Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Worst Thing Ever

Every so often you have a conversation with a person that changes everything. It could be a meeting with a college advisor who helps you pick your major, or an interaction with a co-worker that decides your career path, or even a drunk, tranquilizer induced conversation with your Russian girlfriend about a jacuzzi. Mel....

The conversation Michele and I had on the way to Target the other night was one of those conversations. While driving North on Route 28, Michele commented on the incredible amount of traffic headed in the opposite direction. I lamented, "That's gotta be the worst thing ever."

This set us down a interesting road. Michele replied, "Wouldn't the worst thing ever be a Holocaust in America?"

She's much too smart for me. So, I came back in the only way I knew how: nonsense.

What ensued was a list of what we consider to be some of...

The Worst Things Ever:

A - Being forced to listen to an entire Rhianna album

M - Anything that has anything to ever do in anyway with Lady Gaga

A - Your Dr. saying "Ut-oh" during a physical while examining your reproductive parts

M - Farting audibly in a job interview

A - Having no fingers

M - Sending an embarrassing email about your bathroom habits to the wrong person (or, in my opinion, ANY person)

A -Getting a hangnail on all 10 fingers and all 10 toes

M- Staying in a dirty hotel

A-Pooping in your pants so bad it comes up your back (I've seen it happen.....to my nephew. Who is two.)

A - Having Albert Haynesworth on your football team

M - Having dish soap poured on your head

A - Watching the Cowboys win a Super Bowl (This might actually be the winner)

A - Realizing you have no syrup after making waffles/pancakes. (Or, pouring a bowl of cereal and then finding out you have no milk)

M-Having to pee in the car. Like...into a cup. Or...bowl....

A - Opening the internet on your phone instead of opening the notepad so you can document a comical conversation.

Then things got real. As we pulled into our apartment complex after the long drive home, I noticed the trees and said, "The worst thing ever would be to sit in a tree with no pants on."

Without missing a beat, Michele retorted, "Or sitting in a car with AJ when he has gas."


She wins.

I quietly rolled the windows down and aired the car out.

But I still got a picture of her doing this! So you tell me who the real winner is.



What else is the worst ever? Comment below...and you're not allowed to say "This Blog."

Friday, August 6, 2010

The Dream (My Mind is Weird)

When your alarm is set for 5:10am, there are few moments you look forward to more than bedtime. There just isn't anything like laying in a big comfy bed and erasing your mind of all thoughts as you gradually slide into your dream world. And I put a lot of effort into my dreams. I try each night to fall asleep thinking about something impractical and amazing. Most nights its what I'd do if there was a zombie outbreak and I led a group of survivors as we fight for freedom.

Whatever, I'm cool.

However, for the first time since I was 5 and was dreaming of an evil Yosemite Sam chasing me through the desert around a Merry-Go-Round, my dream world has backfired severely. So buckle up for the latest installment of AJ's Bizzaro Dream World.

As you know, most good dreams start in the middle of the story. They don't adhere to a time line, there is no character development, and you're usually in the dream just during the rising action and climax. Which is where we start our story:

I was back at my alma mater, Christopher Newport University. Me and a group of RAs had just discovered a very valuable top secret "material" on campus. We weren't sure what it was, or what it was for. But we knew if it fell into the wrong hands the consequences would be dire (Ooh, its getting good already!).

Naturally, we telephoned the government to come inspect this "material" and secure it if necessary (by the way, that number is 1-800-GOV-MINT. I use it often). After a short conversation a Special Ops team of Marines (or Navy Seals if your partial to them, its a dream), was dispatched to CNU to recover the "materials" and extract them from the location (This dream is shaping up to be a thriller!).

The team of Marines arrived and they escorted about 15 RAs (myself included) down to the marsh behind the University. If you went to CNU and just said, "I know where he's talking about!" you are a dirty rotten liar. There is no marsh. Its a dream. I made it up. Stop trying to change my story.

Obviously the Marines needed all 15 RAs to come with them. I'm sure its standard operating procedure. Due to the severity of the situation, they saw fit to arm us with weapons. Don't worry though, they didn't give us the good weapons, just replica World War II rifles and rusty Nazi machine guns. An MP40 to be exact (I know because I played a lot of Call of Duty in college).

So we're standing around this marsh, armed with rusty old rifles, and waiting for the helicopter to airlift the "materials" and Special Ops team out. The water we're standing in has begun to rise rapidly and as I hold my rifle close, I have an uneasy feeling that there may be a group of banditos lurking in the brush around us. And because this is my dream, and whatever you think in a dream happens, we start to hear movement around us.

The water is now waist high (oddly, this is the same time I pee the bed in real life), and I see our villains reveal themselves. We are surrounded. There is no hope. The Marines lay down their weapons.

Its my dream though, and I've been watching a lot of Top Shot, so I figured I could take them all. I take aim and.......click. My trigger doesn't work.

Stupid World War II rifles. Stupid dream. This would never happen in Call of Duty.

Seeing we were defeated, the head bad guy (we'll call him Hugo. You know, the bad guy from 3 Ninjas), takes the suitcase of "material" and handcuffs our Marine friends. His team then begins to disarm the RAs. And by "disarm", I mean take our wallets and cellphones. C'mon...we're responsible college kids. We don't handle guns. The closest we've come to danger was the drunk freshman who barely made it to the sink in our room in time to hurl (true story).

