I'm entering my 30's screaming like a banshee.
All in all a good birthday was had by yours truly, thanks for all the birthday wishes from all of you.
One thing though.
Next time send nekkid pictures.
Seriously, isn't that the only way I can fully appreciate your birthday wishes?
I previously mentioned that I wanted to go skydiving in celebration, and punishment, of turning 30. I failed to mention that the Girl was ardently against this.
I've talked about doing it for every birthday since she and I have been together, but I just haven't gotten up the sack to do it yet. The day I wrote that entry, I interrupted the Girl while she was studying with my proclomation that, for my 30th, I was finally going to jump from a plane.
She reacted to my excitement the same way she would have if I had just told her that I was planning on pouring axle grease and gasoline onto the back patio, shaving my entire body, igniting the patio and turning our backyard into the \"Super Slip 'n' Slide o' Flames!\"
Which is to say, she gave me the look and banished me from the study room, post haste.
When I asked later why she was being so squirrelly about my urge to plummet to the Earth, she gave me the Bambi-eyes and launched into a spiel about how she doesn't want me to die and that she'd worry about me, and that I need to understand how much she doesn't want me to do this, and how much she doesn't want me to sneak off and do it anyway.
Cheezus, she was almost in tears.
I found this mildly strange as every other year I'd told her about my birthday wish, she'd just said that she didn't want to watch, or be near, or know about it at all. Now, she's worried about me? This kind of made sense, she's thinking about our future together and doesn't want me to end up embedded 12 feet into the Northern Colorado soil. Maybe she's thinking more about our mortality after that CPR/Emergency Responder class we took last week.
I wasn't sure, either way made me feel loved, I guess, but what kind of crushed me was when she told me not to sneak off and do it either.
I'm pretty sure there was no way she could know that me and CoWorkerBuddy were planning on doing exactly that. It's not like I normally sneak around and do shit without telling her. Maybe she's psychic, like her mother.
Tangent Time
The Girl's father, CaveMan, is fond of telling me that her mother has psychic powers.
\"Psychic?\" I'd say, asking the obvious, \"how's she psychic? And why haven't you hit the PowerBall yet?\"
\"Well,\" Caveman would say solemnly, \"she seems to always know what I'm going to do.\"
\"What, like whether or not you were going to nip your thumb with the ChopSaw? She has premonitions and shit?\"
\"Well, no, not like that,\" he replied, leaning in close with all seriousness, \"She knows stuff though, like whether or not I'm going to water her flower garden, do my chores, or go to the store with her. It's uncanny.\"
End Tangent
CoWorkerBuddy is roughly the same weight as me, so we were both planning a diet and workout regimen with the sole purpose of making the skydiving weight limitations. Not for our health, or looking better, or anything stupid like that. No, we both want to leap from an aircraft, screaming and pissing and flailing, in celebration of our PissShitHell milestone.
We had it all planned out, and now it seemed the Girl was dead-set on thwarting it.
This was fine, though, no problem. I'll find another way to freak my shit out, I'm creative like that.
I took a studied look at the trees in our backyard and figured I could rig up a bungee-system on the really tall one. I already almost fell out of that fucker once, I figure I should do it on purpose this time, sans neighbor's cats.
It was that, or see if I could hit the really spongy area of the lawn from the garage roof with a well-placed leap.
Neither sounded as appealing as a structured, sanctioned, professionally-controlled, fall to the ground.
The birthday rolled around and we went to the Mom's for a special dinner. That lady can not only golf like a champ, she can flat out cook. She even made me all my favorites because she's the coolest Mom ever.
Then came the part I had forgotten to be excited about, present time.
Or, as I like to call it, if you love me, give me cool shit.
The Mom busted out some cool golfin' shit, like head cleaner and some new balls, because my head is always getting dirty and my balls were getting old.
*giggling-like-twelve-year-old*
She got me a fly-ass shirt too, that is apparently the same one worn by that pimp-ass muthafucka, Tigger Woods. I can call him, \"Tigger,\" because we're both pimps like that. We be all up in that golf n' shit, yo.
