I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number five: Do you hog the blankets?

I learned a valuable lesson from an incredibly sexy man (Steven Mies on Facebook) I quazi-dated in Dallas years ago. His philosophy was that if you forget to make your bed, it will begin a string of daily tasks you will forget. Meaning, if you get lazy and don’t make your bed, then you have a green light to slough off everything for that day. “Didn’t make my bed...guess I don’t need to floss either. Didn’t floss? Cookies for lunch.” Feel bad from eating nothing but cookies, crank it up on the toll-way. Bam!  $200 speeding ticket. That $200 bucks was to take out that hot guy you’ve been stocking on Scruff for two months. 

You have plaque, you’re fat, your car insurance is going up, and that hot guy wont go out with you because you had to cancel that one time, all because you didn’t make your bed. I’m trying to help you get laid here. Make your bed. 

I live by this philosophy. When starting to share a bed with the Fuzzy Monster, my lifetime homosex companion partner, I quickly noticed two things, first was he believed in the “buy a set of sheets; put them on the bed; never take them off” concept. You know what I mean. Second, he is also is a major blanket hog. So is the bowling ball of a dog. If you ask Fuzzy, he’ll say he is not. He’ll vehemently deny that he even uses the covers. “I’m Italian, we’re hot blooded, we don’t need blankets.”  Yet, for the first two years, I’d wake up in the middle of the night with a quarter inch supply of sheet. The majority of the blanket acreage would be balled up under the Shar-pei and the around the Italian’s legs.  This is when I started to move to a new approach to making the bed. 

I went out and bought a replica of our blanket, and began making the bed, by only placed my doppelgänger blanket only on my side. Genius! No one in the bedroom was the wiser. I had my comforter I could wrap around just me and left the original to my bed fellows.  

It was just this Christmas that I switched my tactical operation. Tired of making the bed as one would make an Excel spreadsheet, I requested  a new high-end comforter, in king-sized for the queen-sized bed. Now the dog and man can have their tiny amount barely hang off their side as my vast tracks of down comforter cascades down onto the floor. Heaven. I have also found it’s easier to make the bed in the morning. When I remember.  

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP
1. What do you wear to bed?
2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?
3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?
4. Many blankets, or just one?
5. Do you hog the blankets?
6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?
7. Do you eat in bed?
8. What kind of sleeper are you?
9. What is under your bed? 
BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number four:

I had recently blogged about my down comforter I received last Christmas. 

“Growing up without the simple knowledge that bedding wasn’t all animal themed acrylic blankets,” I now am a self-described bedding snob. This means the very best down duvet I can afford. I sleep with one blanket, plus a color coordinated coverlet, folded down daintily at the foot of the bed. I did; however, insist that our comforter be king-sized on a queen-sized bed. This will be answered in the next question pertaining to blanket hogs. 

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP

1. What do you wear to bed?

2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?

3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?

4. Many blankets, or just one?

5. Do you hog the blankets?

6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?

7. Do you eat in bed?

8. What kind of sleeper are you?

9. What is under your bed? 

BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

I am answering questions posted by Sean from the Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions are based around the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Number three: Do you like a cold room or a hot room?

We have a ritual in our house. Every fall I pull the bed away from the wall and cover the heat/AC vent with massive amounts of aluminum foil.  This is to stop any heat from making its way into the bedroom. During the spring season, the ritual is reversed to allow as much AC into the bedroom as possible. This is done in hopes to make the bedroom cold as possible. 

I love a freezing room. This is so I can sleep like a bear under massive amounts of down and fluffy blankets. I’m also a sheet snob, and 800 thread count cotton sheets are very warm. When I do get warm, I also have a heat sapping Shar-pei that sleep in the covers. 

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP

1. What do you wear to bed?

2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?

3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room?

4. Many blankets, or just one?

5. Do you hog the blankets?

6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?

7. Do you eat in bed?
8. What kind of sleeper are you?
9. What is under your bed? 

BONUS: What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

To hop on the theme bandwagon, I’m going to answer questions posted by Sean over athis Just a Jeep Guy blog. The questions this round are about the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

Question 2: Who or what sleeps with you at night?

