My Valentine

Hey, Internet. Happy Valentine's Day. If you'll indulge me for a post, I'd like to talk a little bit about my Valentine. That's her in the picture. Isn't she pretty? Yeah, I know, she's totally out of my league, but I'm not complaining. Also, aren't my eyes squinty?

I won't bore you by rehashing the details of how we met and fell in love, but suffice it to say that it's pretty epic. Candace has her version of the story here, and you can read the true story here, if you'd like. The bottom line is: We met. We fell in love. We're living happily ever after.

I'm very grateful for Candace. I'm a weird, moody, nerdy, needy person and there are very few people in this world that I feel really "get" me and Candace is at the top of the list of those type of people. I can't believe that I found such a person, but here we are. Add to that the fact that she's fun, smart, creative, caring, supportive and willing to say hard things to make you better, well, you can see why I took advantage of her lapse in judgment and married her for time and eternity.

Also, she is awesome.

Like I said earlier, I'm a weird guy. I'm a romantic, but not in a "bouquet of roses," type of way. (Besides, we all know that roses smell like poo-poo-poo, right Outkast?) I'm more of a "I made you a mixtape," type. So excuse me if this goes right over your head, but I'd like to briefly share a song with you. It's called "Peephole," and it's the penultimate track off of Guided By Voices' excellent Bee Thousand album. It's a short song, less than a minute-and-a-half, but I think it's one of the most romantic things I've heard. It's one of those songs that, for me at least, captures what it means to really love somebody. Here are the lyrics:

Give me the cost of the albatross
And wear it 'round your neck for size.
Don't let it get you down,
I'm looking inside your house
And oh, and it smells so nice.
Your house always looks so nice.

Maybe they're twice as high, laughing.
Maybe the time is right, you know.
Promise me not to leave.
I'm looking inside your brain,
And […], it's a cluttered mess.
I love you, I must confess.

It's that last couplet that punches me in the gut. "I'm looking inside your brain and … it's a cluttered mess," followed by "I love you, I must confess." To look inside somebody and have them look inside you and see just how supremely crazy and messed-up and broken you are and to still have them love you despite - and maybe because of - all that debris, for me, that's love. That's real, true, abiding and everlasting love.

So, Candace, thanks for putting up with the mess that is my brain, the ball of crazy that is me. I love you like tons. Thanks for helping me straighten my brain up a little. Even if it's only a small corner of the place, it's progress, right? And besides, we have forever, you and me.

Happy Valentine's day, you modern lovers.

*******

Here's the track in question, if you want to listen to it:

Peep-Hole - Guided By Voices

C is for "Cold Turkey"

I have a confession to make: I am struggling to get over a fairly serious coke habit. It's just that, well, I was tired and needed a lift and it was really easy to get it and I just felt so good, y'know? Like I could take on the world. At it's height, I was scoring like, three times a day and I knew I had a problem, but I just couldn't stop.

Wait, I forgot to capitalize. Here: I am trying to get over a Coke habit. There. That's better.

So yeah, no more Coke for me. So far, it's four days and I'm doing okay. I have this vague ghost of a headache just on the periphery of feeling, but that's to be expected, right?

I'd love to say that the decision was based on some deep-seated life change, that I realized that these chemicals and stimulants were damaging my fragile aura or some such New Age nonsense, but the sad fact is this: I'm getting a little chubby. I like to refer to it as "winter weight" but, well, it isn't. I just got lazy lately. So, no caffeine, no soda, walk to the train and back every day, no more popcorn after 9 pm. (Well, we'll see about that last one, because I love popcorn like nobody's business. Seriously, it's disturbing.)

Vanity is a heckuva motivator, innit?

So, I'm off the soda. I'm quitting cold turkey. (Which is a weird saying, isn't it? Seriously, where did that come from? Is it referring to the bird or the meal? Because I've had cold turkey like, you know, the day after Thanksgiving. It's pretty good. On a roll? Oh heck yeah. Do turkeys get cold? I figured their feathers would insulate them pretty well. I mean, they're sort of indigenous to the Northeast, aren't they? I mean, Pilgrims ate them, so they must have been close by. They didn't import them special for the holiday or anything, right? And it gets cold up there, in New England. I am so confused.)

So we'll see how this shakes out. Like I said, so far, so good. But I will say this: I want a Dr. Pepper something fierce. And as long as I'm confessing, I'll throw this out, too: If I can find somewhere that dispenses that glorious, heavenly elixir known as Mr. Pibb, well, I can't be held responsible for my actions.

I'm just sayin'.

*******

Today's post courtesy Caitlin.

Selections From the Encyclopedia Of My Vast Knowledge Of Stuff, vol. 36

* Guys with round faces should not grow goatees. Do we really need another reminder that you have a round face? No. No, we don't.

* There are very few things in life that can't be made better by adding a few Oreos.

* I don't care who you are or what deity you pray to, surely you must realize that the Doors are wildly overrated.

