I realized something as I was making a trek from Philly to Maine this weekend for a wedding.  If you have a “Coexist” bumper sticker on your car, you might as well just have a sign that say “I’m a shitty driver”.

It seems like every time I come across one of these vehicles, they’re driving 10-15 miles per hour below the speed limit… …in the fast lane.  This, Mr. or Mrs. Driver, does not make me want to coexist with you. This makes me want to borderline murder you.  

In fact, I may have imagined hitting you from behind and sending you off the road where you now coexist with both your car and the guardrail… …perhaps in a fiery heap.  Maybe.  I wasn’t able to fully commit to that last part in my mind.  

The lesson here I believe is those who would like to coexist should do so with the right lane when traveling on the highway.  

Life isn’t easy.  It will test you, it will throw you curveballs and, sometimes - just sometimes - it will just fuck with you for the hell of it just to see how you react.  Whenever I question whether there’s a higher power, I think of situations like the following where the only possible explanation can be that someone up above is looking down at me like with curiosity at the lab rat-like situation into which I’ve been thrusted.  I can see him/her sitting up there saying, “Oh, this is going to be good.  Not matter how this turns out, this is going to be win-win for me.”

So shoving aside the small amount of dignity I still have left in my life, I’ll tell you that the setting of this particular scene is a public restroom and it involves me needing to use a stall and not a urinal.  I’m handling my business and I don’t think I’ve been in the bathroom all that long when all of a sudden… …complete darkness. 

At first I thought there was a power outage, but quickly realized that wasn’t the case when I didn’t hear the general public outside the bathroom bitching or moaning about the black out.  Soon thereafter though, the proverbial light bulb went on over my head as I caught on that lights in the bathroom are on a motion sensor. Where’s the sensor?  Right by the door. Where am I? In the farthest stall on the other side of the bathroom. I could perform a waltz followed by my own personal Super Bowl Halftime Show and the lights ain’t coming on. 

It doesn’t take me long to grasp that I have some choices.  As I have not fully completed the last stage of the task at hand, I could try to blindly clean myself up as best as  possible and waddle myself over to door to turn on the lights. Of course, there are several issues with that scenario.  What if I haven’t cleared the area as well as I thought I had and I go with the full button-up, zip, fastening of belt, only to find out my horrible mistake when I reassess the work that I’ve done?  Do I hedge my bets and just hold my pants up, half-sprint, half-shuffle over to the door as fast as possible to trigger the sensor?  You KNOW it would be at that exact moment that someone would walk through the door. Or…

…I can just sit there in the dark and hope that someone comes into the bathroom, creating light like God on the First Day.  Safe bet in theory.  But what if they notice the two feet in the far stall?  They just came into a dark bathroom.  They can put two and two together and pick up that I was in there sitting in the dark.  Sure, I can wait until they leave, but if the roles were reversed, I’ll tell you this: I’m waiting outside that door until the next morning to see who was sitting in a stall in the pitch black bathroom. 

So what did I do? I waited. That’s right. I sat in the dark with only the glow of my cell phone and a couple of ESPN.com articles to keep me company.  Luckily, it didn’t take long for this test study to come to fruition.  And it seemed the deities-that-be that put me into this awkward spot took pity on me.  I heard a father and son walk into the bathroom. The child need help going “number one” and his father was very concerned about about getting through this process as soon as possible.  They were in and out in a flash and I once again had the luminary guidance I required.  I wrapped things up and got the hell out of Dodge.

As I physically and mentally hightailed it from the restroom, I think it’s fair to say that the gods and I were ultimately both thinking the same thing… …”Win.”

Holy Jesus. It’s been more than a month since I’ve posted anything.  That’s depressing.  Mainly because it’s just been for a complete lack of material.  If I had a couple ideas that I just didn’t get around to because I was being lazy, so be it.  I just had nothing.  And this is why I laugh when some people read my blog and say something like, “You should be a writer.”  It’s very flattering indeed, but actual writers do write stuff like, I don’t know, almost every day?  I’m not sure if my current pace of once every fortnight cuts the mustard.  I might as well be a quarterback that comes in for the first drive, takes a snap, and then says, “See you again toward the end of the fourth quarter,” and heads to sideline to take a seat.  Anyway, on to the matter at hand.

