How My Fat Ass Blew Our Jeep’s Tire

This is my first post using the Android WordPress app, so bear with me. Also, apologies if you actually check my blog semi-regularly; I know its been awhile.

My family and I are currently in Omaha visiting family. This has been a weird trip for me already, since my Pavlovian response to going to Omaha and seeing my girlfriend Emily had to be quelled; Emily is with her family in Colorado Springs. We went out to eat tonight, and boy did I eat.

You see, my body is quite unpredictable. There are days where I can eat a sandwich and be full for the rest of the night. Then there are nights like tonight…

I ate my French dip. Still hungry.

Polished off my chips. Still hungry.

Helped mom eat the rest of her steak and potatoes. Still hungry.

Finished dad’s hot beef sandwich. Still hungry.

Ate my nephew’s untouched full order of French toast. Still hungry, but seeing as there was no food left on the table I called it quits. My family was joking that they had never seen me eat so much. My step-sister accidentally bought me an extra-large T-shirt for Christmas (I wear a medium) and she jokingly suggested that she had bought me the properly sized shirt after all.

After sharing our goodbyes in the parking lot, the family and I began the four hour drive back home. However, we hadn’t gone more than a couple miles and the worst sound a driver can hear pierced the silence of our Jeep.

Dingding

Uh oh.

Those two happy sounding bells equate to death for your car. And in this case, those dings meant a flat tire on the Jeep.

We called around Omaha and nobody was open to replace a tire. And those that were open used the excuse “Well, we just cleaned the shop early since business was slow…so…uh…sorry.”

That’s the holiday spirit. Don’t help stranded drivers willing to buy new tires during your posted business hours.  But I digress; the universe usually does a good job of giving people exactly what they deserve in due time.

The initial diagnosis was that a simple pothole bashed in the side of the tire causing the leak, but I know the true cause.

The flat tire in question: the rear passenger.  And where was I sitting?

Back seat. Passenger side.

And what was in the Jeep at the time of the tire malfunction?   Something that, say, wasn’t in vehicle prior to the tire malfunction? 

A French dip, side order of chips, some steak and potatoes, the rest of my dad’s beef and potato sandwich, and my nephew’s French toast meal.

Mom and Dad are blaming the shoddy make of the Goodyear.

…Sure…That’s it.

Editor’s Note: My dad had what is locally known in the Midwest as a “hot beef sandwich”, which consists of white bread, loose pot roast, and mashed potatoes and gravy. While I normally have no qualms about calling this sandwich by its given name, and actually eat then quite regularly (for they are DELICIOUS), I chose not to in this post. I didn’t want to confuse my non-Midwest readers into thinking I was using some sort of sexual innuendo. No food sounds quite as sketchy as ordering “The hot beef”. Especially in a restaurant called “The Farm House”.  Sorta brings up thoughts of the movie Deliverance…

Gluttony: Thy Name is ‘Merica

This is my first post from the road.  Literally the road.  I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my Pontiac Grand Am while Emily drives us towards her home in Colorado Springs for Thanksgiving.  My car is a manual transmission, and I just re-taught her how to drive one.  After a few stalls, she valiantly got the car going, navigated through a traffic light, and got us on the interstate.  I’m incredibly proud of her.

And then the following thought hit me.  As a hockey player and someone who spends a very large portion of his life on skates and at ice rinks, I should have thought of this sooner…

It’s relatively easy to get going.  Stopping is an entirely different story.  I just hope to God that Emily doesn’t employ the “that’s-what-the-boards-are-for” strategy to stopping.  Crashing is not ideal when skating and even less so when driving.

Focus on writing your blog focus on writing your blog sweet Jesus Eric don’t look up at the road just focus on the blog LOOK OUT EMILY!!!!! SHIFT!!!! SHIFT DOWN SHIFT DOWN NOW!!! BRAAAAAKKKEEESSSSS!!!!!!!!

Editor’s Note:  Emily wanted me to include the following disclaimer- this didn’t actually happen. 

