MattOnFire

You know how elderly people “get tired” and need to sit down after walking across the room? That’s how I feel about St. Patrick’s Day.

Back in my day, I would wake up early and don my greenest shirt, fancy leprechaun hat and shot glass necklace. The fellas and I would have a big, Irish-themed breakfast, except with more green food coloring than is allowable by FDA standards, sit on a porch and tap a keg around 9 or 10am. By noon, we’d make our way to a block party or some kind of community celebration, that included more turds like us (drunk d-bags) and a healthy smattering of wobbly, intoxicated girls who like to scream “Whooooo” whenever they take a drink. This went on all afternoon, until somebody got hungry or the lightest of lightweights amongst us needed a nap. We’d eat a big Irish dinner and mentally prepare ourselves for the festivities still to come. By nightfall, we’d be at an Irish pub along with the rest of the youngsters, hitting on drunk girls with stained-green lips and throwing up while waiting in line for the bathroom.

And that would be all we would remember until, days later, we’d run into a friend who asks, “Remember when you mooned the bartender and then dry-humped the light post?”

“Really? No, I don’t remember that.”

“Dude. DUDE… it was epic,” okay, we didn’t say epic back then. And we don’t say it now, either. “Then you got into a fight with a hooker and stole her money.”

Ah, hooker fights. I haven’t done that in years. And for good reason – I’m 31. Don’t get me wrong, I love getting together with friends on St. Patrick’s Day. But I don’t own a shot glass necklace or a stupid green cardboard hat. I don’t have any buttons that say “Kiss Me I’m Irish,” and I don’t drink until I throw up anymore. Okay, sometimes I do, but I can at least wait until I’m home so I can yak in my own toilet while my wife yells at me through the door. And that has only happened once – maybe twice – in the past 4 years.

I’m all growed up. I don’t have kids yet, but a lot of my friends do. I want to hang around with other grown ups. Fun grown ups, but still grown ups. I don’t go to block parties, I go to “festivals”. I don’t get drunk, I “have a couple beers”. Instead of dodging inebriated people throwing up and peeing while walking through a crowd, I dodge strollers and children (who are sometimes peeing or throwing up. Or both). I don’t tap a keg at 9am and sit on my porch drinking all morning. I drink coffee and watch The Today Show. If I make breakfast, I might throw a little green food coloring in the eggs. But that’s only if I remember what day it is.

Am I Irish? I don’t think so. I think my Dad’s side of the family is from England, but some family members claim our name is from the Irish Herrington. But we’re Harringtons. Either way, you don’t have to kiss me because I’m not sure if I’m Irish. Also, I’m not wearing a pin.

Maybe I woke up in a curmudgeonly mood this morning, but St. Patrick’s Day, I’m over you – and you’re still a week away. I’m over the other 31 year olds who still act like 21 year olds, humping light poles and fighting hookers. I’d rather be home humping the dog and fighting the wife. NO. Wait. Other way around.

Anyway… Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe I’ll see you and your kids at the Irish festival. I’ll be the grumpy guy who may or may not be wearing green, but I’ll have a drink in hand and be having a good time nonetheless. Aw, hell. Maybe I’ll find a light pole I can cozy up to for old time’s sake.

~~BOOOOOOOOOOOOM~~

Cat [jolted from a deep sleep on my pile of clean clothes]: What in the eff was that?

Me [making a sandwich (as usual)]: I…  I don’t know. Did a transformer blow?

Dog [feverishly tap dancing with his dog-toenails across the hardwood floor and trying to hide under the couch]: HIDE! OH MY GOD! EVERYBODY HIDE!

Me: Calm down, sissypants.

Cat: Aw, man! I was dreaming about looking out the window.

Dog: [whimper whimper whimper] GET UNDER THE COUCH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! [whimper whimper]

Me: I think a transfor…

~~KABOOOOOM~~

Cat: Oh hell no. What is going on, here?

Dog: [whispering] Dear baby dog Jesus, please make it stop. Make it stop.

Me: Maybe someone dropped something really heavy off a roof or something. Or a truck is backfiring.