I’m currently at an awkward stage in my life on several levels.  This has been well documented not only in this blog, but additionally through a litany of facebook posts. Yet another instance of this has reared its ugly head recently. Like a pimple the night before prom.  

The problem is two-fold.  First, I’m no longer a part of traditional corporate America, in that I don’t I go to an office Monday through Friday or, for that matter, even have any real co-workers.  I suppose do go to an office more days than not.  Granted, my office may double as a coffee shop in Ardmore, PA known as Milkboy and though the hipsters that work there and also convenient said location are largely good people, I would not classify them as “co-workers”.  Oh yeah, by the way, I’m officially “that guy” who does his work at a coffee shop. Usually, such a scenario would require me to be a grad student, but lo, I’ve taken this haven of caffeine and vegan cuisine and made it my Skywalker Ranch.  You know, but without any tangible output or generating of revenue.  The Lucas/barista beard is coming soon. Just you wait.

Second, as I’ve previously discussed, many of my friends are married and more than a couple have reproduced. The problem here is their respective children are all still pretty young.  The oldest one with whom I have any consistent contact just turned six. Sure, the children go to their daycares, preschools and Gymborees, but none of them are part of any established clubs or organizations just yet.  Not their fault, they’re just too young.  Which bring us to my current problem…

…WHERE THE HELL DO I GET MY DAMN GIRL SCOUT COOKIES!!!!!   It’s unbelievable.  When I worked in an office, I seemed like I couldn’t go three weeks without Steve from finance shoving an order form in my face and, for a brief moment, I would try to resist the sweet, sweet temptation of those glorious cookies.  

Who I was kidding?  It might as well have been crack.  Punch me in the groin if I didn’t want to order so many cookies that little Amanda would have won two trips to Hawaii. Much like an actual crack addict, I just didn’t have the cash.  So I ordered what I could and then waited patiently for that wonderful the day to arrive.  Oh and when it did, I attacked those cookies like Charlie Sheen in the Red Light District.  

Where are my friends with daughters who have pledged their loyalty to the Girl Scouts of America?  I know it’s not their fault. They’re just not there yet.  So without an office to frequent or a pseudo-niece in the GSA, you know what I have discovered?  Trying to find girl scout cookies is harder than trying to find Natalie Portman’s breasts in the Black Swan.  

You can’t order them online?  Are you kidding me?!  Of alllllllllll the things you can get on the internet, girls scout cookies are the American Express Black Card of online shopping?  You know what I’ve been both able to and have actually purchased online?  Nunchucks. You’re saying I can’t get a delicious Trefoil through the world wide web, but two wooden rods connected by a chain used to inflict bodily harm are readily available in my e-commerce travels?  

So instead I’m forced to take part in some sort of bizzaro scavenger hunt to track down these kelly green-clad jezebels.  Name me another time that someone my age searching out teenage girls doesn’t involve the phrase “Level 3” and end up with a blue dot being assigned to me on a website.  Maybe Chris Hansen will understand that I just wanted a g#@damn Tagalong.  Either way, this isn’t going to end well.  

Mall Edition

1) It had been quite sometime since I’ve seen the one-color, two-piece terry cloth sweatsuit and it’s good to know that the King of Prussia Mall is a hot zone for such sightings.

2) Running the gauntlet of salespeople at the kiosks that run down the center of every walkway in the mall is worse than stepping into a kennel with bacon underwear.  I borderline had to crane kick one of them to make my way out of the mall.  I don’t want your Dead Sea Salt products lady and, by the way, you almost got a boot right in the mug.

3) I can’t get a CD in an actual store anymore?  Seriously?  I have to go online? You’re telling me there’s nary a Sam Goody or FYE to be found and somehow Juicy Couture has stood the test of time?  Well based on lesson #1, I guess it all makes sense.

I have reached an age where most everyone I know has not only taken the marital plunge, but they have also decided to procreate.  Not that I’m complaining at all.  Being an only child has several implications in the whole making babies scheme.  First, the responsibility of continuing the family name and providing my lovely mother with some grandchildren falls solely to me.   I think it’s safe to say and most of you who know me would agree that I’m nowhere near the station to catch the Babymaking Train.  Sorry mom.  Someday I hope.  Second, I have don’t have any brothers or sisters that can bestow the requisite nephews or nieces to which I can play uncle.  I have to rely on good friends to have children and in turn dub me “Uncle Obie.”  It’s an honor I enjoy and relish.  I totally see myself being THAT uncle, who randomly gives the kids money and tells them inappropriate stories about their parents from back in the day in a cool and very un-creepy way.

