I’m happy to report that my days of homelessness are finally over! Even though the renovations are not yet complete, Lori and I have been able to spend the past week in our new house. While I’m certainly happy to be sleeping in my own bed, I was not prepared mentally for the fact that my transition from carefree, couch-surfing bachelor to engaged homeowner would bring about such an onslaught of new responsibilities so quickly. For example, now that we have officially moved in, the wildly out-of-control weeds, grass, and shrubs were no longer a laughing matter, but rather a serious indictment against us as homeowners. Every time I tried to rectify the situation, I was quickly overwhelmed by the enormity of the landscaping task at hand, and I promptly found an excuse to abort the mission. However, I was afraid that if I didn’t take care of this situation, we would quickly become known as the hillbillys of the neighborhood. I suspect the neighbors have already begun referring to us as the "Ewells" or some other fictitious family of trashballs. And trust me, earning that kind of nickname in this neighborhood is no small feat. It’s quite an accomplishment being known as the trashiest family in a neighborhood that features a public pool that is frequented by Pollocks in their underwear. The lifeguards there have a hell of a time trying to convince these big-headed Euros that tighty-whities do not qualify as swimsuits.
Eventually I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. Our annual block party was quickly approaching, and our house happens to be at the epicenter of the festivities. So with the prospect of the entire neighborhood congregating in front of our house, I was finally shamed into doing something about the lawn. Cutting six inches of grass with a non-electric push mower is a pretty tall order, but I eventually got through it. Now I’m confident we’ll no longer be the Ewells, and I can assume some other persona. In fact, I’m fairly certain we’re quickly gaining a reputation as the neighborhood exhibitionists. After all, during the block party one of our neighbors commented, “I’m glad to see you finally bought a lawn mower. Now you just need to buy some drapes and you’ll be all set.” In my defense, we did go shopping for drapes so my neighbors wouldn’t have to see me in my birthday suit every morning and most afternoons (I get pretty hot and sweaty watching the Tour De France, but I think that’s a topic best left unexplored). However, as we were shopping, I asked several times “Do you think these drapes will match our carpets?” while giggling uncontrollably. About the fifth time I posed this question Lori got fed up and walked out of store, and we were unable to accomplish anything with regard to covering our windows.
Perhaps the drapes-shopping incident proves that I’m not mature enough to be a homeowner. For this reason I’ve decided to skip town and allow Lori to make all the big decisions regarding decorating and arranging our furniture. As I told you in my last blog entry, I will be taking my sophomoric humor on a bike ride across Iowa. In lieu of tending to my property, I have been training rather arduously for this ride. Though some have questioned BBK's training methods (apparently serious bikers don't end each ride by trying drink the same amount of calories that they just burned), riding with my krew has gotten me to the point where I can ride well over 40 miles without much difficulty at all. Now if I can just figure out a way to do two of those 40 mile rides in one day I’ll be all set for Ragbrai. However, I’m pretty sure that if I ever hit a wall and I feel like I won’t be able to finish all 450 miles, the thought of dancing blissfully to this band on the last day will get me through.
Despite my trepidation, I’m excited for the trip. I’m going to try to update the blog daily (or whenever we're in a town that has free WIFI somewhere), so be on the lookout for that in the week to come!
Friday, July 23, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Ridin' Shirtless With #88
My foray into homelessness (see below for details if you missed this month’s first post) has eclipsed the three week mark, and with no end in sight, I think it’s starting to have some profoundly adverse effects on me. At first I embraced the freedom that was unjustly denied me simply because I possessed a roof and lived with Lori. I figured my time as a carefree couch-surfer would be a nice break from the comfortable monotony of betrothed cohabitation. Indeed, in the beginning, this freedom was everything that I hoped it would be. I came and went as I pleased, drank with grad school friends and Retars, frequented after-hour 5 am bars, left the toilet seat up, and survived on a diet that consisted entirely of pork rinds, cheese curds, those KFC sandwiches where the bun is two pieces of fried chicken, and mountain dew. However, after a few weeks of this solipsistic lifestyle, it is evident that I am starting to deteriorate mentally, physically, and spiritually.
The first sign of trouble was when I missed a 7:30 am meeting with Lori and Steve the Romanian Contractor. In my defense, we had an action packed itinerary the previous night. My softball team won its first game of the year after a rocky start to the season as I jump started our offense with a solo dinger in the 2nd (it was actually a triple with a throwing error, but our score-keeper likes to overlook such technicalities and I felt no need to quibble). Later that night, the Blackhawks won Lord Stanley’s Cup, setting off a week-long celebration that proudly exhibited all the best this city has to offer. My arch nemesis the Boston Sports Guy summed it best when he said in a recent column on ESPN.com, “By the way, I'd like to thank Chicago for single-handedly keeping the following American big-city traditions alive: smoking, drinking during the day, eating terrible food, congeniality and breasts. It's noble work you're doing, Chicago. We're all proud of you.” The series clinching game of the Cup Finals was a particularly rough night for me. At some point during the third period I thought it would be a good idea to take my shirt off so that I would be fully prepared when Patrick Kane arived in his limo with the Cup and girls in tow.
However, Kaner never showed up, and I, still with my shirt off, subsequently became the first heterosexual man in the history of the world to have a motorboat performed on him by a beautiful, blonde girl, instead of the other way around. It was at that point that I realized that it might be a good idea to switch over to the KFC sandwiches where the bun is two pieces of grilled chicken. When Kaner eventually slipped one past the goalie (nickel) to win the Cup in overtime, I didn’t know how to react, having never actually cared about a hockey game in my life. So, I decided to celebrate the same way I celebrate all of life’s big events, including weddings, baptisms, brises, elementary school graduation ceremonies, and Avon Breast Cancer Walks: I ordered car bombs. Several of them. These were what ultimately led to my truancy the next morning. When Lori did see me later that day, she was not particularly pleased as you could imagine, stating in earnestness that I looked like a “bloated corpse.”
