Um...

Ever have a good story, ready to go, and then suddenly you find that the person you about to scathingingly lambast in your post has a birthday on the exact same day you wanted to write about that person? And then, for some strange fucking reason, you decide shortly after writing the post about that person that you're going to "get a conscience" and "feel guilty" and "turn into a pussy" all because you decided to make fun of the size of that person's love muscle? And then, after you've penned this perfectly awesome piece about how this person wronged you in so many, many ways, you suddenly find yourself without a topic and all your opining and bad-mouthing and verbal crucification is suddenly...gone?

Well, that's what today is like for me, friends.

I was going to tell you the story of my friend, Billy*, and how he wronged me on several occasions and, because I am just like a pair of arms that offer hugs and warm feelings and all that shit, I let him walk all over me. But, it's his birthday, and since birthdays are special and made of things like rainbows and fairy dust and Baby Jesus farts, I'm not going to tell you any of those things about Billy*.

Oh, sure, I could tell you about how Hilary Lightfoot** was snatched from the pedestal I set her upon by Billy's* tainted hands, but I won't. Not today.

No, today, I'm supposed to set aside evil, vile memories of the past, to release some of the bitterness, to just let it go... I need to not think about how Billy* went to Purdue and would always speak to me in Spanish or how I nearly died once in his driveway or any of a thousand other interactions that I had with Billy*. I will, however, interject at this point:

"My fucking name isn't Matteo! Stop fucking calling me that!"

Damn, that was cathartic.

I will tell you a good story about Billy*. Mostly because I end up getting hurt. But helps me in the end.

Billy* and I went to the same church camp. We went to different churches, but we went to the same church camp.

As an aside...despite what Amber might tell you...church camp is awesome. Mostly because the ladies, they swoon for you if you tell them that you love Jesus. And since I do love Jesus, they swooned, and they let me do stuff like refer to them as "Yummy Britches" and "You, the Hot One in the Pink Shorts!" and hold their feet while they do sit-ups all the while I was staring down the legs of their baggy shorts and looking at their underwear. Church camp wood rules. I LOVE JESUS!!!

Anyway, I was with my girlfriend (my church camp girlfriend...discuss amongst yourselves as to whether she was a real girlfriend or not) Rebecca*** one night on the pier at church camp. Now, Billy* and I had the stupid idea to hit tennis balls into the lake and swim out and get them. Kind of like Kramer and the golf balls, but on a much more sophomoric and Midwestern scale.

Billy* and I decided that we would rather NOT swim into the deeper water to retrieve the tennis balls, so we turned around and started smacking them toward the shore instead. This way we could swim up, get them, and if we were tired, we could wade to shore and rest, or stand there and rest or whatever.

Well, I forgot that Billy* was left-handed. So, when it was his turn to smack the balls (heh), I was totally blindsided by the follow-through of his swing.

Literally.

I took a shot in the upper left temple. Cow-ping. It split my scalp open widely. Because I'm made of testosterone, masculinity and Chuck Norris' beard hair, I didn't pass out. I didn't cry. I didn't even swear. I just held my hand up to my profusely-bleeding scalp, nodded my head to Rebecca***, and said "Excuse me for a second."

Since it was church camp and Jesus was in the air, I didn't beat Billy* to death (like he deserved). Instead, I went back to the cabin wherein I was treated by medical staff and taken off to Warsaw Community Hospital. I received 14 stitches, had an awesome lightning-shaped scar on my temple, and could communicate with snakes. Alohomora, bitches.

Not only did Billy* apologize profusely AND feel guilty for nearly killing me, but since this was church camp, everyone felt sorry for me.

Especially the ladies.

Hell yeah.

Kristine from Kokomo...if you're reading this...you still have awesome legs. And Becky from Eastbrook high school...how's that red hair treating you these days? *mimes picking up a phone receiver with my fingers and holding them to my ear while mouthing the words "Call me"*

Since this happened on a Friday night and everyone was leaving on Saturday, I got out of cleaning the cabin. In fact, most of what I did on Saturday was soak up the affections and happy feelings and everything else associated with the end of church camp.

And Billy* had to do the dishes.


*Not his real name
**Her real name, which is ready-made for epic fantasy books. Or porn.
***Also her real name

Time to Move On

I did something today that I haven't done in...a really long time. In fact, upon racking my brain for all of fifteen seconds, I couldn't think of the last time when I did this.

I didn't try to watch the beginning of the Notre Dame game.

I just couldn't bring myself to it. I worked in the yard early this afternoon, and then I went to get some food for the abbreviated week. On the ride home, I turned the radio on and discovered that ND kicked at 2:30 instead of 3:30 like I thought (you know, like they've done all season). And then when I got home, I put away the groceries and went back outside with the kids. I cleaned up my mess, swept off the driveway, and then we cooked some chicken. Finally, the chicken was done and it was too cold to stay outside, so we came in, about halfway through the third quarter.

I then sat down and watched the rest of what was the perfect topper for this farce of a season. I wish I could say I was upset at the outcome (Connecticut won in double overtime, 33-27), but instead I sat there and watched the final drive with quiet resignation. A season that had me so geeked and excited has turned to sadness and the quiet acceptance of yet another underpreformance. Pretty much the hallmark of Charlie Weis' tenure as the head coach of Notre Dame football.

Anyway...

I did a good deed today. I only say this because it's a bit unusual for me. I went to Target to get the groceries (as I mentioned earlier) and when I loaded them and the kids into the car, a woman approached me and asked if I could give her a ride to the north side of town. She gave me some sad story about having to buy a shirt and that she didn't have money for bus fare and she didn't want to walk.

And as my mind churned over all the excuses I could give her as to why I couldn't give her a ride, in my mind's eye I saw her walking up the rather busy road that takes you to Duke's stadia (football and basketball). And then I thought of my wife's friend Eric who was killed a month and a half ago trying to cross a busy road, and all I could see was this young woman lying in the middle of one of the roads with her life cut tragically, violently short as well. My heart broke and I relented.

Well, she was very nice. She talked to my kids, she told me I had a very nice car, that I seemed like a very nice person, that she wouldn't have asked but she knew I was a good person because of the way I acted with my kids. It all made me feel good...in a Becky the Usurper sort of way. I took her to her place of work and let her out and wished her a Happy Thanksgiving. She smiled and thanked me and wished me the same.


I won't lie. It was probably a very irresponsible thing to do, and I was a little nervous to do it. But, when she got to work safely and, more importantly, my kids and I left the parking lot, I felt a lot better.

And then I kind of hated myself for assuming she was going to slit my throat while we were driving.

Oh well. I'm alive and she's alive and my conscience is a whole lot lighter because I actually helped someone out who was in need of some assistance. It's a far cry from Batman, but then I'm also not the head of a mutli-billion dollar industry.

Now, on to more important issues: anyone know if the tuna up there can coach football?