Cholesterolapalooza 2010

Well, Cholesterolapalooza 2010 has come and gone, but unfortunately due to a court mandated gag order, I am unable to discuss anything that occurred at the event. I’m not even joking here. A few of us got arrested and were released on bail with the one stipulation being that we won’t discuss anything that happened at Cholesterolapalooza prior to our court date. I know many of you were looking forward to some details here, but this is all I’ve got. Sorry.

What I can do is let you know some of the dishes that were presented at this year’s event. Just like last year, and just as we’re hoping will be the case for years to come, there was a wide variety of bacony goodness inserted into every dish that we ate. Everyone put a lot of time and effort into their concoctions and we had a nice array of food to eat. Here’s a small sampling of what we ate

Bacon wrapped asparagus
Potato soup with bacon
Bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers
Caramel apples with bacon bits instead of nuts
Bacon vodka
Bacon, egg, and cheese strata
Green bean casserole with bacon
Bacon/cream cheese dip with pork rinds for dipping purposes
(There are more, but these are the ones that I am able today)

Beginning last year (which was our inaugural year), Carol decided to pass out awards for not only the best recipe, but also for the most creative. Because I’m so awesome, I won the award for best recipe with my bacon wrapped shrimp covered with raspberry jelly while my buddy Chris won MVP (Most Valuable Pork) with his Bacon Explosion (a delicious concoction of bacon, sausage, and everything else that totally embodies the entire spirit of Cholesterolapalooza). While my strata was not quite the hit that I wanted it to be (not one vote) Chris almost repeated as MVP with his bacon vodka. Unfortunately for him, he was upstaged by none other than his wonderful girlfriend Sarah and her…

Bacon Bourbon Ice Cream

I know, it sounds disgusting. Really, really disgusting. Even with my absolute love of bacon I was turned off at the thought of bacon flavored ice cream. And to make matters worse, it wasn’t even bacon flavored ice cream – there were actually chunks of bacon in there. I’ll let your stomachs sit on that for a bit while I tell you more about the other dishes.

Everything was delicious. I don’t eat asparagus, but in order to give a fair and accurate vote as to the best and most creative dishes I had to try everything (except for the green bean caserole. Sorry Melissa - I don't do caseroles. Ever). As a result I tried the bacon wrapped asparagus, the bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers, and the bacon based dips which I would never normally eat. They were all fantastic. I also ate the potato soup, the green bean casserole, and everything else on the table that had bacon on or in it (which was everything). As I was finishing my last bite of the potato soup, I was having a hard time picking a winner because everything was just so good. Since I wasn’t allowed to vote for my own recipe, I was leaning towards Carol’s dip because a) she’s my wife and she works really hard to get everything ready for the event, b) it was really good, and c) you had to eat it with pork rinds which I love almost as much as I love Lindsay Lohan. I walked inside knowing that even though I had two deserts to try yet (caramel apples and the dreaded bacon bourbon ice cream) I had pretty much made up my mind.

Well, was I in for a surprise.

I did not want to try the ice cream as the thought of bacon chunks in the best frozen dairy product of all time really grossed me out, but I made myself a bowl and was immediately shocked. It was absolutely delicious. I’m not sure if it was the bourbon flavoring or if it was the fact that after a few beers and a shot of the bacon vodka I was pretty accepting of anything, but it was really, really good. I didn’t fully trust it so I took another bite only to find that it was just as delicious as the first. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who felt that way as Sarah not only took home the MVP trophy, but she won the top prize of Best Dish as well. Well done, Sarah. Well done.

Other than that, the night was pretty tame. We ate, drank, played euchre, played asshole, threw all of our empty beer cans into our neighbors front yard in response to them parking a Nissan in ours the night before, drove around the block while it was raining at around 1:30am in our neighbors really old and barely working car with no headlights, windshield wipers, or power steering with my head out the window, Chris riding shotgun, and Jeff laying on the hood holding a flashlight so that I could see where we were going (don’t worry about our safety. Jeff was yelling “chugga-chugga-choo-choo!” the entire time so people would be able to hear us coming).

Needless to say, Carol and I had a great time and I hope that next year’s event is an even bigger success. Mark your calendars now for Oct 8, 2010. Cholersterolapalooza III will be bigger and better than ever before!!

Seriously, mark your calendars now. Everyone’s invited. No joke. Just bring a dish with bacon and you’re admitted. We have a numerous places to sleep around the house if you need to crash. Sleeping arrangements will be determined by level of attractiveness, state of inebriation, and ability to keep a secret.

Thanks for reading.

Jack of All Trades or Just One Big Jack Off?

Have you ever heard the phrase “jack of all trades but master of none?” I’m not so sure that I exactly fit the jack of all trades title, but I can guarantee you that I am a master of none. In fact, in most cases I know just enough about something to be dangerous.

Extremely dangerous.

Carol and I are currently in the process of doing a project outside our house that, once finished, is going to look awesome. As a matter of pride, I really wanted to handle this project from start to finish by ourselves to prove to us and others and we are fully capable of doing something of this nature. We’ve both been working very hard and have been spending a lot of our time and money into making this project a success. (I can’t tell you what the project is because I want to surprise my Dad with our accomplishment once we’re done.) Due to the fact that we rarely have free time together, we have had to do a lot of this project at night after Ben has gone to bed but I think that has made it even more special. We’re actually doing this together.

The problem, however, is that this project involves electricity.

Since I’m not all that versed at dealing with electricity and have a horrible history of breaking or losing (or having had stolen) any type of electronic gadget that I encounter, I figured that I should probably call in for some additional help with this one. Thankfully, my cousin Ryan is an electrician and was more than willing (as is a wonderful trend in my family) to help a family member out in a time of need.

I texted back and forth with Ryan and explained what I wanted to do and he told me that it should be really easy and that he would be able to come out on Wednesday (yesterday) to assist (do it all by himself) while I was still at work.

Now, had I been a patient man I could have let it go at that. The job wouldn’t be difficult and Ryan is fully capable of doing what I needed to be done. But as I’ve mentioned before, I’m a proud man and I can’t let someone work on a project of mine and Carol’s creation without being able to be there and not at least have some pre-work done for them. As a result, I ventured into the forbidden land of wiring.

It wasn’t like I was going into this blindly, however, as I had seen my father work with wires on numerous occasions. I had even attempted changing household outlets on more than one occasion with great success. I can’t say that my experience with the thermostat went wonderfully, but after 2 or three days in early summer heat of hot air blowing out of the vents whenever I turned the air on, I figured it out and our house is now as temperature controlled as it can possibly be.

But that stuff was a little easier than what I was attempting on Tuesday night. That night I had to cut wires and leave them overnight so that Ryan could work on them the next day. Now, when I say I “had to,” I really didn’t have to, but I really wanted to be a part of this so I did what I did. Just as I had watched and learned from my father, I knew to turn the breaker off, snip the wires with the appropriate tools, strip the conduit off and then cap the wires together so that they would be protected from the elements. So far, so good, right?

Well, there were two things that I hadn’t planned on being a factor and each played a role in what happened next.

The first thing was that once I had the wires capped I turned the breaker back on so that the other parts of my house that the breaker affected would have power. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but the switch that controlled the wires had, unbeknownst to me, been left on. Now, if you know anything about wiring (which, like I said - I know just enough to be dangerous) you know that as long as you have the wires capped, you can keep the power going to them with no problem at all. What I didn’t know though is what could have killed me.

After Carol had left the house to go meet up with some friends, I stepped out on to the back deck to get some fresh air. I had already been texting back and forth with Ryan to let him know what I had done to a) inform him that he wouldn’t have to worry about it, and b) to impress him with my advanced electricional (just made that word up) knowledge. While outside, I decided to wander over to the wires and see exactly how much slack we had to work with the next day.

Bad idea.

As I bent over and picked up the wires there was a huge pop, an even bigger spark, a sizzle, and the smell of burnt hair (it was my leg). I quickly looked around and noticed that some lights in the house were out, the dog was barking, and burnt leg hair really, really stinks. I immediately knew that I had done something wrong with the wiring (you think?) and that it had caused the breaker to pop. The good news is that I also knew how to fix it.

I went through the kitchen door to check on the switch, and sure enough, it was still on. I turned that off and then went down to the basement to check on the breaker, and sure enough, it had popped. I turned it off, waited a few seconds, and then turned it back on which caused all of the lights that had gone out to come back on. Good start. The question remained though, what had I done wrong?

I immediately went back to my phone to text Ryan. I had an idea of what I had done wrong as I had slightly questioned it as I was doing it, but I wasn’t sure. I knew, however, that Ryan would know what had happened and would be able to tell me how to fix it. This was our conversation:


Ryan: Cool, I’ll be there around 3:30. Leave a shovel out 4 me. And an address.

Me: 122 N 38th St. Do I need to turn the breaker off or just the switch? Also, should I cap the ground with the other wires?

Ryan: Nope, grnd dnt need a cap. And just the switch is fine.

Me: If I did cap the ground with the other wires, would it cause a spark and a popped breaker like what just happened?

Ryan: LOL. Yes!