Not wanting to go through life looking like a bloated corpse, I’ve since resolved to improve my physical health, hoping the mental and spiritual side will follow suit. It is for this reason that I have decided to go on a seven day bike tour across Iowa next month. For the past week I have been training with BBK, the most extreme, bad-ass bike krew in the city of Chicago, for this trek through America’s heartland that will cover as many as 80 miles a day. Having never been on such a journey, I’m not sure what to expect, so I’ve started eliciting advice from people. One close friend told me to bring a life-time’s supply of baby powder (If you’re not sure why this is important, then you’re evidently not familiar with what happens to a corpulent man’s thighs when walking, running, or riding a bike in the heat of July. If you’re not privy to such information, I’ll spare you the details, but rest assured it is not pleasant). With this solid piece of advice in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to implore the rest of you to use the comments section to provide me with any other pieces of advice, information, or words of caution that you think might be of use to me as I prepare for and eventually undertake this journey.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Home is Where the Aeromattress Is
I was hoping to write this latest blog from the comfort of my new home. Instead, I’m writing this latest blog with intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be homeless. I’m currently sitting in the Maplewood Bar (JQ of the Retar Crew’s basement bar), which happens to be moonlighting as my bedroom. Many of you have probably jumped to the conclusion that Lori has already kicked me out of the house. I would probably put my money on this as well, but in actuality I’m living in a bar because the lease on our apartment has run out and the renovation project on the new house has run long. So while Lori lives in the clean and air-conditioned opulence of her childhood home, I’m trying to sleep through Jackson continuing his Dimaggio-like streak of consecutive days of drunkenness in the Maplewood (Those of you who think I have some alcoholic tendencies have never met Jackson. In the analogy mentioned above, I'm certainly a Dom to Jackon's Joe D.)
Steve, our Romanian contractor, is a great guy, but it’s tough not to get frustrated with him now that this project has run two weeks late and counting. The frustration began when he tried to impose his unique Eastern European aesthetic on our new home. We are doing extensive renovations as we try to restore the bungalow back to its original design (wood floors, original oak moulding, etc. while extracting the 70’s influences including orange, green, and white dangling beads separating the living and dining rooms ). Lori has raided the local library taking out books about traditional Chicago bungalows. So her newfound bungalow knowledge directly contradicts the Eastern-Euro post-fall of Ceausescu era sensibilities of the contractor. She wants vintage door knobs and light fixtures while he wants to install speakers in every room of the house, just like his place, "so when my wife is cleaning the house, she doesn't have to move the radio from room to room. It’s easier to get speakers for every room than it is to get radios for every room.” I couldn’t argue with that logic, but Lori shot down the idea nonetheless.
My frustration grew even stronger this morning when I was awoken to Steve fixing the bathroom of the Maplewood. Upon noticing that his incessant banging woke me up, he promptly tried to hit me up for cash. “Oh hey, Tom! Did you get a chance to go to the bank yet to pay for the moulding?” he queried as I rubbed my eyes. So just to clarify the situation, not only was his lack of progress preventing me from sleeping in my own home, but now his vehement dedication to fixing the Maplewood was also preventing me from sleeping in my makeshift bedroom.
So while I’m acclimating myself to living sans roof, I’ve tried to focus on the positives. Every time Romanian Steve barges in on my bar-bedroom, I try to remind myself of the great aspects of our future home. For example, our new neighborhood definitely features an upgrade in celebrities. Our old hood featured disgraced Celebrity Apprentice Rod Blagojevich, one half of the Retar Crew, and my personal favorite, Sandra Cisneros (for those of you saying “Who the hell is Sandra Cisneros?” right now, rest assured every 8th grade English teacher who reads this blog is wetting themselves with jealously that I get my haircut at the same place as the writer of The House on Mango Street). However, the new hood features rock-genius Jeff Tweedy of Wilco fame. This fact added to my intention to learn the upright bass this summer means I could have a whole new career arc in the new place.
The most disconcerting part of my fall on hard times is that it has coincided with an explosion in popularity of the Retar Crew. Their "We Love the Hawks" bandwagon song has taken off in this city as Hawks fever has spiraled out of control. They have been featured in the local newspaper, the mornning news, and sports talk radio. This means that there are long nights of celebration in the Maplewood while I try to sleep and/or write my final grad school papers with graduation looming just days away. Check out the Hawks dance craze that is sweeping the nation:
Steve, our Romanian contractor, is a great guy, but it’s tough not to get frustrated with him now that this project has run two weeks late and counting. The frustration began when he tried to impose his unique Eastern European aesthetic on our new home. We are doing extensive renovations as we try to restore the bungalow back to its original design (wood floors, original oak moulding, etc. while extracting the 70’s influences including orange, green, and white dangling beads separating the living and dining rooms ). Lori has raided the local library taking out books about traditional Chicago bungalows. So her newfound bungalow knowledge directly contradicts the Eastern-Euro post-fall of Ceausescu era sensibilities of the contractor. She wants vintage door knobs and light fixtures while he wants to install speakers in every room of the house, just like his place, "so when my wife is cleaning the house, she doesn't have to move the radio from room to room. It’s easier to get speakers for every room than it is to get radios for every room.” I couldn’t argue with that logic, but Lori shot down the idea nonetheless.
