Thus We Come to a New Milestone... My First Retraction!

Lo and behold! We finally have proof that I am not perfect. It has been less than 24 hours since my last post went online and I already have a situation in my hands. This will be a short post, I hope, and it may not be that entertaining. You see, I was very worried I would upset BF because it was my first time posting about him. I even went as far as emailing him the paragraph that talked about him for his approval. Yes, I know that letting other people influence what I write is not necessarily good as it gives you a less honest picture of how my deranged mind works, but it has never been my intention to hurt anyone that I care for. Fortunately, BF had no issues with the paragraph so, feeling relieved, I went ahead and published the post without any altered content.

Of course, though BF was not offended by the post, someone else was. In my defense, I did not realize I was being careless and I really did not mean to hurt anyone. However, I was careless and I did hurt someone. One of my friends was less than flattered by the paragraph detailing how friend-less I was. I must explain that my definition of "friend" is very narrow. So narrow, in fact, that very few people make it through and earn that title. It has become apparent, though, that I may need to broaden that definition. I must take the sledgehammer of open-mindedness and tear down the walls of my definition of "friend" in order to make it wide enough to accommodate those that are important to me. Hopefully, this will keep me from hurting people that I care about in the future.

Look, I am really not good at apologizing, or at doing so sincerely and sounding sincere, but I feel like I need to apologize since, if I lose one reader because of this, it's like losing half my readership. All joking aside, I did not mean to hurt anyone. I have perfected the art of acting aloof and detached as a way to protect myself from others but I had never considered that these defenses could hurt someone else. Anyhow, I will be lowering my shields and being more welcoming to those that share a special place in my heart and who are willing to allow me entry past their own defenses.

All this is just to say that I know this doesn't in any way make up for being such a thoughtless bastard and I know it won't mend everything right away... but I hope it is a start.

We Are Almost Caught Up... Just Bear With Me.

I am having a hard time starting this post because I am unsure about what to write. I lead such a lackluster life that there are few things to write about. A typical day for me entails getting up, going to work, going to lunch, going back to work, going home, watching TV and going to sleep. It's a pretty routine life. Every now and then I will switch it up a bit. For example, last night I watched four episodes of Gilmore Girls (I own all 7 seasons on DVD) but I also read a few short stories and listened to some music. Every now and then I will go to the movies but that is it. I rarely deviate from that format. I mean, if it ain't broke... right? Except that all this non-broken-ness leads to a life with few complications and it is such complications that are compelling to write and read about. I have no complications. Unlike Jay-Z, I don't have ninety-nine problems. I wish I had ninety-nine problems. It would spare me having to write a paragraph like the one you just read. I mean, this is no way to gain an audience. I need to provide an escape to your mundane lives (I'm assuming, of course) by providing a window into my exuberant and glamorous life, which I don't have. However, there is no point crying over my life, or lack thereof, so I should move on with this post.

In the last two posts, I have caught you up with what is going on with me and my family. The only thing left to discuss would be my social life. I now need to catch you up with all the goings-on of all my friends and my dating life. This should be a short post.

On the friend front, I am happy to report that I have fewer friends than when I started this blog (I'm being sarcastic, of course. Please try to stay with me as I won't always type an explanation). I am a very gregarious person so I talk a lot to a lot of people but I am lacking the connection one usually has with friends. I usually keep my friend list short in order to be able to provide each one with a personalized experience and be able to have more one on one time. I have never had more than 3 or 4 real friends at a time. Let me clarify here that when I mean friends, I mean people with which I will share anything and everything. I am sure that I know some people that will be offended that I don't regard them as friends but, in my opinion, if I only see you at work and hardly ever outside of it, we are more friendly than we are true friends. Then again, I am probably just being really picky like Kristen Wiig's character in Bridesmaids (which, if you haven't watched it, you need to watch it. Maybe not right now. Maybe you should finish reading my blog first and then watch it. Yes, watch it right after you finish reading the blog. You can thank me later.) when she is complaining to Melissa McCarthy's character that she has no friends and Melissa tells her that she does have friends but refuses to acknowledge and reach out to them. I really hope that made sense. The point is, I don't think I have any really close friends right now as I have had in the past. I was at one point going to read the book "How to Lose Friends & Alienate People" (which was made into a movie in 2008 according to IMDB) but decided not to as I really don't need help in that department. You maybe asking yourself how I have managed to alienate people being the charming and charismatic young man that I am. I would like to blame everything on stupid drunken nights of debauchery that are so shaming my mind has repressed all memory of them, so I will. It is not my fault at all as I am a charming and charismatic young man. Therefore, stupid drunken nights of debauchery are to blame for all of it. Yes. That sounds right. At least it makes me feel better. Then again, I have not alienated all of my previous friends. Some of them just up and moved out of state and I am fairly certain, about 95%, that it wasn't because of me.

It isn't all bad though. I still talk to my friends that moved to Portland, sporadically but it still counts. We have also had two Skype movie nights. A Skype movie night is when we choose a movie on Netflix and then get on Skype and try to watch it at the same time. So far we have watched Zombies vs Strippers and the 1969 Batman movie. We have a thing for B-movies as they tend to be hilarious. Moving on, I still have my Houston friend whom I have never met but often provides me with excellent advice and from whom I borrowed the ingenious nicknames for my nephews. I also have co-workers like Dottie, Heidi and Preggo with whom I share a bond deeper than just the co-worker bond. In fact, if we could only hang out more outside of work, they could probably be upgraded to friends. Unfortunately, they have families and thus busy schedules which leaves them with little free time. So, I am not as lonely as I made it sound in the previous paragraph. In fact, the only reason I often find myself drinking alone, is because I can't resist the call of a bubble bath while enjoying a few drinks and watching The Colbert Report. And, while drinking in the bath is extremely fun, it does give the phrase "drowning your sorrows" a different connotation.