Then, the Girl came in with her present. She'd been excited like nobody's business for about a month and I had absolutely no idea what she had in store. I'd tried to wangle it out of her, but she held fast. I even threatened to tickle her, a trick I learned from CaveMan, but she wouldn't break. She told me that it was even better than the UtiliKilt, so that could only mean that it was going to be the bestest present ever. No pressure there.
She came in with a cardboard box, about 2 feet square, that was partially wrapped in that day's Comics section. I unwrapped the only part that was wrapped, thinking it peculiar that she hadn't wrapped the whole thing.
Then I saw what she'd used to seal the top of the box.
It was a bumper sticker that read: \"Mile Hi Skydiving\"
My first emotion was pure glee, but I quickly reverted to bitterness, as I figured that she was just fucking with me. Besides, then what would be in the box? A parachute? Jumpsuit? Diapers for when I jump out of the plane and shit myself?
Turns out there was nothing but big packing balloons and a 8\" x 11\" piece of paper.
A Gift Certificate, entitling one \"JuddHole\" to an instructional course on Advance Freefall and one death-tempting jump from an aircraft from Mile Hi Skydiving.
It was at this point that I probably could've used diapers, because I almost pissed all over myself.
It's hard to express how impressed I am with the Girl and her gift. Not only because she pulled a classic snow-job on me and had me totally believing that she \"was scared of me skydiving, and just wanted me around to grow old with,\" but for actually going out and facilitating my dream of defying that old coot, Newton, and NOT dying after falling thousands of feet.
Then the Mom chimed in, reminding me that I'd invited her to go too. She won't even need the class or a diet, she can just sign a waiver, watch a video and join me on my adventure.
That's way cool. I can only imagine, me and my 60-year old Mom, screaming like retards at a Chuck E. Cheese, speeding towards the ground from a mile up, doing our best not to soil our rented equipment.
Awesome.
Then it hit me.
Crap, I've still gotta lose all that weight. Granted, I'm down to about 236, but I really, really, really, really, REALLY, miss beer.
\"Thanks honey, but I'm still too fat. This thing won't expire before I get my fat ass slimmed down, will it?\"
She explained that she got the Gift Certificate from a customer of hers that works there, a sweet hookup, that he promises her that they have one, just one, canopy that's rated for fatasses like me (up to 250 lbs.) and that I can go right frickin' now, if I wanted.
And I can go back to drinking beer.
*Sniff*
*Sniffle*
That may just be the greatest gift of all.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.If I could Golf what I Bowl and Bowl what I Golf… I'd still suck, I'm pretty sure.
I turn 30 tomorrow.
I had planned on sky-diving, a Harley (or at least a motorcycle of some sorts), another tattoo, a '68 Mustang, or maybe some big black boots and a guitar.
I was going to do something BIG because I had planned on freaking out.
I was dreading this birthday, not telling anyone about it, hiding from it, lying about it, telling it to leave me the fuck alone and not returning it's calls.
I think I've been dreading it because I spent too much time thinking about where I thought I would be at 30, as opposed to where I'm actually AT, at 30. It was bothering the hell out of me. It wasn't the number 30, or the idea of no longer being in my 20's, it was the internal comparison that I was doing between what I felt I should have accomplished by now as opposed to what I have done so far.
Then, I learned that none of that shit matters.
I remembered something so integral to aging that I was ashamed and astounded that I had missed it.
Get this...
On your Birthday...
People give you stuff.
Any day where people give you stuff is awesome beyond all awesomeness.
Especially when that stuff is beer. Or cake. Or beer. Or sex. Or beer.
I fucking love that stuff.
The Mom has this crazy friend, MickeyBob, who organized a bowling event, white-trash style Saturday night. It had been almost a year since I'd been bowling, and probably right around a week or so since I'd been white-trash. There were disco balls, lights, glowing pins and shoelaces, and we even got to pick our own white-trash names. It promised to be a much good time for \"Bud\" and \"Sissy.\"
It's not that I don't take bowling seriously though, it's just that, well... I don't think anyone should take bowling seriously.
