Love Hurts

In April, Kristin and I celebrated our 5^th anniversary. Well, I say 4^th because every guy knows that you’re not officially dating until your girlfriend injures you and you don’t get mad. For me, it was a busted lip. Either way, we both knew it was a momentous occasion. She felt it was a testament of the commitment we have to each other and I felt it was a miracle - she wasn’t in prison, and I was still alive.

There have been many close calls though. A few years back I did something to piss her off and, honestly, I don’t remember what it was. Maybe I ate the last of her cereal. Who knows? Anyway, instead of voicing her displeasure like normal adults do, she did the next best thing: she took a swipe at me. And, for clarity, this wasn’t an “I’m a kitten playing with a ball of yarn” swipe. It was more along the lines of “I’m a lioness trying to knock over a water buffalo running at full speed” swipe. But somehow, I managed to duck in time and escaped with my head still attached. My 200lb. oak dresser wasn’t so lucky. A piece of its siding is still missing.

What is it with women not knowing their strength? Every Christmas, I get my sister, Ari and Kris a dictionary to help them find the definition of “tickle” because here’s what they think it means: 1) To dig fingernails into another’s skin until blood is drawn and/or screams are let out. [Example: “A chunk of my underarm is missing so, no, that did not tickle.”]

So how am I still here? Well, after surviving as the youngest of three, I got in a few scuffles as a young kid. And somehow, I always came out on top…until that fateful day in summer camp at age of 10. I decided to skip a shorter kid in the lunch line and he protested. But I ignored him and continued to budge past, so he grabbed my wrist and flipped me in the air.

I saw clouds.

While still holding on to my wrist, Steven Segal somersaulted so he stood over me, said “Hi-YA,” and punched me in my neck. I learned a lesson that day: boys are definitely tougher than girls. Or so I thought, until the following year when I took a girl’s markers without asking in 5^th grade and she tried to take my jugular. And on this day, I learned the only lesson that matters: girls are way crazier than boys.

Asides from being crazy, the one I live with likes to overreact to things. Here are some Kristin classics:

Me getting plain 4C Bread Crumbs instead of seasoned: “This is a nightmare.”

Me accidently using her pillow and not mine: “I hope you choke on your phlegm and die in your sleep.”

Me throwing the remote to her, her completely missing it, and it hitting her kneecap:

And when it comes to the idea of kids, overreaction is an understatement. Me? I hope to have about 3 big head, high waist babies running around. Kristin? She nearly gagged watching a kid spill their orange juice on America’s Funniest Home Videos. But that’s not all because her discomfort with new life reaches beyond the human race. Once on a nature show about giraffes, a mother was giving birth. And while I smiled at the addition of new wildlife to this planet, I looked over at Kris and saw it was too much for her to handle. She passed out before the baby hit the ground.

So imagine Kris’ reaction to having a dream about her giving birth…to kittens. You know that face you make when you find hair in your food? Well, that would be considered joy in comparison. But I must say that my powers of persuasion appear to be working because after five years she went from not wanting any children to worrying about putting cats through college.

But I must say this: she is the most caring person I’ve ever met. She’s so caring that I hate cooking dinner for her. Let me explain. Early in our relationship, I thought I would make her the fanciest breakfast EVER - waffles with ice cream on top. Actually, it was Vanilla Bean ice cream. Yup, I didn’t hold anything back. So I’m spending the entire morning preparing this Ihop spectacular. You know, plugging in the toaster, getting the Haagen Dazs out the freezer, and finally I bring it to her. She smiles, says, “thank you,” and takes a bite. Kristin then puts the fork down, and apparently begins to think of a nice way to say she doesn’t like it. “Eww. I don’t like it,” she said.

I must’ve made a big deal out of it because now she says she likes absolutely everything I make. How is that possible? I’m not a great cook, and I don’t even like half the stuff I make. “Mmm. This is great, Andrew.”

“C’mon. If you don’t like it, just say so.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You just put your plate on the floor and slid it to Dozer.”

