Ouch!

I don't think I've ever been this sore in my life. I don't want to move my body much at all. I feel like all the muscles in my chest have been flayed, soaked in gasoline, and then lit. Even though I'm so sore, I offered to help Jon move his mom, so that's what I'll be doing tonight and tomorrow. Shit. At least Jon will find my grimaces amusing over the next couple of days; at least I can offer some entertainment. Western Oklahoma, here I come.

Dag-nab-it!

Darn, I'm sore. Late last week I joined a gym and finally worked out there yesterday at lunch. I ran a couple of miles, did three different shoulder exercises, curls, and worked my upper back. Ouch! Monkey farts! I didn't think I would be sore today, but I feel like an old man. I want to snarl at stairs, yet all I do is grunt a little when I've had to climb them today. I thought I might go to the gym again at noon today, but it didn't happen. Instead, I ate too much Mexican food. Tomorrow, however, I will go back to the gym whether I'm sore or not. Running again probably would have been a good idea to work some of the stiffness out of my legs, but screw it. I know I'll go tomorrow. And once my body gets used to exercising again, I think I'll go everyday except on Fridays. On Fridays I'd much rather spend my lunch in a bar tossing down a few so that I can have a little buzz while at the office in the afternoon. And believe it or not, the office is okay with that. :)

Speaking of drinking, I've cut back a lot in the last few months, but I usually do drink every evening. I know that doesn't sound like I'm cutting back. Just bear with me. This is exactly what I do on a normal day after work: take the dog out, play some, then feed her; while she's eating, I make myself a drink, park my ass on the couch, grab the nearest book and read for a while until my dog whines and bothers me. This can take an hour and a half, and in that time I will have only had a few sips. So, my drinking has really improved compared to what it used to be. I used to drink nonstop from six o'clock in the evening until midnight everyday.
Now what in the world does discussing this have anything to do with anything? Well, I'm just organizing my thoughts and giving a bit of background information to ask: Why do I drink so often? I've come to . . . well . . . it's time to go home . . . More later!

It's later now. I've come to the conclusion that I drink for two reasons: (1) I enjoy it and (2) I can. Sounds terribly banal, doesn't it, as if I'm throwing my middle finger to the seriousness of the question. Yet there are reasons why I enjoy it. I enjoy alcohol, obviously, because it relaxes me, slows the ole' noodle down (my brain, not the other noodle) and allows me to focus after being pulled in five different directions at work all day long. It helps me get to sleep, and I don't need much alcohol in order to get that help; just a couple of small glasses of cognac will do the trick. (If any of you have never tried Navan, I highly suggest it. It is a vanilla cognac that has the most wonderful flavor. If you have trouble finding it, then ask the liquor store to order it. If the manager hasn't heard of it, let him or her know that it's made by Grand Marnier.) Have I tried sleeping pills? Yes, I have. Do they knock me out? Yes, and I don't like that much. Is it difficult to get up the next morning? You bet your ass, and I feel groggy for most of the morning. A couple drinks don't leave me feeling that way in the morning, and they don't knock me out in the evening either.

And, yes, I can drink. Sooner or later, however, it will have to slow to an almost complete halt, such as when (or if) I have kids. I hope I have them, but ya' never know. I might never be in a position to--as in I might not be in a healthy enough relationship to feel confident, as a couple, to raise emotionally healthy human beings. Can I still drink if I have children? Well, yeah--but I don't think it's a great idea to have a couple every night. If there's an emergency, is it a good idea to have any alcohol in my system? Not in my opinion. So, at this point in my life, I can drink--with as few repurcussions as possible. And I enjoy that for now.

One hour until I'm at the gym, a gerbil on a wheel . . . and I'll like it, dammit!!

A New Year? Really?