My frustration grew even stronger this morning when I was awoken to Steve fixing the bathroom of the Maplewood. Upon noticing that his incessant banging woke me up, he promptly tried to hit me up for cash. “Oh hey, Tom! Did you get a chance to go to the bank yet to pay for the moulding?” he queried as I rubbed my eyes. So just to clarify the situation, not only was his lack of progress preventing me from sleeping in my own home, but now his vehement dedication to fixing the Maplewood was also preventing me from sleeping in my makeshift bedroom.
So while I’m acclimating myself to living sans roof, I’ve tried to focus on the positives. Every time Romanian Steve barges in on my bar-bedroom, I try to remind myself of the great aspects of our future home. For example, our new neighborhood definitely features an upgrade in celebrities. Our old hood featured disgraced Celebrity Apprentice Rod Blagojevich, one half of the Retar Crew, and my personal favorite, Sandra Cisneros (for those of you saying “Who the hell is Sandra Cisneros?” right now, rest assured every 8th grade English teacher who reads this blog is wetting themselves with jealously that I get my haircut at the same place as the writer of The House on Mango Street). However, the new hood features rock-genius Jeff Tweedy of Wilco fame. This fact added to my intention to learn the upright bass this summer means I could have a whole new career arc in the new place.
The most disconcerting part of my fall on hard times is that it has coincided with an explosion in popularity of the Retar Crew. Their "We Love the Hawks" bandwagon song has taken off in this city as Hawks fever has spiraled out of control. They have been featured in the local newspaper, the mornning news, and sports talk radio. This means that there are long nights of celebration in the Maplewood while I try to sleep and/or write my final grad school papers with graduation looming just days away. Check out the Hawks dance craze that is sweeping the nation:
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Our Engagement: Following in McDreamy's Footsteps
Many of you have been clamoring for a blog update. I admit I have been negligent in keeping you apprised on the latest happenings, but it has been for good reason.
Last time we were in contact Lori and I had just gotten engaged. However, the wedding planning was going far too smoothly. We experienced no drama whatsoever in getting the church and reception hall that we wanted (June 18th 2011. Consider this your pre-save the date notification). If romantic comedies and reality television shows have taught us anything (and I’m quite confident they’ve taught me quite a bit), it’s that planning a wedding is supposed to be really stressful, filled with over-bearing in-laws, meddling protagonists who just realized they are actually in love with their best-friend the bride, and a last minute plea to stop the ceremony. Therefore, we were obviously a bit concerned when the stress failed to come to fruition in the days following the engagement. Were we going about this the wrong way? What were we doing wrong? Rom-Coms teach us that it doesn’t bode well for the long-term happiness of our marriage if there isn't a whole lot of drama leading up to the exciting final scene. After all, Patrick Dempsey, in Made of Honor, had to go through all sorts of stress, including wearing a mini-skirt kilt and planning a highly inappropriate wedding shower that included an erotic gift saleswoman, before he could convince the girl from Gone Baby Gone to ditch the hulking Scottish guy (who inexplicably didn’t know you were allowed to dunk a basketball during a pickup game! I realize that b-ball isn’t huge in the UK, but surely this Highland haggis-eater must have seen some form of professional basketball at some point in his life! After all I’ve never played rugby but I’m fairly attuned to the principles of the game. This movie would have you believe the Scots are as isolated as the Kumbai tribe!) and live with him happily ever after.
So if the wedding planning wasn’t going to bring about the required stress, we figured we should try to manufacture some. That is why in the middle of our wedding planning we have also decided to purchase a house. For the past six or seven weeks we have been dealing with all the hassles that come along with negotiations, inspections, and convincing banks that they won’t have to foreclose on the house 6 months from now (For some reason the banks are a bit gun-shy these days when it comes to giving loans worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to 29 year old full-time grad students).
However, despite all stress inherent in this process, we finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and we should be closing on the house on March 30th. This means that all of you who have neglected to visit us thus far no longer have any excuses as there are plenty of bedrooms that can be converted into guest rooms in the absence of children (our own children that is. Feel free to bring yours). And a special invitation is also extended to any of you with home remodeling experience. Feel free to make your summer vacation a “staycation,” as in stay with us and help fix up the place.
I also wanted to give you some updates on the wedding front. In addition to setting the date, church, and reception hall, we’ve also registered at Williams Sonoma (the store made specifically for classy, up-scale alcoholics), Dick’s Sporting Goods, and the National Mustard Museum in Madison, Wisconsin. Lori caused quite a stir at the museum when she announced that her last name meant "mustard seed." The women at the counter doling out samples rushed off to find the "curator." After the entire staff fawned over her for 20 minutes (which simultaneously prevented anyone from serving me a brat and made us late to a brewery tour. I was obviously far from pleased), the creepy curator insisted posing in a picture with Lori. This photo-op is now featured in their latest newsletter (unfortunately I couldn't get the link).
Finally, I want to enlist your help. We are starting to look at caterers for the reception. Lori and I are at odds over what kind of food to get. I want Connie’s Pizza, but she wants anything but Connie’s Pizza. So please feel free to use the comments section to give us any advice concerning appetizers, dinner, desert, and most importantly booze.
