Well, I’ve just arrived home after a week of watching G’s cats. Towards the end, I allowed them to hang out in the bedroom, but not while I was sleeping, I still put them out of the bedroom at night (or “pretended to go to the kitchen”). I wouldn’t have let them in at all, but they kept pawing at the door, whether I was in there or not. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they had a secret stash of cat nip hidden in there somewhere.

I think one of them had finally caught on to my “I’m going to the kitchen,” trick. The moment I got up to go to the kitchen, either for pretend or for real, he’d run into the bedroom.

G is going to be really confused by the way his cats are acting when he gets back.

P.S. - Jen is referring to the awesome birthday cake she makes for me every year for the past few years. She always makes a great tasting cake, but her presentation skills need work. Sometimes it's lopsided, sometimes she forgets a not-so-crucial ingredient. This year, she tried to write "Happy Birthday!" on the cake with frosting. It came out so sloppy, I took one look at it and said, "Who's 'Hally Boofdong?'" My sister rocks.

Sorry I haven't updated this week, I'm watching G's cats again and other than work I've kind of taken the opportunity to be a total bum. I've just been watching movies and playing video games.

You know what's funny. Telling your friend you'll stay at his place and watch his cats, and then finding out on the first day that you're having an allergic reaction to his cats. Ha ha! That just tickles me. At least, I think that's why I keep scratching.

Last time I cat sat, I had a little bit of irritation, but for some reason this time my head exploded. I kid you not, I bent down to pet one of the cats and my head shattered into a million itchy, burning, runny pieces.

Since then I've been breaking out in itchy patches, I've had bloodshot eyes, and my nose has been running constantly. I'd be absolutely amazed if my co workers didn't suspect that I was hooked on blow.

I've done my best to avoid prolonged contact with the cats. I think that it may be damaging their self-esteem though, especially the black-haired one. She's a little ho, she needs attention. I've brushed them thoroughly, I've attacked all the furniture with a lint-brush, and I've forbid them from entering the bedroom (which is where I think they usually sleep. If you're reading this, G, I'm sorry if your cats are all confused now). This has made living here for the rest of the week bearable. It's also been pretty easy to avoid dealing with them when they come up to me begging to be petted or whatnot. I just stand up and say, "Well, I guess I'll go to the kitchen now," At which point they'll FLY out of the room and wait by their bowl. (I've been keeping the bowls filled with dry food, like G does, and I've given them wet food every day at about 6 pm, just like G does. As far as I know, it's been this way for years. Yet, if you even THINK of going to the kitchen, they expect more food. Typical cats). Once again, if you're reading this, G, I apologize if your cats are starved for attention when you get back. It was either that or shave them both, and I'm sure you would have been shocked to come home to find a couple of shaved pussies running around your apartment. I know I would.

Yesterday, since I was in the area, I called my old comedy buddy and asked if he had any room for an extra comedian at amateur night on Wednesday. Next thing I know, I'm up on stage and I did a pretty good set (of course, the only people in the audience that weren't comedians were my friends, so the laughing might have been a little rigged. I did have some great material though, so I think most of the laughs were genuine). I finally managed to get a decent recording this time, so when I get home I'll put it on the computer and upload it her for everyone to enjoy.

That's about it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to pretend to go to the kitchen.

Things are going good lately. I know that life is not much different than before I got the new car, but my mood has been good, and I’m doing my best to maintain that feeling. I wish I could bottle it up for life’s inevitable “downs,” that are always preceded and then followed by life’s “ups.” You know how it is, ups and downs, strikes and gutters. (So sayeth The Dude). All I know is that I feel good now, and I like it, so I’ll stick with it. However, that won’t stop me from complaining now and then (especially when I think I can get a laugh)…

My mother had a neighborly chat today with the people next door. They’re nice people.

After shooting the breeze for a while, she tactfully brought up the topic of their spastic barking hell-beast of a dog. She was just as upset as I was by his high pitched, constant, machine-gun-like barking episodes.

Our neighbors acknowledged the problem and apologized profusely. Like I said, they’re nice people.

They’ve been trying. Apparently, the dog in question wears a special collar designed to humanely treat dogs with excessive barking issues. As I’m told, the collar emits a small shock to the dog every time he barks. It seems like a fantastic idea to me; however, this has failed to teach him to stop barking.

Allow me to restate that. I think it bears repeating. HE IS BEING ELECTROCUTED EVERY TIME HE BARKS, AND YET HE CONTINUES TO BARK!! He is generating enough electricity to jump start a car, yet he refuses to shut the hell up.

Allow me to demonstrate what is apparently going on in this dog’s mind:

BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW! BARK!...OW!...BARK…OW!...

