Fantasy Football: Week 9: Still the Worst.

Fantasy Football is THE WORST

I'm fairly certain that I did not just crap in my pants.  Some days, that's all you can hope for.

What do you mean, "Where have I been?!"

It's a fair question, reader(s?), I'll admit.  Where have I been? 

The short answer is: busy.

Destructing and constructing things.

Going to France.

Eating my weight in these things.

Going to Las Vegas.

Taking a million pictures of our dog.

Among other things.

So, yeah, I've been busy.  But that's not an excuse to neglect you, my (faithful?) reader(s?).  I'm certainly not saying I won't do it again, however just know that whenever I'm away, it's for a good reason. 

In other news: I ate enough of those Oreos to give myself diabetes. Worth it.

Memory is a Funny Thing

At the office today someone asked if I knew of a good print shop to recommend to a customer who was thinking about having some custom communications made. 

I said, "I do, but it's been a while and I can't think of the name right now.  Give me a sec."  The name was right on the tip of my tongue, but I could not for the life of me remember it.  I thought hard for a while.  Then I thought as hard as I could and I came up with, "Tiger-something?" I said.  "It was something with Tiger in the name, I'm sure of it."

After a protracted period of time, I finally conceded defeat and looked through some old emails to try and track down the name of this mysterious feline-themed print shop. 

Bayside.  Bayside Printing was the name.  Why in the world was I thinking about Tigers the whole time?

I can only assume it's because this lot is working behind the counter:

On an unrelated note: I love you Kelly Kapowski...and your extremely high waisted pants.

This is the Most Amazing Thing I Have Seen in a Long Time

The Good Old Days?

I miss this phone:

Crazy, right?  Why do I even remember a decade-old piece of technology that can, in this day and age, barely even be referred to as 'technology' with a straight face?

The answer is: I'm not really sure. 

We were talking about old phones at the office today and when I got to this one I had a visceral feeling of loss at the sight of it.  I was genuinely sad and just sat and looked at this picture for a long time.  I don't have any specific memories of this phone; like a time the phone and I went bungee jumping or back-packed across Europe together or anything like that.  But it was like seeing a picture of a close friend who you have grown apart from.  And that is probably the source of my inexplicably strong reaction to this lump of plastic that just makes phone calls (that's it, no internet, no text messages, just phone calls.  And a calculator.): that this thing was the connection to a lot of people who were very important to me at the time who I no longer have any contact with today. 

On the other hand, I have plenty of good reasons (read: near death experiences, attempted felonies, binge drinking, etc) to distance myself from these people and besides, people grow apart all the time.  It's just a part of life.  I rarely ever give it a second thought.  And why would I only be upset by the sight of this phone and not any of the countless other personal communication devices that I have had prior or since?

Again, I'm not really sure.

This is probably just another symptom of my advanced age, along with sobbing uncontrollably at the stories of hardship and sacrifice relentlessly broadcast during Olympic season and having to admit to my supervisor (without a shred of dishonesty) that I can't be at work this morning because of a podiatrist appointment. 

Or maybe it's just the fact that I'm at an age where the list of people who have been pushed to the wayside and left behind is getting longer and longer and the list of people I choose to spend my limited amounts of free time with is getting shorter and shorter.

Joys of Home-Ownership

I've been a homeowner for three weeks now (please, hold your applause) so I think I am qualified to say having a house-to-call-your-own has its ups and downs. 

For example, C and I decided to paint the bedrooms on our own.  Four bedrooms, how hard could it be?

We finished one room (rather poorly) and called a professional to finish the other three. 

On the other side of the coin, we were having a problem with ants and rolly-polly bugs wandering in through the gaping hole between our front door and the door frame.  We sealed the gaps and cooked their little gooses.  And I do mean sealed.  The door no longer opens, but the feeling of satisfaction is indescribable.  And I didn't even have to pay anyone to do it for me.

So let this be a lesson to the other bugs out there in the neighborhood: it may be your goose that gets cooked next. 

The Hunt is (Already) Over

Well, we found a house.  It only took us a week or so.  I know, that's pretty quick.  What can I say?  Not only is my lovely wife one step beyond Type A, she has a little OCD mixed in for good measure. 