Me: K. I’ll go fix that.

Ryan: : )

Me: I’m missing some hair on my leg now

Ryan: Dude! L!M!A!O!

Me: Sometimes I’m too proud for my own good.

Ryan: I’ll take care of you bud.



After admitting my blunder to Ryan and rubbing some lotion on my leg to cover up the burnt hair smell, I went back outside and (after checking that the switch was still off) recapped the wires while leaving the ground wire exposed. Ryan was then able to come over yesterday and finish up the job for me. Thanks again bro.

So, apparently there are some things that I still need to figure out about wiring – but I’m trying. Sure, Carol could have come home and found me laying unconscious in the yard due to electrocution, but she didn’t and that’s what’s important. Whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger right? Well after Tuesday night, I feel uber strong. On the other hand though, I’ve never claimed to be good at electricianing (yes, I made that word up too). In fact, it goes to further show that there aren’t a ton of things that I’m very good at, but when it comes down to it…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtMy5IBmX7E

Thanks for reading and thanks again Ryan. We’re just the next generation of helpers helping family. Let’s carry on that tradition.

I'm Here to Help

I am always looking out for the best interest of others. Additionally, I am always looking not only for ways to improve myself, but for ways to improve this great nation of ours. I feel that I was put on this earth to be a beacon – a guiding light if you will – to those in need of assistance whether it is mental, physical, or emotional help. So, when I hear of people in trouble, my mind (and heart) immediately start thinking of ways in which I can use my skill sets in order to help those troubled souls come back to not only a sense of inner peace, but to an environment in which they feel love and compassion. That is why I have decided to begin the next chapter and latest venture in my life:

Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center

I am aware that the title may be misleading as I am not an actual doctor, but neither are Dr. Dre, Dr. Seuss, or Dr. Kenneth Noisewater (re: Anchorman). Besides, I don’t believe that you need to have some silly piece of paper from some fancy college to prove that you are proficient at something. I’ve known for a long time that I am extremely skilled at expressing love and compassion. Are you telling me that because I have not gone to an accredited university, taken specific training classes, and received a degree that I can not practice this love? I think not. Therefore, Doctor it is.

Being a doctor, it has become increasingly obvious that the female celebrity faction of this country is experiencing a bit of an epidemic, and that epidemic is too much partying. Now, I’m not opposed to a good party now and then and I’m certainly not opposed to having a good time while you’re at said party. But these poor misunderstood ladies are being taken advantage of at these parties and it is affecting their lives in a very negative way. Because they are beautiful they are given things such as alcohol and drugs for free and these young women just don’t know how to handle it. My 5 step program will teach them everything they need to know about using their beauty to their advantage and staying away from the horrible vices that they can’t control.

For your benefit, I will outline the structure of my program so that you will understand how helpful it will be. Additionally, if you have heard of any recent female celebrities that may have gotten into a bit of trouble with John Q Public, then maybe you could do what you can to send them my way.










These are the rules:

1)The first rule of Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center is that you don’t talk about Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center.
2)No more than two patients at a time.
3)Hugs are required, not optional.
4)No whining.
5)Encouraging pats on the backside are to be accepted, enjoyed, and returned.
6)All patients must read me an excerpt from Penthouse Forum prior to tucking me into bed at night.
7)Eye contact with the Dr is prohibited at all times.


These are the steps

Step 1: My patients will be required to stay in my house.

Yes, my family and I live in a small house but we do have a basement. The basement is not finished and is infested with both spiders and crickets, but not so many that it is a health hazard. I will set up one cot in my basement and allow them to sleep there as long as they abide by the rules that have been set forth. My patients at the time can decide between themselves whether one will sleep on the floor or whether they should snuggle close together and share the same cot. Failure to abide by the rules will first result in a loss of blankets, pillows, and then items of clothing.

Benefits: This will allow them to appreciate the finer things in life. When I wake up in the morning to go throw my clothes in the dryroning machine, they will see how well rested I look and be jealous of their harsh surroundings. I also sleep in my underwear and walk down to the basement wearing just those (if even that) so they will learn to appreciate the use of their blankets and pillows as a tool to cover their eyes.

Step 2: I will enforce a very strict dress code.

I find that the designer clothes that they are accustomed to wearing may tend to be a distraction. It will not only remind them of their pampered lifestyles in New York, Los Angeles, or whatever entertainment mecca that they are residing in, but it will also remind them of the clubs and restaurants that they frequent which allow them to dabble in the drugs and alcohol that they are now experiencing problems with. As a result, I will enforce a strict dresscode of a white tank top, daisy-duke jorts, and black high-heeled shoes.

Benefits: Showing this much skin will give them a chance to examine their bodies and an opportunity to learn to appreciate it. This will teach them humility. Drugs and alcohol adversely affect the natural shape of one’s body and also bring on premature aging. Being able to see the early warning signs of this “body fatigue” will encourage these women to take better care of their bodies and further enhance the idea that a clean lifestyle is the right lifestyle. Breaking of any of the rules that I have set forth will result in loss of clothing items in order for them to see more of what they are doing to themselves. The high heels will be the last clothing item to go.

Step 3: They will do all of the household chores.

Seeing as I will be offering my home to them for free for the purpose of their healing, I will require that they perform household chores as a form of payment. They will be required to make the beds, do the laundry, dust, vacuum, mow the lawn, clean the bathroom and kitchen, cook, and keep the house in generally excellent condition.

Benefits: Having them work both physically and mentally towards their recovery will teach them a sense of responsibility. They will learn what goes into a normal person’s life and make them appreciate gift of the pampered lifestyle that they will no doubt be returning to even more. Also, providing them with a daily schedule of what task must be completed by what time will get them into a routine of sobriety that they can take with them when they leave my facility. Failure to complete the chores within the given time frame will be met with punishment such as washing our cars using soap and nothing but the clothes they are wearing as rags. This will teach them to appreciate what they’ve been so graciously given.

Step 4: They will be required to babysit Benjamin while Carol and I go out in the evenings.

Healing doesn’t just happen during the daylight hours. Healing is a 24/7 process that must be constantly addressed. Just because they are done with the household chores does not mean that they are done healing for the day. Ben is a good boy who is very adept at using his imagination and playing by himself, so taking care of him should not be much of an issue for them. All they have to do is play with him, read him books, give him baths, and put him to bed. While they are doing this, Carol and I will be going out to dinner and having many drinks at local bars to celebrate the good work that we are doing for these misguided ladies.

Benefits: Childcare is not easy. Along with all of the wonderful aspects of parenthood come the unfortunate temper tantrums, hitting, and general disregard for anything you have to say to them. Being a part of raising this child and seeing the negative aspects will remind these women that drug and alcohol abuse often lead to wild, crazy, unbelievably hot but sometimes unprotected sex. This sex could lead to an unwanted pregnancy and the additional baggage of having a douchebag such as Kevin Federline father the children and, as a result, remain on their payroll for the rest of their lives or at least until the child turns 18. This is sex education at its finest. Now, I know the question of leaving my child with the likes of a recovering female celebrity may seem a bit misguided on my part, but I will use the funding I get from the US Government to install high tech HD cameras all over my house – especially in the shower area where most addicts are likely to relapse – to monitor the proceedings. All of their proceedings during the day will be recorded and carefully observed on the monitors that are set up in my bedroom prior to me going to sleep at night. Additionally, in my absence I will have trained security personnel (mostly my buddies or anybody willing to make a donation to the “female celebrity recovery fund”) on hand to personally hand out the appropriate punishment should they ladies get out of line.

Another aspect of this is that they will be required to get up many times during the night to either take Ben to the bathroom, cover him up, or make French toast for Carol and I as we stumble in the house drunk off our asses at 3:00 in the morning. The benefit of this is that I will have French toast.

Step 5: The Challenge

Now, over the course of their recovery the ladies may happen to come across a refrigerator full or beer, a bag of weed in my underwear drawer, a few bottles of various uppers and downers in the toe of my snow boots in the back of my closet, or an 8-ball of cocaine hidden in the container of drill bits which is in the tool box in the workshop area of my garage. These are here strictly as a test for these young women. Should they find them, they are to return them directly to me and not say a word to Carol about them.

Benefits: The benefit of this is that it will prove them to be trustworthy. By not telling Carol that they found these items, they are showing me that our bond is a close one and that they have accepted me as their healer. I will simply ask them to bring the items to me, watch as I do them so that they see how stupid they look, and then return to their cot for some meditation.

Should they choose to break the rules though and utilize these items for their own personal use, our sexcurity cameras (oops, I mean security) will catch them in the act. Such an act would be considered a failure in their recovery program and would result in them having to start the 60 day healing and recovery process all over again. They would further be punished by being forced to go out and replace anything that they may have drank/smoked/swallowed/snorted by midnight that night. I only have so much – for the purposes of the test, that is.


