(Stupid Column)

So this one starts out whiny, but I promise if you stick with me, you’ll get two nut shots.

No you personally, but two people that I talk about. I don’t want to spoil it, but you know what I mean.

So I’ve had one of those days (stupid days).

One of those days you just hate to have.

The kind where you have to lie to the cashier at the grocery store because if you answered “How you doing today?” with anything close to how you’re actually doing  you would get kicked out faster than the time you started swearing at the soup aisle because clam chowder was over two bucks a can (stupid soup).

We’ve all done that right?

It’s been one of those days where you drive faster than you like to, where you are constantly flipping people (stupid people) the bird from the confines of your pocket or farting in confined areas and you don’t even care because screw those guys, they totally deserve to get a nice big mouthful of last night’s enchiladas (stupid enchiladas).

It was a combination of a thousand different things, most of which were probably figments of my own imaginations (stupid figments). Which makes it all worse because nothing makes you madder than thinking about how you’re going to explain what’s making you mad to another person and realising it’s pretty ridiculous (stupid thinking).

So you sit (stupid sitting) and you stew (stupid soup again) and you watch the clock (stupid standardized work day) and then you go home. And then, if you’re really lucky, your son racks himself on his high chair.

He was trying to “do a trick” which involves some “new” way of getting into his chair and then looking expectantly to his mother and I to be blown away.

I’m not sure how he started this trick today, but I know how he ended it: screaming “My weewee, my weewee, my weewee!”

I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I also know that I shouldn’t eat sandwiches using donuts as bread. I know a lot of things.

I did my best to not show my mirth, but the massive amount of stress ripped from my shoulders was obvious. I was soon able to dance around with my son, until he head butted me, right in the Smith and Wessons. He laughed. I was about to tell him not to. Then I remember that he’d had a bad day too.

I guess he deserved a bit of the medicine he’d given me earlier.

(Stupid crotch blasting medicine).

It's not you, it's me. And the fact you could kill me with your bare hands.

I made an important personal discovery today. Not as big as the time I figure out that its ok to pretend to be a superhero in the shower (no one can see you)  but still better than when I realized that I’m not afraid of rock chucks.

I love ninjas, but I don’t think I could ever love a ninja.

Now let me be clear, I’m of course talking about love in the settle down and have a family kind of love a ninja. Not any other kind.

I could totally love a ninja like a brother from another more deadly mother.

I could have Christian love for a ninja. Heck I could Christian love the crap out of a ninja. Especially if they were a ninja widow, or a window made by a ninja, which is much more common.

But I just can’t see myself creating a life with a ninja.

Of course they’re the obvious logistical nightmare of actually finding a ninja and asking them out for the crucial first date. They’re some elusive buggers. People have written libraries worth of blog posts about how hard it is to find someone to love in today’s disconnected world. Just imagine trying to find someone to love with a lifetime of training in the art of invisibility. And when you think you finally found one, it turns out it just a kid in a ninja costume which causes a whole new stack of problems.

But once you found that special little assassin, you’re marriage is going to have issues.

Ninjas work late nights all the time. And their schedule is really erratic. You never know when they’ll have to run off to kill the Shogunate and even worse, you never know if they’re really killing the Shogunate or if they’re running around behind your back.

Kissing that mask would get old quick.

Smoke bombs are the perfect way to get out of spending time with your side of the family.

Forget throwing plates when you fight. While you’re at it, learn how to dodge ninja stars.

So yeah, no ninja love for me. I guess I’ll just have to settle for getting my wife a ninja suit for Christmas.

It ain't fair that ain't ain't a word and all the rest

Today I had a chance to live my lifelong dream of hand feeding a zebra outside of a gas station.

(I have very specific lifelong dreams).

Unfortunately, it turned out the zebra was a total jerk and literally knocked the food out of my hand and spat on it, right in front of my son.

My mom was dead right on two things. Sometimes, life just ain’t fair (number two was about spitting out a bug. Good call Mom).

So as I’ve spent the last three days on vacation, I’ve had plenty of time to consider things about life that just aren’t fair.

It just ain’t fair that days spent driving to your vacation count as part of your vacation. Driving cross state/country is hard work. I think we need to do something about this. I don’t know what though, because I’m still technically on vacation.

It just ain’t fair that adults can’t wear goggles to the pool. Ok granted, adults can wear goggles to the pool, but if you do, you’re either going to look like you take swimming very seriously, or you are an extremely lost snorkler.

While we’re on the subject, why can’t I spend money on a hobby without looking like I take it super seriously and should be way better than I am? Maybe I just wanted that real nice cake decorating frosting bag to eat frosting directly out of. I think this is pretty unfair.

It just ain’t fair that I look like to do with my shirt off.

It just ain’t fair that it didn’t rain while I was gone and my grass looks like dried crap now.

It just ain’t fair that it’s suppose to rain tomorrow.

It just ain’t fair we only get a few truly carefree days a year with our family to build memories that have to be good enough to make it into our eulogy.