She gives a confused look.

“And then you said, ‘here Doze, eat this…because it is disgusting.’”

So now she’s afraid she’ll hurt my feelings and has decided to lie to my face for the rest of our lives. One day I’m really test her and make a mango, egg, and olive oil sandwich and see what she says then.

Now, I have my share of faults and quirks too. For one, Kristin has joked she should just change her name to Can You because I ask her to do things I can easily do. I call it resourceful. She calls it lazy. I also have a vast dislike of throwing food in the garbage, so I put it in the next best place: the toilet. Pasta, scrambled eggs, waffles, pizza, and more have all gone surfing...when I remember to flush. Her 3 a.m. shrieks because she thinks she’s peed tomato sauce never stops being funny. But what she gets on me most for is my hate of supermarkets. Let me ask you this: have you ever gone in one and didn’t spend more time or money than you intended? OK, then. So, recently I’ve been boycotting the establishment, which hasn’t made Kristin happy.

And that’s actually the reason I’m locked in the basement. She does this when I’ve been a bad boyfriend. But with this laptop I’ve hidden in here, I thought I should tell everybody about how she treats me and maybe I could get some help. Luckily she’s cooking dinner, because if she came in here now and caught me doing this, she’d chop my han

A Step Slow and A Shade Too White

With his head slightly bowed, he looked up at me – like an old man peering over his glasses. “Ahh. Excuse Me?”

“Yes?”

But I had already known before I asked. His bed wasn’t fluffed enough. So I get up, flip, rotate, smooth out, flap, and gently place down his bed. He walks over to it, inspecting the job I’ve done, looking for anything that might need correcting, but it suffices for the moment. Then he decides to ruin all of the flipping, rotating, smoothing out, and flapping that I’ve done by walking all over it.

In circles.

Over. And over again.

“Jerk.” And that’s Dozer, the prima donna pooch we rescued 2 and ½ years ago. First seeing him from inside his foster parents’ house was like seeing an oversized mascot trying to get out of a small cage. He was incredibly huge standing up in his kennel. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. The biggest pet I’d had ever owned was 23lbs, and that cat ruled my house. How was I supposed to control a 90lb dog that was used to hunt bears in the mountains of Japan?

Heading outside to Dozer’s kennel, we were soon allowed to take him for our first walk. It was wonderful. Kristin and I held hands, looking into each other’s eyes, wondering if we were going live after being dragged into traffic. But we did, and we took him home looking forward to a new life with our cat, Rascal, and new pup, Dozer.

The honeymoon lasted 12 hours.

While at work the next day, I checked in on Kris who was sitting with Dozer in the living room, and Rascal was in the bedroom. They were slowly getting acclimated to each other through under the door, but Kitty MacGyver somehow broke out and found himself being stared down by two eyes each bigger than his body. Here’s how the conversation with Kris went:

“Hey, baby. How’s Dozer?”

“He’s – Oh S***.”

Long story short; apparently, cats can run on walls.

After bringing Rascal to live with Kris’s mom, it was just us and The Doze in our small apartment. Now an Akita in anything smaller than a house is less than optimal, but luckily we’re across the street from Albany’s beautiful Washington Park.

Lucky for him, I should say.

Have you ever run after a dog in a giant park? Maybe? OK. Now imagine running after a dog who’s chasing squirrels in this giant park. Here’s the thought process of a dog running just for the fun of it: Yay! I’m free. Pee here. Pee there. Pee Evvverywhere. HaHaHa – catch me if you can! Weeeee!!

And here’s the thought process of an Akita chasing a squirrel:I’m gonna eat you! Come here. Stay still! Don’t you run away from me. YOU’RE DEAD!

Dozer clearly thinks the latter when he runs off after squirrels. He’s almost all-white running through brown trees and over green grass – so, of course, he never catches anything. Actually, he doesn't even come close to the squirrels.

“Oh boy, here comes The Great White Hopeless again.”