I’m a humane person. I care about the wellbeing of animals big and small. I’m pro-animal, I think they’re cool. But there can be exceptions.

One of my co-workers asked me to stay a few minutes late to help tidy up the office area for the big meeting tomorrow. I agreed without hesitation, but when he asked, “You don’t have to be anywhere, do you?” I said, “No, but I’ve been really anxious to clean all the ketchup off my car.”

The look on his face told me I had to explain.

Late last night, someone threw ketchup on my car. There were huge big gobby streaks along the driver’s side. I was not happy. I was beyond not happy. I was extremely not happy. I was the opposite of happy… I was… oh, what’s the friggin word?... MAD, I was MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD.

I couldn’t find an open car wash at that hour, and I was already running late for work, so I drove to work with ketchup streaks on my car.

I thought about it all day. The meek, slowly developing, “Positive,” function in my brain told me to relax. “Hey, at least they didn’t smash your window.” Or, “Don’t worry, maybe it was an accident.”

An accident?! How do you manage an accident like that!? Are you roller skating down the road with an order from Burger King at 3 AM? Do you mistake the car for a giant hot dog? No, strange whispering voice in my head, this was an attack on my car!

But I’m over it now. I brought the car home and washed it (you know, it’s really hard to be sure you’ve cleaned every last bit of ketchup off a red car) and that was that. Back to life as normal.

Be let me tell you, if I go out there tomorrow and there’s mustard on my car, I’m going to kill somebody.

I wish I could say I was a bit more sentimental about cleaning out the van for the last time. It wouldn’t have hurt to show my sensitive side and shed a tear or two for the van that’s been in my family for the better part of my life.

I did, in fact, feel sad, but then I thought back on the two and a half years I’d owned the thing; about the time the engine died 65 miles from home, the three times in one month when I brought it to the dealer to fix the same stalling problem, the $500 tune up last summer, the night all the break fluid leaked out, the time the tire fell off while I was driving it, the $900 break job last February, the $300 engine mounts that I didn’t need, the constant slow leaking of oil, the “Maint Req’d,” light that stayed on for two years, and the break down in the blizzard last Tuesday. At that point I turned to the mechanic and asked if he needed help, like, smashing the windows or anything.

Well, I got my new car AND my Looney Tunes DVD. Apparently I've had my cake and eaten it too.

I am not down. Not at the moment, anyway. Given how mercurial my mood has been, I know that can change at any time, but right now I feel as though things are going to be alright. I think it’s important to mention that. I know the people who care about me (which, judging by the comments, is everyone who reads this journal), would like to know that I’m OK. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating; I love all of you.

I was having dinner with my dad this evening after an afternoon of surprisingly hassle free car shopping. It turns out that our first offer was the best, and I’m returning tomorrow to pickup the Toyota Corolla that I put on hold. I won’t go into details, I’ve been writing too much lately, but it’s an extremely reliable car (according to my research in Consumer Reports) and only two years old. The price was in the upper range of what I was looking for, but, after several odd dealer discounts, the monthly payment was exactly what I predicted. Things are looking good.

Anyway, I was having dinner at TGIFridays and began to feel something weird… it might have been relief. It could also have been the large Raspberry Ice Tini I ordered. Regardless, I felt good. I proceeded to have the best chicken-shrimp sizzler plate IN THE HISTORY OF MANKIND, and then let out of sigh of contentment.

Letting go of the van may have been good for me.

Well, the debate about what I should ask for for my birthday ended at approximately 7:30 Tuesday night when my van broke down in the nastiest storm I’d seen in years. (I really liked your suggestion, Kate, I guess I'll just have to wait for next year. Maybe I can take an exotic vacation to VT sometime soon!)

I hadn’t decided right then and there that the van had crapped the bed for the last time. I decided just then to be patient.

I was fortunate in that I was close to home. After calling my dad to come help me out, I called a certain roadside assistance service to come and tow away the Crap-mobile. I was informed by the service person that I would receive an automated response telling me how long I’d have to wait before the tow truck showed up.

In the time it took my dad to show up, look at the engine, check a few belts, and then sit with me while I warmed up in the Honda, the “automatic response,” had not come.

He took me back home where I changed into warm clothes (I had just come from the gym. I guess that’ll teach me to work out when I don’t feel like it), and called the roadside service again. They told me that they had placed a call to the tow truck service and everything was all set. They were surprised that I hadn’t received the “automatic response.” I was too, I told them I expected the machine to call me automatically, thus the fucking name. They also told me that I had to wait with the van, which seemed obvious, but I asked anyway because it was a shitty night to go back out.

