MattOnFire

We thought we had this all figured out. “Oh yeah,” I’d say. “It’s totally a boy. He’s gonna be tough and like baseball and hockey and football.”

The wife would agree. “Yup, he’s gonna like bugs and snakes and want to climb trees and break stuff.”

Then we saw the ultrasound pictures.

“Well,” I sigh, “that doesn’t look like a wiener.”

“No. No it doesn’t,” She replied. “Not even, like, a little wiener.”

And in an instant, a chemical reaction sparkled somewhere deep in my brain and my entire way of thinking was thrown off course, forever changed.

“She’s gonna like dresses and ponies and princesses,” I said.

The wife agreed. “She’s gonna be prissy and play with dolls and love her daddy.”

This is gonna be awesome.

That’s right, folks. I’ve officially knocked 50 lbs off this frame. I’ve been stuck around the 155 mark for a couple of weeks now, and I don’t think I’m going to lose much more than that. The tough part is going to be keeping the weight off and continuing to eat the right type of food. And, of course, making sure to hit the gym on the regular. This past week, I have been waking up at 4:30am in order to make it to the gym. It’s the only time I have now, due to my next little piece of news.

I have a new job, and it’s a good one. I’m the Communications Specialist for a big company that makes small appliances, headquartered here in Richmond. Basically, I’m in PR and Social Media. To say that the corporate structure is different from working at home would be a huge understatement, but I think it’s a great fit for me. Once I get used to wearing pants, that is. And if anyone needs a blender, let me know and I’ll hook you up.

There is one final update, and this is a biggie. If you’ve read this far, congratulations. You are amongst the first to know that The Wife and I are expecting our first child. This news will, no doubt, lead to countless unfollows on the twitfaceblr due to the overwhelming updates of pregnant bellies and ultrasound pictures. Sorry, TLW. Let’s be honest – no one really wants to see that except me and The Wife. So I’ll try not to bombard your dashboards with pictures and updates of things you don’t care about. But, after a particularly shitty 2010, we are super excited to be pregnant. The little bundle of joy, poop and spit-up arrives in October.

I wanted to give you all a quick update about my quest to drop 60 pounds in six months. I’m almost 3 weeks in and have dropped about 18 lbs. Not bad, I guess. But I think I may have hit the proverbial wall. I haven’t lost much weight in the past few days, even though I’m sticking to my diet and hitting the gym every single day. The only thing I can do, at this point, is continue to work at it and hopefully the ell-bees will start falling away once again. Or take a body combat class. I’ve seen those people, with the kicking and punching. That’s hardcore.

Here’s what I do. Elliptical. Every day, at least 30 minutes. Bike. Every other day, 20  minutes with intervals. Treadmill. Every day, only about 10 minutes, but running as fast as I can for about 5 of those minutes and jogging the other 5. Strength training. Every other day, full rotation of the equipment in the gym. Usually 3 sets of 10 on a low weight (because the goal is to drop weight, not bulk up).

Here’s what I eat: Vegetables. A lot of em. Also, fruit. Apples, bananas and oranges, mostly. My breakfast is a bowl of Kashi in almond milk with bananas in it. Almond milk, by the way, is delicious. My lunch is a spinach salad sprinkled with sunflower seeds and almonds, maybe a hard-boiled egg white, if I have time. Dinner is usually a smaller portion of of chicken, fish or a veggie burger with beans or more spinach salad. Actually, I try to keep the chicken to only once or twice a week. I found some veggie chips in Martin’s that have made good snack, and I’ve also made fresh hummus which I snack on with celery. It’s darn tasty, too. I miss pizza. I want it, bad. I also cut back on beer and alcohol, only drinking if I’m socializing. Hey, that’s a big deal for me. I like beer, dammit.

I’m not a work-out type of guy. I really don’t enjoy going to the gym or eating healthy. I’m  a cheese lover, and all I can think about is gnawing on a hunk of a finely aged sharp cheddar. But, I don’t want to be a fatty, either. The good news is that I feel better than I did even two weeks ago. I have more energy and I feel more alert and focused when working. I just wish I could drop these last 40 pounds.

I’ll keep you updated as the weeks progress. But for now, I’m going to go stare into my cupboard and imagine what it would be like to polish of a box of Oreos.

