My 5 on Both Sides

A running joke that we have in my current group of friends is our 'list of five'.  You get to pick 5 celebrities that your spouse would allow you to have sex with (no strings attached) if given the opportunity.  I feel like my list changes hourly, but this is probably the most consistent.

A few notes.  SMG moved up a spot (or down, here) after Google Image Searching her (damn!).  Also, there are a ton of honorable mentions that have made their way on and off:  Shannon Tweed, Anna Farris, Amy Adams, Pam Anderson, Rachel Roxx, Mila Kunis, and Monique Gabrielle, to name a few.

5.  Reese Witherspoon

I like younger & thicker.  Fear, Cruel Intentions, Legally Blonde.

4.  Isla Fisher

So distractingly (made up word) hot in Wedding Crashers.

3.  Sarah Michelle Gellar

Hot as Buffy.  Hotter in Cruel Intentions.

2.  Geri Halliwell

I've already done a post about her.

1.  Emma Stone

Something about those huge eyes (and red hair).  The opposite of yellow fever?

Then, I awoke on Monday morning after a weird, dirty dream with Channing Tatum.  I don't think I've ever really considered Tatum hot.  It did make me realize that if Annie were a guy, and all we did was blow each other all of the time, we'd probably never leave the house or have friends or be able to pay bills.  That's all gay guys do, right?... just blow each other all the time...

Monday morning, a friend posted this photo on Facebook, and I took it as a sign.  I've always been open about the fact that I find some guys hot.  (My current #1 has been at the top of my list for as long as I can remember.)  So, here goes my list of 5 on the guy side (Brody on gLee and David Beckham's Armani underwear shoot [just the shoot] are honoarable mentions):

5.  Channing Tatum

I've never actually seen Magic Mike.

4.  Chris Hemsworth

Only if he's bulked up like Thor.

3.  Taylor Lautner

He'll have to pretend to be Jacob.

2.  Chris Pine

Strangely unattractive shirtless...

1.  Mark Wahlberg

I think it has to do with the movie Fear.

So, there ya go, a post everybody can enjoy,
~RoB

XCD Day 3: NM is Not Spectacular

Seriously, don't take your kids to New Mexico.  We rushed out of Flagstaff, sad to leave such a gem of a city behind.  It's like that city Twinkled or something.

Day #3

We were told by Twinkly Eyes that we might want to stop by the Petrified Forest on our way into NM.  I'd do anything he told me to, so I was alright with it when Annie pulled off to check out another national park.  The Petrified Forest National Park has within it some terrain that I may have found more appealing than the Grand Canyon.  It's the Painted Desert.  It was really cool to see, and I'd recommend not skipping this portion of any Southwest trip.  The actual petrified forest wasn't spectacular; it almost looked suspicious.  As if someone placed all of that stuff there.  Cool colors and crystals and everything, but the drive around the north end of the park to see a bunch of views of the Painted Desert won out for me.  Oh, and that lazy-ass searches upon leaving makes me want to go back and steal something.

Painted Desert.  I even took pictures (not these, but my own).  I hate pictures.  That's saying a lot.

Another day, another friend to visit.  I found out that an old high school friend, who is currently a Staff Sergeant in the Army, was along the way.  He's currently recruiting in the southwest, and he's based out of Gallup, NM.  It was on our way that afternoon, so I told him I'd stop by his office in the mall.  Plus, we both have some pretty good friends from Michigan that happened to be from Gallup, NM.  We were excited to see the city from which they hailed.

Turns out, Gallup is a shithole.  Maybe it's just that we happened to be in the mall in the middle of a weekday, during one of the traditionally slowest shopping times of the year.  Everyone looked so depressed and defeated.  Staff Sergeant didn't have much good to say about it either.  On the other hand, he was overjoyed about his marriage, his daughter, and his new baby on the way.  It was actually really nice getting to see him.  He graduated 2 years before me, but he was one of the most brilliant jazz saxophonists to probably ever go through my program.  Plus, the fact that had a happy life, even though he has a decade in the Army under his belt, made it even better.  He loaded us up with tons of Army swag, which I plan to help get me some street cred here in the Bluegrass State.