Editor’s Note: I wanted to include the following disclaimer- this hasn’t happened yet.  I’ll keep you updated when she actually has to stop this thing…

 After a dirty look from Emily, we now return to your originally scheduled blog.

Thanksgiving is by far the most patriotic holiday we celebrate here in America.  There’s nothing quite as representative of the United States as overspending, overeating, and hating ourselves for poor decisions after the fact.  As is the case with Christmas, the over-commercialization of Thanksgiving drives me nuts, but I live and let live in the name of turkey and pie.

In fact, I’m fully appreciating and embracing this idea of gluttony and poor decisions for the first time in my life.  I have spent the last weekend in Omaha with Emily before we (currently) head to Colorado Springs for the holiday.  Because of this, my friend Alyx and I decided to have our own mini Thanksgiving celebration in the University of Northern Iowa dining center before I left.

This is the end product of my meal:

Not to be confused with the KFC Famous Bowl. Even though it's essentially the same recipe...

Yes.  That would be turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, potato chips, French fries, a slice of pizza, Tobasco sauce, and bacon bits.  All covered in ketchup.  Yes, I ate it while my friend Alyx played the national anthem on his cell phone.  I call it the Cholesto-bomb.  And speaking of bombs, for those of you actively serving or veterans of the Armed Forces in the United States:

This is what you’re fighting for.

Editor’s Note:  We had to stop for gas.  Emily successfully (albeit adventurously) got us to the pump without stalling the car, hitting anything, or using the boards to stop.  I’m very proud of her.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go ahead and breathe into a paper bag for five minutes before I pass out.

2005: The Year I Lost (and Found) Hockey

Editor’s Note:  I’m INCREDIBLY sorry that I haven’t had a chance to write anything lately; it has been a mega stressful and busy semester.  However, since my awesome girlfriend decided that we needed to go to a coffee shop to blog and do homework, I suddenly have some time to waste.  Now, without further ado, the return of Sylvester Says.

One of the best things about blogging is getting to hear the stories of a multitude of different types of people.  I’ve made friends in the hockey community, the political ring, and some genuinely hilarious people through blogging.  I even met my girlfriend, Emily, via this blog (that’s two shameless plugs for your blog already babe).  Editor’s Note: she smiled and DIDN’T hit me.  I’m surprised too.  Editor’s Note #2: Upon reading this, she called me a “jerk” and hit me.  THAT’S the Emily I know.

Chris Cocca is one of these great people I’ve had the pleasure of befriending since I started the blog.  It’s always awesome when we get a chance to randomly talk, primarily because we share many of the same weird interests.  From our mutual love for comics to our shared affinity for vintage baseball facial hair, we tend to have some interesting conversations.

I guest posted last year during the NHL Playoffs for Cocca and have an undying love for hockey.  So, naturally, when he started talking about the possibility of the Philadelphia Adirondack Phanotms AHL hockey team moving to Allentown (Chris’ hometown), I had a story to tell.

You see, the (then) Philadelphia Phantoms were the story of the 2005 hockey world.  Why?  Because the 2004-2005 NHL season was lost to a lockout.  As the only hockey fan in my small hometown in Iowa, I was mercilessly teased by my friends.  They knew how much hockey meant to me and reveled in the fact that they got to watch their beloved NBA while I was deprived of my favorite thing in the world.  I look forward to hockey season more than Christmas, and that year Christmas wasn’t going to come.

But there was hockey in 2004-2005, just not the hockey I was used to following.  The American Hockey League, America’s highest level of minor league hockey, was still a go for the year.  Minor league hockey.  That was my only option that year.  I was going to be subjected to a subpar league for a full season.  The thought of it made me shudder, but it was better than no puck at all.

I kept tabs on the affiliate of my Colorado Avalanche, the Hershey Bears, but they didn’t seem destined to make the playoffs.  After a mediocre season my suspicions were proven correct; Hershey missed a playoff spot by ten points.  My Colorado Avalanche didn’t exist that year, and their affiliate didn’t make the postseason.  The most depressing year of my fifteen year life lingered on.