“I say we act surprised and head up this tree when he gets within 50 feet.”

“Good idea. Only 200 more to go.”

Poor Dozer. I feel sorry for him sometimes because he thinks he could get ‘em. He really does. And on the day I felt my worst, he’d thought he would get lucky.

One morning, my loving girlfriend made me walk Dozer when I was dying of the flu. So I took him out for his normal walk and happened to see a few of his friends at the dog park. “OK,” I thought. “He could run around for a bit then I can get right back into the bed and next to my spit cup.” And it started off well. He was playing with his harem of girlfriends, nudging them on the butt and running away. You know, doggie tag. Then P-Zoom! He was off.

I looked out into the trees he was running toward but didn’t see any squirrels. That’s because there weren’t any. Whatever he saw had to be at least 1000 feet away. Too far for him to simply have fun and come right back. So I started jogging after him, with my wad of Puffs Plus with Aloe in my hand, thinking he’d come running back when he saw me. Well soon after, he saw me, stopped, gave me the middle finger, and kept on running.

Then I did what all dog owners have done at one point or another. I forgot he didn’t speak English. “Dozer. DOZER! You get back over here. Right Now! Don’t you ignore me. Ohhh, you’re in big trouble, young man. BIG Trouble!” Meanwhile, he’s flying up and down hills and I’m struggling after him breathing out of one nostril while snot’s pouring from the other. At this point he’s at least 100 yards away. People are looking at me like I’m insane, and I can’t blame them. It’s August. Sweat is dripping from all over because I’m wearing a fleece and a jacket. I’m so winded, I’m now running like I’m drunk. I’m blowing my doggie whistle while screaming for something named Doh-Zaaaa with a wad of tissues in my hand.

Anyway, I finally catch up to him 8 minutes later on the front lawn of somebody’s house. He tried to run behind it, but there wasn’t any way to the back. The only way out was past me and he was just as tired. We faced off. I squatted and spread out my arms like a soccer goalie.

“Just you and me, big boy.” But, by the look in his eye, I knew he was going to go for it. With my last ounce of energy, and way past being out of breath, I spoke again. I didn’t care what language he spoke. “All----you have---- to do------- is surrender. Don’t------ do anything------ stupid,” I huffed, barely able to string my words together. He was unfazed.

Looking left then looking right, he went for it. It all happened in slow motion. I dropped my tissues, faked one way to send him the other. It worked. While diving, I amazingly I grabbed his collar. It was like catching the final out in the World Series – just a lot sweatier. He didn’t even put up a fight – just collapsed on the grass with me.

After 10 minutes, I finally mustered up enough energy to reach into my pocket, take out my cell, and call Kris.

“Get-------the car.”

Woken from the sleep I should’ve been having, she sounded annoyed. “Why? What happened?”

“Dozer--------ran. --------- Too tired--------to explain. ---------Get car.”

“What?”

“Lying-------front lawn---------houses -----in park. --------Don’t -------ask.---- Pick me----- up.”

That Sunday morning, as Dozer and I laid there on some person’s lawn, panting uncontrollably, with fluid pouring from our faces, we were the same. Both defeated, but victorious. He had the time of his life terrorizing the neighborhood squirrel contingent, and I got my dog back.

Love & Lunacy

She didn’t expect it. No one did. The only way anybody could tell what happened was by reading the note left on top of the empty box. “Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself - Bev.”

Halfway through her nine-hour shift, all Kaitlin wanted to do was escape to the break room and eat the precious Moon Pies she’d left on the table. She hadn’t had them in years. In college she would quietly eat some in the middle of the night, praying her roommate didn’t wake up when she noisily opened the plastic wrappers. Yesterday she came across some in the supermarket and couldn’t resist spending some time with an old flame. The way the chocolate smeared in the corner of her lips, how she would gently use her thumb to wipe it off. Deep down, she loved it when that happened. The marshmallow inside was her favorite part. She often teased herself by nibbling on its outer edges, sometimes taking twenty minutes to finish only one.