Recovery: Should the ladies get through this 60 day process without breaking any of the rules, they will be forever cured and ready to rejoin society as a fully contributing member. There will also be a graduation ceremony filled with joy and a shitload of beer. Being fully recovered, they will ignore the beer and simply revel in the fact that me and all of my buddies are getting hammered in their honor. I fully expect these ladies to go on to prosperous music, television, movie, and even political careers. I only hope that when they do reach the pinnacle of their fame that they remember the one man that helped them achieve this success. I hope that they look back and realize that attending Dr. DJ Awesomesauce’s Female Celebrity Rehabilitation Center was the start of their new life – a life full of hope, love, and fulfilled dreams.

Now, if someone could start planting bags of coke in the purses of these women http://scottchronicles.blogspot.com/2010/06/top-five.html, I’d greatly appreciate it.

Thanks for reading.

The Be All End Zone

In honor of my cousin Jamie’s 34th birthday, I would like to dedicate this blog to her and how in one quick utterance, she prevented me from being cool for the rest of my life.

The story goes like this:

Back in grade school, there wasn’t much to do on the weekends. You could have sleepovers, go to the mall, or go to the movies. Outside of those three options (at least in my sheltered little world) there was not much else to do unless you wanted to spend time with your parents. And at the ripe old age of 12, that is the last thing that anyone wanted to do. At the beginning of September, however, and for the next three months there came an option that if you chose it and if you did it right, you could stake your place in the world of popularity for the rest of your life.

The Althoff Catholic High School football games.

Being a small Catholic high school in Belleville, IL, Althoff did not have the funds to have their own football stadium. As a matter of fact, all three high schools in Belleville were forced to share one local field which just happened to be about a mile down the road from my house. On any given weekend night in September through November, you were more than likely able to drive by the small stadium and catch a glimpse of the scoreboard and of the overhead lights. In fact, if the wind was blowing the right way on one of those nights, I could even open my bedroom window in my parent’s house on Route 13 and sometimes hear quite clearly the sound of the announcer belting out “Touchdown.”

The inside of the dilapidated old stadium (which is still in use) consisted of the typical four sides to sit on, but where you sat was not really an option as the seating chart had been clearly defined through some sort of edict of yesteryear. On one side sat the visiting team’s fans which was usually fairly scarce unless two of the three high schools that shared the stadium were playing against each other. On the other side sat the home team’s fans which, during the Althoff games, consisted of faculty, the player’s family and friends, and on the very far end, the student section. At the end zone by the entrance gate, you would commonly find various stragglers and people who just wanted to catch a high school football game for the evening. The seats behind the other end zone, however, were the seats to have. For a grade school kid, sitting in that section was a big deal. That was the section where you wanted to be. That was the section that housed – the popular kids.

I don’t know what made this the popular kid section or what even made these kids popular, but as if nature had decreed it, these were the majority of the kids that went on to the various Belleville high schools and were in the “popular” crowd. Was it money? Looks? Pedigree? The fact that even though the Midwest autumns sometimes got freezing cold, none of them in the section would dare wear a heavy coat and would instead stand there in their uber popular nylon Nike jackets with their teeth chattering until a couple of fillings came out? I really have no idea. What I do know is that back then being able to sit in this section was a big deal. If you were there as an 8th grader, your ticket was as good as punched for the popular crowd during your freshman year of high school - and everybody wanted to be there.

I wanted to be there.

Sure, there were other ways to be popular, but this was the only one that I was aware of at that point in my life. I was in 7th grade and knew from going to a few games with my parents that the far endzone looked like a lot of fun (we would usually sit with the stragglers). I would often pass it on my way to the concession stand in the hopes that somebody would think “hey, that guy looks pretty fun. Let’s invite him up to our land of cool and see how he fits in.” Unfortunately, as I passed I would see guys that I played basketball or baseball against, but because my acumen at both sports was somewhat forgettable, I was never noticed. It also didn’t help that I was in the 7th grade. Sure, there were 7th graders up there, but they were being groomed by the 8th graders to rule the end zone for the next season. This was a time honored tradition and the hand-picked 7th graders that got to go up there were a select few. I was not so select.

One Saturday night, however, I decided that I wanted to be in that crowd. I had to be in that crowd. If I was ever going to make a mark for myself, now was the time. My parents weren’t going to the game, but they were never opposed to dropping me off at the stadium to watch. My dad would always listen to the games on the radio, so whenever they were over, either he or my mom would drive the short distance up the street, pick me up at our predetermined designated location, and drive me home (these were the days before cell phones so a predetermined location was a necessity). Anyway, before the game I got into the coolest clothes that I had. I put on my stone washed jeans, my Notre Dame sweatshirt, my Notre Dame hat, my Althoff jacket, and my Converse basketball shoes (which were forbidden to be worn anywhere other than the gym floor for fear of losing their traction). I was looking cool (so I thought) and ready to go. The only thing I needed was a little bit of courage and an “in” to the cool section - and I had it in my cousin Jamie.

Jamie and I are only three months apart in age, but because she had a late birthday and I had an early one (in academic standards), she was a year ahead of me in school. She also had an advantage over me because whereas she went to Cathedral grade school which excelled in many grade school sports (another shoe-in for popularity), I went to St. Mary’s which excelled in getting our asses handed to us by schools like Cathedral. At this point in time, Jamie was in 8th grade and hung out not only with popular kids, but in the popular section at the football games. I had seen her there during past games on my way to the concession stand, but the last thing I had wanted to do was to flag her down like a dork from the walkway and bring unwanted attention to myself. I wanted to be invited into the section, not brought up out of pity.

Well, maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon on that.

On that night, I purposely got there early and walked around “the section” while keeping an eye out for Jamie. The section never filled up very quickly so it would be easy to spot her, and if she got there early enough and I made myself noticeably visible (I was 6’2” and built like a beanpole so I was fairly easily spotted) maybe she would see me and start talking to me. Sure enough, Jamie got there and immediately went over to the popular section to begin talking with her friends and I casually walked back in forth in front until she saw me.

According to my plan and reliance on Jamie being a kind soul, as soon as she spotted me she invited me up to come sit by her. Now what the popular kids didn’t realize was that being invited up was a huge deal. They had pretty much always been there or been expected to be there so it was as commonplace as brushing their teeth to them. But to someone like me - a gangly, gawky 7th grader with not a cool bone in his body - this was a huge deal. Jamie politely introduced me to all of her friends, but I was so nervous (and cold because it was a chilly night but as I said before, no one would be caught dead wearing a heavy coat) that I couldn’t have told you their names five seconds after I was introduced.

As the conversation progressed, I was starting to feel a little better. They were all talking and I was nodding my head for fear of opening my mouth to say something stupid which would get me immediately evicted from my seat of prominence. New people would come by, ignore me, and begin their conversations with the other popular kids. I tried to listen to what they were saying about who was dating whom and who just got what cool thing, but I didn’t know any of the names and chose to remain silent. I wasn’t being openly involved, but I wasn’t being shunned either. This was a good start and I was on my way to certain popularity.

That’s when it happened.

I guess I should mention at this point that it cost money to go to the games. It cost money to get in and it cost money for sodas and snacks. Actually, I was getting to the point in my life where I was constantly asking my parents for money for whatever in the hell it was that I spent money on in the 7th grade. As a result, my parents got me a job. It wasn’t a hard job and certainly didn’t break any child labor laws, but it did put a little bit of money in my pocket. The job consisted of going across the street to our neighbor’s house every other Saturday after I saw a UPS truck make a delivery, and help unload boxes, put together orders, and stamp about 500 books with a due date for the next order. Our neighbor was an Avon representative and both my sister Melissa and I were grateful for the few dollars that she would pay us for helping her out.

Well, apparently being in the 7th grade and having a job was the talk of the family. Seeing as nothing ever has been or ever will be able to be kept a secret on my Dad’s side of the family, I don’t know why I was surprised. In fact, I didn’t even think it was that big of a deal until Jamie brought it up at the football game.

Now, anyone who knows Jamie knows that she has a big mouth. God love her, but she will say whatever is on her mind whenever she wants to say it. And, the meaner that little thing is that she wants to say, the more evil her smile gets prior to saying it. I didn’t know this back then, but that night I learned the smile and will never forget it.

I’m not sure how the conversation started or even how it got to that point, but the basic gist was that Jamie told me that she’d heard I got a job. Me, being proud of the fact that I was gainfully employed and thinking that it might impress her very cute friends, went right along with her and began describing what I did. It was at this point as Jamie and her friends listened that Jamie began to get that evil smile on her face. I didn’t know what it was about so I kept going on with my story. When I had finished and was beaming with pride at how grown up and cool I sounded, I noticed that Jamie’s smile had gotten even bigger. I still didn’t know what was was going on until she looked directly at me and said quite clearly while raising her voice so as to be heard by everyone within a 20 foot radius, “so, you’re an Avon Lady?”

Being as calm and cool as I have always been, my face and ears reddened and I stumbled over my own tongue as I tried to disqualify what I did as being an Avon Lady. Unfortunately, no matter how much I protested and how much I fought, all of the girls that were listening began referring to me as “Avon Lady.” In fact, anyone within earshot was now calling me Avon Lady. People who hadn’t even heard the story about what I did for a job and had only heard Jamie’s announcement were calling me Avon Lady. Scott had ceased to exist, DJ Awesomsauce was twenty years from coming to fruition, and I was known for the rest of that night and all future games that I dared show my face to that season as Avon Lady.

