Chick Flicks

The bane of man’s existence, chick flicks have been tormenting half of Earth’s population ever since the first moving pictures.

Even though nerds are known to be soft-hearted, that doesn’t mean we will watch sappy lovesick movies with a tear in our eye and a smile on our face like some drooling fool.  Maybe we take it with a little more grace than others, but we’re still thinking, “Dear God, WHY?!”

Part of losing one’s nerdiness is to overcome the act of watching life go by and to become a more active participant.  After all, life is no spectator’s sport.  (That’s another part of losing nerdiness; using sports analogies.)

My wife, like so many wives, looooves to torment me with mush-movies.  I used to watch those instruments of the Devil without complaint, but now when I hear the mere mention of a chick flick, my Pavlovian reaction is a rolling of the eyes so fast I can see my brain.

Ladies, a good rule of thumb when picking out a movie to see with your boyfriend or hubby is that drama = trauma.  The more dramatic the movie the more traumatic the experience.  So don’t go picking out movies like, “The Notebook”.  Guys hate to tear up and it’s even worse when one actually leaks out.  Besides, we don’t want to learn about some man spending his last years of life gallantly trying to preserve his wife’s failing memories of their love only to mentally lose her again and again and end up dying together in the same bed.  IT’S JUST WRONG!!!

Yet I would take, “The Notebook” any day over that which my wife brought out one dismal day.

It was…it was…see for yourself.

 Me ---->

I could feel the testosterone drain from my body.  I rolled my eyes so fast I could have been a slot machine.  How long would this torture last?  The minutes were printed on the backs of each case.  There is a total of 1,759 minutes of agony.  30 HOURS!  This is it, this is the thing that’s going to kill me…or make me a vegetable.

To date, I’ve only completed 10 hours.

Let's be perfectly honest here, they're not AS bad as I thought they would be.  They have their funny parts and tid-bits of useful information.  Plus, Erin and I have a good compromise going.  I watch chick flicks and she watches man movies like "300", "Hot Tub Time Machine", and "The Last Samurai" to name a few.

It's a good way to broaden each other's horizons.

Meat Stick of Pestilence

Hearkening back to my days of nerdome, I recall what it was like not having a career and working for Target on the sales floor team, aka merchandise-straightener-upper.

I have run across some pretty disgusting things in my three years of service in retail, and restocked countless carts of out of place merchandise, but never had I come in contact with an item that was in such need of destruction until the day I found rancid meat in my cart of what we called “re-shop”.  You see, products don’t just appear in the re-shop basket, they are put there by another employee; sometimes two or more people have handled the product before it reaches the sorting baskets where it is to be put back on the shelf.  That is why I was so surprised to see a log of Hillshire Farms turkey meat gone white, green, and turquoise with mold wrapping itself around from the back of the meat stick and gripping the sides like the bony fingers of death.  Apparently, the seal had broke and the meat had sat in the warm air of the store for days.  Here I was faced with a choice.  I could buy it, eat a little, endure hours of an excruciating stomach ache, and then collect a hefty sum of money from the corporation.  Or not.  With the Meat Stick of Pestilence in hand, I strode up to the checkout lanes, and showed the manager my prize.
“I believe this has the potential to take life.”  I said solemnly.
Her reply was simply, “Have Guest Services take care of it.”
I let Guest Services have it at the expense of what could have been a nice down payment on a new mansion in Beverly Hills.

Christmas in July

Ever wonder what Santa does the other 364 days of the year?  We found out first hand.

On our way home, my wife noticed a vintage car at the stop light a few yards away with a rather plump, white-bearded, rosy-cheeked fellow.  We joked about how he looked like St. Nick, but as we got closer to the cherry red automobile, we saw initials painted on the side, “S.C.”.  It was none other than the Spirit of Christmas himself, Santa Clause!

As was to be expected, Father Christmas drove an honest-to-goodness historical vehicle.  The car’s windshield even had snow flakes etched into the glass!

It seems as though Santa came down to the sunshine state for a little R&R, not to mention vitamin D.  What a change the scenery must be; going from bleak white tundra to palm trees and triple digits.  He and Mrs. Clause seemed to be enjoying their cruise while sporting shades and leaving the top down.

What a sight it was!

If only Aidan were old enough to enjoy the spectacle.

So long St. Nick, have a holly-jolly summer!

Time to be Nerdy

Here's a picture I took from a magazine and one from the Internet. Have some lolz!

Loath to Love

When my wife and I first moved onto our property I immediately made an enemy. It had no name and no purpose…other than evil.

There I was, innocently repairing fencing when, “OW, HEY!” I was bleeding. Near the base of the fence was this strange plant. It was small and inconspicuous, though it harbored satanic desires…it thirsted for blood. Every leaf bristled with syringe-like spines reaching for flesh. I had but to barely brush against it and I bled. This demonic foliage has the unique ability to slip through my toughest jeans, my toughest jacket, and my leather work gloves! So I dubbed it and its ilk, “vampire plants”.