As we were pulling out of the mall, I checked the price of gas.  I figured if this place was as economically depressed as I was told, then gas would be cheap.  But it wasn't.  $3.95 a gallon.  Then I realized that it was actually a dollar less than that ($2.95/gal) and I had read it wrong.  I busted a U-turn on our way out to get gas real quick.

As we continued on through New Mexico, the terrain was very interesting and debateably (word?) beautiful, but desolate.  We all know how bad Albuquerque is from Breaking Bad.  Plus, Smelly at my last job told us stories about that town during every lunch break.  So we pushed our way through to Santa Rosa, NM.  I was already sick of seeing signs for Historic Route 66, and we had only been on it for a full day.  If that wasn't bad enough, we went to the cheesiest local New Mexican cuisine diner that sold tons of Route 66 merch.  The food and the establishment combined to hurt my stomach.  At least the conversation between the creepy, old white dude and his mail-order bride behind me were interesting.  Literally.

I have a relative that grew up in NM.  So, I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and say that I was told that there are beautiful places in New Mexico.  Apparently the freeway runs through the shittiest part of the state.

We skipped Bdubs that day, but not for good.
~RoB

Urban Ho Hoe Hoes

Let me start by continuing to influence the youth of our country.  The youth of our world.  Based on a fantastic article that I wrote a few months ago, yet another of my words was accepted into the Urban Dictionary:  Cheesist.

Thanks for your definition of Cheesist!
Editors reviewed your entry and have decided to publish it on urbandictionary.com.
It should appear on this page in the next few days:
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Cheesist Urban Dictionary
-----
Cheesist
1. One who thinks they're too good for Kraft American Singles.
2. A person that is prejudice toward bright orange American cheese.
3. A person that will not eat cheese at all.
Those cheesist Californians think their palettes are too refined to enjoy the simple pleasures that are Kraft American Singles.
Your chubby friend that keeps unwrapping and eating cheese slices out of our fridge, he's definitely not cheesist.

While I'm influencing our vernacular, I need clarification on exactly how we're collectively spelling 'ho'/'hoe'.  Until the last year or so, a pimp always slapped his 'hoes'.  And your mom was a 'hoe'.  Yes, just like the garden tool.  But the more I'm online, the more I'm realizing that I may have mistakenly read into Santa's jolly cheer when he was really just laughing at his bitches.

1/3 of Santa's Hos, or Hugh Hefner in a Santa costume?

Definitely a hoe.

Definitely a Ho.

Unsure what these even mean now...

I distinctly remember thinking people were stupid if they forgot the 'e' in 'hoe'.  I feel like it was spray painted or carved everywhere in my town growing up.  I was just as frustrated with people who couldn't spell 'faggot' correctly.  I mean, I hate that word, but if you're gonna pull it out, don't weaken its power by making me laugh at your spelling.

Ho or Hoe?  Or Douche Nozzle?

Apparently it is indeed 'ho'.  Thanks for the clarification, Luda.
Now my childhood was wasted (except I still don't know how to spell the plural of ho),
~RoB

Hand Washing

I'm a little confused by society's requirement that I wash my hands after I pee.

Also, furry people with warts must hold hands.

If you've ever taken a shower with me, you know quite well how ritualistically clean my penis is.  It gets washed 2 or 3 times in the course of a single shower.  I can't really say that I take better care of any other part of my body.  Maybe my teeth.

So, why is it that when I walk into a public restroom, after touching the doors and the light switch and any other medium in my way, do I not immediately wash my hands before pulling lil' ~RoB out to pee?  I mean, I have a perfectly good idea of where my penis has been for the past 45 minutes since I last peed.  I don't, however, have any clue what kind of creepy, diseased crackwhore you finger-banged during lunch before coming in here to wash off your hands.  Or, slightly more realistically, if you dragged your ass out of here after pooping without appropriately anti-bacterializing (word?) yourself.  Shouldn't I be worried about me?

