Another Cheerful Edition of “I’d Rather…”

I woke up to more snow this morning. I hate snow. I hear the saying “when Hell freezes over” used in jest to say something will never happen. This, to me, is very confusing as I believe that Hell absolutely MUST be some sort of arctic tundra that never breaks the temperature of freezing. If it’s not, and by some crazy stroke of fate it turns out to be some sort of fire and brimstone desert-like location as has been predicted, and heaven is the cold place… well… you can probably place a pretty safe bet as to where I’d prefer to be.

The following is a list of things that I would rather do than wake up to see yet another gray, gloomy sky with frozen bits of hydrogen dioxide falling from the sky:

• I’d rather glue my butt cheeks together.
• I’d rather go to hair school.
• I’d rather serve another mission.
• I’d rather get hassled about my relationship status by my entire extended family.
• I’d rather lick a cactus.
• I’d rather eat lima beans. Ew. *Bleh!*
• I’d rather roll around in a large vat of honey and then run through a bear cage.

And there we have it. You officially have an idea of how much I loathe the snow… especially at this time of year. I loathe it with my very core. It makes my toes curl just thinking about it.

1 comment.

Mustache of the Day - Day 19

I realize that in the last month, I have barely scratched the surface of the world of mustaches. There are SO many noteworthy mustaches that deserve praise and attention, many of which have been overlooked or just plain old excluded. The final Mustache of the Day from Mustache March Madness comes from one of the legendary “ladies men” of our time. His mustache has graced movie screens and cable TV channels across the world, and has probably even set many world records.

Although his mustache is more American than America itself, and stands as a standard for everything good and holy, it is not the reason why he was chosen as the ultimate, and final Mustache of the Day. What really sold me on Reynolds was the picture that I found of his mustache… the picture that made me nearly pass out from shock and laughter after viewing it in all its majesty. The very picture that you can find by clicking this link. Warning! This picture is not for those with weak bladders, or fear of bodily hair… also, it’s probably not work appropriate. Just as a teaser, the picture features Burt Reynolds and his FULL BODY MUSTACHE!

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term “Full Body Mustache,” it relates to the man who is hairy enough to connect his facial hair to other hair parts on his body. For example, a man may grow a thick beard with sideburns. His sideburns connect to his full head of hair. His normal head of hair then grows down low onto the neck and shoulders which flows gracefully onto the back, and on around to the chest and buttox areas. The Full Body Mustache concludes in the leg area, and can be different for each grizzly-man. For some, it ends on the ankles. For others, it’s the foot itself. Still others have a continuous flow of hair all the way down to their hairy toe-knuckles.

And THAT, my friends, is the ULTIMATE mustache. I don’t care who you are or what you say, the Full Body Mustache can kick any other mustache’s sorry white butt any day of the week. What they say is true, “Go big, or go home.” Thanks Burt!

3 comments.

Been Busy

I’ve been writing on the blog at least once a day for quite some time now. Missing the last two days has made me feel empty and slightly naked inside. Yes, I realize that I said “naked inside”, and that that doesn’t really make sense… especially since everybody is naked on their inside. Nevertheless, my insides do feel naked, and that feeling of awkwardness has driven me to post once again on the blog that my life tends to revolve around so consistently.

Yesterday I woke up bright and early, and headed up to Salt Lake to work at a Bridal Fair. Obviously, having never been a bride, I had no idea what to expect at this thing. I showed up at the Grand America Hotel at 9:00 am, and was overcome with a barrage of heavily makeup-ed women, flowers and frilly dresses. I made my way to my cousin, Garrett’s, booth. He and his wife have a photography and videography business. Since they were both shooting weddings, I had the pleasure of schmoozing with what seemed to be 1 million almost-brides, their roommates and their mothers. I never realized how much goes into planning a wedding, or how bad it sucks to be surrounded by so many unavailable women. I honestly think that I was the only single man in the entire edifice.

I was asked by quite a few women if I was married. Upon finding that I was about as single as you can get, they proceeded to either try to set me up with friends or family, or ask if working at the bridal show has helped me have an idea of what I want for my wedding. First of all, what makes them so confident that I’ll ever get married? Secondly, you’d think they’d know better than anyone that the groom will most definately NOT be planning the wedding. I made it quite clear that my dream wedding consists of a couple “I Do’s” followed by a long and exciting honeymoon. The rest is just details. By the time the wedding arrives, I have just surmised that I will be an expert at saying, “That looks great honey.” Or, “Sure, if that’s what you want, we’ll do it.”