Last time we were in contact Lori and I had just gotten engaged. However, the wedding planning was going far too smoothly. We experienced no drama whatsoever in getting the church and reception hall that we wanted (June 18th 2011. Consider this your pre-save the date notification). If romantic comedies and reality television shows have taught us anything (and I’m quite confident they’ve taught me quite a bit), it’s that planning a wedding is supposed to be really stressful, filled with over-bearing in-laws, meddling protagonists who just realized they are actually in love with their best-friend the bride, and a last minute plea to stop the ceremony. Therefore, we were obviously a bit concerned when the stress failed to come to fruition in the days following the engagement. Were we going about this the wrong way? What were we doing wrong? Rom-Coms teach us that it doesn’t bode well for the long-term happiness of our marriage if there isn't a whole lot of drama leading up to the exciting final scene. After all, Patrick Dempsey, in Made of Honor, had to go through all sorts of stress, including wearing a mini-skirt kilt and planning a highly inappropriate wedding shower that included an erotic gift saleswoman, before he could convince the girl from Gone Baby Gone to ditch the hulking Scottish guy (who inexplicably didn’t know you were allowed to dunk a basketball during a pickup game! I realize that b-ball isn’t huge in the UK, but surely this Highland haggis-eater must have seen some form of professional basketball at some point in his life! After all I’ve never played rugby but I’m fairly attuned to the principles of the game. This movie would have you believe the Scots are as isolated as the Kumbai tribe!) and live with him happily ever after.
So if the wedding planning wasn’t going to bring about the required stress, we figured we should try to manufacture some. That is why in the middle of our wedding planning we have also decided to purchase a house. For the past six or seven weeks we have been dealing with all the hassles that come along with negotiations, inspections, and convincing banks that they won’t have to foreclose on the house 6 months from now (For some reason the banks are a bit gun-shy these days when it comes to giving loans worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to 29 year old full-time grad students).
However, despite all stress inherent in this process, we finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, and we should be closing on the house on March 30th. This means that all of you who have neglected to visit us thus far no longer have any excuses as there are plenty of bedrooms that can be converted into guest rooms in the absence of children (our own children that is. Feel free to bring yours). And a special invitation is also extended to any of you with home remodeling experience. Feel free to make your summer vacation a “staycation,” as in stay with us and help fix up the place.
I also wanted to give you some updates on the wedding front. In addition to setting the date, church, and reception hall, we’ve also registered at Williams Sonoma (the store made specifically for classy, up-scale alcoholics), Dick’s Sporting Goods, and the National Mustard Museum in Madison, Wisconsin. Lori caused quite a stir at the museum when she announced that her last name meant "mustard seed." The women at the counter doling out samples rushed off to find the "curator." After the entire staff fawned over her for 20 minutes (which simultaneously prevented anyone from serving me a brat and made us late to a brewery tour. I was obviously far from pleased), the creepy curator insisted posing in a picture with Lori. This photo-op is now featured in their latest newsletter (unfortunately I couldn't get the link).
Finally, I want to enlist your help. We are starting to look at caterers for the reception. Lori and I are at odds over what kind of food to get. I want Connie’s Pizza, but she wants anything but Connie’s Pizza. So please feel free to use the comments section to give us any advice concerning appetizers, dinner, desert, and most importantly booze.
Friday, February 5, 2010
A Commitment to Last a Lifetime
As many of you know by now, Lori and I have some HUGE news. We’ve decided that after seven years of dating, we are finally ready to make a commitment that will last for eternity: we are going to get a lifetime membership to the Y. It just makes so much sense from an economic standpoint. In other news, we’ve also decided to get married. I know this may come as a shock to most of you. I bet many of you are thinking A. “Weren’t they already common law married by now?” B. “I can’t believe she said ‘Yes.’ She’s way out of his league” or C. “I thought he was gay.” Well, what can I say? If you had one of those reactions then you had a 66.6% chance of being 100% accurate.
Many of you have been wondering how the proposal went down, so I thought I’d satiate everyone’s curiosity with a blog post. To fully understand the intricacies of the proposal, I first need to give you some background information on the early days of our relationship.
For those of you who lived in the Bronx back in the early 2000s, you’ll recall that Lori and I started dating my senior year of college. I don’t remember much from the spring semester of that year. This was due in large part to the 800 dollar credit card bill that I racked up at Mount Carmel Wine and Spirits in the first month that we started dating. I think I was trying to impress Lori and more importantly get on the good side of her friends with my extravagant liquor purchases, but it’s more likely that the lion’s share of that drinking was done in my basement with my friend Matt while betting each other chugs of Jameson on the outcome of Madden 2002 plays(Regardless of the cause of the exorbitant bill, it landed me in hot water with my mother because my credit cards statements were still being sent home at that point. I got a scolding, but my mother’s anger must not have resonated because I promptly went out that same day and put 300 dollars worth of liquor on my card for the Princeton Men’s Lacrosse team. It occurs to me that that last sentence sounds pretty gay, but I assure you I was just trying to help them out on their 4 hour post-game bus ride. It was my friend Pete who acted a little suspicious when he kept on making remarks like, “Did you tell the Princeton boys I helped you get the booze?” and “I wish I could ride the bus back with the Princeton boys!”).
Despite the the massive credit card bill and the havoc it caused, I do have a few clear memories of senior year. I remember that my hair was quite long and that I was referred to, on more than one occasion, as “Air Jesus” on the intramural basketball court. I remember having a steamy, homo-erotic relationship with my physics professor, Dr. Mancini (Oh wait. That wasn't me. That was my roommate Ed). I remember wearing the same velour jumpsuit five days a week.
