I think it is time for some therapeutic blogging, you know what I mean?

Today I had the joy of discovering that my cold that I thought I had kicked was just on vacation. I wish I could go on vacation. Instead I’m working 48 hours this week and six days a week in general for the conceivable future. Because we are understaffed. AGAIN. The joys of working retail. On the plus side, Amanda, who I know and see often, came in and applied and seems very excited to start working for Bose. We just have to wait for the background check to come back. Which takes FOREVER. But once it does come back and she can actually start working, then that will mean it will only be so long before the overtime can stop and I can go back to having my two days off. Maybe even a vacation!

Which brings me back to that cold. Damn you, cold! It’s not a normal cold. No runny nose or coughing (yet). Mainly just a fever and lots of tired aching. Like I’ve been running all day yesterday, but let’s not kid ourselves. I don’t run. That and the sinus gland behind my right ear acts up something fierce and drives me nuts. Seriously, at this point I would do anything just to make the ringing stop.

The Super Bowl was pretty lame, eh? It showed promise. The game started off with a bang and looked to be one of the greatest games ever. And then da Bears’ offense took the field and totally stunk up the place. Again and again and again. You’ve really got to hand it to da Bears’ defense, because they did a hell of a job in a tough situation. Still, the game sucked. And I wasn’t even rooting for da Bears. I was just rooting for a good game. That’s why I was rooting for New England two weeks ago to win. Not that they are my favorite team or anything, but Brady sure does know how to phone it in for the first three quarters and then pull magic out of his ass for the fourth.

We got a new dog recently. Like the beginning of January, actually. I kept meaning to post that but I didn’t. Mainly because I hate him. HATE. Oh man, I don’t know what my mom was thinking. He’s a one-year old Australian Shepherd and he is just a monster. And he likes me just about as much as I like him. Barks at me every time I come home. I’m fighting him for alpha male status in the house and I make sure he knows it. Why is he a monster, though? Because he gets bored when we leave during the day and somehow manages to find a way to destroy something new every day. Not the same stuff. New stuff. Because we tell him “NO!” when he destroys something and he’s smart enough to know not to do that again. Sigh.

Australian Shepherds need tasks, they need to herd things and they really need to run. A lot. At our house, that doesn’t happen. Max sleeps 22 hours a day and I’m sure he’d be happy sleeping the other two if he didn’t need to do silly things like eat and go to the bathroom. That’s why he’s an ideal dog for us. Ally’s a little high strung, but again, she’s fine just sleeping all day until we come back. Not Cooper (aka, the new one). He gets mad when we leave him. And he destroys.

He’s torn down my sisters blinds, knocked out the wooden slats in the living room blinds, torn apart my parent’s bed, knocked over my dad’s bedside table, torn apart magazines and books, pushed over my DVDs and CDs, scratched the hell out of front door and God knows what else. So we thought, why not try a little discipline? We got a crate for the dog.

I, amazingly, was the first to put him in it after he tipped over the table while I was in the house. He was so scared of me dragging him upstairs that he peed and pooed the whole way up, which of course I had to clean up, of course right when I was ready to leave for work. And, of course, I didn’t feel too bad about pushing him in there. Well, he started barking like a dog possessed and you could hear him trying to tear apart the kennel to get out. I swear it was the most violent thing that I have ever heard.

When my mom got home that night, who do you think was the first one to greet her at the door? You got it. He actually pulled the front of the cage inside and climbed out. The next day he broke out before my mom got down the stairs. So she took zip ties and made sure he couldn’t break the cage down. You think that ended the madness? Ha!

The next time he was in his kennel was on my day off and because I was probably starting to come down with that cold, I slept in until 11. Four plus hours he was in the cage. When I went upstairs to let him out he and the entire floor in front of the cage was soaking wet. Just covered in slime. You’ve got to hear him when he’s in there. It is the craziest thing. Constant barking. No breaks. And then he’ll throw himself at the cage repeatedly, trying to get out. It never stops.

