This is the true and sexy story when I saw one of my high school crushes totally naked many years after we graduated.  And she hugged me.  And I fell in love again.

AimingLow decided it was worth publishing.  I rewrote and tightened up the screws.  Unfortunately there were no screws in the actual story.

Feel free to click below and visit.  Roam around their site and you’ll see the awesome that is AimingLow.

Hey, for back at the turn of the century, I would have hit it.

photo credit: paukrus via photo pin cc

I looked online to see what the doctors say about exercising while having a cold.  There’s no consensus other than it probably doesn’t hurt you if you’re not pushing too hard.

I’ve been jacked up on pseudoephedrine for two straight days.  You have to realize – I don’t drink, smoke, do drugs, or caffeine.  Because I love all of those things more than you love your wedding dress.  So, when I take a little cold medicine, it screws with me.

I have a relatively big announcement coming up – something I’ve been working on for awhile.  By the time I biked home from work I had already convinced myself it was the worst idea on the planet.  I was overcome with fear and sadness.  I had no idea why.  I thought, “Well, I have to trust my instincts, and my emotions are telling me to 86 it.”

Then I got home and realized this was probably the Sudafed screwing with me.

I was then slammed with massive paranoia – not that people were after me or anything.  Nobody is after me.  Well, I’m pretty sure.  Of course I have a list and everything.  We all do.  A dozen names.  You know who you are.

I’m conscious enough to know it’s just the meds, but man, that is some uncomfortable stuff.  It was sort of funny watching myself be freaked out for no reason.  I know it’s not grounded in reality, but even knowing that didn’t stop the fear.  Which is weird because I rarely experience fear.  Or at least without some stimulus I can point to and rationalize.

I feel better now and the fear and sadness has all but left.  I’m still sick and a little screwy on the medicine.

Actually I had two announcements today – ha.  I’ll table them for now, since this is getting wordy.

And if any of you are out to get me, I’d advise to wait a few days until I’m totally unprepared.  See, I just helped you out!  I’m a giver!

No, I'm not Catholic but I'm not totally opposed to the bonnet. Also, I kind of dig that nuns can wear white. It's slimming.

photo credit: ~Oryctes~ via photo pin cc

I thought this morning, “Well, since I’m nearly hallucinating from this cold, it would probably be healthy to bicycle to work ten miles each way.”  Not my best call.  But who knows, maybe it was healthy.

So, I’m a little off right now.  Brain is foggy.  But I owe you a post.  That’s how committed I am.  Shower me with gratitude, like those dumb lists Oprah has you make each morning.

This past Friday I was at home to celebrate Mother’s Day.  My mom and I ended up in the family room, she on her iPad, me on the laptop.  We were both getting tired.  All of a sudden I looked over and saw this…

Flycatcher

Not only was she sleeping, mouth agape, but also making tiny snores.  I stared at her for a good five minutes.  Every few minutes she’d choke on a breath, sort of wake up, and then right back to sleep seconds later.

I snapped the photo and immediately posted it to Facebook.

Now, this was late in the evening.  I turned off the lights and headed upstairs to go to bed.

The next morning I received a bunch of text messages and emails.  Apparently my mom captured this in the early dawn.  Also posted to Facebook.

No, you are not looking at a snowdrift.

Somebody must have alerted her to the Facebook photo, and she had exacted revenge.  I’m amazed that I have my arms behind my head like a moron, and my legs up in the air.  It looks like I’m ready to do power crunches and blast my upper abdominals.  Except I was actually dreaming of dancing in a meadow betwixt the lilacs.

Note – I’ve never dreamt of dancing in a meadow betwixt the lilacs.

Also, my mouth is wide open, just like hers.

I got nothing else tonight, guys.  I’m about ready to pass out.  If you’d like to say a rosary for my cold, this will earn you an indulgence, or so I understand.  Hop to it!

Okay, obviously I was kidding – I’m sure you were ready to punch me through your computer screen right into my sack.

The truth is that moms work damned hard.  I know that my mother was busting her fanny just raising us even when she wasn’t working a day job.  And there were only two of us kids.

Moms are often the bad guys too, especially if they’re home all day.  They’re the primary disciplinarian, and the kids end up with resentment because you told them they couldn’t watch a Pixar movie before making up the bed.