I bundled up, grabbed a magazine to read, and stepped back out into the freezing winds and quickly accumulating snow, which was piling up on top of thick ice, which had piled up on top of more snow. Visibility was next to nothing when the wind picked up and blew snow and ice into the air. The roads were becoming more treacherous and the plows were hours and hours away from clearing our streets. Personally, I didn’t mind driving in it, I consider myself a safe and experienced driver, and making my way through thickly piled snow makes me feel like I’m using my mad New England skills.

It took no time at all to return to the van. I parked the Honda on the side of the road, flipped on the meager interior light, and thumbed through the latest copy of Wizard (woo hoo! Geek!).

Back when I called to inquire about the “automatic forget-to-call-me system,” I was informed that would have to wait between 30 and 90 minutes for the tow truck. I shuddered at the thought of being stuck in the dead van all that time. I was lucky to have been so close to home… if you can call it luck.

In situations like this I really try to look on the bright side. I said to myself, “Well, I’m not dead.” Of course, when I said it, I thought I heard a voice outside, coming from the direction of the van, say, “Damn!”

Time came and went. I alternated between my magazine, the radio, and just sitting in silence. The ghostly glow of headlights occasionally passed by on the nearby main road. Once in a while one would turn onto the street on which I waited. I would get all excited and prepare to help the truck driver pickup my van, only to discover it was some moron fishtailing down the road in an SUV.

The time came again to call the roadside assistance service and let them know that their original time estimate was bullshit. I answered all the automated questions for the third time and finally spoke to a representative, who promptly put me on hold. While I was listening to a rousing muzak rendition of a Hootie and the Blowfish song, my connection was interrupted. I called again, answered all the questions again, and was transferred to the person I had been talking to, who put me on hold again. Bastard. He picked up before I could be cut off and told me that I was next on the list, and a truck would be there in the next 15 to 20 minutes.

15 to 20 minutes came and went. My phone rang. It was the automated service. I half expected it to tell me the tow truck would be there in 30 to 90 minutes; instead it told me that “Our records show that your vehicle has been towed. We would now like you to take our customer satisfaction survey.”

I looked out the window, and although it was a little difficult to see in the swirling snow, the van was, in fact, still dead on the side of the road in front of me.

I decided to hang up and call a real person, because the machine would never understand how I felt, no matter what creative, and sometimes foreign, words I yelled at it.

I called roadside assistance again. I answered the questions before they were finished asking, as I had memorized the sequence of numbers I had to press. I was transferred to Pam. Pam put me on hold while she checked on my claim. While I was on hold, the tow truck showed up.

Things were kind of a blur after that. The van was taken to the shop and I got the call the next morning telling me they would check it out. Later in the day I was told that a belt was broken, the coolant was leaking, and the converter was infested by magic gnomes from the land of Narnia; or something to that effect. All told, it was a $280 bill. I wasn’t devastated. Ever since I brought the van in to have the hood latch fixed and ended up with a $900 brake job, (see the earlier post about that) I don’t consider $280 to be all that bad.

My mom dropped me off at the service station and waited until I checked in and asked them if everything was fixed. They said yes and I gave mom the thumbs up, so she sped off to her meeting. I paid my ugly, but not mortifying, bill and got my keys.

I’ve already discussed the feelings I have about my van when I pick it up from the shop, so I won’t go into that again. What I will tell you, is that when I sat down, buckled up, and turned the key; the god damned thing wouldn’t start.

I went back into the shop with a smile on my face; well, more of a grimace of pain. They took the van back in and looked at it, not able to figure out what was wrong. The mechanic came out and told me that for some reason, the van would start on the third try, every time. I was given the option to leave it there another night, or try and drive it home. As my mom was at a meeting, and my dad was seeing tax clients, I had no choice but to drive it home.

I got in, turned the key, nothing. I turned the key again, nothing. I turned the key again, vroom! It started on the third try. Where the hell is the logic in that?! It’s a mini van, not a fucking lawnmower! How is it doing this?!

Long story short, I made it about a mile from the service station, and the van stalled twice. I made a u-turn and went back to the shop. I handed them the key and said, “Screw it, you keep it.”

I just want to give a special thanks to Chris for picking me up that night.

Anyway, I got the call yesterday that they did ANOTHER diagnostic and found pixie dust in my fuel system, or some such shit. The bill this time was $380.

That’s when it hit me. I was going to get a new car NOW. I had no money for a down payment, I had virtually nothing to trade in, I just started a temp job after being unemployed for two months, but I was getting a new car. On a modest payment plan, $380 was two months worth of new car. That van won’t get one more god damned dollar from me.

