I Had Strep and then Got Touched Inappropriately by a Large Bear, Kind Of

On the Sunday before the Sunday before Christmas (are you with me?), after a long day of football-watching and beer-drinking, I passed out at ten at night. Then I woke up at one in the morning and couldn’t fall back asleep. So naturally I stayed up and watched DVR-ed episodes of Super Soul Sunday all through the night until skipping my way to the gym with an inexplicable amount of energy at about five. Then I went to work, drank a gallon-ish of coffee, crashed sometime shortly after lunch, and proceeded to watch my health violently deteriorate at a staggering pace over the following two days until I was eventually forced to go to the doctor where I tested positive for strep.

The weird thing is that it wasn’t the sore throat that bothered me so much. It was more so the severe headache that lasted for forty-eight hours and was accompanied by this weird hot and cold sensation that I’ve since been told is what normal people refer to as a “fever.” I apparently hadn’t had one in so many years that I didn’t even realize what the oft-overused term actually referenced, and yes, I realize that this makes me sound about as smart as Jessica Simpson circa the “Chicken or Fish?” Incident of 2003. Totally oblivious, I aggressively blamed my office environment – alternating between the phrases, “Why is it always so fucking freezing in here?!” and, “UM, WHICH ONE OF YOU JOKESTERS TURNED THE HEAT UP TO EIGHTY?” – until a doctor told me that my temperature was 102 degrees. Then everything clicked, and I was like, “Oh. So that’s what that is.”

Though I initially wanted to address my illness with some healing affirmations and health-positive mantras, the doctor was super anti-that. So I listened to her, and as it turns out, drugs are the fucking best. I got some prescription pain meds along with a cycle of penicillin, and by Christmas Eve I was healthy and drunk and joking with my soon-to-be-married brother and his fiancée about how my Best Man speech is likely going to be eighty-percent about me and twenty-percent about them. Or maybe ninety-ten if I end up having an extra shot of whiskey beforehand and decide to be a total self-absorbed dick. Or maybe seventy-twenty-ten (the ten being Mariah Carey) if it goes over three minutes.

And so that’s what I’ve been up to for the past few weeks. Other highlights of my little holiday sabbatical include:

1. Tailgating and watching the last Pats game of the season in the pouring rain, but feeling too happy and tipsy and grateful for life to really give a shit about something as trivial as being soaked and freezing.

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Of course we won.

2. Ringing in the New Year up in the Catskill Mountains with some of my best friends, a pool table, and one quality cigar that may or may not have made me throw up later (as per usual when I smoke cigars atop mountains).

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And 3. Getting molested by a bear. (An actual bear. Or, rather, a bear-replica. But either way, a bear, the animal. Not to be confused with a large hairy gay man who is likely into sexual accessories of the leather variety – which, for those of you not privy to gay-lingo, is actually a thing.)

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Confession: I liked it.

In related news, I’m not making any grandiose resolutions this year, so yay! You’re spared a list. But I will say that the one word I intend to live by in 2014 is this: Simplicity. As in, not making shit unnecessarily complicated for no reason. Can you imagine a whole year of that? I’m pretty excited about it.

So here’s to a healthy, happy, grateful, healing, hilarious, adventurous, just-uncomfortable-enough-for-growth, strep-free, successful, SIMPLE year ahead! I love y’all.

 

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My Team Lost — but I’m OK and Thank You, Mariah Carey

Remember how at the beginning of this year’s football season I wrote that whole post about how I went to the Pats home opener after having spent most of my summer wasting time with that guy who called me fat and a variety of other noncommittal a-holes? And then we lost?

Well, yeah. That pretty much happened again last week. Except this time, instead of losing a game at the beginning of the regular season, we lost in the AFC Championship — and I just… I can’t deal.

For those of you who aren’t into football — this means that our season is over, we aren’t going to the Super Bowl, and yes, I’m using terms like our and we — and yes, I’m being a baby about it.

Here’s a picture of me pretending to grill a mere five hours before my dreams were crushed:

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Sigh. I vaguely remember what it’s like to smile like that.

Okay, I’m going to stop being lugubrious now and start writing about how Mariah Carey makes life worth living.

Yes, I’m talking about Idol. If you follow me on Twitter, then you already know how I feel about this — I think it is the greatest thing to happen to the world ever. Or it’s at least in the top three.

In fact, here is a list of the top three best things to happen to the world ever:

  1. Sliced bread
  2. Mariah Carey
  3. Mariah Carey as a judge on American Idol

Seriously, y’all. It’s amazing. The fact that the we can all now see Mariah’s hilarity and brilliance and amazing facial expressions in a natural setting (sitting at a table beside Nicki Minaj, even!) for a full two hours every week is, frankly, a modern miracle.

If I ever had a doubt that Mariah and I were soul mates, it disappeared when Nicki called her a bitch and she was just like (to everyone and no one), “If she called me something that begins with a ‘B’ and ends with an ‘itch,’ I rebuke it.”

MARIAH SAYS “REBUKE.”

And that’s just a small example of why she’s perfect.

Literally everything she does is entertaining. And the best part about it is that you can tell that she’s just like, there, and on some level she realizes how ridiculous the Nicki feud is (and how ridiculous life is, really) and so she’s just calm and smart and occasionally British.

So, yeah. With that in mind, click HERE to see my official response to the Pats loss last week (and really, as already admitted elsewhere, my official response to everything ever).

And like Mariah said to the guy who didn’t make it to Hollywood who I’m pretty sure she was only half-listening to anyways (because I know I would have been) — there’s always next year.

 

 

Food, Football, and Love

Every time I write an angsty rant about why men suck, I always question the decision later. Like, if only I had watched He’s Just Not That Into You for the thirty-seventh time while inhaling frozen chicken wings and a case of light beer before opening my laptop, last week’s post could have probably been avoided entirely.

But then again, it was met with an overwhelmingly positive response from women far and wide — so at least my anger was able to cultivate some kind of sisterhood united against noncommittal a-holes. That’s always good.

In any case, I’d like to bring some positivity back up in here by presenting you with a photograph of a mural-sized rendering of the tattoo I’m strongly considering getting inked between my shoulder blades:

                                           This piece of wood just gets me.

Or, if we want to be a bit more specific — a combination of:

  • two hot dogs,
  • a cheeseburger,
  • three grilled shrimp skewers,
  • approximately fourteen steak tips,
  • eight pieces of marinated pork,
  • a quarter of a rack of ribs,
  • probably a bag of chips,
  • too many Coors Lights to tally up, and
  • another cheeseburger

is love.

Because that’s what I ate on Sunday throughout the course of tailgating and attending the Patriots home opener, and it was definitely love in its purest form. And/or its most obese form — which is fine, because I’m totally over those body image issues, Lou. Because really, unlike a gay bar, Gillette Stadium is something of a judgment-free zone.

I don’t know what it says about the world that I’ve come to associate gay men with rejection and ostracization while I associate NFL games with love and acceptance, but the irony is not lost on me.

                                     I’ll take “fat” over “douche bag” any day.

As far as the game itself, we couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over it.

And yeah, as far as the men I’ve dated this summer, they couldn’t have sucked more. But I’m getting over that, too. Because — when it comes to both dating and football — it’s early.

And there’s always next week.

 

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