the week during Undergrad. Going out on a Thursday was infinitely better than going out on the weekend for several reasons. First, Freshman do not learn until Sophomore year that you can get away with going out on Thursdays. They do it occasionally, but they are still naive and do not want to make a habit of it. Thus, the 18+ bars are not packed with a bunch of idiots, sober idiots. Secondly, once you turn 21 you reach the point where you know where you stand. By this I mean you know how much effort and how many classes you have to attend to get the grade you want. At this point, the guys with the 2.0 GPA know that there is not much they can do to improve it, so they just want to have a good time. These are the guys you want to hang out with. They fucking know how to party, and when you go out with them, you never know where the hell you are going to end up.

However, major reason that Thursday became my favorite day of the week is because I could go out. At this time, I had no idea that I would end up going to Law School. This was before the downfall of Enron and Arthur Anderson, and I had every confidence in myself and society, that I could half A's and half B's and get a job as an auditor with one of the Big Five. I had no need to go to class on Friday, and even if I could haul my usually still drunk ass out of bed, all I had to do was take some notes. Easy Peasy, Japanesey.

I should mention, that I tried to change myself. After suffering through the worst grades of my life Sophomore year, I decided I had to curb the partying during the week. My feeble minded solution to this was to schedule a class that met only on Wednesdays and Fridays at 8 a.m., and lasted two hours. The rationale was, it only meets twice per week, so I have to go on Fridays, so I cannot go out on Thursdays. It was a good plan, for about a week. The lure of the best night to go out was too much for me. Halfway through the semester I had used up my six absence allowance. Yet, I continued to go out on Thursdays, I just tried to make sure that when the bars closed at 2 a.m., I went home. It worked, I got a B, probably because of the pounding headaches while trying to take notes. For two fucking hours.

This summer, Thursday still holds a special place in my heart. I bowl on Thursdays (you cannot beat dollar games and $3 Bud Lights). This particular Thursday contained a twist. Before going to the bowling alley, my friend (this guy really needs a nickname. From now on, I dub he EagleMan (and if you live in Chicago, it is ten times funnier)), his girl of the week, and I went to see the local minor league baseball team.

As you know, I love my baseball. As you know, I love my beer. Combining the two, well that is my Field of Dreams. However, the evil specter of Friday work was the thunderstorm on my field. I took it easy. I was sober enough to realize that I would be getting home three hours after my bedtime. I had to take it easy. I had maybe four beers during the game, a new record. It should have been five, which would have tied the old record, but that was not to be.

After the top of the eighth, I went to the concession stand to pick up two beers for the last inning and a half. The transaction was completed without a hitch, and when I returned to my seat, I handed one of the beers to the girl of the week, saying, "Hey, I bought you a beer." Up to this point, she had not had one beer. In fact, the two other times I saw her, she did not drink. In my head, I was making a joke. She, however, readily accepted the beer, and took a sip. Ahh, well, it's not like I needed it anyway. After she finished half the beer, it became apparent that she does not drink too often. Half a beer, and she was slurring her words. Whoops. EagleMan is my full time designated driver, he does not drink at all, for the poor guy is allergic to wheat and such things. Drinking may kill him. It actually almost killed him. He used to drink more than me, then one day, Bam!, his throat swells up and he cannot drink anymore. But, he is a good guy, and is more than happy (well, maybe not happy, willing is a better word) to put up with my drunkass. I was not sure if he was willing to put up with his new girl's drunk ass though.

The Mudville 9 lost that day, but our spirits were high as we headed off to a night of bowling. Dollar bowling starts at 9 p.m., and we arrived at 9:30. Plenty of time. After picking up my shoes, I headed to the bar. The bartender knows me, in the customer sense of the phrase. She looked at me, and said, "Bud?" I had been staring at a lovely honey across the bar, and that snapped me back to attention. "Uhh, Yeah," I replied, and went back to my ogling.

Then, the lovely honey calls out to me, "You went to [Undergrad]?" For a second, I was horribly confused. I have no idea who this is, should I know who she is? I am terrible with faces. Even worse with faces when I am thirsty. Then I realized I was wearing a hat with my Undergrad's name emblazoned upon it. "Yeah," I said. I am smoother than sandpaper. "I graduated two years ago, did you go there?" I asked. "Yeah, but I just graduated," she replied. "That's cool." No, I am smoother than silk. The bartender suddenly appeared, blocking my line of sight to the lovely honey. The lovely honey was there with a bunch of guys, so I probably had no shot with her, and I was thirsty and wanted to bowl, so I took my beer and skedaddled. It's ok. You can tell me, I know. I am a social retard.

I returned to my lane, and put on my shoes. I took a sip of my beer. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. Fuck. It was a Budweiser, not a Bud Light. That bitch of a bartender fucked up my order. No wait, I fucked up my order, thinking with the wrong head, and not paying attention to what was going on around me. Whatever, it is time to fucking bowl.

The girl of the week sat down, beer in hand, and we began to bowl. We were in the fifth frame when the GOTW jumped out of her seat like she had been shocked with a cattle prod, and ran up to an older woman who had just entered the alley. EagleMan was bowling, leaving me to think to myself, who the fuck is that?

****************


It is a little harsh to describe her as the GOTW. EagleMan just ended a long relationship, and is getting back into the dating scene (as I described before). He is a romantic at heart, and falls pretty quickly. This was no exception. GOTW was an affable enough girl, more outgoing than the last one, but she fell pretty hard too. He had been seeing this girl for about a week, and at one point during the ball game, while EagleMan was away, she asked me what I thought she should do for his birthday. His birthday was over two months away. I hemmed and hawed as much as I could, but I was pretty uncomfortable, even though I knew he liked her. However, in a moment, I was about to be much more uncomfortable.