“Is this a joke?” she asked no one in particular. “I mean, she obviously could help herself if she took the time to get a pen and paper.”

Other co-workers sitting at the table tried controlling their laughter, but the hilarity of the note was too much.

“Hey, screw you, guys. It isn’t funny. I paid $3.29 for this,” Kaitlin said, holding up the flimsy cardboard with a note on it. “I mean, who leaves a note like ‘sorry, but I just ate your shit?’”

Somebody answered, but Kaitlin couldn’t hear a thing. Her ears were clogged with rage. After throwing the box in the garbage and walking out, she headed into the Yankee Candle room to use the Public Address phone. The overwhelming stench of “Meadow Mist” didn’t help her mental state.

***Attention, shoppers: Hi, my name is Kaitlin. First, before anybody else comes up to me and asks if I work here, I would like to let everyone know that, no, I do not. I just have an uncontrollable nametag fetish. Second, if you see a rug that you’re considering, just look at it - you need not step on it. Surprisingly most rugs do, in fact, feel the same. Third, if you ever happen to eat someone’s Moon Pies, do not leave a note saying you did it and the reason why. Don’t take away their ability to wonder, "Hey, who the hell ate my food?" Victims prefer mystery. It’s all they have. Thank you.***

I Am Man

I call my girlfriend, Kristin, a gorilla. It’s a little mean, I know, but she’s abnormally strong and agile for a woman who’s 5’5 and eats nothing but cereal all day. Once we were walking in the park and she got so mad at something I said, she literally picked up a boulder and hurled it about a hundred yards. I’m not lying.

But when it comes to bugs, or “Creepy Crawlies,” as she calls them, it’s a totally different story.

We recently moved into a new apartment in a Carriage House, which means it’s over a garage and we have no neighbors. The place itself is nice - decent layout, large kitchen, and a bunch of other nice stuff. Almost a month prior to moving in, we came across the ad. It said “Luxury Apartments,” and we agreed.

The best part is having no neighbors who live above us. Before this place I lived in a basement apartment, and a group of girls lived above me. They appeared to be nice girls but I didn’t know too much about them. What I did know was that they enjoyed bowling and roller skating in their kitchen. So any place without a FunPlex overhead seemed great.

That was until Kris saw a bug hanging from the living room ceiling. Screaming “CENTIPEDE” as loud as possible – all while a foot away from me – she demanded I do something. I felt like Denzel Washington in “John Q,” when his wife ordered him to do something about their son not having a working heart. He got a gun and held an emergency room hostage, and given the way Kristin was looking at me, I would’ve shot the bug if I had one.

“Kill It!”
“What for? It’s just a stupid bug.”
“Andrew, I will take this knife and cut you.”

So I had no choice, and besides, it was our first bug together. I had to kill it. But I’m not gonna lie – I was scared. First of all, that thing had about 27 hundred legs and antennas that were slowly moving all over the place. Plus it was camouflaged with white stripes covering its tan body. I have absolutely never seen anything like it in my life. It was freaky looking. And second, what if I missed? Would he hide for two months then lay eggs in my eyeballs as I slept?

So I get a chair, a shoe, and prepare for the kill. All the while, it’s just hanging upside down having no idea it’s about to meet my size 12 Nike. Suddenly my nerves began to get to me and I think, “Man, if this thing falls anywhere near me I will, without a doubt, scream like an eleven year old girl.” Consequently my life and my manhood were riding on this one bug.

After two minutes of planning the trajectory of my strike, I went for it.

But I missed by about two feet and the wind from the shoe hitting the ceiling blew the Centipede off…and onto the floor. That’s when Kristin did a back flip and landed four feet away on the arm of the couch. It was like the scene from Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon when the lady walked on bamboo.

Now she was screaming as it crawled behind the radiator. I looked for it, but to no avail. So she’s yelling louder even though she’s 10 feet away…and that wasn’t helping any. Imagine trying to do a Where’s Waldo puzzle but Waldo keeps moving because he has a million legs, and there’s a really loud lady yelling in your ear. Well, it was something like that.

