Super Sunday Morning Man
So what exactly is the first day of the rest of your life supposed to feel like?
The answer, my friends, is pretty boring.
Slept for ten hours. Got up and brewed the first batch of freedom coffee. Wrote in my journal. Went for a gentle bike ride with my wife. Cooked lunch (Hamburgers with turkey bacon on whole wheat flat bread). Paced about the house a bit, sipping mango iced tea and lamenting my fantasy football disaster from last night.
All three of my guys I've been scouting since July have taken an absolute dump statistically.
Well, poop.
At least I still have an excuse to drink beer before noon for the next fifteen Sundays.
After this, I will shower and brush my teeth. After that I will rehearse for an hour or so. Go to the store to pick up some items for dinner. Cook that dinner. Eat that dinner. Clean up after that dinner. Watch Monday night Football and hope that Michael Vick and Desean Jackson have the kind of opening game that Colin Kaepernick and Anquan Boldin had yesterday.
The guys know what I'm talking about.
And all that matters to the girls is that I'm most likely going to be doing the dishes.
Either way, I just became super sexy to both parties.
Every man in the world likes to root for the underdog, and girls like men soapy and wearing yellow rubber gloves.
Unless they can get Colin Firth emerging from a water fountain dressed in white linen.
That sh*t is gold.
Enter wife:
"Hey babe?"
"Yeah?"
"Do these pants look too wrinkly?"
"Nope."
"Do they look like they've been rolled up in a ball?"
"Yeah. They do look like they've been rolled up into a ball"
Exit wife.
Now normally an exchange like this would aggravate me because it would have totally ruined my flow. I only have so much time an energy to put into this stuff, and sometimes the joke that has been swimming around my head will just poof out of existence, all in the name of confirming to my wife what she pretty much already knew. What would she have done had I been at work? Would she have taken a picture of her pants and texted it to me? Probably not. She would've just made the decision from the get go that she wasn't going to be comfortable in anything and either gone out in rain gear, or hid in a closet with a pint of ice cream, a spoon, and a Pride and Prejudice DVD cover.
But I've seen her in four outfits today.
So at least she's gonna keep trucking on.
Which is good, cause I still need her for things. Lots of things. And the point I was making was that I totally ain't irritated. If she wants my opinion on the winkle factor of her pants while I'm writing, or text me a list of chores from the living room couch or talk about her feelings at the breakfast table, I am suddenly, totally cool with that.
Cause I can do that now. There will be tomorrow. I can chillax.
It's like having a new super power.
I am Sunday Morning Man.
Stronger than an eight year old, Faster than an old lady writing a check at the super market, able to reach obscure serve-ware from the tallest cabinet.
If he can't do it right now, he can do it this afternoon, and if he can't do it this afternoon, he can do it tonight or tomorrow or October.
And yet,
and yet,
He can see right now there's a little passive aggressive caveat to his new super power.
Something that I think she's gonna need to be aware of if she wants to call upon Super Sunday Morning Man whenever the spirit moves her.
Which is the fact that if she's gonna interrupt him, she's gonna get written in.
Enter wife:
"Hey babe?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm probably not going to eat anything but soup tonight, my stomach is really bad, so you just have to cook dinner for you and mini-you."
"Kay."
"It's all the heavy foods, and the heat, and the stress."
"Kay."
"What are you gonna make?"
"I have no idea. This . . . this changes everything."
"I know, I was excited for you to make me dinner. So I put the pants in the dryer for a few minutes, do they look less wrinkly now? I mean, can I go out wearing these without looking like a complete schlub?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Kay, I'm gonna go pick up mini-you. Think about what you want to make for dinner and let me know what you want me to pick up from the store. Kay, bye, love you."
Exit wife.
And in this case it works just fine. She's unwittingly helped me drag this piece out of the gutter and brought a sense of liveliness it was totally lacking before seeking my useless opinion.
I might have spent this entire piece on mango iced tea and Fantasy Football. Which might have been funny, but not nearly as good.
So let this be both a pledge and a warning.
Super Sunday Morning Man is here for you.
Cause he can do that now.
But everything you do is now fodder for the blog-mill and nothing is sacred.
Well, I guess some things are sacred.
At least while Super Sunday Morning Man's mother is still alive.
