Every once in a while, when I’m going through my to-do items at home, I’ll come across the sticky note I wrote a while back that says, “What am I doing with my life?”

I haven’t been able to answer that question, so the note goes back to the bottom of the pile, below the gas bill and the newspaper clippings of singles events.

My bathroom sink blew up in my face.

It’s blown up before, but not while I was home, much less looking at it saying to myself, “What’s that noise?”

BLORP!

That’s the noise it made. B-L-O-R-P. All capitals.

Before today, I didn’t know why, once every few months, I would come home to find dingy water stains and bits of mildew all around the sink, and the drain stopper rolling around on the counter or the floor. To finally answer this divine mystery, God sent the plumber with his compressed air gun to the neighbor’s apartment while I was getting ready for work on Tuesday morning.

I forget exactly what I was doing looking at the bathroom mirror; I may have been brushing my teeth, checking for stray facial hair, or generally just admiring my bad self. Then there was a brief gurgle from the drain, followed immediately by a full scale BLORP of stagnant water, bits of hair, and drain mold.

Apparently the plumber didn’t hear me scream like a little girl through the walls, because he fired two more shots of compressed air into the pipes, shooting out more water and even blowing out the drain cover in the shower. (Note: I didn’t scream like a little girl. It was more of an “AAAA!” than an “EEEEE!”)

I stepped back and sat down on the toilet seat, then, thinking better of it, stood right back up in fear. I was wet and covered in flecks of grime. I took some consolation in knowing that while our sinks and showers drain from the same pipe, the toilet is on a completely different pipe. Thus, whatever came out of that drain was mostly pipe grunge and not, you know, people grunge.

In a way, I felt like it was my fault. I wanted so badly to know why it looked like our sink blew up every few months. This was the punishment I got for questioning the power of plumbing. Still, who the hell connects pipes like this?

SPLOOSH!

My roommate’s cat is trying to eat me.

I think it’s the soap I use. I got out of the shower a little while ago, and now she’s sitting on my lap, as she does from time to time. She seems pretty content, but every time I try to pet her she goes into a sniffing and licking frenzy. Even when I’m not petting her, but typing, I look away for one second and I feel that freaky cat tongue on my elbow. She took a little nip at my finger, not biting, but tasting.

I’m beginning to wonder for my safety. She is, after all, a very fat cat.

If I suddenly go missing, check the litter box for my watch.

Man, my life is exciting.

Exercise blows. It’s one of the few things that only gets better after you keep doing it.

Beer giving you a headache the next morning? Drink more, the hangovers will go away!

Donuts making you fat? Keep eating; your body will eventually absorb them!

No. The things that are bad for you start out great, but go wrong eventually. The things that are good for you suck at first, but pay off in the long run (Allegedly. Let’s just say I’ve never reached the physical fitness finish line).

I can’t discuss my own physical inadequacies with anyone because their answer is always the same, “It’ll get better the more you do it.”

What the hell kind of solution is that? That’s ass-backwards. I don’t like getting punched in the face either, but does that mean if someone keeps doing it I’ll develop an immunity to fists?

It’s boring too. I can’t seem to multi-task in my head as I exercise. Even if I listen to music, all I can think about is, “This sucks. It’s boring and exhausting. It doesn’t make me feel any better. Wow, check out the junk in that girl’s trunk! Sigh, I’m pathetic.”

I should consider taking up something more engaging like rock climbing or running away from bears; something where you don’t really have an option to give up. That’d whip me into shape. As it is, I get two sets done on the chest press and I’m thinking, “This sucks, I’m going home.”

I guess you have to ask yourself what your ultimate goal is. You have to keep reminding yourself what you’re working for, because frankly, I’m not doing this for kicks. My goal? That girl on the treadmill in front of me. I figure if I just crank this thing up faster and faster, I’ll eventually catch up to her, maybe ask for her number.

Do you nullify the health benefits of yogurt when you pour bits of candy into it? I’m talking about “Yo Crunch” yogurts which come with bits of Nestle Crunch or M&Ms in the lid. Sure, you might think you have the option not the pour the candy in, but I dare you to buy this stuff and then deny the urge to mix the two.

So does the candy cancel out the yogurt in terms of nutrition? Are you any better off from eating the yogurt, or does the candy contribute enough fat and sugar to render the digestive enzymes and bits of fruit useless? Does a caramel apple a day still keep the doctor away?

DinnerDate4Eight has closed its doors. I don’t know how I feel about that.

Well, of course I feel bad for them. It was a great concept that, I guess, never got the volume of people it needed to be truly successful.

But, if there were five people in the world that could have told you this company was floundering, it would be the five of us who actually attended a dinner.

It’s a shame that I won’t be able to give it a second shot for free, like they offered me. I really wanted to test my DineAndDash4One plan.