Thinking of nothing else, I got some Windex and sprayed the entire bottle on the radiator hoping to kill it. And don’t you think that was some arbitrary decision, because it wasn’t. I’ve killed many insects with the blue stuff.

Anyway, I don’t think that worked because over the next week we saw about ten of those things. After Kristin vowed to never again set foot off the couch, and I had black eyes after sleeping with goggles every night, we decided it was time to do some research. They're called House Centipedes (or Millioneous Leggus ), but I call them Freaky Little Bugs With a Bunch of Legs That Run Really Fast.

Researching also led to a couple disturbing discoveries. For one, they like moisture and that’s why we kept finding them in the tub and in the kitchen sink. Yeah, it’s not fun being naked in the shower, thinking something’s wiggling their 10-inch long antennas near you.

Two, they eat spiders. As in kill them. Call me crazy, but I thought spiders were at the top of the bug food chain. The eight-legged guardians of the home. When did this change of the guard happen? Animal Planet should really consider doing a show about this hostile takeover. But finding that out was the equivalent of moving to Africa then learning something’s been killing lions…and they live in your tent.

It wasn't comforting – especially not to Kristin.

And just in case you didn’t notice, I’m deathly terrified of Centipedes too. So, yes, that means Kris isn’t the only wuss in the house. She’s just the only wuss who can climb the Empire State Building to escape.

Was That Jones or Jetson?

We’re constantly bombarded with ads touting our 21st century culture. Paper-thin cell phones you can watch television on. Windshield wipers that activate when they sense rain. Even laptops you can use while taking a shower.

Actually, I’m in the shower now. That’s right. And I’m not ashamed to say I use one of those Poofy things.

But with our technological advancements, you’d expect communication to be more efficient and less time consuming. And if you’ve ever left or received a voicemail message then you know what I mean.

“Hi, this is Tom. I can’t take your call but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” After the tone, please leave your voice message. After you finish recording, you can hang up, or press pound for more options.

Really?!? After the tone, I can speak…and I can hang up when I’m done? That’s insane! I didn’t know that. Did you know that? Man, I can’t even fathom what the pound button does…

I may not seem grateful now, but I couldn’t imagine living without a cell phone. How did people do it? I make at least three pointless “Ahh whatcha doing?” phone calls everyday. And I’ve had entire arguments with my girlfriend via text message.

Texting is the new “it” way to talk to someone anytime you want and before that, it was Instant Messenger. I used to be on it all the time but the phenomenon has become too big for me. I have about a million friends on my buddy-list…and half of them have about three screen names. And they have cheesy away messages like “finding my inner superstar - be back from class @ 2.” People don’t even type whole words on it. Everything has to be quick and to-the-point. Who has the time to write “Laugh out loud” when “LOL” can be used instead? Add that to “TTYL” and “BRB” and every other word is an acronym.

My father, however, must’ve totally missed that bus. I mean missed it like, he had no idea that bus existed. I’m going to take you back 5 years when I was sitting in my college dorm chatting with my brother back home:

***Quick note: My entire family is black. My brother, however, thought he was Spanish for some reason. It was really weird. He watched a lot of Telemundo and Univison. Anyway, back to the chat.***

DrewHil: Hey, I haven’t talked to Daddy in a long time.. You should put him on but I don’t think he’s done this before.

SenorPapiChulo: No, I don’t think he has but I’ll get him. I’m about to put some beans on the stove anyway. --- Here he is.

DrewHil: Hi Daddy. What’s going on down in the City?

(6 and a half minutes later)

SenorPapiChulo: Andy? Can you hear me on this thing? Over.

DrewHil: Lol. Daddy, you’re not in the Korean War anymore. And this isn’t a walkie talkie. You don’t have to say “over.”

(3 minutes later)

SenorPapiChulo: Andy? You there? Over.