The answer, my friends, is pretty boring.
Slept for ten hours. Got up and brewed the first batch of freedom coffee. Wrote in my journal. Went for a gentle bike ride with my wife. Cooked lunch (Hamburgers with turkey bacon on whole wheat flat bread). Paced about the house a bit, sipping mango iced tea and lamenting my fantasy football disaster from last night.
All three of my guys I've been scouting since July have taken an absolute dump statistically.
Well, poop.
At least I still have an excuse to drink beer before noon for the next fifteen Sundays.
After this, I will shower and brush my teeth. After that I will rehearse for an hour or so. Go to the store to pick up some items for dinner. Cook that dinner. Eat that dinner. Clean up after that dinner. Watch Monday night Football and hope that Michael Vick and Desean Jackson have the kind of opening game that Colin Kaepernick and Anquan Boldin had yesterday.
The guys know what I'm talking about.
And all that matters to the girls is that I'm most likely going to be doing the dishes.
Either way, I just became super sexy to both parties.
Every man in the world likes to root for the underdog, and girls like men soapy and wearing yellow rubber gloves.
Unless they can get Colin Firth emerging from a water fountain dressed in white linen.
That sh*t is gold.
Enter wife:
"Hey babe?"
"Yeah?"
"Do these pants look too wrinkly?"
"Nope."
"Do they look like they've been rolled up in a ball?"
"Yeah. They do look like they've been rolled up into a ball"
Exit wife.
Now normally an exchange like this would aggravate me because it would have totally ruined my flow. I only have so much time an energy to put into this stuff, and sometimes the joke that has been swimming around my head will just poof out of existence, all in the name of confirming to my wife what she pretty much already knew. What would she have done had I been at work? Would she have taken a picture of her pants and texted it to me? Probably not. She would've just made the decision from the get go that she wasn't going to be comfortable in anything and either gone out in rain gear, or hid in a closet with a pint of ice cream, a spoon, and a Pride and Prejudice DVD cover.
But I've seen her in four outfits today.
So at least she's gonna keep trucking on.
Which is good, cause I still need her for things. Lots of things. And the point I was making was that I totally ain't irritated. If she wants my opinion on the winkle factor of her pants while I'm writing, or text me a list of chores from the living room couch or talk about her feelings at the breakfast table, I am suddenly, totally cool with that.
Cause I can do that now. There will be tomorrow. I can chillax.
It's like having a new super power.
I am Sunday Morning Man.
Stronger than an eight year old, Faster than an old lady writing a check at the super market, able to reach obscure serve-ware from the tallest cabinet.
If he can't do it right now, he can do it this afternoon, and if he can't do it this afternoon, he can do it tonight or tomorrow or October.
And yet,
and yet,
He can see right now there's a little passive aggressive caveat to his new super power.
Something that I think she's gonna need to be aware of if she wants to call upon Super Sunday Morning Man whenever the spirit moves her.
Which is the fact that if she's gonna interrupt him, she's gonna get written in.
Enter wife:
"Hey babe?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm probably not going to eat anything but soup tonight, my stomach is really bad, so you just have to cook dinner for you and mini-you."
"Kay."
"It's all the heavy foods, and the heat, and the stress."
"Kay."
"What are you gonna make?"
"I have no idea. This . . . this changes everything."
"I know, I was excited for you to make me dinner. So I put the pants in the dryer for a few minutes, do they look less wrinkly now? I mean, can I go out wearing these without looking like a complete schlub?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Kay, I'm gonna go pick up mini-you. Think about what you want to make for dinner and let me know what you want me to pick up from the store. Kay, bye, love you."
Exit wife.
And in this case it works just fine. She's unwittingly helped me drag this piece out of the gutter and brought a sense of liveliness it was totally lacking before seeking my useless opinion.
I might have spent this entire piece on mango iced tea and Fantasy Football. Which might have been funny, but not nearly as good.
So let this be both a pledge and a warning.
Super Sunday Morning Man is here for you.
Cause he can do that now.
But everything you do is now fodder for the blog-mill and nothing is sacred.
Well, I guess some things are sacred.
At least while Super Sunday Morning Man's mother is still alive.
Friday Five: Doctor Edition
Got to spend my Friday morning at the doctors office.
Yay hoo!