However, I kept watching the playoffs for the same reason I started watching in the first place: minor league hockey is better than no hockey.  Mediocre talent playing hockey in empty arenas is still hockey.  I soldiered on and said my prayers to the hockey gods every night, begging for the return of the NHL.  And while they did answer these prayers with the return of the NHL the next season, something else happened; something I wasn’t expecting.

I fell in love with the Philadelphia Phantoms.  This wasn’t some throw-away hockey team playing in the minors.  They had some SERIOUS firepower, and featured a bevy of future NHL superstars.  Led by goaltender Antero Niittymaki (now with the San Jose Sharks), the Phantoms featured future NHL All-Star Jeff Carter, eventual Flyers’ captain Mike Richards, and future Stanley Cup winners Patrick Sharp and Ben Eager.  The Phantoms grinded their way to the Calder Cup Finals with a style of play reminiscent of their big brother Philadelphia Flyers of the mid 70′s: tight checking, strong defense, phenomenal goaltending, and (most of all) local fan support.  When the Phantoms completed the surprising four game sweep of the Chicago Wolves to win the Calder Cup, 20,103 fans filled the Wachovia Center to witness the victory.

The Phantoms celebrating their Calder Cup championship in front of a sold out crowd.

Yes, the Wachovia Center.  The home of the Philadelphia Flyers.  While my friends were busy mocking me for watching a league that “nobody” cared about, the Philadelphia Phantoms sold out an NHL arena.

I was fifteen years old, frustrated with a league that shut down due to greed, and angry at my friends for taking so much pleasure in my misery.  But I wasn’t alone.  The Phantoms were my retreat from a rural Iowa community that will never understand the connection hockey fans feel with each other.  Hockey is as much of a culture as it is a sport.  There’s sort of a communal aspect to hockey fans.  No matter who your team is, hockey fans actively seek out the company of other fans.  I’ve struggled for thirty minutes on this paragraph to convey the personality of the hockey fan and simply cannot do it.  Hockey fans are an entirely different breed of person, and the game is simply one aspect of the whole culture that surrounds it.

Because of this, it was an especially difficult time for me in my life.  While I was the only hockey fan in my school, I still could talk a little hockey with my friends.  Somebody might catch the occasional game on ESPN (or at least see a highlight), and would go to me to talk about it.  Hockey was, and is, so much a part of who I am that my classmates would rush to talk to me on Monday simply because they had attended their first hockey game over the weekend.  However, when the NHL season was lost I had lost my identity.  I was no longer “the hockey guy”; I was the “guy that lost hockey”.  As an angst-y fifteen year old this was incredibly tough.

But I wasn’t alone.

In a year filled with pain and suffering for hockey fans across the world, I joined Philadelphia in embracing the Phantoms, because I could identify with them.  While the NHL was on, I was a little overlooked in my high school.  I’d get to have the occasional hockey discussion with a friend or peer, but for the most part I was overlooked.  The Philadelphia Phantoms were the minor league team in a city with an NHL team.  They were the little brother.  They were forgotten.  Then, with the lockout, I was thrust into the spotlight as the kid who lost his sport, while at the same time the Phantoms went from the forgotten team in town to the main attraction.

But for one night, none of those labels mattered.  I had the game I loved, and the Phantoms were the greatest hockey team in the world.

The Godfather: Apparently Not That Good

I’m not much different from most college kids.  I procrastinate, I don’t floss as often as I’m supposed to, I loathe doing laundry, and while I don’t skip class that often, I have an “I’m sick and can’t make it to your class today” email drafted in my head 30 minutes before every class, every day.  I do, however, have some pretty big differences.  I study a lot, I blog, I eat pretty healthily and exercise daily, and I know far too much pop culture for my age.  I listen to different music than most college students.  My TV choices are pretty different.  And I watch a lot of movies other students my age don’t.  (Editor’s Note: I am by no means saying that I watch different/better stuff than everyone else.  There are TONS of students far more cultured than I am.  In terms of myself versus the vast majority, however, I have differing tastes). 