On to the dating front. I am afraid that I don't have many stories to tell. I have mentioned some of my dating experiences in the past and they tend to not be that great. One could easily assume that I am either very picky or very unlucky when it comes to the dating world. Well, I guess luck has to run out some time, even if it is bad luck, because I actually have a boyfriend at the moment! What?!?! Me having a boyfriend?!?! It is so unlike me, I know. But, what can I say? I met someone who is a sucker for punishment and therefore enjoys spending time with me. BF, as he will henceforth be known as, even thinks I am good-looking and I believe him because he is a crappy liar. He is older than me by a few years and has his life way more together than me. In a twist worthy of Shyamalan's early work, The Sixth Sense or Unbreakable and not The Lady in the Water or The Happening, he is a political conservative whereas I have a heart. Fortunately, he does think I am smarter than him and that makes up for the political differences because at least we agree on something. He has told me, more than once, that he used to think he was smart until he met me. I don't need to tell you how much I love that. Especially if you know me at all and know how much of a megalomaniac I am.  We met around New Year's and have been dating for about two and a half months. To be honest, I am a bit wary of the relationship because we haven't had a huge fight yet. We have had small disagreements and he stood me up, sort of, one time but, other than that, it's been pretty smooth sailing and I am not used to that. I am used to turbulence. I am used to Life of Pi style storms that capsize cruisers and leave small boys to cohabit with tigers in a lifeboat. Although I was not the biggest fan of that movie, I hope you have seen it or that reference holds no water. I don't know how much more I can say as I don't recall what his response was when I told him I may write about him. Also, I don't want to jinx anything so I should really not mention anything more though I am pretty sure he will come up in the future.

I guess that brings us up to date on the major stuff. I will have to really start thinking about what to write next. I am going to have to start doing things and that sounds exciting. I am also sure I can reach into my past for some interesting stories to tide me over now and then. I may also re-start my "Reasons Why I Am Going to Hell" but, either I have gotten nicer or I am more numb to what I say, because I don't come across those as often as I used to. I also owe you a recent picture of me but I have not gotten my haircut yet so you will have to wait. 'Til next time.

Reason Number 81 Why I Am Going to Hell

This actually happened a few months back yet I think it is still worth telling. As you all know by now, I don't really have a social life. Thus I usually don't have much to tell. If it weren't for my co-workers, I probably wouldn't have much to share at all. Luckily, I am surrounded by quirky co-workers that keep me entertained and put up with all my idiosyncrasies.  My friend Heidi, who was featured in two of my earlier reasons I am going to hell, is one of such co-workers. Heidi is, of course, not her real name. I shall never reveal her real name or where we work in order to protect her privacy (along with the Co-Worker's [who has unfortunately recently informed that she will not be reading this blog anymore due to the inconsistency of my posting]and He Who Reads From the Shadows'). I am adding a new co-worker as I am sure that she will give me more than just this one story I am about to tell. She shall be henceforth known by the moniker of Dottie. (On a personal note, I chose that nickname because I know she will hate it.)

When I first started my current job, I was excited because I thought I was going to have plenty of time to read. I did not however know that, although I would have time, I would not have the willpower to read as often as I could because I would waste too much time playing around with co-workers and watching videos on the minuscule screen on my iPod.

On random days, though, I can be seen reading a book here and there. A few months back, I was reading Letters From the Earth by Mark Twain. It had come greatly recommended by a very valued friend and I was not disappointed. I was sitting at my desk reading when Dottie came up to it and asked me what I was doing. Always eager to engage someone in conversation and maybe even lure them into an argument, I quickly told her about the book. I know that the anti-religious sentiment in it would not bode well with her as we had argued about religion in the past. This time however I was surprised by the fact that she was not as judgmental as I expected and just went on a tangent about how she wanted to get an e-reader. She said she had recently been called to jury duty and that she saw a young girl, Dottie is "middle-aged" (I refuse to give her real age on account that she has already threatened to shoot me in the past), with one and she had become interested. I, having a Lit degree, quickly argued that you lose a lot from the reading experience by not having a physical book when you are reading. She said she could see my point but was quick to add that you could have up to a thousand books and could carry them more conveniently. I quickly countered by saying, "That doesn't matter. You don't even have enough time left to read a thousand books." Which might have been a bad thing to say. Especially if you remember that she I said she was "middle-aged", which is me being generous about her age. Still, I probably should not tell someone that they won't be alive long enough to read as many books as they want. Fortunately, once it dawned on her what I had said and after the quick shock of the comment, she laughed it off. I felt kind of bad and tried to fix it by saying that I probably did not have enough time to read a thousand books either. It did not seem too consoling that we were both too old to read one thousand books. Anyway, she did say that I was going to go to hell for saying something like that after which I had no choice but to write about it here.

Well, there it is. Reason number eighty-one why I am going to hell is that I reminded someone that death is nigh, and nigher every minute. I rather like this story but it probably is one of those stories which were better if you were there. Anyway, at least I had something to write. To be honest, I started writing this pretty late on Sunday night and after a whole day of cleaning and laundry. The only reason I did is because I promised Preggo, for whom I need to find a new nickname since she already had her baby, that I would write something on the blog this weekend. I do have one more reason why I am going to hell coming and a lot of stuff has happened so I do want to write a new post soon. Until then, thanks for still reading.

My Very First Sports Injury*

*A bit of a misnomer, but I shall elaborate later on in the post.