And the weird thing is, I just scheduled it for the hell of it. The receptionist was all, “and what’s wrong with you?” and I was all, “Nothing, really. Just wanted to see the doctor.” And she was like, “Do you have a cold or something?” And I said, “Nope. Just want a check-up and stuff.” And she was all, “Um, okay… so there’s nothing specific you want to talk about?” And I was like, “Not really. I mean, I’ve gained a little weight and my wife and I are trying to have kids and maybe the doctor can give me some super-sperm pills (but there’s nothing wrong in the boner department), and my one leg seems to be a little wonky, but I don’t know if it has been like that since I was born or if all of a sudden my hip joint is turning. I just noticed it a few months ago. It’s weird. I can’t stand with my right foot pointed forward. It automatically turns out a little. Is that normal? Do you think I’ve always had that and just now noticed it? I noticed it a few months ago when I was trying to do some running around the neighborhood (you know, for exercise. Why else would I be running around the neighborhood?), and my foot and ankle would give me these sharp pains. Then my foot would be all sore down in the arch and my ankle felt like the bone was splintering in half with every step. So that’s when I decided to knock off that running bullshit. Hence the weight gain. And since I’m a fatty, I was hoping the doctor could check my cholesterol and see if I’m going to die any time soon. Again, I’m trying to make kids, so I don’t want to die before their 5th birthday. Also, he should probably check for the diabetes. I don’t think I have it, or anything. But I know some skinny people who have it and I’m scared I’m going to get it. I was raised catholic, so I have this underlying fear that God is going to punish me for making Wilford Brimley Diabeetus jokes. So maybe the doctor could run a test or something just to make sure God hasn’t punished me yet. You think he’ll give me some sleeping pills? The doctor, I mean. I don’t have trouble sleeping all the time. Just some of the time. It would be nice to have a hard-core sleeping aid at my disposal whenever I need it. As of now, I’m forced to down half a bottle of Nyquil every time I need to catch a few ZZZs. And not that over-the-counter Nyquil, either. I’m talking about the Nyquil you have to ask the pharmacist for because it has ephedrine in it. Then you have to sign for it because the government wants to make sure you don’t buy enough to make meth out of it. That’s the best kind of Nyquil. I’m never buying the over-the-counter cold medicine. It doesn’t even work! I’ll take the ephedrine-based stuff any day of the week. And speaking of ephedrine, can he prescribe me some of those ephedra weight loss pills? Those things worked. Now they’re banned, thank-you-very-much-Mr-Surgeon-General. Oh, and I guess he should check my blood pressure, too. I think the men in my family have a history of high blood pressure.” And she said, “So you don’t have cough or runny nose or anything like that?” I was all, “Nope. I’m fine. Just need a check-up.” And she was all, “We can get you in Thursday.” And I was like, “Word.”

Not the actual culprit, but pretty close.

Wife: Mother of God, what is that smell?

Me: What smell? I don’t smell anything.

Wife: I think the bananas are going bad. I’m throwing them away.

Me: No! I like to eat nanners in my Rice Krispies! I’ll eat them tomorrow morning.

—Tomorrow Morning—

Wife: Mother of God, what is that smell?

Me: What smell? I don’t smell anything.

Wife: Ugh, I think the apples are rotting.

Me: No they’re not. They can’t be. We just bought them.

Wife: Then the garbage needs to be taken out. Something stinks in here. It smells like raw meatloaf and ass.

Me: Whatever. I don’t smell anything, crazy lady.

—Later—

Me: Mother of God, what is that smell?

Wife: Told you something stinks in here! Maybe the cat threw up under the table or something.

Me: I think it’s coming from the air vent. Let me just bend down to take a whiff… OH, DEAR LORD. MOTHER OF GOD! WHAT IS THAT SMELL?

Wife: Is it coming from the vent?

Me: It is.

—After thoroughly checking air duct and unable to find source of scent in the actual duct—

Me: I’m checking the crawl space.

Wife: You do that.

Me, opening crawl space door and being socked in the face with a tidal wave of gross: MOTHER OF GOD, WHAT IS THAT SMELL? Cant… breath…

Wife: Poke around the insulation with a stick.

Me: Gimmie a stick.

Wife: No! Get your own damn stick. I can’t stand here any longer or I’m going to throw up. Peace out.

Me: I’ll just poke around here… Hey! I see some poop. There’s animal poop over here! Let me just pull down this little piece of insula…EWWWW GROSS. DAMMIT. DEAD FRICKIN’ SQUIRREL. MOTHER OF GOD, IT STINKS. *barf*

This is a Very Special Episode of mattonfire.net. The subject matter deals with flatulence and is extremely immature.

I’m having a great time at this concert. Second row from the stage, dead center. Couldn’t ask for a better view. The band sounds amazing. I hope they play that one song that I really like. I’ll make sure I express my excitement by clapping wildly and exerting a high-pitched man-scream when they play the opening chords. Then I’ll wait until that one quiet part in the song and make that high-pitched man scream again. That’s a good idea. I bet I’m the only one who has ever thought of doing that. I can’t wait for the quiet part. I’m going to scream something really loud and the whole venue is going to hear me and maybe the band will look at me. I’m an awesome concert goer. Maybe I’ll use that little moment to proclaim that the band rocks or that I love the singer. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Then maybe the band will want to hang out with me after the show and we can go out for pizza and talk about stuff like normal people and not like they’re a famous band. Then we’ll exchange emails and we’ll be pals for life and they’ll invite me to go on tour with them. I’m probably the coolest guy at this concert.

