Island of Misfit Toys... part 1

It's funny how quickly the little things can change in your life.

This year has seen the most fundamental changes to my world that I’ve ever experienced. There are the obvious ones like getting married, and there have been more subtle ones like the shift in my friend base. It got me thinking about the first time I had a substantial shift in my friends.

I know they are only a few states away, but the interests of your typical guy in St. Louis is a hell of a lot different then the same demographic here in St. Lou. I had a pretty substantial friend base in Ohio that included (but wasn’t limited too) nerds, dorks, geeks, dweebs, goofs and oddballs. The fact that my roommate and I were a bit more successful then most of these guys made for us being the nebulous of these lovable misfits.

Over many a bar tab we would have conversations about how they really screwed up the re-release of Star War when Han didn't shoot first, how Magneto sees himself as a savior not a villain, the best way to detain a Bigfoot (which left me with my Indian name Squatcheye, Yeti Sympathizer), and, the various merits of ordering your bride from China verses Russian.

Surrounded by people that played more video games then I did, learned Klingon from online classes, and were on a seemingly never ending quest to save enough money to move out of their parents home, I seemed downright hip.

It was a rude awakening when I moved to St. Louis and realized that you shouldn’t ever say the words “I’m not really into sports”, stating you’re an artist makes people assume you’re gay and the proper response to being called a hoosier is not “Close… actually I’m from Ohio.”

In other words, for the first time since 8^th grade, I was a social outcast.

So I didn’t have a lot of friends. Those that I did meet were in the art community and most of them happened to be women (which, at the time, I didn’t see as much of a problem.)

I did eventually meet my buddy J, (coincidentally in a Comic shop) who, besides being as un-hip as me, also is one of the most loyal and honest men I’ve ever met. He introduced me to a few of his friends, but generally speaking, that “friend of a friend” thing is always there and you feel awkward if that connecting friend isn’t around.

I dated around some too, but I tend to be the guy that women think they should be with instead of the one they want to be with. That white knight. The comfy teddy bear. The guy you run back to when you realize the bad boy you’ve been dating has another girl on the side or still treats you just as bad as the 3 times you were with him before.

Wow… all this back story and we haven’t even gotten close to the point of this little rant. But I’ve run out of time, so I guess I’ll have save the rest for the next post. Stay tuned for part II…

Here comes the rain again…

Rest easy dear readers, for it seems the two week drought is over, with heavy precipitation over the last couple of days and multiple storms forecast for this weekend. Clearly my Navaho Indian Rain Dance was what was required (don’t think about that too long or you’ll run out of the room screaming.)

Inner Bacon

While I was walking by an office today, I overheard two of my female co-workers say the tired old adage, “men are pigs.” I’m sure it was said mostly in jest, and as soon as they saw me, they clammed up in the way that gets across, “Look Slappy… we're not talking to you. Move along, before you incur our wraith.”

Men are pigs? That’s a despicable stereotype. It’s the sort of blanket generalization that this week’s top hater, Mel Gibson, would make in a drunken rant. That’s right sugar-tits… I said it. I mean, the only real difference between what he said and what my charming co-workers said was that what Mel barked was pretty much a complete fallacy,(I mean, “Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world”? Come on! The Catholic Church holds that title) while what the women said is almost entirely true.

That’s right, men are, in fact, pigs. Now some of us are in fact better at covering it up then others. For example, you think that sweet little gay dude that served up your latté at Starbucks doesn’t fall into this pigeonhole? Please! I guaran-fuckin’-tee he was dropping an eye on the guy behind you and wondering what his pigeonhole looks like. And God bless him for it! He’s keeping the stereotype alive.

You know where I think all the problems with Priests come from? Not embracing their inner pig. It’s like in Ghostbusters when they are all trying really really hard to clear their minds of anything evil, and at the end of the movie still end up covered in exploding marshmallow.

Umm… ok, that may be a bad analogy, but you get my point.

Even I (before this post) am considered a pretty nice guy by most everyone I know. I hold the door for women – no matter if I know them or not. I write my wife little letters just to let her know I’m thinking about her. I’ve been known to drop by with flower for no particular reason. And in most conversations I make eye contact for at least a minute and a half before I sneak a peek at even the most quality cleavage.