Picture courtesy of these guys.


Every time I ran across a vampire plant I kicked the crap out of it with my pointy western boots and chanted a few choice words with each blow.

Then I found out its true name, Silybum Marianum or Blessed Milk Thistle. Apparently it’s a holy plant. “How could this be?” I thought, “It can’t be holy! It makes me holey, I have scabs!” Sure enough, it's depicted in some religious German artwork featuring the Virgin Mary and is thought to have gained its white venous leaves from a drop of her milk.

I stopped kicking and cussing at the plant.

It also turns out that Milk Thistle has astounding liver healing properties as study after study has proven. It can even save a person from dying after eating the dreaded Death Cap Mushroom. Milk Thistle’s seeds are rich in Silymarin, which is the active ingredient that helps the liver fight off things that would otherwise damage it, like alcohol. The herb is also used to help liver cancer patients recover from radiation. It’s practically a super herb! I am now smitten with Milk Thistle.

It’s a good thing too because my property was overrun with this tiny plant which grew to be over six feet tall with barbs that were just as sharp but significantly longer. Now I’m like, “Grow baby, grow!” because I wanted to harvest the seeds. I had no idea what to do with them though, so I ate a few. Not bad. Not great, but not bad. A little bitter, I wouldn’t eat them by the bushel or anything.

I ended up throwing the majority away, but harvesting it was fun. Although, my wife did think I had gone a little nutty. She just can't understand this undying love for a satanic-looking, pain-producing plant.

My Super Power

Ever since I can remember, my father spoke of a gift. An ability passed down from generation to generation, from father to son. I’ve seen my dad use it in public with incredible stealth. The man could clear an elevator if need be, for his gas was deadly. Many a time I’ve been caught in the fallout of his blasts. It’s amazing that I don’t have cancer of the nose. The stench is so pungent that if stink were people, he’d be China.

Then one day I found that I had been given the gift. For the most part, I keep this superhuman ability under control. Though such power can’t always be contained, as a few of my coworkers found out.

I was working at UPS loading trucks with packages off of a conveyor belt. The work was fast-paced and high-energy so you let ‘em rip whenever possible. It was during this time that I had access to an orange tree and I would eat one every day with breakfast. This caused me to become very regular, and every day, at the exact same time, Mother Nature called. I would respond with a few preliminary cheek-sneaks before running off to finish the job. Well, one day, a guy near me on the belt said, “Dude, what the hell IS that?” and the guy across from him said, “I don’t know man, but I think there’s a sewage plant nearby and they must dump it or something.”

Which means they couldn’t believe that a stench of this magnitude could possible come from just one person, so it must be the collective funk of the city.

I’ve never had a harder time controlling my laughter. My lips quiver, my stomach shakes, and I have to go into the truck and stop loading just to laugh silently.

I don’t eat oranges any more.

Embarrassment at the Auto Parts Store

Part of living in the country is having the ability to fix and maintain your mechanical equipment. It's a great way to save money and time, so I've been learning how to do my own upkeep on the family car. I've done two other vehicles with help from family and successfully changed the oil on both. Then came the day I needed to change the oil in our new car, with no help. It seemed easy enough. All I had to do was locate the oil pan, slap my crescent wrench on the nut and let the bad oil flow into the catch. I slide under the car after jacking it up and stare at what can only be described as, "things". My car could have the ability to fly and I wouldn't know. I find what I think is the oil pan and loosen the bolt. Out streams red liquid. "No, no, no!" I yell as car-blood leaks from what could be its heart. With the bolt back in place I hope it still runs. The search for the oil pan continues. "Maybe that's it..." I tentatively rest my wrench on a new bolt. "But maybe it's not..." Having lost courage and confidence, my wife and I head out to the auto parts store to return the oil kit since we resolved to simply have the car done by professionals. With a low spirit I wait in line with Erin.

I tried to think up a less embarrassing reason for returning the oil kit. Maybe I injured myself while changing the oil. Nah, then I would be an idiot for an entirely different reason. Oh, I know! I'll say that the warranty only allows certified technicians to change the oil, and that's why I'm returning the oil kit. Brilliant!

"Hey, what are you doing back?" The guy behind the counter shouts over everyone in line. I was ready to lay my alibi on him when, out of nowhere, Erin suddenly shouts back to the guy,
"He can't find the oil pan so we're returning the kit!"

I freeze; the weight of an invisible dunce cap resting on my head. Did she just tell the whole store that I lack the brain power to find a stinking oil pan?

Three men turn around to appraise my stupidity. I'm speechless.

The auto parts guy asks if the car is in the parking lot. I nod dumbly. He takes me out there, gets under my car and shows me where the oil pan is and which bolt to loosen. After thanking him, I drive home in shame.

It was all for the best though as I've changed the oil on that car three times since without any issues.

I'd like to thank my wife for her sweet innocence. Had you left my ego intact, it would have been slowly chipped away each time we visited Jiffy Lube.