Thanks a ton Jamie.

I’m not sure if I ever became “popular.” I know that I wasn’t invited to all of the cool parties in high school, but I did have a ton of fun hanging out with the friends that I did have. I did receive a vote (or several, for that matter) of confidence by being elected first to Junior class president and then to Student Council President, but I think that was just because I had a great ass. And, in hindsight, maybe it was the best thing for me. Had I joined the ranks with the popular end zone kids, my life may not have turned out like it did. I’m not saying that it would be better or worse, but it might be different and I’m not so sure that I would like that. I like my life and the way it turned out. In fact, I love it.

So Jamie, what I’m trying to say twenty years later, is that I forgive you for ruining my life at the time and making me cry myself to sleep every time that I think about it. I forgive you for making me feel like an outcast and for making me quit that job therefore starting a never ending trend in my life of quitting things as soon they get too difficult. I forgive you for figuratively stomping on what little self confidence I may have had as a fledgling youth and crushing all of my hopes and dreams of being accepted not by just the popular kids, but by everyone. And lastly, I forgive you for being as evilly brilliant as you are. It took me years to figure out that being mean to someone can be way more fun than simply telling a joke while you had that figured out by the 8th grade.

Bravo, Jamie. Bravo.

And happy birthday.

Thanks for reading

Love,

The Avon Lady

Did You Miss Me?

After a much needed break from entertaining the masses with my highly comical yet extremely insightful blog, I have returned from my hiatus with absolutely nothing to talk about. Nothing at all. In fact, I debated whether or not I should even attempt to write one today as after such a long layoff, my devoted readers would be expecting more of my champagne quality humor at an even more elevated level due to the time I’ve had to contemplate my next entry. Unfortunately for you, the best I can do is give you…






More randumb thoughts.

I am destined to win $500 sometime soon on Rewind 103.3. I entered my name online and every week day at 9:00 am, noon, and 3:00 pm they draw and announce a name. Once my name is called I have 10 minutes and 33 seconds to call in and claim my prize. To be on the safe side, I’ve been calling the number three times everyday at 9:05 am, 12:05 pm, and 3:05 pm to ask if they had called my name just in case. If anything, they’re going to either purposely draw my name or just give me the $500 so that I leave them the hell alone. This plan can’t fail.

Is it wrong that I am in the process of convincing my son to start referring to me as DJ Awesomesauce?

I changed the water in Fishy McFisherson’s bowl this weekend. Unfortunately, even though I used tap water and didn’t put the drop of water purifier in the tank like the instructions recommend, the little bastard still didn’t die. I even “accidentally” dropped the poor guy on the family room carpet right in front of the dog and even she wouldn’t kill it. This fish will never die.

Speaking of my dog, she is the worst “dog” ever. She’s a very good girl and well mannered, but in terms of being a dog, she’s horrible. She can be laying on the deck looking at a rabbit hopping through the back yard and not even budge. She should be chasing those things down and eating them, but instead she just looks at them and will only give them a half-hearted chase if she’s prompted by Carol or me. Of course, she may just be too fat to get up. She does have a thyroid problem…

Regarding rabbits, I am on a mission to destroy any and all rabbits that enter my yard. At first they were cute and Ben was impressed by them, but they have proceeded to eat half of the hostas that I have growing in my front yard and I am now sick of them. As mentioned in previous blog entries, my lawn care skills are minimal at best (I even had to look up how to spell “hosta” – and I’m still not sure it’s correct) so the fact that I even know what those plants are called is amazing. I’ll be damned if some furry little reproduction machine is going to eat them all. It’s time to break out a lawnchair, 12 pack of Stag, and my slingshot.

My cell phone finally broke and I was forced to buy a new one. It had been literally hanging on by a thread for the past 3 months, but it finally broke in two pieces and I was forced to get a new Samsung Intensity II. Never heard of it? That’s not a surprise as when I asked for a non-smart phone (as I am non-smart) that didn’t require a data package, I was pointed to a dark staircase which went down two flights of stairs leading to an elevator that would take me down another 3 floors to the basement where they I was led along a dingy hallway with bare fluorescent light bulbs hanging from the ceiling and mold growing on the walls to a back room where they had a small table of four phones that I could choose from. Damn you technology and your discrimination against those of us who aren’t “tech savvy.” To piss the salesman off for making me feel ignorant, I didn’t even buy the accessory package which not only messes up his items per sale, but also his dollars per transaction (see Carol, I do listen to your stories about work).

Carol and I have been joking for a long time that we would either have another child or Carol would get a boob job. With Ben’s recent behavioral problems, it looks like we’ll be having twins.

I keep seeing on CNN.com all of the updates on the Chilean miners. It seems kind up dumb to me that they’re trapped down there in the first place. Don’t they know that chili grows on trees?

My buddy Jim asked me the other night what it took to get a mention in one of my blogs…

My buddy Jim is the proud owner of not one, but two, very nice Ford Mustang Shelby’s. I’d go into all of the specs that he tells me about to convince you how freaking awesome that these cars are, but I honestly have no clue what he’s talking about. Now, I’ve heard about guys buying fast cars to make up for a lack of size in a certain crotchular area, but Jesus Jim, how small does it have to be to require TWO Shelby’s?

You’ve now been mentioned…

By the way, I drive a 1993 Buick LeSabre which is not a fast car at all. Take that for what it’s worth.

Cholesterolapalooza is right around the corner. For those that don’t know, Cholesterolapalooza is an event that Carol and I started last year in which all of the attendees bring a dish that must include the bestest and tastiest meat product known to man – bacon. Yes, we eat a ton of bacon which is probably not the best thing health-wise for us, but one of the by-products is that you consume so much grease that it is almost impossible to get drunk no matter how much you drink, thereby saving your liver. If you are free on 9/25 come on by and participate. Last year was a blast and I’m sure this year’s will be also.

We’ve also determined that next year’s event will be held on a different weekend. Somehow we forgot again this year and picked the weekend where I think either three of four of our friends all have birthday parties for their kids. It’s not intentional guys, we’re just not that good at remembering things.



Apparently, Lady Gaga wore a dress made of meat to the VMA’s this past weekend. I’m all for being outrageous, but that’s just plain disgusting. No joke here, I just wanted to say how freaking gross that really is.

While we’re on the subject of the VMA’s, I watched a video of Justin F*cking Beiber’s performance from the event. Gotta say, I just don’t get it. She’s not even that cute. Maybe I’ll change my mind once she gets her boobies.

I’m going to the Cardinals/Cubs game tomorrow night with my buddy Chris. As he reminded me last night via text once I mentioned that the game didn’t have the same feel as a normal Cards/Cubs game, it’s been since before 2003 that neither one of them has been in first place this late in the season. All I have to say is, c’mon Cardinals – you can’t always rely on the Cubs to win the division. You have to do your part once in awhile too…

I need a toy moose for my desk. I already have a chimpanzee, a penguin, and a pig. I now need a moose to add to my collection.

They just announced a name for the $500 winner on 103.3. It wasn’t me. I’ll call in a few minutes to verify that.

I was forwarded an email of “inspirational” posters and came across one that made me LOL (see, I’m hip). It said “Blogging – Never have so many people with so little to say said so much to so few.” Yep, that’s about right.

I’ve just been threatened by the employees of 103.3 that if I continue to call, my name will be withdrawn from the competition. My plan is working to perfection.

The other night at around 7:30, Ben asked me if he could have a banana. Realizing that he goes to bed at 8:00 and that the natural sugars in a banana would make it difficult for him to fall asleep, I told him no. He then asked for an apple which based on prior reasoning resulted in the same response. Knowing that he was hungry, however, and not wanting him to go to bed on an empty stomach, I gave him a bowl full of chips. And THAT my friends, is why I am DJ Awesomesauce.



Thanks for reading.

Cartoons, Birds, Tubas, and Weed...(and a little Polka)

This is dedicated to Erin. Ask and you shall receive.




It had been a long season of touring for the Hayes Boys and Herb was getting a bit bored. For the past 6 months he and the band had been playing every Saturday night at various chicken and beer dances, birthday parties, and retirement home singles nights. And every night they played the same polka hits time and time again. It was now entering Octoberfest season and if Herb was going to make it through another two months of this grueling schedule, something was going to have to change.

He had entertained the idea of quitting or at least taking some time off, but he knew that ever since the horrific death by Tuba at the Shriners parade of their original lead singer, accordion player, and patriarch John Hayes two years ago, the Hayes Boys had had a difficult time replacing him. It wasn’t until they had discovered Herb in his original polka band Herbie and the Herbstreet Herbcats that they had found what they were looking for. Since that time, some of the other Hayes Boys had retired or passed on, but Herb had remained, knowing how important he was to the band.

But if he couldn’t take any time off, he knew that something would have to change. Something would have to be drastically different. He finally decided that rather than go on feeling trapped, he would gather the two remaining original Hayes boys, John Hayes and John Hayes, and have a conversation regarding the monotony of their schedule.

