The Wall at the End of the Tunnel

The "Honey" Paradox

2011-02-28T05:37:00.000-08:00

"You doin' ok, sweetie?" "Tell me what's the matter, honey." Yeah, it's all bullshit. People who employ this rapid fire terms of endearment crap are most of the time pretending like they care. I've found that the use of these words is directly proportional to the amount that they, in fact, don't give a shit. They just do it to pretend that they are some sort of "good person." Everybody wants to be seen as a good person, but some people think there's a shortcut. I hate these people.

I've said it many times. Fake "good people" are what's wrong with the world. Well, that and I guess global hunger, unemployment, war, stuff like that. But what I mostly see is the fake "good people." One of the worst things you can do to someone is pretend you care about their well-being because you think that's what your supposed to do. Half-assing something like that is irresponsible.

So just think about this today. Think about somebody you know who does this. Everybody knows one. Think about how much you could actually depend on them if you needed them. Once you realize the world is full of shitbags, you'll feel much better. Believe me.

Questions

2011-02-18T12:01:00.001-08:00

I overheard a conversation in the store the other day. A father sang a short song to his daughter who rode in the child seat of the shopping cart he pushed. "Do you remember that? I used to sing that to you when you were a baby to get you to go to sleep." She looked at him and said, "Were you even around when I was a baby?" "Well, I was for awhile, but I had to go off and make money so I could keep this family together," he replied.

Whoa, shit just got real, didn't it, four-year-old? Maybe you should stick to questions about puppy dogs and stuff before your dad goes apeshit on you.

What about you?

2010-10-22T00:36:00.000-07:00

My job provides me with the opportunity to spend a lot, possibly too much, time in my own head. The other night I started thinking about where I would be in 10 years, and how I'm currently nowhere near where I thought I would be 10 years ago. My morbid sense of humor kicked in and I thought to myself, "eh, maybe I won't even be alive 10 years from now and I won't have to worry about it." Then it hit me: Holy shit...I'm going to eventually die.

This whole eventually being dead thing isn't by any means a new concept to me. I guess I always kinda had a hunch that I wasn't going to live forever. It just hit me weird this time. A few weeks ago, I decided to basically give up on religion and any belief in anything. If you take that into account, life seems pretty pointless. I know I've said this before, but now that I've discontinued any belief in any sort of afterlife that doesn't involve a lifeless body in an underground box, things just don't seem worth it.

I'm 28 years old. I'm going to be realistic here and say that I'm probably at the halfway point of my life. I know I need to go back to school. Finishing school means a better job, more money, possibly less stress. And then there are relationships. Maybe I'll meet someone soon. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just keep Wile E. Coyote-ing after girls until I finally meet one who just likes me for me, or the anvil drops one last time and finishes me off. Either way, things are going to end the same. Eventually the credits are going to roll on this poorly directed movie. All these extra things that we feel like we need are just hospice basically. They keep us comfortable and happy until we die. I want that! I want to be comfortable, but I'm totally not. Not comfortable at all.

Once this thought got in my head, it wouldn't get out. I wake up every morning and there it is. Right there at the start of my pointless day. Don't get me wrong, though. Despite the fact that I'm a miserable piece of shit, I still do stuff. I'm not some fatass shut-in who just farts and watches divorce court all day. I have friends, we do stuff. I still try to make myself appealing to the ladies. I socially interact with people. All that good stuff. I just want to figure out how to turn this from simply biding my time into something that's somewhat enjoyable. I know it's possible. I see people do it, with their smiles and laughs and genuine happiness. Do I need like a kid or a fucking puppy or something? Something that depends on me? Probably not a kid. Those things are kinda gross. There's gotta be something I'm missing. What do you do? How do you see a cute girl and not automatically try to figure out how hilariously horrible things are going to go when you eventually ask her out? How do you get to the point where you're glad you woke up? I'm curious.

A plan that doesn't make sense

2010-10-16T17:09:00.000-07:00

Last night at work, probably around midnight, I was taking some metal folding stools out of a box and putting them on a shelf when I heard the unmistakable sound of an electric scooter. From behind me I heard, "Well, whatcha got there?" I turned around to see a tiny old man who was easily in his late 170s. He had a big smile on his face like he just ran into an old friend. "Just some folding stools," I replied. He let out an astonished "huh!" and then said, "I don't believe I've ever seen one of those before."

"Shit," I thought. This was going to be one of those conversations. Basically no conversation after midnight with a stranger in Wal-Mart is a normal one, and I figured this would be no different.

