Birthdays…*sigh*

So tomorrow is my birthday.  I’m supposed to be excited…but I’m finding that my excitement meter is rather low.

Tonight there is a birthday party for me (apparently it was supposed to be a surprise) and tomorrow I am going out of town on a surprise birthday trip (the location of that trip has remained a surprise as of right now).

Why, you ask, am I not excited?  Because all of this means that I have lost a certain level of control over my schedule for the next two days.  In my normal, day-to-day life I control every detail of my schedule.  I decide when I do things and where I go.  I decide what to do with my free time and what to eat.
But when a birthday comes around all these decisions are made for me.  I know, I know.  My friends and family mean well.  But if my loved ones really wanted to spoil me on my birthday, then they should let me decide what I’m doing and when and join me in my fun when I wanted them to.  (Yup, I clearly have control issues!)

Normally I wouldn’t complain about such things (ha, yeah right!) but there are some things I would rather be doing tonight — namely, visiting a friend who has something special happening at her job tonight and watching the opening night of the NFL season.

However, I will leave open the possibility that these surprises may surprise me and actually be fun…

Julia Effing Roberts

One thing that you need to know about me is that since the age of fifteen I have hated Julia Roberts.  Pretty woman had been out for a while and Julia was super popular.  All my friends thought she was hot but I never understood why.  She was too skinny and her lips were too big.

Then she started making more movies and in almost every single one of them she continued to play the same role that she did in Pretty Woman, namely a vapid woman who makes it despite her stupidity.  (There are a few exceptions, like Erin Brockovitch, but by and large she plays the same role over and over again.)

Well last night my girlfriend and I went to see a movie with her in it — Eat, Pray, Love.  I wanted to see the movie because the book was a great read (I love reading memoirs).  However, the movie presented the main character in a slightly different light than the book.

In the book the main character is on a quest for truth, for God…but in the movie the main character is confused, indecisive, and thoroughly confused.  In other words, the makers of the film fit the main character from the book to Julia Roberts’ standard character that she tends to play in movies.

Ugh.  She’s so limited as an actress and as she’s gotten older her looks have gotten even worse (this is, of course, just my opinion).  Despite Julia Roberts and the drawbacks that she inherently brings to a movie, Eat, Pray, Love was pretty good.

The movie was made even better due to the theater I saw it in.  The chairs were plush and reclined.  I ordered a beer and an Arnold Palmer during the movie and they were brought right to my seat!  My girlfriend and I shared an appetizer and then I had an awesome gourmet entree.

So I’m not really sure how good the movie really was.  Either the power of the story offset Julia Roberts…or the kick-ass theater did.  Or maybe it was the special alchemy of both of them!

A Winery Tour

I took part in a SoCal winery tour.  Actual it was a wineries tour but that just sounds weird.  We began our trek at 10:15 in the morning and ended up hitting four wineries.  We returned home at 5:15 in the afternoon.

I know, I know.  A winery tour.  Really?  Come on Jay…you’re more manly than that!

And I agreed with you at the start of the tour.  As people started loading up into the shuttle the evidence revealed to me that winery tours are for couples, gay guys, and groups of women.  In other words, winery tours are apparently kind of fruity.

I rationalized my participation this way: 1) My girlfriend really wanted to do this and I enjoy making her happy (well,I usually enjoy making her happy); 2) We would be enjoying some really good wine…and lots of it!; and 3) The combination of numbers 1 and 2 would most certainly equal me getting some that night.  That was enough for me.

By the end of the tour my opinion had changed.  I discovered that about one-third of the people on the wine shuttle were like me: guys who were convinced by their ladies to come.  I found that me and these guys had lots in common and we ended up spending much of our time talking about sports, our work, and other manly things.

But I also ended up having a blast for other reasons too.  It was great learning about the wine-making process and spending the day with my girlfriend in that setting was super fun.

Will I be going on a winery tour next weekend?  Probably not.  And I probably won’t be volunteering to go on one anytime soon.
But I did learn something valuable: a thing that seems sucky at first can become cool right in front of your eyes.

