So I’ve been sick pretty much since Friday. I had an eye infection, an ear infection, and something in my throat. This morning was the first morning I was actually feeling pretty decent (although still not so great). So my alarm goes off, and I turn the light on, ready to start the day. Sherlock jumped up on my bed, heaved quickly three times, and threw up all over my bed. Thankfully, we had just washed our spare set of sheets, so we just switched them out. But the little punk jumped up on the bed, threw up, and then ran away. He jumped up on the bed specifically to throw up. That is evil.

After I got out of the shower, the devil-cat attacked my foot with his vomit-stained teeth. Bear in mind that my arms are covered in scratches from the last four days at home with this cat.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I actually have some scratches from Zoey as well. Zoey likes to explore behind my computer desk. Occasionally, he’ll get the speaker wire wrapped around his leg. When this happens, he’ll briefly try to pull it loose, but then just collapse onto the ground and start wailing. I mean really pathetic crying, too. Not even meows—just a long, sad howl. I went to free him yesterday, and he panicked and dug all of his claws into my right arm. The cat really has no idea how to be mean unless it’s completely by accident, which is actually kind of an endearing quality unless he’s breaking into your room at night.

And all of this is after Franny and Sherlock systematically tag-teamed the consumption of the flowers I bought for Janelle on Friday. They seriously ate half of the flowers!

Well, there you have it. Four days at home has reduced me to blogging about my cats again. I was able to work today, so hopefully that will jolt me back into having something else to write about. Oh, and maybe I can find the motivation to work on my portfolio again. Anyway, good night!

Yesterday, on the way out of Wal-Mart, we tripped the alarm. You know, the one that goes off when you try to steal merchandise? (My father tried to push both me and the cart out of the store before anyone showed up, but that’s besides the point.) We got searched and it turns out some sunglasses (that we paid for) were the culprits.

We got home and discovered that a portion of our groceries were missing. Blueberries, strawberries, chocolate… All the good stuff. We checked out receipt, and sure enough, we had paid for it all. I blame the turnstile bagging mechanism.

But this isn’t just about the loss of a few berries and some stuff we probably shouldn’t be eating. This is about justice! We were accused of stealing, when we were in fact the stolen from. My dad briefly considered suing Wal-Mart, and I was forced to make my guacamole with a lemon instead of a lime (and don’t even get me started on breakfast this morning).

Anyway, today, we made our way back there. (Unfortunately, without the receipt.) We were unable to recover any of our lost groceries, so we made our purchases and left, dejected. When we got in the car, we discovered we were the proud new owners of some ranch dressing and Louisiana hot sauce that we had not paid for. Being the morally upright citizens that we are, we were glad to see cosmic justice in effect. Tomorrow night: hot wings.

I forgot to post on this, but I am now in sunny south Florida. Sorry to all my friends down here who didn’t know. Give me a call and maybe we can hang out.

Anyway, I’m staying with my dad, for now. Marisa (my sister) and her boyfriend Alex are also here. We went diving this morning and caught a lobster, but we threw him back because it’s not lobster season right now.

Anyway, I have a camera with me, so expect a few pictures when I get back (Monday), but not until then, because I forgot my USB cable.

I’m not doing so well. I myself am fine, but a number of my friends are going through hell right now. For their sakes, I’ll spare you the details.

To the two people responsible, just know that I harbor no ill will toward you and will continue to support you as I always have—as a friend. My own dismay is born solely out of concern for you and the other involved parties. I want to support you, but I don’t know how. I will continue to be here in the coming months.

To the two people most affected, my heart goes out to you. No, this isn’t fair, but your noble reactions have already impressed me. I will also support you as much as I can.

And to my friend with the potential medical issue, just know that I am praying for you and will do everything I can to bring you through this. You’ve made it through this before, and I know you’ll make it through it again. Let me know if you need anything—anything—and I’ll be right by your side, as will Janelle, and as I’m sure your love will be.

I took this picture a few weeks back, but forgot to post it. I dyed my hair black. It’s naturally dark brown. It took a little while to get used to, but I like it now. Also, it’s permanent, so I’ll be stuck with it for a few months anyway.

So I went out after work and bought a shirt and some cat food, and I came home and Janelle was watching sports. It happened again! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a tea party with my cats.

Now that we’re moving back into warm weather, it’s prime time for parties. Here are some awesomer party ideas to get you started…

(Note: These are just food ideas. It’s up to you to plan a party around them.)

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There’s a term—basketball widow—that describes a woman whose husband completely disappears during basketball season, essentially leaving his wife a widow for basketball season. Well, I’m a basketball widower. My wife completely disappears whenever college basketball is on. This, of course, means she’s basically gone right now.