Cat: Yeah right. It ain’t no damn truck. It’s a plane breaking the sound barrier.

Me: That makes sense, actually. It very well could be.

Dog: I don’t care what it is, just MAKE IT STOP.

~~smaller BOOOOM~~

Cat: Did you hear that one?

Dog: I heard it! I’m a dog. I can hear lots of stuff.

Me: Weird.

-LATER-

~~skippiddyBOOMBOOM~~

Me [watching Dr. Phil. I mean doing work]: Here we go again.

Dog: HIDE! EVERYBODY UNDER THE COUCH!

~~POPPPP~~BANG~~

Cat [sprinting downstairs like he's running from a Chinese chef, then pretending to walk calmly when he sees me looking at him]: Oh, hey. What’s going on, fellas?

Dog: LOUD NOISES! UNDER THE COUCH!

Me: I don’t think that’s a plane.

Cat: Me, neither. Welp, if you need me, I’ll be upstairs tearing up the shower curtain.

-LATER-

News: ... a series of loud bangs in Chesterfield County has residents on edge. We checked with the people who fly planes, and they weren’t flying planes. We checked with the people who make loud noises, and they weren’t making loud noises. We checked with the people who make power, and they didn’t have any transformers blow. So, basically, we don’t know what the hell caused the sounds.

Dog: There’s only one possible explanation here.

Me: Oh?

Dog: Aliens.

Cat: … BAAAAHHHHHH HAHAHAHA.

Dog: I’m serious. Aliens were breaking into our atmosphere and making loud explosion noises. They’re undetectable by radar, you know.

Me: I suppose it’s possible, but I think it was just some kids playing with homemade pipe bombs or something.

Dog: I swear to everything holy, if I hear another loud noise, I cannot be responsible for the damage caused to your coffee table or the pee that trickles onto the carpet.

-A LITTLE BIT LATER-

Me [blowing into a paper bag and twisting it off, sneaking up to the sleeping dog and cat, then popping the bag]: ~~BANNNGGGG~~

Cat: [springs awake and runs up the curtains] AHHH! ALIENS!

Dog: [Slowly opens his eyes, looks at me, then closes them again] Nice try, numbnuts.

Me: No, Barista. The point of olympic curling is to…

TLW: You gotta sweep really, really fast like this [demonstrates feverish sweeping]

Barista: It sounds kinda dumb.

As we try to explain the complexities of curling to a confused Barista, FELLOW walks over and puts his arms around us. Mind you, we’ve all been drinking.

Fellow: GUYS! It’s like the Richmond blogger elite over here!

Us, collectively: Aww, thanks. No, YOU’RE the blogger elite!

Fellow: But seriously, MattOnFire is the blog of our times!

Me: Aw, go on!

Fellow: Really, I read your blog and I absolutely feel SOOOO happy that I have a job.

TLW: [Spit take]

Barista: [Doubled over, laughing]

Me: Huh?

Fellow: No, seriously. I love it. I mean, you’re blog makes me glad that I’m working and you’re not. Really. It sucks to not have a job and I’m glad I’m not you.

Barista: You’re making it worse!

Me: But I kinda do have a…

Fellow: No, really! It’s really shitty being you. Your blog makes me feel bad for you, but in a way that makes me happy I’m not you.

Me: But I AM sort of working…

TLW: This is too much!

Fellow: No, no. I get it. You do work, but your life is like a box of poop and your blog is the BLOG OF OUR TIMES!

Me: Yeah, but no. I have a pretty good life. I …

Fellow: Yeah, yeah. You bought a house. How is that possible? What an asshole, right? Here’s this unemployed guy who is so frustrated with money and life and the job situation – then he goes out and buys a house! I mean!

Barista: Oh. My.

Fellow: I’m obviously doing something wrong because I have a job and I work really hard. Yet I don’t have a house. You see my point, though? You have THE BLOG OF OUR TIMES because 2009 was a shitty year for the economy and stuff, and here’s your blog about losing your job and all the frustrations that come along with it. The next thing you know, you’re buying a house! And you don’t even have a job!