The next day was his big day. Eight hours. Imagine the most horrifying thing a dog can do while stuck in a cage and no matter what you think up, your story will suck compared to what my mom found. The dog broke all of his “indestructible” toys we put in the cage to keep him busy, while not touching any of the food we put in there. Shattered bones that my two other dogs have not put a dent in in the five years that they’ve had them. He then shit in the cage, rolled in it, got it all over himself, all over every inch of the cage, and then somehow managed to break the plastic sheet that he lays on into three pieces and ejected it from the kennel, covered in feces.

He’s crazy. The instant I saw him I hated him and it’s turning out that I might actually be the sane one. My mom was so in love with him after she got him that I thought we’d never get rid of him, but after tonight I seriously think she’s at wit’s end. If he doesn’t get better, fast, we’re going to have to get rid of him, because we can’t take care of him. My mom is seriously questioning now why we’re his third owner in a year.

Because I’m feeling chatty…

I figured out the other day that the girl I like who works at the bank definitely does not work as a teller, but has her own desk in the back. Which makes my plan of attack slightly more difficult. Now I’m a pretty ballsy guy from time to time and am willing to just come out and say things I normally wouldn’t, but unfortunately I also have a big phobia of groups of people. And there never seems to be just one singled out person in the bank. The tellers, even though there are only two of them and like fifteen different windows, will always work right next to each other. Meaning that if I talk to one, I am basically talking to both of them. That for some reason scares the bajesus out of me. Not the saying something stupid part. The saying something stupid IN FRONT OF AN AUDIENCE. Add on top of that the consideration that I am total shit at asking someone out (just ask anyone and everyone I have ever asked out) and I become terrified that unless some perfect window of opportunity presents myself my best course of action is to cut and run. Because there is always next time, you see.

I realize I’m being a pussy, so don’t comment that. It’s got to happen sooner than later or I am just dooming myself for failure. Perfect opportunity right now, too, right? Valentine’s Day right around the corner? What better time to ask out a perfect stranger? Today I was actually thinking of doing it–that is until the sickness came back and I felt like a member of the living dead. Luckily (I guess) for me, she wasn’t there, so I could call off the whole thing without feeling guilty. Which is good, because the last time I wussed out I found on reflection later that I was horribly depressed without even realizing it. Which was a surprise, because I don’t think I’ve been seriously depressed since college. Probably not since my last relationship broke up. Otherwise I’ve been a very happy camper for the first time since, well, pre-adolescence. Ladies, I love ya, I really do, but you do have a way of making me feel like shit for no good reason.

What’s the plan of attack? I’m so glad you asked. There really is no plan. I tell myself there is one, but if it were ever put into motion I would quickly discover how poorly planned out it was. So the idea is to just be my witty, funny self. Which is entirely doable, just as long as I don’t choke. I have an amazing ability to pull shit out of my ass. I guess you could say that’s why my plans suck so bad. I have zero experience in actually having a plan. I just fly by the seat of my pants, which has worked out great for me, but doesn’t entirely fill one with confidence when trying something new. I worry, a lot. Why, I don’t know. Because people love me despite of what I consider my major weak points, probably because I roll with embarrassment so easily when others would curl into a ball. I don’t know. It just seems easier to do something when someone tells you that you have to do it. No backing out, only moving forward. I have to convince myself that there is in fact no other option other than making an ass out of myself. What’s the worst that could happen? I never pick up deposit slips at the bank again? I seriously doubt that would happen. Maybe it isn’t fear then, but my epic, never-ending case of procrastinitis.

I wish I had some more experience in this area. Yeah, I know. The only way to have experience is to just do it. Shut up. Know-it-alls. I guess my second wish is that I knew someone who had more experience in this area. What I find hilarious is that every single person I make friends with has the exact same problems. I do not know a single “playa”. There is no one to workshop with. What I get a lot of is, “Yeah, man, that’s rough. I’m glad I’m not dating anymore.” Not that I think I could workshop anything. I am, of course, notoriously stubborn. I just like to have all of my options laid out in front of me before I do anything so that if I need to zig, I zig, and if I need to zag, I zag. That’s my gift in life, to be amazingly prepared for everything.

Or to be amazingly neurotic. I mean, seriously, look how much I wrote tonight. Just killing time before I have to go to bed. Just so I can wake up tomorrow before I want to and go to work, where I will think about this time I’m wasting right now with sweet, loving thoughts.

If you’ve read all of this, thank you. And I’m sorry. Ha.