You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2006.

The wedding is coming up soon. About 9 days. All my coworkers have been asking me one of two questions: “Are you ready for it?” and “Are you nervous yet?”

The answers are Yes and No, in that order. What they really want to ask, of course, is am I getting The Cold Feet yet. The answer to that is No, and I don’t expect to. It’s not like I’ve been sitting around for the past few weeks saying to myself, “Oh no! I’ll not get to spend any time with my friends anymore! I won’t be able to go out to strip bars, get blazing drunk and crash on a friend’s couch! I won’t be allowed to brazenly hit on every woman who walks by me and does or does not achieve eye contact with me! I won’t be able to play video games all night long anymore! I’ll be a slave to a relationship!”

I haven’t been saying any of that, because I got over that phase of my life long ago. I’m tired of it, and I’ve moved on. I don’t have any interest in staying up late drinking and carousing, and I’ve become somewhat of a social recluse for the last few years.

Yes, I’ve lived that life, and it no longer appeals to me. And the woman I have found is quite possibly the greatest woman in the world. I’m totally ready to be married to her for the rest of my life. No qualms. No looking back. No regrets.

We’ve both changed quite a bit since we met. A lot, actually. Almost a complete turnaround. We have, over the last five years, grown up… together. We have faced trials and tribulations, and have come out the other side better people for it. We are stronger. And I know we can get through anything life throws at us – as long as we face it together.

I promise I’ll get back to my normal, mean-spirited self next post.


Aug 23, 1982 – My first day of school.

Well, I’m told that school is something that I have to do. I don’t really care for the idea, to tell you the truth. I was pretty happy sitting at home watching Mr. Greenjeans act like a weirdo and eating grilled cheese sandwiches. Now all of a sudden, I have to go with mom to Hill’s and buy a backpack. I don’t really see the need for a backpack. I mean all I’m supposed to take with me is a pack of crayons and a box of Kleenex. The Kleenex won’t even fit in my backpack, and yet, here I go… off to school with a nearly-empty backpack and a box of tissues wedged under my arms.

I don’t really understand why we have to bring tissues. They stay on the teacher’s desk, and the ony one who seems to use them is my teacher. All of my classmates simply wipe their noses on their shirtsleeves. I mean, why else would we be wearing shirts, if not to wipe our faces with?

The day started out really boring. We walked in and had to find our names on a place-card. The only problem is there are about 9 kids named “Mike” in my class. All of them are wearing blue Izod shirts. I hate them all.

Izod. That stupid little alligator. And here I am wearing stupid hand-me-down Acapulco shirts from the 70’s. How am I ever going to meet any friends dressed like this? They obviously come from a rich family. Them and their stupid Izod shirts and Reebok shoes and… yes… Crayola brand crayons. I look at my box of crayons. It’s only then that I notice what Mom bought me; “Crayon” brand crayons. The word crayon was made to look like the Crayola logo! What a crock!

Milk break was so lame. That fascist teacher of mine decided on reverse alphabetical for the order to get in line for milk. Which put me toward the back. If you ask me, the alphabet is in forwards order for a reason. That’s just the way things are. You can’t just make up your own rules as you go along, lady.

So I get in line for milk, and by the time I get up to the cooler, there are only 2 or 3 cartons of chocolate left, and they all look like they’ve had chocolate milk leaked all over them. I can’t touch that, much less carry it all the way over to the table. Grudgingly, I pick up a 2% Milk and head over to sit with one of the Mikes. “Mike W.” to be precise. I notice he got a chocolate milk.

“You don’t like chocolate milk?” asked the Mike.

“Erm… they were all kinda yucky,” I answer.

“Cool shirt.”

I looked at him with narrowed eyes for a second. He was probably one of those homosexuals I’d been hearing about on the news. Oh well. “Thanks,” I said. “Say, you wanna trade milks?”

He looked down at his own chocolate milk and then over at mine. “Sure,” he said finally.

We traded milks and sat in silence. This “school” thing is going to be rough, I can tell.

I walked in on an old guy pooping yesterday. And my day went downhill from there.

I had just walked into work, and figured since I was now on the clock, it would be a good time to go to the bathroom. There is nothing quite like the feeling of having someone pay you to perform a bodily function that you would normally do for free. So I walk into the employee bathroom, tucked safely away behind two huge swinging doors clearly marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY PLEASE” and proceed toward the lone stall.

I notice a jacket slung over the toilet paper dispenser, but it doesn’t register in my brain until I have taken one step too many. And then, there in front of me, is an old guy – a customer – standing, pulling his underwear up in front of the toilet. With the door wide open. How unsavory.

I should back up just a little. Despite what I wrote a couple paragraphs ago, I don’t really like using the bathroom at work. For that matter, I don’t really like using the bathroom anywhere in public. I was with my fiancĂ© for about a year before I could use the bathroom at her apartment. There’s just something about what goes on in the bathroom that I think should only be performed at home.

Over the last few years, I’ve slowly gotten over my fear of public toilets, inasmuch as I can now urinate – sometimes – in public, but several conditions must be met. First, the bathroom must be empty. I will walk straight out if there is someone else in the bathroom. I don’t want there to be any chance that someone might want to start a conversation with you in the bathroom. Secondly, it must contain a locking stall. I will not use a urinal. It’s too much like peeing on a wall. I consider it uncivilized. And I firmly believe the reason there is so much public urination can be directly traced back to urinals.

So after I see this old guy with his pants down, and dart out of the bathroom. And at that point, I really didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t use the bathroom now. So for the rest of the day, I had to work with a full bladder and a shattered sense of security about the Employee Bathroom.

Let me tell you, it was a long day.

This is my “Blog”

If you aren't completely appalled, then you aren't paying attention.

This Month on Tacofish

September 2006
« Aug   Jan »

Public Discourse

The Humans in the Wa… on Detached
Jonathan Woolbright on Preparing For War
Jonathan Woolbright on Amateur Hour
Jonathan Woolbright on Suicide in the Morning
Craig on Unfaithful