I like this song. It’s catchy and has a nice beat. I’m can’t help but dance. Look at me tap my foot in an exaggerated manner. Oh, now I got my head nodding. Yeah, I’m in the groove, now. Watch out now, I’ve got one hand keeping time on my leg. I might have to take the other hand out of my pocket. Yeah, I’m feeling it  now.

Wait.

What is that? I got a fleeting whiff of what smells like beer-soaked dog food. Okay, it’s gone. That was pretty gross. Okay, back to my foot-tapping. Great, now my whole rhythm is off. Was that a burp? Strangers smell strange.

Yeah, this song is rockin’. I’m totally singing the wrong lyrics, but I don’t care. I’m in the zone, baby.

Oh no, I think somebody farted. Yes, it’s getting stronger. Oh no. Stop breathing. Uh, I think it’s in my mouth. Okay, play it cool, Matt. You don’t want all these people around you to think that you were the one who farted. Keep your eyes straight and don’t move and, for the love of God, keep your mouth closed or else the air from some stranger’s butt will infiltrate your mouth. Can’t they smell it? Why aren’t all these other people reacting to the stankness? They probably think I did it and they don’t want to make me uncomfortable. That’s nice of them, but I didn’t fart.

Oh, lord. This is bad. This is one of those tofu and soy milk farts. And it’s lingering right in this area. Oh, these people think I did it, I know it. Oh, it’s so nasty. My eyes are watering.

Okay, I need to let them know in a non-chalant manner that I didn’t fart. Let me just get the attention of the girl next to me. Yeah, I’ll just nudge her. Oh, great. She’s about 17. She’s probably already tweeted or facebooked that the creepy old guy next to her at the concert ripped a stinker.

I know! I’ll make the “hold my nose” gesture as I point to the hipster dude in front of me. She smiled! Phew. Now she thinks the skinny-jeaned kid in front of me farted. What a relief.

But what if she thinks that I was the one who farted because I made such an effort to convey that I didn’t fart? What if that’s what all these people think now? But I didn’t! I didn’t fart! It doesn’t even smell like my kind of fart. It smells like a stranger fart. And stranger farts are so much grosser than mine.

Hey, here comes that quiet part in the song… get ready for your big moment. I’m the coolest person at this concert.

I like sandwiches. There is no denying that fact. Sandwiches, to me, are works of art. Delicious art. If you know me at all, you know that one of my many hobbies (okay, my ONLY hobby) is creating unique and taste-bud-tantalizing sandwich masterpieces and naming them after TV show sidekicks or bit characters. For example, The Kimmie Gibbler, a fancy cold tuna with American cheese, onions and dill relish on untoasted wheat bread; and The J. Peterman, a roast beef and salami extravaganza served on a lightly toasted kaiser roll with green olive tapenade. What? Yes. That’s right.

In fact, one of my lifelong dreams is to open up a sandwich shop aptly named The Second Banana™, where I serve these ridiculously named sandwiches to hungry customers who have an appreciation for pop culture and cayenne mayo. It’ll happen one day. (By the way, if any of you reading have a few hundred grand to invest in The Second Banana©, give me a shout. Together, we can make The Second Banana® a household name, unlike the characters who never quite made it to lead status, except for the spinoff characters like Joanie and Chachi.)

Without giving too much free publicity to the new sandwich joint that opened up down the street from my house, I feel the need to express my love, appreciation and gratitude for a one Mr. Jimmy John. I have spent three of the last four afternoons at Jimmy Johns. There are two things that make a sandwich memorable: the bread and the cheese. The taste of those two elements is of the highest importance. Any accouterment should work in conjunction with the bread and cheese. Jimmy John’s has some tasty sandwiches, I’ll give ‘em that. But the coup de grâce is the alfalfa sprouts. Whoa, mamma. Move over lettuce. There’s a new garnish in town. I think I’m in love with the sprouts.

