Catching Up - Random Thoughts

My weight loss “efforts” are generally going nowhere. I’m in my third (and final) month of the Weight-Watchers program, and I haven’t lost more than two or three pounds, which I promptly put back on. The wife and I had a great deal of success with WW  12 (or so) years ago, and I really thought we’d be able to duplicate that this time around. The wife has lost about 10 pounds, so that’s good, but neither of us were able to generate the level of commitment to it that we did years ago. Maybe it’s because I’m older and more set in my ways, or maybe it’s just a mental block I’m putting on myself. I don’t know. <i>Le sigh.</i>

On the other hand, my experiment with being more patient when driving, and in other facets of my life, is going well. I no longer routinely rant and rail about the other dumb-ass drivers on the road; mostly I just keep an eye on them until I’m out of the way of any harm they could do me, if any. The only time I even come close to my previous behavior is when something they do is a direct, immediate threat to me and my well-being, and even then I focus more on getting away (either slowing down or speeding up) and less on bitching about it. Still, I’m not perfect, but it’s a definite improvement.

In fact, it’s starting to have an effect on the wife as well. Over the years her road-rage has gotten as bad as (and sometimes worse than) mine, and it’s almost entirely my fault. My actions influenced her, and her outbursts were more out of sympathy to me being outraged by every little error others made than any anger she honestly felt. Over time it became her anger, but I still feel like it was my doing. And like me, it hasn’t been confined to just others driving habits; she’s as judgmental about every day behaviors as I’ve ever been. As I work to change myself, I gently encourage her to change as well.

The local baseball team made it to the championship, and so far is up two games to none. It’s a best of five series, so tonight’s game at home could be the last one for the season. It was doubtful they’d even make it to the post season a month ago, but they did and swept their semi-finals opponent. Now they’re on the verge of sweeping the team with the best record in the league and winning it all.

The wife is tickled pink, of course, and is glad that they’ll finish up at home. Even if they somehow lose the next two games, the final game would be at home. But of course she doesn’t want them screwing it up, so she wants them to win tonightand be done with it.

I’m conflicted about the season being over. I like having time to myself, but after a while I start to resent her going to every home game. But when there’s a long stretch between games, or when the season is over, I start to resent her being home every night. I never have any space to myself, whether I just want to have some peace and quiet or if I want to engage in shenanigans. How inconsiderate of her to neglect me enough to make me want to cheat in the first place, then not give me the free time to cheat!

(No, I’m kidding. Her neglect, real as it is, isn’t the reason I cheat. It’s much more complicated than that.)

L and B went to Myrtle Beach (South Carolina, for those who don’t know) for the weekend. I was on pins and needles all weekend expecting to get a text from one or the other about things going to hell. But apparently all went well (so far as L has said anything), and they even got tattoos Sunday night. Fortunately nothing with either of their names on them, though.

Have you ever heard Reckless Kelly’s “Crazy Eddie’s Las Hurrah”? It starts off innocently enough, as a fun, rocking “my girl done gone so I got drunk as hell” kind of song, but it ends like this:

Well I gathered up all my guns

and a pipe bomb just for fun

and I drove to her house and parked on her lawn

she’s right, I always was the crazy one.

Well her boyfriend was sure nice to me

He said “Calm down, would you like a drink?”

And then I shot him full of holes from his nose to his knees

And I polished off my little sweet pea.

And now I’m crying on my knees, feelin’ dirty and unholy

But I’m never getting’ over Jolie.

Now I’ll probably get life and serve at least forty

But I’m never getting’ over Jolie.

I get the strongest sense of foreboding from these lyrics, but at the same time I’m strangely drawn to reading or hearing them over and over. I’ve read far more gruesome stories than a double homicide committed by a jilted lover, and I know it’s just a song, but something about it really gives me the creeps.