Me: Well, I do sort of have a job. I write for…

Fellow: Yeah, yeah. I know.

Me: It’s not like I stare at the walls all day long and…

Fellow: OF OUR TIMES. THE BLOG.

TLW: Are you trying to pay him a compliment?

Fellow: Yes! Of course! I love MattOnFire! He makes me feel shitty, and that’s what good writing should do. It’s like, “Congrats on the house… asshole.” You’re happy for him, but you’re glad you’re not him. See?

Me: …Thanks?

Fellow: Seriously. I love the blog. Glad I’m not you.

FELLOW saunters off to the bar for his next Bud Light. I overhear him tell the bartender that he’s really glad that bartenders serve drinks because he is thirsty, but he’s happy he’s not a bartender because it must suck serving alcohol to people.

Barista: Really, though. Congrats on the house, jerk.

TLW: Yeah. I’m really happy for you. I don’t have a house, but I’m glad you do. Must suck being “unemployed”, huh?

Me: Anyway, the rocks are made of granite and the sweeping causes friction on the ice…

Editor’s note: FELLOW is a respected Richmond blogger and friend, who was truly trying to pay me a compliment… just in a drunkenly awkward way.

The job thing. I’m workin’ on it. Now that I am a homeowner, it is imperative that I find steady, lucrative work to supplement the income I’m receiving from my little startup bizzy. While I’ve got my finger in the writing and social media pie, it sure won’t be enough to pay the mortgage, internet bill, trash bill, homeowner’s association fees, utilities and credit card bills. Not to mention support my beer hockey addiction.

This blog started out as a detailed journey through my scared-shitless mind as I documented the day-to-day life of a newly-unemployed sap. You’ve witnessed my turmoil as I weighed the options of moving far, far away. You’ve read my stories about how Craigslist is a big, steaming pile of scams. You accompanied me to malljob and watched me try my hand at summertime retail. You’ve been there as I went on job interviews with crazy people and offered your support. Some of you felt my pain and cried right along with me. Just kidding. I don’t cry. I’m made of stone. But thanks for being there.

Lately, the blog has taken a turn to encompass the good things happening in my life. The house. The wife. My little business. The stupid cat. But fear not, those who enjoy wallowing in someone else’s sorrows! The job search has been retooled and refocused to encompass industries in which I have no formal training nor experience. Mattress salesman? I’m applying. Barista? I’m applying. Tax accountant? I’m applying, but I’m really bad at math. Director of old people fitness and exercise at an old people home? Totally applied for it.

I haven’t had a call back since before Christmas. I have, however, received a few new leads and potential clients for my little business. Word of mouth, I guess. Friends of friends or the uncle of the lady who went to college with my wife or my cousin’s veterinarian needs a website or a blog or a press release written. I’m. On. It.

I also want to mention, without tooting my own horn, (but, really – TOOT TOOT!) that this blog was nominated in RVANews‘ Internet Awards in not one, but TWO categories: Best New Blog and Best Overall Blog. My @mattjh2 Twitter account was also nominated for Funniest Twitter. AND, a community website for which I blog, Richmond Inside Out, is also nominated in the Best Kept Secret category. Pretty frackin’ cool, fellas!

So, incase you didn’t know, I’m kind of a big deal. I would tell you to go vote for me, but that’s just plain wrong. *COUGHshortyawardsCOUGH* Also, voting closed last week and I was too busy moving to schlep for your vote. Besides, you probably voted for other blogs and internetters such as CafeDarkness or The Checkout Girl or Tobacco Ave, all of whom are friends and much more deserving of your accolades.

Now if you would excuse me, I must change my address on my resumé and start handing out copies to the Midlothian old people homes.

Okay. It’s over. Wifey and I are officially homeowners. It feels kinda good with the escrow and the insurance and the fixing the tile and the energy efficient appliances. I think I’m gonna get a pair of white Reeboks and some dad jeans soon. Time to make a kid or two. I’ll need help with the lawn. I also should get a wheelbarrow. Homeowners have those, right?