Honestly, how hard is it to roll that goddam ball down the lane and hit them damn pins? Anybody can do that.
I figure that since rolling the ball and hitting the pins is so easy, the bowling styles should be affected by whomever bowls first, a la P.I.G.
I started it off with a sidearm slinger that sent that 7-pound pink-swirl wonder bouncing numerous times down the alley, flattening around 2 pins.
No one was really playing my way, though.
Cheaters. The nerve of them, rolling the ball normally. Shit, they were even using balls that had finger holes that fit their fingers.
Next frame was almost the trickiest, but the best if it works. Behind the back, through the legs, screaming a Celtic War Cry (\"YAR\"). Anyone can do it, but it's not easy. A jogging start, plant both feet to a sliding stop, then swing the ball in an outward arc from in front of you all the way around until your arm hits your ass. Um, release the ball at this point. I probably didn't have to tell you that. Sorry.
After that, I hurt a little and needed to catch back up to all the shameless cheaters, so I went for the 2-year old, granny-style, both hand-rolly jobber. As hard as I freaking could. It looked almost like an old school Highland Caber-toss, but with a ball and really stupid looking. I forgot to scream, but I hit lots of pins and was back in the game.
Next frame I thought I'd grab the heaviest ball I could find, hold it to my chest, then fling myself down the alley, facefirst, shoving the ball ahead of me into the pins. For the record, those alleys are waxed to a high sheen, very slick, and designed for the ball ONLY. Not my best idea. Especially when I got up and discovered that everything on the front side of my body hurt. Knees, hips, chest, face, arms and my still-sore-bitten cash-and-prizes all told me, emphatically, not to try that again.
A side-arm, a granny, and a baseball-style overhand (typically get asked to leave after those) kept me in the game until I could finally instigate the one rule I knew they ALL would follow: 7th Frame - Off Handed. Righties go Lefty, Lefties go Righty. Not difficult, but at least they're not just rolling boringly down the lane, same old same old anymore. I picked up a spare, and apparently that's good. I think the Girl did too, she's a helluva bowler. For a cheater.
Then, because I'm concerned with the youth of America, I attempted to teach my 7-year old little brother (The Mom's partner's boy) how to bowl Fred Flintstone style. Imagine my heartbreak when he had not only never seen ol' Freddy bowl, but had never heard of that cartoon at all. No matter, that hardly takes away from the sheer entertainment value of this style, not to mention it's high degree of difficulty. HUGE wind-up, ball poised at the apex, then tippy-tippy-tippy toes all the way up to the top of the alley, then follow through and drop the ball as lightly as possible into the lane. If it hits the pins at all, it shouldn't knock too many of them over, or you lose. I hit one pin in two tries.
THAT'S some talent.
Little Brother wasn't near as impressed with Fred Flintstone as he was with... \"The Sumo.\"
I've seen ESPN2 at 2 in the morning and they occasionally show Sumo Wrestling.
That shit is classic.
The ceremony of it all is such an incredible work-up for what really amounts to two sea-mammalian-like men running into each other, tummies first, and trying to knock each other down.
For this shot, I pretty much emulate the first part of the ceremony, and then I pretend the pins are the other wrestler.
Feet wide apart, facing out, then squat, with arms out, elbows up and hands on your thighs (either hand can hold the ball... bowling ball). Starting about 10 feet from the lane, take stiff, powerful, booming steps, alternating slaps to the thighs. By the time you square off against your opponent, put on your toughest, fattest face, raise the ball, in both hands, high above your head, swing back through your legs as far as possible and HEAVE. You may get some air underneath it and it may possibly bounce heavily a few times (will also probably be asked to leave after this one), but it's a classic.
Little Brother still doesn't quite have the style down yet, but he'll get to work on it again when his li'l after school group goes bowling in a couple weeks.
