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Before my daughter was born–before I even knew I was having a daughter–the wife and I had, uh, heated “debates” of what we would name our offspring. Seeing how I come from a family of many boys (no girls) and The Wife had no interest in little girls’ clothing we just assumed it would be a boy. Kinda of silly because it was 50-50 either way, yet neither of us really considered the possibly of having a daughter. I wanted my boy to have a good, strong Italian name. Nothing too over the top like Guido, but Tony, Paulie, and Vinny were all possibilities (basically anything that ended in an “ee” sound). The Wife wanted more classical names like those of English royalty (James, George, William). Hmmm…Maybe we should compromise: Jamie, Georgie, Willie.
The girl’s name was relatively simply. The first name The Wife threw out was Babygrl1 and I kinda liked it. Of course, I couldn’t admit I liked it–not after she immediately shot down my suggestion to name a boy Giovanni. But that night, I started thinking more and more about it and really began to embrace it. It was the same number of letters as our last . . . . .
I don’t really have a nickname, but if I were to bestow one upon myself (because giving yourself a nickname is always a fine idea) I would likely be called Wart Boy. Unfortunately for Wart Boy the nickname isn’t clever or meaningful on any level. I am Wart Boy because of my propensity to host and grow warts (the boy part is fairly self-explanatory). Despite my portly appearance, I’d like to think I’m generally of good health. I rarely get sick or catch colds. But when it comes to defending myself against the virus that causes warts I’m 72-pound weakling with girlie arms.
All my life I’ve been prone to getting warts. About twice a year I’d have to see the doctor to get a wart or two frozen off. It was no big deal—I considered it part of my routine checkup. I’ve had so many warts removed from my body I consider myself to be an amateur dermatologist (or at least one who only works with warts). A wart here. A wart there. All in all: relatively no big deal.
One of my favorite wart stories (that’s right: I have more than one) occurred when my beloved cat scratched . . . . .
The time has come for me to replace the Almighty Honda. This is not something I want to do. I dread all aspects of it. Even as I write this, I’m doing so in darkness and out of earshot of my car (ya know, just in case it overhears). I think it would be easier to replace The Wife than replace the car, but then again I’ve had the car longer than The Wife (it has seniority). Despite my reservations, the truth is I’m driving a car that’s twice as old as my students and it’s just time for a change.
Reasons for change? Well, did I mention I’m driving a car twice as old as my students? This would be fine if my students were younger than five or older than 25. Anything else in-between means I’m driving an old car. Not a classic. Just old. Kind of like that lame age for Grownups between 35 and 55 when you’re expected to behave responsibly (reckless fun by youngsters is considered “youthful indiscretion;” reckless fun by seniors is “too old to know any better”).
I’ve also noticed I’ve been getting pulled over more often. Not for moving violations–just “checking . . . . .
Leftover pizza presents an interesting challenge for me. There are so many different factors and options that there’s no clear-cut obvious answer. Don’t finish Chinese food? Save it for later! Can’t finish a salad? Throw it out. But pizza is more challenging.
Probably the biggest obstacle leftover pizza presents is there doesn’t have to be leftover pizza. I might be full after two or three slices–but that doesn’t mean I have to stop eating. The only time I truly have to stop eating pizza is when there’s no more pizza left. My ability to continuously (and gluttonously) eat pizza is slightly short of being remarkable (probably because it’s disgusting to see a guy eat slice after slice of pizza for three hours). Back when I was a teenager Pizza Hut started to roll out all-you-can-eat pizza buffets. Now they’re all gone. Why? Because they all lost money when I came in through the door. A lot of money. Why, I think it’s safe to say I am solely responsible for Pizza Hut’s disappointing third quarter in 1996.
I like to eat–this is no surprise to anyone who knows me. I’ve often said eating if my favorite hobby–and pizza is perhaps . . . . .
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 . . . . .
From the pointless researcher department…
Did you know Rudolf the Red Nose Reindeer was a girl? It’s true because I saw it in print. I’m not sure if I blame the journalist or the “experts” who debated this topic, but overthinking like this really sucks the fun out of Christmas.
Last week at work we had our annual white elephant gift exchange. At this point, I’m sure everyone is familiar with the concept (if not, Wikipedia it). Since I’m blessed with the unique combination of being extremely lazy and remarkably cheap, I decided to put zero time, money, and effort into a gift. Instead of trying to give a good/funny gift, I decided to give the lamest piece of crap that came to my mind. I reached this conclusion while reading an old newspaper…which prompted the idea to GIVE an old newspaper.
The Wife quickly protested the idea. “That’s an awful gift,” she said. “You can’t give that.”
“It’s supposed to be an awful gift,” I pleaded. “The only people who give anything good or nice are newbies–suckers who are too afraid to give junk.”
Despite much–uh, persistence–on her part, I stuck to my guns and wrapped up a week-old . . . . .
The company Christmas party is coming up and we’re feeling the affects of a fleeting economy: we went from a catered affair to a potluck dinner. On top of that, my employer is requiring a $5 donation to attend the Christmas party. They told us they’re collecting the money for a charity to “help those less fortunate than us.” While I suppose technically, it’s a ‘good’ cause I’m still very uncomfortable with it. This isn’t just because I don’t believe in charity–I really don’t like the idea of being forced to donate. The loophole around this is probably that this isn’t a required event and attendance isn’t mandatory. But I know if I spend the afternoon in my office, it’ll be a bad PR move. What right do the party planners have to say there’s other people in more need of money than me? I have about $3 of disposable income every month–people should be collecting donations for me. I get paid jack squat. My rent goes up. The cost of food goes up. The cost of gas goes up. Why doesn’t someone pass the hat around for me?
One time I was having lunch with The Wife at Wienerschnitzel . . . . .
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 . . . . .
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