The other day Jenn and I were watching a bit of TV and the “Girls Gone Wild” commercial came on. About the time the two college girls with “GGW” logo’s strategically bouncing across their nipples started making out she turns to me and says, “I just don’t see the point of these things. I mean, they don’t really show anything. If you’re going to get that you might as well just go rent a good porno.”

Now, she’s got a valid point, but that didn’t stop me from thinking “Hush woman! Can’t you see that these girls are tumbling around in zero gravity?! And for an additional $4.99 we can get the extra DVD that has them competing in tropical island games, some of which, I’m sure, involve a buttered up kielbasa?! What sorta porno has a budget for island games?! Sheesh…”

Luckily, I’ve got one of those pig filters installed, so when the words came out they sounded like “I totally agree sweetie. Probably some 40 year old guy sitting around his parent’s basement is dialing right now. But, you know, the world takes all kinds.”

Oink.

Snowball

Alright… So Jenn just called to say she’s going to be running late to pick me up, so I’ve got a few minutes with nothing to do.

I’m intrigued, and a little frightened, by the loops that stress makes. Here’s my latest little snowball.

Last week I had a client tell me I wasn’t going to get paid for a rent-sized project I’ve already put time and money into (she actually ended up paying me even though the end client isn’t paying her, but I didn’t know that at the time.) Slap on that I’ve started a new diet and my system is completely wacked. Wrap that all in a floury tortilla of anxiety because of the missed days of no power here in Saint Lou.

At the day job I’ve got a big 3D project that requires me to do all the programming, then hit “render” and walk away from it for a few days while the computer cranks out thousands of images. If the programming's screwed up in any way, or there’s even a slight fluctuation of power, I’ve dry-humped my deadline. Everyone, from the owner of the company, to the project manager, to, well, all the other happy little henchmen, are expecting this to be the cornerstone of their presentation on Wednesday morning.

So last Thursday, I started stressing hardcore when all the pointy heads still hadn’t finalized the room layout, and I couldn’t even begin working on the thing. I woke up at 2 in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Normally I would hop in my car and gone to work at times like that just so I was doing something, but since we’re down to 1 car, that wasn’t really practical. So I sat and stewed over it.

Now I handle stress differently then a lot of people. I don’t freak about it right then and there, I push it down, repress it, and generally do every other stupid machismo thing that eventually boil over days later when I'm standing in line at the Walgreen's and the woman in front of me can't decide if she wants to get her lung cancer in a box or soft pack, menthol or light, pays for it all in change, and is way way to loud because she's to fucking lazy to pause the Ipod.

So anyway, the next morning I went into work at the normal-ish time, busted my ass, and got the whole thing ready to render in a single day. I was pretty happy with myself, but again, there was that “hit render and walk away” issue that I had to deal with.

We were off buying the car on Saturday, which I also found stressful, but since Jenn kept asking me how excited I was about the car I kept smiling and thinking that if I put on my happy face there was a slight possibility of the drought being over later that night.

By Sunday, I started getting waves like someone was punching me in the chest from the inside. Jenn walked by when I was having one of these little episode (isn’t there something else to call them? They’re not “events”… nor should they be called “attacks”) and asked me what was going on. I was trying to come up with some nice way of saying “I’m having chest pains” without it sounding like something from Sanford and Son’s. Anyway, she didn’t freak out, but tells me to lie down and then takes the dog out for me. A little later on in the evening, she asks me how I’m doing and what I think the pains were. As I begin to answer, I notice that her eyes are welled up and the tears are rolling. Ugh. There are very few things that “get to me” but wife tears? Fuck. Fuckety fuck. This ain’t good. I try to explain that it was probably stress and re-explained to her all of this. She asked what would make me less stressed, so we ended up going back over to work and I checked the progress and tinkered for a few hours, with her there just to make sure I wasn’t going to keel over in my chair or something.

That night I got next to no sleep. I was up thinking about those tears. Thinking about how stressed I was because I had made my darling wife cry. Thinking about what I need to do to limit my stress. Correct that… STRESSING about what I need to do to limit my stress. How screwed up is that?