Dirty touches door.  I touch door.  I touch penis.  BAM!  Gonorrhea.  Or poison ivy.  Or something else I'd rather not have my penis infected with.

Things would be different if I was serving food or something.  But the average person should feel privileged to touch the hand that touches my pristine penis.  That being said, I always wash my hands.  Always.  Regardless if I'm doing #1, #2, #3, or some sick combination of all the former with extras.  Well, that is unless I'm naked, but then I usually don't use my hands at all during the process of urinating.

So... who wants to shake my hand?
~RoB

Royal Wedding - Day 2

If you haven't already, you should catch up with us so far by reading about Day 1.

I woke up with a little bit of a hangover.  For me, that means I'm super, duper hungry and I have to poop.  I don't throw up, I'm not out for the count, I may need a nap, but in general it's just that I need protein and some bathroom time.  However, the after effects lasted longer than I'm used to (into the early afternoon), which makes me feel like I'm getting old.  I've been told (by this girl) that we have harder and harder times rebounding as we get older, and I'm starting to believe it.

So, that first Jack&Coke at around 1:50pm didn't go down so well.  Why was I drinking at 2pm?  Well, we were at a Nebraska fan sports bar watching football.  In full Michigan garb.  Our game was about to begin.  Wait, weren't we in NE for a wedding today?  Yeah, but people keep scheduling their damn weddings on football Saturdays, so you have to work in some football whenever possible.  Anyway, the double Jack&Coke (it was only $1 more) didn't taste very good.  However, all of the shitty bar food that we devoured did, so it worked.  Though we were the clear minority, everyone was really nice, and most of the football on the TVs was going our way, so we just enjoyed.

Skip ahead to a trolley that was taking us from the Hilton to the church.  The church was cute and tucked into downtown.  Overall, the wedding felt super fancy schmance (word?).  It made me remember how different people dress between the two coasts.  A tie is pretty formal for a Northern Californian, and it was the extent of my outfit.  Yet, I was the only man not in a suit at the church.  (Heck, I had sneakers on.  There was dancing to be done later.)  It was the fastest ceremony that I can remember, and the preacher/minister/pastor/deacon? was pretty entertaining.  It was over, we were standing in the courtyard ready to throw petals, the bride and groom came out and loaded the party bus, and then the progression to the wedding needed to be figured out.

This was the most awkward part of the weekend.  The whole wedding party loaded the bus.  Then all the hip, young kids loaded it.  Everyone that Annie and I knew was on the bus.  Yet, there was a substantial group of people still loitering outside of the church, mostly the bride's family.  So, we just waited around for some sort of group motion toward the reception, by some mode of transportation.  I was positive that the reception was just a block away.  I kept pointing at the building I thought it was.  Eventually, we reloaded the trolley and made it to the reception without any problems (I was wrong and glad I didn't drag Annie to the wrong place).  However, there were a good 10-15 minutes of Annie and Rob standing around awkwardly and alone.

The beginning of the reception was a cocktail hour with, yet again, another open bar.  We met up with a friend from MI and proceeded to 'try' all of the appetizers that we're being served.  Some were 'tried' more than once.  Shit didn't get real until we walked into the ballroom though.  It was like walking into the new Aria in Vegas.  A huge chandelier winds down from the ceiling with the 6?-tiered cake centered beneath it.  It was beautiful and impressive.  There were so many money signs floating through my head.  (I'd be lying if I didn't say that I kept thinking about all of the money going by at every step of the process.  It didn't make me any more excited to get married one day.)

S&N initials were found everywhere.  It was a lesson in advertising.

Eating, drinking, first dances, cake cutting...  Finally, it was time.  I had told some of the locals about my dancing experience and how I was a Zumba instructor.  It was time to show off.  So I did.  I danced a ton for the rest of the night.  Whenever in similar situations, I have to take regular breaks for water and to wipe down my sweaty body.  (It's always a fun game hiding water glasses and napkins from the wait staff so that I can continue to use them... while they're told to pick them up.)  The Cupid Shuffle came on 2nd or 3rd, and I got called out by the DJ.  "I'd follow the guy in the tie."  I'm the guy in the tie.  There was one other guy there I saw swing dancing with his mother... or something, but he was my only competition.  It was all about ->this guy<-.