I am so sorry. Can you guys ever find it in your heart to forgive me? I know it has been 17 days since my last post. (Going on 18 but who's counting?) I would love to say that I have a great reason for it. I would love to be able to get on this site and tell you guys that my life has done a complete 180 and that I have found a wonderful guy and that my life is so full of wonderful things that I hadn't had time to log on and write. Alas, I cannot say any of those things with a clear conscience. I have to come clean and say that the only reason I have not posted is simply because I am lazy. I know I am a horrible person. Just consider, before you start throwing stones, who among you has never procrastinated and left something for later regardless of how important it was for you. Therefore, let that entity, since all humans are guilty of procrastination, who has never been lazy before throw the first stone. Now, with a clear conscience, I shall continue.

Allow me, if you will, to elaborate on the asterisk next to the title of this post. Will this story center around the very first injury I have suffered that is related to sports? No. There are many painful memories in my sports trajectory. Yet, this particular injury that I speak of happened during a voluntary excursion into the terrifying world of sports and differs from the others because I was not involuntarily placed in hazardous situations.

To fully understand the enmity between me and sports, let us take a stroll down memory lane, where sports memories are safely hidden in a back room with a "Caution: Enter at Your Own Risk" sign at the door warning of the emotional pain that lies within. Shall we?

My first memory is from before I can even remember. Thus, it may not qualify as a memory, though I clearly remember my mother telling me the story more than once. Now, I was there, I just don't remember. As the story goes, when I was but a wee lad of about four years of age, my dad was a big baseball fan. He and his friends had a non-professional league team that would play every Sunday. At some point, and I am not sure why, my dad stopped playing in the team, yet continued to attend the games every Sunday. My dad loved taking me to the games since at that time I was his only son and he wanted to do all that father-son bonding kind of thing. To this day I have no idea what kind of field they played in. I don't know if it had bleachers for the spectators to sit at or if it was just an open field and people would just watch from the sides. Whichever it was, there was obviously no barrier to stop a ball from making contact with a four-year-old's head. Yes, that head was my head. To hear my mom tell the story, she was furious. Mexican mothers tend to be a bit overprotective. Just a tad. Not a whole lot. Yet she decreed that I was not to attend any more of those games. My dad, as a red-blooded Mexican male (doesn't that sound weird?), decided to take me to the game the next week without my mom's consent. Now, I am not saying my dad's decision was wrong but, if lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place, baseballs do. I can only imagine what my dad had to go through after that. I am pretty sure that he was concerned about my well being, but even more so about what would happen when Medea caught wind of what had happened. Needless to say, I never attended any of those games again. It's a shame though because I cannot remember a single one of those games and to this day I wonder if that was because I was too young or because I was hit on the head with a baseball two weeks in a row.

Thus I was ominously initiated into the world of sports and though I never again had a brush with baseball, my attempts at any other sport did not fare much better. I should have seen the sign early on and stopped all athletic endeavours at an early age. I shall blame brain trauma from the two baseball hits to the head as being responsible for me not learning this lesson a long time ago.

Soccer was the next sport that I tried. After all, I was Mexican and they all seem to be obsessed about it. I didn't dislike it, but I was not good at it either. When you are playing against your brother, who happens to be 4 years younger than you, and he is beating you, it is a clear hint that the sport is not for you. Fortunately, only my ego was hurt and I suffered no physical damage from it.

I must admit that growing up I did kind of play "baseball." I say "kind of" and put "baseball" in quotations because we played in the street with tennis balls and pieces of two-by-fours for bats. Once my dad brought a tennis racket that someone gave him and from then on that became my favorite "bat." We also only had two bases and we had a saying "corralito es out" which meant that if the ball went inside someone's property, it counted as an out. I was never injured from these games, unless you count splinters from our wooden "bats." Obviously these were just childhood games and not a sport and I don't usually count them with my sport stories. I only bring it up because I said earlier that "I never again had a brush with baseball" which, if you read this paragraph carefully, is technically true as what I played as a child cannot be considered baseball.

I was always a smart kid in school. My grades were usually at the top of the class when I was in elementary school. That is, of course, if you don't consider physical education. The one class every other kid aced and looked forward to was the one class that kept me from getting a scholarship for a private middle school in Mexico. I didn't just dislike the class, I hated it. I would dread it and I even went as far as to ask for extra homework in lieu of having to go out and participate in whatever sport or activity they had us doing that week. This brings us to my fourth grade P.E. class. The teacher told me that I had to go out and play that day or I would have to receive a failing grade for that month. The torturous activity of the week was basketball. I resigned myself to my fate, took a deep breath and walked into the court. I tried staying out of the ball's way as much as possible but, as luck would have it, someone eventually threw the ball at me. All I can say at this point is that I tried. It wasn't my fault, however, that my lack of hand-eye coordination led to my hand completely missing the ball while trying to dribble and have my right-hand thumb receive the full impact of the bouncing ball and my hand's downward momentum. I lasted a full five minutes in that game before I had to go sit down with a swollen thumb. We didn't really have a school nurse and it did not look broken so I never did go see a doctor for that. All I know is that for a week I could not use that thumb for it was swollen to twice its normal size and it hurt every time there was any amount of pressure on it. It was thus that I learned my lesson against trying to play basketball.

Unfortunately, it was not the only misfortune I suffered at the mercy of a basketball. Many years later, while a freshman in high school, a basketball smashed my glasses. What really sucked about having my glasses smashed by a basketball was that I was wearing them at the moment it happened. Now, I haven't lied. The times I played basketball after the thumb incident can be counted with the fingers on one hand. However, the glasses incident I will take full responsibility for. By then I knew better than to join the game as I knew basketballs were out to get me. In order to avoid participating in P.E. class I had become accustomed to bringing a book with me to read during that interminable class period. I don't remember what book I was reading that specific day, or if I ever got to finish reading it since I could not read without glasses. What I do remember is where I sat down to enjoy my book. Most people would have the common sense to not sit directly underneath and behind the basket. I am not most people. Someone attempted a basket. They missed the basked and hit nothing but air. He yelled something and I looked up just in time to have the ball hit me in the face and break my glasses. I guess the ball did hit something more than just air, but I really doubt they award points for hitting someone in the face. After all, it's not boxing. I was sent to the nurse's office. Fortunately, the glasses received most of the impact. They were these humongous glasses with very thick lenses and a horrendous frame that even Urkel would have refused to wear. I guess the ball did me a favor by breaking them as I got some better ones after that, but for some reason I still do not look back fondly and am not filled with warm feelings when I think about what happened.