* Hey, Starburst: Why even make the yellow ones? Who eats those? Seriously.

* Three words that fill any blue-blooded American boy with joy: Commie. Space. Monkeys. Five words: Commie. Space. Monkeys. With. Jetpacks.

To Beard Or Not To Beard... That Is the Question

First off, I apologize for the title. I am a weak man. I should have resisted, but I couldn't, or rather, didn't. I am truly sorry.

Anyway, so some of you have obviously noticed the query posed by the poll to the right. I am contemplating growing a beard. See, I hate shaving. But I also don't like being all hairy. Not that there's anything wrong with a beard. My dad has had a beard for roughly... forever. I'm pretty sure I've seen baby pictures of him. With the beard. I just don't know if I'm a beard type of guy. It takes a certain amount of commitment, y'know? Not just anyone can grow a beard.

If only there was a way to see what I might look like with a beard. Perhaps utilizing the exciting new world of computer technology to create a sophisticated rendering of me with a beard? Oh, okay. Below is the full view of what I may look like with a beard. Check it:

I know, I know. I have mad Photoshop Fu. Do not try this at home. I am a professional. "But what," you ask, "might the profile look like?" Ka-zam!

Yeah. And if that fails, there's always the mustache, right?

Wrong. That was a trick question. Mustaches are gross. Unless you're gay or a cop or a gay cop (or the Castlerocker's dad... seriously Ryan, your dad can rock a 'stache. For reals, though.), mustaches are a no-no. They are face mullet. I read that in a book somewhere. Maybe it was in the Bible. Probably the Old Testament. There's a lot of weird stuff in the Old Testament. I can't remember. I just know that they're gross. Just say "no," kids. Do the world a favor.

So, rock the vote. I'm not saying that I will side with the winning team in this debate (I mean democracy's great and all, but come on, this is my face! It's how I makes my livin'!), but I am willing to listen to what both sides have to say. Truly I am the Barack Obama of facial hair.

An Open Letter...

Dear Guy (Or Gal) Who Invented Cupcakes,

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Dylan

Let's Dance

So, my birthday was pretty cool. First Candace & I went out Saturday night - a.k.a. Birthday Eve (I always have "Eve's" for whatever holiday it may be, which might be because we always celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve around the Todd household) - to the always delicious Pineapple Grill (I refuse to call it by it's proper name "Da Pineapple Grill," sorry, I know that it speaks to its Hawaiina-ness, but it just sounds stupid) and the... well, the grocery store - which makes me feel like an old person - and finished the night off with a sundae at Mill Hollow.

Speaking of sundaes (see how I did that...) Sunday was the Birthday proper. Pretty chill. Went to church, came home, ate some peanut butter and honey sandwiches on this awesome Grandma Sycamore bread, went for a ride to get sis to sleep, took naps ourselves, opened presents, talked to my parents & siblings, grilled some burgers, lit a cake on fire, blew it out, lit it on fire again, blew it out again, ate some of said cake, put sis to sleep, went to the emergency room. All in all, it was a pretty cool day. Well, except for that last one. That sucked.

See, my ears have been sort of jacked for a week or so. I got this cold, I'm assuming from Sadie, and my ears have been sort of muffled for a while now, but last night, my right ear was acting all weird. Thinking it was just (I know it's sort of gross but it's my body, what can I do?) waxy build-up, I had Candace put some Debrox (an ear-wax softener) in there and that's when it started to hurt like a sonuva.

With a pain in my ears that would preclude any sleep, I decided I would get help at the only place open in Rexburg on a Sunday night: the emergency room. Within an hour I was home with a handful of ear-drops and a sample pack of Keflex (an antibiotic) because... (say it with me now) I have an ear infection. Yay! So yeah. My ear killed all night, feeling sort of like someone jabbed a railroad spike in the side of my head and just left it there, leaving me with the advice to "Get some sleep now, birthday boy!" Oh yeah, I also have no insurance, so it should be fun to see what this little birthday present ends up costing us.

So yeah, my birthday was 90% awesome, 10% screaming pain. I got an Amazon gift certificate (the online store, not the ferocious tribe of female hunters) which is, of course, already spent, a handsome shirt (featured in these pictures), a cool book on stencil graffiti and this sweet bracelet:

Yay.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. You're a bunch of swell folks. I can't believe the big Three-Oh is here. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put a bunch of medicinal crap in my ear and fumble around the house half-deaf. Seriously, I feel like Brian Wilson. Only, you know, not a genius. Peace.

*The title's from the spooky M. Ward version of the David Bowie song, found on his second album the Transfiguration of Vincent which I just downloaded from eMusic. And which is also pretty dang good.

My Face Is Getting Fatter (or) the Post Where I Whine Like A Girl About My Weight

From Candace's photo shoot at the old drive-in. I love thses pictures except for one thing: my face is so freaking fat. I will definitely need to do something about that. And soon.

No now, of course. But soon. Maybe. Hopefully. I'm sleepy.