140.6

Yesterday, I finally got around to going to Fleet Feet and dropping $2 on the decal I’ve been longing for since November.

It’s a white oval with a 140.6 in the middle of it.

It doesn’t say anything really. Just a number, but anyone who knows what that number means, knows that that little decal actually says quite a lot.

Back before I did an Ironman, I would see random cars and trucks, here and there with 140.6 decals and I have to admit, I was jealous.

I was jealous of the kind of person that could do an Ironman, someone with drive, discipline, willpower, control, grit, strength and determination. Many of the things I’ve always thought I lacked.

Well, I guess I have a bit of all those things…

I would sometimes drive to the trail to run, so I didn’t have to run all the way to the trail to run.

I had enough discipline to not smoke while I was running.

I had the willpower to not stuff my face with pizza and cheeseburgers until after my workouts.

I had enough control not to poop my pants. Not even once (although I came close a time or two).

I had grit….well, actually, I don’t know that I had any grit. 

Determination? Well yeah, I had a lot of that.

So I'm gonna drive around in my car with my 140.6 sticker. Maybe throwing  a “wassup” head nod to someone else that has one. Maybe some aspiring Ironman will see my fat ass in the car and think “if he can do it, I can do it.

Maybe they’ll think I’m driven, determined, and all those other things people think Ironmans are.

Maybe they’ll just flip me off because I drive like an asshole.

I got nuthin'.

So I’m sitting here trying to think about what to blog about and I honestly can’t think of a damn thing.

I have Bleu “searching for the Satellites" playing in the background (which is one of the most amazing songs ever) and I am reminded that my right tweeter is out, so I have the left speaker pointing at me and I can’t tell the difference.

I should probably get around to updating my home theater system one of thee days.

I could blog about my dog, Tex, but he’s not really doing anything right now besides licking where his balls used to be.

I wonder if he misses them. I know I would.

I could blog about work, but a lot of the people I work with read this, plus, who the hell wants to read about my day at work? It's legal invoicing for God's sake.

I could write about Cube Girl, the ridiculously annoying nerd girl that sits next to me at work, but then she may read this and misconstrue every word and twist it into some crazy love letter to her, so I don’t think I’ll do that. That would make going to work tomorrow morning weird.

I could write about politics, but I don’t know anything about them and would probably sound more stupider than I already do when trying to talk about “the health care reformer” and the “Tea Party.”

I could write about tea parties. I’ve never been to one, but I’m sure they’re nice. Meh, I don’t have one of those Sunday Church hats anyway.

I miss Dewey, but I already blogged about that and I don’t feel like crying right now.

I could blog about my girlfriend, but then she would know just how crazy I really am about her, and we wouldn't want that.

I think I’ll just wait until something good comes up.

*sigh*

Nobody likes to buy a plunger

Where did you get your plunger I ask?

Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I bought a plunger. It’s seems to be one of those things you just kind of always have. Like cinnamon or a garden hose or a Ken doll collection.

 Now that I think about it, I can say with confidence that I have never bought a plunger and I can say with a great degree of certainty that my (ex) wife never bought one either, yet there it sets, for the most part, unused, but ready for action 24/7.

The only reason I’m even thinking about the mystery of the plunger at all is because I was at the store earlier and the guy in front of me felt it necessary to let the cashier –as well as anyone else within earshot- know that he had done gone and stopped up his toilet again. 

Hell, I’m sheepish when I have to buy toilet paper at the store for God's sake, and here's this guy shouting it from the rooftop like a proud Poppa. 

Nobody wants hear about why you're buying a plunger.We just want to stare at the floor and pretend we're not thinking about why you need to buy a new plunger.

But there he was, proud as a peach and telling the whole world about his porcelain plight.

Now I’m suddenly wondering, if he stopped it up again, where the hell is the plunger he used last time?

Does this guy seriously clog the john so often that he wore out his last plunger? Did he lose it? Maybe lend it to a buddy last Thanksgiving and forget to get it back?

What's even worse is that he was buying his new -and much needed- plunger at the Dollar Store. Maybe that's where he got his last one and I just happened to witness a toilet situation this guy has been dealing with for months and this is his fifth plunger trip.

Maybe for most people, a $1 plunger would do the trick, but I don't think that's the case with this guy. He should probably head over to The Home Depot and get an industrial one (do they make those?)

 Anyway, this is by far the most disgusting thing I have ever blogged about and hopefully, it will stay that way.

Now I don't know what's more embarrassing, the fact that I've spent the last 30 minutes blogging about a guy buying a plunger at the dollar store, or that I have such a boring life that a guy buying a plunger at the dollar store is all I have to blog about.

Peace!

You Have Entered the Twilight Zone

The other day, as I flipped through the channels, I stumbled across a Twilight Zone marathon.

I instantly parked my ass on the couch and got lost in another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.

Man, I hadn’t heard that monologue since I was a kid.

The Twilight Zone was my old man’s favorite show and I remember so many nights, when I was just a kid, staying up late and watching it with him. Half the time I was huddled on the couch scared out of my pants with my hands over my eyes and him making fun of me, but boy did I love watching that show and boy did I like spending time with Dad.

So, over the New Year's weekend, for I don’t know how many hours, I just sat and completely spaced out. Lost, not only in that crazy dimension, but in memories. Was it hours and hours of wasted time? I don’t think so, because not only was I entertained by the horrendous acting, ridiculous twists, Rod Serling’s genius and the overall naiveté of the late 50’s/early 60’s, but I was brought back to my childhood that, while full of lots of bad times, had just as many (if not more) good times that I don't really think about as often as I should.

I may not sit huddled and scared on the couch anymore, peeking through the cracks between the fingers that once covered my face, nor do I sit wondering if I’m really a doll in some space alien’s playroom. I sit and enjoy every moment and every memory that it brings back, because that’s all I have left (well that and 9 more episodes on the DVR)

Now if only I could find a Benny Hill marathon…

Miss you, Dad.