Shortly after the glasses incident I decided that I should try a sport that was less intense. I talked to my coach in school and started learning how to play golf. Now, it is really hard to get injured while practicing golf. The proof lies in the fact that golf was another one of the sports in which I did not suffer a physical injury. Then again, I only practiced it a grand total of five times. As we were walking back to the school building at the end of my fifth practice, during which I would have an individual session with the coach as he showed me how to hit the ball, the coach put his hands on my shoulder and said the following words: "You should probably just quit trying to learn the game. You are obviously never going to be able to get it." As I said, I walked away from golf without a physical injury. However, it did hurt. I had confirmation at last that me and sports were not a good match.

All this brings me to the real reason I started this post. A week ago I injured myself playing sports once again.

As you all know, I have been trying to be more active and be more adventurous. Therefore, when some friends asked me to join a softball team, despite my better judgment, I said yes. I proudly became one of the members of the "Sons of Pitches." Last Sunday was our first practice. I didn't really know what that entailed. When I left my house that day to go to practice, I made sure my cell phone had enough battery because for some reason I imagined myself just sitting at a bench enjoying the breeze and texting a whole bunch of friends. Although I had been advised that I would need a glove to play in the team, I did not realize that I would also need one for the practice. To reiterate, the only thing I grabbed when I walked out of my house was my cell phone. Imagine my surprise when I get there and people are expecting me to play catch. They wanted me to play catch! I don't throw. I had not thrown a ball in ages. Furthermore, I did not have a glove. This was turning out to not be the texting bonanza I had envisioned. They kept telling me how to throw and expecting me to do it. Not only that, but they expected me to do it in front of other people. Someone lent me a glove and I finally resigned myself to the idea that I had to do it. I just swallowed hard, buried my embarrassment at having people watch me throw deep inside of me and just did it.

I had just gotten over the shock of having to play catch when they decided to try hitting what they called "fly balls." Apparently, someone was gonna start hitting balls and people had to stand out in the field and catch them. I managed to avoid doing that for the first few minutes but then I was sent in and was, once again, expected to do something that is not entirely within my comfort zone. First of all, I can't catch. Second of all, I have never in my life used a glove and thus cannot catch with a glove. Third of all, when I see a ball flying towards me, instinct and life have taught me to run away from it and to try and avoid any contact. How am I then supposed to meet this ball that is rushing towards me with all its pain inflicting power head on? Throwing, I was told, seemed to come naturally for me. At least that is what my very supportive friends kept telling me. No such compliments were received regarding my catching. I was only too glad to be done with that part of the practice and move on to the next.

For the last part of practice, we actually manned the positions on the field and pretended we were in a game. Every few minutes or so we would rotate so that everyone could play every position. For most of the positions nothing happened so I did not mind them. The positions I did not like though were Short Stop, and First. While in Short Stop, I had a ball head directly towards me at which point I moved out of the way and let outfield know the ball was coming by pointing at it and saying "there it goes." While at First, people kept throwing the ball at me which was usually followed by me not being able to catch the ball and then having to run (walk?) after it. Then, my turn at bat came up. Oh my god!!!!!! Apparently there is a certain way that you have to stand and it looks weird and people are watching. It was so embarrassing. You have by now noticed I have confidence issues. My confidence, however, was strengthened a little when I managed to hit the ball almost every time I took a swing. Although the ball did not fly high, it would actually make it to the out field so that felt kind of good.

It was that one time that I swung the bat and did not hit it though that reminded me I should not play sports. I felt something in my left arm stretch as I swung and hit nothing but air. It was not till later though that I realized I could not raise my left arm without it hurting. Yes, I had injured myself and this time it was at a sport that I willingly chose to participate in. For some reason, this injury did not carry the bitterness and anger of the previous ones. I did not resent having injured myself. In fact, I was kind of proud of it. I knew then that I would have to write about it and that the title would be "My Very First Sports Injury." Again, not because I had not been injured before, but because it was the first injury that did not deter me from pursuing a sport as I do not plan on quiting the team. First of all, because the "Sons of Pitches" is an awesome name. Second, because the team is composed of some wonderful people that don't mind that I can't play the game at all. Third, because the number on my shirt may get to be Pi, 3.1416, as long as the rules allow it. Fourth, because getting injured is not such a bad thing when you choose to play the game on your own instead of being forced to do so.

I am not quitting the team so you all can look forward to hearing more of my sports misadventures as I know there will be many more. Yet, for some reason, I don't dread them anymore. It is funny that I was first injured in a game of baseball and my last injury was in a softball practice. Although they are not the same game, they are pretty closely related and, in a way, I feel like I have come full circle and finally reached some closure.

First Amendment

To those that are wondering from my last post, I still have not received my clipboard back. To make matters worse, I have already lost two pens since Friday. I guess I am too nice for my own good. People, man! They just bring you down, turn you into a monster and then call you one. Still, I am holding out hope that I will see my clipboard back. Oh, where is my clipboard?