Napping the Day Away

My girlfriend and I are out of town this weekend.  We didn’t have anything spectacular planned today…but we had talked about going swimming in the hotel pool.  This sounded like a fun idea to me because earlier today I saw several hot ladies at the pool.

Unfortunately, my girlfriend napped all the daylight away.  All of it.  Every last glint of light.

I guess I could have gone down by myself.  But that could have been weird.  What if she had woken up while I was away.  What would I say when I returned?  How would I explain why I didn’t wake her up?  Would I have needed to explain anything?

I would like to think that she would trust me…even though I know full well that I wanted to go down to ogle some cuties.  I guess the question is whether or not she would be threatened by desire to see other women with almost nothing on.

I don’t know the answer to that question.  So I stayed in the room and read a bit.
Was that the right decision?  Who knows…

The Lure of Novelty

What’s so special about something that’s new?  Why are we so tempted to throw out the old and bring in the new?  Is the grass really greener on the other side?

Well, the grass sure feels, smells, and looks greener initially.  It is lush beneath your feet and it sneakily tickles between your toes.  At first it always smells freshly cut, you know, the refreshing summer aroma that only a lawnmower working its will on a lawn can create.  And boy does it look green…greener that any green you’ve ever seen — Granny Smith apple green.

However, you usually find out the the grass only stays green for a few days, weeks, or months.  Even worse, sometimes you find out the the green-ness of the other side was some sort of mirage that lured you out of your seeming desert into yet another parched landscape.  Soon the grass is bristly, smells of manure, and appears to be the color of the wood of an ancient fence.

But then there’s the time that the grass actually is greener.  Not only does it feel good…but it feels better than the most expensive mattress that money can buy.  It not only smells great…it’s bouquet is so tantalizing that every other scent you ever smell will fall by the wayside.  And it is so green that its color enlivens your very soul.

But on the original side of the fence the grass looks comfortable and dependable.  You know the paths that are cut through it.  You know how it sways when the wind blows.  Its smell makes you remember all sorts of pleasant memories.  Your memory of how it feels when you walk on it immediately brings you home.

What do you do?  Go back to the original grass and admire the greener grass?  Stay in the greener grass and fondly remember the not-quite-as-green grass?  Or make a choice and never look over the fence again…whichever side you are on.

I haven’t the foggiest.  But that greener grass is…wow…just wow.

Shitting Where You Sleep

Yesterday my dog took two massive dumps in her cage while I ran some errands.  I was only gone for an hour…but it was enough time for her to do her business.  This is odd because she has stayed in there for fifteen hours before without crapping.  So…why now?  Why is she starting to poop in her cage now?

Various theories have been thrown around.  1) She’s getting older…but is seven years old really THAT old?  2) She’s getting back at me for leaving her in her cage…why didn’t she do it before then?  3) I didn’t walk her prior to leaving her in there…that’s just bollocks because — I did!  4)  There is not really a reason…she’s a dog, she just does what comes naturally…duh.

Whichever theory is right is beside the point.  The main point here is that we, human beings that is, have a tendency to shit where we sleep too…metaphorically at least.  We date people at our offices.  We sabotage our relationships.  We cheat our family members.

My first inclination is that there must be something nefarious in our natures that causes us to do stupid things.  And while this is backed up by the evidence (i.e., every human does stupid stuff), I don’t think it is the real reason.

The real reason is not as philosophical.

We shit where we sleep because we hang out where we sleep…a lot.  Simple as that.  We hurt those we love because we are around them the most.  We date people at work because we are with them much of the time.

So the issue here seems more to be about proximity and not personality.  But this proximity idea means that we need to stay vigilant lest we mess up our lives and the lives of those closest to us.

Unless we pucker hard, a little poo will pop out…and it will most likely land right where we don’t want it to.

The Machine

I don’t think it can be denied any longer.  Tiger Woods is a machine.  He’s not a human.  His ability to focus despite the circumstances was already well known.  I mean, the guy won the 2008 US Open on a broken leg.  But the fact that after being off since November due to his sexcapades he is just two shots back halfway through the Masters in Augusta, GA is just insane.