The reason is relatively moot, for I had an indescribably severe pain in the lower abdomen yesterday afternoon that could have been anything from appendicitis to exploded ovaries, but will most likely turn out to be a little stress coupled with mixing an IPA with a Boston Lager the night before.
Remember Children: Stout before Ale, all is hale; Ale before Lager will crush you like Frogger.
"Frogger" is a registered trademark.
And a lot of crazy stuff happening at Camp WaitDad. A lot of crazy stuff.
But its all gonna be just fine.
I promise.
Unless it turns out to be my ovaries.
In which case I may have some explaining to do.
Anyhoo, I got to spend the morning at the doctors office with my wife, which, unless you have seen the two of us in action already, is a lot more fun than it sounds.
First, we both like to tell jokes to ease the tension. And we're both pretty funny and there was a lot of tension.
It wasn't exactly Disneyland, but the key to our success is bringing home the gold in ridiculous situations, of which there have been many.
And we have been through our fair share of emergency rooms and advice nurses, psychologists, psychiatrists, podiatrists and aroma therapists.
And all of them have wanted to get to the heart of the problem.
And in order to do this, they have to ask a lot of questions.
A **ck ton of questions.
Although most of the questions are pretty basic, there are a surprising few, that are, well, surprising.
And they tickled us to no end.
We were so tickled that we decided to bring you a Top Five, Most Interesting, Inelegant, and nearly inappropriate questions along with some fun insinuations.
I will list them in chronological order, only because that's how I remember them the best:
1. Are you afraid of anyone in your household?
This was on the questionnaire. And I don't want to insinuate that domestic violence is anything shy of horrendous, or that this question has undoubtably saved lives, but what made us laugh was the disgraceful amount of alternative answers we really wanted to put. "Um, Maybe." "Yes, our children are terrifying." "Is the closet monster considered a member of the household?" "I think my goldfish knows things." "Shhhh, Netflix has eyes." We really are terrible people.
2. On a regular drinking day, how many alcoholic beverages do you consume.?
Well, lets be honest, EVERYDAY is a REGULAR drinking day. Wine is freaking delicious, and it makes me smarter, funnier, and able to face closet monster without rocking back and forth in the fetal position. Do I have a problem? Most likely. Do I know how unhealthy it is? Most likely. Do I know that if I'm going to consume alcohol every day, that I should limit myself two two drinks or less? Fine, but how big are the glasses?
3. Are you taking Nortryptoline and how long has your urine been this color?
So of course I had to pee in a cup at some point, and since I hadn't had any liquids or anything to eat and I'd already peed twice and I'd been sick for over twelve hours, my sample was a little darker than normal. And by darker, I mean the stuff was oompah loompah orange. I'd never seen my pee the color of an unfrozen otter pop before and I wasn't entirely prepared for how warm it was. That being said, I placed the warm jar of otter pop urine on the ledge like I was told to do and walked back to the doctor's room.
After a few minutes quiet shuffling, the nurse burst into the room, almost breathless and asked me if I had taken any Nortryptoline (an antidepressant) and when I told her I hadn't, she asked just as breathlessly if my urine had always been this color, I told her it hadn't. She looked like she didn't believe me, and I swear to god, she squinted her eyes and backed out of the room slowly.
4. How many cups of coffee do you normally drink?
Gee doc, whatever it takes to wake me up after a regular drinking day.
and lastly . . .
with my wife sitting right there,
5. Would you like me to check for any STD's?
Well doc, I know she looks like a dirty whore, but that's okay because we actually don't have sex.
or
Well doc, I think you should, money's been tight and and I've recently had to settle for handjobs at train stations
or
What's an STD?
or
Absolutely not! But would you mind calling my cell later this afternoon on an unrelated issue?
or
Can closet monsters transmit that sort of thing?
So there you have it. A five within a five. And I'll keep you updated on my ovaries.
Yay hoo!
The reason is relatively moot, for I had an indescribably severe pain in the lower abdomen yesterday afternoon that could have been anything from appendicitis to exploded ovaries, but will most likely turn out to be a little stress coupled with mixing an IPA with a Boston Lager the night before.
Remember Children: Stout before Ale, all is hale; Ale before Lager will crush you like Frogger.
"Frogger" is a registered trademark.