Moving on, if you have read my last blog, in addition to being up to date on the clipboard situation, you also know I spent last weekend helping a friend move. Now, I live my life by a set of rules. Some are inane ones like I have to eat the fortune cookie before I read the fortune. Don't look at me like I am weird. I am not the only one who does that... I think. Anyway, some rules I have set just to protect myself and my right to be lazy. One such rule is "I will never help anyone move, regardless of whether they are my friends or not." I have worked hard to uphold this rule. I have gone as far as to introduce myself by saying, "Hi, my name is Carlos and I will never ever help you move regardless of whether or not we become friends." Yes, this sounds funny and insincere. It usually works as a really good icebreaker too. Unfortunately, people rarely believe me and later on the road, once we are friends and they are moving, they ask if I am willing to help them move. To this I reply by simply saying, "Do you remember what I said when I first met you?" They often don't and I am only too glad to remind them. They always say that they thought I was kidding. And I always tell them that I wasn't and that regardless of how good friends we are, I hate moving and will not help them.

Heartless? Callous? Mean? Maybe. But the important thing to remember is that this makes me happy. I don't have to lift heavy boxes and move furniture or make a million trips up and down stairs hauling someone else's stuff and being paid with nothing but some fast food and a soda. I am sorry but gratitude is not enough payment for all that hard work. I like having people feel like they owe me, but they will never be able to pay me back if I help them move. I think by now I have made it clear that I hate, loathe, despise and abhor moving.

This brings me to the first amendment in my book of rules. It goes like this: "I will never help you move. This applies to all my friends and acquaintances." There is however one exception. "If your name is followed by the title of "friend" and this title has the modifier "best" in front of it, then, and only then, will I help you move. Only one person shall have the modifier "best" in front of the "friend" title at any point in time. Offer not valid with any other promotions. I reserve the right to change the terms of this exception at any point in time with or without further notice."

This is actually the first time I put this exception in writing. I only noticed it myself this past weekend. Looking back, this exception has applied since the establishing of the rule. I helped my previous best friend move twice. Once, it was even to a city 200 miles away. Now, I have helped my new best friend move. Yes, I carried boxes and moved furniture and even used tools. What did I get out of it? Well, we ate pizza and had a few drinks. But as with a lot of things in life, it is not what you are doing but who you are doing it with that matters. I guess I am a better friend than I care to admit. There is really not much I would not do for my friends. But let's keep that our little secret.

Oh, and by the way, to all of my readers, old and new, known and unknown, regardless of whether or not we ever become friends, I will never, EVER help you move.

Gym and Chipotle and Movies, oh My!

I have several apologies to make. First, I am sorry that I have not posted in almost a week. I haven't had much happen lately. However, I will make up for it by writing a long-ish post today. Second, I am sorry for writing a long-ish post instead of writing more often because I am lazy. Third, I am sorry for being lazy, but it is too late to change my ways now. You can't teach an old dog new tricks. That's what I am, an old dog. A few more dog years and you will have to take me behind the shed and shoot me. Fourth, I am sorry that the picture quality and quantity of my blog sucks. The latter is caused due to the fact that I am using a Creative Commons License for it so I am pretty sure, though not 100 percent, that I am not supposed to use random pictures from the internet without permission. I guess I could always credit the artist but I have yet to learn how to do that. That is why I believe that I have to buy a digital camera and take all the pics myself or use pictures my friends take and let me use. The former is caused by the fact that I am using my phone to take pictures with and, though it has a nice camera in it, I am not good at taking pics and they always come out blurry. Fifth, I am sorry I don't have the resources to buy a new camera right now as it would solve my need for the fourth apology. Sixth, I am sorry I started this long-ish post with all these apologies. Now, buckle up as we are just getting started and we still have the rest of the post to go through.

On the gym front, I went to the gym again today!!! I think I am starting to like it and I am sure that having a gym buddy has been a major part of that. I am stopping by the gym tomorrow to get a membership. They are offering me a 29.99 monthly payment with no enrollment fee. I hope the contract is not too long though.

On another note, since having one workout buddy worked out so well, I figured the more the better right? That is why, tomorrow when I go ask about membership I am gonna ask about some passes for the two ladies that offered to workout with me, and provided me with a bike last Friday, and put up with my slow pace and cramped leg. I foresee many fun evenings at the gym with none other but the fabulous T & K! Now, they have not met my workout buddy yet so I hope they get along. After all, it's not like we aren't all just a big gay family anyway. We gays got to stick together.

And the great gym news just keep coming... Tonight while working out my heart rate only went up to 172!!! I know what you are gonna say... (mainly because I like putting words in your mouth) 172 is high for a heart rate. You have got to keep in mind though that tonight was the first time that my heart rate did not break 190. See?!? That is called progress. Maybe. At least I am getting used to it, I think. Acclimatization is crucial to the whole not dying of a heart attack while working out. Something I plan to do little of because I don't think my WBs "Workout Buddies" would enjoy seeing me dead on the floor. Plus, I would be one heavy body to move. I need to lose weight so the EMTs that get to carry my body to the morgue won't have to struggle too much. Plus, I gotta get to the point where I look better naked so that the coroner will be able to keep his lunch while performing the autopsy to confirm that my heart gave out due to the fact that I did not give my body enough time to adjust. See, why I am excited about a 172 heart rate? On the light side, I have been thinking a lot about death lately but I already have way too many topics for this post so I shall leave it for the next. Moving on...

Next topic: Chipotle! Today was Happy CHIPOTLE Day! For those of you who do not know what Chipotle is, allow me to illuminate your lives with the wonderful, warm, beacon of light that is Chipotle. Chipotle is a burrito place. I don't want to over sell it but it is... how shall I phrase it... THE BEST BURRITO PLACE THAT HAS EVER EXISTED AND WILL EVER EXIST IN THE HISTORY AND FUTURE OF HUMANKIND!!! If you can't tell, I really like it. Really, really, really like it. Really, really, really, really like it. Get the picture? Now you would think that they were paying me to do this, but they are not. I am doing this for free. I am not adverse to the idea of getting some free burritos from this if someone out there reading this can help with that (not so subtle hint). Just in case, this is my recipe for the perfect burrito. I know most of you don't care but I am still putting it out there. I like the burrito with rice, black beans, barbacoa (sorry T), hot red sauce, cheese and extra hot red sauce. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. To think I did not like Chipotle the first few times I tried it, it just makes me sad because of all the time I wasted not eating their burritos.


