Tag Archives: one of THOSE nights

Weird Week

I mentioned on Thursday that it had been a crazy week, and McD and Beaucha were both like, “Geez, yeah it has.” Funny, I thought: I know it’s been crazy for me individually, but apparently that was part of a larger, universal craziness. Like a crazy front moved in from the north and has been affecting everyone’s weather. Was it crazy for you, too?

I mean, it’s not like we’ve been running around dodging bullets and, like, corralling monkeys. It’s just that stuff has been a little out-of-the-ordinary, and even the ordinary stuff has been a little…off. Anyway, this was my six-day weather pattern:

Sunday: UFC 145 aftermath = lounging around the house all day. First hockey win in four months (in the final game of the season). Talked about religion and karaoke over a post-game Applebee’s steak. The Progeny cried, loudly and a lot. She knew it was going to be an off week.

(Right now, Lefty’s all, “Please. In that case, every week’s an off week.”)

Monday: First thing, the faucet hisses and goes silent. No water? Really? This is where we thank our lucky stars that I showered the night before. At work, a 350-word profile about biologic injections that target the specific inflammatory pathways affected by psoriasis. Uh…huh. Then boxing, a surprising second wind in time for a couple laps around the building, 30-rep sets of squats.

Tuesday: Headed east into the sun at 7:45, eerily quiet early morning LWR—which, frankly, looks like post-apocalyptic Stepford. The start of a five-hour pancake tour across Sarasota. FIVE HOURS, people. Like an alternate universe, stuck on a loop. Pancake after pancake after goddamn motherfucking pancake.

Station 400‘s blueberry and almond pancake with vanilla butter, lemon rind and berry syrup.

That evening, a marathon home inspection. No big reveals—salvageable roof, and we already knew the house is filled with little things that need to be replaced. No tip-of-the-iceberg problems like, “You think this light switch is bad, but actually the wall is about the fall over.” Or “That’s not actually water damage; you have hedgehogs.” By 8:30, still no dinner, brain filled with HVAC stats and sheet rock estimates. And beer. And pancakes.

Wednesday: Random interview with a speech pathologist regarding therapies for disphagia. Bite your tongue between your front teeth and swallow. Wayward, low-level anxiety. Five-man hockey clinic.

Oh, and in case you missed it, Boston lost.

Thursday: Still a wee bit of anxiety—free-floating, a phantom sense of doom, now mixed with residual glove stink. (Smells like…Monday?) Monotonous copy editing—in a cute outfit, I will say. (Also weird.)

Then some lady up and crosses two lanes of oncoming traffic to ram her E350 into Unconditional Surrender. Tell me that’s not the weirdest thing you’ve seen all week.

Thursday evening, kielbasa and 18 holes of Wii golf before meeting the Deelios at Evie’s for game 7. Ottowa lost. (This…is not weird.) Devils’ second-OT series-winner.

Overtime game sevens and Thursday nights with friends. Something magical. Something to remember.

And here we are on Friday:  The revelation that a former associate was arrested (in another state) for pulling a gun in a federal building.

OK, universe, I’m just going to go with your flow this week. (Actually, ladies, come to think of it, maybe the universe and I are synched up.)

Tonight, we head east to ride horses—CCB’s first ever equine adventure. Then Sammys and take-out barbecue around somebody else’s pool in the country, talking philosophy and TV with the ‘rents, looking up at the stars. Maybe we’ll ask the universe what’s up.

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IiiiiiIIIIt’s TIIIIIIIIIIIIME!

So we’ve decided we’d like to make our little UFC gathering on Saturday a bit more of an event. C’mon over, we’ve got a guaranteed tensome. There hasn’t been a fight in a while, first of all, and this one promises to be another satisfyingly bloody embarrassment for one of our favorite jerkoffs.

Secondly, it’s CJ’s birthday. Don’t make the kitten cry.

We’re thinking the standards–some beer, some booze, maybe some nachos? Something like that. Sound good? See you there? It’s going to be a Deelio-riffic Big J/Little J/Krazy K kind of group. You know you don’t want to miss that.

(Seriously: Jon Jones has almost a 10-inch reach advantage on Rashad Evans. This is going to be epic, as the kids say.)

Don’t forget your game card.

If you can’t come, you can still play along at home. Here’s how it works:

Drink a Four Loko. Then a beer. Fill out your sheet. Wait for the fights to start. (Drink another beer.)

Watch 135-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your first fight predictions. Watch 145-pound fighters whirling around the ring. Put a big red X through your second fight predictions. Pour a Jack and Coke. Explain to the cat the benefits of the butterfly guard.

Watch your third pick take a widdle nappy-nap on the canvas. Submit to the appropriateness of two-fisting while watching combat sports.