But most of all, I remember our first date in vivid detail. It was Valentine’s Day, and I told Lori that I would cook her dinner. She must have been skeptical of me because when I arrived at her apartment that evening, I discovered that I was actually cooking a romantic dinner for three. I was uninformed that her roommate and best-friend Maureen would be joining us (Subsequently, this third wheel would become a permanent fixture in our relationship. Maureen was there for many our firsts. For example, in addition to our first date, she was there the first time we polished off an entire crave case from White Castle, although Moe was of little use eating only three of the 30 sliders. She was also there the first time I bought Lori an engagement ring. Thanks for the help, Moe!). When we started eating that night, the two of them became even more skeptical of me. But it wasn’t because of how I was behaving, but rather they were stunned by the transcendent nature of the chicken parm that I made. They both insisted that my mother must have prepared the meal.
To this day, Lori does not believe that I made that chicken parm myself. So I thought that on the night that I proposed, I would once again make her the same meal I had made nearly 7 years earlier to the day. When she got home from work last Saturday to find that dinner was made, she was not the least bit suspicious. She knows full well my love of fried cutlets, and therefore thought nothing of the tray of chicken keeping warm in the oven. I thought cracking open a two dollar bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot from Trader Joe’s would give her an indication that this night was a little more special, but she surprisingly still didn’t get the hint. Finally when she asked for dessert, I found my opportunity to give her the ring. Earlier in the day the jeweler had given me a complimentary box of chocolates. Apparently when you drop a boat load of cash on a diamond they’ll throw in some cheap candy and a bottle of jewelry cleaner as a token of their gratitude. So I decided to hide the ring in the box of chocolates for Lori to find. Luckily she said yes, and I set about the task of devouring the box of chocolate.
When dessert was finished, I took her to a wine bar where I had arranged for a bunch of our friends to meet us. After the hugs and congratulatory remarks, the night began to spiral out of control. Married life must be taking its toll on me already because I passed out at a bar for the first time since I was 19. I now regret mocking all of you who became really lame post-nuptials because I finally understand the deleterious effect marriage, or at least the threat it, can have!
As far as our wedding plans go, first and foremost, we must decide on the evening’s entertainment. I’m trying to decide if we should book the Non-Jovis (the Bon Jovi cover band that I front) or these guys. Check out their two new videos: Dead Celebrities and 96 Beers (there’s even an homage to me in one of them if you keep your eyes peeled).
Please weigh in on the comments section with your thoughts on the evening’s entertainment, advice on what we should have at our wedding, or anything else you think might be helpful to us as we start to plan this thing!
If you haven’t already done so, become a “follower” of this blog. Consider it an early wedding present. And if you dig the Retaw Crew's videos be sure to subscribe to them on Youtube!
Many of you have been wondering how the proposal went down, so I thought I’d satiate everyone’s curiosity with a blog post. To fully understand the intricacies of the proposal, I first need to give you some background information on the early days of our relationship.
For those of you who lived in the Bronx back in the early 2000s, you’ll recall that Lori and I started dating my senior year of college. I don’t remember much from the spring semester of that year. This was due in large part to the 800 dollar credit card bill that I racked up at Mount Carmel Wine and Spirits in the first month that we started dating. I think I was trying to impress Lori and more importantly get on the good side of her friends with my extravagant liquor purchases, but it’s more likely that the lion’s share of that drinking was done in my basement with my friend Matt while betting each other chugs of Jameson on the outcome of Madden 2002 plays(Regardless of the cause of the exorbitant bill, it landed me in hot water with my mother because my credit cards statements were still being sent home at that point. I got a scolding, but my mother’s anger must not have resonated because I promptly went out that same day and put 300 dollars worth of liquor on my card for the Princeton Men’s Lacrosse team. It occurs to me that that last sentence sounds pretty gay, but I assure you I was just trying to help them out on their 4 hour post-game bus ride. It was my friend Pete who acted a little suspicious when he kept on making remarks like, “Did you tell the Princeton boys I helped you get the booze?” and “I wish I could ride the bus back with the Princeton boys!”).
Despite the the massive credit card bill and the havoc it caused, I do have a few clear memories of senior year. I remember that my hair was quite long and that I was referred to, on more than one occasion, as “Air Jesus” on the intramural basketball court. I remember having a steamy, homo-erotic relationship with my physics professor, Dr. Mancini (Oh wait. That wasn't me. That was my roommate Ed). I remember wearing the same velour jumpsuit five days a week.
But most of all, I remember our first date in vivid detail. It was Valentine’s Day, and I told Lori that I would cook her dinner. She must have been skeptical of me because when I arrived at her apartment that evening, I discovered that I was actually cooking a romantic dinner for three. I was uninformed that her roommate and best-friend Maureen would be joining us (Subsequently, this third wheel would become a permanent fixture in our relationship. Maureen was there for many our firsts. For example, in addition to our first date, she was there the first time we polished off an entire crave case from White Castle, although Moe was of little use eating only three of the 30 sliders. She was also there the first time I bought Lori an engagement ring. Thanks for the help, Moe!). When we started eating that night, the two of them became even more skeptical of me. But it wasn’t because of how I was behaving, but rather they were stunned by the transcendent nature of the chicken parm that I made. They both insisted that my mother must have prepared the meal.
To this day, Lori does not believe that I made that chicken parm myself. So I thought that on the night that I proposed, I would once again make her the same meal I had made nearly 7 years earlier to the day. When she got home from work last Saturday to find that dinner was made, she was not the least bit suspicious. She knows full well my love of fried cutlets, and therefore thought nothing of the tray of chicken keeping warm in the oven. I thought cracking open a two dollar bottle of Charles Shaw Merlot from Trader Joe’s would give her an indication that this night was a little more special, but she surprisingly still didn’t get the hint. Finally when she asked for dessert, I found my opportunity to give her the ring. Earlier in the day the jeweler had given me a complimentary box of chocolates. Apparently when you drop a boat load of cash on a diamond they’ll throw in some cheap candy and a bottle of jewelry cleaner as a token of their gratitude. So I decided to hide the ring in the box of chocolates for Lori to find. Luckily she said yes, and I set about the task of devouring the box of chocolate.
