Go Out and Save a Face Today

This unfathomable trend of men growing weeds on their face just to prove they can, has become exhausting. You see it everywhere, baseball, football, bowling (well, I guess it has always had a presence in bowling). And I'm not even going down the route of duck hunting. These are the men you expect it from. It's cold when you're all alone out in the wilderness. It also gives them something else to stroke with their free hand.

I have news for those who find it a recreational sport to randomly decide to challenge father time with the wicked speed at which they may be able to camouflage their pie hole.  And do you know what that news is? You will enjoy a lot more alone time. If you're tired of your companion - now is the time to get that facial construction started. She'll leave after she awakes with pus oozing from her ulcerated, reddened dermis.

Bad example, cuz all
women want him.

I may or may not know this from my own experience.  It certainly hasn't been from recent experience, but this fashion direction has brought back horrid memories for me from a few years back. Remember the "two-day shadowed scruff" look? Yeah - nobody needs a human exfoliator. I now feel the need to reach out to those who may become victims of such. If I save just one face, this blog has been worth it.

Now, for those women who have been threatened by your loved one with a thought that he may take on this dastardly challenge - I advise the following response:  Oh that's great baby.  If we're going to relinquish grooming routines around here, then I can demolish the runway and commence reforestation.   Who doesn't want to save the rain forest?

This Super Hero work is endless!!!

Eight hours of Our Lives We'll Never Get Back

 

Rio Negro & Amazon meet but never mix.

I'm resurrecting a blog I started back when I was on a Visa in a foreign country south of the equator with Big Red.  So, please amuse me and pretend we're in the moment, as I'd like to continue with this escapade as if I were not currently in a country where springtime harkens to "enjoy the sun, if and only if it shines, because mother nature in menopause will rip those bright warm rays from you in a New York minute." 

If we weren't larger than life - you' could see view.

You may recall a time when I lamented, if you want time to stand still - hop on a treadmill.  However, after today - I can one-up that. Visit an art museum in a foreign country with the native-speaking museum director, and time will not only stop....... it will grab you by the ankles and toss you back to 4th grade crying for your momma.

We arrived at 9:20 a.m. and I swear it was 8 hours before any semblance of food was anywhere near passing these lips. There isn't eight hours worth of anything to view on this planet unless it's the video of Big Red flying out of the golf cart when I topped the speed with a sharp left turn and she clawed her way back off the ground donning fresh sod in her choppers. Now loop that video, and it will never get old. If only the Vine application were available back then.

Village Heifer in Amazon near Manaus

Beach gym in Rio (blackberry had no problem taking this pic)

I'd show you pictures of the artifacts, however, my blackberry was as bored as I, and couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to record this momentous episode in our lives.  FYI - this was in 2011, when I was still clutching to my own telecommunicative artifact with the global leader in wireless, Research in Motion.





I have, however, provided you with a few images reminiscent of our jaunt through the land of conflicting language. I know, they speak Portuguese, but depending on what longitude you are positioned, there are French and German influences in the speech. Just sayin.

As you can see we actually filled up a full frame in a photo, but we can't blame the travel on that. We arrived there in full body form. 


 I only posted these hideous photos of us, because I knew it would make Big Red's skin crawl. And.. well... that's fun for me. After all, she's lost a ton of weight.

It's how Super Heroes shower.

Big Red, Super Hero Jr., and Yours Truly prepping for the race

Our crackpot gaggle of girls has been asked to participate in an upcoming 5K Foam Fest! Yes an obstacle race with fun blow up toys to bounce, slide and tumble on.  If you want us to run, you must entertain us every 20 seconds with a surprise, such as a Champagne break, or a water feature. We love distractions.  The event organizers praise the race as the only obstacle mud run that doubles as a human car wash.  Apparently there is copious amounts of foam thrown at the runners, because the event crew has an anal retentive need for cleanliness at a "MUD" run. Whatever!

This is not our first attempt as such an event. As a matter of fact I recently received praised by a workout guru for my dedication to fitness. Mr. Fit had noticed, via the internet diary we call Facebook,  that I actually ran in a Mudder Race last summer.  I didn't have the heart to tell him it was the Run Amuck, which although sounds a bit like a tough mudder - but was really more like a stroll through a carnival with a candied apple in your mouth.  FYI, here is the warning from the race organizers: 2 Tips we encourage you to follow: (1) Don’t drink before the race. Alcohol + masses of people + mystery obstacles = molotov cocktail. In other words, bad news. (2) Absolutely, postively no diving into the mud pit. Period.