DrewHil: LOL

(Another 3 minutes)

SenorPapiChulo: Well hi, Lol. Can you tell Andy to call me later? Out.


My father’s still upset he’s never met my friend with the weird name.

I watch TV today and I’m not shocked we don’t understand one another. How could I be? Turn on any channel and you’re bound to hear some cliché that makes no sense but one that, as a society, we can’t let go.

“That’s the way the cookie crumbles.” What does that mean? Who the hell crumbles cookies? See, it would make sense if it were a cracker or something - at least that goes in soup. Here’s another one, “What goes around, comes around.” Well, I've done about ten mean things to people in the past week, and everyone's been just peachy to me. And being the only black kid in the history of Harlem to own a boomerang, I know for a fact that isn't true. I hear a stupid saying at least once a day and, frankly, I can’t believe Dateline hasn’t done a special on this yet.

But that’s what makes our society great. We hold onto the past, while embracing the future. We take hold of the dog by the tail and wag it…Or something like that. The cat’s out of the bag, my fellow Americans. This thing we call technology is upon us.

Now, if you’d excuse me, it's my anniversary and I have some texting to do.

Out.

Driving With Crazy

Now, I'm not a control freak. I just don’t like being in situations that I can't dictate. There’s a huge difference between the two. You shouldn’t ask a control freak to help you paint your house because they’d want to pick the color. You shouldn’t ask me because, well, I wouldn’t do it.

Painting is second, only to moving, on the “Man, I Know We’re Friends, but I’m Never Helping You Do This Again” list. Moving is the worst, isn’t it? I challenge you to name one fun thing about helping someone move…think about it. You can’t.

The Bonding? - You know, we could watch a football game.
The Exercise? - I’ve never seen floral sofa beds in the gym.

But there’s one situation that I hate not being in control of. Driving a car. Yup, that 3000 lb. piece of steel hurling itself 80 mph on the highway. I pride myself on being a good driver. I use my blinkers, I scan the road for any signs of danger, and I even come to full stops at Stop signs. There are some drivers on the road who obviously have no business having a license. You know the ones who weave in and out of traffic, never use their signals, and decide to text message every person saved in their cell phone while driving with their knee. You know the type. You probably ARE the type.

The sad thing is that I’m very close to two people who fit into that category. One is my roommate Al, and the other is my girlfriend Kris.

I’m going to start with Al, who’s the type of person to look at you in the eyes while talking. Now, that’s a wonderful trait to have. Eye contact is important. It exemplifies confidence, and seriousness. I wish I can do it so easily as he does. But there are times for it. Like during interviews, while talking to children, or while having a romantic dinner. Go head. Look them in the eye. Right in the pupil if you want. But doing it while driving on busy, city streets isn’t the right time for intimate gazing.

Al, while driving a vehicle, and looking at me: “So what you and Kris end up doing last night?”
“Just chilled,” I say while silently praying.
“Word. You know what I did?”
“Yea, you told me earlier this morning.”
“Well, I went to Sneaky’s, and had maaad fun. Had a couple Apple Martini’s, and a Long Island and a brotha was gooood for the night.”
Nervous chuckle. “Ha, that’s crazy.”
Silence. And he finally returns his eyes to the road. I finally exhale.
"Ooooo. I forgot to tell you ---”
“Yo, Al watch the road.”
“I am...But let me finish telling you this story.”
“Fine, but dont hit the old lady.”

To be fair, he does peek at the road every 10 seconds or so.

And just to let you know, I’m not lying when I say I’m scared or nervous when someone else drives. I really am. It really frightens me. Getting into a car accident is one of my biggest fears. Right behind slipping in the shower. Think about it, no one would hear you bust your head because of all the noise from the water. And you’re lying there, semi-conscious like “Damn. That’s what I get for trying to impress people. I should of just took a bird bath by the sink, put on some deodorant, and changed my draws…”

When I’m the passenger in a car, I’m paying more attention to the road than the driver. I’m glancing all over for potential danger. I’m looking out the window for other drivers who may be a threat to my - I mean our safety. I’m like a cat in a room full of flies. My eyes are darting all over the place. But my main responsibility is to help the driver. “WATCH OUT!”
“What? What the hell are you screaming about?!?”
“I see flashing lights 4 blocks away.”

