The Mom celebrated her 60th birthday yesterday by kicking my ass at golf? again.
Naturally, for such a landmark birthday, I wanted to get her something special. The Mom has been dreading this birthday for awhile so The Girl and I discussed getting her a skydiving trip or a Harley-Davidson tattoo, or something along the lines of making her feel younger.
Kicking my ass at golf seemed to help, but I ended up getting her golf lessons with her favorite pro, too
Smart move. Now she’s beating me by 4-5 strokes instead of 1-2.
I did decide to help her celebrate, and feel younger, by drinking a bunch of wine, and getting stinkin’ shitfaced on her back porch with her and her friends. Then I invited her to go skydiving with me and she nodded happily and said she’d go.
I knew she would.
My 30th is coming and, along with the thought of freaking-my-monkey-shit out, I want to go skydiving.
I did some research and found out that a “Tandem Jump” can be done for around $120. This means I get to jump out of a plane, free fall for about 45 seconds, and then have some dude I don’t know, strapped to my back (loosely, I hope), control my fate.
I’m not crazy about this idea.
I don’t get to buy him a beer first or anything.
Then, I found out that you can’t be over 210 lbs, so I don’t have to worry about that anyway as I’m 242 and there’s no way I could pull that off by the 7th.
I checked out the AFF (Accelerated Free Fall. I think it’s “accelerated” because I wouldn’t have some dude dry-humping me all the way down) and found out that I can knock out some classes over a weekend and be jumping all by myself, without being clipped to somebody I don’t know with his hand on the cord and his junk on my ass.
I’ve got nothing against this method of sky-diving, nor against homosexuality but, if he’s got my life in his hands, I think I’d almost want for him to have some feelings for me. I’m not saying actual mid-air penetration would have to occur, but I’d go for some gentle petting if it would mean he’d be a little more interested in my welfare.
No. No petting, I’ll do the AFF.
Then, I read the fine print.
Goddammit, another fucking weight limit.
This limit’s only 225 lbs, though, so I’m thinking I can lose a quick 17 pounds, in two weeks mind you, and be plunging to the Earth on my own terms.
I’ll let the Mom get strapped to the stranger’s crotch.
I’m all prepared to start “counting carbs” and to double my riding times on that goddam exercise bike.
I’m even going to stop drinking beer.
I KNOW.
Beer.
This shit is serious.
It’s punishment time.
I want to cause intense punishment to my body until it sheds it’s cute little Buddha it’s been growing for the last 4 years.
I want to punish my body by denying it beer and ice cream and pizza and Good Times burgers.
Then, I want to take my newly svelte body up into the sky, and punish it yet again by terrifyingly flinging it out of a perfectly good airplane.
I will further punish it by plummeting toward the ground, from a mile or so up, at 125 mph, screaming insanely all the way.
Then, I’ll tease it about whether or not I’m pulling the cord.
Heh, stupid body.
It deserves it for having the audacity to turn 30.
Fucker.
The Girl and I came home from the Mom’s last night and decided to continue the evening’s wine-drinking, bullshitting activities on our back porch.
We were having such a good time that we somehow forgot that we both had to get up in the morning. You know, Work and School and all that rot.
We went to bed way late.
After an hour and a half of sweaty-animal-sex, we still didn’t figure that we’d have a problem getting up in a mere 4 hours.
The Girl even made me promise to kick her out of bed on her 2nd alarm. I slept through 3 snoozes until I reached around behind me and started punching her in her left asscheek until she got up.
She got up, took a piss, then came straight back to bed.
My little trooper.
I got up as late as possible, fought the fucking timpanic thunderings in my cranium and fell over in the shower twice before giving up and leaving the house with suds still in my hair and crotch.
The usually sedate drive to work was even more sedate, as I don’t even remember getting there. It just seemed as if I miraculously gained consciousness at my desk and blotted out the queasy stumbling into the truck and, eventually, the elevator at work.
I figured I was good then, as I had all I needed. Chocolate, coffee, Mountain Dew, and a full can of chew. All of life’s more wonderful hangover remedies. If I’d had quiet, chocolate milk and a greasy burger, I may have been okay.
Instead I got bombarded, in my own goddam cube, by two of my Bossguys. They want to talk schedules and resources and project management and all I can think of is that, if one of them doesn’t move at least a foot to the left, then I’m never going to be able to get the trashcan out from under my desk in time.
One of them makes the mistake of asking how I’m feeling.
“Like hammered shit.”
“Oh, you going to be alright?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got? (checking my watch) ?about a minute and a half before I vomit all over you, so we better wrap this up.”
They didn’t find this amusing.
I would’ve laughed, but that would’ve significantly shortened the given time-estimate.
I didn’t hurl, but I ran in there and sat on the toilet, just sat for about 10 minutes, seven different times.
I was fucking hating life, and that is not an understatement.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to die or just not be conscious anymore. Either would’ve made me happy. Happier than I was at work anyway.
I got some promised e-mails sent, made a few phone calls and left.
Bossguy’s were in meetings or at lunch, so I sent them a 2 word e-mail explaining that I wasn’t fucking around earlier about being sick and that I was outta there.
I was at work for 2 hours and got approximately 10 minutes of work done.
Sweet.
The drive home was much more interesting, as the sun was now up and burning twin holes into my skull through my eyesockets.
Greasy fast food is rarely an answer for anything in my life, but I felt like it should be today. Thank Dog, BK takes Credit Cards, speaks Mumble, and is 3 blocks from our house.
I came home to 3 brown gentlemen, in orange vests, pouring concrete and asphalt into the trough they dug at the end of my driveway and the Girl snoring away in our bed.
Mildly annoyed, I went outside to see if anyone had any idea why in the Blue FUCK they were tearing up my driveway without telling me, when I noticed that they’d poured an actual indentation for our driveway instead of the 45-degree-angle-sidewalk-that-never-ends shit that runs the length of the block.
I told them my truck’s shocks thanked them.
Blank looks.
I tried out some of phrases from my vast multi-cultural repetoire, but I’m fairly certain I asked why no one informed me that I had a house of party cats instead of asking why they didn’t inform me that they were digging up my driveway today.
They were kind of amused by this, but had no reply. Hell, they were almost done and it was looking so good, I left them to their noisy machinery and their shovels-full of smelly black nastiness.
Thick, black smoke, noisy, clattering, hammering, and shouting in disjointed Mexican all add some new and exciting things to the Mother-of-all-hangovers.
Fuckin’ Party Cats.
I’m going nappy-time now.