I didn’t notice this until just recently, but most of the progeny my friends have been bringing into this world have been boys.   This has been great for me.  They’re amazingly easy to shop for, especially newborns/infants/toddlers.  Insert parents’ favorite sports team and purchase the appropriate apparel.   By far my favorite maneuver to date has been to get my friend’s son a bunch of hockey-related gear and attire to totally get him interested in the sport and then sit back as my buddy and his wife have to deal with the hockey-related costs and travel moving forward.  I’m a good friend and uncle. 

Somehow I had avoided having to buy gifts for small girl babies until I was recently meeting a good friend and her six-month old for the first time.  I can’t come in empty-handed. That’s rude.  Immediately I realized that I had no idea what hell to get a tiny baby girl.  My go-to sports apparel purchase was out the window and I had nothing even closely resembling a Plan B.  So I headed to Baby Gap or Gap for Kids or whatever the hell it is.  I think its Gap for Kids, but Baby Gap is located on the premises as well.  Either way, it’s as bad as when I sometimes walk into a Dunkin’ Donuts and instead find myself at a Baskin Robins, contemplating their delicious 31 flavors and then remembering I was there to get coffee.   

To say I was lost would be an understatement.  I felt like a grandparent at a sex shop.  “What the hell is all this stuff?” “Where do I go?”  I did more laps around Baby Gap for Kids than Dale Earnhardt Jr. at a NASCAR event.  I also realized a couple of other things during my tour:  1) I was the only guy in the store. No surprise there I guess and 2) I was the youngest shopper by a longshot.  Either the grandparents were taking advantage of some sale of which I was unaware or the cougar age has risen exponentially and they’re popping kids as well. 

I was able to lock it up for a brief time to at least to start to chip away at this project.  Process of elimination seemed like the best way to go.  Boys stuff? Out.  Ages 2-4? Out.  Newborns?  Out as well.  That killed about 70% of the store.  The only problem was there was still 30%. Do you know how much stuff that leaves!!!  The giftee is six-months old.  Do I buy for 6-12 months or 12-18 months? Most of the apparel is winter stuff.  Understandable, given that it’s December.  I can buy big, but its winter now. What if it’s too big this winter and then too small next winter?  It’s enough to drive a guy to drink (which I did later. Don’t you worry about that).  Then the styles!  What looks good on a baby? I can barely pick out clothes for myself.  And this is how I found myself taking out my phone, calling my resident authority on baby clothes and uttering the question, “Are penguins in?”  Did those words exit my mouth? I guarantee that I will never use that sentence again in my life, but there I was, a lost soul in Baby Gap for Kids looking for some guidance and purpose in a sea of baby attire and commerce.   By the way, penguins ARE in.   Who knew? I did not. Did you?  If not, that’s my little safety tip to you this holiday season.

In what was the equivalent of closing my eyes and throwing darts at the board, I grabbed a cable knit sweater and a beanie hat, with a penguin on it of course. Only the latest fashion trends for my pseudo-niece.  My virgin expedition into the world of baby clothing was a learning experience and also a harrowing one.  Perhaps I’ll be able to use the above moving forward to make the process go smoother or maybe I’ll bring a friend who is already well-versed in the shopping for babies.  I was, however, able to use my previous knowledge to snag the most significant acquisition of the entire venture: the gift receipt.  Mama didn’t raise no fool. 

1) Some people solve problems and others keep interns around to blame.

2) You had me at F%$% You, Cee-Lo Green.

3) I thought today about the ancient Greek myth of Sisyphus, when I realized that we have the equivalent in modern times. It’s called doing laundry.