I JUST WANNA GO TO SLEEP: 
1. What do you wear to bed? 
2. Who or what sleeps with you at night?
3. Do you like a cold room or a hot room? 
4. Lots of blankets or just one? 
5. Do you hog the blankets?
6. What size is your bed and what kind of mattress is it? 
7. Do you eat in bed? 
8. What kind of sleeper are you? 
9. What is under your bed? 
BONUS:What won't you do in bed?

I Just Want to Go to Sleep

To hopupon the theme bandwagon, I’m going to answer questions posted by Sean over athis Just a Jeep Guy blog.  Thequestions in this round are about the bedroom. Precisely sleep.

1. What do you wear to bed?

Uponhearing the warning bell to the First Class passengers to leave their warm bedsof the Titanic’s staterooms and assemble on deck, I would show up sporting gymshorts and a grey wife beater.  Iwould be cold, yet hip. I sleep in gym shorts because I pretty much do everythingin gym shorts. Sans work. During the summer I sleep without a shirt leavingopen to several occasions waking to find a deep imprint on my side of the TVremote control. So I really sleep in gym shorts and the TV remote.

I JUSTWANNA GO TO SLEEP:
1. Whatdo you wear to bed?
2. Whoor what sleeps with you at night?
3. Doyou like a cold room or a hot room?
4. Lotsof blankets or just one?
5. Doyou hog the blankets?
6. Whatsize is your bed and what kind of mattress is it?
7. Doyou eat in bed?
8. Whatkind of sleeper are you? 
9. Whatis under your bed? BONUS:What won'tyou do in bed?

Read what others have to say:

Pac

Jim

As a side note: I Googled "hot men in gym shorts" for
a photo on this post and
on page two, Homer and his cat.
That guy is everywhere.
Google results, my fantasies...  everywhere. 

He Shoots, He Misses

Sorry about the gap in my blogging. I have been working on a project for work that has me directing a team from 4AM until 2PM.  After work, I have been taking an hour nap, then heading off to the gym, before school. The project ends this week, so I just might get my life back. During the small slices of time that I haven’t been working, texting Pac, attempting to stay awake in school, or just passing out, I have become addicted to filling up the remainder of my time watching British Football on YouTube. God I love British Football.

I showed up last week to start my work project to find an amazingly hot, sexy, oh-my-God-I-want-to-lick-you guy assigned to my team from another unit. Being a responsible adult, and with my gaydar bleeping in full tilt, I immediately started my reconnaissance work to find out his story. Single, gay, and goes to the gym regularly (which was obvious due to his solid arms and beefy wrestler frame) he plays on a soccer team, and also attends the same college as me.  Score. We chatted. He touched my arm. We flirted. He gave me his number so we can “hit the gym” together. 

He’s seventeen.

Yeah. He goes to my college in a “transition from high school program” due to bullying. The same high school that my bud, Jerrod’s daughter graduated from last year. So… and I am not making this up, the reason I found out his age was due to the greatest hits of the eighties.

“What is this lady singing? Zan-a-doo?”  The beefy wrestler-turned soccer player asked. “It’s not a lady, it’s Xanadu. Ya-know, the muse to open roller discos.” I said as if I was explaining a common fact like cheeseburgers, or piston engines. His left eyebrow moved up a little.

“What year were you born?” I asked.

“1995.”

Olivia's voice wistfully floated through the ether...  ...Xanadon't... As I turned on my heel, I mumbled, “I’ll be in my office” for the rest of my life.

Oscar Pistorius Stumbles and Falls

In what seems a lifetime ago, I lived in a stone house along the Appian Way. During this brief time in my life I dated a Flying Dutchman.  Named this because he was Dutch and an airline pilot. Although I always suspected he was a flight attendant. As after sex he would always attempt to give we warm towels.

One time, after a nice warm towel, and supplying me with a soda, although never giving me the whole can, he asked me who my heroes were. I was dumbfounded. I quietly realized that I didn’t have heroes to follow and use as guideposts though my life.  From that night onward in the stone house along the Appian Way, I would always have some sort of hero or role model in my life to strive to be as good as and emulate.

