Monday, December 12, 2011

The Top 6 Worst Offenses in Christmas Lyric Writing

There's nothing I love more than dwelling on the worst parts of each holiday. There's just something so festive about pointing out those holiday black sheep that don't seem to fit in with the warm/fuzzy parts. Sure, hot cocoa by the fire while grandpa reads Twas the Night Before Christmas is idyllic and classic, but grandma getting run over by a reindeer is just so much more realistic. This year I've realized that there are actually a bunch of messed up Christmas songs out there, and I'm not even talking about really obscure songs like Uncle Johnny's Glass Eye. I all but guarantee you've heard the following horrifying song lyrics before.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus:



Wednesday, May 18, 2011

How Even I Couldn't Ruin The Proposal

No, I'm not talking about the vehicle through which Betty White revitalized her career. I'm talking about the event that turned this guy into my fian-SAY. The Proposal actually took place almost 2 months ago, but it took me this long to wrap my mind around the glorious flurry of emotions. Which is to say, I was too lazy to write. And I’ve had writer’s block since February 8th, apparently.

Here’s how that shiz went down. I drove up to Milwaukee—the land of beer, cheese, and the bronze Fonz—to visit by boyf one weekend, like I often do. We were planning on taking a mini trip up to Cedarburg—the land of wool, old people, and more wool—the next day.


As I was getting ready to go to sleep Friday night at around 11 PM (what can I say—I’m old. I’m practically a dad), the boyf announced that he’d be waking me up early in the morning.

“Exactly how early?” I questioned. I’m a details person and, let’s face it, the wool could wait. He told me 5 AM.

“What?!” as if I didn’t realize the world even existed at such an ungodly hour. Then he told me he’d made surprise breakfast reservations for us, so we had to get there on time.

“Food! Well, okay then.” And just like that, he was able to convince me to get up at 5 AM. Easy as pie—and it damn well better be a la mode.

The next morning as we were driving to “Cedarburg,” he popped in a mixed CD he’d made for the occasion. Love song after love song after meaningful song after beautiful ballad played, and I sang along loudly and annoyingly, the prospect of food on the very near horizon keeping my spirits high.

When he got off the highway downtown and pulled into a parking lot near the lake, I got confused. “What’s this? This isn’t Cedarburg. Where’s the restaurant? Why’d you bring mini muffins in the car?” (To be honest, I still don’t know why he brought mini muffins. This has plagued me for the past 2 months.)


He told me we were going to watch the sunrise. This was my REAL surprise. I have to admit, I was slightly disappointed to not be going to breakfast, but then I realized that no self-respecting restaurant would be open before the sun was up anyway. I had to admit defeat—I’d been duped. Watching the sunrise sounded beautiful and wonderful and romantic, and it was something I’d been wanting to do for a while, but I was never able to drag my lazy rear out of bed in time.

“Great!” I said. “We’ve got a great view from here too.” But he informed me that we’d be watching it up close, from outside the car. Might I add that it was March in Milwaukee, by the lake, and it was indeed snowing?

This is what the Milwaukee lakefront sunrise would have looked like if it hadn't been SNOWING.

After hemming and hawing and forcing him to get the itchy-scratchy emergency blanket from his trunk, I agreed to walk to the shore with him. The 100 feet we walked was the coldest walk of my life (not true at all, actually), and the whole time I kept begging him to let us watch the majesty of the friggin sunrise from the warmth of his car.

“Boyf, I realize how romantic and wonderful this gesture is, so can we just watch from the car and I’ll still give you boyfriend points for the effort?” I begged. He insisted that we just stand there for a little while. Then he started saying nice things to me—things I can’t repeat here because they made my insides melt and my knees shake and my eyes water, and that would make me lose all my street cred—and before I knew it, he was down on one knee and there was some bling on my finger. I interrupted him, as usual, to say yes, and followed that up with “can we go back to the car now?”

When we got back to the car, my fian-SAY and I watched the sun come up and immediately disappear behind some clouds, while the veritable blizzard raged all around us. And we ate mini muffins.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Top 5 Things To Love About Guilty Pleasures

I sat down on the couch just now with a laptop in one hand, a remote control in the other, and a glass of Carlo Rossi dangling precariously from my teef. Basically, it’s my ideal night. I scrolled through the DVR in search of a Carlo Rossi worthy show, and realized I didn’t have anything recorded that I would feel comfortable admitting to watching. Every show I watch has to meet 3 criteria: it must be a reality show, the stars of the show must have significantly worse lives than me, and every character must be impossibly unlikable.

Right now, I’m watching a woman with an unidentifiable, vaguely East coast accent yell at her lipless hoe-bag daughter for being too hung over to care for her child. Teen Mom just reminds me of all of the opportunities for motherhood that I squandered when I was a teen.