I danced with the bride's mother, an aunt, the groom's mom, heck... everyone.  Some dudes, too.  At one point I was starting to wind down (and the music wasn't helping), when a middle-aged woman approached me.  "I just wanted to let you know that you have quite an audience; you need to keep going.  You've been winding down a little, and I thought I'd let you know we're all watching you now."  Then she returned to her group along one of the walls.  This was right on par with the group of white guys standing by my table that fist-pounded me at one point when I was returning to my table for the water/napkin routine.

I've never Soul Trained.  There was talk, but it never got pulled off.  I was also told that I should try a back flip off of the main table.  I considered it, but Annie called me stupid and brought me back down to Earth.  At one point, a girl grabbed the mic and thought it was drunken karaoke time.  (This same girl had an epic moment where she fell in front of the bride and groom later that night in the hotel, was picked up by the groom, and started to be escorted back to her room before one of her friends found her and yelled at her for being dealt with by the bride and groom on their wedding night.  When the bride was telling the story the next morning, it sounded like a dream... but it wasn't.  It was hilarious.)

The reception ended at midnight.  We all lit sparklers to escort the bride and groom out.  Then, the cool, hip kids progressed to a late-night pizza parlor and sports bar.  Nothing significant happened after that, and we progressed back to the hotel without hitting any bars, and we went to bed at a reasonable hour.  Oh, we did have to walk by a mural twice during this portion of the night.  There was a creepy girl painted that stared into your soul, no matter where you were standing.  It still kind of haunts me.

The girl under the arrow.  I picked a weird angle so that she doesn't invade your dreams.

I woke up feeling spectacular.  That didn't appear to be the case for most of the other participants.  They apparently didn't burn the alcohol off by dancing like the rest of us.  There was one last group brunch before we all split to head home.

So, that was the wedding.  I really don't know if I could handle the attention that a bride and groom get for a whole day.  I'm happy enough blogging for attention, where I don't have to make eye contact or small talk or "practice hugging short people".  This was, hands down, the fanciest wedding I'll ever attend.  I'm very happy that I was able to be there for the bride and groom, and they seemed very happy to have us travel so far to share it with them.  I'm also happy that I met a bunch of new people that I very much enjoyed, and I've already started my Facebook pursuit of all of their friendships... for stalking at a later date.

Yet another wedding this weekend in Oakland!
~RoB

The last day in Omaha is summarized here.

There's Always *Tomorrow

I think that I can get my point across with very few words:

Tomorrow's saving grace.

Spends too much time on Facebook,
~RoB

Cheesist

No, that's not a misspelling.  I did not write cheesiest ("cheesy-ist"); I wrote cheesist (rhymes with "jeezist").  It is the newest in my long line of made up words.  It's obvious what it means, though, right?

Let me feed you the definition via parlor trick thought experiment.  Pretend you're hosting a party with guests from all over the country.  What is the easiest way to find out who is from California and who isn't (without just asking, cuz that's lame)?  Any guesses?

You pull out slices of Kraft American Singles and see who doesn't want one.  This works better at the end of the party, after everyone's loosened up.  Why?  Californian's aren't American, and they think their palettes are too refined to enjoy the simple pleasure that is: Kraft American Singles.  I'm sure there's a few of you fatties out here in CA who have an undying love for KAS, like the rest of us.  However, across the state, I've seen Californians turn their noses up to these wonderful, plastic, chees-ish squares.

You, my Californian friends, are cheesists!  We've gone through race wars (racists) and wage wars (sexists) and denture wars (ageists), but I will not stand for this hatred of my people.  (My people being those that know how to enjoy unwrapping a KAS and shoving it in their mouth while their fridge is open and they're trying to figure out what they're going to make for dinner.)