"Yep, just a stool that folds," I said, when I really wanted to say, "really? A stool? Never seen one of those before?" "Well, how does that work?" he asked. I unfolded it for him and he let out a loud laugh like I'd just done some amazing magic trick. That's when I realized that he wasn't some dumb old guy who hadn't quite grasped the concept of a stool. He was just lonely. He wasn't buying anything nor did he have any interested in a $10 stool. He just wanted to talk to people. And wanted people to talk to him. I felt bad, but I didn't really know what to do.

"Getting pretty cold out, huh?" I said to him. He smiled and then we had a ten-minute conversation about the weather until he noticed a couple walking by pushing a bike, which seemed like a good conversation starter for him. I finished my work and left them to their conversation.

This is the dumb thing about life and why I believe in nothing. This isn't the kind of life this guy is supposed to lead. This can't be the way he's supposed to finish out his existence. If this is all part of some master plan, it's not a very well thought out one. I just hope I don't get to the point where I have to pretend I've never heard of a stool just to have some sort of personal contact. Just to feel like I'm still a person.

Realism and you

2010-06-06T10:38:00.000-07:00

Hope. I'd like to talk for a minute about hope. Hope is what everybody thinks you should have. Hope and a positive attitude. You don't even need anything else! Especially realism. You have hope and have a peachy outlook on the world? Well shit...you're all set, champ. Don't bother with this real world stuff. The path to wealth and happiness is laid before you.

And of course none of that is true. What's going to happen is going to happen regardless of how you feel about things and hope much you "hope" they go well. Don't confuse that with "everything happens for a reason." More on that and how much I believe that is also a huge load some other time.

Think of life as a big piñata. Every time you take a chance, go after an opportunity, try to achieve a goal, you take a whack at that piñata. There could be anything in there. It's just a big paper mache donkey of possibility. So put all your hope and positivity behind that stick and take a swing. Sometimes good things will come out, but more often than not (seems like more often than not. I don't have statistics or anything) life turns out to be a big ol' shit piñata. And as you stand there in that shit drizzle, you can try to justify it any way you'd like. "Maybe I haven't been smiling enough lately." "I let those negative thoughts get to me! No more of that!" But all that is wrong. The truth is that sometimes life sucks. Why do we pretend it doesn't? Why do we pretend we have the power to make it not suck? We don't. It doesn't matter what we do. It's going to suck or it's not going to suck. It's going to do what it's going to do whether we smile or not.

I know I probably sound like a dick. I know somebody (it's fun to think people read this) is out there saying to themselves how much I'm a jackass and why can't I just be happy. I hate that. I hate that people are so delusional to think that they can just flip a happy switch and there ya go! Instant happiness. Sure I could "just be happy," but I'd just be pretending. I could pretend I was on fire, too, but that would make me look pretty stupid. Maybe I don't want to hear about your great day just as much as you don't want to hear about my crappy one. Has that ever crossed your mind? We don't make our own happiness. That's ridiculous to even think. I worry about those people. I worry more about those people than I do people like myself (the super awesomely depressed and negative folks.) There are always going to be outside forces that we can't control. Say what you want, but that's the truth.

I just want people to be a little more realistic. I don't want them to be like me. I have set the bar pretty low as far as expectations go with anything. I've found that if I don't expect much, I'm disappointed much less. It's like the Gin Blossoms said, "If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down." Quoting a Gin Blossoms song is a little lame, but that's how I feel. Once I adopted this mindset, I've become a lot more content. I just wish I hadn't always been so naive and been a little better prepared for the shit piñata.

I guess Leia was kinda hot

2010-06-04T14:04:00.000-07:00

I was walking up to the apartment this morning after getting, get this, fast food. I know that's a shock. A bee flew right in my face, and as I swatted at it, I caught my glasses with one of my fingers and flung them into the grass. Without my glasses the world might as well be Picasso shapes 'cause I couldn't tell the difference. So as I'm blindly sifting through the grass and dirt, I'm reminded why I'm still single. It's partly because I'm holding a bag of fast food at 8 a.m. that's not even breakfast food. It's also partly because I'm digging around the ground for my glasses that I swatted off my face while I was shooing away a bee like a little girl.

I think I need to make some changes. Maybe get some contacts or something. Hit the gym at least once. Nobody wants to date a guy who looks like, no matter when you see him, that within the last 30 minutes he jacked off to Star Wars. And that's what I unfortunately look like. I don't even like Star Wars, but I give off that vibe. I might as well wear a shirt that says, "Action figure collectors do it in the box," or something. I don't know whether it's the I-cut-my-own-hair hairstyle or the fact that my skin looks like I live in a cave, but it's definitely something.

