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October 29, 2010

So I'm an uncle now. My sister is two years (and sometimes three years) older than me. Her birthday is in February, and mine is in June, so for four months a year she's three years older than me, but then my birthday comes around and we go back down to two. She's pretty much got things figured out: A smart, capable, loving husband with a great job, a truck-load of ambition, and solid family foundation. A 1940's three-story fixer-upper with character, and a monstrous billowy wise-looking tree in the backyard, soon to be the home of a future crappily-built fort with a lank and spindly board-swing. A Masters degree, and a professional discipline that she is passionate about, and sure to be an accomplished achiever with time. A nurturing friendship circle that shares common interests and happily makes the necessary mutual effort to stay connected. And now, she's got her first of hopefully many plump-bellied and rosie-cheeked babies with bursting blue eyes and an indescribably cute nose that makes the typical "button-nose" look like a serial rapist.


I understand when first-time grandparents feel old and nasty when they realize that the bundle of flesh that they birthed, just birthed another bundle of flesh. That's pretty much what I feel like, minus the accomplishment of the birthing process, so I am left with the old and nasty feeling, plus a bundle of flesh (which in most cases sounds repulsive and gooey, but this bundle of flesh is the best thing ever. Unfortunately, my self-trained vocabulary leads to the descriptive ruining of most things)...


I guess my point is this: I live on my own, I have a real-person job, I dress myself daily, I find things to eat successfully, I pump my own gas, I'm stocked up on toilet paper and soap for three years, but I have no idea what I'm doing.


All I remember about elementary school is my girlfriend Cassie, an obnoxious chubby kid named Eric that tore up his hand in a pencil sharpener, having hair on my head, and kneecap scabs.


All I remember about junior high school was a cheerleader named LaDonna making out with her boyfriend on the sticky wooden lunch tables outside of the game room every day, headgear and monthly braces adjustments that felt like an Al Qaeda interrogation method, and discovering that I had a wiener in forth period but not knowing what to do with it.


All I remember about high school was figuring out what to do with the wiener, cutting my own hair, wearing eye shadow to school once and being serious about it, and asking a batch of women to the Winter Formal for two weeks with a pre-ruptured cyst on the end of my nose that looked like an infected nipple (I didn't end up going to that dance).


All I remember about college is protein shakes and creatine, drinking toilet water, spending over twenty dollars on a single McDonalds run for myself and finishing every bite, waking up disheveled and sweaty in a variety of excrement pools, and somehow graduating.


Since May 20th of 2006, I have worked for seven different companies and held eleven different professional titles. If you used a GPS to get directions to where I will be tomorrow, the screen would briefly flicker the scribbled image of a mile-high pile of smoldering garbage and then the system would crash with smoke pouring out the speaker holes. I'm optimistic, but it's a bit overwhelming at times.


If there was still a circus, I would consider running away and joining it as a classy announcer. With my looks and soy-milk-smooth voice I'm sure I could get a gig with ease. I can just imagine bouncing around from one city to the next, dressed in coat tails and a top hat, shooting glitter-glazed bums from canons and spanking elephants until they stand on a box, that would be the life. Local women would be captivated by my striped suit and cane, and they would be fanning themselves down with a crinkled page from the circus program as I carried on with my MC duties. After each show, I'd sign autographs outside of my trailer, but I would receive even more phone numbers written inside folded sheets of paper from female hopefuls. It would be like being a classy 1940's sailor that comes into town and dances with Rachel McAdams in a darkly-lit tavern, and then makes sweet old-fashioned love to her on the dusty living room floor of a dangerously neglected and abandoned plantation mansion. Only it would happen fifty times a year in small towns across America. I wonder if there is still a circus. That sounds really nice.


Life is certainly brief. I've been trying to enjoy it more recently, although that's completely against everything I believe in.


I'd like to find a woman that is small, but not Zelda Rubinstein creepy troll small. I don't want her voice to sound like she's strung out on helium and corn syrup all the time. She needs to be crafty like Judge Judy so that we can argue like stray dogs (for passionate make-up relations opportunities), but she needs to be far less intelligent so that I have a respectable winning percentage. I like an older woman (cougar) that looks like a younger woman (kitten) but talks like a middle-aged woman (cat) and has the financial stability of an elderly woman (road kill). I'm attracted to Latina women's physique, African American women's sass, Caucasian women's middle-management potential, and Asian women's silly little shoes.


My point is, my sister is doing great, and I couldn't be happier for her.


Until next time: Before time winds down for The old Weathered Sailor, there will be a hefty purchase made from a Vietnamese Bride Order mailer.