You know what?  I've had thousands of grilled cheeses in my lifetime.  I've had some of the fanciest and most expensive grilled cheeses in the country (that I know of).  You know what else?  I can make a grilled cheese that is just as satisfying and is pretty darn good without all that fluff.  Butter, bread, KAS.  Simple.  Delicious.

Ever had a steak Sizzler?  Shaved Ribeye that you pan-fry and put on a toasted bun.  Only cheese worthwhile: KAS.  Ever wrapped a hot dog with a Pillsbury Crescent roll?  Only cheese worth stuffing inside: KAS.

Hey, you Californians, I see that you kind of like In-N-Out.  (By kind of, I mean, you're a little insane about it.)  Ever look at that gooey, neon orange, delicious cheese that's pressed between your fresh-fried patties?  It's a knockoff of KAS.

Get over yourselves, and at least pretend to be American, you hippies,
~RoB

Pimpmones

Yesterday, I went over to Annie's uncle's house to use some of his power tools.  The projects (yes, plural!) that I'm working on will be featured later this month (get excited!).  Anyway, I spent all day Sunday doing things by hand.  I was sore and getting whiny.  So, I had Annie call around and see if anybody had a circular saw and a Dremel.

Back to the point, yesterday I used a circular saw on plywood and managed to assemble two hinged/collapsible wooden objects that I designed.  I got to use sawhorses, a power screwdriver, a hacksaw, and a Dremel.  By the time Annie showed up to get me, I was in a rippling, hairy-chested man-frenzy.

Yes, me.  The wine-sipping, beer-hating, musical-loving, ballroom dancer felt super manly.  My man-hormones (I'm officially dubbing the word pimpmones; get that sh*t on UrbanDictionary stat!) were raging.  As soon as I got home I was flexing my muscles in bed, which led to DIWMGf.

I'm waiting to stub my toe and be returned to reality.

I made one huge discovery in going from manual to power tools.  You've heard the old adage, but it has changed:
Before power tools: 'Measure twice, cut once.'
After power tools: 'Measure once, screw it!'  (you can quickly redo the whole darn thing if you need to)

I discovered this after screwing up one of my drill-holes by 1/4", something I would have never done when I was methodically taking my time and manually screwing each screw in.

My pimpmones be flowin',
~RoB

P.S. Ewww, I don't actually have a hairy chest.

Holy Crapcakes!

I just came up with Holy Crapcakes, and I think it's brilliant.  I originally had shitcakes, but that doesn't really give the mental image of rows of delicious, colorful, miniature decorated cakes that I'm aiming for.  Yesterday was the SF Cupcake Challenge, hosted by Drink:Eat:Play.  I went to the one in L.A. last year, so I was disappointed to miss it this year, yet really excited to find out they were having one here.  For a long time, nobody was going to accompany me (I'm totally comfortable with solo gluttony), but Annie decided to come back early from Tahoe to join me.  However, she was going to be running late for the event, since she had a soccer match that morning.  I refused to wait for her, and headed over to the city by myself.

I got to the front door 20 minutes early and the bouncers turned me away.  (Yeah, it was a club that employed their bouncers for this event since alcohol was being served and it was 21+... but I kept picturing how amazing it would be for some fatty to lose control and require the bouncers to drag the swollen body out while they kicked and screamed and shoved cupcakes in their face.)  Anyway, I was like 12th person in line, and I started in immediately.  I eat as I walk, whereas most people save theirs in tupperware for later.  Hoarding is out of control in this country.

40 minutes into it, and I've destroyed all the cupcakes!  Nobody else came close.

Still smiling as Annie captures my last bites.

Blurry, sweaty, puke-faced & finished.

In total, there were 28 mini cupcakes at the competition.  2 of them were peanut butter, which I strongly dislike [a future post], so I skipped them.  2 of them were coconut, which I also dislike, but I still tried them (to be fair in judging).  So, I ate 26 mini cupcakes (I usually shove the whole thing in my mouth, but they're probably 2 bites for most humans).  Unless you've eaten that much sugar and fat in a short period of time before, you have no clue how intense it can be.  Annie showed up about 35 minutes after the doors opened.  I had 4 cupcakes left to eat.  I'm pretty much a sugar consuming machine.  I was only a little shaky, a little sweaty, and a little ready to dance around in a sugar-high rampage.  I (speedily) dragged her around the place pointing out my favorites as she quickly snagged up her own collection, while I threw back my final bites.