On a happier note, today I got to eat Chipotle for free. A friend of mine, who happens to also be a co-worker of mine, had the brilliant idea of dropping her business card into a fishbowl where you could win a free lunch for five. She possesses a big portion of the world's good luck. She wins contests all the time and this time was not the exception. She received a call on Tuesday letting her know she had won and, out of the goodness of her heart, she thought to invite me as one of her guests. This morning when I got to work, the first thing I did after all the usual morning stuff is make a little badge for Happy CHIPOTLE Day!!! and stuck it on my shirt. I also took a picture of it. When you see the picture you will understand my need for a digital camera as the picture is lousy, but I think you will appreciate the sentiment and the emotion behind it.

As much as I like Chipotle, it is time to move on. Bye Chipotle. I miss you already. OK, the last topic, and the source of my ingenious title is, for all of those that did not figure it out by now, The Wizard of Oz. I will be the first to admit that I am a bit behind on my gay culture. You have no idea how many times people have wanted to take my gay card away because I had never seen that movie before. Well, it is because I had never seen The Wizard of Oz before Saturday, and I still have never seen The Sound of Music, or listened to any Madonna music from the eighties. I always argue that it is another set of attributes altogether that allow me to have a gay card. Besides, I do know a lot of Britney Spears songs. I have been a Lady Gaga song from the very beginning. I have followed Fergie, The Pussycat Dolls, and anything that resembles gay music. I do know some of the modern musicals, including Wicked. I know RENT by heart. So, I would argue I am gay enough. It is just taking me a while to catch up on the oldies.

Luckily for me, I have no life. You might remember that my last post was from the Saturday when nothing happened. I was SOOOOO bored. Boredom is never a good thing. After writing that lame post, I was left with nothing to do. I then remembered that I had received in the mail the blu-ray disc of The Wizard of Oz earlier in the week. I thought about it and after thoughtful consideration and rationalizing that I had been to the gym twice that week, I set out to spend about fifteen bucks on junk food at fast food places. I figured you could not watch the movie without massive amounts of junk food. Especially if you are going to start watching it after midnight. So I settled on the floor, surrounded by junk food and hit play on the blu-ray player. What did I think of it? I am glad you asked...

I know that I stand alone, but I must say, risking my gay card being revoked, that The Wizard of Oz was not that great. I would say it was barely good. Please don't hate me. I understand the nostalgic value of a movie that one enjoyed as a kid and continues to love into adulthood. That does not mean the movie is good. Also, maybe it was good in its time, but not today. Remember, as Frost said, "Nothing gold can stay." For one, the acting is... well, bad. So overacted it was painful to watch. I have a feeling that the time it was made in may be responsible for that but, oh my deity, it was too much. Also, what kind of girl goes into strangers' cabins? Especially, roadside attraction strangers' cabins. What kind of message does that send? Also, Glinda looked ridiculous and the Munchkins were too creepy. I guess the biggest thing is that I always expected Toto to be a cute dog instead of the mangy mongrel that he actually was. On a positive note, he was a better actor than some of the humans in the film. I guess it wasn't all that bad. I learned that the quote "And her little dog too" is from the Wicked Witch of the West and not Cruella de Vil, as I originally thought. Then again there are all the other famous quotes like "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." I am not gonna say the movie was a complete waste of time. I did get to listen to "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" fully for the first time ever. It was OK. It did get me thinking if The Wizard of Oz is where the rainbow originated as a gay symbol. Perhaps. Perhaps not. One classic down, a million to go.

So I have rambled on for too long now. I think I have fulfilled my promise about the long post making up for the lack of shorter ones. I apologize again for the crappy quality of the picture. It really only says Happy CHIPOTLE Day!!! with "yum" and "mmm" on the periphery. This has taken me a couple of hours to write. Mainly because I have been texting friends and watching Buffy at the same time, but also because I do believe it is my longest post so far. I was more than making up for not posting sooner, I also don't know when my next post will be as I will be helping a friend move all weekend. But more on that later.

Saturday Night Frostbite

Yet another uneventful Saturday night. What are my friends doing? Well, a myriad other things. Three are at a girls-only-martini night. One is stressing out about her upcoming move. One is being a good stepmother and watching movies with her kids. Another one is sitting in her back porch listening to the music of the Arts and Jazz Fest going on in Denton right now. Me? I am in bed watching the sixth season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

It is hard to write a blog when nothing really happens in your life. In a way I am thankful I have started this blog as it has made me be more adventurous so that I will have something to write about. For instance, yesterday I went to the Arts and Jazz Fest with some friends, and here is what happened:

In my search of things to do this weekend, I asked my friends T and K what their plans were for Friday night. Now, I have only known them for a couple of months and have only hung out with them about three or four times, but they are awesome people and I enjoy spending time with them. That is why when they said they were going to the festival, I was all psyched about it even though I don't really like jazz that much. Upon further discussion of our plans, it was mentioned that they were planning to ride their bicycles there. I thought I had a perfect out by saying that I did not own a bike, but they were ready for me. They had an extra bike. Last time I was on a bike that I remember, before yesterday, I was still in high school. Since I am in that "getting fit" kick I agreed to do so.