Last Call

So my computer is crap. I absolutely need a new one, but with the honeymoon coming up in November, it’s not the highest priority (and did I mention the new PT Cruiser I just bought?) It overheats to the point that I popped the side of it off and put a big fan next to it just to keep it cool.

The primary problem with this sad little system is that I can’t hear anything when I’m sitting at my desk. It not really an issue since I lost a third of my hearing when I was younger (an issue I don’t normally share with people.) In addition, over the past several years of living alone I’d gotten acclimated to only hearing the random noises of the drippy-eyed piglet (my dog, Poco). Now, I’ve got to keep an ear tuned for the random call of my wife, who sits in the other room, watching TV or surfing on her laptop. I generally don’t hear her until the third time she’s called for me. I know it’s the third time because nothing quite sounds like that third call.

“Hubby?”

(no answer)

“Alan?”

(silence)

“ALAN!!!”

“Sweet Jesus! What is it?!” As I come shooting around the corner. By the time I get there I fully expect someone to have crashed through the window, buck naked, engulfed in flames (or something equally as dramatic.) Her normal response is something along the lines of “what’cha doing?”

“What am I doing?” (Trying to figure out why my worst case scenario was a spontaneously combusting nudist, but that’s beside the point.) “Baby…”(stay calm…take deep breathes…) “What do you need?”

In her sweetest voice, “I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

She makes it really hard to be annoyed sometimes.

I need a jiffy lube

Instead of doing a typical first blog introduction discussing how I’m a unique little snowflake (just like everyone else), I’m just going to jump right into my first rant.

Ever had a cock blocker? No, that’s not some new fangled toy (or maybe it is and I’m just not hip enough to know about it), it’s just that one “something” that works as your own personal chastity belt. It could range from kids, to parents, to drunken friends, to a dog that sits in the room making snorty piglet noises. Whatever it is, it seems to always be there to make sure you’re not gettin’ any. Anyway, my most current just happens to be my car.

My wife Jenn and I were married about a month and a half ago (it’s still not too late to send a gift) and have been spending our evenings (almost every) doing typical newlywed things. That is, we were, until we needed to take her car into the shop for some pretty simple body work (ironically enough). Since then we’ve had to carpool, using my Ford Escort that has a plethora of problems, the least of which is no AC and a driver’s side window that if you roll down takes about 20 minutes to creep back up. Her car, which was supposed to be done in a few days, is now been there for 3 full weeks, through this 100 plus degree heat wave. It takes her about 30 minutes to get from her work to come pick me up and another 30 for us to get home. How does the car issue relate to anything? Well by the time we get home we’re both tired, sweaty and on more than a few occasions just downright pissy.

For example, one night after a flurry of dirty little emails throughout the day, I snuck in for a kiss and she stared at me like I had just taken a crap in the middle of the floor, put a firm hand on my chest and said “Honey, I love you, but ewwww.”

That’s right… “Honey, I love you, but ewwww.”

You don’t really recover from that. There’s no “well, maybe if I romance her a bit…” You’re pretty much done at that point.

So it was then I decided that we needed a new car. I kinda loved not having a car payment, but the Escort would have taken more to fix up then it was worth at this point, so it had to go, like right now.

So Saturday we went out, and I purchased a PT Cruiser.

Yes, I, in fact, bought a car with the primary goal being to be able to have sex Monday through Friday. Is that sad or what?

The only hitch was that we had to be at the dealership at 9am on Saturday, and ended up doing all the paperwork stuff until our early dinner party across town at 4. We had a good time, (ok, Jenn had a good time. I listened to a bunch of strangers talk about people I didn’t know and topics that made me think things like “I wonder where they bought that ceiling fan?”) and Jenn had some wine, which is usually a really good sign that she may not even wait till we get home before somebody is at least partially naked . So we leave just a little early with the hope that we could break the drought (she’s calling it that now too) and on the way home she unfastens her seat belt, kicks back in the seat a little bit, turns to me and says…

“I feel soooo crampy.”

*sigh*