HolyJuan

The Somewhat Reverse Gift of the Magi

Sally had something to tell me and she did not want me to be mad.

I, too, had something to say to her and I hoped the same.

My something I had to tell her was about my sneakers. About eight years ago I gave up on my manliness and allowed Miss Sally to take over the purchasing of my shoes. I'm not sure if you've ever seen what shoes I usually pick out, but they are awful and she's much better at picking out shoes than me. The last eight years of shoes have been great and Miss Sally deserves all the credit.

Until recently.

Miss Sally bought me a pair of sneakers and at first glance I knew they were not my style. So I said, "These look great!" and took them upstairs. I didn't like them, but since I know nothing about fashion, I assumed they would grow on me after a while.

They didn't.

But I kept my mouth shut.

This past Sunday I was painting in the bathroom while Sally took Ann to gymnastics. I had on my Ohio University sweatshirt that I love. It is very plain and green with Ohio University across the front. Sadly, I forgot I was wearing it and before I knew it, I had paint on the elbows. I ran downstairs and lit it up with spray stain remover. I threw it in the washer and hoped for the best.

When Sally came home I shared my story with her about the sweat shirt getting paint on it and me thinking it was ruined. That was when she said, "Can I tell you something if you won't get mad?"

This was my opening! I knew that if she told me something, I could tell her about the sneakers and we would be even. So I lied, "Of course you can tell me something and I won't be mad." And then I told the truth, "As long as I can tell you something if you won't get mad at me."

Ha!

Then Sally proceeded to make me mad.

"I don't like that Ohio University sweatshirt on you. I never did. The collar is too high and it makes you look like a floating head."

Ouch. I am very touchy about my big, fat over-sized head.

She said that when I told her I got paint on it, she secretly cheered on the inside.

I said that I wasn't hurt and that I was sorry she felt that way and that I was sorry that HER SENSE OF SWEATSHIRT FASHION WAS WAY OFF.

Then I told her I didn't like my sneakers. But somehow that didn't phase her. Then we both went off to do the things that married couples do on a Sunday night when they are pretending that they are not mad at each other.

So here I sit, in my Ohio University sweatshirt with the paint stains that didn't come out, wearing the sneakers that I never really liked, remembering that Miss Sally is the best wife anyone could ever hope to have because the worst fight we have ever had involved me having a big floating head and a pair of sneakers that maybe have too many stripes on them.

I am the luckiest man in the world. And I wouldn't trade that for hair combs or a pocket watch chain,ever.

Things I Have Learned as a Husband

Filling a dirty pan with water and letting it soak is not considered washing it.

Staying out late is being out until 11:59pm
Staying out all night is anytime past 12:01am

If your wife says she doesn’t want jewelry, she does.

Wives like sex, just not right now.

The bed does not make itself. Saying that you are just going to sleep in it again is not a valid excuse.

It was not pure luck that my work shirts are hanging in the closet.

Always keep track of favors and tasks. If you owe, it’s best to remember and pay up. It is human nature to remember that you’ve done the laundry the last 30 times or given the last 5 baths. Try to keep it even.

My kids might have a sense of humor and know what The Force is because of me, but all the other credit goes to my wife.

Don’t mention that you found hair in the shower.

Most everything is a test. I’m scoring in the low 20s and there is no curve.

Grey hair only exists on my head.

Putting away leftovers does not mean eating what’s left out of the pan over the sink.

Whole cucumbers do not belong in the garbage disposal no matter what cool noise they make.

If there is a good looking girl at work, I immediately go home and tell my wife about her. I’m not sure why except that it seems like the right thing to do.

It’s not worth arguing about toilet seat status or how much toilet paper makes up a single use.

When you get into an argument in the car there is usually nothing interesting to look at out the window.

Whoever cooks, the other person does the dishes.

It is better for me to go to work unshaven than to use the pink razor in the shower. (Or I should learn to rinse the pink razor better.)

Don’t discuss your sex life on the internet.

Before two kids it was morning sex. After two kids it’s mourning sex.

I am not a very good learner.