Upon becoming addicted to watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Summer Olympics, I watched a small story about a South African sprint runner struggling to even participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint. Upon Oscar Pistorius competing in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee, and the controversy died down about his cutting-edge prostheses giving him an unfair advantage over able-bodied runners, I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles.  When I got lazy about going for runs, I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

On my birthday, I even turned into a crazy fan girl and asked via Twitter for a birthday wish from Pistorius:

So my other role models are a fictitious British 

TV character and a You Tube Vlogger. What’s to ya?

 Quickly Pistorius replied via Twitter:

When he replied, I squeed. My running deity, whom I worshiped daily; and motivated me to be a better athlete, wished me a great birthday…. This buzzed lasted me until yesterday morning. When changing at the gym to go for a run I hear my heroes name on the locker room’s TV. “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

I stood in my UA undies in stunned silence watching a video of Pistorius holding his head in his hands weeping openly in a courtroom as prosecutors said they would purse a charge of murder against the paralympic superstar.

Thinking back to being asked about heroes by the Flying Dutchman, in that house, on a street in Dallas, TX ironically named after the most important Roman roads of the ancient republic, I realize now how strategically important that turn in my own Appian Way was. To accomplish anything in life you need role models. Sometimes… dare I say, most of the time, your deity will fall.  

Desktop Friday

What's been the computer's desktop theme this week? More bunnies. God I love bunnies.
What?
Bunnies are butch.
They're fast, mean, and total sex machines. Like me. And they're fluffy. Like me. ...wait a minute...

Coffee in a Cardboard Cup

Yesterday, I took the day off as I had one goal in mind. To spend the day at my favorite coffee place to work on filing my taxes. It started off smoothly, after ordering my non-Venti latte at the non-Starbucks, I settled in at a table by the window.  Within moments I had linked to my files and began entering numbers into the government e-form. As I reached out to enjoy my first sip on my non-Venti latte I brushed the large cup and sent it flying across the table and onto the floor.  Pouring the entire cup near the feet of the next occupied table.

To be clear, none of my coffee actual hit my fellow gay coffeehouse patron. It must of just been the shock of a random handsome man tossing his full steaming latte in his general direction that sent this Kindle reader in to a tizzy. This empowered Mr. Grumpy to lecture me on proper coffee ownership, the responsibilities and burdens that adults have when deciding that they are mature enough to purchase coffee. All traits that I was, in his opinion, lacking. Mr. Grumpy then decided to explain how I had misjudged my ability to handle drinking coffee, and I should be sorry for involving him in my poor judgment.

There are only so many times you can apologize for a simple accident. In my case it’s four. And because he apparently was such a great judge on who should, or should not be left responsible with a paper cup of coffee, I offered to buy him his next cup of coffee. After my fourth time apologizing, his outrage of my destroying his morning became exceedingly humorous to me. When I pointed out that he might be acting like a Chihuahua whose tail had been stepped on, he grabbed his kindle and coffee stomped to another table. Mere-moments later I could hear him retelling his torturous affair to someone on his phone. He spoke loud enough for me to hear, “Some complete idiot threw his hot drink at me.” Silence… “Yeah. Then he called me a f*#king chihuahua…. No! That’s not funny!!”

Needless to say, I bought a Diet Coke in a bottle and completed my taxes. I’m getting a refund. Maybe I’ll buy sippy cups with some of the money. 

How The West Was Won(ish)

I truly despise the American west. Well, not the actual American west… The fictional west. The west where John Wayne defended settlers from savage Indians, and where Mormons proudly conquered the un-tamable desert. 

 Growing up on an American Quarter Horse ranch in the middle of Colorado, I was raised with examples how “we as strong cowboy stock” claimed the west. As a kid my father’s idea of decorating was to festoon the house with cowboy art. You know the type; majestic cowboys have defeated the evil savage Indian to bring peace to the rolling countryside. Even then, I looked at the shady Native American and wondered how it will feel to have ones lands and history torn away.