In an storyline unrelated (aren’t they all in dreamland?) to my Mad Men-themed dream, a new hair style was sweeping the nation called “The Pac-Man.” It consisted of shaving Pac-Man’s pizza slice-like mouth into your head with the tip of the wedge starting just above the ears and widening as it went over the top of the scalp.  Many members of society in my dream were donning this hairstyle and guess what?  It didn’t look a damn thing like Pac-Man.  Are you surprised? Of course not.  It’s just one of those one-time assumed truths that you sometimes have to deal with like “today in this dream, my dog has robot legs” or “today in this dream, McDonald’s has  a maitre d’ that seats me at my table and brings me my burger, fries and cherry cola.” And this why I should always keep my dreams to myself. 

I’m not providing a whole lot of perspective in this post, this was just a funny story from the Halloween weekend.  I tagged along with my cousin to a Halloween party hosted by her best friend. 

Though this completely unrelated to the tale at hand, let me just say, unbelievable party.  My cousin’s best friend is an event planner and her boyfriend - well, I’m not exactly sure what he does, except to say that he’s a sick lighting designer.  Easily the best decorated and most professional party I’ve ever been to for which I didn’t need to buy a ticket.  But I digress..

…copious amounts of spirits are imbibed, bedtimes that are far too late are reached and everyone is a little worse for the wear the next morning. 

I’m invited to brunch the next morning with cousin and some of her friends and, as it involved coffee and potentially bacon, I gladly accepted.  It was during this brunch that I found that my cousin’s roommate has a rule.  She will not let anyone live with her unless she can lift them up and carry them.  The reason being that, in case of fire, she can carry any roommate to safety.  It sounds weird at first, but only if everyone took roommate selection that seriously.  She won’t live with someone unless she’s sure she can SAVE THEIR LIFE!  Now we can perhaps debate as to whether the motives or completely benevolent or somewhat selfish (a hero complex or the avoidance of any guilt associated with roommate death), but that’s an onion to be peeled for another day. I think we can agree the end result is honorable. 

My cousin is eight pounds wet.  A stiff wind could lift her feet off the ground, let alone an actual adult human being.  As we returned from brunch, it was put out there that it should be determined if I could be lifted and carried and thus a worthy roommate.  

I assumed the position that I was told was optimal for roommate lifting.  And maybe it was my useless theater major at work, but I committed to role of “roommate to be saved from fire.”  No help from this guy. After my arms were draped over her shoulder, I became dead weight, much like an unconscious roommate being saved from a fire and smoke inhalation would be.   Said lifting commenced and my toes just left the grass before I was dropped like a sack of potatoes.  Didn’t even put my arms down to brace myself. Again, commitment to the role.

I didn’t hear any noise after that, because everyone was laughing so hard that no actual sound was exiting their bodies.  In fact, most everyone was doubled over and lying on the ground as well.  At least I wasn’t alone.

We eventually regained our wits and went on our separate ways.  The next day I’m grabbing a coffee and a friend asked me how I got a grass stain on my jacket.  I opened my mouth to reply and stopped as I suddenly realized that there is no good answer to that. What am I going to do? Tell the truth?  “Oh yeah. That’s from my cousin’s roommate’s roommate fire-rescue carry test.”  I would have saved my friend the trouble and punched my own face after that explanation.  And no lie that I could come up with on the spot would be acceptable either.  “I fell.”  Great, I’m an uncoordinated idiot. “I was making out on the lawn.” Awesome, I’m 14. OK, OK. 26.  The best I could up with on the spot was the ever-effective “I don’t know.”

So what do I take away from this experience?  There are few, if any, instances where it’s alright to be lifted up as an adult, barring an emergency? “Give me a boost so I can climb this tree”?  Nope.  “Can you lift me up so I can peek in the girls locker room”?  Childish AND illegal.  If any television show needs a falling body, I’m well-versed on the intricacies of the part?  No, the most important thing I learned is I need to come up with a sound “Where did you get the grass stain” story immediately.  The best I’ve got so far is “I got roped into a flash-mob ultimate frisbee game” and I don’t think that’s going to cut it. 

1) That I’m currently roughly double whoever this kid was.

2) It takes time and planning to dress like a slut on Halloween. The longer you wait to decide a costume, the more likely you’ll be going PG with your attire.

3) I formed a company today. It took an hour. The number of employees is one.  The company is currently operating at a loss. Despite my mockery of the capitalist system, I still have people willing and or wanting to be “my attorney” or “banker”.  I guess Real Estate Holder in Monopoly or Captain of Titanic were already taken. 