The other kids may simply think that he's got a load in his pants during his approach (still a little stiff) but, when his toothless li'l mouth hollers out, \"SUMO,\" while heaving the ball down the lane, the cool kids will figure it out.
That kid's gonna be the coolest bowler at his Catholic School.
Wait'll I show him all the great things you can do with the \"ball return\" when your tall enough to straddle it.
I'm an awesome big brother. I know this.
Went golfing for Labor Day. For my birthday. For the Mom's birthday (again).
And she kicked my ass.
AGAIN.
It was a good time, it always is because she buys the beer but, since I bought new clubs, I can't throw them at trees anymore, and my aggression outlets are limited. I just get more and more pissed and hit worse and worse until the Mom finally shanks a couple on purpose just to shut me up. Brutal.
I was so frustrated when I left that I stopped, on a whim, at the driving range by our house. I didn't have any cash, so I was honestly hoping to just go up to a tee, stand up there acting nonchalant until the attendant wasn't watching, and then run out and grab the balls that only made it four feet. Even if I only got 5 or 6, I could still redeem myself with my driver. The attendant grabbed me before I got up there, though, and told me that I had to have a bucket of balls to hit before I went up there. I told him I didn't have enough money unless I raided the ashtray of the truck. I turned to go home and he told me that if I picked up all the empty baskets, he'd give me a large bucket for free.
Cool.
I hit okay. Then I got better. Then I got a little better. Then, after chatting some more with the attendant, he gave me another large basket for my birthday.
Then, I kicked some ass. Every club, every shot, went straight and far. I wept openly and almost called the Mom to get her back out on the course. I was sure I'd show her now.
It was getting late, though.
The sun set on the last day of my twenties as I bounced a shot from my Big Bertha Warbird into the 300 yard marker on the driving range. Not too fucking bad.
I'm not afraid to turn 30.
Especially if people keep giving me stuff tomorrow.
This shit rocks.
Posted by JuddHole
This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.Someone bit my balls this morning. Not in the fun way, either.
I can hardly believe that I made it to 50 entries.
In all honesty, I started this diary with only the hopes that I could post a couple funny entries, put something unique on this wondrous thing called the Internet, and try and persuade some fine, young ladies to send me naked pictures.
I guess two out of three ain't bad.
The travails of last Sunday night, the Mom's 60th Birthday, the drinking of the wine, the smoking of a bunch of cigarettes, and the bullshitting well into the wee hours of the morning, apparently taught me and the Girl two very important things:
1) Jack
2) Shit
I think Jack left town.
We did it up again last night, just the two of us, drinking way too much and talking well into the night.
The Girl had a tough week. I don't ever profess to know what's going on in her head, but she's getting better at trying to tell me why certain events trigger hour after hour of the Niagra-Falling from her face and I'm getting better about understanding that sometimes, girls cry.
Sometimes, \"What do you want for dinner?\" means, \"You're getting fat.\"
Sometimes, \"Can you help me with the bedding laundry?\" means, \"You never do shit around the house.\"
Shit, sometimes, \"Hi honey, how was your day?\" means, \"You're getting fat.\"
Sometimes, the customer service gal at work starts crying while her husband is in the 7-11 getting Chocolate Milk, because she heard about the explosions in the school standoff in Russia. He may not know that it's not because he didn't get her \"Mocha\" or \"Double Chocolate,\" he only knows she's crying and he wants her to stop.
Sometimes, my adopted brother gives his wife a \"look,\" and she'll have tears streaming down her face. She freely admits that she doesn't even have a uterus anymore, so she figures she's out of excuses, but she still cries and he still tries to fix it.
I don't get it, but what do I know?
I'm just a man...
...who bawls every time he sees that scene at Jen-nay's grave in \"Forrest Gump.\"
OR Ray Bourque hoisting the Stanley Cup, dammit.
This morning, I was laying in bed, hating the feeble light that was coming in through the window slats, thinking about how Mother Nature doesn't completely hate me because it was nice and overcast outside.