In fifth grade our school trip was to visit the site of the Sand Creek Massacre. In case you’re not up on this event, in 1864 a force of 700 Colorado militiamen attacked and slaughtered 150 Native Americans. Two-thirds of who were women and children.  My fifth grade teacher quoted the Colonel in command,

Damn any man who sympathizes with Indians! …I have come to 

kill Indians, and believe it is right and honorable to use any means 

under God’s heave to kill Indians.

If I knew the term “royal ass-hat douche bag” I would of called my teacher this, with his prideful smirk, after reading this quote to the class. This lesson of having a warmongering lack of compassion for your fellow human, has stuck with me all my life. Making me the bleeding heart liberal I am today. The story of taming the west is actually a story of systematically destroying a part of the planet. Systematically wiping a culture off the earth all for big business.

You may ask why am I going off on this anti-west tirade today? Well, I’m taking an American History class this semester.  It is taught by a tiny gay man that started last class on how the native peoples, who lived on the land in the west for thousands of years, were hunted down and wiped out like a ghetto in Poland. What? I was dumbstruck.  A professor whose lector doesn’t sound like my Father’s view of the world? Well… like my Dad always said; “Generally, you ain't learnin' nothing when your mouth's a-jawin.”

Ironic that this is the picture
 hanging on the wall
above my toilet?

Favorite Cowboy book: The Man Who Fell in Love With the Moon   Favorite Cowboy line: “I speak horse. His name is Susan. And he wants you to respect his life choices.”

Groundhog Day

Mopar Mistake

Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard stated, “You must do something, but in as much as with your limited capacities it will be impossible to make anything easier…you must, with the same… enthusiasm make something harder.”

I thought of this early yesterday morning when upon giving Fuzzy his birthday present, I discovered that I have proven Kierkegaard’s philosophical belief of what’s easy to obtain isn’t worth obtaining. See, I was very excited about my birthday present for my homosex companion partner. I had acquired this gift so easily and cheaply off the interwebs. A Mopar cold air intake for his Dodge Challenger. His 2012 Dodge Challenger.  In case you're wondering what a cold air intake is, I’ve provided an illustration.  It’s a butch air cleaner… it ups your fuel efficiency, but mostly makes you feel superior to other dudes that own the same car. Like wearing a store bought dress to prom, instead of having to sew your own.

The glow of happiness gleamed off the chromium intake nozzle as my mature partner bounced around the kitchen. Happy at his new toy he screeched “I could put it on right now!” He said as he gently stroked the giant “M” on the Mopar box. “Wait! This isn’t right.” My head turned sideways, like a grey hound attempting to understand the Electoral College. “This is for the ’04- ’10 Hemi engines. You know I have a ’12.”

I could not admit that I hadn’t the foggiest idea that they made this particular car accoutrement different for different year cars.Being too busy to actually walk into the Dodge dealership and ask, or even call my bud, Mike, a Chrysler/Dodge mechanic, I just pulled up Mopar.com at work one day and ordered what looked right.

“Anything worth doing, isn't easy, but that is what makes it worth doing.” I mumbled under my breath as I handed the box containing a cold air intake thingy by Mopar over to the lady behind the counter at the UPS store.  The box on its way back for whence it came, and me on my way to the Dodge parts counter.      

Making Mark Love Me

Last night was the first day of class for the spring semester. I pondered why the winter break went by so incredibly fast as I tossed my concrete filled backpack onto a table in the back row of my first class. This semester, all but one of my textbooks are hard covers.

It took me exactly twelve seconds to look over and fall in love with a guy in my history class. He is just adorable; slim frame, messy hair. The way he slouched in his chair and played with his iPhone during the syllabus review…dreamy.   During attendance, I discovered my betrothed name was Mark Jacobson. I immediately started to doodle on the cover of my The America Promise (the irony didn't pass me) textbook. Mrs. Steven Jacobson. Mark and Steve forever. Steve loves Mark.  Around this time of fighting the urge to write a note asking if he liked me, check YES or NO, I had the thought that you don’t hear a lot of kids these days named Mark. Oh, my crush is like eighteen?  I tore the cover from my book and broke up with Mark in a crushing scene. In my head.  I am such a dirty old man. 