My parents have offered to skip the video games and movies on my list in lieu of a little financial support. I accepted, though I was looking forward to a weekend of Looney Tunes.

I guess I’m excited about getting a new car, but I’m not in the greatest position financially for it. I’d rather not be spending the money right now. However, I haven’t been in the greatest financial position for two years, otherwise I’d have a new car already. Maybe this was the last kick in the butt I finally needed to take the plunge.

Yes! This was a sign from the higher powers. They either wanted me to finally get a new car, or they’re trying to kill me. The more I think about it, the more I’m certain they want me dead, but damnit, if I’m going to die, I’m going to die in a sedan!

My father asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I put quite a bit of thought into it and came up with a very modest list. A little too modest, I think. I mean, it was stuff I wanted (Resident Evil 4, and the Looney Tunes Golden Collection Vol. 2. I may be aging, but I sure ain’t growing up), but it seemed to lack the far flung desires of a man who was being offered gifts just for being born. I wished I could ask for something more profound, but nothing came to mind. I’m not looking for any new furniture or appliances, I’ve got all the clothes I need, world peace isn’t really a valid birthday gift these days. The only thing that popped into my head was a mail order bride, but that’s such a crap shoot. Plus, I know how hard it is to fit those big Yugoslavian girls into those little UPS boxes.

Once again I’ve been denying updates to you, my adoring public ;-) Things have been going pretty quick lately and I haven’t been in the writing mood.

First of all, I want to say thank you to everyone for your responses to my post on 2/14/05. It means so much to me what all of you said. If you haven’t heard directly from me lately, I promise to get in touch with all of you. Like I said, I haven’t been in the writing mood.

Next, I finally landed a job. It’s temp now, but the company told me that the temp period is kind of a “trial period,” before a full time hire. It’s a little bit administrative, a little bit customer service, and a little bit graphic design. So far it’s great. I’ll give you more details in the future.

Also, I attended my first wedding this weekend. It went something like this:


I don’t pay much attention to the meanings of songs. That became readily apparent to me when the song request list was passed my way at the reception. I racked my brain trying to think of appropriate music for a wedding, preferably something a person could dance to. It was then that I realized I knew about 823 songs about breaking up, loneliness, smashing your ex's car, and lewd sexual acts. I couldn’t think of a single appropriate love song.

Overall the wedding was wonderful, though it had its high points and low points for me.

The ceremony was nice. It was a definitive Catholic ceremony, held in a beautiful old church with stained glass windows and high vaulted ceilings. I, for one, have no preference for religion, so the readings about God, Jesus, and friends during the proceedings failed to inspire me with a sense of love and joy. The ten or fifteen minutes of the roughly hour long ceremony that were actually about the couple was magical though. Frankly, I just don’t care about all the, “Love is the presence of God,” stuff. I’m sorry if I offend anyone, but I’m just saying how I felt.

And the Communion. Oh lord! I don’t think I’ve ever been part of a longer Communion. It was all: “Here’s this, bless this. Here’s that, bless that. Here’s these, bless these. Light this candle for this, this candle for that and that candle for this, and that candle for that. We stand up, we sit down, we stand up, we sit down. The priest sings, the vocalist sings, the priest chants, the vocalist sings. And THEN we get in line to receive. I didn’t go. I would have, just for the sake of the ceremony, but it had come to my attention that not everyone was going up, and I was more than happy to sit this one out. If anyone asked I would probably have said I was Jewish or something.

It was brought to my attention later that receiving Communion when you're not Catholic was a serious offense. I guess I have a few funerals to answer for.

They finally got to the good stuff, you know, the “Do you’s?” and “I do’s.” And that made me happy. They made a beautiful couple. I knew the bride more than the groom. The bride was one of the sweetest people I had ever met. The groom, though I had only met him two or three times, seemed like great guy. This goes against my generalization that a lot (not all) “boyfriends,” I see in the world always make me think, “What a slob, how did he ever get a girl like that?” This guy was, in fact, a nice guy. That's something weird I noticed about the wedding, I was surrounded by nice people; even the boyfriends. I didn't expect otherwise, but there was an honest sense of love and happiness among everyone. At a wedding, go figure.

But I didn't feel that way right off the bat. The reception started out rocky. Walking into cocktail hour, I knew NO ONE. The few people I knew at the wedding were in the wedding party, and they had other matters to attend to. I walked around the room, looking lost, like I had walked into the wrong party. Everyone was talking to everyone else, I was the only one shuffling about by myself. I made the usual acquaintances; “Jon, this is the wall. Wall, this is Jon. You two should hang out together.”

