Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Don't Call It A Comeback

So I haven't blogged in quite awhile. I wish I had a good excuse, but I really don't.

I like to think that people came to this site, realized I hadn't blogged in two weeks and thought to themselves, "I'll bet Narm is stumbling down a busy city street, shirtless, mumbling to no one about how he doesn't need reality TV. Because I'm already living it, man. I'm already living."

But that isn't ENTIRELY true.

Really, I've been sipping from the Fountain of Age.

In the past twelve months I've bought a house, fixed up and painted that entire house, put a new roof on it, moved my girlfriend into it, proposed to said girlfriend in said house, planned a wedding in that house and finally, accepted a new job. The house really doesn't have anything to do with that last one but there wasn't a poetic way to slide that in there.

You know how you can bundle your cable, internet and phone service together? I sort of worked out a package with adulthood to do the same thing.

So my wedding is in two months. My first day at my new job is Monday. And my last shred of youth slipped through my fingers as I sat at Crate and Barrel the other day saying, "Oh my god this tea kettle is the perfect compliment for our kitchen!"

I've recently spent a lot of time talking to my friends about growing up. But then I was walking down the street and bumped into Adulthood. I tried to conjure up all those nasty things I had been saying behind Adulthood's back - but, like running into an ex-girlfriend of break-ups past, I realized that with time had come acceptance. My Friday nights being blacked out and dancing to crappy techno songs were gone. I now live in a world where I don't bring a keg to a party, I bring some kind of dip and a bottle of wine in a fancy bag. And I'm ok with that.

Growing up is a little embarrassing. I suddenly had to answer to all my promises of changing the world and realized I had very little to offer other than anger and sarcasm. It feels a lot like being a Republican (zing!).

I also realized that growing up isn't so bad. Sure, I'm just a cog in the machine now. I live in the suburbs, I have an office job and a house - but all those things are grounded in reality.

And I'm just living it, man.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Are You Ready For Some Football?

I now have Direct TV's NFL Sunday Ticket, which means I am better than you.

I get every single NFL game every weekend. I may turn my chimney into a keggerator and my foyer into a urinal - because I will never leave my living room again.

Now, instead of having to go to the bar to see my beloved Miami Dolphins (yes, they suck and their colors suck and that city sucks, I know) I can just watch from the comfort of my living room.

No more flirting with bartenders hoping to get free drinks; now I can save all my winks and cleavage for the Lady Friend in hopes she will keep my beer full.

No more old dirty guy trying to talk to me about how much the Dolphins suck. I am a Dolphins FAN - you think I don't realize this? I'm dumb, not blind.

No more young fratty drunk guy quoting Jersey Shore and telling me how "this is the Browns' year, man!" Yeah, sure it is, you do remember this is Cleveland, right? It is actually in the Constitution that we aren't allowed to win sports championships. Thomas Jefferson added it just to be a prick.

Yes, it seems to all be falling into place. I can watch any game I want.

Unless, of course, the Lady Friend is watching the Browns.

Doesn't she know their colors suck?

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

I Am The Batman

Yesterday, a bat had found its way into our office and was terrorizing employees. I heroically battled this ferocious beast, narrowly avoiding its razor sharp claws and lasers shooting from its eyes.

In actuality, it was just flopping on the ground and I held a piece of cardboard over it until we could get something to carry it out of the building.

But, still, I'm a total hero.

Growing up, we had bats in our house all the time. My Mom would scream and my Dad, brother and I would grab tennis rackets and chase the thing around the house until one of us went all Pete Sampras on that mofo.

Which was all fine and dandy.

Until the time I was 17 and came home at 1am after having consumed some adult beverages. I walked in to the greeting of a small winged rat flying at my head. Being 17, I couldn't wake my parents up because they would see I had been drinking, but I also couldn't go to bed with a bat in the house because dude wasn't even paying rent.

So, I drunkenly grabbed a tennis racket and stumbled around the house swinging at the bat. We played this little game in the kitchen for about 10 minutes until it got bored with that room and went to the dining room.

But our dining room was one of those rooms people aren't allowed to actually enter. The rooms that are only for "company" and if my Dad or I stepped foot inside them, we would face certain doom. Shit was scarier than bats with laser beam eyes.

So I, in a drunken stupor, holding a tennis racket, walk into the forbidden layer of white furniture.

After another epic battle of the bat flying past me and my feeble attempts to swat at it - I finally connected and knocked it senseless.

Which would have been fine and dandy...

Except a let out a deafening "WOOOOOOOOO!" as soon as I hit it.

In my mind, I had just blasted a homerun over the left field wall to win game 7 of the World Series.

In my parents mind, I had just come home drunk at age 17 - and woken them up at 1am.

Which meant it was their turn to chase me around the house with a tennis racket.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Baby, Baby, Baby

I want to know who invented baby talk. Now I want them to drive off a cliff to the tune of hilarious circus music.

I don't care what anyone says, talking to a baby in a normal voice and then talking to them in a baby talk voice does not change the reaction of the baby. The baby isn't crying because you are speaking in your everyday voice and suddenly you go to baby talk and the thing is potty trained and reading at a 3rd grade level.

Parents go through so much trouble to make sure their kids don't watch too much television so they don't grow up to be an idiot - then talk to them like they're drunk on tequila and rainbows.

If my baby's first words were, "I jus wuv my lil pumpkin - yes I do! Who's a good baby?" I would be forced to give it up for adoption - even knowing the odds are 2:1 it ends up in Madonna's hands.

Why? Because there is still a decent chance it is adopted by Angelina Jolie. That would have to make me Father of the Year.

Talk to me, baby.