I don’t want to sound jaded, but the wedding really is all about the girls. The reason I say girls in the plural form is that I think the mothers many times make more of a fuss about things than the actual brides.

Next time I go to a Bridal Fair, I plan on doing something that I never thought I’d have to resort to. I will purchase and wear a decoy ring. It’s just safer that way.

2 comments.

Real Life

I just watched Dan In Real Life. If you haven’t seen this movie, well… you just need to see this movie.

No thanks to my parents, I’m a fairly sentimental guy. Most times I’m able to mask it well by telling a joke, or pretending I’m manly or something. But this movie… well, it made my heart explode into a million pieces, glued it back together haphazardly and then made it explode again, but in the good way. I love movies that make me think. More than that, I love the movies that make me hope.

Life is full of surprises and mysteries and disappointments and miracles. It’s a whirlwind of wonder and magisty mixed with failures and confusion. It’s full of friends and family and inside jokes laced with death and war and homework. Perhaps, what is most interesting about “real life” is that you never know what kind of hand you will be dealt, or when that hand full of seemingly worthless cards will suddenly turn into a winning one.

I love the quote at the end of the movie, “Instead of telling our young people to plan ahead, we should tell them to plan to be surprised.” As important as it is to have a plan, a goal or a destination in mind, what is exceedingly more important is the people we meet along the way, how they touch our lives and how we touch theirs. The detours that derail our planned journey are often the paths that lead us to the beautiful lookouts. These gorgeous vistas that we are graced with along this seemingly long and bumpy road are the people we truly love to the very core. They are the people who are placed in our lives again and again. They are the ones who know who we truly are. They have seen us during our highs and our lows, and somehow, regardless of the fact that they know exactly who we are, they don’t go away.

It’s these people that make life worth living. It’s these people that make the journey a little more beautiful, the ride a little less long and bumpy, and the the surprises… well, worth it. Real life rocks.

My Love… for you…

4 comments.

Mustache of the Day - Day 18

To the hero of my youth. This tribute of the 18th day of Mustaches of the Day is for you. Keep on deliverin’!

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Mustache of the Day - Day 17

Oh Dr. Phil. You’re a silly, silly man with a mustache. You must be going somewhere though, cause Oprah thinks you’re cool.

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The Bane of My Existence

A new fad that has been sweeping through Utah over the past year or two like a thick waft of lake stink. This activity is popular amongst youngsters in their early twenties, especially those that are rhythmically challenged or have a particularly poor taste in music. If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m referring to Country ‘Swing Dancing’.

I would like to emphasize that I only call it ‘Swing Dancing’ because that’s the term that the general public uses to describe it. If I had my way, we’d call it Country ‘Moving-To-Crappy-Music-While-Yanking-Girls-Arms-Out-Of-Their-
Sockets’. But I rarely get my way.

As a traditional swing dancer, one thing that really gets on my nerves is hearing people try to justify that Country ‘Swing’ is similar to regular Swing, or any other form of dance for that matter. The definition of Dance is, “to move one’s feet or body, or both, rhythmically in a pattern of steps, esp. to the accompaniment of music.” Judging by this definition, country dancing is NOT a form of dance.

What most people don’t understand is that Country Swing is so popular because anybody with arms can do it… and I mean ANYBODY. It requires no rhythm, no coordination, no musicality, no connection, no real steps and no prior experience. It doesn’t matter if a fast song or a slow song is playing, or if your partner is a cripple, you just spin in circles while holding hands, jerking your bodies at the apex of every arm stretch.

Some would justify Country ‘Swing’ by saying that the lifts involved take great skill and coordination, when in all reality they only require big muscles, a small female and the occasional disregard to personal space (the ladies know what I’m talking about… guys, you never have anyone lifting you over your head whilst holding onto your nether-reigions).

Real Swing (Lindy Hop, Charleston, Balboa, Shag, Blues etc.), on the other hand actually meets the guidelines and definitions of ‘Dance’. More importantly than that, as a general statement, regular Swing dancers - or should I say REAL Swing dancers - are a very friendly bunch and are normally very willing to help you learn to do what they do. Country Swing venues are full of the people who show up in the hopes of either finding a date or fondling a girl. Granted there are a lot of nice people who attend the Country Swing venues, but they are also highly saturated with the Plastics and the Sweet Bros trying to get a piece of one another.

Maybe the best way to prove my point is to just show you what I mean. Check out the following videos, and honestly let me know what you think.

Country Swing

Lindy Hop

15 comments.