And a lot of crazy stuff happening at Camp WaitDad. A lot of crazy stuff.
But its all gonna be just fine.
I promise.
Unless it turns out to be my ovaries.
In which case I may have some explaining to do.
Anyhoo, I got to spend the morning at the doctors office with my wife, which, unless you have seen the two of us in action already, is a lot more fun than it sounds.
First, we both like to tell jokes to ease the tension. And we're both pretty funny and there was a lot of tension.
It wasn't exactly Disneyland, but the key to our success is bringing home the gold in ridiculous situations, of which there have been many.
And we have been through our fair share of emergency rooms and advice nurses, psychologists, psychiatrists, podiatrists and aroma therapists.
And all of them have wanted to get to the heart of the problem.
And in order to do this, they have to ask a lot of questions.
A **ck ton of questions.
Although most of the questions are pretty basic, there are a surprising few, that are, well, surprising.
And they tickled us to no end.
We were so tickled that we decided to bring you a Top Five, Most Interesting, Inelegant, and nearly inappropriate questions along with some fun insinuations.
I will list them in chronological order, only because that's how I remember them the best:
1. Are you afraid of anyone in your household?
This was on the questionnaire. And I don't want to insinuate that domestic violence is anything shy of horrendous, or that this question has undoubtably saved lives, but what made us laugh was the disgraceful amount of alternative answers we really wanted to put. "Um, Maybe." "Yes, our children are terrifying." "Is the closet monster considered a member of the household?" "I think my goldfish knows things." "Shhhh, Netflix has eyes." We really are terrible people.
2. On a regular drinking day, how many alcoholic beverages do you consume.?
Well, lets be honest, EVERYDAY is a REGULAR drinking day. Wine is freaking delicious, and it makes me smarter, funnier, and able to face closet monster without rocking back and forth in the fetal position. Do I have a problem? Most likely. Do I know how unhealthy it is? Most likely. Do I know that if I'm going to consume alcohol every day, that I should limit myself two two drinks or less? Fine, but how big are the glasses?
3. Are you taking Nortryptoline and how long has your urine been this color?
So of course I had to pee in a cup at some point, and since I hadn't had any liquids or anything to eat and I'd already peed twice and I'd been sick for over twelve hours, my sample was a little darker than normal. And by darker, I mean the stuff was oompah loompah orange. I'd never seen my pee the color of an unfrozen otter pop before and I wasn't entirely prepared for how warm it was. That being said, I placed the warm jar of otter pop urine on the ledge like I was told to do and walked back to the doctor's room.
After a few minutes quiet shuffling, the nurse burst into the room, almost breathless and asked me if I had taken any Nortryptoline (an antidepressant) and when I told her I hadn't, she asked just as breathlessly if my urine had always been this color, I told her it hadn't. She looked like she didn't believe me, and I swear to god, she squinted her eyes and backed out of the room slowly.
4. How many cups of coffee do you normally drink?
Gee doc, whatever it takes to wake me up after a regular drinking day.
and lastly . . .
with my wife sitting right there,
5. Would you like me to check for any STD's?
Well doc, I know she looks like a dirty whore, but that's okay because we actually don't have sex.
or
Well doc, I think you should, money's been tight and and I've recently had to settle for handjobs at train stations
or
What's an STD?
or
Absolutely not! But would you mind calling my cell later this afternoon on an unrelated issue?
or
Can closet monsters transmit that sort of thing?
So there you have it. A five within a five. And I'll keep you updated on my ovaries.
Getting to know you
Are the social media's making you feel more lonely and disconnected?
Cause if they are, then you are the person everyone seems to be talking about on just about every social media platform I peruse.
Apparently, social media is not only the new pariah, but also the podium from which the minister preaches the fire and brimstone effect of "tweets", "likes" and photo filtration.
Environmentalists in Hummers.
Thank god for Tumblr, which is mostly still dirty jokes and soft core porn.
Now aside from the random customer that tries to scroll through her Facebook page while trying to order her coffee, I've found that the social media platforms are a pretty nifty way of keeping in the loop.
And the social dynamic hasn't changed much.
That loud, obnoxious, girl at the party is now just filling your newsfeed with baby pictures and Tony Robbins quotes instead of talking about her children and her inability to orgasm.