We’ll probably move in next weekend, weather permitting. We already had to postpone the big move due to SNOMG2 and SNOMG3. Valentines weekend looks like a good one, for now – unless Baby Jesus wants to punish us with another 8-12 inches of panic powder. For now, I’m carting over boxes in my little Saturn Ion. So far, I’ve taken roughly 38 trips, leaving our rental house empty of small useful items like the pizza-cutter, DVD remote and the wife’s Lady Bic. But the coffee table  and my collection of Oktoberfest beer steins are still here. And Wifey won’t let me unhook the surround sound until after next week’s LOST.

So this coming week will consist of packing my little car with candles and cookbooks and DVDs and high school yearbooks and transporting them to the new house, peppered with sporadic trips to Home Depot or Lowes for light bulbs or paint or electrical doo-dads or wheelbarrows. On Saturday, we move the big stuff no matter what – rain, snow, sleet or plague of locusts.

Jan. 14th:

Hey, Matt. We are looking good for closing on Tuesday. We just need one more thing. Can you give us a copy of your bank statement from December?

Sure. No prob. Sending it now.

Great. See you Tuesday!

Jan. 15th:

Hey, Matt. Got your statement. Thanks. We’re looking good for closing on Tuesday. Just need a copy of the gift letter from you mother-in-law.

Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll send that over to you right away.

Good. We’re all set, then. See you Tuesday.

Jan. 19th (Closing day):

Hey, Matt. I’m sorry, but the underwriter has to have a letter of explanation from your bank that you deposited money on your account on 12/11.

Huh? What? Can’t you see it on my statement?

Yeah, but we need to source where the money came from.

It was just some money I deposited for Christmas gifts.

Yeah, well they need you to explain that. But we’re all good, we just need that piece of information and we can get this thing done today.

Fine. Let me see what I can do and I’ll send it to you.

Great. We’ll see you this afternoon.

Later…

Hey, Matt. We’re gonna have to push back the closing a couple of days. We need a letter from your doctor that says you are, indeed, a human. Apparently the underwriter can’t sign off on a loan for people who aren’t human. You know, like a dog or something. We can’t give loans to animals. Or plants. Just a simple technicality, but we’ll get this thing done by Thursday at the latest.

What?

Jan. 20th:

Hey, Matt. We’re looking good for today. Or maybe tomorrow. But apparently your sister, mother and aunt were all born with a sixth finger on one of their hands. Is this true?

Yeah… why?

Well, the underwriter can’t approve this loan if the recipient is a mutant or related to mutants. She’s really concerned about a mutant takeover. I think she watches  X-Men movies way too much, but it’s just a simple technicality. Can you write a letter of explanation that states the extra digits were removed at birth and that you were not born with that weird deformity?

What? Are you serious? Fine. Whatever.

Cool. We just need this and we’re all good to go for tomorrow.

Jan. 21st:

Hey, Matt. We’re looking all good for today. We just need one more thing.

One more thing? Really? This is getting ridiculous.

Yeah, I know. It’s a pain, but just one more thing and we’re all set. Can you ask everyone your wife has ever met to write a letter verifying that they have met her? And if possible, can you get them to give specific dates and times of the meeting? And maybe just a short paraphrasing of the conversation?

C’mon, man! Seriously?

Yeah, I know. Unfortunately, this is the way it is. You know, with the housing crisis and all. The underwriter just wants to make sure we’re covering all our bases. You can understand that, right?

Whatever. I’ll see what I can do.

Great. We’ll get this thing done tomorrow at the latest. I swear.

Jan. 22nd:

Hey, Matt! We’re are looking good! Let’s get this done today!

Finally! Yes, let’s get it done.

Just one more thing, though. Can you have your blood drawn by a medical professional, then have a DNA sample analyzed?

Really?

Yeah, I know… I’m sorry. The underwriter isn’t convinced that you’re not a mutant. She really, really has a fear of mutants. You know, with their powers and all. Yeaaaaahhhhhh. I’m sorry.

Fine, I guess I can do that…

Wait, there’s more. The doctor who takes your blood has to be a government employee who still believes in Santa Claus.

Huh?