Be warned: I am taking a philosophy class and also studying the biographies of Martin Luther King and Malcolm X this semester. Ahead for us lies/lays (God, I should of taken another English class) geeky blog posts in regard to Plato, Dr. King, and how Mark Jacobson doesn’t love me. 

Racist Hunter

When people play the "if you had a time machine..." game, I always find it funny how people answer. It seems i am in utter disgust when anyone answers with some self-indulgent useless foray.

The only correct answer, in my oh so judgmenty opinion, is to go back in time and beat the ever loving shit out of James Earl Ray. Just as he raises his rifle in the inky shadows of that Memphis, Tennessee motel room window. As the crosshairs come into focus, any respectable time traveler would suddenly appear and kick the tempered steel from his hands.

I don't condone violence in my normal life, yet to go all Jason Statham in that motel room, beating the crap out of the man who assassinated Dr. King before he could perpetrate the act would leave me with a clear conscience.

Stevie B, Racist Hunter. I will come for you. Across all of time.

I'll need a costume.

The Down Comfort

On my Christmas list I had several things, the first thing I added was, “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.”  This was not because I thought that my lifetime companion-partner would cheap out and buy an inexpensive down comforter, it was that after seven years, I know how he would feel walking into the bedding department of the local Bed, Bath, and Beyond store. Scratching his head through his Hemi engine themed ball cap he would like to just point to my scribble of “high end” and the salesperson would get the hint.

I desired a new down comforter because the one on the bed was fourteen years old. It had traveled in my move to Dallas, then back again. It saw every life event in the last fourteen years and was now just a shadow of its former self.  In the last year, if you moved it just the wrong way a cannon of feathers would shoot out. A cascade or tickertape parade of down that would cover the dog an anything else the multiple holes were aimed towards. Parts of the ghost comforter where completely empty of down, just sad yellowing cotton held together by my determination.

I was odd how easily the request topped my Christmas list, as the ghost comforter did; at one point; mean the world to me. 

In the fall of 1996 I was planning to set up house for my first, real relationship. We had decided to move in together and were scurrying like happy, gay crabs to collect things for our first home. Both his and my leases happened to end at the same time, until then we would shop for what we would need. Growing up with out the simple knowledge that bedding wasn’t all animal themed acrylic blankets, I loved that our first purchase together was “a high-end and high-quality down comforter.” The future seemed so bright snuggling warmly under that down comforter.

As life sometimes happens, he became ill. We, and life abandoned our plans to live together. Soon his family stepped in to help.

On a sunny day in June, 1998 I wandered through a garage sale. It was on a well-manicured driveway of the sister who stepped in to help six months earlier. The items were nothing exciting, just your average garage sale stuff. The kind owned by single man who had succumb to a non-disclosed disease. Maybe cancer. As I walked through the discarded household items, I could feel the weight of the entire family burn into me. When the sister had organized the clean out of his house, my cries that some of the items belonged to me and somewhere jointly purchased, had fallen on deaf ears.  After filling a bag with my own clothes I picked up a down comforter lying on the cement.  I quietly shelled out $50 borrowed dollars and walked down the drive to my truck. Even though it was June, I wrapped my newly acquired blanked around me and hopped into the cab and drove away. 

For the next fourteen years that cotton bag of goose down was my remembrance of what had been and what could have been. It was a memory filled and my prized possession. As life sometimes happens, the cotton turned yellow as it aged, and holes tore in the fabric and my memory.  Holding on like a gay Miss Havisham I clung to the comforter as if it actually held the memories of my long dead relationship.

Material items cannot possess another’s memory. If you fall prey to this fallacy you create your own Great Expectations. I will always have my first love whether I cling onto an old blanket, or have the possibility to make new memories cuddled up in bed with my new down comforter, with someone I love.  

The Freude of it All

I am required today to write performance reviews for two of my new employees. Instead of that, I’m suddenly compelled to blog and to watch YouTube videos.  It’s not like writing performance reviews are difficult; the hard part is completing the review in positive terms and steering away from any schadenfreude involved in the process of grading someone’s performance. It almost seems if we didn’t have schadenfreude, we wouldn’t have any freude at all.

