Three words every guy wants to hear

In this time of impending VD and on this, my second day of being thirty-eight, I have decided to reach back into the annals of 2010 and share a story with you. It's not quite a tale of love unrequited. Heretofore untold because, well, it's hard to fit everything in when you only blog twice a month.

It happened on a Thursday morn. I specifically remember that because the night before had been a Wednesday, and I haven't slept through an entire day since the 90's. As I trudged out to the car, my mindless morning routine was interrupted when I noticed a piece of paper on my windshield.

Quickly unfolding the loosened leaf, I read the words written in blue ink. It began, "Saw you at Kroger last night." Then came the three words every guy wants to hear (well, besides "you are hilarious"):

"You are hot."

That was followed by a phone number.

Call me old-fashioned, but is this what we've come to now? Leaving notes on cars? Whatever happened to traditional methods of meeting people, like picking up a girl in a chat room, or filling out a two-hour questionnaire and paying a monthly fee to join a dating site? Next thing you know, people will be just bumping into each other in public and striking up a conversation. And I can assure you, I am so not ready for that.

But seriously. I'm not sure what your impression of me as a love conquistador is, nor do I probably want to know. But things like this do not happen to me every day. Perhaps when I was younger. OK, so not very often then either. The closest thing I can remember was walking across the mall parking lot towards Taco Bell one day when some girls rode by and yelled, "Hubba hubba!" I wasn't sure what that meant, but I took it as a compliment and had a chicken MexiMelt.

And so a smile broke across my face as I tried to recall the previous evening at Kroger and who could have possibly left the note. I distinctly remembered an attractive girl in the sandwich meats. She was at the checkout as I was walking out, so I gave her the glance-and-smile. Of course, there was also a guy in a red shirt with a carry-cart who I oddly seemed to run into on every aisle.

I must have encountered ten or fifteen customers that evening, not to mention the employees. There was no way to know which of them had apparently waited for me in the parking lot, followed me home, then came back after I went inside and left a note on my windshield. What? It's only stalking if she's not hot and/or she's crazy.

Almost as quickly, it occurred to me that this might all be a joke. Maybe someone I knew had seen me at Kroger, tried to get my attention but I didn't see them, so they decided to have a little fun.

There was only one way to find out -- ask everyone I know who could possibly have seen me at Kroger that night. Or call the number. OK, so two ways.

I contacted everyone I could think of who both know where I live and might have been in the area. None of them had done it. Heck, half of them thought I was joking.

From there, my thoughts on who might have left the note pretty much ran the gamut. What if it turned out to be a really young girl who thought I was much younger than I am? What an awkward call that would be. Or what if it was a much older woman? There's no way that's gonna work. Do you have any idea how immature I am? Don't answer that.

The next couple of times I went to Kroger, I would look into the faces of the people I passed to see if any of them looked familiar, but none did. With each semi-attractive female I encountered, there was a feeling of "could that be her?" I think over time, my mind decided to fill in the blanks and convinced itself that sandwich-meat-girl was the one who had left the note. I thought of her often during those late October days. And then, not as much.

I even had someone offer to call the number for me just to see who answered, but I declined. If our paths were meant to cross again, I would leave it entirely up to fate.

That's been about four months ago now. So I think we can safely deduce that it was most likely not a joke.

I'm also willing to allow that it's possible I rely on serendipity a tad too much.

"May have lost this battle. Live to fight another day. Don't be fallin' in love as she's walking away..."

Who will dance, on the floor, in the bowling alley

For any of you who don't check my Blogger profile daily for changes, I recently reached an historic milestone. As of last week, Thursday-ish, I am no longer a member of the all-important 18-35 age demographic. Needless to say, between that and General Hospital burning up in the Six-Day (and still ongoing) Fire, it was a tough week. Thanks to Pia for the wonderful birthday dedication post. What more could a guy ask for? Except perhaps my very own Wikipedia entry. Oh well, maybe next year.


Saturday night was Bone's First Annual Bowling For VD. Following the unconfirmed success of last year's Valentine Date Skate, I decided to go in a different direction this year, hoping to find an atmosphere with a few more people--um, how shall I put this--over the age of twelve.

The turnout was overwhelming! There must have been around 200 people there. Of course, my excitement was tempered somewhat when I realized that only eleven of the two hundred were there for my thing.

Things started off well enough. I had a 105 through six frames of the first game. But when I rolled my first ball of the seventh frame, my foot did not slide. It just stuck. Evidently, I had stepped in some spilled Mountain Dew. How come things like this never happen to Walter Ray Williams?

Well that was all she wrote for game one. Mister Sticky Shoes wound up bowling a 138. Then I spent about five minutes between games wiping my shoes on the carpet. That seemed to help and I rebounded for a decent 165 in game two. Also, for future reference, if you ever drop something on the bowling alley carpet, I would say just let it go.