So I've gotta fix this. I don't want to have a bunch of cats or ferrets or some shit that I refer to as my kids when I'm older. Sittin' there watching reruns of Firefly and asking them if they want more "din-din." This is the path which I'm on now. I want like...normalness minus the kids. And that's probably not going to happen if I continue to be Fatsworth McNerdstrom.

But under all this "I want to change" stuff lies the lazy side of me, and that side is usually the one who calls the shots. So I should probably start looking into what ferrets eat.

The dealbreaker

2010-05-23T00:33:00.000-07:00

Do you have a stalker? Maybe someone who is just annoying and won't leave you alone? Well, just tell them you work at wal-mart. Don't worry about any sort of contact after that. Believe me.

This makes girl number three who has asked the dreaded, "so, what do you do" question. And sure I can tell my little back story about being a newspaper editor (sort of respectable, I guess), but it doesn't matter. All that matters is what I'm doing now. Once that hyphenated word comes out of my mouth, they're gone.

I don't really get it. It's just a job. It's not what I want to do for the rest of my life by any means. It pays the bills and that's all. I don't have a giant, framed painting of Sam Walton over my bed or anything. My room isn't painted Despair Blue (I doubt that's the name of the color, but it should be.) I put shit on a shelf and they pay me. That's all it is. That's all it ever will be. I don't plan on being a "lifer." And there's not even anything wrong with being a wal-mart lifer. It's not an entirely horrible place to work. The managers actually make pretty good money. If you are a good enough ass kisser, you can do ok for yourself, but you should probably plan on meeting someone prior to your wal-mart employment. Or I should have anyway.

There's no real way around it either until I get a better job. I don't want to lie and say I do something that I don't do, but I may have to start doing that. 'Cause this is girl #3. 3! I could probably say, "Oh, what do I do? Well, I arrange unborn fetuses into swastika and pentagram patterns. It's not really a job, but it's fulfilling." That would get a better reaction than, "I work at Wal-Mart."

Oh well.

Flesh and blood

2010-03-14T07:15:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how the whole thing came about. I don't know where it came from or what its intentions were, but one day it just showed up. It was a skin tag. And it was disgusting.

I got it sometime between the ages of 10-12, and it started out harmless enough. Just a little bump on the underside of my left bicep (which is MASSIVE, ladies. *wink*). But then the tag started growing and growing. After awhile it looked like another person was trying to grow out of my bicep (again...massive!) I think there was a femur and maybe a few teeth in there. I really can't fully describe how gross this thing was.

I probably should have gone to the doctor since, for all I knew, this thing was a giant, malignant death tumor, but I'm lazy and insuranceless. Also, most of my doctor visits end in a "well, we can't really find anything wrong with you," conversation a la my great diabetes scare of '09. Turns out no diabetes...just fat. The medical profession may be the most ingenious racket ever, preying on peoples health fears, but the joke's on them 'cause I care little for my own health or well being. So take that, doctors.

Given my hatred for the medical profession and my lack of money, I opted for the poor man's doctor: The Internet. I began to check some things out, and after a thorough google image search, I decided that it was indeed a skin tag. Some extensive wikipedia research (because everything on wikipedia is true) revealed that I could tie a string around it and in a few days its blood supply would be completely cut off and it would simply fall off. Sounded pretty easy.

I found some thread and cut it to the length that I would would be appropriate: 8 feet. I found that tying a knot with one hand was a little more difficult than I had anticipated, but about an hour and a thousand cuss words later it was done.

The string fell off over and over, so finally I found a twist tie from a bread bag. I put it on there and twisted it until I couldn't stand the pinch anymore. Then I went to bed, excited like a little kid the night before Christmas at the possibility of not having a hideous deformity attached to me.

When I woke up the next morning, I was in a ridiculous amount of pain. I looked at ol' taggy and discovered it had probably doubled in size and hurt like hell. To make matters worse, it was so swollen that it had grown over the twist tie, making it pretty impossible for me to get it off. I did some more checking on the internet and found out that usually these things don't have nerve ending in them and it's not uncommon for people to cut off the smaller ones with scissors without any discomfort. Our scissors were pretty gross, so I decided to use a new box cutter blade. I thought about pouring rubbing alcohol on it to sterilize it, but immediately laughed at the thought of us owning anything that wasn't essential to life. When Jon and I lived together (in a totally hetero way, except for that one time) people would ask questions like, "where are the paper towels?" We'd look at each other and laugh. Paper towels...who were we? Popes? So I boiled the blade and pretended I was Hawkeye Pierce or something doing some surgery in a Korean field hospital.