As per usual, John and John arrived together (smelling oddly of marijuana and Schlitz) and sat down at the VFW hall bar right next to Herb. Herb began “Boys, you know I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and I really love playing with the Hayes Boys, but I’ve gotta say, I’m getting a little worn out. All we do is play the same polka songs – and let’s face it, they all sound the same – every rootin’ tootin’ week, and quite frankly it’s boring me to tears.”

“Oh” said John.

“I see” said John.

“What I guess I’m getting at fellas,” said Herb with a bit of uncertainty “is I think we need to change it up a bit.”

“Oh” said John.

“I see” said John.

“Well,” said Herb “do you have any ideas?”

John and John looked back and forth at one another a few times, giggled a bit, and then ordered a beer each. After a few minutes of waiting for a response, Herb asked them again, “Well?”

“Well what?” asked John

“Yeah, what?” said John

“Ideas! Do you have any ideas?” Herb repeated.

“For what?” asked John

“Where’s are the damn pretzels?” asked John.

Disgusted, Herb was ready to walk out of the VFW to his 1993 Buick Lesabre and go home never to think about the band again, but as is normal with anyone his age, he had to use the bathroom first. After numerous attempts to get a steady stream going without the burning sensation that he’d had since his tour of duty in Korea, Herb finally finished and exited the restroom.

Upon his exit from the bathroom, Herb was greeted by a joyous “Herb!”

As he looked around, the only other people in the VFW were John Hayes and John Hayes. Although he had just spoken with them 5 minutes ago, they reacted as if he had just gotten there and greeted him as such. After a few handshakes and “how ya doin’ you old fart” comments, Herb bellied back up to the bar to continue/begin his conversation with them.

“Herb,” said John. “We’ve been talking.”

“Yeah, “ said John “we think our act is getting a little stale and we need to change it up a bit.”

Herb looked at them in astonishment. “That’s what I was just saying to you not five minutes ago” he replied. “Do you not remember me sitting here and talking to you?”

“Herb, you old con artist” said John.

“Always trying to pull one over on us,” said John.

“Anyway,” said John “we were thinking about making a change. Now, we’ve discussed a few different things we can do, but we’re gonna leave the final decision up to you.”

“So the way we see it,” said John, “is that we need to do something to get this shindig hopping. We want something that is going to get the kids talking about us.”

“Yeah,” said John. “Dad always wanted to get more kids at our shows but he didn’t know how.”

“Oh great!” said John with tears welling in his eyes. “Why’d you have to bring up Dad? Now you’re going to get me crying.”

“Well,” said John “you’d better not start crying because then I’m gonna start crying. And you know darn well that Dad never wanted us to cry.”

“There you go bringing up his name again” said John, tears now streaming down his cheeks. “If it weren’t for that damn careless tuba player, poor old Dad would be sitting here right next to us enjoying this beer."

“To Dad,” said John, raising his glass.

“To Dad,” said John, raising his glass in turn and toasting his brother.

Herb looked on in amazement. He had dealt with John and John a lot over the past two years and had seen this scenario play out before. Any mere mention of their father and his untimely passing was sure to bring about tears and drinking and cursing of the tuba player who they blamed for prematurely ending his life. And inevitably, they would end up telling the story.

“Why did they have to place us so close to that high school marching band?” asked John to no one particular.

“Those young kids don’t even know how to handle their instruments,” said John to the same no one.

“If only Dad could’ve held off peeing until the next break, then he might still be with us”

“But you know Dad’s bladder. If it wasn’t being filled, it was being emptied.”

“To Dad”

“To Dad”

“How in the world does a bird fly into a tuba”

“You’d think that the noise from the parade would’ve scared the damn thing away, but nooo, this one had to fly right into that young boy’s instrument.”

“If that had been me and my tuba, I would’ve simply turned it upside down and tried to shake it out.”

"You don't even play the tuba and you know that."

“Even so, I don’t get how anybody could have the lung strength to blow a live bird out of a musical instrument at that velocity”

“And with such precision too. Poor Dad, died of a bird beak to the heart. He deserved a much better fate.”

“To Dad!”

“To Dad!”

The tears were now flowing and John Hayes and John Hayes were holding each other in a brotherly embrace.

“I still watch Fat Albert all of the time,” said John. “It was Dad’s favorite show.”

“Well you should,” said John. “It’s a fantastic show chronicling the adversities of African American children growing up in a financially strapped urban environment. Although it was there for comedic value, it also spoke wonders of the problems in American society and how the African American culture had to deal with it. It was well ahead of its time as both a comedy and a social essay.”

“Dad just liked the opening,” said John.

Growing tired of this conversation between John and John, Herb paid his tab and walked out of the VFW. He loved being a part of the Hayes Boys but knew that this would be his last tour. After the Octoberfest portion of their schedule, he was going to hang up his accordion and relax for awhile. Maybe, if he was lucky, he may even go to a few Hayes Boys shows and possibly meet a girl of his own to polka with. It had been a long time, but he was sure he was still up to the task.

But, before that he had business to take care of. Herb decided what he needed to do in order to change things up, thank the Hayes Boys for letting him be a part of their life, and pay tribute to the original John Hayes for the wonderful band that he had put together.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XtmuXWCFQzE

And of course, after the song, John Hayes and John Hayes cried.

Hey Hey Hey!!

Thanks for the link Jamers.

And thanks for reading.

Nothing Left to Say

He had never in a million years thought that he would get back on that horse– but the time had come.

The year was 1988 and in Moscow, Russia young Mitslov Kologrivov had been making a name for himself in the entertainment industry. After graduating high school he immediately began dancing in the Saint Petersburg Ballet, a longtime dream of his, but was soon dismissed due to his enormous genitalia. Rumor has it that while all of the female dancers were begging to be his partner, the seamstress was having a difficult time creating patterns and costumes that would mask his mighty manhood. After having trained for ballet his entire life only to be thwarted by the Russian Nightmare that he was hiding in his jockeys, Mitslov began thinking of other avenues in the entertainment business that he could pursue.

One day, while sitting in Red Square watching a juggling act, he noticed that the barker was having a difficult time getting the audience’s attention. Mitslov noticed that no matter how loud the barker made his voice, it just didn’t have the right tone. There was nothing compelling or extraordinary about it at all. Being the owner of a deep, yet pleasant voice, Mitslov made the decision to approach the barker and offer his assistance. Within seconds of picking up the megaphone and shouting for the audience to come and witness the amazing Kiprisov Brothers Juggling Act, the corner was filled with people watching and listening in amazement at the performers in front of them. The Kiprisov Brothers quickly dismissed their previous barker and hired Mitslov on the spot for a salary of two pieces of bread per week. Mitslov had found his calling.

After working with the Kiprisov Brothers for a few years, Mitslov began exploring other avenues in which he could lend his vocal talents. He began doing radio voice over work for clothing items such as hats and coats, and then eventually transitioned into television commercials for restaurants such as McDonalds. Before he knew it, Mitslov had so much radio and TV work to do that he had to quit the Kiprisov Brothers in order to make time for it all.

Additionally, young Mitslov was earning quite a living for himself. He was quickly becoming the face of Russian television and it was expected amongst the entertainment insiders that he would soon become the next big Russian star. He now had his own nightly talk show and was a frequent host for television events such as the Russian Grammys (The Rammy’s) the Russian Oscars (The Roscars) and the Russian Opry Independent Dancing awards (The Roids). He was so popular, in fact, that they were in talks to make a movie about his life in which he would both produce and star in. Mitslov Kologrivov had made a name for himself.

Not only did he have fame, but he also had fortune. Mitslov was living in a huge house and was constantly surrounded by beautiful women and countless other celebrities. He was a favorite of the media and was often photographed driving luxury cars and having outrageous parties. He was living the life.

Unfortunately, with fame comes the seduction of an unhealthy lifestyle. Like many before him and the many that will follow, Mitslov began dabbling heavily in prescription drugs and alcohol. After awhile of abusing those items, Mitslov started experimenting with heavier things such as cocaine and heroin. At first he would only use when it was convenient and never let it affect his jobs, but inevitably Mitslov began missing work and, when he did show up, performing terribly. It got to the point where rather than walking through a door, Mitslov would stumble through and fall to the floor. One of his comrades would pick him up and sit him on a nearby couch, but Mitslov would slump over and pass out until a few minutes before the show was to start. At that point, his helpers would administer whatever drug was needed to shake him from his current state and he would be revived enough to go on, but it just wasn’t the same Mitslov that the Russian nation had grown to love.

Eventually, Mitslov was fired from all of his different ventures and was left to wallow in nothing but addiction, debt, and self pity. His comrades had abandoned him and the Russian beauties that were constantly at his side were no more. Due to his inhuman man-package he was often able to whore himself out to settle bills or get his next score, but eventually time took its toll and even the Russian Bear could perform no more. In one last desperate attempt to feel anything, young Mitslov took a needle and injected heroin directly into his temple giving him the high of a lifetime but leaving him virtually dead.

Three days later when his incoherent moans became too much for his neighbor to bear, his near lifeless body was discovered and he was rushed to a local hospital. It was discovered that while he would make an almost complete recovery, the heroin had affected the part of his brain that dictated vocabulary. So while Mitslov was going to live a mostly normal life, he had lost the one thing he had that had made him famous – his voice.