So we found the house.  And it's huge.  Too huge, really.  But it was too good of a deal to pass up. It's 3,200 square feet, with four bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms.  There are two living areas plus a large sunroom that essentially functions as a third.  We love it and we can't wait to move in.  The kitchen is a little smaller than we would like, so we've already started planning a remodel.  It's pretty exciting.

There is, however, one small drawback to this property; it's a little dated on the inside.

We bought it from the original owners who built it in 1973.  On the up side, houses built back then are much more sturdy than the houses being built today and original owners often take better care of their homes than second or third.  The downside is that it looks like the set of the Golden Girls right now.  Think pastel, coral colored walls with wicker furniture and floral print everywhere.  Floral...oh, so much floral.

It's like someone set up a timewarp right at the front door and the instant you enter the house you're immediately transported back to 1983.  It's pretty terrible, but at the same time kind of awesome.  I'm going to be a little sad when the furniture that belongs to the octogenarian current residents is gone and we've painted over the muted floral wallpaper.

Until then, here's a video tour of our new house.  Enjoy!

Let The Hunting Begin!

C and I are going to buy a house. 

Soon. 

Like, really soon.  Sooner than soon, really.  Like, now. 

It turns out buying a house is a pretty long process involving (among other things) tricking convincing a bank to lend you a sum of money so large it will take you 30 years to pay it back, finding a house in a neighborhood where your car won't get stolen out of your driveway, and negotiating the price of that house down to a number close to what the aforementioned bank will lend.  NBD, except our lease is up in the next couple of months and we have yet to start on the above list of grown-up activities.  Woops. 

But the time for dilly-dallying and procrastination is over.  House Hunt 2012 starts now!  Will we find the house of our dreams?  Will we end up homeless on the street?  Will the stability of our marriage be pushed to its very limits or even past its breaking point?  Or will we find something moderately priced with an open floorplan and good resale value in an established neighborhood with good schools?  Stay tuned!

Who was it that said, "You become that which you most despise"?  I may be paraphrasing, but the fact remains that I have taken one step toward becoming a full-on hipster. 

I downloaded Instagram.  And I love it.

It's like blogging, only I don't have to type anything.  Way faster and easier.  (See? I can't even write out full sentences anymore.) 

I am American, after all.  Why would I want to engage in the arduous task of formulating words to bore people with the details of my life when I have can just take a picture instead.  Boom.  1 picture = 1,000 words.  Instantly.  Instagramly. 

I hate myself.  But I love faux vintage photos.

You Know You're Getting Old When...

I woke up with an aching pain and stiffness between my shoulder blades three days ago and it still has not gone away.  I didn't hurt it at the gym or by lifting something heavy.  I guess I just slept on it wrong. 

You read right:  I sustained prolonged bodily injury while sleeping.

Getting old f'ing blows.

How Did I Get Here?

The internet is a wild and unpredictable place.  This morning I found myself reading an article that included the following paragraph:

Dampness caused by rainwaters began to consume the body very quickly. It was, therefore, quite easy to disattach the head from the rest of the body without violence. There was no need to actually "decapitate" Catherine as some have mistakenly believed and written. By means of tests carried out at the base of the skull the lack of the first few cerebral vertebrae has been discovered: this discovery confirmed the above-mentioned dissolution of the softer nerves and tendons which had already begun to take place, thus facilitating the separation of the head from the trunk. (Original Page)

So, because it's killing you to not know how I ended up there, here's a quick recap of how I went from "Houston Rockets" to "Severed Head" in less than 10 steps:

1. Houston Rockets - I received an email about an offer for discounted Houston Rocket tickets.  While reading, I thought to myself, "Where do the Rockets play?"

2. Toyota Center - Where the Rockets currently play.  However, they used to play at a different arena.

3. Compaq Center - Where the Rockets used to play, and where mega-church dude Joel Osteen currently holds...whatever he calls the massive gatherings of people who are throwing handfuls of money at him while listening to Jesus Rock music.  But Joel's congregation isn't the only mega-church in Texas.  There was one near my parent's house in Plano.