I went to rent a mediocre horror movie tonight and I accidentally rented an awful horror movie. This could only happen at Blockbuster.

I wanted to rent “Venom.” And that is what I thought I did, until I got home and realized I had picked up the box for “7 Mummies.”

I was disappointed. I uttered some discouraging words.

I had picked up the box behind the display copy of “Venom.” It was my own fault that I didn’t think to read the box, making sure that it was the same movie. I simply assumed that the world wasn’t out the get me. But, it was.

It wasn’t the store’s fault; they couldn’t possibly keep track of that kind of thing at all times. The only other person blame would be the jackass who put it there, deciding at the last minute that they wanted to rent “Venom” instead of “7 Mummies,” but didn’t feel like making the trip again from “V” to “7.”

So basically, I’m stuck with it. It’s already late, and I can’t return it because I have no proof that “7 Mummies,” isn’t what I wanted, other than the fact that it’s a piece of shit.

Allow me to elaborate. I knew almost nothing about “7 Mummies,” besides the fact that it was direct-to-video and even the “blazing” and “exciting” marketing copy on the back of the box couldn’t cover up the underlying stench of failure in filmmaking. But that was several trips ago. “7 Mummies” has been sitting in the New Release section for weeks, perhaps in the hopes that someone might rent it based solely on the fact that it was new.

I decided to pop the disc in and see if there were any trailers for it; you know, find out if it might be worth watching in a “diamond in the rough,” kind of way. Lo and behold, there was a trailer. It sucked, but it hinted that there might be titties in the movie. I was still undecided. I consulted the internet.

While “Venom” is supposed to be a low budget horror film with mixed reviews, “7 Mummies” is a low budget horror film with universally bad reviews. The average user rating on the Internet Movie Database is 1.8 out of 10 which, even for a schlocky horror film, is scraping the bottom of the barrel. It was somehow disqualified from the bottom 250, which is a shame, because if it was on there, it would tie “Troll 2” for lowest rated movie in the entire database.

So now it sits on my shelf, looking unappealing and dangerous, like a radioactive turd. I’ll return it tomorrow knowing that even though I paid to rent it, I didn’t even want to watch it. Damn.

I got this e-mail from the big V today:

Dear Valued DSL Online Customer,

Effective August 14, 2006, V___ Online will stop charging the FUSF (Federal Universal Service Fund) recovery fee. For customers of V___ Online, the fee eliminated is $2.83 a month.

Starting August 26, 2006, V___ Online will begin charging a Supplier Surcharge for all DSL customers. This surcharge is not a government imposed fee or a tax; however, it is intended to help offset costs we incur from our network supplier in providing V___ Online DSL service. The Supplier Surcharge will be set at $2.70 per month for customers with DSL service.

I think I might have been better off not knowing this.

At some point I might have wondered where the thirteen cents had gone from my bill; but I wouldn’t have known the about the asinine things going on behind the scenes.

I might not have even questioned it if they just inexplicably showed up at my door one day and threw a dime and three pennies at my head. Sure, I would have been confused, but I wouldn’t have felt what I felt after I read this letter, which was, “OK, now they’re just fucking with me.”

I discovered a kind of charming local quirk today. Apparently the person who donated the land for Greely Park to the city of Nashua stipulated that no money could be exchanged on the grounds. At the “Art in the Park” event today, I discovered that in order to buy a set of postcards from an artist, we had to walk down to the sidewalk to make the transaction. I thought that was funny.

So anyway, DinnerDate4Eight was kind of a bust. I haven’t written it off as a total bust yet, but it could still happen. So there is a bust involved, but the size of said bust has yet to be determined.

Let’s start with a little math, shall we?
5 = the number of months I had to wait for this dinner.
5 = the number of people who attended this dinner.
DinnerDate4Eight = a total fucking misnomer.

I’m doing my best to be nice about it because the people (person?) who represent (own?) DinnerDate4Eight have been kind in their correspondences and, faced with truthful criticism, have offered me a second dinner date for (possibly up to) 8 at no charge.

But round one went like this: I got the e-mail stating that a dinner was going to happen. I didn’t jump for joy. I didn’t give a sigh of relief. Frankly, I didn’t believe them. I was beginning to think they were just fucking with me. But, I responded right away with a resounding, “Sure, whatever.”

They got back to me quickly with all the information this time. We would meet on Monday evening. Tapas was on the menu. I was feeling- wait, what the hell’s “tapas?”

Wikipedia (“Where Our Facts Might Be True”): Tapas is actually of Spanish origin, really just the way food is served; small portions so one can eat light, mix and match, or try different dishes.

Well, I get all dolled up and head on down to a place right off Main Street which I won’t mention because I don’t have many nice things to say. It was classy and clean, modern and gourmet. However, it was pricey and the wait staff didn’t seem to have the whole “Bring people food,” routine down.