There are 2 categories in the competition, Traditional and Original, and you also vote for your overall winner.

I had 3 favorites, and they were all Originals, so it was tough to submit my ballot:

• Sea Salt Caramel from James & the Giant Cupcake [I voted for Best Original. They liked me so much that they gave me a T-shirt.]
• Chocolate Toffee Crunch from Sweet Petite [I voted for Best Overall].
• Basil Lemon Blueberry from Kingdom Cake [It would have won most unique, and I loved it, but it didn't beat the other two.]

Since I had to choose a Traditional, I chose:

• Gentelemen Prefer Reds from That Takes the Cake [They had the best frostings, the ladies there were super nice, and that's a solid name for a red velvet cupcake.]

My trip to 'Disneyland' came and went faster than you can say 'food coma'.  I had wonderful highs and lows for the rest of the day.

Before heading to cupcake-palooza, I think god sent me a message regarding what my life may look like in 20 years if I continue my lifestyle.  I ignored the message.  It was easy to ignore, since I don't believe in god any more than I do Zeus [another post I'm working on].  Anyway, the obese guy in front of us at Costco was purchasing 4 6-pack boxes of enemas.  I couldn't help myself and had to snap a picture.  (Later, when telling Annie about it, she admitted to not knowing what an enema was.  Poor, sheltered mountain-girl.)

Beyond Annie's pop and my peroxide, the green boxes are 6-packs of enemas.

We also went to Beach Blanket Babylon after the cupcake fest, which I enjoyed way more than I thought I would.  Every single person on stage was a great singer and superbly entertaining.  I'll let Annie fill in the details on her blog.  She's in charge of the mundane things, and I have to keep prodding her to write posts.

Such a good boyfriend,
~RoB

Food & Sex

I'm always the moody one.  I have really severe mood swings sometimes.  I even spent a few sessions with a psychologist exploring rather or not I am bipolar (I took an online quiz through my medical center, and it said to do just that).  I'm pretty good at controlling myself in public, but I usually let it fly when I'm home.  Two things are the reasons for 90%+ of my tantrums: food & sex.  If I'm deprived of either for too long, I turn into a monster.  I'd like to say that it happens slowly, but that'd be a lie.  Something clicks, and I crave misery in every human being around me.  I've never actually been violent or anything, but I certainly have crazy scenarios flashing in my head.  Wow, that sounds so sociopathic (word?), I should probably delete it.

Last night, Annie pulled one on me.  Driving home from TJ's, I hit a turn that knocked over our single bag of groceries, that she had just paid for.  A carton of eggs topped the bag, and she was infuriated at my inability to either pack it securely or drive appropriately.  She was convinced the eggs were broken, and she got all Italian on me: yelling, hand motions going crazy, slamming the door, general craziness.  When she got out, I drove away and left her in the rain.  (I had the keys, since I was driving.)

I got mad at her anger, and it only got worse as I realized that she snapped... just like I do sometimes.  There's absolutely no room for introspection in this damn blog, so here's a crazy simple cake recipe, passed down from Annie's grandfather's lady-friend.  I made it yesterday (used up all the eggs), and it was pretty good.

Triple Chocolate Cake
1 pkg Chocolate Cake Mix (I prefer Duncan Hines Devils Food)
1 c Chocolate Chips (Nestle Toll House, as if there were others worth buying)
3.9 oz. pkg Instant Chocolate Pudding (Jell-O)
1/2 c Oil (I use Canola, Safflower, or Olive, in that order)
4 Eggs
1-1/4 c Water (I hold no allegiance to any water)
Bake in a preheated oven at 350 for 40-45 minutes (I did 45 mins).

I served it with Chocolate Cabernet Sauce drizzled over it, making it Quadruple Chocolate Cake, and certainly crossing the threshold of appropriate chocolate consumption.  Crossing lines.  That's what I do.