My favorite movie in the world is The Godfather, for reasons I can’t explain.  Every other film critic in the world can give you a thousand different reasons as to why The Godfather is the greatest achievement in motion picture history.  I can’t.  Some say it’s the cinematography.  I think it is a beautifully shot film, but that isn’t what sets it apart.  Some say the cast is what makes this movie iconic.  I say it’s one of the greatest casts in a single film in history, but I can’t say that’s what does it for me either.  Truth is, I just don’t know why I love that movie so much.  If I had to pinpoint it, I’d say I love that nothing is black and white in that movie.  You have a crime family, the Corleone’s, who you’re rooting for the whole movie.  And yet, they’re just that: a crime family.  People are murdered by members of this family daily.  They engage in illegal acts and plot their revenge against anybody that crosses them.  Their form of “justice” goes outside the boundaries of the law.

And yet?  We all cheer when Michael shoots Captain McCluskey because he was a dirty cop.  We cheer when he strangles his sister’s husband because he’s abusive.  Oh yeah, spoilers in case you haven’t had a chance to see The Godfather yet.  It hasn’t been out that long…

I love that movie.  With the exception of the wedding scene being about 5 minutes too long, I love every last frame of The Godfather.

My house in my dorm is doing a movie “tournament”, where residents vote on their favorite movie, bracket style, with the winning movie being shown at a house event or something.  I don’t really know, since I haven’t been to a house meeting since I was a freshman.  But I love movies, and I love brackets.  I’m hoping the NCAA March Madness tournament expands to 439 teams and lets Jr. High teams compete for the remaining 65 play-in games.  I voted for my favorite movies and returned to my room confidently.

And then this:

The Godfather lost.  In the first round.  But maybe there’s hope.  Maybe my dorm is a Goodfellas kind of dorm or something.  There’s gotta be an explanation.  I mean, the movie that beat The Godfather made it to the final four!!!

I hate my peers so much.

A Bored College Student’s Reaction to the GOP Debate

This is not a political blog, nor will it ever be one.  However, I would like to address briefly the GOP debate last night.  Fear not, though, my dear readers.  This won’t be a terribly serious look into the debate, but rather a summary statement of each candidate last night through the eyes of a student who was far more interested in playing Scrabble on his phone with his friends than nitpicking every rhetoric-filled answer given by the Republican hopefuls.

Rick Perry

Perry is the new kid in school, and was picked on accordingly.  He took it pretty well, didn’t screw up anything major (which is all a front-runner needs to do in debates).  LASTING IMAGE:

Tough day today, diary. Mitt Romney was a big meanie.

Mitt Romney

Wanted to be more involved in this debate and reluctantly went after Perry.  Didn’t really land a whole lot on him, though.  LASTING IMAGE:

Take THAT, Perry!

Ron Paul

Not his best debate, but got in a good line to end the debate clarifying that libertarianism doesn’t equal apathy towards those who need assistance.  Would have done better if he would have been, ya know, acknowledged at ALL on healthcare (he was a doctor for cryin’ out loud) or job creation (he’s an economics expert for cryin’ out loud).  LASTING IMAGE:

If I can't see Ron Paul, he isn't real.

Michelle Bachman

I’d honestly give her a fair assessment if she said anything worth remembering.  All I could think while she was talking was how she looked like Rick Moranis in Spaceballs.  I think it’s safe to say her career is flopping, and fast (also like Rick Moranis).  LASTING IMAGES:

=

HERMAN CAIN

I thought he had a decent debate (when he was actually addressed).  Didn’t shake things up very much (which is what he needs to do to get real exposure), but it’s always refreshing to hear him speak.  He’s charismatic, funny, and I could listen to him say the word “bureaucracy” over and over.  It’s smoother than the mozzarella melted on his Godfather’s Pizza.  LASTING IMAGE:

Mmmmmm....baby.... I know we been talkin 'bout the economy for a long time.....but girl....lemme tell ya 'bout my nine-nine-nine proposal...Mmmmmmm

Newt Gingrich

Again, another irrelevant candidate who is really only in these debates for comedic relief.  Best moment was when he went after the debate format itself like an angry drunk uncle.  LASTING IMAGE:

No funny caption necessary.