I was the first to arrive, giving me a chance to meet with the DinnerDate4Eight representative who was waiting there to introduce us all to each other. Conversation with the rep was light and introductory; I danced around the topic of the 5 month wait, hinting gingerly that I was displeased, but otherwise glad to be there now. It was kind of a tough topic to approach politely, “I’ve been waiting five months, you jerk! This ‘tapas’ shit better be awesome!”

The other attendees trickled in, first one, then two more, then one more, then… then… that was it. We were eventually seated at a table set for six. Missing was the sixth guest, “Heather.” “Heather,” was a “person” who apparently responded to the email, but disappeared on the night of the dinner. I have my doubts that “Heather,” was for real. But, I’ll keep my conspiracy theories to myself for now.

So there we were, three men, two women, having a dinner date for eight. Food was brought to each of us one plate at a time, as it was ready, for some reason. By the time the last person got their food, the first person’s dish was cold. The dishes were tasty, but appetizer-sized, which was both good and bad because (good) I only wanted to eat light, and it did give us an opportunity to share, although no one did, but (bad) because each dish was the price of a full meal and also (good/bad) it all gave me indigestion later, so I’m glad I didn’t eat more.

The conversation bounced around a multitude of topics. Throughout the evening we discussed careers, hobbies, books, and politics (which is where I spaced out and started feeling gassy). I don’t know that any of us made a “connection,” in the personal sense, but I think we all viewed this for what it was: an introduction and an excuse to get out and just do something.

I’ll admit I was quite smitten by one (of the two) of our female guests. When one of the male guest left early (claiming stomach trouble, but likely not happy with the outcome of this whole thing, can’t blame him), I wondered if I might be paying more attention to me, or if it was just a lack of options.

When we four had felt the evening was winding to a close, we made our way out of the now empty restaurant. Someone had suggested that we all exchange numbers; the dinner had been pleasant enough that it might be worthwhile to gather together again sometime without the signup fee and the five month wait. I began searching my pockets for paper and a writing implement. I didn’t care if I had to write in blood, SOMEONE was leaving here with my number tonight. The most efficient route was chosen; we gave our contact information to one person who promised to e-mail the info to each of us first thing the next morning (note from future self: that person lied).

Any number of circumstances could have led to that person not e-mailing everyone’s contact information to me. Perhaps they forgot, or they lost the paper, or maybe after we went our separate ways the other two people caught up with that person and said, “Can you do me a favor and don’t give that information to Jon?” Anything can happen.

So that’s it. DinnerDate4Five. ExpensiveMeal4One. PhoneNumbersFromEverybody. NoNumbersForJon.

Personally, I think it’s pretty funny.

My trip to Water Country was kind of a blur; literally, because I decided to leave my glasses with my bag. But also, the whole thing was also kind of surreal too.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Several weeks ago, a female friend of mine, who is, unfortunately, just a friend, invited me to join her and a group of her friends at Water Country. I hadn’t been there since I was a wee lad, so I eagerly accepted. However, as the day drew near, I began to feel very self conscious about what I looked like without a shirt. Frankly, it was scary. I was both white as a sheet and, though it may be hard to believe if you know me, slightly pudgy in the middle. I looked like Mr. Peanut, dipped in white-out.

I tried to fit solutions for both problems into my daily routine. Almost every morning from the time I was invited until the final day I did one or more sit-ups. My lack of resolve in exercise was matched only by my dire fear of taking my shirt off in public. I did not manage to get a tan by laying in the patch of sun that came through my window only between the hours of 9:00AM and 10:30AM on weekends.

So the day came and I had not managed to shed a single love handle or gain more than a slight tan on my left arm from driving (which, of course, was only between my sleeve and my wrist, where it formed a nice tan line in the shape of my watch).

I reluctantly packed my sunblock, towel, and Lactaid pills, along with directions to the park which I had printed from the website (which was kind of funny; the last time I was at Water Country, the internet hadn’t been invented yet).

This led to my other lingering question going in: what would I do with my glasses? The website said that I could buy a glasses strap at the gift shop, so that I might wear my spectacles on any ride. Now, I didn’t know who else was going to be there, but I was concerned enough about looking like a dork in front of my lovely female friend that I knew I was going to be going blind that day.

But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I arrived and met my friend at the group entrance, and then met her friends. Collectively, they were America AuPair; a lovely collection of young women from across the globe who had volunteered to work with children in America so that they may learn more about this strange and exotic country. They were beautiful, fit, tanned girls from Thailand, Korea, Brazil, and many other countries throughout the world.

I didn’t know if it was happiness, or the fear of taking my shirt off in front of these girls, but I damn near crapped myself.