Devastated by this news, Mitslov vowed to turn his life around for the better. After he left the hospital, he went directly to a rehab facility in order to shake the demons that had affected him for too long. With the help of strenuous therapy and a wonderful caring staff, Mitslov was soon clean and sober and ready again to take on the world. He knew that he had burned bridges in the entertainment industry, but he hoped that maybe he could be forgiven and given one more chance in a production role.

Luckily, one of the nurses in the rehab facility that he had attended happened to be the sister of the executive producer of the upcoming Roids celebration. Upon mentioning to him how well Mitslov was doing and how seriously he was taking his newfound sobriety, the executive producer became interested and decided to give Mitslov another chance. Mitslov was thrilled to hear the news and headed out to work the next day with the intent of reclaiming his proper place in the upper echelon of Russian society.

Three weeks in to the new job, Mitslov was flourishing. Granted, all of his communication had to be done via pen and paper, but his points were communicated well and the results were phenomenal. The Roids were going to burst out of the television screen this year and Mitslov was going to be given full credit for it. There was nothing that could stop him now.

For all of the success that was bound to come his way, however, Mitslov still felt that there was something missing. He regretted with all of his heart the way that his career in front of the camera had ended and wanted just one opportunity to relive that glory again. But, with no ability to speak, what could he possibly do in front of a camera that would allow him that satisfaction? Having nothing in mind, Mitslov continued on with his producer role and did it to the best of his ability.

Then one day, as if fate were calling on him, Mitslov received horrible but fantastic news. Yakov Smirnoff, who had been scheduled to perform the opening to the show, had to cancel only two days prior to the event. Attempts were made to coerce other Russian celebrities such as Nikolai Volkoff of WWF fame, the guy who played Drago in Rocky IV, and a gaggle of hockey players, but no one was going to be able to perform on such short notice. It was then that Mitslov got his idea.

So, after years of making a name for himself and a very brief time tearing it all down, Mitslov used some 60’s psychedelic visuals which were just now becoming popular in Russia, a brown suit, and a model of the entrance gates to Graceland to set the scene for the one thing he knew that he and his enormous manhood could still do.

Trololo


Mitslov Kologrivov never appeared in front of the camera again, but will be known throughout Russian history as one of the bravest, most horribly lip syncing men of all time.

Cheers to you Mitslov.


Thanks for the link Dan

And Thanks for reading

The Devil Wears Spongebob PJs

Whoever coined the phrase “terrible two’s” needs to be taken out back to the woodshed, whipped until they can’t take it anymore, and then tied naked to a tree overnight and covered in raw meat so that the coyotes and whatever other animals roam around in darkness can gnaw away at their skin, muscles, and bones until there’s nothing left but the two lips that uttered that stupid phrase in the first place. That statement alone has led countless unsuspecting and unseasoned parents into thinking that once the two’s were over that things would be much easier. We got through the two’s, realized they weren’t that bad, and considered ourselves lucky that we had a pretty sweet kid. Terrible two’s my ass! The two’s were a freaking breeze compared to what we’re currently going through at the Hopfinger household:

The Please Punch Me in the Face and Knock Me Out to Put Me Out of My Misery Three’s.

I will preface this as I do with all of my complaining about my son with the fact that I love him more than I have ever loved anything else in my entire life and would never wish any ill will upon him. That being said, however, if any of you wanted to borrow a 3 year old until he turns 18, then I’d be okay with it. We’d still have to have him back for holidays so that the family doesn’t catch on, but you’d get him for the rest of the time. Hell, we’d even still pay a good portion of day care, medical expenses, and even gifts around his birthday and Christmas – I just want him out of my house until he’s able to be reasoned with.

As I said, the two’s weren’t bad. Sure they had their trying moments where I wanted to pull my hair out, but overall I could still use timeout and the fact that “mommy and daddy aren’t very happy” as a method of punishment that would quickly squash any misbehaving that he may have been doing. Yes, he would still cry and would attempt to run away from the timeout spot, but Carol and I would remain strong and eventually emerge victorious in our attempts at punishing him while also getting our message across to him.

Not anymore

I don’t know when it started and I have absolutely no clue when it will stop, but Benjamin has discovered a word that makes my skin crawl and my stomach tie up in knots. That word is “no” and I hate it.

Let me give you a brief example of how the word “no” works in our house. Benjamin did not sleep well last night as was up numerous times. So even though it was time for me to get up for work this morning, when he woke up at 7:00 and wanted to get out of bed I walked into his room and tried to convince him to lay his head down and sleep a little longer.

“NO!”

Now, we don’t put up with that word and usually send him directly to timeout if he says it to us. Being that it was early, however, I figured he was crabby, and asked him again to please lay his head down and go back to sleep for awhile.

“NO!”

Not wanting to argue with him first thing in the morning because I figured that it would definitely rile him up and prevent him from getting any more desperately needed sleep, I simply covered him up, kissed him on his head, and told him that I loved him.

“NO!”

I quietly shut his door, and even though I should have gotten in the shower at that point, I drug myself back to bed to hopefully catch ten more minutes of sleep. That’s when it started. “No! No! No! No! No! No! Etc…..” The “no’s” went on for roughly the entire ten minutes that I was hoping to sleep. Now, had they been scared no’s or hurt no’s, I would have gotten up to check on him, but these were defiant no’s. These were F You no’s. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of a response.

I looked over at Carol who was off for the day and would be spending the entire day with our tower of terror and felt bad. Not only would she have to deal with him on what was starting out to be one of “those days”, but this is also the last day where she’d be able to keep him home with her on her days off as he starts Pre-K on Wednesday. I knew she was looking forward to a good day with him and this was off to an ominous start. With all of the audible defiance emanating from the adjacent room, I knew that she was no chance that even “she of the overnight coma” would still be sleeping. She wasn’t.

Now, there was a time as recently as earlier this weekend where I would have stormed into his room to “politely” ask him to cease with the “no” parade, but from past experience and some wonderful coaching from Carol, I knew that my request would only be met with more “no’s” thus infuriating me and leading to an argument between myself and a 3 year old that neither was going to win. As a result, Carol and I lay in our bed with our eyes closed while trying to ignore the stream of negativity that flowed from his room. At times, we even giggled as he started directing his “no’s” directly at Carol, myself, and even poor Tina who has never wronged the boy in her entire life. I felt bad for the dog, but if she’s going to be a part of this family, then she has to suffer through this with the rest of us.

After a while, he actually quieted down and I snuck out of bed and across the squeaky family room floor towards the bathroom to shower. I really didn’t expect to finish my shower before I heard his little feet plodding against the bathroom floor on his way to make his morning potty, but surprisingly enough, I showered, dried off, and finished my morning bathroom ritual without a peep from him. I was beginning to think that he had fallen asleep again, but when I passed his door I heard a little knock and his even littler voice.

“Daddy?”

Well, being the sucker for that word that I am, I opened his door to find the little devil standing there in his tight little PJs and sleepy eyes looking as sweet as he possibly could be while holding a stuffed animal. “Good morning, Daddy. Look. I found my Scooby Doo!”

Now, you may be asking yourself, what is so bad about that? He said “no” for awhile, got over it, and then woke up to be the sweet Ben that we all know and love. Well, let me tell you, it gets worse. Much worse. The thing is that if I give you a blow by blow account of some of his outbursts and my responses to them, you may not think of either one of us as the sweet, wonderful, adorable, caring, extremely handsome, multi-talented, debonair, and all around perfect men that you currently think we are. And, truth be told, I still rely on some of you to babysit once in awhile so I’ll keep the really good tantrums to myself. Just know that there are two sides of Ben these days. The one side is the one that he shares with the public. That’s the good one and the one that Carol and I love to see. Then, there’s the side of him that is seen by us and by the saints at his daycare which forces them to send home notes saying that he is hitting the other kids and refusing to take a nap or stay in timeout. It’s the side of him that when he is asked whether he wants to apologize to the little girl (yes, girl) that he just hit or have a note sent home to Mommy and Daddy, he defiantly tells them that he’d rather have a note sent home. It’s the side of him that is also, for some unknown reason, was found chewing on both of his socks which were stuffed in his mouth causing him to have to walk around in his shoes with no socks for the rest of the day. It’s also the side of him that makes me both a little suspicious and even a little more envious of someone possibly walking by at daycare during one of his “no” rants and stuffing his socks in his mouth to shut him up. Not that I think anyone at his daycare would do such a horrible thing, but at the same time, I might possibly look the other way if I found out that one of them did. I certainly wouldn’t blame them.

Jesus, I hope the four’s are easier. Only 8 months until we get there!!

Thanks for reading (and not calling DCFS).

I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son
I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son I love my son

Highway to Hell

This is the tale of the day I should have died.

In the summer between my Junior and Senior years of high school I was 17 years old and a very bad driver. I’m not sure that I was the “crazy driver” that Ben labels me as today, but I would definitely pay a lot more attention to the music playing on the radio and how my hair looked in the rearview mirror (yes, I at one time had hair) than I would to the road in front of me.