When dessert was finished, I took her to a wine bar where I had arranged for a bunch of our friends to meet us. After the hugs and congratulatory remarks, the night began to spiral out of control. Married life must be taking its toll on me already because I passed out at a bar for the first time since I was 19. I now regret mocking all of you who became really lame post-nuptials because I finally understand the deleterious effect marriage, or at least the threat it, can have!
As far as our wedding plans go, first and foremost, we must decide on the evening’s entertainment. I’m trying to decide if we should book the Non-Jovis (the Bon Jovi cover band that I front) or these guys. Check out their two new videos: Dead Celebrities and 96 Beers (there’s even an homage to me in one of them if you keep your eyes peeled).
Please weigh in on the comments section with your thoughts on the evening’s entertainment, advice on what we should have at our wedding, or anything else you think might be helpful to us as we start to plan this thing!
If you haven’t already done so, become a “follower” of this blog. Consider it an early wedding present. And if you dig the Retaw Crew's videos be sure to subscribe to them on Youtube!
Monday, December 21, 2009
Playboy Party Pooper
As I prepared to celebrate my 29th birthday this past week, I got to thinking about birthday’s past. It occurred to me that I set too high of a bar when I first entered this decade of my life and that no birthday has been able to exceed my 20th. The day of my 20th birthday I witnessed Fordham beat St. John’s at the buzzer in the Garden (and that was back when St. John’s basketball had a pulse. They won the Big East tourney that year and advanced to the Elite Eight the year before). While MSG security denied our effort to storm the court, no one could prevent us from engaging in the epic bout of drinking that we had planned for later that day at McSorleys. Even the cantankerous octogenarian waiter couldn’t temper my spirits when asking me, “How the hell do you expect me to live off of a two dollar tip in the 21st century?” The last thing I remember from that day is riding the subway back to the Bronx with my friend Eddie. Still drunk on victory and McSorley’s Dark, we serenaded the entire subway car with a rousing rendition of Fordham’s fight song. When the rest of the car refused to join in, we accused them all of being pathetic and resentful Johnnie’s fans. However, seeing as how it was still only 6 o’clock in the evening it seems more likely that they were just too tired from work to join our chorus.
While I reminisced about that birthday, I became determined to finally top it as I entered the last year of my 20s. With a diverse and fun-filled itinerary planned, I knew that this particular birthday had great potential.
Despite my best laid plans, the day got off to an inauspicious start. I somehow got it into my head that Lori had secretly flown in all my friends and family and that they’d be waiting to surprise me when we arrived at our favorite breakfast spot. You can imagine my disappointment when we arrived at the restaurant and the only group there to greet us was a threesome of cops refusing a refill of coffee because “you can’t be jittery when you got your piece drawn on a perp.” So with only Lori to keep me company, I sadly ate my Dutch pancake in silence.
While breakfast was a mild success (the disappointment over the lack of a surprise party was somewhat offset by the deliciousness of my pannekoeken), the day quickly took a turn for the better. Because Lori’s store was open late to accommodate the influx of Christmas shoppers, I was free to accept a last minute invitation to a Playboy holiday party. Our mutual friend, Kate, who works for Playboy’s website, was in need of a date, and I was happy to oblige. We both went to the party with modest goals. Kate wanted to see any model that she had personally “touched up,” so she could smugly tell me about that girl’s figurative and metaphoric warts. As for me, I was just hoping to have a simple conversation with a model which I could then outrageously embellish for the purposes of this blog. Unfortunately we would both come away disappointed. Kate never saw any such model, and when I got a chance to talk to one I didn’t even get the bat off of my shoulder.
Despite the fact that I had a few amusing anecdotes prepared for a possible convo with a Playboy Bunny (including one where I witnessed my friend get accused of being racist for ordering a white slice at a pizzeria. This episode ended with a girl chasing her friend down the street yelling “Come back Sharonda! It just means the pizza ain’t got no red sauce!”) there were several factors contributing to my inability to converse that I had failed to account for. To begin with, I like to think of myself as a seasoned veteran of the partying circuit. However, I made a rookie mistake and showed an amazing lack of foresight in my pre-party dinner decision. Armed with the knowledge that I would soon be in the presence of scores of scantily clad Bunnies, I went ahead and sagaciously decided to take Buffalo Wild Wings up on their offer of 50 cent boneless wings. Now my sister has informed me that no one wants to read about my gastrointestinal issues, but for the purposes of this story the havoc that the boneless wings wreaked on my stomach is absolutely essential and cannot be avoided. Heeding my sister’s advice, I’ll spare you the details. But I will say that it’s difficult to be charming and make good impressions when you’ve got beads of sweat forming on your forehead due to the Asian Zing, Jamaican Jerk and Garlic Parmesan sauces angrily mixing it up in your bowels.
Along with my dinner decision, Hef’s choice for the Christmas issue cover conspired to foil my conversation capabilities. This month’s issue features Dancing With the Star’s Joanna Krupa on the cover. Unfortunately for me, this is apparently the one reality show that I don’t watch, and as such, I was not equipped with a bevy of penetrating insights concerning this reality celebrity. So when a model that had been standing next to me talking to a photographer pointed to a copy of the magazine on the table in front of us and commented to Kate and me that Krupa was in hot water in her native Poland for wearing a crucifix in her pictures, I was at a loss for a response. I’m Catholic and my girlfriend is a Chicago Pollock, giving me ample room to run with her comments, yet I was too busy wracking my brain trying to figure out who the girl on the cover was. If only Hef had gone with Padma or Snookie for the Christmas cover, I would have found myself in a conversational comfort zone. I could have talked to this model for hours about deconstructed ceviche or where to get the best "sangwiches and chesseballs" in Seaside.