Well, this is my dream and I'm no fool. There was no way I was going to surrender my cell phone. As the "disarmed" RAs glumly walked by me to return to campus, I blended in acting as though I had my cellular device and leather money carrier taken from me. I figured I could get to campus, call in the authorities and be the hero.

Unfortunately, Hugo is a crafty one. He had counted the number of RAs, and counted the number of cellphones and realized this number did not match up. One was missing. Mine.

His team followed us back to the school and I saw his second in command getting into a car. Weirdly, she looked like that one chick from Austin Powers 2 that tries to kill Austin the club. I tried to snap a photo...I missed (I thought this was relevant and that you would want to know).

Time jump--My team of RAs were back in their dorms, and were discussing what just happened. For whatever reason, I was in an ornately decorated, very fancy and incredibly spacious public restroom (literally a recurring theme in my dreams) with Nathan Gewecke, a friend and Fraternity brother in real life. I showed him my cell phone and told him what I did, then went to call the government. I had dialed 1-800-GOV-- when my phone rang.

I knew in an instant what this was. Hugo was calling my cell phone so he could figure out who deceived him and come and kill me mercilessly. I did not answer. I'm much too smart for that. I let it go to voice mail.

I knew, however, his team was searching the campus and would discover me sooner or later. I had no plan. I was in this absurd bathroom, with no way out. It was a matter of moments before our banditos burst through the door and captured me.

Then my cat jump on the bed, attacked my foot and leapt directly onto my "special place". I awoke with a start. A painful one at that.

My first thought, "Ouch." My second thought, "Phew. That was a dream. Wait....was it a dream? I can't remember." I reach over and check my phone. No missed calls. Phew. Wait...of course there are no missed calls! I ignored the last one from Hugo! Did this actually happen?

Its 4:15am. I awoke in the middle of a very specific and very intense dream. I have no idea which one is reality and which one isn't. I strongly consider the possibility that I'm in the movie Inception. I wonder if this event actually happened in real life, but I had forgotten about it so they planted this dream in my head to remind me of what I did. For a few moments between 4:20am and 4:27am, I am convinced that is what happened.

Mind you, I haven't even seen Inception. So, of course, this only reinforces the idea that this is really happening. I'm so confused.

So now, a few hours later, I'm at work and I'm still not convinced my dream wasn't just a little bit real. I'm slightly paranoid.

If you need me today I'm under my desk in the fetal position staring at my phone. Which is turned off.

Also, tell Leo to stay out of my head.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Snip, Snip

I think its the simple pleasures in life that we should enjoy the most. Sure, I may sound like Hitch or a Hallmark Card, but its true. Otherwise it wouldn't be a cliche. Enjoy the small things. You know, fresh cut grass, sleeping in, meeting someone new...having a Vietnamese man massage your face.

Soak it all in.

What? Fine. I'll explain.

I hate going to the barber. Hate it. I'm one of those people you can always tell just got a haircut. I let it grow out until I'm sick of it, then I have them cut it short. You know, so I won't have to go back for another 6 months.

I dunno, I'm just not that concerned about how my hair looks. I could be like my brother and try to pull off a Euro, half mo-hawk, Justin Timberlake, type do. Or, I could sleep in for 10 more minutes. Its a toss-up.

Here's the thing about barbers, as a guy you get the luxury of choosing between two awful options: The local cheap-o place like your local barbershop (or God forbid, a Super Cuts) or an expensive, "designer" hair engineer.

So I can pay for a $12 haircut where they aimlessly throw scissors and clippers at your hair until they get bored, or $40 to have them scoff at the style you want and say it's "last season" and that you really need to buy their hair "product" if you don't want to look like an alligator has been gnawing on your head all morning.

First of all, if you can't name something based on what it is you shouldn't sell it. Hair "product"? Right...I'm buying that about as much as I'm buying food "product" at my local grocery store.

Recently, however, I've discovered a barber shop I don't totally despise going to. It's called "BARBER" and its run by a group of very pleasant Vietnamese folks. Yes, I have a terribly difficult time trying to communicate the style I want because to me, you should just look at my hair and think, "He wants his hair to be less long than it is at this moment". And yes, they either try to talk to me during my hair cut, or talk to each other in Vietnamese. And yes, every time I go I have to have them fix what they did after they finish. However, at the far side of the barber shop is this little box, about the size of a microwave, that holds the secret to them keeping my business.

As you know, any good "BARBER" should straight razor your sideburns and neck, its standard these days and it used to be my favorite part. Now I anticipate what comes next. My barber finishes up, walks down to this box, and pulls out a white cylinder. I close my eyes now because I love the surprise.

I hear a spray bottle spray twice. Then footsteps approaching my chair. I relax my shoulders as a warm washcloth unfolds before my face. My nostrils are filled with a magical scent that eases my senses and relaxes every muscle I have (read: both my muscles). Then "BARBER" begins to massage my face.

It might be the best thing ever.

Granted, the scent is probably some sort of stimulant that makes it dangerous to drive just after inhaling, but for whatever reason, I find myself forgetting all about the numerous corrections and the difficulty explaining what kind of cut I wanted in the first place. I end up tipping the guy an undeserved amount as I stumble out to my car, half-asleep.

Its only later, when I awake from my coma, that I realized what happened. I have a haircut I don't love, a wallet that is much lighter (due to that stupid tip), and I feel a little cheap because I let a stranger rub my eyeballs.

All things considered, for 2 minutes of intoxicating euphoria I'll take it.

And the bowl cut it comes with.