I got a little depressed at that point. I was in nerd hell. At a party full of people I didn’t know. It was my own personal barriers that kept me from edging into someone else's conversation, like normal people do, I guess. I stood in a corner, looking for someone else in desperate need of someone to talk to. I found no one.

Things got better at dinner. We were assigned to specific tables, making mingling with new people mandatory. That’s when I turned up my trademark Jonathan wit and sophistication (well, it's not really trademark, more like Patent Pending). Much to my utter and total shock and awe, it worked. I was talking to new people. I made a huge leap in social standing when I offered my jacket to a beautiful young lady sitting across from me, who had mentioned how cold the room was (it was FREEZING). Again, to my shock and awe, she accepted. Girls would usually suffer the harshest environmental conditions than do something like accept my jacket as sign of gentleman-ly-ness. Seriously, there are women who would rather do a Polar Dip than talk to me.

Conversation with everyone was light and fun, I generally enjoyed the evening.

In another move I’m generally not known for making, I also asked the girl with my jacket, we’ll call her “S,” if she would like the first dance with me. I was bringing my "A-Game" that night. She seemed TOTALLY caught off guard though. She paused thoughfully and then, again to my total shock and awe (there was a lot of that), said yes. We did a standard slow dance (the “World’s Easiest Dance,” thus no problem for me), and had a nice chat.

I was riding high for the rest of the evening. I was happy just to have overcome shyness for the night.

The food was gourmet. It was one of those dinners where they keep brining you course after course. I kind of hate those. I always get to the point, usually before the main meal even arrives, where I think, “Stop, don’t bring out any more, I’m trying to save room for dinner, damnit!”

The evening wore on. The music alternated between the slow dances (where I took the opportunity to dance with the bride and the few people I knew), faster, hip hoppy and rock dances (which I only tried at the end), and various silly wedding ceremonies.

The faster dances have always been my bane. I got up once in a while, mainly to dance with, or at least near “S,” and the other ladies I knew, but I was painfully aware that I have A) no rhythm, B) only two moves: the “Bend your knees to the beat,” and the, “Swing your arms from side to side.” It was during these dances that I was captured many times on film and video by the photographers and cameramen that seemed to be everywhere. I’m certain that there is now physical evidence of my awful dancing which will, I’m sure, come back to haunt me at a later date; probably on the internet, set to that "Mia Hoo," song.

The various wedding ceremonies went off with the usual fanfare. The throwing of the bouquet was a source of much excitement. Women scrambled and shoved to catch the bouquet which would ultimately end up being caught by an eight year old girl. I think as traditions go, this means we’re going to be waiting a loooooong time until the next wedding. The tossing of the garter was met with opposite enthusiasm. Men shied away from the garment with such determination that it actually hit a man in the chest, dropped to the ground in front of him, and he just stood there looking at it, hands in his pockets. It was a source of many laughs.

The last highlight worth mentioning was the “napkin game,” concocted by the DJ’s. It would ultimately determine who would go home with the centerpiece on each table. It was simply, pass the napkin around until the music stopped, and one holding the napkin at that point would be given a task. The first victim, the girl next to me, (let's call her "G") was told to find the person three seats to the right, and give them a hug. Pretty harmless. The second napkin holder was told to take the person two seats to the left, who happened to be "G," again, and dance around the table. The third victim was me. I was told to kiss the person directly across from me at the table. I looked across the table at “S.” Then I realized she was actually sitting more to my right. No, the person directly across from me at the table was Rob. Shit. It was the source of much laughter, which was good; I do love to make people laugh. We gave each other a dinky Parisian kiss on the cheek and sat down. The table was in stitches. Despite having to kiss a man, the laughter made it worthwhile. The final napkin victim was Rob’s date, and she was told to pick the next person to her right, of the opposite gender, and not a significant other, and have one slow dance.

Now wait one freaking minute here! She got to pick someone of the opposite gender?! Nothing against Rob, he’s a great kisser, but come on! I got screwed.

Anyway, the person she picked to dance was the one given the centerpiece at the end of the night.

Those are the highlights. Overall a pretty good time, despite some low spots. I enjoyed my interactions with "S," so I ended up giving her my e-mail address, despite the fact that I had never asked her if she was seeing anyone. I just decided to take a risk. I said, “If you ever find yourself in need of a dance partner, drop me a line. I enjoyed meeting you tonight.” In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have written my e-mail on the back of the wedding invitation. It just happened to be the only thing in my pocket I could write on. Only much later did I think it might have been a keepsake. I mean, my memories are all I need for special occasions like this, but I worried that “S” might think I’m not sentimental. Then I realized, in worrying about stupid shit like that, that I was back to my old self; the brave, charming Jon had had passed out drunk on the lawn.