At about six, I pulled up in front of their house and after a few minutes of small talk, really good small talk, we started getting ready to leave. I must say I was really afraid of falling and or having the bike attack me as it used to attack Calvin from Calvin & Hobbes. I looked it up and down. Then K started talking to me about gears and the fear intensified. I don't know anything about gears. My bikes had always been the simple, gear-less ones. We set off and, since I was the least experienced rider, I was in the middle of the formation. It turns out that riding a bike is like riding a bike. It takes a little while to get back into it, but it is not that hard. Of course, I was not letting go of the handlebars or doing figure"8"s or taking my feet off the pedals, but I wasn't falling and that is always a plus. The ride down to the fest was 2.4 miles, we found out later, and I rode the grand majority of it except for this really steep hill that I knew I was not going to be able to do. Then again, a lot of it was downhill. I did learn to mess with the gears and I felt all pro and stuff. The ride there was beautiful and uneventful.

We left the bikes at The Cupboard and walked the few blocks to the fest. Once there we walked around and enjoyed some amateur glee-ish performances and some drums that were actually pretty cool. The food was deep fried and fattening, so of course it was good. The ATMs overcharged you every time you used them but that is what happens when you don't think ahead and are going to an outdoor festival. It was interesting trying to find vegetarian food since K and T are vegetarians. We had to settle for fries, tornado and butterfly, and cheese pizza. On top of that we had some watermelon and pineapple that T was smart enough to bring and considerate enough to share. Interestingly, I thought I hated pineapple. I have been avoiding pineapple for ages as I used to hate it as a kid but I loved it yesterday. Sometimes it pays off being adventurous. Now I know that there are worse things in the world than pineapple. Unfortunately, it started getting dark so we had to leave in order not to end up riding at night and risk getting run over. T & K were adamant about not getting run over.

We walked back to The Cupboard and started our trek back. We were going to be riding a different way than the one we had come since we were trying to avoid traffic. The ride back was a little over four miles. I would love to say that I rode the bike the whole way back. Sadly, halfway back I got a horrible leg cramp. It was horrible. Apparently, pain is no fun. On top of that, it was extremely embarrassing. They kept saying that I did not ruin their night, but we had to walk the rest of the way to their house. Honestly, how can a bike riding night not be ruined when you have to walk your way back? At least the weather was nice.

What did I learn from this ordeal? I have great friends. They are extremely supportive. I can't do everything that I think I can. If "No Pain, No Gain" is true, then it stands to reason that pain equals gain. Therefore, I must have gained a lot last night and, apparently, I am still gaining as the pain has not gone away. Will I give up? I don't think so. Despite the pain and the embarrassment and the holding my friends back, both T & K and my gym buddy, I feel good about doing this. Therefore, as long as I have people willing to put up with me, I shall continue embarrassing myself and feeling pain and holding my friends back.

I know this post is a bit scatterbrained. That's what happens when I have nothing else to do on a Saturday night. I seriously need to get a life, but when I went to the store, they had run out. I shall try to come up with more compelling stuff to write about. Until then, please bear with me.

Milestone One, Thanks and Other Stuff

I want to start by saying that I missed a great opportunity. I can't believe that I did not wait till Tuesday to post my friend's "MJ" titled memoir on April 20th. I almost had a moment of synchronicity. Is there such a thing as "near synchronicity"? Because, if not, I am claiming it and coining it. I mean, I might as well own it considering the many near misses that make up my life. If you are thinking "Max", so am I.

I wanted to take some time as well to thank three really special women in my life. First, thanks to Hilly, once again, for sharing her awesome story with us and being my first guest post. You are a great friend. Second, I have no words to express my gratitude to Crazy Texas Mommy for her kind plug of my blog in her own, ever so popular blog. I am very glad that we met. Even if it was in a workplace that cannot find the humor in a talking Mary doll. Third, but not last, thanks to Nicci for promoting this blog on her tweeter. I know it is because of these amazing women that I can write the next paragraph.

I have hit milestone number one. My blog has reached one hundred hits. I know this may not sound like much, but it does mean that people out there are reading this and, though not many things do, this makes me feel all special and stuff like that. Then again, one hundred posts may not seem that important because at last count the number was up to 154, but I am sure that the extra people are from the help of my wonderful friends who thought enough of my blog to promote it. Next, milestone number two, one thousand hits. I hope you all enjoy the journey to it as much as I do.

Moving on to what I really set off to write about. I went to the gym for the first time in over 2 years on Monday night. I know what you are gonna say... actually, I guess I don't. It's kind of obvious that I haven't set foot in a gym for a while. Also, last time I set foot in a gym, I never did more than ride one of the stationary bikes because I could read at the same time so I have never been much for exercise. I figured I needed to start going to the gym again if I had any chance of a)looking better, b)feeling better, and c)finding someone. As luck would have it, one of the many guys I have met online seemed to be really into working out and, since I knew he was way out of my league, I figured we could at least be gym buddies. The whole idea was great in theory and I felt excited about it. That is right until it was time to actually enter a gym.

It was 10:25pm and I was sitting in the parking lot waiting for my friend to arrive. The more I sat there, the more the gym looked like a sacred place. It seemed like a religious place, almost church-like, in the sense that people walked in because they wanted to become better people and feel better about themselves and walked out changed. The building loomed large and ominous and with every second I became more and more anxious about the step I was about to take. Was I ready? Could I really commit to taking better care of my body? Anxiety slowly crept in and soon I was pretty close to having a panic attack. This was not helped by the fact that all the people I saw walking into that gym were skinny and seemed to be popular, happy and the epitome of everything that I was not. I do admit that last part might have been my imagination getting carried away. Still, I could just picture them laughing at me and whispering to each other "Look at that Fat Guy! He doesn't stand a chance! We will always be better than him." Sitting there, shaking with nervous jitters, I looked down and noticed that the over sized shirt I was wearing, because somehow I convinced myself that a huge shirt would be good because it would make me look less fat yet ruefully realized it was worse since it made me look like a shapeless blob, had a big stain in the front. That is just what I needed. At that moment, I started hyperventilating. I wish I were kidding and making this stuff up but the foggy windows in my car didn't lie. My heart was pounding and I was breathing heavier than if I had just run a 5K. Then again, I have never ran a 5K, so I may just be exaggerating a bit. Regardless of my running history, I figured that I'd had enough exercise for one day. See how efficient I am? I was done exercising and I had not set foot inside the consecrated gym floors. Heck, I had not even moved at all!!!