I just noticed this at the bottom of my last entry: “Posted 1 month ago.”  I’m disappointed in myself and ashamed. I promise to be better.  And with that, let’s get after this…

…I qualify this post by saying right off the bat that my sense of style is limited at best. I try to generally keep within the confines of what I know.  Examples include jeans and a t-shirt, collared shirt and pants/khakis, a sensible suit/shirt/tie combo.  I even have an idea of which colors work together and which don’t.  I do not keep up with fashion trends.  I shop for clothes at two stores total. Fashion forward is a term that will never apply to me.

That being said, I have noticed a brown boot trend that seems to be strutted out just about everywhere by a large portion of the female population.  Doesn’t matter what the situation is.  Bar? Check.  Coffee shop I’m currently sitting in? Looking at ‘em right now.  Boston College football tailgate? Oh yeah.  Who knew that the brown boot would be logical complement to a bright yellow SuperFan t-shirt and jean shorts? Not this guy. Apparently the brown boot is the new slutty black mini dress.  Just something to be force-worn into any situation no matter what. 

(Side note: Another friend different from the one below tried to get me to clarify which brown boots I was talking about. Hells if I know.  I’m aware of four types of shoe: Flip-flop, boot, sneaker and, well, shoe.  Asking me to spot a specific kind of boot outside of color is like asking me what happened on anyone of the following: Dancing with Stars, Glee, Real Housewives of [Insert Regions Here] or So You Think You Can Dance? I don’t know the answers to any of the above, because I choose not to notice.)

I again saw the brown boot while out at a bar the other night and mentioned this fad to my friend.  She confirmed my suspicions and then added, “At least it’s not Uggs.”  How very true.  I think enough time has passed that we can safely declare the following to all those who gave the Uggs movement life.  Fuck you.

They’re god awful and there’s not justification for them whatsoever.  And yet if I heard one more person (read: girl) say it didn’t matter because they were “so comfortable”, I would have lost noodle.  That’s no excuse.  There are rules man!

You think there isn’t laundry list of things I would wear or do in the name of comfort?  Sure there are.  But I’m not a selfish prick.  For example, I hate shoes.  If I had my way, I would walk around barefoot or at worst with flip-flops for the rest of my life.  Like Jesus or an apostle.  I mean if they were doing it, how bad could it really be?  I understand though that a lot of people have an aversion to feet and I fall in step with the social norms. 

(By the way, have you ever noticed that people who don’t like feet, REALLY don’t like feet? I can’t think of another PG-rated body part that garners such revulsion.  I don’t get it. The majority of time I feel, feet are covered by a layer of cotton or nylon and then wrapped in bound leather.  What exactly is getting in there? Compare that to random things that average person touches with their hands any given day and I feel that “Ewwwww. Hands!” should be getting much more play than “Feet. Gross.”  Not that I have any strong feelings about either appendage.  I’m just sayin’.)

Back to the point at hand. If I wore clothes only in the name of comfort, I’d look like an asshole.  Do you know what the most comfortable pants are? Sweatpants.  I have enough sense though to not wear them outside amongst the general public. Just because I’m jobless and living at home doesn’t mean I need to project myself as jobless and living at home.  I make myself presentable and lie accordingly. 

And you know what’s even more comfortable than sweatpants? No pants.  Now I’m not starting a nudist movement or joining a colony or anything.  I just know that if it was socially acceptable and I had the option to so go sans trousers on a hot summer day, I’m probably leaving the pants in the closet.  Nor do I think I’d be alone in that way of thought.  Ultimately though, it’s not socially acceptable or even legal so I hear and so I don’t. 

Comfort is not an excuse. Uggs are horrible.  The same people who backed the Uggs trend are probably the same people that legitimized Crocs. Are you kidding me? Crocs? At least the Uggs trend had the decency to confine itself to only a single gender like pregnancy, the inability to parallel park or having emotions. Crocs affected the whole damn population like a viral foot fungus of awfulness and stupidity. 

So you’ll never see me wearing sweatpants, a wife beater and crocs in the name of being comfortable.  I’ll just leave that to the residents of the Greater New Jersey seaboard.