The shy people have "Klimt" paintings as their profile pictures and won't "like" anything until it has been "liked" at least by twelve other people. I'm sure their cats miss them, but its kinda nice that they're at least trying to participate.
The dirty girls are posting dirty things instead of just xeroxing their asses and being gossiped about come monday morning.
The dirty boys are still making dirty inelegant passes and being "unfriended" instead of tolerated.
Every band wants you to come out a see their show, including mine, and you can ignore the invite.
I ain't mad, bro, I still love you just the same.
Dads post "Dad Jokes"
Moms post passive aggressive advice about what they think is wrong with your life.
My aunt beat cancer and my son passed Organic Chemistry.
Fuck Yeah!
(Both true, by the way, Fuck Yeah!)
Social Media to me is this monster end of year kegger where everybody is invited, everyone rushes off to find their little clicks, some head for the food, some head for the beer, some head for a quiet spot to strum on their guitars, and then there are those like me that like to roam from click to click making an impression when I can, turning a serious conversation into a joke, stomping on jerks for being mean, enlightening, getting enlightened, hearing the latest news filtered through an alcoholic haze, hearing the latest gossip, being on the inside of an elaborate joke, and hopefully, later, crawling into bed with the super hot curly haired girl.
Which I get to do.
Every damn night.
Yet the argument is that we are losing a piece of our social fabric in our indirect entailments within the social web-o-sphere.
Hmm?
Interesting poetics you're waxing there kids, but you're entirely wrong.
Social media hasn't hurt anything.
It hasn't changed much of anything at all.
We've always raged about the hot topics, and then forgotten about them come voting time, or come Miley Sirus' next album.
What has changed is the unfettered ability to create and to have worldwide distribution.
Art and opinion is now fully democratized.
Its an open source world, my friends, and as always, you make of it what you will.
Cause if they are, then you are the person everyone seems to be talking about on just about every social media platform I peruse.
Apparently, social media is not only the new pariah, but also the podium from which the minister preaches the fire and brimstone effect of "tweets", "likes" and photo filtration.
Environmentalists in Hummers.
Thank god for Tumblr, which is mostly still dirty jokes and soft core porn.
Now aside from the random customer that tries to scroll through her Facebook page while trying to order her coffee, I've found that the social media platforms are a pretty nifty way of keeping in the loop.
And the social dynamic hasn't changed much.
That loud, obnoxious, girl at the party is now just filling your newsfeed with baby pictures and Tony Robbins quotes instead of talking about her children and her inability to orgasm.
The shy people have "Klimt" paintings as their profile pictures and won't "like" anything until it has been "liked" at least by twelve other people. I'm sure their cats miss them, but its kinda nice that they're at least trying to participate.
The dirty girls are posting dirty things instead of just xeroxing their asses and being gossiped about come monday morning.
The dirty boys are still making dirty inelegant passes and being "unfriended" instead of tolerated.
Every band wants you to come out a see their show, including mine, and you can ignore the invite.
I ain't mad, bro, I still love you just the same.
Dads post "Dad Jokes"
Moms post passive aggressive advice about what they think is wrong with your life.
My aunt beat cancer and my son passed Organic Chemistry.
Fuck Yeah!
(Both true, by the way, Fuck Yeah!)
Social Media to me is this monster end of year kegger where everybody is invited, everyone rushes off to find their little clicks, some head for the food, some head for the beer, some head for a quiet spot to strum on their guitars, and then there are those like me that like to roam from click to click making an impression when I can, turning a serious conversation into a joke, stomping on jerks for being mean, enlightening, getting enlightened, hearing the latest news filtered through an alcoholic haze, hearing the latest gossip, being on the inside of an elaborate joke, and hopefully, later, crawling into bed with the super hot curly haired girl.
Which I get to do.
Every damn night.
Yet the argument is that we are losing a piece of our social fabric in our indirect entailments within the social web-o-sphere.
Hmm?
Interesting poetics you're waxing there kids, but you're entirely wrong.
Social media hasn't hurt anything.
It hasn't changed much of anything at all.
We've always raged about the hot topics, and then forgotten about them come voting time, or come Miley Sirus' next album.
What has changed is the unfettered ability to create and to have worldwide distribution.
Art and opinion is now fully democratized.
Its an open source world, my friends, and as always, you make of it what you will.
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