Over the course of this summer, I would occasionally go up to the Belleville West baseball fields to watch my buddy Jarrod play some of his American Legion baseball games. Now, the field was probably less than a mile from my house so I could easily have ridden my bike or even walked. But, I was 17, lazy, and had my dad’s 1985 GMC S-15 readily available to me so the only real option was to drive. In retrospect, I probably should have walked.

At that point in time I had lived on Route 13 for my entire life. Not only did I live on that street, but the ball field that I was going to was on Route 13 also. It was basically a straight shot to get there. I had walked, ridden my bike, driven, and been driven along that route so many times that I knew it like the back of my hand. As a result, I didn’t need to pay a ton of attention to the road as I knew exactly where I was going, where the turns were, and where cars were apt to stop.

At least I thought.

I started my trek, as per usual, by backing out of my parent’s driveway onto Route 13 and headed east towards the ball diamonds. I know the truck kind of “officially” became mine sometime around my senior year, but I’m not sure if I had taken full control of it yet. I only mention that because the second I shifted from reverse to drive, I began fiddling with the radio. If my dad was still taking it to work, then I was more than likely making the switch from AM to FM. If it was already mine, then I was probably either putting in a tape or toggling between the radio stations looking for the perfect song to blast as I pulled into the parking lot less than a mile away. Either way, I was messing with the radio when I should have been watching what I was doing.

As I mentioned before, I knew this path well and was well aware of where the dangers lay, so I felt very comfortable messing with the radio while barely watching the road in front of me. There were basically only two places that you could turn and those were the only places that I had EVER had to slow down for a vehicle to turn along that route so once I saw that the van in front of me had passed 29th street, I figured that I had enough distance between us that even if they made the right into Highland Hills that I would barely even need to tap my brakes to slow down.

That’s where I was wrong

See, the stretch of Route 13 between 29th street and Highland Hills is a fairly narrow, slowly rising hill which veers to the left. On the left side of the road is a high embankment which leads up to a house but eventually flattens out to an entrance to a trailer court. The right side of the road is decorated with a lovely guardrail that protects you from falling about 25 feet down an embankment and into a small creek. The problem is that people rarely turn into that trailer court from this direction. Typically they take 29th street and make a right off of there. Typically.

Getting back to my story, the van in front of me did not take the left turn onto 29th street so, as I said, I didn’t figure I would need to pay much attention to it. I began looking down at my radio again and fiddling with whatever I was fiddling with when all of a sudden I looked up and the van was at a complete stop about 20 feet in front of me attempting to turn into the aforementioned trailer court. I was travelling at around 35 mph and realized immediately that there was no way I was going to be able to stop in time.

At this point I realized that I couldn’t go straight because there was a van in my way and I couldn’t go off the road to the right because there was the guard rail and 25 feet of free falling into a small creek should I happen to go through it. I really only had one option.

I drove into the oncoming traffic.

I don’t know if I looked or not before I did so because I think it was just a gut (and horrible) reaction, but something should have told me that if the van was stopped to make a left turn, there must be something coming that was preventing him from turning in the first place. Either way, I had driven into the other lane to avoid rear ending a van and ended up coming face to face with a car coming directly at me.

Now, I used to tell this story with a little more gusto and say that there was a Mustang or some other bad ass sports car that was coming at me. I made believe that I realized the amount of monetary damages that I would inflict on the car had I hit it, so I made my next decision based on that. The truth is, I was scared for my life and have no clue if it was sports car, a Yugo, or a freaking fire truck. All I know is that at that point I didn’t care what was going on in the other lane, I just didn’t want to hit another car head on while I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt (yes, I know. Just drop it).

I again went over my options in a split second and noticed that the van was still stopped, the car was still coming at me at full speed, there was no way I could even get to the right side of the road with the guardrail and the possible 25 foot free fall into the creek that I had peed in more times as a kid than I had in my own bathroom, and the embankment to the left right before the entrance to the trailer park would either be like hitting a wall or I’d catch it just right and flip my truck over and still get hit by that car. I was screwed.

Finally, I did the one thing that I didn’t think was possible and I’m still not sure how it happened, but definitely did. With a primal scream that had to have been heard for miles around, I darted off towards the center line.

Now, when I say primal scream, I don’t think I’m quite doing it justice. I think I’ve actually screamed in fear once in my life – and this was it. Sure, I’ve yelped if someone jumped out at me or I’ve gasped if I’ve been surprised, but I had never screamed in fear before this moment nor have I ever since. For the purposes of telling the story, I’ve given a loud scream to put an emphasis on my tale, but I don’t think it even came close to the “oh God please don’t let me die this way because it’s really REALLY going to hurt” scream that came out of my mouth on that fateful summer evening. Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween? Come on. Janet Leigh in Psycho? Give me a break. Those women had nothing on the blood curdling screech that left my mouth that night.

While heading towards that center line I’m not sure if I closed my eyes or not, but I must have. That’s the only way that I couldn’t have seen my truck shrink to the width of a piece of paper, because that’s the only way I can envision getting through what I got through. I still to this day can’t figure out how on a narrow two lane stretch of road bordered by a guardrail and a steep embankment, three cars could literally be parallel to each other with the van taking up the entire right lane leaving very little room for my truck and the oncoming car, both travelling from 35-40mph, to share the center line and left lane without anyone crashing, trading paint, or going off the road, but that’s exactly what happened. For those familiar with the area I’m talking about, you’re not going to believe it either.

As I got through the most terrifying few seconds of my life, I veered back into my correct lane incredulous to the fact that I was still alive. Even if I had escaped with my life, I was certain that I would have caused my first accident and been in big trouble once I got home. Realizing that none of that had happened, I quickly pulled over into the entrance to Highland Hills and stopped. My heart was racing and I had to take a moment to reflect on what in the hell had just happened.

I turned around to check on the van and the other car, but they were gone and left no trace of anything. I hopped out of my truck to look at the scene of the crime, but there were no skid marks, no tire tracks in the grass and no indication whatsoever that anything life threatening had just occurred. I hopped on my wobbly legs back into my truck and, realizing that I had just been part of the closest thing to a miracle that I will ever encounter, broke into a horrible laugh. The laugh was almost maniacal. And the funniest thing was that I couldn’t stop. I put on my seat belt, started the truck, and while still laughing hysterically, drove the rest of the way to Jarrod’s game.

I don’t know what I did to deserve making it out alive that day, but I’m sure as hell glad that I did it. The road to a ballgame had turned into the highway to hell and I was lucky enough to have driven straight past the entrance. I wish I could have met the other drivers to get their thoughts (other than the fact that I should have my license taken away) on the matter, but maybe its better that I didn’t. I’m pretty sure one of them would have punched me square in the face.

So, what did I learn from all of this? Not much. I still fiddle with my radio all of the time and I’m still a bad driver. I do know now that I need to watch out for that entrance to the trailer park, but seeing as my parents don’t live there anymore, I hardly ever take that route rendering that point moot. What I did learn is that when faced with adversity in life, rather than pick a side with obvious consequences attached to either of them, sometimes it’s just better to stay out of it and just ride that center line.

And scream your bloody head off.

Thanks for reading

More (not so nice) Randumb Thoughts

There are very few people in this world that dislike. Unfortunately, I happened to run into two of them on Saturday night. The good news for me is that they are affiliated and I can hopefully avoid both of them in the future by staying away from certain events.

If you saw me on Saturday night and are wondering if I’m talking about you, I probably am.

As is the case every time Carol and I get dressed up for an evening out, I received many comments about how she is way too beautiful for me and how she could do much better. While I agree with those comments, I would appreciate people not saying it in front of her in the future. I’m always fearful that one day she’ll realize that you’re all right and leave me for someone more in her league.

Lou Piinella’s tenure as manager of my Chicago Cubs is now over. While I’m sad that he couldn’t finish out the season , I can definitely understand wanting to get off this sinking ship. It’s getting ugly on the North Side.

Speaking of wanting to jump off sinking ships, I’ve been watching the St Louis Cardinals message boards and forums over the past week or so with people whining about how this team is now done because Cincinnati opened up a 4.5 game lead. Really? That’s what it takes for you to quit? Sometimes I’m glad that St Louis has the “best fans in baseball” because a lot of them couldn’t hack two months of being a Cubs fan. If that’s the best, I’ll take being the worst any day.

Something I would have liked to have said Saturday night but didn’t because I really like someone else in the band: “I would love for your band to make it big. It would be really good for the music industry as I’m sure Chad Kroeger could use a break from being the biggest self-idolizing douchebag in music.”

Congratulations to my friend Georgia and her new husband Jay. They were married over the weekend and Carol, Chris, and I attended the reception in Cedar Hill, MO. Since Chris knew very few people that were going to be there, Carol and I were going to introduce him as our communal lover, but nobody asked. That sucks because it would have been really funny. Or maybe not.