I Hate Chapstick

Last week I did laundry. Not only did I ‘do’ laundry, but I screwed up the entire freakin’ load. As I hauled the batch of my favorite clothes out of the drier, I saw that they were covered in nasty, oily dark splotches. Yup folks, I left a tube of chapstick in my pocket. It virtually exploded, coating my threads in a healthy film of terribleness.

Apparently the stains left by the demon chapstick are harder to remove than mustard, blood or the sin of murder. My favorite t-shirts and some of my only pants no longer can be worn in the public sphere without being suspect to heavy questioning and blatant ridicule.

Chapstick, I hate you. May you burn in hell.

5 comments.

Mustache of the Day - Day 16

I chose to feature Freddy Mercury’s mustache today to emphasize a point and possibly teach a very valuable lesson.

I’m fairly certain that there have been dozens of artists and bands over the years who have attempted to cover the music created by the legendary band, Queen. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that I am aware that one such instance occurred this evening on American Idol. People! Seriously, when will you learn that Queen is not meant to be covered. Nobody, until the end of the world will ever EVER be able to sing like Freddie Mercury, better than Freddie Mercury or even in the same ballpark as Freddie Mercury. What it all boils down to is that that queen could sing… and you ain’t that queen. So please, PLEASE just do us all a favor and quit trying. All you’ll end up doing is annoying one half of us, and pissing off the other half.

Let Freddie rest in peace as the king of Queen without attempting to dethrone him.

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The Gift Of Life

My palms have been sweaty all day. As I left my office this afternoon around 5:00, my stomach was churning and I couldn’t think straight. I got in my car and began my journey to the place I least wanted to be in the world on this sunny day. I was on my way to the local church to let some stranger stick a needle in me and suck out my blood… for the first time ever.

I’ve always had a fear of needles and blood makes me queasy, so it’s probably fairly evident why I’ve never volunteered to donate blood in the past. Yesterday, however, I decided it was time to suck it up and be a man. I put my name on the list of volunteer donors, and actually put my real phone number next to it (normally when people try to con me into volunteering, I put a fake number and just don’t show). From that moment forward, I was a nervous wreck.

As I pulled into the church parking lot around ten to 6:00, I noticed that lot was near full. I entered the building and swelled with pride to see a huge line of fellow donors, chatting away nervously before being called into the blood factory (otherwise known as the gym).

I was handed a binder of information to read over before I could donate. It cautioned me not to donate if I had been having bum sex with a man with Aids, if I had received bovine shots, or if I had recently had a smallpox vaccination. I’m proud to say that I flew through the checklist with flying colors.

The next 25 minutes I sat… waiting. The room full of people who had occupied the waiting room as I had entered emptied and then refilled… then it emptied again. The lady who was coordinating the line had overlooked me. My name was on the list, but somehow she didn’t or couldn’t read it. I kept asking her if I was next, but she kept calling the names of the girls she knew from her neighborhood who had just recently walked in. I started to get irritated. She didn’t know what I was going through! If she didn’t call me in soon, I was going to have change my pants! I just wanted to get the dang thing over with.

Finally I got called back, and went through another intensive interrogation to make sure my blood was clean and pure. After taking down all of my personal information, shoe size, high school GPA, ACT score, and doing a thorough background check, they pricked my finger and then had me take yet another test.

I failed the test.

After a solid hour of waiting, tests, more waiting, more tests and a finger prick, it dawned on them to ask if I’d left the country in the past 3 years. I told them I went to Mexico for Christmas. “Oh, well then you’re a malaria threat, so you can’t donate till January of next year. I’m sorry.”

There are SO many things that are wrong with the phrase that nurse said to me in the confines of that little cubicle.

First of all, I’m a malaria threat? Nobody told me I was getting malaria for Christmas. I was told it was an all inclusive beach resort… I didn’t know malaria was part of the ‘all inclusive’! “Hey Nate! Merry Christmas! Have some malaria.”

Needless to say, that kind of freaked me out.

Next, she says “You can’t donate till January of next year. I’m sorry.”

You’re sorry? You’re sorry I can’t donate? What am I supposed to say to that? “Oh, it’s okay. You know, I was really looking forward to coming in here toady and having a stranger drill into my body with a sharp metal object to siphon out my life-force… but I guess I’ll live. Maybe next year I’ll get to sit in a chair and watch the blood slowly drain from my veins. Well, have a good day, and thanks for trying.”

That most definately wasn’t my response. Needless to say, I jumped for joy, and was out of there faster than a Mormon at a Hillary Clinton rally.

I guess I’m just not meant to donate blood. We’ll see ya next year Red Cross. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

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