What kind of person could do this?

What kind?  I’ll tell you what kind, a golfbot.

Earl Woods, Tiger’s “dad,” must have been tinkering around in the garage one weekend when he discovered the perfect golf swing.  Then he had to have figured out how to engineer a android that could grow from an infant to a full-sized man.  He must have created the perfect pigment to mimic the probable skin tone that would be created between himself and his Thai wife had they had a child naturally.  He must have installed software on this robot that would allow it to focus beyond what was believed to possible previously.

However, he must have made one mistake, namely the overactive sex drive of this Tiger-bot.  Who knows.  Maybe this robot’s libido is simply the payment for the swing and/or the concentration.  Or maybe it is the natural response of the success of the swing and concentration.  Either way, someone needed to update the droid’s software manually to account for this libido.

Apparently the man who was able to fix this sex drive gone wild lives in Hattesburg, Mississippi.  Is it just a coincidence that Brett Favre lives in Hattiesburg too?

I think not.

The Apology Heard ‘Round the World

The media circus that is Tiger Woods continued last Friday.  Tiger stood in front of a room of friends, family, and business partners to declare how sorry he was for his transgressions.  Conspicuously absent was his wife, Elin, who really was the only one personally harmed in this scenario (well besides Woods himself, his children [when they are old enough to understand], and the hoes he banged [in theory]).

By all accounts, Woods delivered his carefully-scripted apology in the style of a first-time preacher or a nervous junior in high school at his or her first debate competition.  After hearing and reading many comments on this matter, I can with a high level of certainty say that the most commonly used descriptor of Tiger’s demeanor during his press event was “robotic.”

The point of this blog though is not to point out the obvious – that Tiger is not a good public speaker – but to comment on how his apology sheds light on me and my relationships in my real world.  All too often I have found myself listening to or delivering an apology.  And just as often the person to whom the apology is directed says that the attitude of the one apologizing does not the words being spoken.

In fact, way too many times to count I’ve been accused of this very thing.  And rightly so.  Most of the time when I am apologizing I am simply trying to get through the weirdness of someone I like being angry with me as fast as possible.  Hell, I’m likely to say just about anything in those moments.

But on Friday a revelation occurred as I listened to Tiger drone on and on for some thirteen minutes.  As I watched his attitude, which seemed stiff and, at times, angry, fall into misalignment with verbal content of his apology, which seemed heartfelt, I couldn’t help but think of all the times the same has been true of me.

Hopefully Tiger’s apology will cause me to be more cognizant of my attitude when saying that I am sorry to someone for whom I care.  I think I would rather suffer through my loved ones being angry with me until I can honestly apologize with true sincerity…or at least until it will really seem like it.

No Redemption for You!

First of all, in order for the title of this entry to have its intended effect you have to hear it in your mind as if the Soup Nazi himself was shouting it at you.  If you have no idea what I’m talking about, well, I feel sorry for you.  And since I have such pity on you I have chosen to enlighten you.

Moving on, let me begin by making my shocking statement here at the beginning: I’m glad that Lindsey Jacobellis was disqualified a couple of days ago at the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver.  I wonder if I’m the only one who feels this way?  Does this make me a bad American since I’m a citizen of the U.S.A. and she was snowboarding for my country?  I’m not sure.  But I am certain that I am happy that she busted through that gate in a preliminary heat.

Here’s why: everyone deserves a second chance but it is good to be reminded that a second chance does not guarantee redemption.

Do you remember what Jacobellis did at the Olympics in Turin?  She had a huge lead going into the second-to-last jump of the snowboard cross, when she decided to stupidly pull a trick.  She infamously busted, got passed, and ended up having to settle for the silver medal.  It seemed pretty clear that she was showing off, so falling and losing the gold were appropriate consequences.