My wife is the most tolerant woman in the world. I love her very much. Happy Valentine's Day!

Recycling a website article is not considered a valid Valentine's Day present.

Lake Erie to be renamed Lake Ohio

COLUMBUS, OH (FD)- The Ohio Senate voted unanimously on S.B. 189 this past Thursday to change the name of Lake Erie to Lake Ohio. Senator Donald Goldman (R) and Senator Robert Mueller (D) co-sponsored the bill in a most unusual spirit of bipartisanship in The Ohio General Assembly. Senator Goldman stated on Friday morning, “I think most Ohioans are behind this name change and quite frankly, we own most of the lake anyways. This has been a long time coming”

Lake Erie is the eleventh largest lake in the world (by surface area), and the fourth largest of the Great Lakes in surface area though the smallest by volume. Ohio has access to the largest portion of the lake or 11,700 sq mi (30,400 sq km) as compared to Michigan with a paltry 5800 sq mi (15,100 sq km.)

The greater part of its southern shore was at one time occupied by a nation known to the Iroquois League as the "Erielhonan," or the "long-tails," a tribe of Indians from which the lake derived its name. An unnamed Senator said off the record, “Most Indians do not like to have things named after them anyways. They have been after the Cleveland Indians for years. I think the Iroquois descendants will be happy with this as long as they aren’t all dead.”

When questions about how most people remember the names of the lakes through the mnemonic, H.O.M.E.S. (Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior), Senator Mueller paused and said, “Is that going to be HOMOS now? I didn’t think of that. It almost makes it easier to remember.”

It begins with a lie and ends with a lie

I was a late bloomer. I was a good kid in high school. I didn't drink until after football season my senior year. I didn't sneak out of the house until I did for the first time.

I'm not sure when it was, but I'm sure I was still living at home when my parents expected me to come home as much as they expected me not to. After an older brother and an older sister, I'm sure that the midnight path out the sliding glass door was well worn.

The worst part of this story is that I do not remember it. I've asked some of the people I was with and they don't remember it either. The best part of this story that I cannot remember is that I will never forget it.

One night I probably lied and said I was going out and would be back late. I left the house after being picked up. If it was Jeff, it would have been in a Trans-Am. If it was Russ, it would have been the Nissan.

What I don't remember is who, what and where. What I do remember is the thrill of being out all night. Not having a home to crash at. Trying to find something to do. Driving with the windows down. Drinking Mountain Dew. Going to girls' houses and having them sneak out to talk to us. At some point, we met up with others and a gang of us went to Kathy's house. I asked Kathy if she remembers the night. She doesn't. I remember by the time we got to her house the birds that sing an hour before sunrise were singing. I remember joking about Kathy's hands. Her hands contained zero bones, but 27 servings of Jell-o.

Then at some point, as the sun was just peeking up above the horizon, I was dropped off at home. Sneaking back in is always harder than sneaking out.

In the front door. Up the stairs. Across the creaky floor. In bed, clothes and all.

"Doug!"

(Fake sleepily) Yeah?

"Did you just get in?"

(More fake sleepily) No.

A second lie and then asleep, smelling of grass and sweat and Mountain Dew and being young.

Removing MyWebSearch from Firefox

If you run Firefox and are trying to remove MyWebSearch, try the following:

Delete any "MyWebSeach" extensions under menu TOOLS and then ADD-ONS and EXTENSIONS.

Next, in the address bar, type "about:config" without the quotation marks.

You will see a warning about voiding your warranty. Click "I'll be careful, I promise!" and move on.

In the filter bar, type "myweb."

Right click any items that have "mywebseach" in them and select the "reset" option.

Restart Firefox.

I do not know much about MyWebSearch except that it block pages that have anything to do with "Removing Mywebsearch." If it is blocking those pages, it can block other information as well. Jerks.

Where did you lose your virginity?

Help me with this completely unscientific experiment by mapping where you lost your virginity. Click on the link below to access a map of the world. Zoom in to your location and then click to add an icon to that spot. Feel free to add a note about how you lost it. No names please.

Click here to add an icon to the map.