I looked at myself and the grotesque growth in the mirror trying to get in the right frame of mind to chop something off of my body. "How hard could this be," I thought. "Angsty teenage girls cut themselves all the time." I poked at it a couple of times and didn't really feel anything. It was go time. I got the blade as close to the twist tie as I could and gently slid it across. Not really any pain, but I didn't make much progress either. Apparently you don't get to be an alpha skin tag by being soft. Cutting into Ol' Taggy was like cutting into the bottom of a shoe. Regardless, I started this and intended to finish it. I slid it across again only a little harder this time. Still not too bad. But then the blood came...

And there was so much blood. I'm not talking a few drops. This was like a Tarantino movie. Blood was hitting the bathroom counter, cascading downward and pooling on the floor. "There's so much blood!" I was saying out loud in a panicked voice. Then I decided to take a break. I was a quarter of the way through, but I thought about what would happen if I passed out or died or something. People, for the most part, hate me, and Jon was out of town for awhile. Nobody would even come looking for me for at least a month. I didn't want Jon to come home to find a 250lb dead guy who had been laying on the bathroom floor of a warm apartment in just his boxers for a month. That's one of those things that you have to go to therapy to try to unsee. On top of that, he probably wouldn't get his deposit back.

After a glass of tea and a little regrouping, I went for it again. One swipe later, I hit what I guess was the nerve that wasn't supposed to be there. Now there was pain and blood. Always a solid combination. Undaunted, I took two more manly swipes at the beast and it was done. Everything was quiet as I held the lifeless body of ol' taggy. I couldn't help but feel a little sadness. All the things we'd been through. All the girls who shot us down. All the times I wore my shirt while "swimming" (I can't actually swim. It was more like wading.) All of that. But then I remembered he was disgusting and I flushed it down the toilet.

I wish there was a moral to this story, but there really isn't. I just wouldn't recommend cutting things off of you with crude instruments. I'm sure there's some danger there. I only have a tiny scar, though. Probably because I'm a badass.

I had pics of the thing to go with this, but the two people I showed them to said they were too disgusting for me to post. They're probably right.

Some stuff

2010-03-12T02:40:00.000-08:00

I've decided that I don't really have the focus to dedicate entire posts to one topic, so I think I'm going to write about several topics in one post. We'll see how it works out. Also, I promised a friend that I would start writing again at least two posts a week. So here goes! Enjoy the slow, uneventful ride!!!

The other night at work this really cute girl was looking at workout dvds. I noticed her as I was walking by and in a very uncharacteristic DB move, I said something to her without months of planning and flow charts and focus groups and shit. I said, "Ooh...I wouldn't buy that one. That's the one I've been using." You see, that's funny because I weigh roughly eleven hundred pounds. She half-assed smiled, said thanks and turned back to look at Billy Blanks bullshit or whatever. I was a little surprised. I mean, that shit was gold! Maybe just in my head, but gold nonetheless. I probably should have said something after that, but to be honest I had no follow up. That was my pick up line hail mary, so to speak. And it was quickly batted down. So I turned around and did my walk of shame (which, turns out, has become my normal, everyday walk) back to the back room.

I get off work at 1 a.m. and usually stay up until around 7 or 8. During this time, I watch a lot of early morning tv/news, and I've discovered something. Channel 13 in Houston is doing it all wrong. The channel 11 traffic woman is Katherine Whaley, who is just great. Channel 2 has Jennifer Reyna doing traffic, and if you've ever been around me while I'm drunk (or sober really), I'm sure I've told you how hot I think Jennifer Reyna is. I mean, I watch channel 2 traffic in the morning like I have somewhere to go, and I totally don't...ever! That's how much I love Jennifer Reyna. I even consider driving to parts to Houston just because she tells me that the "drive in should be a great one." So who does Channel 13 throw out there to possibly draw viewers away from these two lovely ladies? Don F'ing Nelson. That's who. It just doesn't work. It's like watching a fatter Andy Griffith tell you about the potential hazards of your daily commute. Nobody wants to see that at 5 a.m.

