Here I Am, There I Am Too

As a former professional wrestling fan, that lost blog I wrote was my Wrestlemania. For those unfamiliar, Wrestlemania is the culmination of a year's worth of professional wrestling storylines all coming together for one heckuva show.  It's the Super Bowl of wrestling. Why couldn't I just call the last blog I wrote the Super Bowl of my blogs? Here's why: The Super Bowl is followed by an offseason. Everyone hypes it up knowing it will be the last game for quite some time (unless you count the Pro-Bowl which no one of course counts the Pro-Bowl). Professional wrestling has no offseason. After months and months of hype, Wrestlemania happens, a new champion is crowned, storylines are ended, yet the wrestlers have to go on TV the next night and start new feuds. It's awkward.

I don't like to brag (lies!), but that last blog I wrote was really good. I was very proud of it. But seeing as it was a little out of the ordinary for me to be so serious, I don't know how to follow that blog up. That piece sat on the top of this blog for half of a month and it would feel weird to follow it up with a, "Can you believe how good the Fighter is?" blog. That last blog was my main event and should be left alone for a bit. BUT, life goes on I suppose and I must continue to blog. If I don't, you will all perish. It will be tragic I tell thee, TRAGIC!!!

The solution? Start (join) a new (old) blog with my wife! That way I can write something here, and then I can write something there: schmitzbitz.blogspot.com. If you go there today, this Monday, this now, you'll notice I wrote a blog there linking you to come back here. You can go there from here and here from there and keep doing that over and over again and your life will be so great. Anyhow, I'll be updating that blog more often, because it's fun to do stuff with my ladywife. I'll still stop by here though too. If that blog becomes my main residence, consider this my beach house...a place I like to visit but a place that just isn't feasible to live inside of all the time.

The Calm Amidst the Storm

I did a lot of driving this weekend. On Friday night I agreed to be the designated driver for a couple of guys from work. All week long these two guys talked about how they were going to drink so hard, about how they were going to honor the twenty-year olds inside of them with a night of uncontrollable binge drinking. I prepared all week to be the babysitter. It turned out a night of college-esque heroics was not in the cards. The two men I drove around until 1:00am on Friday didn’t binge drink like college students. They did drink. They drank quite a lot, but they didn’t sit at bars and talk about women or take several shots and scream how tough they were. They talked about their kids. They talked about their families. They talked about how children (both of them have two) change the dynamics of life. This wasn’t a, “Man I wish I didn’t have kids, because man I miss being young,” conversation. This was a, “I’m proud of my family. I’m proud of the life I have,” conversation. There was a heavy sense of pride weighing over every word, every story about their children. They told me they couldn’t wait for Kelsey and me to have kids.

In truth, I can’t wait either. Kelsey and I have tried. Had I told you about that blogosphere? I don’t think so. There’s no sense in hiding it now that it’s been said. We’ve had some heartache this year. There have been some pregnancies that haven’t gone as planned. We’ve had the incredible highs of positive pregnancy tests bring on the crushing lows of miscarriages. We’ve had what are supposed to be overwhelming, positive experiences—ultrasounds, follow-up appointments with baby doctors—turned into nervous, dreaded experiences. These experiences, these baby pains, are hard. They take what is supposed to be magic and clutter it with phrases like “chromosomal defects” and “aborted.” They take a nice picnic dinner and wash it away with an unexpected storm.

RETRO BLOG: A Trip Through Reiman Gardens

I love my wife, but sometimes she makes me do things that make absolutely no sense. Today was one of those days. We went to Ames to visit an old college friend of ours--Niki. I don't know why Niki was in town. I don't know when Niki's mom moved to Ames and gave us all a convenient reason to visit Ames when Niki is back. Either way, none of these things matter to this story, on this day. We were supposed to be in Ames for a hamburger cookout at 3:00pm. We like to go to Ames, so we left home early and arrived around 12:00pm. We ate lunch at the wonderful Hickory Park. Then...well...then what?

We had nothing to do. Normally when we are in Ames we'll hit up all the various t-shirt shops and spend more money than necessary on wonderful red and yellow, excuse me, cardinal and gold ensembles. That's how we do, if you know what I'm saying. You probably don't know what I'm saying because the phrase, "that's how we do," actually makes no sense if you break it down word for consecutive word. That said, we couldn't do how we do on this day because all the Iowa State stores were closed—since today is a Sunday in July (or August? I can't remember what month it is) and there weren't a whole lot of reasons for anything to be open seeing as school is not in session and, oh yeah, it was ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN FRIGGIN DEGREES OUTSIDE. I've capitalized that last sentence to let you know it's important and will play into the story later. I’m trying to make reading easier for you novices.