Okay, I hope to have sufficiently persuaded you that I actually think mothers are awesome, hardworking, and rarely get deserved credit.  My mom cried during brunch today because I came home to visit this weekend.  That’s a good mom.

But what about those of you with shit mothers?

Certainly there’s got to be a few floating around, right?  Hopefully you don’t have one.

Well, those mothers should not get a free pass.  If you were a bunk mom your children should be able to call you up the second Sunday of every May and shame you.  For you, it will be known as “Shitty Shaming Day.”

And then the rest of us with great moms will get together and buy you some chocolate covered strawberries.  That way you get to unload on your bad mother AND have a delicious snack.  I think that’s fair.

—-

Hi Joan, how was Mother’s Day?

Great!  The kids flew in, took me to brunch, gave me a mani/pedi in the living room, and then presented me with the entire All My Children seasons on dvd autographed by Susan Lucci!  Oh, and Linda, how was Shitty Shaming Day?

Well, my daughter called from London.  You remember Sally – she moved overseas because, as she puts it, “I hate the USA knowing that you live there.”  She’s mad that I called her fat from age six until seventeen.  For Shitty Shaming Day she phoned up and just screamed the c-word over and over again.  My son mailed me his dog’s feces and a fork.  He didn’t explicitly say it, but I’m assuming he wants me to “eat shit.”  Still mad that I told him every time I cried it was because he was bad.

You really didn’t benefit from the addition of Shitty Shaming Day, did you?

I did not.

—

So for all you lucky enough to have a great mother, I hope you made her feel special.  And I have a tip for you – call her up on a random Thursday next month and tell her what a great job she did raising you.  Trust me.

You may disagree.  F you and your silly hat.

However, this is the first time I’ve had a true block.  Usually I can go back through my day and find something funny, interesting, or touching to talk about.  While I may not know where I’m going, within a few hundred words it takes shape.

I think I know why it’s hard today.

When I visit my parents at home (such as now), I regress.  I’m back in high school.  No responsibilities, lots of things to eat that are stocked by someone else,  and clean sheets and towels.  I don’t pay for dinner and nobody asks me to do much of anything.  It’s like a vacation without the invoice slipped under your hotel room door.

What I’ve learned about myself is that without a ton of hard work I don’t develop my potential.  Having things handed to me, while appreciated, ultimately allows certain emotional and mental muscles to atrophy.  My creativity goes away.

Since I’m not making decisions (most everything is provided here), I don’t have many real experiences.  I was looking back on this day and realized I didn’t do much.  I ate Chinese food for breakfast followed by a big bag of popcorn.  Next, I went to Home Depot and my father helped me secure my car cover because it keeps blowing away.

Note : Car covers are usually reserved for douchebags.  I only have one  because my parking spot is directly under a tree filled with birds.  If I leave uncovered for one day, I have at least six shit stains on the hood by that evening.  After a week it looks like I’m driving the world’s  largest dalmatian.

After the hardware store I passed out for two hours.  Woke up, went to dinner.  Home now.  About to sleep.

No kidding I have nothing to write about.  I didn’t do anything!

Going home is amazing because it is the ultimate escape from the real world.  Mortgages, work, cleaning the oven – none of this exists while I’m here.  That’s the upside.

The downside is you just read the worst post of the year.  I’d encourage you to come back tomorrow, when I’m back in my condo and pissed that I have to take care of myself.  It will be funnier.

While looking for a photo of a large dalmatian, I found one with a bunch of small dalmatians. See, I can't even make this funny. I give up.

By the way if you have a blog or product or service to promote, go ahead and click the advertising link on the right on up top.

Today I received, to date, my favorite advertising request ever.

Here it is in it’s entirety…

From: <xxxxxxx@aol.com>
Subject: Advertising Request

Message Body:
I’m a nomad traveler mostly Europe including Paris,Mont Blanc, Chamonix and more. I write about teaching in poor areas schools of Bushwick, Brooklyn, where drugs and destruction run rampant, about vegetarianism, and old country fig and blackberry wines. About my blood connection to Vampire Dracu, and I’m about to publish memoirs from the bloody hills of Transilvania, on dark waves of the Danubius a book called Nobody’s Child.

—–

I was, no… am.  I am, speechless.  None of these words made any bit of sense to me, yet I suspected there was brilliance in the patterns, like that freak from A Beautiful Mind.  I really didn’t know what to do with it.  So I did what I do best.