At one point I narrated that one of my subordinates had overly tweezed eyebrows. Well, first I said “plucked” then I remembered a drag queen telling me once, “You pluck a chicken. You tweeze an eyebrow.” So I thought that my revision was actually helpful.

Maybe instead of writing reviews I could just perform them utilizing sock puppets. I could set up a little stage and glue googly eyes onto some socks… But then I’d have to buy felt and make little hats… And by the time I re-wrote the script I could of just completed the writing portion of the review.

Sometimes being an adult is hard.  

I Tumblr For Ya

Have you checked out my Tumblr page lately? The link is nicely kept in the link bar-------->

Lately, I've been obsessed with lumberjack shirts...


http://ntssb.tumblr.com

Gymuary

Oh, Gymuary. It seems that every year I blog about this amazing phenomenon.  For six months, you can toss a dumbbell down the middle of the weight section and not hit a soul. Suddenly, on January 1st there is a warren of gym bunnies hopping around the place. This year; however, I am one of the unkempt masses wandering around a new gym.

I was really excited about by new employment being so close to the 24Hour fitness in Boulder. I reminded me of living in Dallas when I could walk to my gym. As I excitedly walked into my new home-away-from-home it quickly dawned on me, I was attending this new congregation on the first week of January. Just like everyone else.

It is easy to spot the “newbies” in three ways; the easiest is by their plumage. Sweatpants that are a little too tight, since it hasn’t been asked to stretch over the newly expanded frame. The “I just bought new workout gear and it all goes together” guy that’s sporting an all aqua and chartreuse Nike ensemble. Not a single natural fiber on his body, bless.  And my particular favorite way is the “I read a massive amount of information in regard to how to workout in a gym” guy.

And this is were by petty bitchyness kicks in, because with all the information out there on “how’ to lift weights, and all the YouTube videos on pushing plates, there isn’t any information on how to be a considerate gym mate. A lot of YouTube videos will demonstrate how to super-set your routine, yet fails to mention that setting up five stations of weights around benches and stacking bars full of plates may help you, yet pisses off every bro that is forced to work around your inconsiderateness.  Just because you place a towel on a bench does not mean the bench is now your solvent territory. A terrycloth is not a British flag; the weight benches are not India.

Soon Gymuary will over and the routine will become just that, a routine. The dudes that need to utilize their phones to “check-in” with the office from the luxury of the incline bench will either fizzle out, or get tired of taking work calls with me in the background spurting, “Guurl, not a natural fiber on her! Sad.”  Like every year, February has us all back to being good, friendly gym mates.  

Boulder, My Boulder

My career path has taken me to a new position in scenic and perplexing Boulder, Colorado. Right at the base of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, it is the home to the University of Colorado, the JonBenet Ramsey murder house, and where Mindy McConnell harbored an illegal alien for five years, I admit this city has me scratching my head.

Now as college towns go, Boulder is pretty much the same as Austin, Texas. Sans the humidity, and the self-righteous inclination of being Texan that all Texas cities embrace.  Boulder possesses the same left-leaning green, outdoorsy, dare I say it “hippy” sensibilities. This is mixed with the extreme wealth of massive corporate headquarters, and the university with it’s drunk kids (wearing pajama pants at one in the afternoon) sprinkled with Prius driving university professors. This makes me want to experience the Prius section of the local Toyota showroom. A sea of tweed jackets adorned with elbow patches. “I’m sorry sir, city law mandates that all cars must be sold with bike racks, it’s what they come with.” The haggard salesperson would say. “Well. I see.” Says the tweed jacket. “I am from a place where this isn’t a requirement and we don’t end our sentences in prepositions.”

I will come right out and say that I love Austin, Texas. With my past interactions with Boulder, I am pretty much the right candidate for its unique quirkiness. The most expensive item of clothing I own are my Solomon trail running shoes, at any point in my life I’d rather be on my mountain bike, and I too spend my days wandering around the town in a red hunting hat.