Thanks to the folks at www.mapservices.org!

Soda Jerk

Remember how f'ing hot this last summer was? And do remember that one time I was a dick to you and you wanted to get me back? These two unrelated statements came together a number of months ago. I had been leaving my car windows down because of the heat. I went out to my car one afternoon and as I sat in the driver's seat, something seemed... odd. I then realized that the steering wheel was sticky. And so was the dash. And the seat. Someone had, on purpose or accidentally, thrown a cup of pop in my car. It was brown and sticky. It fucking pissed me off.

Someone thought it was pretty funny to coat the inside of my car with pop or maybe they were carrying a soda pop when all of a sudden they were attacked by a mountain lion and their only chance to survive was to ditch their Coke and run like the dickens.

For about two days I would get in my car in the morning and be reminded of the prank. (Yeah, I kept forgetting to clean it out.) I'd think about it on my way to work... if it was an accident, the person would have told be about it. If it was a joke, they were just sitting back and waiting for the right moment to ask me about my sticky mess and they would have a good laugh. So I waited for an answer.

And on the third day I got my answer.

I needed to throw some crap in my back seat when I saw this:

There are two Coke cans. The one without the lid blown off is from Puerto Rico. Keegan brought it back to show me the smaller can and that their Coke contains less salt and more (real) sugar. The one with the blown off top is an American Coke can with more salt and less sugar. I was going to do a post on HolyJuan about how American Coke is salty so you drink more.

The heat caused the can to expand and blow the top off, which happened to shoot right between the driver and passenger seats and all over the dash and steering wheel.

In the end, my co-workers were not assholes. There was no mountain lion. And I never did that post on HolyJuan about the salt levels of American Coke vs Puerto Rico Coke. Unless you count this one.

I need some scientists to tell me if the additional salt in American Coke would cause it to expand more and thus blow off the top. Or maybe the can was engineered differently. I'll call this the Coke Challenge. Get to work scientists!

Dear Ray

Dear Ray,

First off, I know you are not reading this. I think we would both agree that this time we have on Earth is one shot only and there’s not much after that. I guess I am writing this more for others to read. But it feels good to pretend. You can’t fault me for that.

We had your celebration of life last night. It was a blast. First off, open bar. That was unexpected and completely awesome. Thanks for the Guinness! And the second. And so on.

I came right at 6:00pm because didn’t want to miss a thing. When I showed up, the place was seemingly full already. There were a cluster of people at the bottom of the stairs. Keri was there handing out the programs. An impromptu welcome line had formed around Cindy, Keegan and Zoe.

People continued to pour in. Friends from old COSI, friends from new COSI, work friends, neighbors, family… so many people. You were very popular.

We all drank. We all lamented at how bravely you fought and how quickly you left. We laughed. We told stories. Just like you wanted.

You would be happy to know that at one point in the night, I was telling a story and Shorty found it funny enough to guffaw a mouthful of beer on my shirt.

Keri did a great job at helping to produce the event. She held it together where I would have fallen apart.

And then the bag pipe player began upstairs. Not quietly because that’s not how those things work. He came down the stairs and I could not help but cry. It was perfect. He came through the room and into the small stage where the microphone was set up. He was pretty damn tall. I assume you paid extra for that.

Keri started off the speeches. Joe followed up and made us all very introspective. Ron spoke of your love for the Marx brothers. Adelaide did not realize how funny her story about you fixing her luggage carrier was going to be. Zoe was overcome with emotion, but came back later to tell us about how you helped her to overcome her fears. Keegan spoke well and is his father’s son. Others came up to tell their stories. I told the food poisoning one. They were funny. They were poignant. We laughed and we cried. We all really miss you.

Then at the end, the bag pipe player played you out. He played Hector the Hero, just like you wanted.

And I know it sounds cheesy. But as he walked off through the room, the people moved out of the way. And then up the stairs. The music faded. And it was as if I could finally let go. Another chance to say goodbye. This time with happiness. Surround by the many many people whose lives were changed by you.

And now I realize that I’m not writing this for others. I’m writing it for me.

Thanks, Ray.