Yeah, I know. I know. I know. This is nuts, right? But really, it’s just a simple technicality and then we’ll be all good. We’ll get this thing done Monday at the latest.

Jan. 25th:

Hey, Matt. Thanks for being so patient. We’re going to get this thing done this afternoon. I promise. One more thing, though. I swear this is it, and I’m sorry. Can you verify that you believe in Santa Claus? Or maybe just write a letter that states that your open to the possibility of there being a Santa Claus? Just a simple technicality, really. We’re all good for this afternoon if we get this letter to the underwriter by noon.

Fine. Whatever it takes. I just want this to be over with.

Great. Thank you.

Later…

Hey, Matt. Got your letter. Thanks. One more thing, though. And I’m sorry, but it appears your wife has met your sister before.

Yeah, duh.

Well, we have medical evidence suggesting that your sister is a mutant.

*sigh*

Can you have your mutant sister write a letter explaining that she never touched your wife and got mutant germs on her? This is really just a simple technicality. But we’re going to have to push back the closing ’til tomorrow. Yeaaahhhh. I’m sorry.

But I’m pretty sure that would be a lie. I can’t ask my sister to lie!

I know, and I’m soorrrrrrryyyyy. Just a simple technicality. This really won’t affect anything, legally. Just have your sister draw up a document explaining that she never infected your wife with gross mutant cooties.

Jan. 26th:

Hey, Matt. We are really, really gonna get this thing done today. 4:30PM at the attorney’s office. Be there!

Yes! Thank you. We’ll be there.

But first, I need to ask you for one more thing.

You’re kidding me, right?

Sorry, I wish I was. But no. Can you show me some type -any type – of proof that you believe in Santa Claus? I mean, do you have any Christmas decorations in a box somewhere that depict some representations of Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick?

Yes, I suppose I have plenty of Santa decorations.

Great. Excellent. We’re all good. Fax those over to me and we’ll get this thing done tomorrow.

Fine.

Matt?

Yeah.

I’m sorry, but I need to ask one more time. Do you have any special powers? Like, can you bend steel with your bare hands or can you teleport yourself or anything like that?

*Silence*

Matt? … Matt? … Can you see through walls, maybe?

Today, Jan. 27th:

???

Starting my little company is working to my advantage so far. I’m getting work done on MY time at MY pace. I wear pajama pants while doing it. Trouble is, I can’t count on a paycheck every two weeks.

I haven’t talked about my job search for some time now, mostly because I’ve been spending most of my energy trying to CREATE work instead of tying to FIND work. And as much as I truly enjoy working at my own pace, I do miss the social interaction of a workplace.

I was reflecting on my 8 years at the TV station the other day. I don’t miss directing. Honestly, I probably couldn’t even remember what buttons did what and how to make a double box over the shoulder roll cue stinger VO zoom super pan GODDAMMIT CAMERA 2! I SAID TILT UP!

Okay, maybe I would remember. But the point is that I don’t miss the work. I miss the time in between work. I miss hangin’ in the newsroom and talkin’ smack with the producers and editors. I miss talking about obscure hockey statistics and factoids (did you know Rod Langway was born in Taiwan?) with the photogs and secretly taking a generous portion of the anchor’s coffee creamer when he wasn’t looking. I miss doing pull-ups and ab-wheels with the meteorologist. I miss having Mr. Sub across the street. Ham & Cheese. Toasted. All the way.

I don’t miss 3am alarm clocks. I don’t miss WORKING. I miss BEING at work. But only at the TV station. Being at the other job was sometimes tortuous. But still – the socializing. That’s what I miss.

Oh, and the paycheck. I miss that.

Working from home has it’s benefits, and my wish is that I can keep this up for a very, very long time and make it profitable. But on my down time, I’d like to come to your place of employment and hang out with you. We can shoot spitballs at the smelly girl in accounting and hide behind your cubicle wall when she turns to look. We can put tuna in the microwave for a few minutes so it stinks up the entire office, then burn some popcorn. We can borrow each other’s staplers and forget to give them back. We can bitch about the boss and say distasteful things about the fat lady who always eats 4 packs of Cheeseburger Macaroni Lean Cuisine for lunch.