Rally shot? AWESOME idea.

Kitteh refuses to learn proper kimura technique. Bandage face. Add beer. To stop the swelling.

Watch fourth fight. Check your picks. Ponder why you picked “Round 8, minute 3r1rsosfjsmmmthhfhrss” in a three-round fight. Give yourself 10 bonus points. For being awesome.

Watch fifth fight. Ponder how the cat has more correct picks than you do. Edit your sheet to declare Joe “Rogaine” Rogan the loser in every fight. 10 more bonus points.

“Rogaine sucks!”

Develop a drinking game centered on Joe Rogan sucking. Develop a shot called “Joe Rogan Sucks.” Develop a plan for marketing your shot recipe until you’re interrupted by Joe Rogan sucking.

“Shots!!!”

Leave remote with cat; take a widdle nappy-nap.

Wake up to Animal Planet Late Night. Change channel back to Pay-Per-View. Scold cat. Order pizza.

Discover half-finished beer behind a book shelf. Go ahead and assume it’s yours.

Watch…wait, which fight is this?

Eat pizza off game sheet. Ponder why pizza has more correct picks than you do.

Ooh! Main event?! Yay!

Declare yourself the new Official Voice of the Octagon. “IiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIt’s TIIIIIIIIIIIME!!!!!”

Make yourself some hot tea with lemon. And honey. And…blue curacao?

Try to google Jon Jones’ tattoo. Fall asleep midway through typing “Phillillippippiansssss.”

Wake up to Mike Goldberg shouting “IT’S ALL OVER!” Assume he’s got a point there. Apologize to cat.

Blame Herb Dean for ending your night prematurely. Go to bed.

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Oh, Adulthood

It’s a helluva balance. I think my astoundment really kicked in on St. Patrick’s Day, one of those blissful, leisurely whirlwind nights out that started with limerick recitations and plastic pints of beer, wound through hat-wearing Chihuahuas and shiny beads, through Mr. Deelio lounging on couches at the bowling alley and me falling over the ball return, through Irish car bombs and fried ravioli. We went to Wal-Mart; people fell down and sat in the ice machine. (OK, that was the same person.) We bought cheese, frozen hashbrowns, bacon, sugar-free Canadian sparkling scarywater, a case of Bud Light and Manischewitz.

Who goes to Wal-Mart at midnight and buys pork products and Seder wine? Us. We do.

And then I awoke in the Deelios’ condo at 3 a.m. to CCB chuckling, “There’s a Deelio in my bed!”

Fair warning, a good host (who has earlier fallen down and then sat in a Wal-Mart ice machine) will sometimes unknowingly wander into his guest room in the middle of the night and catch some Zs betwixt his guests.

CCB: “Dude, seriously, you’re such a cock block.

MR. DEELIO: “What am I doing in here?!”

Y’see, from that you might think I was living a life of irreparable degradation. Except:

Not a week later, I find myself at a granite conference room table. Others there: three company presidents (“The Triumvirate,” I call them), associate publisher, executive editor, production manager and the owner of the company, seated across from me, asking about the nature of special advertising sections in relation to editorial content, paper weight, polybagging,  year-round distribution, designing a cover to accommodate a promotional sticker used for newsstand sales,  edit-to-ad ratios, and the like.

EXECUTIVE 1: “We can’t use their logo on advertising pages.”

EXECUTIVE 2: “We’ll use ours.”

1: “Do we have a logo for this section?”

2: “We’ll make one.”

[ART DIRECTOR sighs and scribbles a note on her pad.]

It was like a masters class in magazines; like my freshman year when I signed up for a 400-level course about Middle English literature—I mostly sat quietly and tried to soak in everything that I could understand, but even managed to contribute here in there. “This line from Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde obviously directly influenced Shakespeare’s version of the story.”

“We’ve presented that information in sidebar Q&A format in the past; by contract, the disclaimer copy is supplied by the company.”

Maybe it was because it was 10 a.m. on a Friday and I was on my third cup of coffee, but I felt this strange sense of professionalism, like I’d opened the wrong door and stumbled into an established career while I was looking for my Burger King orientation class. I was wearing flip-flops, for god’s sake.

And so it goes, I guess: Afternoon PJs and Wii golf; production meetings and proof corrections.

Take a shot of tequila to help the trivia team’s turnaround; schmooze a benefactor at my table for a nonprofit luncheon.

Lift up my skirt to show my coworker the puck bruise on my thigh; interview a cardiologist at 3:30.

They’re nominating a couple of my stories for statewide awards. Imagine that. On Saturday I could go to Hungry Howie’s, sweaty and grass-stained in my soccer uniform, and then on Monday win a trophy at my job.

If they only knew…

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