It doesn't feel like a new year. Then again, I didn't do much to celebrate because (1) I still know very few people in the Sapulpa/Tulsa area, (2) my close friends are spread out all over the place, and (3) the cops around here were swarming looking for people who drink and drive. So, guess what I did? I went to the local bar, of course, then drove home. No worries. I was there from six in the evening until eight. Not long. The cops weren't really out in abundance yet. The few people there who "know" me (which means they know my name)--the three bartenders and a couple of other "regulars" (I'm not really all that regular, but I'm getting there)--were perplexed that I left so early, even though that's what I do just about every time I go out. One even said, "Stay! You might get laid," not that I really need to have sloppy, drunken sex with some beer-swilling woman who has hair that smells of Coors, jagged teeth and wears too much perfume--and afterwards greeted by an STD. But if warts--or something equally digusting--spelled "Happy New Year!" on my penis, then maybe I'd be okay with it. But I doubt it. So I went home. Note: Can the discerning reader determine that I don't think much of picking up women at a bar?

There wasn't much to do except drink some more, smoke on my porch, and watch the traffic. Sounds boring, doesn't it? It could have been worse. For instance, maybe I don't live on a busy road on which plenty of people get pulled over for speeding because it's one of the few through streets without a traffic light to get to the other side of town. But, you see, I do live on this kind of a street. And loads of cars were stopped. This doesn't make for Oscar-nominated entertainment, but when you're loaded, it's just dandy. So that was my new year, combined with watching a bit of OETA (PBS for those of you reading this who don't live in Oklahoma, which is every single one of you; thank you, one person for reading this). I must be old. I'm beginning to really like OETA. I watched musical performances dedicated to Ella Fitzgerald. (Hey! I said I'm getting OLD, not becoming GAY! Shut up! I studied jazz drumming when I was younger so just put a sock in it!) And then I watched an old rerun of Chicago and Earth, Wind, and Fire play together. That was awesome! Geez, if my life keeps going at this rate, I'll soon enjoy the Lawrence Welk Show. Gag!

Oh, I finally have electricity again. I can't express how relieving it is to have lights, a working fridge, a washer and dryer, a microwive, a boob tube, a beard trimmer, a CD player, a DVD player . . . I could go on and on. But really the 10 day hiatus from electricity wasn't all that bad. I think I might have been a touch calmer without the noise of all of these electrical things, but you take the good with the bad, right?

Bah! I'm already bored with writing this . . .

Nevermind

Naw, I really don't need a flick to the nuts. But I haven't had electricity in over a week, so I wouldn't mind giving someone else a good, solid flick. I want some electricity, dammit! I'd like to be able to buy milk, and cheese, and eggs, and anything at all to put in my fridge so that I can have a little variety. Soup and crackers and nuts are getting a little old.

So how about that last post? Basically, I was going to talk about not having the cajones to talk to this attractive woman and then blather on about how whenever I'm attracted to a woman and she reciprocates--it was obvious, in this case, by how we were looking at each other--that she ends up being a totally irresponsible nutbag. This one was no different. I talked to her boss, with whom I'm friends, and she fired her for being an irresponsible nutbag, not her words, but mine. So, it just goes to show, happy campers, to look for those everpresent indicators of being attracted to nutbags, emotional cripples, sex addicts, cleptos, neurotics, golden shower fans, or whatever your brand of weirdo is usually attracted to you. When someone is attracted to you, watch out! It might be one of your wonderful psychos that you tend to attract. All of us, no matter who you are, attract at least one type of weirdo.

Back to work!

I Need a Flick to the Nuts

Have any of you seen the movie, The 40 Year Old Virgin? Do you remember the part near the end when Seth Rogen flicks David Rudd's nuts so that he remembered he has nuts and that he should use them? Well, I might need that same favor because I can't seem to collect the cajones to talk to this wonderfully attractive woman.
Let me bring you into my psychosis.
I went to the local bar for a little while on Saturday evening, sat at the bar by myself, drank a few, and went home early. The only person I talked to was the bartender, a quite attractive bar wench who was fun to talk to--albeit, I didn't say much because it was a Saturday night and she was damn busy. Sunday rolls around and I go to the bar again, not because I wanted to see her--because I don't know her schedule anyway--but because for most of my life I wasn't able to go to a bar on Sunday. (Bars are closed on Sundays in my hometown and restaurants won't serve alcohol; and where I lived before moving here was the same except you could have a drink while out to eat.) Here's my reaction to finding out bars are open on Sundays in this county: You mean to tell me that I can watch football, drink, and smoke all at the same with strangers? Kick ass! I'm there! And I was there last Sunday. Again, she was bartending. Same thing. And a lot of appreciative eye contact. I never did ask her name, though. That becomes important in my psychosis.
So I go there again on Monday night. Yes, you already think I'm a lush, but listen to this: We had an icestorm begin on Saturday evening and by Monday morning power lines were snapping all over the place. The bar, miraculously, had power--and they didn't even own a generator. More later. My boss is letting me go early because . . . well, I'm typing this and I don't have anything to do at work.