I started to think that this wouldn't be so bad. I've got the day off, hell, a three-day weekend, not a lot to do, and I can sleep in for awhile. As long as I don't have to piss, I may be able to stay in bed until the Girl calls from her shop and asks me to bring her something big and greasy. Knowing she's probably far more hungover than myself, I know that this means a burger and fries meal, Juddhole-sized (and not anything else, perverts).
I was almost overjoyed that most of the football games on in the morning were going to suckify, so that I could just lay very still and give my head a chance to stop pounding.
Asshead and Dingbat were even being moderately well-behaved. They'd been barking non-stop at the neighbor dogs for about 3 hours, so they were kind of tired. Dingbat frequently enjoys waking me up, on weekends only, by biting my hands, regardless of where they are. She will only do this on a weekend, somehow sensing that she is my only hope for getting me up in time to make breakfast and dump bacon grease on her food. Asshead prefers to lick my face, OCD-like, for up to 15 minutes at a time, but this rarely gets me out of bed as quickly as getting bitten repeatedly.
Dingbat took a new angle on her attack this morning: Subtlety. Instead of sprinting from the backyard and leaving the floor in mid-stride somewhere in the doorway, giving me around a half-second to prepare for her landing on my crotch, she jumped up on the edge of the bed, slowly walked along the side of me, and slid down my body until she was laying across my legs. Pretending to be sweet as can be, she started gently licking my hand.
Then, CHOMP.
She doesn't bite hard, but it still isn't pleasant. I was in no mood to fight though, or even shout at her. Hell, I didn't even grab a spare pillow and swat her. I just moved my arm under the covers and wished for her to go away.
This would've been a good time to remember that one of her favorite things is to chase anything that moves quickly under the covers.
And bite it.
CHOMP.
Okay, I've got it figured out now. I'll throw her some misdirection with one hand, move the other one out of the way, very slowly, and then stick the first hand under my pillow. She'll never know where to strike, will become confused, and go away.
The misdirection worked, she went after the hand that was waving at her from across the bed.
And stepped right on my nuts.
She doesn't weigh a lot and is fairly nimble on her feet so, when I flinched, it turned into more of a glancing blow. It still hurt in that way that only \"bag tags\" can, but I kept my wits and I'd moved the bitten hand slowly away, so I figured I'd we'd just call this one a \"draw.\"
Don't get me wrong, I still wanted to beat her with a shovel, but I wasn't going to move any more than my left hand and/or eyelid at the moment, so I lay still again nursing my lightly aching fellas. I thought we were done with our skirmish.
Wrong.
She couldn't get that bacon grease out of her mind and, when she turned her attention back to it's original location, the hand under the covers, she saw and went after the lump that was most likely the hand that she was previously biting.
Problem is, it wasn't my hand.
Yeah, you guessed it.
CHOMP.
By the time I stopped swearing and had made my way into the kitchen to make coffee, I figured I seriously needed to consider what kind of day this could be when it started with getting bit on my balls.
In all honesty, it hasn't been bad.
Except for feeling like the kind of ASS that Ass scrapes off it's shoe, that is.
And the sore nuts.
I've actually started getting back into my art lately, inspired mostly by the decided lack of creativity currently in my life, as well as a couple fellow D-landers. One of whom is actually making money on a similar enterprise as well as his writing and the other is a truly amazing and wonderful person, who's almost daily writings I look forward to like a dog does to weekend bacon grease.
Here are my latest endeavors.
The first is Asshead, and I'm only proud of this one because it almost captures the shitheadedness that she seems to exude from every pore.
![\"Mazzy,](\"images/mazzydrawing.jpg\")
This is Dingbat, and the same goes for this one. I think I captured the gotardedness that she flounces and bounces through her life with.
![\"Carhartt,](\"images/carharttdrawing.jpg\")
I'll start working on something else soon. Maybe a self-portrait.
I'm going to make myself better looking though, and without the sore, bitten balls.