Tonight at work I was walking by the toy section and noticed this baby doll on the endcap. Earlier in the night a coworker commented that it looked like me and could be my baby. So I stopped and looked at it, but didn't really see a resemblance aside from the fat head, pudgy cheeks and small amount of hair. Then I started thinking, "I wonder what they make these things out of," and I reached out and grabbed the little fella's hand. I probably stood there squishing and holding its little plastic hand for about 30-40 seconds, and then it hit me. I must have looked like the biggest pedophilic creepo in the world. What was actually me looking inquisitively and wondering, "Hmm, is this some sort of soft plastic?" probably looked more like a perv who was considering sticking his penis in this tiny plastic representation of a human baby. I was a little unnerved. So anyway, I bought it. Can you believe those things are 30 bucks? Haha...I'm kidding. (I used my discount card. It was only like $27 and some change.)

I bought Max Brooks' "World War Z" and "The Zombie Survival Guide," and they are great. I've gotta tell ya, zombies sound like they wouldn't be all that bad. I don't want the fast moving, "Zombieland" zombies, though. I want the slow, shuffling ones. One part of "World War Z" talks about a blind guy who basically kills hundreds of these slow zombies with a shovel. This sounds like something I could do. An added bonus to zombies would be that they would probably kill some of the assholes that I hate. Then they would reanimate as zombies and I (or possibly a blind Japanese guy) could hit them with shovels...consequence free! Don't read too much into me wanting to kill people. I just want to kill zombies. Plus, Woody Harrelson made it look cool. Not so much Jesse Eisenberg, though. I hate that guy. Any part he plays, Michael Cera could play better and with a thousand times more comedy.

I haven't been writing much lately because I'm my own worst critic. Also, with all my free time during hours when nobody else is awake, I've done a lot of thinking and I keep thinking about two particular errors I made when I worked at the paper and they still make me cringe. Thinking about them makes me not want to see words or make them with my keyboard. I'm getting over it, though. Slowly. Another reason is that I don't think I'm as funny as I used to be. I guess that goes back to being my own worst critic. I mean, some people liked "Office Space" and that movie was terrible (Jennifer Aniston = movie poison), so hopefully people will like my writing again.

And thanks to everybody who continued reading past the "sex with a plastic baby" paragraph.

Things I learned from the super bowl

2010-02-07T19:10:00.000-08:00

1. The media is dumb. Good job, Saints, though. I'm glad you won the Super Bowl. Not so much for you, but for your fans and native New Orleansers(?). You know, 'cause nothing takes away the crushing devastation of losing your home and all your belongings like your hometown team winning a Super Bowl five years after the fact. Way to go, media. And I'm sure as the Haitians crawl out from the rubble, their first thought will be, "I wonder if Pierre Garcon caught a td?" Well he did, Haiti. Sleep easy tonight. It's just football. It's not going to change the world.

2. Tim Tebow disappoints me. I thought this anti-abortion commercial was supposed to be controversial. If I hadn't looked for it, I wouldn't have known what it was for. It was basically, "I'm glad I didn't abort you, Timmy." "Me too, Mom!" Lame. I wonder why she was considering aborting him. Maybe Alabama's defense raped her, too.

3. Betty White and Abe Vigoda in the same commercial? Whaaat? Has somebody been reading my diary?

4. Drew Brees' birthmark went 15-18 for 147 yards and a td.

5. My mom saw the 60 minutes special about Samoans in the NFL, but apparently didn't pay too much attention to the details. She asked me about 15 times, "is he Samoan? He has long hair." She's so going to a home soon.

6. Sean Payton must have kept the "not being able to score from the 1" page from the Dallas playbook when he left.

7. Megan Fox in a bubble bath could sell strobe lights at an epilepsy convention. Well, maybe not because I can't remember what her commercial was for. I just remember that it was great. And that's all that really matters.

8. And finally, I make possibly the worlds greatest guacamole. It's an honor in the avocado world to sacrifice themselves for my guacamole.

All in all, a pretty entertaining super bowl. I imagine Manning will be back before his career is over. He'll be up for the next three months watching film and wiping sweat off his gigantic forehead.

The e-trade babies disappointed me, but Tim Tebow is just thankful they're around to be on tv.

"To hell with this game, Peyton! Just hold me!"

Fat guy discrimination

2009-11-18T01:34:00.000-08:00

I work with a guy who smells like he was pieced together using old onions, feet and soured milk. Most of the time it's cool with me. If people want to smell, that's their thing. He's a cool guy and it's a free country. Stink away, my friend, stink away!