With GOTW talking to the older woman, I took my turn to bowl, focusing on not falling down. Throwing it down the right arrow was secondary. This scene would repeat itself 70 more times (I got no strikes that night). I was getting a little buzzed. I am not a fan of Budweiser. I managed to avoid the gutter with both rolls, and returned to the table, seeing the older woman putting on shoes.

"This is my mother," GOTW cheerily slurred. Her fucking mother? After a week? Holy hell. EagleMan did not look shocked, so he must have known that this coming. He neglected to give me a heads up. I have enough trouble interacting in social situations with my best friends, and now, out of the blue, the GOTW's mother shows up. The least I could have gotten was a heads up from EagleMan. I am very regimented, routine oriented, and I do not like things happening unexpectedly. Unless I am hammered. I was not there yet.

I quickly excused myself to go get another beer. Head still spinning, I walked up to the bar. However, I had enough sense to see if lovely honey was still around, but alas, she was gone. "Bud?" the bartender asked. "Uhmm, no, Bud Light actually." A look of confusion briefly wafted across the bartender's face, then dissipated. "I knew there was someone that ordered Bud Light's on Thursdays. Why did you let me give you a Bud last time?" Because I am a sadist. I grabbed my beer and returned to the table.

"You know, I setup a tab, just put your beers on that," GOTW's mother greeted me. Oh great, now I have her offering to pay for my bad habits. Could this get any worse?

"You know mom, he is in law school," GOTW said. "You should check out environmental law," the mother rapidly replied.

It just got worse. Now I am bowling with a hippie. "It is interesting, but I think I am going to have make more than $30,000 a year to pay off my hundred grand in student loans." "Well just think about it." Sure, no problem, I will think about it. When I get rejected by the public defenders office.

I was able to maintain a modicum of socialability with the GOTW and her mother. EagleMan is a social fiend. He can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. He was having no such problems. But, then GOTW and the mother got up for another round, and EagleMan turns to me and says, "I have been talking to the Ex."

And I am down for the count.

I am not Superman. Now I have to talk to the GOTW and her mother, while knowing that EagleMan has been talking to his Ex, and wants to get back together with her. I was not built to deal with such things. It of course is complicated by the fact that I liked GOTW more after a week than I ever like the Ex after a year. And I am not receptive to meeting new people.

Whatever, I decided to put all this shit out of my mind and focus on bowling and drinking. No more talking for me. I really don't have anything interesting to say anyway (but plenty of interesting things to write, I hope). This caused a chorus of "What's wrong?" from the GOTW. I replied that I was fine, as I do have a tendency to seriously introvert myself. I eventually relaxed (read: was drunk) around 11, and was able to be my slightly sociable self for the rest of the night. The beer flowed freely, in and out, and when the alley closed at midnight, my pump had been primed enough that I could have bowled for another three hours. Unfortunately, it was time to go home.

EagleMan dropped me off at my place at 12:30. At this point, I was faced with two decisions, go to bed or drink a beer and check my e-mail. My alarm clock was poised to go off in four and half hours, and I had to be out of bed in five and half. But going to bed meant that my next conscious thought would be the realization that I had to go to work for 12 hours. I turned on the computer and cracked a beer.

For the next three hours I was lost in the world of cyberspace and alcohol. I kept drinking, proclaiming each beer to be my last, and always finding a new webpage to look at, where I would be halfway through reading an article when my beer went empty, causing me to go grab another. Or, finding that I had to write some irrelevant comment on someone's blog. This could have gone on in perpetuity, but by the time 3:30 am rolled around, I realized that I was fucked.

I am not exactly sure what I did in those three hours on the worldwide web. I know I did a couple stupid things, but I do not think I spent any money, which is always good. Regardless, I absolve myself of responsibility for anything I did. I was in another world. A world fueled by hatred of work, alcohol, and the knowledge that I am who I am. I was able to break my bond with that hell, and reconnect with reality, and stagger to bed and pass out. An hour and a half before my alarm would start going off.

The sounds of staticky country music suddenly filled my ears. I was shocked awake, ripped from my drunken slumber. I looked at the clock. 30 past the hour. Fuck. It takes about 25 minutes to get to work. I hauled myself out of bed. Thankfully, in my drunken stupor I had the sense to pass out fully clothed, so all I had to do was grab all the change in my ashtray (vending machine lunch), and head out the door. Yes, I was still a little (a lot) drunk. I do not advocate drunk driving, and personally have only done it a couple times (and not in a long, long time), but at this time of the morning, with it being the only way for me to get to work, the rules are bent. In short, I was fine to drive. I had to be.

I turned on the car, and was immediately shocked by the radio. I expected Mike & Mike, the morning drive show on ESPNRadio, to come blaring through the speakers. But I heard two guys I never heard. Fuck it, I am drunk and I have to get work. I put the car in gear, and headed out. About five minutes into the drive, the two dumbfucks on the radio mentioned that they were filling in for Mike & Mike. Thank God, I thought, I have not gone crazy. But, five minutes later I looked at the clock.

5:45. The motherfucking clock said 5:45. I was a fucking hour early. Fuck. The only thing I could think was Fuck. I turned around and came home, made a lunch, and went back to bed. And woke up at 6:35. For the second time that day, I hauled my drunk ass out of bed, and left home. I started my car again, and for the second time that day, heard two guys I had never heard before. What the fuck is going on. The local affiliate had pulled the national fill-ins and put in some local fill ins. I figured this out later, but I was horribly confused at the time. On the second drive to work I checked the clock every ten seconds to reassure myself that I was leaving when I was supposed to. I safely got to work at 7 am and began my 12 hour workday.

That is my life. Want to trade?