Laters!

A Copy of a Copy--Paying it Forward

I copied this from a friend who copied it from someone else. It sounds like fun.

I am participating in Pay it Forward - The Blog Edition. Here’s how it works: I will send handmade gifts to the first three people who leave a comment and tell me they are interested in playing. In order to play, you must have your own blog (doesn’t have to be a food blog) and you must continue to ‘pay it forward’ by promising the same thing to your readers.Now, as far as the handmade gifts go, I don’t know yet what they will be. I also don’t know when I’ll get them sent. You may not receive the gift tomorrow or next week, but I do promise that it will get to you within the next 365 days! Sound good? I think it sounds great!Remember, I will be choosing the first three people who respond by leaving a comment on this blog post. The requirements are that you have your own blog and are willing to send out three of your own homemade gifts (whatever you want to make, no rules or limitations here).

I am willing to ship my gifts anywhere in the world, so everyone is eligible to participate regardless of what country you are blogging from! Just please make sure you leave a valid e-mail address so I can contact you for shipping information
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Don't be surprised to receive giant lint balls if you leave a comment. I'll dig a small one out of my belly button, then slowly add to it for weeks. Enjoy!

10 Random Things No One Cares About

1. I am horrible at keeping promises to myself. I can tell myself to exercise everyday, and invariably I won't do it everyday. I can tell myself to write everyday, and invariably . . . you get the idea. Even though this is the case, I'm great at keeping promises to other people. I think it might be a matter of saying something out loud in order to make my thoughts entrenched in reality instead of thoughts simply floating in the ether--in the echoing cavern of what could be considered my brain. Still, broken promises to myself sometimes drive me nuts, and the older I become the more I think the promises one makes to one's self are just as important, if not more important, than the promises to others.
2. I'm moody. Of course anyone who knows me knows that. Little things can really get on my nerves by the end of the day. I am, however, strangely calm when the excrement hits the A/C.
3. I have a cymbal addiction. I love the damn things. Some of my friends think I have a problem, and one of them jokes that if a tornado ever hits my house, people will find me in many pieces, chopped up by flying cymbals. But there's a reason I have so many different cymbals: different sounds illicit different responses, even from the drummer, not just the listener. And they're shiny! (Well, some of them are. Some are ugly, dirty bastards, but I like those cymbals, too.) Who doesn't like shiny things?
4. Similar to my dog, I can't stand vacuum cleaners. They're noisy and annoying. You'd figure that, since I bang the drums, the noise wouldn't bother me, but there's nothing musical about it. It's just white noise. As I vacuum, I have to fight the urge to go down on all fours and bite the shit out of it, then mark my territory to remind the noisy thing not to enter certain rooms.
5. I feel a little lost on weekends, especially in the morning. Without work or some kind of structure, I feel a lack of a sense of direction until I'm totally awake. I might very well bitch about Mondays, but I actually enjoy going back to the grind.
6. I have a dark sense of humor and I curb it around people I don't know well. Actually, I curb it a little around everyone, even people I know really well. I don't think anyone wants to hear some of the crap that splats on the walls of my mind.
7. Writing a novel is one of my goals. Eventually I'll finish one. The problem is that I have a few stories in my head, but I grow bored with them--because I already know the stories. For some reason it's difficult for me to get excited about something when I already know the ending.
8. I have a webbed toe on my right foot. For any of you who have foot fetishes, I'll be happy to make your day or disgust you, and the more disgusted you are, the more I'll laugh (not that a webbed toe is disgusting in my opinion).
9. I'd like to see most of the U.S. before every going overseas. Why the hell would I want to see another country when I haven't seen most of the things my backyard has to offer?
10. The Cookie Monster, Animal, from the Muppet Show, Wiley Coyote, the Tazmanian Devil and Foghorn Leghorn are my favorite childhood characters.