Around 9:00, they pulled down this big movie projection screen in the center of the bowling alley. "Alright, it's movie time!" I exclaimed, only to be informed by Kywana Jr. that it was actually music video time. They proceeded to play what I presumed to be many of the popular videos of the day.

Unfortunately, I didn't know any of the songs they were playing. Fortunately, I've been able to master a couple of dance moves that I can use to blend in and appear hip for just such times. One is where I extend my right arm fully and appear to be bouncing an invisible basketball up and down about head-high. In the other, I... well, you'd just have to see it.

Over the next hour, they actually only played two songs that I recognized. And one of those songs was "Billie Jean."

I should probably mention here that as a kid, I would imitate Michael Jackson at holidays and family gatherings. Mom always made sure to bring the Thriller cassette along wherever we went. I would leave the room, wait for the music to start, and emerge with a dizzying array of movements and yelps.

I knew every "Oww!" and hiccup in every song. Sometimes I'd even wear the zippered jacket. If Michael Jackson impersonators had ever become as popular as Elvis impersonators, I would've had a whole new career on my hands. Or, a career.

So it should come as no surprise that I instinctively started moonwalking when "Billie Jean" came on Saturday night. Sometimes 1983 returns unexpectedly. The kids loved it. Why? Probably because the moonwalk is only the single greatest dance move of all time. "Teach me to do that," they pleaded.

But you can't, you know. It's like saying to Bob Ross, "Teach me to paint friendly clouds like you."

"Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who claims that I am the one. But the kid is not my son..."

VD: A Male Perspective

Do you have any idea how much I'm looking forward to Valentine's Day? It's right up there with International Catheterize Yourself Day on my list of Top One Million Holidays and Other Obscure Observances.

It wasn't always this way for me. I used to love Valentine's Day. Back in the first grade for instance, decorating my little Valentine sack. Then watching with glee as the cute girls in class dropped cards in my bag. Never mind the fact that everyone in the class was required to give everyone else a card. I never fully grasped that minor detail. It's that innocent forced socialization that I really miss about Valentine's Day.

But inevitably and invariably, things change. There comes a point when giving your guy friends a Valentine card is no longer fun, just... odd. Then you turn twenty-one, and your mother stops buying Valentine presents for you to give to your girlfriends.

As the self-appointed spokesman for male bloggers who watch General Hospital, I think it's safe to say that for most guys Valentine's Day is like a wedding, or shaving. If it were left entirely up to us, we'd skip it. I've even heard of guys--present company excluded, of course--who have actually broken up with girls right before Valentine's Day just to avoid the hassle.

But we do it. Why? Because the most important thing in the world to us is the woman's happiness. Also, we generally don't enjoy getting yelled at.

Here's the thing: It's not that men aren't thoughtful. Actually let me amend that statement right off. It's not that men aren't thoughtful on holidays. It's that for some reason, the things that are considered romantic are found in the last places on Earth a guy would normally go. A florist, the jewelry kiosk at the mall, a department store. I don't even like walking through the lingerie section in Wal-Mart to get from the electronics to the food. I take the long way around through the shoes, candles and pillows.

Who decided that these would be the expected romantic gestures? Why not incorporate things guys like to do? Like car stuff. What says I love you more than a guy who changes the oil in your car? You could even have commercials. "This Valentine's Day, tell her you love her with five quarts of Castrol 20W50. Roses wither and die. But engine sludge is forever."

No? Well then maybe Auto Zone could put in a florist. Or how about a pre-Valentine Day promotion at sporting events? First thousand men though the gate get a free diamond heart pendant.

That is why the mix tape was so successful. It allowed the guy to use his love and knowledge of music and high tech devices--the dual cassette player--while also (theoretically) satisfying the romantic needs of the female. If someone made you a mix tape, you knew they loved you. And that it would last.

And so on this Valentine's Day, let us pay tribute to the romantic perfection that was the mix tape. Flowers are dead in a week. Jewelry is gone once you pawn it. But a mix tape was forever. Or at least until your Walkman chewed up the cassette. And by that point, the relationship was usually already over anyway.

"So play it all over. Turn it wide. Now there is nothing but a mix tape left behind. Now it won't rewind..."

Bone snores on

Hello, you've reached Bone's blog. Bone is unable to blog right now because, well, it's January. You know the drill.

BEEP!

I tried to ward off the Januarys this year. I really did. The trip to New Orleans helped, for a few days. But alas, the Januarys have returned, as they invariably do.

Jan. You. Wary.

It gets dark too early for me to golf. College football is over. The Hills is over. And I didn't get a New Year's kiss for the second year in a row. But mostly, The Hills is over.

Plus, it's freaking cold. I don't want to get out of bed in the morning. And all I want to do after work is come home and crawl under the covers where it's warm. I have, however, been running most any day that the temperature gets above forty. That's because I somehow managed to gain eight pounds over the holidays. And I would like to maintain my 33 waist so that I don't have to start buying 34's, rubbing off the 34 and writing in 33.