What I’m scratching my head about this week is the empowered bicyclists and perderites. Sorry, not empowered. Jerkish. As a bicyclist and pedestrian myself, I love the separated bike lanes and protected lights to help keep everyone safe, yet there seems to be a level of dogmatic hatred of cars that is embraced in this environment. Maybe it's due to the sadness of having to finally cut off their yellow wristband? I have not received so many dirty looks, fist shakes, or “fuck you’s” since my days in the Mormon Church. Bicyclists hate cars in Boulder. I just smile and nod, knowing that my Solomon trail running shoes are way more expensive then theirs, and I'll never have to cut off a cheap symbolic wristband of a fallen idol. 

Thank You

Happy New Years Eve! I would like to take a moment before heading out to the New Years Eve celebrations to stop and share something with you.

Thank you for making this year great.

With time being so short this year when it came to blogging, I still don't know how I would of made it through this year if it wasn't for the blog. And you return time and time again to check in with what crazy goo is coming out of my head and on to the computer screen. So, without getting all sappy, thank you. I'd totally give you one of those bro hugs right now.

I hope 2013 is great to you, if not let me know and I'll kick its ass just for you. But, I'm sure it will be great. I soon will be heading out to the New Years Eve celebration with complete optimism.

Enjoy 2013; I’m sure it will be kind to you.

Xmas Recap

How was all y’alls Christmas/Feastiveness? Despite not having vacation time at the new job, mine was pretty damn good. Christmas Eve looked like this…

You’ll notice the gentle ubiquitous and ironic snow falling like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Just less icky. Most importantly Christmas Eve brought this…

An anglophile Christmas pudding. I can still taste the delicious treat with its massive amounts of tasty liquor. Christmas morning brought this….

Incase you are not schooled in the art of identifying Dyson vacuums in the wild, that is a Dyson in the middle of the Xmas explosion.  I also got this…

In case you’re not a raging nerd, this season I’m sporting a Doctor Who scarf. Nerd.

 

Christmas Morn'

Oh, dear God. Make the happiness stop...

Christmas Evie

It's time for our annual Christmas tradition, brought to you by Evie Harris....

I Am Well

I’ve been walking around lately like my modifiers don’t stink.  This is due to receiving my finial grades for my fall semester. Even with my bad habit of skipping out of class early, I continued my 4.0 grade point average. 

My “look at me I’m so smart” education buzz was shattered last night when upon entering a Boulder 7-11 and the clerk asking me how I was doing, I responded, “I’m doing good.” Well! Damn it. I should of said “I’m doing well.”

Regardless of my 4.0, I still (pardon the colloquialism) ain’t good with the concept of Good verses Well. I guess the Spring semester can’t start soon enough. 

Cookies

Today truly is the most wonderful day in the year. AlthoughI am not necessarily saying that Andy Williams should suck my pink steel, forthis reason anyway, I do prefer today over the day that the silver-backed daddybear with the velvet fetish comes down my chimney.*

Today is Christmas cookie baking day!

Picture it. Denver. 1998. A tradition begins when a smallgroup of lifelong friends decide to get together in Frank’s recently remodeledkitchen to bake cookies.  One moveacross country, one kid, husbands, countless hairstyles, and jean sizes we’restill gathering to bake cookies.

During the passing of time I have gone from swimming in 34 size jeans, to squeezinginto 38, then  back to 34’s I still look forward to today every year. 

*So much for this blog post being a warm holiday greeting. 

Man Uggs < Muggs

Three years ago, on Christmas morning, I unwrapped what would be a life-changing present. This amazing gift was from my good friends, Frank and Kevin. Who knew one gift would alter my life in such an amazing and comforting way. Sheepskin fleece lined slippers. Since then I have realized that there comes a time when you decide that comfort just might be more important than style.

Matthew McConaughey
sporting Uggs.  