Jon Huntsman

WHAT IS LOVE? BABY DON’T HURT ME! DON’T HURT ME! NO MORE!  Ok, seriously, he did WAYYY better than any previous debate (which isn’t hard to do), but still didn’t move me at all.  He reminds me of a cross between a pro wrestler and Chicken Little.  Lots.  Of dramatic.  Pauses.  Followed by talking about.  How America is failing.  And scared.  And America.  Needs.  Answers.  And answers come from.  Jon.  Huntsman.  (Ironically, he’d answer every question like this, which was essentially failing to answer the actual question).  LASTING IMAGE:

 =

Jon Huntsman and Will Ferrell

Rick Santorum

Who?  LASTING IMAGE:

I'm assuming this is what I looked like every time Santorum spoke.

The Most Underrated Man-Made Concept In The World

I’ll quickly apologize for not posting anything for awhile… I’ve been INCREDIBLY busy with the end of the summer and a trip to visit a friend and whatnot.  And I’ll be brief in this post, as I have a ton of homework to get cracking on.

 

My friend Cody pointed out something VERY interesting to me tonight.  He just graduated from college, and pointed out one thing I never thought of.  ”I miss college.  Not because of the partying, classes, the friends, any of that”, my friend said.  Cody said he most missed the structure of having semesters to look forward to.  Now that he’s in the adult world, there aren’t any monumental days to look forward to.  Ever again.

He mentioned that college is like rush hour traffic.  Stop, go rest, floor it, swerve, stop.  Constant working toward the lull in the schedule, only to wait there to be pulled back into the jungle of the next academic semester.  Now?  It’s a babbling brook.  Every once in awhile there’s some small disturbance that changes the scenery, but other than that every day is the same.  You just drift along at a constant rate.

Until you die.

I don’t know about you, but I think it’s kind of depressing that under this logic, if you dropped out of high school at sixteen you’ve basically peaked.  You’re on the babbling brook track already.  At 16.  But other than that?

He’s right.  There’s no denying it: we take the idea of semesters for granted.  With them you get things to break the year up into milestone days where everything changes.  Without that, every day just looks the same.

That’s depressing.  Semesters are awesome.  (That’s strangely not the weirdest thing I’ve typed on the blog…)

Chronic Lying at Walgreens

I look young.  Really young.  I get carded harder than anybody I know when I go to bars/casinos, and I’ve come to expect this.  It doesn’t help that my I.D. photo is from days after my sixteenth birthday, but I’m too lazy/broke to buy a new I.D., and this one isn’t expired so… baby Eric photo it is.  I’ve even been refused entry at a bar because they didn’t buy that it was me in the I.D. photo. 

This story takes the cake, however.

I was picking up a six pack at Walgreens last night and received a weird question from a person in line.

“Hey, are you going that way?” He gestured west.  “I’ve gotta get a ride to…”

I didn’t hear the rest, because no way am I picking up this scurvy looking middle aged man and giving him a ride to anywhere.  Plus?  I legitimately wasn’t headed west.

“No man, I’m not.  I’m sorry”, I said with an apologetic look.  I feel bad for people down on their luck.  I’m broke because of college, but I know there’s light at the end of the tunnel.  I can’t imagine what it would be like to feel like that in my 40′s.  I truly do feel for him.  But I’ve seen Funny Games, and I don’t trust strangers anymore.

“Are you lying to me?!”