—–
Hi xxxxxx!

As a vampire hunter (I’ve killed four in the past quarter), I hope I do not invoke your ire.  Please accept my apologies and if the filthy creatures were tied to your bloodline, I beg forgiveness.  I also pulled out their fangs with pliers to sell on Ebay.  Got $50!

I am also a connoisseur of fig wine.  My friends goof on me for drinking what they call “pussy beer” but they don’t have a mature palette like us.

Nobody’s Child is my favorite Aerosmith song.  Oh wait, that was Nobody’s Fault.  Ignore.

Sorry, I’m getting off-topic.

My rates are xxxxx per month for a text ad on the right column of every page of my site.  You’ll write a short description, and we’ll get it up!

Thank you and I look forward to getting you some traffic!

——

I sent the initial message to my girlfriend to see what she could make of it.  I privately emailed her, “God I hope she becomes a sponsor!”  Jessica simply replied:

I would click to her site for sure.

A few hours later I got this reply.  Funny and lucid, I see now that the first message was more humor than crazy.

—–

Thank you for your prompt response,  fig wine association must be from the Italian figa which is p…y. I’ll let you know about advertising soon. Until then enjoy the hunt.

—–

I really don’t have anything else to say.  Just one thing, actually.  I love you readers.  Please keep being yourselves.  And comment on posts so we can all learn how batty you are.

They love their readers.

While I was catching up on some stuff tonight, I realized I hadn’t packed.  This isn’t a big trip – just three hours by car.  I have to put some food and water out for the cat, put clothes in my little suitcase thing, and pack up the computer.  Also, I’m bringing the dog, so a few of her things.

Usually I do this the night before, as is the sensible thing to do.  That way I can get up and not have to race around before I leave for work.

Tonight I made a conscious desicion to not pack.  Sometimes it’s just more fun not to do what’s smart.

Remember in college when you waited until the day before the exam to study?  Or staying up all night on Dexedrine writing the term paper?  And then would you vow to never do that again?

Well, the good news is that most of us are out of college.  College was great, don’t get me wrong.  Never had I so much time to screw around.  But we don’t get to do a lot of those things anymore.  I mean, I guess we can put off our taxes until mid April, but that’s about it.

So, I was about to pack tonight.  And then, the rebellious twenty year old me said…

Not tonight!  You’re going to race around last minute in the morning and do all this.  It will be awesome.  Do it!

I think I have to engage my immature part every so often just to keep sane.  I remember my Mother gave me a card once that simply said on the inside, “Don’t EVER grow up.”  She didn’t mean to be a loser man-child not capable of being responsible and living in the real world.  I was a silly child.  She meant don’t give up the silly.

While silly isn’t always a great idea, practically speaking, it’s usually fun.

For example – this blog.  Could this blog hurt my ability in the corporate world?  Sure it could.  This website is silly and honest and extremely non-corporate.  Not sure some employers would want a guy who writes about stuff like this on their roster.  I’ve accepted the reality of that.

The downside is that should I ever look for a new job, this may be an issue.  The upside is that I have a level of fulfillment that is very important to my well-being.  It’s interesting that being more myself (note – honest, silly, emotional, reflexive) results in this fulfillment.

So, tomorrow I’ll race around last minute to get packed, probably cursing this decision.  Oh, and speaking of, I need to get a card before Sunday, when all that’s left are the Hallmark ones written in Spanish.  Día de las Madres!

Please, don't come over to our table. Just let me eat my pollo asado in peace.

Some chicks gave me a position with their website!

AimingLow is a fantastic humor website (seriously), which is collection of funny writers doing what they do best.  Effacing themselves through embarrassment.

They have published several of my pieces over the past few months.  I’ve attempted to slime my way into their collective jean shorts (or “jorts”)  through repeated begging.

And unlike my online petition to be considered for Jet Magazine‘s “Man of the Year” they have actually paid attention.

I join an elite group of writing warriors called the “Comic Relief Roster.”

It’s kind of like being the head of the JV volleyball squad.  You’re not varsity, but you’re still spiking the ball once in awhile.  There may be an opportunity down the road should I endear myself to their readers, and become a staff writer.

I’m very excited, and clearly bragging.

