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Is This the ‘High Life’, Mommy?

Ah, yes. Behold, dear readers. Gaze upon the splendor that is my life. Come on, don’t be shy — there’s enough splendor for everyone. Gather ’round.

I’m currently sitting at my desk in the home office. It’s a few minutes after 11pm. I’ve been home for about a half an hour. My wife is in the guest room, still working away. The dog, as usual, is curled up on a blanket, sleeping.

While I’m writing this post, I’m finishing my dinner. It consists of takeout Chinese food leftovers from a couple of nights ago. To get my plate of food on my desk, I had to move the cereal bowl from which I ate last night’s dinner — at my desk, at just about the same time of night.

Really, can a visit from the folks at Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous be far behind? I can just see Robin Leach now, sweeping through our house with a camera crew:

‘And this opulent extravaganza is known as the ‘guest room’. Here, we see the lady of the manor, decked out in her ‘jammies’, with papers and folders strewn all around her on a bed fit for the heads of state of any impoverished Third World country. How does she keep up with it all?

Now, let’s move to the ‘office’, where the money really flies. This is where the deals are wrangled, the stakes are high, and bluffers are sent to the poor house. Or it’s where the bills are paid online, and Charlie spends his time playing video games and making up ridiculous scenarios like this one. Either way, it’s simply breathtaking!‘

Meh. And to top it off, I’m all sweaty, too, from playing volleyball. (Hey, at least I wasn’t at work all night — only until seven or so. My life’s not that crappy!)

Now I have to decide whether to really sink into the depths of squalitude and just hit the sack, all smelly and funky, or risk taking a shower while I’m so near exhaustion. Anything could happen in there at this point — I might slip and fall, or accidentally eat my washcloth, or have something unspeakable happen with the loofah. It’s a jungle in there, people. A steamy, hot, watery jungle. And I’m scared. Somebody hold me.

All right, I’m just kidding. Not about the ‘hold me’ thing — hey, no man is an island, right? — but about most of the other showery stuff. I almost never eat my washcloth, accidentally or otherwise, and we don’t even own a loofah.

(Though I wish we did, because that would lead to more Caddyshack quotes in the shower. And you can never have too many Caddyshack quotes in the shower, folks. Not if you’re the Cinderella Boy!

What? Nothing? Aw, come on — look, the golf course was called ‘Bushwood’, fer chrissakes. It’s practically begging to be recited in the bathroom. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you people have homes?!)

(Hee! There’s another one. Oh, the fricking fun we have.)

All right, what the hell was I talking about, anyway? Oh, the shower. Sure.

So, anyway, I was bluffing — there’s no way in hell my wife would let me near the bed with this kind of funky sweat stank. And she’s getting ready to hit the sack herself, so I’d better go lather up and get to it. And then it’s off to bed, and another full day of long, dreary meetings, punctuated by sleepy stints in my desk chair at work, staring at my monitor screen.

Oh, do try not to be jealous, won’t you? Not everyone can be on top. But if you eat your vegetables, and say your prayers every night, and never pick your nose or kick homeless people when nobody’s looking, or secretly think about what the people you’re talking to look like naked, then you too can… um, well, if you do all that, then I’m not really sure where you’ll end up, frankly. Probably locked in a tiny little room with an overzealous priest, I’m afraid. But if you do only one or two of those things, and blithely ignore the rest, then you might just wake up one day and find yourself with a glorious, glamorous life like mine. Live the dream, baby — live the dream. Adieu!

Fat, Manic, and Sober Is No Way to Go Through Life, Son

Well, howdy-do, nice people!

Man, I’m wired. I just got back from an impromptu-ish show at the On the Hill Tavern (pics and movies and such soon!), and for some reason, it’s got me all jazzed up.

It wasn’t a particularly great show or anything — there were only a few people watching, and the laughs weren’t what you’d call ‘riotous‘, or anything close.

(Unless you’re a Mormon, maybe, or Amish. Then it was probably downright hysterical, out-of-control, ‘haven’t laughed this hard since Maw slipped and sat on the butter churn’ funny. But I’m pretty sure nobody there was Amish. Or Mormon. Or particularly interested.)

Anyway, it was still a trip, and fun was had by all. And now, I’m inexplicably giddy. And not just any old sort of giddy. I’m talking ‘giddy like a schoolgirl who’s just discovered her budding breasts’ giddy. Now that’s goddamned giddy!

(You know, I’ve always wondered — or I just thought of it; whatever — why the universally accepted euphemism for boob growage is ‘budding’. When did that happen, and who voted for it, anyway?

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with breasts ‘budding’, per se — but can’t we have a little variety, now and again? Would it kill people to say that some girl’s tas are ‘hatching’, or ‘swelling’, or maybe even ‘rising like a pair of fluffery biscuits in the oven’?

Okay, never mind. Maybe that’s just inappropriate. And now I’m suddenly hungry for biscuits. Moving on.)

So. Where the hell was I, anyway? Ah, giddy. Yes, how could I forget?

Anyway, as I was just telling my wife, Wednesdays suck ass.

(And whatever you do, folks, don’t drop that last sentence on the floor and get the words all jumbled up. Just about any sentence besides that one that contains ‘I’, ‘my wife’, ‘suck’, and ‘ass’ is gonna get me in a lot of hot water. So fer chrissakes, be careful!)

The point is that Wednesdays are difficult for me, in my current situation. Nine am meeting in the morning. One pm meeting (that I have to cobble together agendas for) at one in the afternoon. Lunch, if I’m lucky, in between. The ‘real’ workday for me starts at about three, and therefore usually ends around eight, or later. Tonight I got out at nine. just in time to be a half-hour late to the comedy show. Eh. You’d think I could manage to be closer to ‘on time’ for something I wanted to do than I was for that hellish morning meeting.

But no, not on Wednesdays. Not this Wednesday, anyway. Thirty minutes late getting to work, thirty minutes late getting out. There’s a balance there, a harmony. I’m sure chakras are involved somehow or other. And I want to shoot myself. Wednesdays suck a big one. A big donkey one. I ain’t kidding around here, folks.

Add to that the fact that I’ve gotten little sleep the past three or four nights, between getting swamped at work and getting the new site up, and I should be droopy-droolin’ around here right now. Or better yet, snoozing away in the comfort of my own sheets. Lord knows I need the resticles.

And yet, here I am, not only blogging, but wide-awake and ready for action. (Okay, okay, so maybe not ‘boom-chicka-wanna-boom-bachicka-bawanna‘ action, but still — some kinda action.) And to top it all off, I’m almost entirely sober! I had a celebratory (read: ‘hey, they didn’t string me up with the microphone wire and flog me after my set‘) Guinness after the show, but that’s it. Apparently, I’m ‘high on life’. (And could that be any fucking dopier?)

Whatever it is, it’s got to wear off soon, right? After the sleepless night, hectic day, and stress of telling five minutes’ worth of bad jokes to ugly strangers (ooh, I’m a pissy bitch tonight!), the ‘crash’ has got to be coming soon. This manic mood will fade away fast, and leave me saggy, sullen, and slobbery. I can feel the first tugs on my eyelids right now, as a matter of fact. The transformation is beginning.

So, I think I’ll wrap up here, the better to actually be in the bed when I hit rock bottom and fall asleep. Here’s hoping your Wednesdays look better than mine, and may you feel the way I have tonight, except preferably for some semblance of a frigging reason.Nighty-night, compadres!