July 26: A Last Minute Blind Date

For those of you that have read every post (let's be honest here...it's just my mom), remember when I posted an entry about how people will bring up people they know that live in a mentioned city? "I'm moving to Austin, Texas." Really? You should call Brandon because he's in Austin, Texas. Remember how I made it abundantly clear how I hated that? Well guess what. The same can almost apply to blind dates.

When a drunk girl goes on and on to another drunk girl about how she can't find a decent guy, that shouldn't be an open invitation to call me and drag me out to a bar. Don't get me wrong. I love that people are looking out for me. I love that I have friends that think of me when a cute girl is looking for a specific kind of guy.

It's no secret that I'm reaching the point of desperation here. I'm nearing my late twenties and heading into my thirties with one relationship under my belt. Every girl I meet is either taken or doesn't want to see me for more than a week. I'm an educated, neurotic, anal-retentive, anti-social dweeb that works in a restaurant. How am I supposed to compete with guys that know what they want in life? You can only make a girl laugh so many times before she realizes you're broke and don't have any direction in life.

I didn't get the entire story because the author was unbelievably inebriated by the time I arrived. What I gathered from the slurs and obnoxious tangents, was that the mystery girl was looking for an educated guy that wasn't a musician and had a good job. Did she request anything else? I'm sure she did, but like I said, this was all I got. Well, thanks for thinking of me but a decent job I do not have. And if that's all she's looking for, I doubt she'll have any problem.

Look, blind dates are cool if the organizer knows both members better than four beer's worth. I appreciate the thought. I'm flattered that a peer is doing her best to find me someone that I can have fun with, but please don't call me at 10:45 in the evening to meet someone that you just met yourself. Don't go on and on about how I'm this ridiculously good looking guy that's smart and funny and charming and witty and hot and athletic and compassionate and flirty and down-to-Earth and an all-around-great guy. I can't live up to the hype and the conversation won't last beyond fifteen drunken interruptions.

July 24: A Recurring Favor

This post doesn't apply to you, Amanda. It doesn't apply do you either, Phil. This post is for all of you truck drivers. We love our trucks. Some of us drive big trucks and some of us drive compact trucks. The bros lift theirs and the gangstas lower theirs. When it comes down to it, though, we're all driving trucks. I'll even throw in the El Camino with this one. If it has a bed, this post is for you.

Although we love our trucks, we put up with one common request from friends, family, and neighbors. Whenever someone needs to move, guess who they call. Whenever someone needs to relocate a large item (i.e. barbecue, refrigerator, etc.), guess who they call. They call us truck drivers.

I've moved mattresses, barbecues, and couches. I've even escorted a dog to his final resting place. I moved all of these things for other people because I own a truck. I've moved bales of hay, entertainment centers, and patio furniture. Why? Because I own a truck.

I'm not complaining. It comes with the vehicle and I know that. When you purchase a truck, it's inevitable that you will eventually be asked to help someone move or be asked to transport something. It can get old though. I hate moving my own things so why would I want to move someone else's?

This post doesn't apply to you, Frank and it's not for you, Kate. This post is simply for all of the other truck drivers/owners out there. You are not alone.

July 13: Sunglasses Are Not Goggles

In the summer of 2004 I had a friend that worked as a lifeguard at a local community pool. One of the perks she received with her job was a fifty percent discount on major brands of sunglasses. When I found this out, I immediately placed an order for a pair of $125 shades.

Because it was summer and she was a friend from college, I lived about an hour away from her when the shipment came in. Luckily a mutual friend was throwing a birthday party and we were both invited. It was the perfect opportunity to collect my new shades because the party just happened to be a beach party!

The day of the big event arrived and I was more excited to get my new sunglasses than I was about seeing all of my friends and celebrating the birth of one of them. I wasn't disappointed either. The glasses looked sharp with their glossy, black finish and their polarized lenses were easy on my eyes as we walked on the hot sand to the party.

I dropped off my belongings with my friends' and said my hellos before venturing into the cold Pacific waves. As I waded into the frothy waters, one of my friends asked me if I thought I should put my sunglasses with my things. I had been waiting a long time to wear them so I wasn't about to just abandon the shades when all I was going to be doing was jumping over waves in relatively shallow waters. Bad idea. The first wave I decided to body board in on was all it took to slap the glasses off my face and out of my life.

To say I was bummed would be an understatement. To make a long story short, I purchased another pair of shades from my lifeguard friend at fifty percent off which meant I was simply paying full retail price. That was almost six years ago to the day and I thought I had learned my lesson.

Today I went on a party barge. A funny thing happens when you put a pair of sunglasses on your face first thing in the morning and drink a lot of alcohol: You forget they're there. A pair of sunglasses that have been with me since my sophomore year of high school sank to the bottom of Lake Travis on the first jump into the water of the day. I guess learning from my mistakes isn't something I'm very good at.