*Note to self – in two years when Georgia’s daughter Marissa is 18, write a blog on how absolutely gorgeous she is. Until then, avoid all contact with her for both legal and moral reasons*

Actually, I have known Marissa since she was 5 and had a bunch of teeth missing out of her head. I haven’t seen her in person in a long time, but Georgia has warned me of how “hot” (her words, not mine) she had become. Upon seeing her on Saturday, I have to say that she has grown up to be a beautiful young woman and she will be breaking hearts for years to come. Be good Marissa!!!

I’m sad today because my co-worker Kelly is leaving our department for another position within the company. Around the office I say I’m sad because I will miss her presence, but since neither she nor anyone else from my office reads this blog and I will continue to call them out until someone tells me to stop, I will say that I’m just pissed because that bitch is leaving us all with a shit ton of work to do.

My co-workers suck.

I received a tip this weekend from Carol and my friend Meghan on how to pose for pictures so that you can look your best. These are the results:



If that’s my best, I’ll just avoid the camera in the future.

Oh yeah, that’s Chris on my on my right and Daryl on my left. Well, I guess it could be Chris to your left but by my right shoulder and Daryl to your right but by my left shoulder… Oh, geez. Chris is the white guy and Daryl’s the black guy.

I guess I could have just said that Chris is the one with hair and let you extrapolate the rest…

Extrapolate.

Seeing that fall is right around the corner, that means the fall TV shows are coming back on. I’ll be waiting right here for you McHale. Right. F*cking. Here.

Something else I should have said on Saturday night but didn’t because I just didn’t think of it at the time: “I asked my friend ‘the guy who rips off Eddie Vedder’ to come up here tonight because I thought you guys would have a TON in common.”

Guitar solo.

Alright, enough of that. In all actuality, the person I’m speaking of is very talented and has a drive and determination to succeed in music like I’ve never seen before. It is admirable that he can accomplish so much even while being developmentally disabled.

Just did some fact checking and I am required by law to put an “alleged” in front of the “developmentally disabled” from the previous statement.

Seriously, I really meant what I said before the whole “allegedly developmentally disabled” part. Just because we have a few beers and bust each other’s chops a little doesn’t mean that I don’t respect what he does. Unfortunately, I’m just not as quick witted with my mouth as I am with a keyboard in front of me so I need to save my jabs until a later date. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t read this blog, but I think one of his band mates does. In all honesty, I wish you guys the best. Go kick some ass in Chicago.

Now if you could just get rid of that dumbass promoter that you use : )

Alright, I’m done. I just want to thank everyone that I ran into this weekend for all of your nice comments about my blog. It’s good to know that people read this drivel and get a good laugh out of it. And for Stacey Ward, I hope you actually took the time to scroll down and read the part of the blog that isn’t in the preview pane on your phone. Now go stick THAT in your blog…

Thanks for reading.

Toy Appreciation

Those bastards at Pixar are really starting to mess with my head.

Most people, including myself, would probably not deny the fact that I am nothing but a big kid. When Carol is asked how many kids she has, she often responds with three – a 3 year old, a 33 year old, and a 4 legged furry little girl. I probably should be offended at that depiction of my character, but instead I choose to embrace it.

I love the fact that I’m a big kid. Not only is it a relief from the stressors of my everyday life, but it also allows me to get away with things that most adults my age would face great consequences for doing. Because of who I am, I’m allowed to act a certain way without people thinking I should be locked up in a padded room. I’m also allowed to say things totally off the wall without people taking great offense to them. “Hey,” they’re thinking “it’s only Scotty being himself.” I love that I’m perceived that way but still held (I hope) in high enough esteem that I can be taken seriously when needed (No? Oh well).

One drawback of being a big kid, however, is the affect that toys have on me. I like toys. In fact, I love toys. I love going to the store with Ben, walking down the toy aisle, and pointing out toys to him that we can play with together once he’s a little bigger. I can’t wait to build the big Hot Wheels race tracks with him. I can’t wait until he starts watching wrestling with me and we can start buying action figures for him to go with the ones that I saved from my youth. And I can’t wait until we can start building castles out of Legos that take up an entire corner of his room.

My only problem is that I’ve now seen Toy Story too many times to take those toys for granted.

As a kid (up until about the age of 27), I used to talk to my toys. Why wouldn’t I? Outside of my family and friends, they were the things that I spent the most time with. I had names for all of my stuffed animals and played religiously with my wrestling and He-Man (By the Power of Greyskull….) action figures. I would spend hours in my room creating scenarios and plot lines that involved all of them and have a blast doing so. I think that may be why the Toy Story movies hit home for me (and I’m sure many others) so much.

Somewhere along the line I think I was supposed to lose that trait, but I never have. I don’t have many of my childhood toys left except for the wrestlers and a few stuffed animals, but those toys mean the world to me. When Ben was barely one year old and started playing with toys in a way that didn’t involve drooling all over them, I brought my wrestlers up from the basement in an attempt to get him to play with them. He honestly couldn’t have cared less. As much as I tried and I tried to get him interested (I really don’t know what I was expecting – the kid was barely a year old), he just wasn’t. I didn’t have the heart to put them away, but luckily Carol gets me (or was just sick of seeing them), and she moved them back into the basement.

I’ve also had the same experience with Steven.

Steven is a small yellow teddy bear that I got when I was really little. I have no idea who gave it to me, when I got it, or why in the hell I chose the name Steven. All I know is that I used to sleep with Steven every night. Between Steven, Buster and Buddy (my pound puppies), and a brown rabbit who has what looks to be a glob of brown poop on his eye (which has never been confirmed – or removed), I had a troupe of stuffed animals that have followed me through my years. Ben has been given all of them, but once again, could care less. The pound puppies and the rabbit have been put away in an order to save space, but Steven remains in Ben’s room. Every night as Ben is picking out which stuffed animals to sleep with (it always ends up being Spongebob and his Toy Story characters), he passes over Steven and I get sad.

But I don’t get sad because he doesn’t want to play with the toys of my youth.

I get sad because I don’t want Steven to be lonely.

As I mentioned before, I used to talk to my toys. As a result, they became almost lifelike figures to me and I considered them to be friends. Now, don’t start thinking that I was a big loser who had no friends and had to turn to his inanimate objects for companionship, because that was not the case. In fact, I had a lot of friends (I think). But those friends couldn’t always be over at my house. They couldn’t be in my room with me when I was sent there as punishment (which happened a lot). Those friends also couldn’t sleep over every night of the week – but my toys sure could. As a result, I formed a bond with these toys that can and will never be broken.

But being my friends, however, gave them almost human like characteristics to me. I used to imagine that when I was at school they would sit around and discuss things like me, the other toys, and various current events. Occasionally when I got home I could never remember where I had left them, but I was almost sure that one or two of them was out of place. That’s why the Toy Story movies hit home so hard with me. The way the characters act and think is exactly how I imagined my little band of misfits acting when my room was unoccupied. It’s the same way I imagine Ben’s toys to act when his room is unoccupied.

So, seeing Steven laying on the floor and not being played with breaks my heart a little.

But that’s also where the big kid in me comes out.

Last night, Carol, Ben, and I had a dance party in his room. It was about 30 minutes before he had to go to bed and Carol had just gotten done deep cleaning his room. We all happened to wander in there at the same time and I got the crazy idea to ask Ben if he wanted to have a dance party. Well, being the dancing fool that he is, he certainly didn’t say “no,” so I took his Spongebob CD, put it in his radio, and the three of us danced around like idiots. And we had a blast.

Shortly after we began dancing though, I noticed that Ben had left a few of his stuffed animals – including Steven - laying on the floor. Thinking back to my youth and how I played with my toys and then thinking about the Toy Story movies and how all the toys wanted was to be played with, I reached down, grabbed a few, and began dancing with them. At one point I had Woody on my neck riding piggyback while Buzz Lightyear was holding onto my hands as we turned round and round in circles. Ben was getting a kick out of it and, to be honest, I’m pretty sure that I saw a little twinkle in Buzz’s eye as well.

After I put those two down though, I leaned over and picked up my beloved Steven. The poor little guy has definitely seen better days; his fur is matted down, his nose has long been missing, and he has a little hole right where his belly button should be that has been begging to be sewn up for years. Looking down at him he just looked sad and I knew why. In an attempt to make him (and maybe me) feel a little better, I picked Steven up and we began dancing. We spun in circles, pretended to be dizzy and almost fall over, and then we did it again. By this time Ben had moved on to wanting to play his (and eventually my) drums, but this wasn’t for Ben. This was for me, for Steven, and for every other toy I’ve ever had in my life that has given me joy. We danced for awhile more and then I, reluctantly, set Steven back down.

We often take the time to thank the people in our lives that mean a lot to us, but we never thank the little things. I’m not saying that I believe toys come to life when the room is empty. I’m also not saying I believe that inanimate objects have feelings. What I’m saying is that if you suspend your beliefs of what is real and not real for just a few minutes and think that maybe, just maybe, those toys you played with when you were a kid had as much fun playing with you as you did with them, don’t we owe them a little bit of gratitude? Don't we owe it to ourselves to stop being an adult every once in awhile and just resume that childlike wonderment, even if only for a few moments? I certainly think so.

Thank you Steven – for everything.

And thanks for reading.