Sometimes, while working in my home office, I take a break and try to sneak up on the dog or cat while they are sleeping.

Hey! What’cha doin? Wanna hang out?

No. Sleeping. Go away.

Wanna play fetch or something?

No. Shouldn’t you be working?

Did you know Herb Cain led the NHL in scoring during the 1943-44 season?

Impressive. Now go write an article or something.

Those who have been keeping up with this lil’ bloggy-blog know that Wifey and I are buying a house. We close in T-minus 2 weeks, so I’ll be spending the next 14 days packing up our mountains of candles and unopened pilates workout DVDs with a ferocity that can only be described as “throwing a lot of crap away when Wifey isn’t looking”.

It’s amazing when you start going through years of belongings and find little mementos (and some old, stale Mentos – The Freshmaker™) that open the floodgates of brain storage, immediately sending you into full-scale reminiscence mode. Some examples:

A Picture of Chauncey

Chauncey was my dog for a few years. He was a Bichon Frise. I named him after the public safety officer at my college who tried to have me thrown out of school after I told an RA that I wanted to drink juice out of a glass bottle in my dorm room. It was a big misunderstanding that still, to this day, makes no discernible sense. Anywhoos, Chauncey (the public safety guy) and I became sort-of friends. Turned out he played in a bluegrass band and invited me and check out him and the rest of Taylor Made (Chauncey’s last name was Taylor – see what he did there with the play on words?). Chauncey was a nice guy… kind of older-brotherish, if your older brother was kind of slow and played bluegrass music. I haven’t seen him since college. So a year or so after I graduated I got a fancydog and named him Chauncey. I don’t have Chauncey the FancyDog anymore. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that.

A Keychain from the Bahamas

I’ve never been to the Bahamas. But my old co-worker, Marsha, has. She brought me back a keychain. Marsha was fun to work with, and is a great director. She’s still holding down NBC12’s morning show and runnin’ things like a champ. She’s funny. One of the best parts of working at the station was listening to Marsha tell stories about all her mens.

A Salt N’ Pepa CD

I don’t know where this came from. It certainly wasn’t mine. I swear. I think it’s Wifey’s. The first and only time I saw the Wife sing Karaoke was when she performed a rousing, drunken, rendition of Shoop. This was probably within the first couple of months of us dating. She knows all the words, most of them correctly.

A Post-It Note

A few years back, the then-girlfriend – now-wife and I had an idea. We wanted to start a business. A bookstore. A children’s bookstore. We did research. We posted a little note on the inside of our computer desk that reads the name of our would-be venture. Once Upon A Moonbeam. The note was to remind us of our goal. She drew little stars on it and wrote the name all frilly. I’m looking at it now and wondering why we never went through with it. Maybe someday.

1st Generation iPod

10GB. Mac-only. Firewire. Original box, packing materials, documentation. I was so effing cool when I bought this. I was even one of those turds who clipped it (because it used to come with a belt clip) to my waist and walked around town listening to whatever was cooler than cool 8 or 9 years ago. Because of the iPod, I had an uncontrollable urge to find new music. And thus started my life as a Pirate. Limewire was running on my G4 24/7 downloading music that I wanted to hear. Most of it got deleted, eventually, because there was no such thing as good music in 2001. Or 2002. It’s a documented fact. But because of my love affair with a brilliantly-designed music gadget, I rediscovered my taste in music and have been looking for new bands and new sounds ever since. So, anyone wanna buy a 1st gen iPod? I buffed out all the scratches. Like new! Original box!

I really could go on and on with the little doo-dads and knick-knacks and Buffalo Bills jerseys and whatnot… but I won’t. I really need to get this crap into boxes (or the trash can). It’s tough to pack quickly, though, when a lifetime of memories flows through each item.

I feel like I’m on Hoarders up in here.

Me: Hi. I’d like to buy this classic hot rod calendar for my father in-law.
Clerk: Okay. That’ll be $8. Credit or debit?
Me: Debit. [SWWWIIIIPPPEE]
Clerk: Your card was declined.
Me: Huh? Nuh-uh. [SWWWIPPPEEE again]
Clerk: Declined.
Me: Shut the front door.
Clerk: Fo’ realz.
Me: Crap.