Whoa.  Not the reaction I was expecting.  I quickly backpedal because this guy seems like post-Nam crazy.  Like Alan Alda in the last episode of M*A*S*H crazy.  Like Rebecca Black is famous crazy.

“No, I live that way”, as I point somewhere to the east/north/any direction but west.  He gives me the meanest glare he can muster (as if I’m the jerk for not allowing a complete stranger into my car), and pays for his stuff ($40 worth, so he’s doing better than most down on their luck types) and storms off.  I shake my head and think “that was weird”.

It’s about to get weirder.

The clerk seems like a very socially awkward person (probably why he’s jockeying the desk at Walgreens at 11 PM), but still seems nice enough.  I hand him my I.D. and start fishing for my money.  He asks me to look up to verify that it’s me, and I comply (now trying to fish for a $10 bill without looking… a tougher feat than you think).

“This isn’t you”.

Whoa.

I explain that, yes, it is me, and that the photo was taken when I was 16 years old.  I show him my student I.D. which also has a photo of me on it, as well as the exact same full name as the name on my driver’s license.

“You’re lying.”

I’m not kidding.  I was accused of lying for the second time in under a minute IN LINE AT A WALGREENS.  He does his best Horatio from CSI: Miami, dramatically flips over of my driver’s license and shows that…

“You have a restriction.  You have to wear corrective lenses.”

I explain that I’m wearing contacts, and sarcastically ask if he wants me to take one out. 

“Yes, if you could please.” 

I had to take out a contact in order to buy a six pack of beer.  He finally concludes that’s sufficient and lets me go.

*In my best Horatio voice*

Looks like this time…blind justice needed contacts.

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Another Reason Why Weddings Suck (And How To Fix It)

Weddings suck.  Obvious, but I couldn’t think of a better way to start this post.  They just suck.  It’s a lot of acquaintances milling around that sort of know the bride/groom pretending that they’re genuinely happy for them, that the chicken isn’t dry, and that this was worth using a vacation day on.  In reality, we all know that you’re making bets quietly to your friends about how long this marriage will last, you’re drinking your fourth glass of water in a row to give the overcooked poultry some sort of consistency other than tree bark, and you’re lamenting the fact that your attendance at this wedding means you can’t call in sick to work for another three weeks to sit around and watch Goodfellas (something I have done).

You're feeling ill? You better go home...and get your shinebox.

Sadly, one of my friends has been talking more and more about the dreaded “m” word (you know, the one that goes with the horse and carriage and whatnot), and brought up a very interesting point.  While discussing who would be in his half of the wedding party, he was flip flopping back and forth as to who it would be.  In terms of who he had known the longest, I’m out of the picture.  In terms of who he hangs out with the most, I’m a lock.  This put him in a predicament that nobody outside of that a-hole that invented MySpace wants to do.  Rank your friends.

Tom REALLLLLY liked weddings...

When you think about it, the idea of “ranking” your friends in order of importance is incredibly arbitrary.  My top tier of friends doesn’t change and probably won’t change for a long time, so much so that I refer to them as The Three Bromances: Chris, Cody, and Derrick.  And even on that topmost level of friendship, I can’t rank them.  They’re so incredibly different that I could never say one is a clear cut “better” friend than the other two.  Each brings something INCREDIBLY different to the table.  And beyond that, I’ve got some very close friends that I wouldn’t say are any less of a friend than the Bromances; they’re just not friends on the obsessive level that I am with those three.  This is mostly because in one aspect of life or another, the Bromances and I have EVERYTHING in common.  Chris and I absolutely click on music.  Derrick is my geek friend who obsesses over movies, TV, comics, and pop culture the way I do.  Cody doesn’t just embrace my really weird sense of humor, he eggs it on even more, and we’re both way too obsessed with hockey.  How do you say any of those qualities is any more important than the other?  My other friends might even have more in common with me as a whole, but don’t have everything in common with me in any one aspect of life.  Does that make them less of a friend?  I feel incredibly close to Lance, Alyx, Justin, Ashley, and Dayna, and might get along overall more with some of them than even the Bromances.  They just have a different dynamic when we hang out that doesn’t put them in a lower category, just a different one.