4. Prestonwood Baptist - It turns out the overall membership is 30,000 at Prestonwood, but the arena only seats 7,500 (compared to Joel's 20,000).  That's a tad bigger than the little Catholic church I attended when I lived there.

5. St. Catherine of Siena: Carrollton- Small Catholic church in Carrollton, Texas where I completed the majority of my sacraments.  It turns out that there are many other churches with the same name all around the country

6. St. Catherine of Siena: Austin - It turns out there is a church by the same name here in Austin, Texas where I am currently living.  What a coincidence, right? With so many churches named after Catherine, I thought maybe I should learn more about the actual person. 

7. St. Catherine of Siena: Siena - St. Catherine was born in Siena, however she died in Rome in 1380.  She was buried there, but the good folks of Siena wanted the body of their beloved fellow citizen interred in her home town.  But they couldn't get all of her (for reasons discussed above) so they settled on the "head-only" option.  Upon hearing hearing of this cerebral solution, I had to know more.  Where is the head kept?  Can you see it?  Is it totally gross?

8. Basilica Cateriniana San Domenico - Final resting place of St. Catherine's cranium.  See below.  And, for the record, it is totally gross.

What Have I Become?

I watched the Super Bowl this year.  From beginning to end.  I haven't been interested in a few years and I quickly remembered why. 

The NFL is devoid of likable players, for starters.  When they're not shooting up night clubs or running people over with their cars, they're standing around with their mouth hanging open looking like they have yet to produce even one human thought (I'm looking you Eli) on national television or marrying super models (what a cliche, Tom).  The Patriots got caught cheating.  Eli Manning is a sniveling brat.  It's hard to watch that kind of behavior being celebrated.  Plus the game was boring.  They'll have you believe that these guys are out there playing to win it all because they care about the game and the thrill of victory or whatever, but the truth is they get a huge pile of cash just for being in the game.  And that huge pile of cash is on top of the huge pile of cash they get even if they don't win a game all season.  For those of you whose memories don't go back far enough to remember the summer of 2011 (I know, that was a long time ago), this is the same humongous pile of cash that the owners and players were fighting over last year and that fight almost resulted in a strike that would have cancelled the whole season.  Whew!  Good thing they got that sorted out.  The last thing we need is for these moronic malcontents (to be clear, I'm referring to players and owners) to be less outrageously wealthy. 

And not only did I have to watch these jokers tediously sling the ball down the field for three hours, but then there were the lackluster commercials sprinkled throughout.  They weren't good this year.  But then, were they ever?  Who the hell is getting excited about commercials?  Maybe this year was worse because you could watch them all online before the actual game.  Kind of defeats the purpose of paying a trillion dollars or whatever the cost has gone up to for that thirty seconds of airtime, doesn't it? 

Then there was half time.  It was sponsored by a tire company.  Flashy.  Nothing says once-a-year, largest-audience-ever-in-the-history-of-television event like being sponsored by all weather radials.  Then an animated wax figure that sort of resembled Madonna slowly cartwheeled around the stage.  It was unbearable.  There was a middle finger hidden in there somewhere, or so I heard.  I didn't see it as I had already passed out from boredom by that time. 

C and I used Super Bowl Sunday as an excuse to eat a lot of junk food, drink beer and sit on the couch all day, which was fun.  But I just assume watch anything else while doing it. 

A couple weeks later, I watched the Grammy's.  What a train wreck.  Thankfully, it was recorded on the DVR and I could fast-forward through the parts that were terrible.  I watched Adele.  And that was pretty much it.  Beach Boys - fast forward.   Chris "Assault and Battery" Brown - fast forward (TWICE).  Sir Paul McCartney who, incidently, appears to have recently celebrated his two hundred and eleventh birthday - fast forward.  Niki Minaj's satanic cult ritual - fast forward.  The guy from Rhinestone Cowboy - you get the picture. 