See, I’m there when you need me.

Now I’m going to move on to Kris. Her problem is one that millions of drivers have, but it’s easily cured by purchasing proper neck restraints. She has E. D. B. S. T. O. W. D. That’s short for: Easily Distracted By the Slightest Thing Out the Window Disorder. Just rolls right off your tongue doesn’t it?

Every five seconds I’m telling her, “Beautiful road. Beautiful road.” But she can’t help it. The trees are so pretty. While driving to NYC a few times, I see her constantly looking out her window while driving down the highway…where’s there’s nothing but trees. Oh yea. There’s also those shiny, silver railings.

And if that’s not bad enough, she think she’s “The Wraith” sometimes. You know that 1980’s movie where Charlie Sheen comes back from the dead and has some futuristic-looking car? Well, he first died by being chased off the road by rowdy teens. Then he comes back just to kill them by running them off cliffs. Well, that’s Kris. Minus the being dead part.

But when she gets cut off, she doesn’t just curse and stick up middle fingers like normal people. Her whole persona changes. One day while she was driving, some guy swerved right in front of her for no reason. She barely avoids him and I’m still looking at the guy’s car in disbelief. “Man, that guy is craz--” But then I look over at Kris and suddenly, she’s in a black, leather, one-piece outfit! AND she’s wearing a matching motorcycle helmet like the Wraith. I’m not lying. 80’s rock starts blaring in the background, and she hits the gas. At this point I pee on my thigh.

So she’s flying through traffic trying to catch up to him, and I’m pleading with her to stop. “Kris. C’mon, Kris. He’s not worth it. You gotta slow down.” Have you ever seen a little kid who’s terrified of dogs actually in the same vicinity as one? They’re crying, begging for someone, anyone to take the dog away. All the while, the golden retriever puppy is like, “who, me?” But you hear the desperation and terror in that child’s voice as snot pours from his nose. Well, that was me. I thought I was going to die.

I keep screaming at her to stop. But she doesn’t. She finally reaches his car and, while going 50 mph, gets only inches away from him. We’re gonna die, is all I keep thinking. We are going to die! Where is a slippery bath tub when you need one? And we’re not in a luxury car with sports tuned suspension, and electronic stability control. It’s a ’98 Honda with mismatched tires and no windshield wiper fluid. So for 5 minutes, she’s taunting him. Getting close and backing up, going from side to side, and flashing her high beams. She’s a maniac.

I screamed one last time at her, “Kris stop! I’m not ready to die!” And the helmeted figure just turns to me. I could see my reflection in the visor, and it faded away as she looked at the road again. “Kris. I know you’re in there. Let’s just go home.” Finally, she let off the gas. The music disappeared, and she became a woman again. The Leather one-piece was gone, and I couldn’t be happier. She pulled over, flustered, not knowing what just happened. It was like a WereWolf who went out, ate 3 people, wakes up, and can’t figure out why there’s flesh between his teeth. I told Kris everything that happened, and she could believe it. She started to apologize, but she couldn’t finish because I was trying to choke her.

That entire story was true. EVERY SINGLE, other WORD.

Multiply that story 43 times, and you’d have all my experiences driving with Kris. It seems I’m only safe in a vehicle when I’m driving. I have come to that conclusion. You want to pick me up or something, slide over, cause I’m driving.

Speaking of driving, I’m off. Headed to the auto body shop. Something to do with a snowy road, a hill, and a concrete pillar. That's right, a cat in a room full of flies, my friends.

A cat in a room full of flies.

Rock-a-Bye...Maybe.

I think I have mild insomnia.

And I say mild because it’s not that I can’t sleep, it’s that it takes me a long time to fall asleep. But soon after 3 a.m. (usually after a “Fitness Made Simple with John Basedow” infomercial) my waning mind finally gives in, and my night’s rest is horrible.