So why is it that I waste my life away watching the most unfortunate people in America get rich off their inadequacies? Why are guilty pleasures so alluring? And why am incapable of enjoying a TV show that has any sort of cinematic integrity? Why am I asking so many rhetorical questions?

Top 5 Things To Love About Guilty Pleasures

  1. I spend all day thinking—what should I wear to work, when should I eat my morning granola bar, boxers or briefs—so it’s nice to shut the ol’ gray matter down for the evening. (Even with my brain on snooze, I’m still smarter than the unitards gallivanting across the boob tube anyway.)

  2. The way I see it, there are 3 types of people in the world: those who can’t stand crappy television, music, food, etc., those who watch and enjoy guilty pleasures “ironically,” and those who are too dumb to know the meaning of “ironically” and are vying for a spot on next season’s “So You Think You Can Talk with a Southern Accent.” Two of these 3 types of people are miserable, so I choose the group that is content. Unfortunately, that means I must do things “ironically.”


  3. Observing Snooki’s oddly misshapen weeble bod writhe across a beer-soaked dance floor makes me feel so much better about myself. Listening to the incomprehensible mumbling of the hillbilly baby daddies on 16 and Pregnant, watching the girls on Bridalplasty fight for boob jobs, and seeing which high-heeled hoe gets a rose just makes my life look like the bomb.com.


  4. Reality show producers are somehow even more genius than legitimate television executives, because they find a way to make anything interesting, even people fighting over abandoned storage units. And who would have thought I’d enjoy watching some sweaty guy gorge himself on brisket?


  5. It seems so wrong, but it feels so right.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

How I Know I'm Becoming an A-dult

This week I realized I’m an adult. That’s pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable, in order to make it sound even more mature. Although I was told by approximately 3 relatives at my bro’s wedding this weekend that I look like a 12-year-old, I am suddenly being treated as a full-grown a-dult. Don’t believe me? Read on.

Someone asked me how my day was today and I literally said, “ugh, the traffic was terrible.” Now that I don’t have important things to worry about like what to wear to the dance and how I’m going to sleep my way to an A in Bio, I find myself complaining about the menial drudgery of the bourgeoisie, which is to say, traffic. Also gas prices and the increase in income tax (seriously what’s up with that?)


This is child's play compared to my commute.

A friend told me she’d gone to bed at 9:00 a few nights ago and I was insanely jealous. Like, jealous enough to stay up all night thinking about how lucky she was. I tried to get to bed earlier the next night, but I somehow got distracted doing such responsible chores as flossing my teef, making my lunch for the next day, and organizing my cozy sock collection.



Here's a little cozy sock pr0n for your private enjoyment.

I’m going on a business trip in a few weeks, which includes a company dinner, expense reports, business cards, and “networking.” I was told to dress appropriately and wear comfortable shoes, and when mentally packing my suitcase, I realized that everything I own is both appropriate and, yes, even comfortable now.

After I get home from work every night, all I want to do is kick the cat, light up my pipe, and tell my wife to call me daddy. Unfortunately, I have neither a cat nor a pipe nor a wife, and dinner just doesn’t make itself. I rinse my dishes before they go into the dishwasher and I like it. I’ve even accepted the fact that nothing thrills me or satisfies me more than watching food remnants get washed from a plate.


Here's some more domestic pr0n for you. You're welcome.

I’ve taken up scrapbooking and sewing. I have yet to make a tea cozy or use the phrase “it’s your day” in a scrapbook layout, but I have stooped low enough to call it a “layout,” and I have contemplated making a tea cozy. The only thing that’s stopping me is the fact that I don’t drink tea (yet). Perhaps I should start since I’m an a-dult now.


Don't you wish I'd made a birthday card for you? It is your day, after all.

I’m watching the news right now. Tom Skilling is babbling about cold fronts and wind chills, and all I can think about is how it’ll affect my commute (see bullet 1).


Speaking of things that a-dults ingest, who would have thought I’d drink coffee and wine, and eat sushi and even, dare I admit it, feta cheese? I actually care about trans fats and hypertension and juice from a bottle instead of a box. I’ve yet to try wine from a box, but I fear my venture into adulthood will prohibit this. I really missed the Franzia boat, unfortunately.


Not pictured: adults

There was an after party after my bro’s wedding this weekend, and I had to be figuratively dragged there. The call of my warm, cozy bed was so tempting. I managed to spend a sober hour at the after party, grimacing superiorly at all of the drunkies, before succumbing to the sweet slumber of middle age back at the hotel. Speaking of sweet slumber, my cozy sock collection is calling out to me.