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With summer time fast approaching, I felt it was time to embrace my summer ‘do and shave my head. I wasn’t allowed to shave my head last summer because The Wife wanted to make sure I had hair for our wedding (which is kinda silly because it takes me about three weeks to grow a full head of hair). I like to buzz my hair short for the summer because it gets ungodly hot. Plus, sometimes I just get sick of hair. All the washing and conditioning. Spending two or three minutes every morning styling it. Not being able to wear a hat because I’ll mess it up. Just between you, me, and the World Wide Web I’d much rather sport a maintenance-free shaved head than look good with my dark, curly locks.
I have always put comfort over appearance (a trait that’s obvious to anyone who has ever seen my wardrobe). Funny thing about personal appearance, you rarely get to look at it. Sure, there are those few minutes in front of the mirror in the morning or perhaps if someone snaps a photo. But for the most part, you never look at yourself. Suppose I buy a new . . . . .
For our honeymoon, The Wife wanted to go to go to an exclusive, fancy, hoity-toity tropical hotel where she could drink margaritas on the beach and fall asleep while listening to the waves crash. When I told her it sounded like she wanted to be in a Corona commercial, I ended up with an unwanted finger rammed up my nose.
One of the keys to her dream honeymoon was to be able to eat at an all-inclusive hotel. We knew we’d probably end up paying a little more compared to if we purchased everything à la cart, but we didn’t care. By our nature, The Wife and I tend to be, uh, very careful with our money. We knew that if we had to fork over ten bucks for every margarita we drank, we’d end up margarita-less and as sober as David Crosby (he’s clean now). But by going to an all-inclusive hotel, not only would we downing cocktails like Barney Gumble, we’d also buy drinks for anyone who asked. So we settled for a fancy resort on the Yucatan pennisulia that cost more per day than I could every dream to make.
The restaurants at the hotel were so . . . . .
I am a volatile snorer. As I’ve stated many times before, it’s not an issue to me; however, The Wife insists it’s bad for her sleep and detrimental to our marriage. I rarely snore loud enough to wake myself up but since I’m not the only one in the bedroom, a solution must be found.
She started off with earplugs. Even though she found them uncomfortable, she was able to block out my trumpeting and sleep soundly…for a week. According to her, my snoring got worse and earplugs could no longer stop my snoring from rattling her brain.
I had my tonsils removed. Since my tonsils were “unusually large,” the doctor said taking ’em out would clear some space for air to flow and the snoring would cease. After the operation, The Wife said my snoring went away and she was finally able to sleep…for a week. Even though air had a clear path, my body found away and the snoring resumed.
The next step was more surgery. This time, the doctor cleaned out my ‘turbs’ (whatever they may be). Doc said it could increase airflow anywhere from 10-30 percent. I immediately felt the difference and realized I could finally . . . . .
It’s official: The Wife is legally mine (I initially penned that line “The Girlfriend”–old habit do die hard). She received her new social security card this week with her new last name–mine. And since she has my name on her that makes her my property. That’s not chauvinistic–it’s life. Kinda like when you’re a kid and you write your name on your football. You do it so everyone knows it’s yours. I’m not going to take a Sharpie and write on The Wife’s forehead, but that doesn’t change the fact she has my name and is now my property.
I’m hardly an expert and there’s a good chance I don’t even know what I’m talking about–but that’s never stopped me from giving my opinion. With that in mind, I think I’m opposed to a potential government bailout of US automakers. It’s my taxes and I don’t wanna see it wasted. I know we’re talking about putting a lot of people out of work–but I don’t see why the US government has to save a company that pushes products no one wants. That’s all it really comes down to. Isn’t the whole point of capitalism and free markets about letting the . . . . .
I recently wrote about my spouse and referred to her as “The Girlfriend.” Now that we’re married, I probably should start calling her The Wife…but I’m not sure I like it. While, technically, it is her new title–it just feels weird. Not to have a wife–I’m okay with that–I just don’t like the idea of changing someone’s name. The Girlfriend is embedded in me. It rolls off the tongue. Whenever I look at my beloved, I see “The Girlfriend.” It’s kinda like when a long-time friend decides he’s no longer Robert and wants to be called Roberta. As much as you wanna honor their wishes, old habits die hard. It’s gonna be tough, but I’ll do it. Besides, if I keep calling her The Girlfriend it’s going to get complicated when I get a mistress.
I hate computer geeks. These tech guys…they’re just so pathetic. They’re obsessed with technology. Not practical technology–just raw numbers and specs. It’s all about the latest and greatest with computer geeks. Old is always bad…even though 95 percent of the population would be perfectly content with five-year old technology. They’re all like some sorta bad cliché.
I took a computer repair class this fall (not . . . . .
One of the side effects of marriage is having to share a bed with someone, which means my minor snoring problem has become a full-fledged nightmare to my beau. I don’t understand what the big deal–I sleep just fine. But The Girlfriend insists that my snoring problem is keeping her from having a productive night of sleep (she’s threatened to smother me: if we don’t resolve this problem soon, I fear I might wake up dead).
She tried earplugs at first–squishy little buggers that have no definite shape or form but were endorsed by airport personnel. Apparently my snoring rivals a 747 because even with the plugs in, The Girlfriend gets no sleep (and I hear about it in the morning).
The next step in this process was Breathe Right™ strips. I’m sure you know what it is–a little piece of plastic enclosed in an adhesive bandage-type strip one wears over their nose. The purpose of this strip is to pull your nostrils wipe open and widen the path air flows through the nose. I don’t know what sorta trademark or copyright restrictions these things have, but they are very much taking advantage of a monopoly. Millions of sleep-depraved spouses . . . . .
Things were different a hundred years ago. Blacks couldn’t vote (or run for president). Women couldn’t vote (or run for vice president). I don’t know what the price of gas was, but I’m sure it was cheaper than today. Even marriage was different. Back then, a wedding consisted of a guy, gal, her dad, and a shotgun. It was so much simpler. A modern wedding includes all of those things–plus numerous forms, fees, and other unnecessary bureaucracies.
The Girlfriend and I had to apply for a marriage license. Who needs a license to get married? Can that license get revoked? Why do we need the government’s permission to get married? It’s not like the state has any right to deny anyone marriage. Not anymore. Assuming were dealing with two human beings, everyone has the right to get married in California.
Applying for a marriage license isn’t that hard–the hardest part is come up with the 60 bucks required to get a license. Unfortunately, marriage licenses aren’t granted online or over the phone so we had to trek down to the courthouse to get our license. What a sight that was. You see it in television and movies all the time, . . . . .
I realized that recently I have been writing way too much about movies and televisions (probably because I haven’t done anything but sit and watch TV the past few weeks). Well enough is enough: I am implementing a new, self-imposed embargo on the movie business. Enough complaining, bitching, or nitpicking about Hollywood. If the writers can be on strike, I can too. Although technically, I wouldn’t be on strike. But that’s not the point–I need something else to complain about. I wonder what Sprint is up too…
I’d like to take a moment to announce that The Girlfriend has hereby officially been promoted to The Fiancee. I proposed to her on Monday and she said yes. Not there was any doubt. I must’ve made over a hundred marriage proposals throughout my years–but this was the first one where I had a ring (second where I knew the girl’s name). I knew she was going to accept because Monday was Martin Luther King Day–the most romantic and sexiest holiday of the year.
A lot of guys propose with bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolates. They engineer the perfect, romantic evening. Luckily, I knew my gal wanted none of that. We . . . . .
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