And yet?

Weddings force you to take these individual people who are so different in so many different ways that you care about equally (most of the time) and say “you are a superior friend than the rest of these friends”.  And some people can do this because they’re incredibly tight knit with one particular person, which is completely fine.  But what makes friend number three any better than four?  Do you like the friend on the outside looking in any less than the friend you make stand at the end of the line?  All that comes out of wedding parties is confusion, hurt feelings, or (at the very best) indifference.  It’s evil and sadistic.

That’s why I plan on hiring trained chimpanzees to be my groomsmen.  No speeches, no friend ranking, no nonsense.  And no friend that is a true friend is going to be upset about getting beat out by this:

Hell, you might even see some feces thrown at that annoying bridesmaid that’s constantly complaining about her dress and how nobody is paying attention to her.  And let’s be honest… what’s a wedding without projectile s**t?

God knows THIS wedding had some...

And Mr. “M” word… if you’re reading this…

Chimps, man.

Chimps.

Emoticons Get Me. Oh, and I Can’t Cook.

It has been an incredibly hectic and weird few weeks.  As you all know, I’ve been living in Iowa City trying to bank up some money this summer.  All was going well, but I wasn’t making nearly the kind of money I was hoping for.  I had enough to pay bills, put gas in the car, eat, and play the occasional hockey game, but after all of that I was usually back to square one.

So I job hunted.  And hunted.  And hunted.  And FINALLY picked up a second job to help pull together some extra scratch.  I was mowing lawns for a local car dealership.  My boss was a really cool guy, the work wasn’t terrible, and the extra money was going to go a long way towards visiting a girl that lives a bit of a drive away from me that I’m pretty close to dating.  Things were going pretty well, and it looked like this summer was going to end up being pretty epic.

Then, as it often does, life happened.

I lost the lawnmowing job.  They said I was a great employee that worked really hard, but there was just too much ground for me to cover by myself in the limited hours I was available.  Instead of hiring extra help, they figured out it would be more cost effective (and more professional) to hire an outside landscaping firm.  So bla bla bla thanks for your work, we’ll let you know if anything comes up bla bla bla.  My boss said he’d do his best to push for me to get any other available jobs.  I thanked him for trying and hung up pretty depressed.  Thank God I’ve got that other job to fall back on.

Life happened again.

I found out today that the kids are going to be gone the next three weeks, which basically takes me up to the end of the summer.  In other words, I lost two jobs in two days, neither on my own accord.  That’s a pretty tough pill to swallow.  My only option at this point is to apply to temp agencies in the area, move back home, and take over a side job cleaning the church.  I don’t want to do this, however, because it’s my mom’s job and she uses that income to help me pay for school, so it sort of defeats the purpose.  I’d have money to pay bills, but mom would be broke and it would stretch her more thinly when it comes to helping me pay for college.  Lose lose.

Now, on to the title of this blog.  I was originally going to blog and joke about how depressing the frowny face emoticon is:

Tell me that isn’t one of the saddest things in the world.  Whenever I’m online and talking to the girl aforementioned in this post and one of us has to get offline, the other routinely types .  Now, I really, really like this girl, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked that depressed before in my life, even when she has to go.  Those pained eyes.  The expression of longing.  That’s straight up depressing.  I want nothing more than to say, “Cheer up, little guy!  It’ll all be okay!” and turn into .

However, after losing both sources of income in less than 48 hours, I get it.  I’m legitimately bummed out.  I feel like .  Looking in the mirror, I see .  I now know what he is feeling.

That emoticon has stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back.