A typical January day for me goes something like this: Work. Come home. Put on pajama pants. Crawl into bed or lie on the couch and watch TV or a DVD. Go running. Shower. Fix supper. Crawl back into bed or lie on the couch and watch TV or a DVD.

How is that different from my routine the rest of the year? Well I'm glad you asked. My typical non-January day goes something like this: (And to make it easier for you, I've bolded any significant differences.) Work. Come home. Lounge in boxer shorts. Get on the computer. Go running. Shower. Fix supper. Get back on the computer.

So as you can see, it's quite different. I have a very full life. It's very full. Last night alone, I watched four episodes of The Office. I also used my iTunes gift card to purchase the timeless classic "Push It" by Salt-n-Pepa. I know, I couldn't believe I didn't already have it either!

The return of 24 has helped a little to ease the discontent of my winter. Jack Bauer is back. And having Tony Almeida return from being presumed dead was an unexpected bonus this season. I kinda miss doing my 24 recaps. I thought of so many hilarious (to me) asides while watching this week. Maybe I'll start live blogging it. Then again, that's kinda tough to do without a laptop, and without leaving the couch.

But don't cry for me. For January is but February's eve. And February brings Groundhog Day, my birthday and of course, Valentine's Day. No, I don't like Valentine's Day but it's something to blog about at least. Besides, not having a date on New Year's Eve is kind of a bummer. Not having a date on Valentine's Day is almost a relief.

Sure, February is still cold, but it's short. It's only like twenty days or something. After that is March (you know, in case you forgot the order of the months). And from there, it shant be long until I have warmth, I have fun, I have seasons in the sun.

For now, January doth toil on. I think it's safe to say that I would hibernate the entire month of January, if I were a bear. Also if I didn't have to pee every three to eight hours.

"All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray. I've been for a walk on a winter's day. I'd be safe and warm, if I was in L.A."

Lime Green & Mulberry

I was all set to wax Bonetically today about VD, romance, and the like. Then I received a letter from Momma Bone this morning. And, well, all that other stuff can wait for another day, or year. I've edited it only slightly, to take out real names and a couple other minor things.

I hope you all have a wonderful Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day 1973

by Momma Bone

Valentine's Day usually means a box of chocolates, roses, a nice card, or maybe a very nice dinner out at your favorite restaurant. And all of that is okay, but Valentine's Day 1973 meant so much more than all of that put together. That was the day we brought home a little 6 and a half pound baby boy by the name of Bone.

I know red is the normal color for Valentine's Day, but our little Valentine package came home in a little lime green shirt and pants that had been picked out at Woolworths long before I was ever married. I worked at the telephone company and everyday would walk to Woolworths on break, for lunch, or just to look around and pass some time.

The moment I laid eyes on that little outfit, I bought it, and put it back hoping for the day I would get lucky enough to have children. I bought the matching set for a little boy and a little girl. Several years later, I put the little girls outfit to use, too, when we brought home your sister.

I don't know how Uncle D got out of school as long as he did, but when Mamaw and Papaw came to Cullman to see you, Uncle D stayed with us to help me out at home. He kept the house looking pretty, would give you a bath every morning, dress you up for me, and bring you back to the bed so I could hold you.

He tells everybody now that I would lay back there and yell, "Bring me the baby." We didn't have the modern technology that they have now, so when I got home, I was in bed from that Tuesday until that Sunday morning that I couldn't even get up and take care of us. I remember there was a very nice convenience store across the road from the trailer park where we lived, and Uncle D would walk over there everyday and get what we needed in the way of food, diapers, and formula.

Grandmother worked in Huntsville, and every night when she got off work, she would come over and bring us a big supply of groceries to help Uncle D out during the day. Lots of nights, she would have supper already cooked and bring it to us. Dad worked during the day, and didn't have a lot of hours that he could be there with us. (I know you don't remember this probably, but years later Grandmother was on her way to our house with supper when she had her bad car wreck.)

And during the summer months of 1973, Uncle D came back and lived with us and got him a part time job at a little ice cream place in Cullman that no longer is there. He really loved Cullman, and in years following we would take him and Uncle R on vacation when we went to Tennessee.

There were two front lots at the trailer court (right next door to the big technical school at Vinemont now) and we were lucky enough to have the lot under the big mulberry tree. Thank goodness for that because as you got a little older and a little louder, the only way to keep you from crying was to take you outside and let you feel those mulberry leaves.

Don't ask me why, but I know that it worked. Uncle D would get you in your stroller after the weather got pretty, and take you outside under the mulberry tree, and you were satisfied. Did not cry at all once you saw the mulberry leaves.

Thought you might enjoy seeing a picture of you under that mulberry tree. The tree that I still glance over and look at every Tuesday when I head down through Cullman County.

Happy Valentine's Day, cause you sure have made mine happy since 1973.