Our Event Sponsor Bosley

So anyway, my team took this race very seriously as we prepared that morning for this annual event. We even secured a sponsor for the day - who supplied us with all our necessities for this arduous affair. It was a very hot day which required much hydration. Two hours prior to shotgun, we made sure we downed at least three beers and one Mojito. Whaaaat? We had two hours to twiddle our thumbs. We were bored.

The Aftermath.  Alive and well!

 The way I see it, anyone can run a race sober. Where's the challenge there. But I have to say, there is nothing like a 3.1 mile run with obstacles to sober you right up after you end the race flying face down on the giant blow-up water slide. You know where we placed? Yeah I don't either.

I resolve to not resolve

You don't want to see this face.

As the new year has begun, all the talk around the table, any table, and every table I've been around (which are many) is about resolutions and positive changes some of us should make in our lives.  I just learned yesterday for the first time in my 50 years and 11 months of life, my mother doesn't think I'm perfect. Oh, I know you are as astonished as I - well not surprised I'm not perfect, but earth-shatteringly devastated my mother doesn't think I am.

In her defense, and Lord knows why I'd be defending her right now.  She didn't just come right out and say you're not perfect. No. That would just be cruel.  Her words, "well no one is perfect." My response, "I beg your pardon." So, she's enjoying living in the hind quarters of the house. And not because I have her locked up back there. She's just wishing she hadn't produced a child with such prominent canines that sparkle when they are exposed. She's keeping her distance.

Not the group listed over there->, but we're at a table.

Anyway, back to others, who by the way, aren't perfect either. Yeah, she lumped all of you in there - so take it and like it. So as I sat at lunch with Rower Girl, Big Red, Diva and Mr. Capitol Hill last week, there was discussion of giving up drinking from midnight to 7 a.m. Yeah, that's kind of absurd if you ask me, because everyone at that table had a mimosa when they woke up that morning.

We are not giving up Mark Estee. CAMPO, I mean CAMPO.

There was the typical workout promise of not missing more than two consecutive days of exercise.  I won't say who, but that has already been broken - which, by the way, is what resolutions are for - to challenge you and make you feel like a total failure when you prove to no one but yourself - you can't do it.

My personal favorite is that of Big Red's. She has decided it would be a good idea to eliminate a word from her vocabulary, which I find completely admirable. That is a tough thing to do once you are committed to such.  Now mind you, I'm sure you believe there are several words you could give up from your colloquialisms, but the one word, yes only one - not two or three words Big Red is most offended by is "Amazing." Yes, of all the words she knows - okay sorry - that made it sound like she has an extensive lexicon.  Of the words she knows, this is the one she's challenged herself to never utter again.  I kid you not.

Making the Little General blush

Coach and Brandon Wimberly at Hawaii

For whatever reason, Big Red and I have been summoned to Cashell Field House at Nevada's Mackay Stadium upon occasion to displace the Little General's attention from the spherical object he's so obsessed with; and give him a reason he's grateful for his lot in the world of football.

We'd remind him of the really important things other than winning. Like the boosters who travel with the team would appreciate a section on the plane, similar to a smoking section, where cigarettes would not be allowed, however libations mandatory.   We've taken a poll, and the weary travelers all agree such an amenity might help with some of the long trips home after a game that ended like, I don't know -  Notre Dame.

Inspirational speech to Cody Fajardo at Hawaii

With every visit we would regale the coach with stories of the community antics of inappropriate behavior, and report with whom anyone might be cavorting.  As the stories began, he'd shake his head, place it between his hands like a vice, and look down at his desk. Intermittently he'd raise his head with the look of bewilderment on his face - and at that point we'd say, "You didn't hear that from us."  Now coach isn't someone who cares much for gossip, but our job was to try to save the staff from the black cloud that may have been hovering over the field house at the time.

Sometimes we'd whisk him away to lunch where he'd announce his insistence on paying the bill, which is a bigger than life offer.  We know this because when he actually pulled his wallet out, the leather crackled like that of an aged person's arthritic knee when trying to straighten it.  The real shock was the spider crawling from the cobweb like material that had accumulated in the billfold.  I'm sure if he were ever on the pay scale behooving his talent, that wallet would have been so greased it would have landed on the table on its own.

Thanks for keeping the cannon Coach

I must confess I don't really think Coach actually looked forward to our visits, but it took time away from his boisterously vocal and colorful speeches he may have been offering to every staff person within earshot.  As a matter of fact at times he'd walk us down the hall to show us something, and it was oddly always near the exit door.  He would even try to duck into the restroom thinking he could shake us. One time he actually jumped out of his window. No, not really. A long time ago the staff moved the window locks up high so he couldn't actually attempt such a feat.