So with my distracting stomach and complete lack of knowledge of controversial Polish primetime dancers, I completely froze. After conversing with Kate for a few minutes, the girl turned back to her conversation with the photographer. However, there wasn’t time to worry about it, for we were off to the next phase of my birthday celebration. By this time Lori and our friends were waiting for us at a music venue in our neighborhood, and the remainder of the night is what really put this birthday on par with my 20th. We got to listen to some truly awe-inspiring funk from New Orleans, ate copious amounts of brownies, and got a chance to make our own music at a late night Karaoke bar. As usual, my memory gets a little hazy from there although I distinctly remember freezing up when it came my turn to sing “You’re the One that I Want.” It seems that coming up small in the clutch was a theme for this particular birthday. I was forced to stumble through the song from memory because my eyes were at half-mast at that point I was incapable of reading the lyrics on the little screen.
This abysmal performance aside, it was a great birthday. It’ll certainly be hard to top next year, but I think if Lori gets started now on my surprise party filled with visiting New Yorkers, then she might be able to pull it off. So be on the lookout for that invitation!
Anyway, in other news, I’ll be in New York from the 24th to the 30th, so get in touch! Also, word out of Belmont is that an event dear to my heart may be cancelled due to lack of funds. So I encourage all of you to do your part and head out to Belmont and drop some money on the ponies so they don’t have to cancel the third leg of the Triple Crown. I will do my part by not gambling at the track because all I do is take money off the good people at Belmont!
While I reminisced about that birthday, I became determined to finally top it as I entered the last year of my 20s. With a diverse and fun-filled itinerary planned, I knew that this particular birthday had great potential.
Despite my best laid plans, the day got off to an inauspicious start. I somehow got it into my head that Lori had secretly flown in all my friends and family and that they’d be waiting to surprise me when we arrived at our favorite breakfast spot. You can imagine my disappointment when we arrived at the restaurant and the only group there to greet us was a threesome of cops refusing a refill of coffee because “you can’t be jittery when you got your piece drawn on a perp.” So with only Lori to keep me company, I sadly ate my Dutch pancake in silence.
While breakfast was a mild success (the disappointment over the lack of a surprise party was somewhat offset by the deliciousness of my pannekoeken), the day quickly took a turn for the better. Because Lori’s store was open late to accommodate the influx of Christmas shoppers, I was free to accept a last minute invitation to a Playboy holiday party. Our mutual friend, Kate, who works for Playboy’s website, was in need of a date, and I was happy to oblige. We both went to the party with modest goals. Kate wanted to see any model that she had personally “touched up,” so she could smugly tell me about that girl’s figurative and metaphoric warts. As for me, I was just hoping to have a simple conversation with a model which I could then outrageously embellish for the purposes of this blog. Unfortunately we would both come away disappointed. Kate never saw any such model, and when I got a chance to talk to one I didn’t even get the bat off of my shoulder.
Despite the fact that I had a few amusing anecdotes prepared for a possible convo with a Playboy Bunny (including one where I witnessed my friend get accused of being racist for ordering a white slice at a pizzeria. This episode ended with a girl chasing her friend down the street yelling “Come back Sharonda! It just means the pizza ain’t got no red sauce!”) there were several factors contributing to my inability to converse that I had failed to account for. To begin with, I like to think of myself as a seasoned veteran of the partying circuit. However, I made a rookie mistake and showed an amazing lack of foresight in my pre-party dinner decision. Armed with the knowledge that I would soon be in the presence of scores of scantily clad Bunnies, I went ahead and sagaciously decided to take Buffalo Wild Wings up on their offer of 50 cent boneless wings. Now my sister has informed me that no one wants to read about my gastrointestinal issues, but for the purposes of this story the havoc that the boneless wings wreaked on my stomach is absolutely essential and cannot be avoided. Heeding my sister’s advice, I’ll spare you the details. But I will say that it’s difficult to be charming and make good impressions when you’ve got beads of sweat forming on your forehead due to the Asian Zing, Jamaican Jerk and Garlic Parmesan sauces angrily mixing it up in your bowels.
Along with my dinner decision, Hef’s choice for the Christmas issue cover conspired to foil my conversation capabilities. This month’s issue features Dancing With the Star’s Joanna Krupa on the cover. Unfortunately for me, this is apparently the one reality show that I don’t watch, and as such, I was not equipped with a bevy of penetrating insights concerning this reality celebrity. So when a model that had been standing next to me talking to a photographer pointed to a copy of the magazine on the table in front of us and commented to Kate and me that Krupa was in hot water in her native Poland for wearing a crucifix in her pictures, I was at a loss for a response. I’m Catholic and my girlfriend is a Chicago Pollock, giving me ample room to run with her comments, yet I was too busy wracking my brain trying to figure out who the girl on the cover was. If only Hef had gone with Padma or Snookie for the Christmas cover, I would have found myself in a conversational comfort zone. I could have talked to this model for hours about deconstructed ceviche or where to get the best "sangwiches and chesseballs" in Seaside.