Editor’s Note: I apologize for the depressing nature of this post.  Since my readers are more accustomed to a ligher-hearted tone from me, I’ll briefly explain this story from two days ago.  I wanted to make a bacon cheeseburger for dinner, and threw some hamburger into a pan.  It was a full pound of hamburger, and I forgot to separate it into burger shaped patties.  So I quickly tore it into chunks, which looked a little something like this:

Burger blobs

I then realized that I had no American cheese, ketchup, hamburger buns, OR bacon.  I DID, however, have havarti cheese, teriyaki sauce, cottage bread (which I made into toast), and Wheaties.  Yes, Wheaties.  If it’s the Breakfast of Champions, surely it’s the best substitute for bacon.  Dinner looked a little something like this:

Bacon cheeseburger. Teriyaki Wheateies burger. Same diff.

Posted the pictures on Facebook and got comments ranging from “Dear God, Eric, that’s a train wreck” to “The cheese looks like a jellyfish”.  

Haters gonna hate.

Observing Man Observing Man

I have a new job that I’ll be doing for the rest of the summer.  I’m still babysitting the two kids from 10-2, but from 2-5 I’m doing grounds work and maintenance at a local car dealership (not a little one, but one of those hulking, conglomerate type dealerships with like 10 buildings).  Like David Koresh’s Branch Davidian compound.  But with more cars.

Most of the people reading this are from the Midwest, but for those of you who aren’t?  It’s hot here.  Really hot.  Yesterday’s heat index hit 110 degrees, which surprisingly ISN’T fun to cut grass in.  Who knew?  Also, I was mowing the little grass island things between the cars, so I had to use a push mower.  The ground is incredibly uneven, filled with ruts, and is a complete pain to maneuver.  Add to it that the mower is incredibly heavy (it’s a self-propelled, but with the ground as bad as it is, I couldn’t use the self-propelled feature once all day) and you’ve got a recipe for a pissed off Eric.

Or so one would think.

It actually wasn’t too bad.  I drank a ton of water, took a five minute air conditioning break, and kept my mind on the extra money that would be coming in.  Everybody at the dealership was incredibly friendly (mostly because I have the single worst job in the whole dealership.  I’m sure their job looks more enticing by comparison), and my boss is a very laid-back guy who is easy to work for.  He encouraged me to take more breaks because of the heat, but it didn’t bother me too much for some reason.

The biggest thing that kept me going, however, was seeing the guys around the dealership watch me mow out of the corner of my eye.  They kept looking at the ground I was mowing and just sort of staring at it for a second before going back to work.  Never saying anything, usually smiling or waving or something as they passed by, but always looking quietly at the grass I was mowing.

Every guy on the planet, whether they admit to it or not, will watch another guy do one of the following things and silently (and sometimes not so silently) condemn them the whole time.

1. Grilling meat.
2. Building a fire.
3. Mowing a lawn.

Every guy has an opinion of how to do these mantivities and every guy’s opinion is the right one in his own head.  I like my steaks pretty rare, turned every 4 minutes at first, then after four flips I re-season them, and turn them a few more times fairly quickly.  I use the Lincoln Log approach to fire building: put down tons of kindling and build a Lincoln-log-esque cabin around it, with a teepee of wood over that.  And I border whatever I’m mowing first, go around the outside two to three times, then do rows in the middle.

Why do I do these things this way?  Because it’s what I’m comfortable with.  Are they the proven best, most efficient ways?  Probably not.  I’ll actually say definitely not, because I don’t think I’ve ever completed a task in my life at full efficiency, because I refuse to plan ahead at anything.  I approach a problem, figure out one way to solve it, and instead of wasting time figuring out the “easier” way to do it, I’ll just jump into my plan of action.  Why waste time thinking when you could be doing, screwing up, and coming up with blog material as you screw it up?

Anyway, just thought it was funny that even while doing a job that NOBODY wants to do, I was still being watched by the crew cut, polo wearing, sunglasses indoors, moderately overweight, high school glory day dreaming car salesmen in their air conditioned building thinking of how their preferred method of mowing trumps mine.

Men: be it fire, grill, or lawn, you will be judged in the presence of another man.  Every.  Time.

I would have invented fire better but... to each their own, I guess...