Now advance in time four years and Jacobellis is once again in the starting blocks in the Olympics.  Now for weeks prior to the beginning of the Games in Vancouver Jabobellis has been all over T.V. — on commercials (like this one for Visa) and doing numerous interviews.  The commentators all talked about her getting her second chance at Olympic glory, her shot at redeeming her stupid mistake in Turin.

So the moment finally came for Jacobellis to race again in the Olympics.  She was the favorite since she was coming off of one of her best season’s in snowboard cross ever.  But something happened in one of the preliminaries and she lost her balance just a bit.  Before she could fully recover she had run through one of the gates, which was grounds for disqualification.  Immediately everyone in the room with whom I was watching was sad, one woman even cried a bit.

“It’s just not fair,” my friend lamented.  I thought, Why is it not fair?  How many of us get second chances in real life?  Sure, I think we all usually deserve a second chance, but that doesn’t mean that we’ll automatically find the redemption that we want. But I didn’t say any of this.  I just kept my mouth closed and put on my patriotic pout.

I’m glad that Jacobellis barreled through that gate.  Her misfortune can serve as a reminder to us all that we aren’t guaranteed second chances and that when we get them they won’t necessarily bring us the redemption that we might want.  In fact, the larger lesson from Jacobellis’ situation is to not let the first chance slip through your fingers.

Well at least she’s cute and at least there’s always 2014.

Ass Wednesday

This evening my girlfriend and I attended an Ash Wednesday service at a local church.  This wasn’t at the church that we normally attend because it doesn’t follow the traditional Christian calendar.  Instead we went to a nearby Presbyterian church that some of our friends recommended.  They said that this church’s Ash Wednesday service had been meaningful to them last year.

I didn’t really care either way.  I grew up only celebrating Easter and Christmas at my church.  We didn’t pay any attention to the other Christian holidays because they were too Catholic…gasp!  But my girlfriend grew up in a more liturgical church setting so we compromised, which meant that I caved in.

When we got to the church things were pretty standard.  The lights were low and people were using the kneelers to pray.  There were a few candles lit which gave the room an odd glow.  There was a string quintet playing a beautifully somber dirge and the decorations on the main stage were sparse.  All of this was par for the course, or so I’ve been told.

When we found a seat one of our pew-mates had already pulled down the kneeler.  Of course, my girlfriend immediately kneels and begins to pray.  I’m not that inclined to do things the same way that everyone does, so I remained seated.  However, after a minute or two my girlfriend glared back at me and indicated with a head nod that she wanted me to use the kneeler too.

I complied, and I sm glad I did!  At first I tried to make a concerted effort to pray.  I began reciting the Lord’s Prayer in my head: “Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed by thy na—”  My girlfriend interrupted me with a little elbow jab.  She whispered, “Do you see that?,” while nodding with her head toward the pew in front of us.  I mouthed, “What?,” before looking up.

When I tilted my head up, however, I quickly discovered what all the fuss was about; namely, the ass of the woman directly in front of my girlfriend.  This woman was wearing a tight pair of jeans that had ridden down a bit, and the situation was only made worse by her kneeling.  Moreover, she was wearing a g-string – not a thong or a v-string, a g-string.

And this wasn’t just any ol’ g-string.  It was hot pink and the three strings connected in the back to a small gold ring, you know, the sluttiest kind imaginable.  There was only one other place that I can remember seeing a g-string like that: at Deja Vu Showgirls in City of Industry, CA.

Since I used to be a regular at Deja Vu, I tried to see if I recognized the woman.  I didn’t.  What was I thinking?  What are the odds that I would see a stripper at an Ash Wednesday service, especially one that I recognized by her panties?

This woman wasn’t anyone that I had ever seen before.  But over the next hour I saw a lot of her; well, at least her ass.  I tried to be sneaky about it because I didn’t want my girlfriend to notice, so I closed my left eye which was closest to my girlfriend, turned my head slightly toward the g-string-ed woman, and took in the view with my right eye.

I think it worked, unless, of course, my girlfriend finds and reads this blog entry.  Even if she does, who could blame me?  I mean that woman had a nice ass!

Needless to say, this was by far the most memorable Ash Wednesday service that I have ever been to!