No eggs were actually harmed in the making of this post; she was wrong,
~RoB

Birthday

It's that time of year again, and already things have been interesting.

I got my first birthday card yesterday.  It was from my aunt.  (I posted about my crazy family, but my aunt is the lone person that kept me this side of crazy as I grew up.)  It has a bunch of stuffed monkeys on the cover hopping around yelling 'Yahoo!!' 'Whoopee!!' 'This is gonna be great!!  I'm so excited!!'  The last monkey exclaims "I can't wait!!  I... I..." and the inside says "... I think I just pooped myself."  She signed it: "(maybe I should stop reading your blog) haha."  How perfect is that?  The check inside made it even better!  Thanks, Aunt!  (I don't use people's names other than Annie [and Angel]).

Today, at work, I easily got off next Friday to go skiing with Annie and all of her friends.  I told them it was for my birthday.  I also scheduled a drug screening on my birthday, so things can get crazy that night!!

Then things made a turn for the worse.  I came home, and Angel was in trouble.  He had eaten one of my birthday presents!  Chocolate covered Oreos that Annie had found in some fancy chocolate store.  This is the same dog that ate our roommate's cupcakes that I made her for her birthday.  Angel is the birthday ruiner (word?)!  (Don't name a dog Angel; it's setting everyone up for failure.)

We brought it back a little with a birthday card from my mom.  The front is a bunch of plastic flamingos and reads "If this is the first thing you see the morning after your birthday celebration, you may want to ask yourself these important questions:" inside "Am I naked?  Is this my front yard?  Who are these people...?"  Mom doesn't read my blog, but she apparently knows me nonetheless.  Only downer is that it came with a post-dated check.  That makes me feel really guilty... like she felt obligated to send me money that she can't afford.

Similarly, I never got a/an Xmas present from my grandparents, and I don't know if they'll send me a birthday present.  It's not really a big deal, but I wonder if they actually did send something and it was lost along the way.  Considering the current granny situation, I'm not going to ask.  Am I awful for caring rather or not they sent/are sending something?

Anyway, things are in full swing, and Annie is whisking me off to Napa for the weekend.

Hello, good wine, I've missed you,
~RoB

Nothing is Simple

I've said for a long time that my life is interesting.  I guess most of that is due to its complicatedness (word?).  Yesterday is a good example:

My car tire had been slowly losing air over the past month.  Since I didn't have the dough to fix it, I just let it go flat.  Yesterday, I got some dough.  So, I went out to my car to put on the donut, in hopes of simply dropping it off at a nearby tire place to get fixed.  While kicking my tire iron to get the last lug nut off, I actually busted the stud in half.

Shit.  $15 tire change turns into a major ordeal.  First of all, I could only find 3 places that would fix it.  The first place had a reasonable price, but couldn't get me in for 2 more days.  The second place gave me an AMAZING quote, so I ran out the door to get there before they forgot about how AMAZING the quote was they just gave me.  By the time I got there, they put it together that the AMAZING quote was just for fixing the flat.  No stud included.  Damn you.

I returned to my car to call the 3rd place.  Kim Jong-il answered the phone (or at least the South Park equivalent).  His quote was even better than the first guy's, so I drove straight over there.  I didn't want to deal with it anymore, so I just gave him my keys and left.  I ran downtown to meet Annie for lunch.  When I got back 90 minutes later, everything was fixed.  Plus, he charged me half what the second place quoted as a 'base price' (which we all know that's 1/2 what a mechanic will actually charge you).

So, a simple leaky tire turned into a day-long tribulation.  At least that keeps things interesting.

I saw a few interesting things in Oakland throughout this whole thing.  First of all, look up Michael Mischer Chocolates in Oakland.  Zoom into it on Maps until you can see what's directly next door.  Unfair, right?  The street view helps, but it's hard to read the chocolate sign.

Similarly, you should check out street view at 1940 Broadway, in Oakland.

Undershirts have helped my nipples, but then I get too hot,
~RoB