So with my distracting stomach and complete lack of knowledge of controversial Polish primetime dancers, I completely froze. After conversing with Kate for a few minutes, the girl turned back to her conversation with the photographer. However, there wasn’t time to worry about it, for we were off to the next phase of my birthday celebration. By this time Lori and our friends were waiting for us at a music venue in our neighborhood, and the remainder of the night is what really put this birthday on par with my 20th. We got to listen to some truly awe-inspiring funk from New Orleans, ate copious amounts of brownies, and got a chance to make our own music at a late night Karaoke bar. As usual, my memory gets a little hazy from there although I distinctly remember freezing up when it came my turn to sing “You’re the One that I Want.” It seems that coming up small in the clutch was a theme for this particular birthday. I was forced to stumble through the song from memory because my eyes were at half-mast at that point I was incapable of reading the lyrics on the little screen.
This abysmal performance aside, it was a great birthday. It’ll certainly be hard to top next year, but I think if Lori gets started now on my surprise party filled with visiting New Yorkers, then she might be able to pull it off. So be on the lookout for that invitation!
Anyway, in other news, I’ll be in New York from the 24th to the 30th, so get in touch! Also, word out of Belmont is that an event dear to my heart may be cancelled due to lack of funds. So I encourage all of you to do your part and head out to Belmont and drop some money on the ponies so they don’t have to cancel the third leg of the Triple Crown. I will do my part by not gambling at the track because all I do is take money off the good people at Belmont!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
These Little Town Blues Are Melting Away...
In my last post I promised an account of our shorts-staining trip to Costa Rica. However, immediately after making said promise I was promptly slammed with a ton of reading for school, leaving me very little time to keep you updated on my comings and goings.
However, while I’m disappointed that school has prevented me from writing, my countless hours spent locked up in the ivory tower hasn’t been a total loss. A great benefit to being back at school is the millions of interesting tidbits that I’ve learned while skimming the thounsands of pages of reading that have been assigned. I’ve found that these tidbits are a huge hit at cocktail parties (ok…they are a huge hit at the dive bars I frequent, but I wanted to sound sophisticated). For example, did you know that the two most common crimes committed by widows in 17th century colonial society were unlicensed liquor sales and fornication? I had no idea that these colonial ladies were so down to party. It’s well-documented that Martha Washington was a hip, hip lady, but other than that I figured the puritanical partying was kept to a minimum. However, these gals actually make our modern day Cougars look rather tame.
I’ve also been busy frequenting teacher happy hours. While I enjoy half priced drinks and lukewarm trays filled with potato skins and mozzarella sticks just as much as the next educator, I’m actually not attending these functions for pleasure. My goal is to ingratiate myself with the faculty of a high school and eventually earn their trust. Once I’ve done so, I plan on getting a young, female teacher really drunk and then having one of her co-workers try to seduce and impregnate her. I’ve taken to this unorthodox style of matchmaking because it seems like the only way I will get a public school job in this city. After conception has been confirmed, I will quickly send my resume to the school’s principal, thereby being the first to apply for a job that will most certainly become available in seven to eight months. While these tactics are certainly despicable and unscrupulous, I’m willing to be as despised as the Luna guy is in Chicago in order to finally get a job. If everything works out according to my plan, I figure the Luna guy and I can buy some friends with our newfound riches. Between my teacher’s salary and the savings he got on his new flooring, we should be able to convince people to hang out with us despite our damaged reputations in this town.
My unemployment as an ESL teacher is made all the more frustrating by the fact that there are World Series M.V.P.s walking around, not knowing a lick of English after nearly a decade in this country! If anyone has an in with 2009 World Series Champions or happens to visit the Canyon of Heroes, feel free to pass along my resume!
However, while I’m disappointed that school has prevented me from writing, my countless hours spent locked up in the ivory tower hasn’t been a total loss. A great benefit to being back at school is the millions of interesting tidbits that I’ve learned while skimming the thounsands of pages of reading that have been assigned. I’ve found that these tidbits are a huge hit at cocktail parties (ok…they are a huge hit at the dive bars I frequent, but I wanted to sound sophisticated). For example, did you know that the two most common crimes committed by widows in 17th century colonial society were unlicensed liquor sales and fornication? I had no idea that these colonial ladies were so down to party. It’s well-documented that Martha Washington was a hip, hip lady, but other than that I figured the puritanical partying was kept to a minimum. However, these gals actually make our modern day Cougars look rather tame.
I’ve also been busy frequenting teacher happy hours. While I enjoy half priced drinks and lukewarm trays filled with potato skins and mozzarella sticks just as much as the next educator, I’m actually not attending these functions for pleasure. My goal is to ingratiate myself with the faculty of a high school and eventually earn their trust. Once I’ve done so, I plan on getting a young, female teacher really drunk and then having one of her co-workers try to seduce and impregnate her. I’ve taken to this unorthodox style of matchmaking because it seems like the only way I will get a public school job in this city. After conception has been confirmed, I will quickly send my resume to the school’s principal, thereby being the first to apply for a job that will most certainly become available in seven to eight months. While these tactics are certainly despicable and unscrupulous, I’m willing to be as despised as the Luna guy is in Chicago in order to finally get a job. If everything works out according to my plan, I figure the Luna guy and I can buy some friends with our newfound riches. Between my teacher’s salary and the savings he got on his new flooring, we should be able to convince people to hang out with us despite our damaged reputations in this town.
My unemployment as an ESL teacher is made all the more frustrating by the fact that there are World Series M.V.P.s walking around, not knowing a lick of English after nearly a decade in this country! If anyone has an in with 2009 World Series Champions or happens to visit the Canyon of Heroes, feel free to pass along my resume!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)