The last time I slept well was a 12 minute nap that I was able to take after a math lesson years ago. I finally woke up, folded up my blue mat, walked over to my building blocks and thought, “man, I could stay in kindergarten forever.”

Ever since then, it’s been downhill. The mattress is too springy. Why has all my saliva evaporated? Why is there a hair in my mouth? Ill, this isn’t human hair.

If you were to think of people you know, I’d bet at least two of them are picky eaters. (If you can think of only one, then the other one is you. Sorry.) But it’s wierd, isn’t it?
“Here, you want one,” as I hold out a Nacho-Cheese Dorito.
“No thanks, I don’t really like chips.”

Who doesn't want to experience crispy, cheesy, corn chip delight? It’s like learning about Isosceles triangles all over again, but doing it with orange lips.

Well, I’m a picky sleeper. I make my bed at least twice a day. Some may say I’m obsessive because I believe the top sheet and blanket HAVE TO BE TOGETHER AT ALL TIMES.

***Does the capitalization work there? Do you feel the fervor? I would’ve gone with the exclamation point but I think they‘re over used. I recently got an email where someone wrote, “It must be great to be finished with school - the real world can be rough!!” Now, why does she sound excited? “Ha Ha! For months you’re gonna struggle and only eat cereal for dinner!!”***

They have to be connected. They have to be in-sync. They have to be one. The corner of the sheet can’t be in place, while the corner of the blanket is off doing its own thing. How can people sleep like that? I can understand if you were a penguin and you didn’t have opposable thumbs, or any fingers for that matter. Then maybe - maybe there’s a reason for the two not to be together at all times.

So if you’re confused as to whether you are capable of utilizing the Sheet-Blanket combination, here are the guidelines:

1) One must believe that the Sheet and Blanket be harmonious in their relationship. That the combination divided against itself cannot be comfortable.

2) One must have at least 3 fingers for every two hands*
*If, in the rare case, you have oven mitts without thumb openings permanently attached to your wrists, then you may qualify for an assistance program...and it must really suck tying your sneakers.

3) One must have sheets and blankets.

Another part about sleep that I have trouble with is the H.P.E. Also known as the Hot Pillow Effect. I hate sleeping, waking up, and feeling as if I laid my head to rest on a hot plate. Recently, South Korean and American researchers successfully cloned a human embryo. On ShopNBC, Bose has developed audio technology so advanced, traditional speaker equipment will soon become obsolete. All that and I’m still forced to flip my pillow a dozen times a night so sweat doesn’t spew from my face.

Why hasn’t anybody capitalized on this void in the pillow industry? If I were the CEO of a pillow company I’d be worried that some washed up celebrity is going to take advantage of that void and monopolize on it for the next decade.

Think about it. Imagine how enraged kitchen appliance makers were when a washed up athlete appeared on TV with the ultimate product. A counter top grill - but one that’s slanted for less grease! Genius. Not only did all these companies get beat to the market, but they got beat to the market by George Foreman. A guy that has been pounded in the head thousands of time by angry, 300 lb. men. A guy that has taken beatings so bad that he had to name all 5 sons George so he wouldn’t forget.

Can’t you imagine overweight, former CEOs all over, who were doing fine until Georgey-boy came along. Now they’re in a basement somewhere, sweaty, tinkering with old, taken apart kitchen appliances.

So I’m counting on Martha Stewart or Ty Pennington to come up with an Anti-H.P.E. pillow. I would add NASA but they’re too busy taking over the foam mattress industry.

But anybody. Anybody! Please!! Come up with something.

I can’t watch anymore ProActive informercials! I can’t look at Daisy Fuentes doing Pilates anymore! Did you hear what I just said?!? And if I see John Basedow's man-boobs

one

more

time,

I'M GOING TO LOSE IT!!

And don’t you dare say anything about all the exclamation points, I haven’t had a good sleep in years!!!