If you’re a blogger, you need to get to AimingLow’s Non-Conference near Atlanta in October.  I’ll be there along with some of the funniest bloggers online.  Basically it’s a conference without all the extraneous crap – you actually go there to learn real strategy on how to build an audience and network with other bloggers.  Also, it’s free, which is unheard of for a blogging conference.

Okay, I’ll keep you updated with AimingLow starts publishing my stuff.  I have something in the hopper already for them that should go live in a week or so.

I can’t stress enough how great this website is – check it out and read the posts.  Amazing writers.

(I address my bicycle as “you”.)

I know.  That was dumb.  And made you feel uncomfortable for a moment.  Especially if you’re a dude.  Well, I guess maybe not all dudes would have felt uncomfortable.  Certain ones.

But, this is a post about riding a bike.  And, goddammit, there’s just no way you’re going to read a post titled, “I’m Going on a Bike Ride!”

I am going on a bike ride!  To work.

I will be doing this every day (except when it rains) until it gets too cold in late fall.  I have the dog in a backpack, and this commuter garment thing I just installed so I can bring my suit.

The total distance is around twenty miles round-trip.  Since I’m in Chicago and near the lake, it’s a beautiful ride.  Also windy.  I go right along Lake Michigan with all the other weirdos that ride to work.  I’ve been doing this for the past three years.  Before then I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was fourteen.

Now, please realize I have hardly moved since I put the bike away last year.  I live in a fourth floor walkup.  I get winded (no jive) making it up the stairs with groceries.

To go from nothing to twenty miles a day is intense.  I’m a sweaty mess when I get to work.  Well, surely there must be a shower there, yes?  Nope.

I have to towel off, wash up in the sink and then put on a suit.  Not the most fun thing to do all drenched in sweat.  But hey, I’m a professional.

I’m excited, because I’ll burn a few calories and get a few endorphins flowing.  Better than the tiny Mr. Goodbars floating around in my system right now.  Seriously, who ever eats tiny Mr. Goodbars?  Other than me when they’re on sale?

Was going to end with a strong joke about doody, but then a wave of fear hit me.  I realized that even though I’m all protected with a helmet on the bike, my dog is not.  I’ve ridden with her before and never had an issue.  In fact I’ve never fallen myself.  But if you ride a bike like me, logging thousands of miles, you will fall one day.  And the idea of crushing my dog is a devastating thought.  So, now I’m nearly paralyzed with fear, to tell the truth.  I think it’s a healthy fear, though.  Still, ugh.

Would have been easier to do the doody joke.  But, now I’m just scared.  Oh well.  I’m off to eat some more tiny Mr. Goodbars to kill that feeling.  Feelings suck!

The least sexy way to travel.

Note – I ended that with a period, not a question mark, as I don’t really care for the answer.

Bottom line is that I currently have a headache.  I never know how much pain medicine to take.  I know that gel cap shit works the best, but I only have the little red ibuprofen. Those gels are like the Chewels of pain meds – shiny, mysterious, fun, and they have a little sugary coating.  Man, I wish I had some right now.

Oh – how much I take.  Got off track there.  I always take four.  Since I only do this a few times a year, I’m really not interested in screwing around.  I heard that this stuff rips open your stomach, but maybe that’s aspirin, and really, who’s using that anymore?  It’s like whole milk.  If you see someone pulling out the whole milk carton at the Albertsons, you need to carefully examine them because something is horribly wrong with them.  It’s okay to judge whole milk buyers.  I asked a priest.

I have a, shall we say, matured tolerance for medicine.  This is part of the reason why I don’t drink, smoke, do drugs, or even take caffeine.  I get consumed by anything addictive and then consume it in heroic amounts.  For example, the four pills didn’t quite kill the headache.  I’ll probably take a few more before bed.  There’s no way you should pound 1200 mg of ibuprophin in five hours.  If I don’t survive the night, you may all fight over my impressive collection of band aids that I’ve amassed.  I bet I haven’t used a band-aid in seven years.  Yet I have like 200 of them.  Maybe we’ll give them out at the memorial service and you can wear them under your eye like Nelly did as a way to catch the tears that will surely be flowing.

Okay, I need to sign off and go sleep off this headache.  Good morrow.

Instead of writing this I thought I would shoot a video of me stuffing a whole rotisserie chicken skeleton into my garbage disposal and turning it on.  So I did it.  But in the end I realized nobody would want to watch this 42 second video.  It’s going into the archive vault.