My ring of power

The sun beat down on South Milwaukee, an oasis between flooded communities, and I tried not to think about sweat stains in my armpits. The wedding would start soon, and I wore my pinstripe suit pants, cleanly pressed shirt and silver tie clip. The day was too young for perspiration.

Two of my college friends tied the knot Saturday. I must admit, I experienced droves of apprehension about their choice of a traditional Catholic wedding.

I walked beneath the sunshine, eyed the stone walls of the church and tryed to suppress the awful tingling sensation of sweat beading on my forehead. I love the heat. But not when I'm being choked by a tie and steam cooked in black pants.

Once inside, I was greeted by pre-service Phantom of the Opera music. Interesting. Especially when I consider the service ended with a bagpipe player (dressed like a true Scotsman) leading the bride and groom out of the church.

I was busy staring at my wife and thinking how attractive she looked all dressed up as a bridesmaid when something the priest said during his sermon tore me from fantasizing. He referenced a study that suggests married people live longer than those who don't marry.

"So, if you want a long life and a slow death, get married," he said.

Hmmm.... what words of encouragement.

It got me thinking. Since getting married I gained weight, watch more TV and eat more ice cream. I doubt that equation would compute into an extended lifespan.

But lets face it, the marriage model conquers the bachelor lifestyle. Before I obtained my ring of power, my routine played out monotonously: Work. Mac'n cheese with chicken nuggets. SimCity 3000. More SimCity 3000. Bathroom. SimCity 3000. Sleep. Repeat.

After 30 years of SimCity, my brain might call it quits.

I left the wedding feeling rather pleased with myself. I made the right choice when I signed my life over to one woman. She's cute in that black dress and sassy part in her curly hair. She's someone to talk with so that I don't have to achieve social interaction by governing a built-from-scratch computer city. And my wedding ring is like my extended warranty on living.

Cool.

I'll rock you to sleep

My wife asked me last night to tell her a bed time story. 

I think my mind instantly turned into a wind tunnel. There is something about creating a story orally that results in my brain cells fleeing for their lives. I'm comfortable with paper or a keyboard. That way when something stupid plops out I can turn my pencil over and erase.

But when my wife asks, I obey.

The story began typically: "Once upon a time there was a boy." I named him Joseph. He didn't have a last name, but I suspect it would be Stille. Joseph was smaller than the rest of the kids in his class, and his hair would never lie flat. His classmates would never let him play football with them at recess.

So Joseph went by himself to the opposite end of the playground and sat with his back against the fence where a tree had grown out of control. Its leaves reached around Joseph, isolating him from the rest of the world.

At this point my wife said I can't tell a sad story.

Good thing Joseph found an escape from this constricting setting. While throwing around wood chips, he discovered a sink hole right next to him. It sucked him into the ground, and he fell for what seemed like an eternity. He landed on soft ground. Green grass and damp earth. He could see nothing but field for miles all around him.

He began walking forward. Straight was the best way to go. After all, backwards meant returning to an awful school and either side was just the same as ahead. 

After several miles of nothing, Joseph stubbed his toe on a rock. Just as he was about to pick up and throw the rock in his angst, it screamed a few choice obscenities at Joseph for stepping on him.

Joseph couldn't be scared. He was too surprised. A talking rock?

"Where am I?" Joseph asked.

The rock narrowed its invisible eyes. "This is Estonia."

"And who are you?" said Joseph.

"I'm a rock. I'm gathering food for a feast at my village tonight," the rock said.

Joseph was very hungry and curious how rocks could eat, so he asked if he could tag along.

The rock nodded to indicate Joseph would be welcome as long as he helped gather food. So off they went into the open field. Joseph didn't want to appear a fool, so he didn't tell the rock that he had no idea what rock's ate. Thankfully, it didn't take long to figure out. Rocks eat dirt. And to collect dirt for a feast, the rock would find wet mud to roll in. All the mud that stuck to the rock could be carried home for food.

I'm pretty sure my wife was comatose by this point in the story. I think it was the powerful dialogue that did her in. I know. It's tough to handle. Tuckers you right out. I might need a nap myself just from writing it.

Maybe I'll finish the story later. Maybe.

Grilled warfare

I bought a grill about five days ago. Since then I have gorged myself on brats and cheeseburgers. I think my stomach will stage a violent protest if I attempt to stuff any more grease bombs into it. Mr. Belly has already expressed its displeasure with my dietary choices.

The kicker to my situation is that none of those brats or burgers were prepared on my new grill. They came from restaurants, fair vendors and a graduation party.

Now I am the monkey in the middle of battle between my grill and my digestive system. I'd like to hide under my bed covers, but my will is weaker than the forces now facing off in my life.

Let me say right now that Colonel Grill will likely win.

He's a small contraption. The kind of grill most men would hide in their two-car garage behind the untouched fishing gear and a polished turn-on-a-dime riding lawn mower. There's not a piece of stainless steal on this poor excuse for cooker. Target didn't even put it on display by the other grills, the "real" ones. I had to look on a shelf in the back of the store.

But, hey, it's a gas grill. It only cost me $25. And it's going to win.

There's a piece of chicken thawing in my kitchen right now begging to be barbecued and smothered with a delicious coating of Sweet Baby Ray's Honey Barbecue Sauce.

Too bad my landlord doesn't allow me to grill on the deck of my second floor apartment...

Too-long-too-cold winter blues

This is a picture of how I feel about winter. I took it several months ago when the snowbanks were taller than me. The dirty white stuff has of course morphed into water or vapor, which is the state I prefer it to remain in. The problem is I don't feel winter has moved on yet.

I've been debating whether temperatures have climbed over 70 degrees more than three times this year. I assume the sun dislikes winter's attitude as much as me, because that big fiery ball hasn't emerged any more than the warm weather.

Here's another picture about winter.

Do you think winter will go away for good if I gave it candy? Probably not if the candy had coconut. But I suspect some hard mint candies would go a long way. Those little round ones with tiny red stripes around the edge. Or Andes mints with a cup of milk.

Hmmm. Now I want candy. Specifically a Caramello bar. That would hit the spot, and, at least temporarily, cure my too-long-too-cold winter blues.

Stuffed and fuzzy

I own stuffed animals.

That probably seems weird.

I name them, too. Which adds to the comedy.

Bernie Boynton is my wide-eyed pig with a horse-shaped face and flapping front legs. I got him from my wife about a year ago. I can't remember why, but he has made a home in the corner of my couch ever since. He once fell in the crevice between the couch's arm and the wall. I didn't notice his absence for weeks, but I'm sure he doesn't hold a grudge.

Brat Cat Goonavich was born at Build-a-Bear. That's very interesting to me because Brat Cat is definitely not a bear. Believe me. I checked. He used to wear sunglasses, and they looked classy with his orange, tabby fur. But I broke them. He likely hates me now.

I just named Bork tonight. He is my round little friend with nappy, red hair and jagged teeth. Actually, I'm not sure if he is male. He might be a she. I haven't been able to determine that for sure. But he/she bit me once, and I threw him/her into an icicle. Now one of his/her eyes is larger than the other.

To be honest, I made most of that last paragraph up.