It just ain’t fair that vacations have to end.

It just ain’t fair that childhood ends.

It just ain’t fair that anything ends actually. We work so hard only to have time and life slips away from us like a scurrying lizard on the red rocks of life. There is no constant. There is no rest. There is only running and the change it brings.

But it’s like that for everyone.

So I guess, in a sense, it’s fair after all.

But seriously zebra... that was cold.

The Run Down on my Rub Down

Today I learned that sometimes it’s ok to be naked with a stranger.

We’re going old school here. No life lessons. No Star Wars jokes. Just some thoughts about something that happened to me.

So today I cashed in a voucher we bought for a couples massage.

Notice the pronoun there. I cashed it in. My wife was unable to join me for reasons. It takes a special kind of guy to walk into a day spa alone with coupon for a couples massage complete with drink and chocolate covered strawberries.

Mom always said I was special.

They were totally cool with it though. After asking me if I had to use the bathroom the receptionist took me to a secret waiting room while I filled out a from. She did take away the plate of strawberries and drinks though, slapping my hand and explaining “Those are for couples.”

The form started with some pretty standard medical questions. I scribbled as much information I felt a lady about to rub my back would need. It got weird further down. There was the question “What are you goals for this massage?” followed by three full blank lines.

The last time I had to write that much about a goal was on a college application.

I thought I’d look like a jerk if I wrote “not waste $40” so I put down “Learn Spanish.” Might as well shoot for the stars.

After I filled that out, my masseuse asked again if I needed to use the bathroom and then took me into a room where she told me to “get as naked as you’re comfortable” then left the room. I looked down at myself. I was already as naked as I was comfortable.

I try not to be the one story people talk about for weeks, so I stripped down, hopped up on the bed and covered up with sheet provided. As soon as I laid down I instantly figured out the obsession with making sure customers peed before going past the point of no return. The bed was heated and the heat seemed to be completely focused on my bladder.

I tried to think about anything not liquid related (fortunately the fountain in the room was turned off, unfortunately is was audibly raining). I had to psyche myself up to no pee myself when I got all relaxed.

Suddenly I had a bigger concern. Would I be able to not fart this whole time. This was a 60 minute massage with nowhere to run and no one else to blame. This whole room was one big dutch oven just waiting to happen. I don’t think I’ve gone an hour without ripping one in my whole life (high school dates excluded).

Once she came in though it wasn’t a problem. The whole process of getting a real massage was distracting enough to prevent either bodily function based disaster from happening. My masseuse was very nice. She said she had “the best job in the world.”

I didn’t believe her though. She was touching my feet at the time.

As for the massage itself, it was interesting. Mostly the good kind of interesting. I felt totally relaxed and and one with the universe afterward. I also felt sorta in pain. She did things with her elbow straight out Muay Thai.

She stayed clear of the Danger Zone. She was on the highway there a couple times, but she always took the off ramp before it became a problem.

This has gone on long enough. So that’s a thing that happened to me.

Yay.

He's a cute little cuss

Today before dinner I had the special opportunity that only a parent gets of hoping a number a random events go against me and do so quickly so I could eat. In other words, I played Cootie Bug with my son.

I’ve played dozens of games of Cootie Bug with my son since we adopted the game.

I’ve won once.

Keep in mind, you can’t cheat at Cootie Bug. Or if you can, I don’t know how. It is a game where you just roll a die until someone wins. Further proof that I blew my life’s worth of luck on that day I found an unopened candy bar under the tree at the park.

I mean when I met my wife. That’s a better answer.

Anyway, so here I am, really hungry, sitting on the hard floor and completely at the mercy of Lady Luck. I was so caught up in the moment that I almost missed something.

My son was swearing.

Not swearing in the sense that he was saying swear words. He hasn’t done that since the time he wanted to keep my sister’s dog from licking his by telling her to poop on the carpet (he wanted to say “Paisley! Sit!”).

But after each roll of the die that didn’t bring him closer to glorious Cootie Bug completion, he was most certainly repeating a word that, to him, expressed his frustrations with the latest turn of events.

That word was “pants.”

Imagine, if you will, a three-year-old seeing that he rolled a four, shaking his fist towards heaven and screaming out “Pants!”

That was my evening.

And it got my thinking. Swearing is actually really fun. I just can’t use the good words because I’m not 12 anymore and I know it doesn’t make people think I’m grown up.

I have a hairline for that.

So here are a couple of the new words I’m planning on adding to my vocabulary, along with “pants,” to express my anger with the planned situation in brackets.

“Peach bucket!” [Someone who uses the express line with too many items.]

“Spinosaurus!” [I miss my exit because I was trying to explain song lyrics to someone.]

“Didgeridoo!” [My team misses a shot. I will also accept “Didgeridoo better you peach bucket”.]

“Sweet Popping Bacon Grease!” [I pick up some litter and find gum]

“Treebark!” [My son beats me a Cootie Bug.]

Leave your suggestions for more in the comments.