I was one of two men among the nine or so women. I’ve worked with odds like that before and always managed to crap out, so I didn’t assume there was anything was in my favor. The other man there was named, Robert, I think; the boyfriend of one of the slender European girls. Robert was tanned and ripped. He made me look like toothpick. Aside from that though, he was a nice guy.

We put our valuables in a single group locker and picked a spot by the main pool to leave our towels and shirts and whatnot. The rest of the group stripped down to bikinis and I was doing my best not to freak out for a number of reasons. It was the moment of truth. I hesitated before stripping down to my swim trunks, busy formulating white-boy jokes about myself that I could use once I was exposed.

I sucked in my stomach and disrobed. There wasn’t a scene. At first I broke the ice with a few zingers like, “If you get lost, just look for the bright white light, that’ll be me.” I think that let people know that I was aware of my shortcomings. They now knew I had a good sense of humor about it, and they didn’t have to look away like I was missing chunks of my torso from a bear attack or something. There was the occasional “Damn!” or, “I really hope you’ve got sunblock,” but at that point it was all in good fun.

And I did indeed have sunblock. Every year I manage to forget what SPF value I should get. Because I burn so easily, I decided to err on the side of safety this year and get a high number. I forget the exact value, but I think it was just below Kevlar on the sun-blocking chart. I don’t remember ever being very tan, but I do remember being very burned, so I applied it as liberally as I could.

I also made the difficult decision to leave my glasses with my bag. This gave everything a Gaussian blur that intensified a little bit with distance, but never so bad that I couldn’t make out color and movement in the distance. This was a little disappointing because looking at my AuPairs was more difficult without the glasses. It was as if I was watching a swimsuit special in high definition, then switching over to regular tube TV with cheese cloth over it. Furthermore, I became less adept at interpreting signals. How would I know of a girl was making flirty eyes at me, or if she was just trying to figure out where that blinding white glare was coming from?

Our first stop as a group was the slide I could remember refusing to go on as a child; Geronimo. I could have easily passed on it this time. Of our group, only three of us chose to try it, including myself. But, I was interested in conquering some old demons, so I thought I’d give it a shot. I didn’t share this information with anyone. I was doing this for me… and to look manly.

For those of you who don’t know Water Country, Geronimo is one of those slides where you drop almost straight down before gradually leveling off and stopping in a trough. If you have the opportunity to try one of the slides, pass.

The line for Geronimo was short. Too short. I had second thoughts about the whole thing before I even reached the top of the stairs. “I bet this’ll be the shortest line all day.” I mused aloud to break the tension that probably only I was feeling.

At the top of Geronimo they lay you down and instruct you to cross your legs and cross your arms across your chest (probably so they don’t have to pose you for the funeral after you die on this slide). Once the person who went before you has left (or been carried from) the trough, they push you forward like a curling stone and you pray to whatever God you think might keep you pressed against that slide. I had my eyes closed, which may have killed some of the thrill, but was fortunate because once you level off, you get gallons of water pumped forcefully into your face. It was like water skiing with my ass cheeks. I stopped at the bottom with no injuries, but about 16 fl oz of water up my nose.

I stumbled out of the trough thinking about being a little boy, being deathly afraid of this ride called Geronimo. You know what. I was right. That sucked. Who the fuck invented that thing?

We made the circuit of slides and attractions throughout the day. Everyone in the group was so nice and pleasant and attractive. I was totally out of my element. I made pleasant conversation where I could, but I don’t know if I made any lasting friendships. Perhaps it’s lack of self confidence that kept me from being more outgoing.

The weather was ideal and the sun was always out. This was fortunate because we spent a lot of time in waiting lines. It’s hard to say how long we spent in the average line, but one of the newest attractions had one of those, “The wait is about 60 minutes from here,” signs which, frankly, I would be better off not knowing. The rides, though very fun, each only lasted about 15 to 30 seconds, which is really absurd when you think about it. I suppose we made the best of our waiting time, just chatting and tanning (or, in my case, burning).

We had reached the wave pool towards the end of our trip. I personally never saw the appeal in it, but everyone in the group wanted to go. In fact, everyone in the park wanted to go. The wave pool was packed to capacity. Giant waves of people obscured the water underneath. We did our best to get into deep water, but past the 4 feet mark, I felt like I was playing bumper cars with my head. “Here comes a wave! Oof!” inner tube, “Oop!” small child, “Ouch” another inner tube, “Oy!” a fat woman.

At the end of the day we gathered our stuff, said our friendly goodbyes, and went our different ways. I had not tanned, although I was showing redness on my shoulders. True to form, by the time I got home and took a shower, the redness was more apparent in the places I had missed putting sunblock; obscure and exotic places like the sides of my feet, the small of my back, and the backs of my fingers.

If this was the kind of story that had a moral, it would be this: Be confident. You never know when you’re going to be one of only two guys at a waterpark with a group of foreign women.