Sunday, November 25, 2007
In all my 29.99 years, I've never had the sort of disturbing discovery I had last week.
Early Sunday the soft morning light peeked through my blinds, rousing me from a good night's sleep. I squealed as I stretched the last bit of sleep from my bones. I was ready to start my day. Five errands to run and two parties to attend, one of which would include lots of single men. It was a promising day.
I swung my feet over the side of the bed, gave the dog a good-morning pat and plodded off to the bathroom. I took care of business, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then, I began the fourth ritual, blowing my nose.
Yuck. I need a humidifier or something.
Wow, you don't want to come out now, do you, you little shit?
Blow, dig, blow.
Damn. What the hell?
I got all up in the mirror. Close as possible. That's when I realized I wasn't just dealing with a stubborn booger here.
It was a zit. Complete with whitehead. Inside. my. nose.
Now, as this never has happened to me before, I was somewhat at a loss. Traditional zit popping methods were difficult, if not useless. But, after twenty minutes of fretting and contorting, I finally popped that sucker.
So, if ever you have a big, nasty, posing-as-a-booger zit inside your nose on the same day you have the possibility of meeting Ms. Right, here is my advice...
Squeeze the shit out of your nose.
It hurts like hell, but it's much better than snorting Proactive.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
It's second down and seven. The opposing team is on their twenty yard line. Doesn't seem like the start of a remarkable play, but I sip my draft, entranced nonetheless.
24, 31, 42, Hike!
The quarterback rolls out of the pocket, looks left, then right. Fires on a line to his right. It's tipped. It starts to wobble. My defender has his sights on that ball. And...
"Hey there [Dauntless]."
"Wha?" I turn to my head left, eyes remaining on the television screen for as long as possible. Then I break away from the television to see it's the guy who I'm supposed to be meeting.
"Oh, hey 'Doug'"
That's when the other patrons start to go wild. Interception!
Damn it! I missed it!
I snap my head back to the television, "Go! go! go!"
He's at the fifteen.
"So, how have you been?" Doug asks.
Keeping my eyes on the screen, I replied, "Uh, great. Yeah."
He's at the ten.
"Exciting game, huh?"
Unable to put any thoughts together, I replied, "Wha? Uh..."
"Whoo hooo!" The bar goes wild. Everyone's jumping and slapping fives. Everyone except Doug.
It's ok that we don't root for the same team. Really, it is. But to not know when to let me watch my team... It's a turn off. A big one.