In the past three years I have purchased dress shoes, five pairs of Pumas, Nikes, and several other running athletic shoes, yet what I ware the majority of the time, is my sheepskin slippers. Sometimes I did receive some gentle teasing for showing up to restaurants, house parties, Opera Colorado, dinner parties, the gym, and pick-a-part junkyards sporting house shoes, but hey; they’re suede leather, that’s fancy.  The only down side to this choice of pro foot comfort - sans style is that I had to resign myself to never achieving status as one of the cool kids. The jocks never sit at the cool-kid table kicking back in sheepskin-lined boots. Or do they…

Just as I had abandoned any hope of being one of the cool kids, I was standing in line at Taco Bell, in my most comfortable footwear, when a local high school gang of hot jock – athletic type dooods came poring into the establishment. I continued to text away waiting for my #7 as I pretended to not notice their tight jeans and clear skin. As I waited for my order, I noticed something… they were all pretty much wearing the same type of kicks.  I would of snapped a picture, but felt it wrong to be the forty year old guy that stands in Taco Bell, taking photos of seventeen year old boys. “No, officer! It’s just for my blog.”

With this level of encouragement, I now have worked up my self-image to publicly say that I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to wear Uggs. Man Uggs. Muggs. I have asked Santa for a pair of Muggs. All the sheepy softness to cradle my feet in a “I stopped caring about fashion, yet I really yearn to be stylish” kind of way. We’ll see if Santa agrees.  

Sleep In

Coal power plants, and most likely you receive your power from a coal supplied power plant... unless you're lucky enough to live in an area with alternative power generation, and of you do great for you. Bully for Bixby. Coal fired power plants can only operate at one level. Fully on.

During the night, this power from the burning of coal is not utilized. As the day starts, the load demand goes up and up into the peak hours of demand. In most areas, the demand goes up and beyond the straight unwavering level and ability for the plant to produce and provide. The power companies, then must switch on line more expensive and dirty power plants.

If we were able to shift a small amount of the demand off of peak demand times, we could utilize the wasted energy produced during the night hours. A small fraction of the population would be needed to change their sleep and work patterns. Move from traditional early morning start times to starting their days in the early afternoon.

I for one, would step up. To help save our resources...and sleep passed noon.

Christmas Adjacent

I attempted to build up some Christmas spirit yesterday by heading to the local Town 'n Country garden center turned tree lot. The place personified Christmas, the hot husbands in their best Carhart buzzed away on chain saws, whilst the sister wives supervised the older children. All were adorned in themed sweatshirts smeared with felt Santas and reindeer made in church crafting circle. I was there not to buy a tree, but to smell the evergreen (which alway makes me hum Barbara Streisand) mountainy scent in an attempt to spark the pilot light of spirit down in my dark cold soul. I'm completely lacking in spirit this season. Completely.

I did, however; get a handmade evergreen wreath for the front door. I decided that commitment to the whole decorating thing was too much, yet a gourmet wreath would be Christmas adjacent. Nothing like a 40 buck circle of tree limbs to mark the season.

As the sixteen year old girl rang up my over priced ring of forest scented loveliness, she asked if I needed my receipt. My response was that I did because I may want to exercise my right of the thirty day return policy and bring back my wreath in January. The stunned silence on the girls face was just enough to launch my weary soul into the feastavice season.

Fa-la-la-la.

Can I Watch TV Now?

Good news everybody. Last night I completed my 30 minute finial presentation on the history of the gays in the U.S. military and the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy. I called it "The Menace of Fabulousness" and felt it went well, I did feel like a macropod* with the crazy amount of random facts I pulled out of me during the talk. This is due the small factor that my categorized and color-coded 3x5 index cards were completely safe at home instead of with me in my college lecture hall. Yay.

This presentation was my final for hopefully my last communications class I will EVER need to take. Unless I change my major. Again. This means that after my written final exam on Monday, consisting of 200 words why I believe that Napoleon was a selfish lover, a paragraph on how the Glorious Revolution was neither, and how General Patton was all pownd by the Chinese My mind shall be free.

God! I nearly started to recite the panel 2 quotation on the Jefferson Memorial. That is sooo like me.

I guess what I'm attempting to say is that I desperately need a break. Less Truman Doctrine and more Steve watch TV Doctrine.



*Part of the marsupial family Macropodidae, which includes kangaroos, wallabies, tree-kangaroos, pademelons, and several others.