Everyone has their own opinion of our pistol creating Coach who has, by the way, changed the game forever. But you need to know, beneath his hardcore, crusty exterior - his blush meter is in full working order.  At the end of our last visit, we departed with "Hey Coach, as always, we've got your back............. Oh, and your front."  As he turned on his heel to get the paperwork filled out for the restraining order, his face was so full of blood, that I'm not sure how the remainder of his body functioned.

So I think it's safe to say,  the happiest moments in Coach's life have been his view of our backsides exiting the glass doors of Cashell Field house.  We will forever love Nevada's icon for his incredible sense of humor and his wonderful dedication.

I'm a pork belly thinner after literally eating pork

A wise man recently told me I should write when I'm angry, because everyone writes better when they are angry.  So I thought to myself. I do this often, because I can't read anyone else's thoughts, therefore I'm stuck with mine.  It was now imperative to bring out the inner anger in me; and I knew I had it. I can tell from reading some of my past Facebook posts.

Well what has really chapped my hide in recent weeks is the plateau I've been sitting on, while Big Red slides into home base with her goal weight completely intact. And I quote, "I'm at my goal. Oh, wait  today I'm a pound under my goal," in her best Gidget voice.  Well gosh. I couldn't be happier for you.  Well you did have a lot more weight to lose than I.  Oh snap!! And I'd go on, but as we all know this blog is about me.

Thankful for 128 lb.

I am delighted to report I busted through that final plateau on Thanksgiving morning. That's right, no matter how many times I stepped off and on that scale during the five-minute victory dance, it read 128 lbs.  Now you wonder what did I do differently the day before to finally shake off another layer of pork belly.

Here's the trick: First of all, go to lunch with a lush (in my case it's "I've reached my goal" Big Red) and order the fish they have on special, because this means they're trying to get rid of it before it stinks up the joint. Choose a lovely wine approved by your lunch lush, because this will be all you'll consume due to the one week-old grouper staring at you from your plate's vantage point. Then later in the day, say around 5 p.m. meet the same lush and second lush (Gucci) for an informal meeting with a Museum executive, where you should eat the guts of one BBQ Pork slider; and you must drink all your vodka.

From left: BFF, moi, Raiderette, "I'm under my goal" Big Red,  and Tahoe girl.

And the Pièce de résistance is to skedadle on down to your favorite Italian feeding trough at the very moment they are slicing the premium portion of the Prosciutto, and nibble on that with the crust of a tiny slice of bread - and drink all your wine, and maybe a little of someone else's. This my friends was the magic formula for careening my body through the tortuous daily reading on the scale of (you're still a loser who is such a loser, you can't even lose another pound.)

You all do know that I'm no fool, which is why I hid the scale last night so not to be tempted to climb on for the day-after-Thanksgiving reading. I like the ignorant bliss of knowing just yesterday I was at my goal; and as far as I'm concerned - I'm still there. No scale has any proof otherwise.

Carnivorous Acts of Experimentation

I was recently volunteered by someone to go to the Best of the West Rib Cook-off to indulge in the guiltless act of slathering my face with a couple of dozen carnivore delights, each accompanied by their own palate pleasing liquid elixir.  So, because I'm a giver, and because I refuse to compromise my road to Thinville without jeopardizing everyone else's trip to same destination - I brought in recruits.

Big Red knows no boundaries.

As a non-expert in... well.... everything really, I was surprised to have been put in a position to actually give open judgment on such an important event. So, I did the best scientific experimentation of tasting that I could muster up. Big Red and I filled the table with the most judgmental people we know including BFF, BFF's Banker (aka her husband), Gucci, and two 20-something girls who I shall call "Too Young & Hot to be our friends (TY&H).

So the results are: the TY&H twins hated everything. I think if you are a size 2 and want to remain so, it is actually a requirement to be repulsed by any smell, let alone flavor. They're fired.


The only testosterone at the table, BFF's Banker, gave his thumbs up to The Texas Outlaw ribs.  I never really retrieved an opinion from BFF, because she was elbow deep into a mound of ice cream on a stick. God help us if anyone creates rib flavored frozen creamsicles.

Big Red and Gucci were of no use to me, because neither of their palates have ever discriminated against any type of vittles on a bone.  The Bone Daddy ribs put a sparkle in Big Red's eye, but I can't cleanly ponder the purpose of that.

My favorite sauces were Desperado and Back Forty

Now back to me.  I took my role in the Rib Lab very seriously.  I tasted every morsel up until it all started tasting the same. So after careful review of my notes, I noticed the Carl's Jr. like monster sauce drip next to the Back Forty entry, which can only conclude I was overcome with emotion at this very moment.  And, you may ask, who the actual winner was of this grand festival.  I shall tell you the prize was claimed by Chicago BBQ, which may be the only ribs that never crossed any of my crack pot group of taster's buds.