Next is the Oscars.  Am I going to subject myself to that steaming pile of hog shit as well?  Probably.  It might not be terrible.  But if it is, I'm going to have to really start wondering if these events that I've never found so disgustingly unenjoyable in the past are actually getting worse as the years go on, or is all of this distaste just part of my evolution into a grumpy, constantly complaining old man?


**Update**

I intended to watch the Oscars (all 14 hours of them), however through devine intervention my DVR malfunctioned and did not record the event.  Miracles really do happen.

A (very tardy) Holiday Update: 2011 Edition

Well, we did it.  We survived.  This year's incarnation of The Holiday Season was not the most horrific on record, however it was still a challenge.  But, we persevered.  We made it through and now we can relax knowing that it will be 10 months before we have to do it again.  Here are this year's highlights:

Thanksgiving:
We did Turkey Day (I can't stand it when people call it that) Over Eating/Football Day at Mom and Dad's in Dallas.  The food was good, although in a move that shocked no one who is familiar with my family, we hand selected a $75 organic, free-range, antibiotic-free, hormone-free, non-genetically altered turkey who lived in a three story condo on the beach and received a shiatsu massage everyday of his life (until his untimely demise) and ... then we deep fried it in peanut oil. Why?  Because it's delicious.  Oh, you mean, "Why did we buy such an extravagant and expensive piece of meat when it was destined to taste like nothing more than delicious, fried deliciousness?"  No reason, really.

On an unrelated note, I turned 32 the Saturday after that fateful turkey frying extravaganza.  32.  We had a good time celebrating 32, but nothing as messy as 30.  Never again (hopefully).

Christmas:
Late December was a doozy this year; C's dad turned 65 the weekend before Christmas, so we made two trips down to the family lake house in as many weeks.  They're a nice bunch, but for some reason they refuse to use the dishwasher.

C's dad:  "Why do we need a dishwasher if we have you?"
Me: "Seven adults living in one house, eating three meals a day at the kitchen table, that ends up being  a lot of dishes."
C's dad: "Better get to work, then!"

Thanks, father-in-law.

Not that it would matter anyway.  Christmas is a time for the "Special Plates" to be used at every meal.  There are two sets of "Special Plates".  I'll let you guess how many of those sets are dishwasher safe. One set is made of pewter and the other set is older than I am.  Give yourself a hand if you guessed zero.

Me: "Why don't we use the dishwasher safe plates for, like, one meal a day?"
Father-In-Law: "It's tradition to use these dishes."

It turns out traditions are very important to the people who don't have to clean them.

So there I am, up to my elbows in everyone's food scraps scrubbing each antique salad plate and pewter serving dish three times a day.  Alone.

There is another son-in-law who you would suspect would be sharing in my sudsy agony, but he has a propensity for staph infections and can't risk having is face swell up like a balloon because he got a paper cut and then dunked his hands in some grimy dishwater.  So, because I have a fully functioning immune system, I get to wash by myself.  Hooray for being a modestly healthy, normal human with the ability to fight off minor infections!

Also, get some gloves, bro.  Problem solved.  On second thought, I'll get them for you.  Merry Early Christmas, I'm going to play Nintendo.

New Year's Eve:
I know we're getting old.  The most recent example was a conversation C and I had in late December.

Me: "What are we doing for New Year's?"
C: "Dunno.  Go out?"
Me: "Ugh, all those people.  Impossible to get a cab..."
C: "Stay in?"
Me: "I mean, it IS a single-person's holiday, but we can't just NOT do ANYTHING...right?  Right...?  Riiiiight...?"

Luckily, we were saved from our own lameness from some good friends who invited us over to their house for an amazing dinner and tons of wine.  Our delightful hostess roasted a 10 pound, bone-in prime rib and it was pretty spectacular.  We drank bottle after bottle of my friend's prized wine collection, which I felt bad about, but they were so delicious and he just kept opening them, what was I supposed to do?  It would have been rude not to chug them straight from the bottle.

We had a great time, watched the ball drop and when it was all said and done, we had stayed up later than the pregnant girl who was there, but not as late as my friend's 90 year old grandfather (who we had expected to go to bed early.)  He showed us.  And that goes to show you: you're only as old as you think you are.