I just hate when I have to work in close proximity to him and people pass by us. I get funny looks from these people sometimes. They aren't the inside jokey "that guy you're working with smells but he doesn't know it but we both totally do!" looks. They're more like the "you're a bigger guy and therefore I'm going to assume this horrible smell is coming from you because fat people have poor hygiene and I hate you" looks. It's so unfair. I feel oppressed. Do you have any idea how it feels to apparently look like you smell? It doesn't matter what it is. If there's a bad smell and I'm near it, it seems like people automatically assume it's me. I could be standing next to a skunk and people would be like, "Jesus! That fat guy over there smells like a skunk!"

I was thinking about this the other night as I waited in a fast food drive-thru line. I was thinking about how sometimes it's funny to be fat, but most of the time it seems like people unfairly discriminate against us. I was thinking about some sort of awesome plus-sized revolt against society and how George Wendt could be like our patron saint or something. Jared from Subway would be tried for treason and properly dealt with. How amazing it would all be.

Then I dropped my debit card and it went under my passenger seat. While feeling around for it I found an opened bag of pizza-flavored combos I bought a couple nights before and had forgotten about. Needless to say, I was excited. "Fuckin' awesome...combos!" I probably actually said aloud. So I ate a few. They were a little stale, but still packed with that pretzel-y, pizza-y goodness that combos are know for. Then it hit me: I was eating stale, old food I found on the floor while I was waiting in line for more food. Maybe the discrimination was justified.

But I'd do it again in a labored heartbeat! (Get it? Because of the clogged arteries?)

Edit: They are combos! Wtf are kudos then? Thanks to thinkinfyou for pointing out my blunder (and for being sexy. *wink*)

...and I didn't even get her number

2009-11-16T01:33:00.000-08:00

"Where's your braunschweiger?"

"I don't know what that is, ma'am."

"Really? You work here and don't know what braunschweiger is?"

"I'm sorry. Is it like bratwurst? Like a sausage or something?"

"*exaggerated sigh* No, it's not bratwurst! It's a spread. I have to get it now. I already have the crackers! If you work here you should at least know stuff about this place and what they sell."

(After looking for a few minutes...)

"Ah, here's some. Is this what you wanted?"

"Yes, yes that's it. It took long enough! I can't wait to get home and get out of this leg!"

Then she angrily drove her little scooter away.

Livery meat spreads and belligerent amputees.

This is my hell.

Perception becomes reality

2009-11-16T00:30:00.000-08:00

I was walking to the back room of the store the other night when I saw a woman propping open the men's bathroom door just a little. I heard her say, "start counting so I know you're ok." Then from the inside, I heard a kids voice counting, "1...2...3..." I don't know if her kid was sick or if she thinks gangs of pedophiles hang out in store bathrooms waiting on unsuspecting kids, only to be thwarted by their counting out loud. As I passed by her I smiled and said, "My mom makes me do that, too. It gets pretty embarrassing sometimes." She gave me a really mean look and rolled her eyes.

This is what I do.

This is a perfect example of how people see me, or how I think they see me. Some would think that was funny and laugh about it, but for every person who thinks it's funny, there are three more who think I'm an idiot. I start to see me how they see me and then my confidence is shot for awhile.

I usually try the humor approach on women, but I'm starting to rethink that strategy because it's obviously not working. Maybe I need to be more confident in it and not think so much. Let's face it. I'm 27, have a crap job and just moved back in with my mom. That's not really the definition of a "catch." I can't really afford to screw up too many more opportunities. I'm like a hitchhiker walking down a seldom used highway. When one of the few cars passes, I can't be jumping out all flaily-armed and crazy eyed. It's time to get my "I'm not gonna kill you" face on. That's a metaphor. Not saying I'd kill a date. Oh jeez...I'm doing it again. ;-)

Mein Mom

2009-11-05T03:49:00.000-08:00

"What the hell?"

"What's wrong?"

"What are you doing over there?"

"Nothing, why? Oh, this? They are going to look like spools of thread when I'm finished."

"Ok, but you don't see a problem with what it looks like now?"

"No. Why?"

"Mom, LOOK AT IT! You don't see a problem?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess I see what you're saying."

This is what she was needlepointing or whatever the hell it's called. In her defense, it did look like spools of thread when she was done with that part, but you've gotta think the pattern could have been a little different and still achieved the same thing. Either that or maybe my little, gray-haired mom is secretly a Nazi, filled with hatred and anti-semitism. I guess all the signs were there. Her love of bratwurst, saying that Sara Silverman "just isn't that funny," and her insistence on cooking everything in the oven.

I sent this pic to all my sisters and we did our "is it time to put mom in a home" coinflip.

She got lucky this time.