The Poop Partner

Dear Diary …

Do you ever have those moments in your life where you are convinced that you are being set up, and that somehow, somewhere people are watching you and just laughing away?

Here’s what I mean by that … like I feel as if every day of my life my wife plays a game with me called “Hide the Remote.”

We got three remotes in the living room, and every day when I came home from work … one of ‘em is missing. Different one every day … sometimes it’s the little white one. Next day it’s the big white one. Day three it’ll be the black one. The one thing that remains consistent, is that one of them is missing.

I think I’m gettin’ set up here, because every day I’m on my hands and knees like an idiot … looking under couches … digging through seat cushions … generally just wandering around like a lost little moron. So I’m convinced … there’s a hidden nanny cam somewhere in that room, and my wife is watchin’ me and havin’ a laugh!

There’s no reason for a remote to be lost every day. I mean the remote sits in one place … on the table next to the couch. You pick it up to use it, and then you put it back down when you’re done. There’s is never a time where it should be in a basket in the corner of the room under a pillow unless it’s put there on purpose!

That’s it … I’m just gonna have to rip the heads off all the kids’ stuffed animals until I find the hidden camera! You made me do this!

OK … moving on Diary … this is definitely going to fall under the category of “diva behavior,” but I don’t care, because I don’t think it’s too much to ask that we as humans all agree that we should never be “poop partners.”

When I’m in the bathroom at work … there are two stalls … and there is nothing worse than being in there and minding your own business and then having somebody come into that bathroom, plop down into the stall next to you, and immediately become your poop partner.

What we are doing is gross. It should NEVER be in the company of others, and yet now we are only separated by about six inches and a thin plastic barrier. I don’t like this one bit!

And I know you’re saying … it’s a public restroom and there are two stalls, but I don’t care. Nobody under their own free will should actually use that second stall when the first is occupied unless it’s DIRE emergency!

If I walk into the bathroom and see a pair of feet … I turn around and come back later when they’re gone. I refuse to be your poop partner!

But these people got no filter. They also got no volume control. Good Lord … there’s another pair of shoes here next to you, I don’t need to hear all your awful sound effects. If you’re gonna force yourself on me like this, you gotta at least keep it down man. This is already an awful experience, now you’re just making it WAY worse!

It’s called “dignity,” can we at least preserve it a tiny bit here?

Till next time Diary … I say … Goodbye.

The Beach Stinks

Dear Diary …

So I’m fresh off vacation right now. OK … “fresh” isn’t the word … because I’m tired, man. Real life happens too early in the morning!

I always think that’s the dumbest question when you go back to work after vacation … “So … do you feel all refreshed and relaxed?”

No! Actually, I’m totally not relaxed because I got like two weeks of work to do this week to make up for my lazy loungin’ butt last week.

Refreshed? You know when I felt refreshed? The first day of vacation … ahhh … very far away from work. THAT is when it’s relaxing!

Anyway … I went to the beach. Which … let’s be honest … is totally overrated.

Now don’t get me wrong … I like the beach vacation. I just don’t like the actual “beach” portion of it.

I like being near the beach. I like being able to see and smell the beach … but actually GOING to the beach? Meh.

Cuz when you’re on a trip with several other couples, and seven total children … that’s a TON of crap to lug to the beach. Every kid’s gotta have a bucket. Every kid’s gotta have a boogie board. Every kid needs 257 snacks … and a chair … and a life jacket … and a canopy for shade. On and on and on.

And that’s not even the worst part about the beach … the worst part is very simple … SAND.

That stuff is everywhere and it’s gross.

It gets stuck all over your body, and [[pfft pfft]] every time the wind blows it goes in your mouth. In your hair … on your towel … everywhere!

I don’t know who in their right mind would EVER think it’s romantic to mash potatoes at the beach. You can’t keep the sand out when you’re just sittin’ there … and now you’re jammin’ things into things? SAND! Everywhere sand! Not romantic!!!!

Oh … and here’s another screwgee when it comes to the beach … sunblock. Specifically the spray sunblock that we all use now.

First of all, let me just applaud the genius at the sunblock company who came up with this stuff. They managed to capitalize on a society that’s so lazy that we simply cannot be bothered to rub a little lotion on our bodies, and instead need it in a quick to use spray can. And by doing that, they managed to figure out a way to charge twice as much money for half as much sunblock … and we’re all eatin’ up like crazy.

And I know what you’re saying, “Oh but is SO easy and convenient!”

Yes … that is very true. But it’s also very easy to totally miss parts of your body because you’re just quickly [[psshhhhhhtt]]] … there I’m all done!

But you’re not. And you know how I’ know this? Because I fried the heck outta my shoulders on day one at the beach. Totally missed em with the spray.

Then I get home and realize my shoulders look like some sort of Native American warpaint with these two giant painful strips of red on ‘em. Thanks spray sunblock!

So yeah … I’m totally refreshed and relaxed from vacation!!! Can’t ya tell?????

Till next time Diary, I say … Goodbye.

Pretending to Care About the Olympics

Dear Diary …

Ahhh yes … it’s that special time that only comes every couple of years … the Olympics.

And for the record, I was going to say “Every four years,” but then some know-it-all would say “But the Winter Olympics happen in two years!”

So then I was going to say ‘Every two years,” but then some other know-it-all who doesn’t count the winter ones would say “But the Summer Olympics happen every four years!”

So there … now I’ve covered both! Anyway … the Olympics …

The time where athletes from all across the globe come together to compete, and the people of the world flock to their televisions to pretend we care about these random sports they’re all playing.

My wife loves the Olympics.  Why?  I’m not exactly sure.

She loves swimming, gymnastics, beach volleyball … that’s just to name a few. And you know when the last time was that she watched any of these sports?  Three years and 50 weeks ago when the last Summer Olympics ended.

But for the next two weeks it’s gonna be “Oh my God … we can’t go anywhere tonight … we gotta watch beach volleyball.”  Now I will say this … the outfits for women’s beach volleyball … yeah … Zack likey.

Even better is that every time they score a point it’s like “Yay! Let’s hug in our bikinis!”  Alright … this is something I can get behind.

And look … I don’t hate the Olympics. I like the idea of having live sports to watch on TV at pretty much any time of the day or night.

I’m just pointing out that we make a HUGE deal about all these sports … “Oh what’s gonna happen in the 200 meter butterfly?”  And then two weeks from now, if you offered us a million dollars to tell you when the next swim meet is … we would have NO clue.

I mean .. gymnastics … you would think the Super Bowl was on the way NBC will make such a BIG deal about it.  But the difference is … with the Super Bowl … we don’t say “Hey good job Denver Broncos … see ya in four years!”

Look … watch if you want, just don’t pretend like you’re actual fan of any of these sports unless you plan on watching them again later.  And don’t ask me … cuz I have no idea when any of these sports play.  Is there a swimming channel on cable?  Like up in the 800’s or something? Maybe it’s there.

But if nothing else, it makes us feel special as Americans to destroy these other smaller countries in random sports we may or may not care about.

Yes! ‘Murica!  USA! USA! USA!

Till next time Diary … I say … goodbye