—10 minutes later—

Ring ring. Ring ring
Bank lady: What up. This is the bank. What’s your beef?
Me: My card was declined. What’s up with that?
Bank lady: You’re overdrawn $8,148.00.
Me: No way! Why?
Bank lady: Because you made a big overdraw.
Me: No I didn’t.
Bank lady: Yes you did.
Me: No I didn’t.
Bank lady: Yes you did.
Me: Ummm… No I didn’t.
Bank lady: Really?
Me: Really. I didn’t. I swear.
Bank lady: Hmph. Says here you did.
Me: C’mon! I didn’t!
Bank lady: Alright. Let me see what’s goin’ on here.

—10 minutes of being on hold—

Bank lady: Who’s this?
Me: It’s me. The guy with the $8,000 overdraft?
Bank lady: Oh, you’re still here?
Me: Yup. Still here.
Bank lady: Our bad. We effed up. You’re account is all golden now.
Me: So I can resume my holiday shopping?
Bank lady: I don’t care what you do.
Me: Cool. Peace out. Hope you have a nice Christmas.
Bank lady: Honey, I live in India. Everyday is Christmas.
Me: What does that even mean?
Bank lady: [hangs up]

—30 minutes later—

Me: I’d like to buy this sweet hot rod calendar.
Clerk: Debit or credit?
Me: Debit. [SWWWIIIPPPPEEE]
Clerk: Here you go. Have a nice Christmas.
Me: Honey, I live in America. Everyday is Christmas.

Here we are on the whole house situation:

Offer in, offer accepted. Inspection done, problems noticed. Asked to fix, waiting for reply. I think it will go in our favor. We offered to fix some stuff on our own and offered to pay half of the larger expenses. How can they say no? We should hear back soon. I’m looking forward to moving in next month and starting my new suburban life. Maybe I’ll start jogging. Or buy an SUV. Or learn about lawn care. Or wave to the neighbors instead of flipping them off.

Here we are on the whole Christmas situation:

I have no idea what to get you people. Be prepared for a gift card to either Home Depot or Best Buy or Starbucks or the movie theater. We have no money, what with the house and all, so you’ll be lucky to receive enough to get a half a Grande Peppermint Spice Latte. And I apologize if you happen to receive the same gift that you got me last year. I’m a chronic regifter. Hey! These are tough economic times! And I have no need for a fancy decaf tea sampler.

As for the wife, I still haven’t bought her gift. We agreed to keep it on the cheap and just get each other one present. I hope she likes Skittles. I know I do. A whole 48oz bag of ‘em.

Here we are on the whole cat & dog situation:

The stupid cat likes to gnaw on my hand while I watch TV. I mean, he really goes to town. I usually pull my sleeve over my hand and let him chew away, but he has learned how to thwart my defenses. I now have to wear gloves at all times, otherwise Mr. Noodles will jump out from under a blanket and latch on to my dainty widdle hands with his cat teeth. On the plus side, it makes my hands look like I do a lot of manual labor. Or it makes me look like a emo cutter. Either way, my wife thinks it’s sexy. Can humans catch feline AIDS?

The dog smells like dirty ears and gym shorts. I gave him a bath about a month ago when we had some nice weather. No, I don’t bathe him inside the house because that would be like trying to tame a moose. A moose in a bathtub. A hairy moose in a bathtub. A hairy moose that smells like moose poop in a bathtub. A hairy moose that smells like moose poop who also happens to have seizures when he gets too excited. Anyway – I think I’m gonna have to pay to have this little moose professionally detailed. Maybe they can put some of that shiny polish on his underside. We’re getting ready for the long drive up to NY, and I don’t want to have to smell his stankass in a confined space for 9 hours.

I guess that’s about it. There isn’t too much to update because I’ve been careful not to go out and put myself into situations where I have to spend money. I hope everyone enjoys their holiday and watch out for flying reindeer. Oh, man! I should’ve used the reindeer analogy instead of the moose. Crap!