I almost started my car and drove off a couple of times, but it would have been really embarrassing to have to tell my friend that I was not going to be able to make it because I had freaked out and psyched myself out just by sitting in the parking lot. So, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and started texting friends about how I was about to leave. I was hoping they would respond and convince me to stay. Unfortunately, of the one friend that I actually texted, I got no response. I did however realize that fiddling with phone did make me feel less stressed about the whole situation. So, I opened a little note-pad-like-thingy on my phone and started writing little notes so that I would remember what I wanted to talk about when I wrote this later on. And so, my nerves, though not cured, were relieved by someone any geek worth their salt has experienced in their lives: gadget relief. If you are not a geek, allow me to explain. Gadget relief is the one recourse a geek has when outside of his element. For instance, say you are at a party and you don't know anyone. More importantly, it does not seem like anyone is interested in getting to know you. The whole situation is awkward and extremely uncomfortable so, what does one do? Easy. One pulls out a gadget, usually a cell phone, and pretends to text someone or plays a game or anything that can be done with that specific gadget. Thus, you are still alone and unwanted, but it does not matter because you are not focused on the social interactions taking place around you but rather are preoccupied with whatever task you are doing with your gadget. It is the geeky equivalent of looking at your watch and pretending to wait for someone or waving at a stranger when you realize that the person you were waving at was not waving at you but at someone behind you. Now that we are all caught up, I shall resume the story. So there I sat, fidgeting with my phone and trying to keep my stomach from turning from anxiety when my phone beeps and I realize my friend has parked next to me and he is sending me a message telling me he has arrived.

Of course, I had resolved not to share with anyone what had transpired in my car because I did not want to be embarrassed. Yet, somehow that was the first thing I told my friend upon getting out of my car. I might have appeared a bit crazy, but at least I was honest. Also, I am not sure how me posting this in here counts as not telling anyone, as I had resolved not to tell anyone yet knew I was gonna post it, but go with me on this one. The actual workout was rather fun and my friend could not have been more gracious. I forgot to think about bringing a lock for a locker and he let me put my wallet, cell phone and keys in his. Granted, that was a bit courageous of my part considering I had never met the guy before, but my trust was rewarded by the end of the night when I got my stuff back. I also asked him to please take it easy as I had not worked out in a long time and he did. We only used the treadmill for walking and the elliptical machines to... elliptically-machine? Still, we have not attended the gym in the last two days which works out just fine for me as I am still sore from Monday. After all this is the price we pay for... well, whatever it is we go to the gym for.

"MJ"*

*To all my readers, this is my first guest post. It is not from someone famous but from a very dear friend of mine. Without further ado I give you the post from my friend Hilly:

He was a modern day cowboy....

When I first met MJ I was 16 and still living with my parents. He and his wife had just moved to the neighborhood. You could tell by looking at his red leathered skin that he had lived a rough, wild life, but his sincere blue eyes and his assuring smile reflected his true nature; a kind, non judging cowboy waiting in the distance for when he is needed. Little did I know that two years later I would discover how true those words would be.

Eighteen. This was a dark period in my life. My world as I had understood it had crumbled as the relationship and the place in my family was destroyed and my " best friend" who I loved so dearly had abandoned me simultaneously. The slight confidence I had built was obliterated and I furthered my self worthlessness via Marlboro cigarettes. Unable to sleep I decided to slowly kill myself with a pack of cigarettes outside the front of my house only to find out that my parents noticed and consequently locked me out. Broken, pained with the knowledge that my family lost all promise in me, anguished that they had given up on me, shamed that they didn't want me anymore, walked away.

Aimlessly I walked pointlessly up and down my street not knowing what to do for I had no shoes, no keys, no phone, no money. Then I noticed a blue glow coming from my neighbors home and on closer inspection the door open with a glass screen shielding it. Hesitantly I tip toed over not knowing why my neighbor would be up and how he would react to a troubled eighteen year old girl knocking on his door in the middle of the night. Sheepishly I rapped the glass and he appeared. He looked at me he was not alarmed, inquisitive, but not condeming. He spoke, hello. Embarresed I asked him if I could use his phone to call a friend, that I was locked out of my house. "Of course" he said, "its not trouble at all I am just watching old movies. I have insomnia and can not sleep. You're welcome to stay and watch some with me until you can reach someone." I stayed a little while, smoked a ciggarette with him and called a friend". He never pried about the paramedics earlier that week and only said to me " You know I have seen how you take care of your brother and sister and how you take them to school, you're a good kid." I laughed as I tried to hold back the tears. With a warm knowing glance he said nothing more and we just sat. Being with him those few moments was so healing. Without words he told me everything was going to be ok, my life was not over, and that I was a worthwhile person. We never had spent any other time like that together since that night, except for the occasional passing conversation outside my parents house, irregardless an understood connection remained. I hope he knows how much he helped me that night and how I will never forget him.

March 27, 2010 MJ died of pnemonia a complication from lung cancer. He was only 2 days shy of his 60th birthday. I was so happy to see so many people at his simple funeral-the way he wanted it. I regret never verbally telling him the thought I am sharing with you but was comforted by a thank you letter his widowed wife had written me. She said "MJ always thought of you, saying what a fine young lady you are"...

Thank you MJ, thank you.