While I’ve had the latest Arcade Fire album in the ol’ iTunes for a while now, I purposely haven’t sat down and listened to it in its entirety until yesterday. The reason I haven’t listened to it – and I mean REALLY listened to it from start to finish – is because I didn’t want my opinion of the album to be swayed by all the hype. Sure, it’s been on my “MobileMatt” playlist and some songs have come up in the shuffle, but I haven’t deliberately played the album for the sake of listening to it and analyzing it. Honestly, I never truly analyze music. Either I like it or I don’t. That’s pretty much the extent of it. Would I listen to it again? Would I put this on my road trip playlist? Do I tap my toes and bob my head when the beat hits? Does it sound like the band (or artist) truly loves what they are doing, takes pride in their craft, has given their all and completely poured their heart into the music-making process? That’s when it connects with me on an emotional level. I really like Funeral, you know. “ Wake Up” is one of my all time favorites. But that’s neither here nor there, I guess.

So yesterday I decided that the hype had died down enough for me to listen toThe Suburbs without expecting too much or too little. I had skimmed over some reviews that said the album was like Jesus diddling your ears with a feather and others that proclaimed the album is a hearty slice of pretentious shitcake. After a few spins of the record, I’m leaning toward the Jesus-feather-diddling. Okay, I didn’t literally “spin the record” because I don’t have this album on vinyl. Yet. But “spin the record” sounds better than “press the play button on my digital music player.”

But the album. It’s good. I like it. And that’s all that matters, I think.

“Hey, whitey! Open the door. I got an appointment with a fine Siamese broad in the next neighborhood,” commanded Cat.

“Sorry, friend,” I replied. “I need to keep you in today.”

“The hell you do, son. Now open the damn door before I scratch the upholstery of your cheap-ass chairs.”

The staring contest had begun. He knew I wouldn’t budge, but he also knew that he could drive me to insanity. He raised a paw and, just like in the cartoons, popped out each nail one at a time. Keeping his eyes on me, Cat slowly extended the lone paw towards the chair.

“Don’t do it,” I warned.

“Open the door,” he whispered.

The standoff was broken by Dog, who entered the room still in the process of finishing his breakfast. With each slap of his chops, particles of kibble dropped from his frothy jowls onto my floor leaving a trail three rooms long, perhaps in an effort to find his way back to his dish in case he got lost.

“Oh, cwap,” Dog said through a mouthful of Purina. “I see what’s going on here. You’re going to the vet.”

“What? No, I’m not. I went to the vet last year, dumbass,” said the cat, nails still unsheathed and outstretched, eyes on me.

“Well,” I said, “that’s true. You did go last year, but you need to get some booster sh…”

I was interrupted by Cat methodically running a single nail down the back of one of my cheap-ass chairs, titling his head ever so slightly and continuing to glare into my eyes.

I took off my shoe and threw it in his direction – you know, just to scare him. He hid behind the curtains. I went into my office and started my work day.

It was an hour later as I was pounding away at my keyboard and fully engrossed in whatever it was I was doing at the moment when I was startled by Cat jumping over my shoulder into an upright sitting position squarely between the computer monitor and my face.

“Look,” he said. “You’re a reasonable man. Let’s make a deal, here. Open the door. I’ll go out, let my friends know I can’t hang today, then come right back and you can take me to the vet. I’ll be back in, like, 20 minutes.”

“Please move,” I said. “I’m workin’ here!”

“10 minutes?” he countered.

“No.”

“Dude, I’ll be back in 5 minutes. I swear.”

“No. No you won’t. I’ll open the door, and you’ll be gone until 10 o’clock tonight. No effing way I’m letting you out.”

“DUDE. You suck,” he whined.

The dog was stifling a laugh from just outside the room.

“SHUT UP, DOGFACE!” the cat screamed through defeated tears.

“Oh, one more thing,” I said with a sly grin. “I need you to go upstairs and drop a deuce in your litter box.”

“What? No way, dude!” He was really pissed now. “I do that outside, man!”

“Yeah, I know, but the vet wants a stool sample.”

“I hate you!” he screamed. “I hate you and your ass face!”

Then he ran away to the couch, where he fell asleep for a couple hours.

When it was time to go, I picked up the sleeping cat and carried him upstairs to the litter box, plopped him in there and said, “Do it.” After another excruciatingly long standoff, he relented and laid the stankiest jumbo-sized tootsie rolls I’d ever seen. I collected them in a plastic bag and only had one more task to complete before we left: tricking Cat into entering his travel crate without scratching my arms to ribbons. With some coaxing from his favorite toys and a healthy smattering of catnip, he went in willingly, realizing only after I latched the door that it was a trap.

At the vet, he would be stuck three times with little needles. Well, more like seven times because he kept jumping away before all the medicine had entered his body. He screamed bloody murder. And he kept his eyes on me the entire time. His dead, glossy eyes.

In the car on the way home, I heard a faint yet determined whisper from the travel crate. “One night, as you lay sleeping, I will steal your breath. So help me, I will steal your breath.”

This was not a good day for Cat.