So today, rather than sit through a game of stomping and yelling at basketball, I decided to get out and go shopping for some books and clothes and things for my garden. It didn’t hit me until later how weird it was that I was looking at shirts and picking out little houseplants while my wife sat at home and watched sports. Just last week, Janelle and Landon sat down for the big game, and I made them sandwiches and got them crackers with crab dip.

I can’t let my manhood be threatened just because my wife likes sports and I know how to accessorize. But I know it won’t be long before Spring is in full swing and she’s out mowing the yard again while I’m in the kitchen making cranberry-brie puff pastries. I am slowly turning into a housewife. I need to go listen to some classic rock and look at cars. Now.

Because my department made almost $3.8 million in January, they decided to rent us a party bus and bus around town for dinner and drinks. I decided to go, despite a few things weighing against it:

1. Bars aren’t really my “scene.”
2. I don’t drink when I’m out.
3. I tense up in large crowds.
4. Drunk people think they’re way more funny than they actually are.

But, I figured, I always skip out on happy hours with co-workers, and I like my co-workers, so I should probably spend some time with them, damnit. Also, I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun stories from the night. So that’s how I spent my Friday night.

Well, there were some fun stories. Mandy ended up throwing a lemon at our boss, for one, and later in the night, the web content manager started working the stripper pole on the bus. (Yes, there was a stripper pole on a refurbished schoolbus. It was a little surreal.) Also, one of us got denied access to a club because of an expired driver’s license (uh, an expired license does not change your birthdate) and we had to sneak in another way without getting caught. All in a day’s work.

The whole evening, though, made me realize how odd I truly am. I thrive on deep and meaningful human connection, which isn’t encouraged by loud music and dark, smoky rooms. I don’t like drawing attention to myself. I was mostly silent unless I was involved in a one-on-one conversation. I think some people thought I was actually blowing them off. It was like a flashback to high school.

(So, yeah, to anyone that came with us on Friday night, sorry if I seemed to tune you out. It was hard for me to pay attention.)

I think part of this is the INFP in me coming out and part of it is the depression and social anxiety I’ve had my entire life (which is much more manageable now than it was, say, seven years ago, but is still present in trace amounts). It’s an odd place to be. I feel like it’s pretty easy for me to understand other people, but pretty difficult for people to really understand me. Soren Kierkegaard said it best when he said, “People understand me so poorly that they don’t even understand my complaint about them not understanding me.”

All that said, I did actually have a good time. I had some great conversations with a few co-workers about faith, politics, charity work, and music, and it was actually fun to see the hijinks that my co-workers put themselves up to. Also, volunteering to be a designated driver made me feel a little better about everyone going out (although I ended up not having to drive anyone home). So, yeah, I’d do it again—although I think I’d still prefer going to a wine bar or coffeehouse, or playing board games at someone’s house.

For Dagney’s birthday tonight, a group of us went swing dancing. Now, I know, some of you might be saying, “Wow, Brandon, I didn’t know you swing danced!” Well, I don’t. Let me tell you why.

While I’m generally good at picking things up when using my mental prowess, I’m absolutely terrible when it comes to using my physical prowess. I have flashbacks to the PlattForm volleyball league a year and a half ago, where I was an embarrassment not only to PlattForm Interactive, but also to America. I played soccer for half a season—half a season!—in high school, only to be taken out injured for the rest of the season. Seeing as I was second-string mid-fielder for the junior varsity team, this was not a huge loss for my team.

I talked to a few other wallflowers tonight about dancing. “Oh, I’m terrible,” said one, “I have absolutely no rhythm.” I shook my head. “I don’t have that excuse,” I replied. (I’m a drummer.) “Oh, I forgot about that,” the man said. An awkward silence followed. I mean, what’s the proper response to that?

man: “Well, maybe it’s because you’re white?”
me: “I’m legally Alaskan Native.”
man: “Uh, is there much dancing in Alaskan Native culture?”
me: “I am mildly unsettled by this conversation.”

But let’s take a closer look at swing dancing. For those unfamiliar with the basic step (the first thing they teach you in swing class), it’s a three-step. There are actually four steps, but one occurs on an upbeat, so it’s only three counts. Every single song they played tonight was in 4/4 time signature, which means there were four counts to every measure. If you still don’t get it, here’s a play-by-play for three measures:

music	dance
1	1
2	2
3	3
4	1—what the hell?
1	2
2	3
3	1—shit!
4	2
1	3
2	1—WHY ARE YOU ALL DANCING IN THREE?
3	2
4	3

So you see my frustration, as a drummer and logical thinker. I feel like I’m taking crazy pills, here!

Anyway, despite the rhythmical blasphemy that is swing dancing, I actually had a pretty good time tonight. So happy birthday, Dagney! But seriously, do not get me anywhere near a dance floor (unless I am holding a guitar).