Merry Christmas

Happy non-denominational gathering periods to you and your loved ones.

A Simple Suggestion To Make This World a Better Place

Here's what we need to do: we need to start a professional women's volleyball league and market the hell out of it like we do all the other sports. (NOTE: This is a proverbial "we" that takes all of society into account. Please don't get confused and think I mean that you and I are marketing all the other sports. We're not. I had to clarify as I didn't want you to get confused this early in the blog.)

Tonight, after my beautiful, vivacious wife came home from work she mentioned she'd talked with her friend (who is a high-ranking executive for our local nuclear power plant and married to the most successful lawyer in town--he will someday be mayor) and that her friend and her husband (the lawyer I mentioned in the previous parenthetical statement--you really are easily confused tonight) were going to the UNI Women's Volleyball Game/Match/Meet-up tonight. Kelsey (my wife) and I (me) thought that would be fun. We had nothing else to do, and I'd never seen good volleyball played in person before (I'd say sorry to my sister for that comment--but I'm pretty sure she doesn't read this--also, she probably knows she was bad at volleyball, and soccer, and everything else she's ever done (wow, just kidding Anne--you are really great at everything)).

Qatar is a Country I Just Heard About Today

This past summer I wrote about the World Cup. You probably need to be reminded of what the World Cup is because it's not going on right now, so no one is talking about it or the sport it features. The World Cup is an event that takes place every four years (which is every four years more than it should happen) where all the best soccer players you've never heard of from places you've never even heard of beat up and embarrass our own United States American soccer placers you've never heard of. It usually happens in the middle of the summer when nothing else fun in sports is really going on, so the sports media tries to guilt you, a hot-blooded American, into liking soccer. "The world loves it. Why don't you love it?" says the sports media.

Oh shut up sports media.

Quick Fact: Did you know soccer was invented by impoverished yokels who simply needed a way to keep score when they kicked a rock around their barren neighborhood parks? Look it up somewhere.

Googling Myself: What is Jay Schmitz Up To Today?

I am not a celebrity. Obviously I should be. We all know that. I'm not though. In the past, whenever I'd Google myself I wouldn't even be anywhere on Google...and Google is really big. It was sad really. Why wasn't anyone talking about me?

I'm happy to report I'm now the fourth Jay Schmitz listed on Google. Thank you Twitter! That means I'm the number one Jay Schmitz on Twitter and the fourth Jay Schmitz on Google. That's no small task.

But who are these other Jay Schmitzes? And how do you pluralize my last name? Schmitzs? That looks weird. I'm going with Schmitzes. That is the Official Pluralization of My Last Name for This Blog.

Today, let's look at the first Jay Schmitz Google listed. Naturally, he is an MMA fighter. For those of you with good taste and/or those of you that have never lived in Davenport, IA here is what MMA is: Mixed Martial Arts. It is so boring. Basically two people with tattoos come into an octagon (which is an octagon mat inside of a fence) and dance around for a few minutes. They might throw a few punches. If they ever get around to throwing a punch the crowd will go, "oooh," because something almost happened, but nothing actually happened. Usually the two tattooed people just try to grab each other. The first to grab their opponent wins. Or something like that. That is what always seems to happen. Look--there is no pageantry. There are no scripted storylines. There are no bright colored tights. There is no Vince McMahon. BORING.

LOL: I Have a Blog on the Internet

Yeesh. My blog skilz have been atrocious as of late. I probably have a lot of reasons as to why. Maybe I'll get into them soon. I might not though. I have no idea where this blog will go. I told my wife I'm going to write a blog hell or high water, even if it ends up being about magic elves or something.

AN INTERRUPTING PREVIEW BLOG ABOUT MAGIC ELVES:

"Hello Ralph. How was your weekend?" Mark asked as he placed the coffee pot back on the burner.

"In a word: Frustrating!" Ralph said, gritting his teeth. He grabbed a plastic cup and shoved it under the blue spout on the Culligan machine.

"I hear that. You must not have had your home invaded by magic elves like I did," Mark said.

I Have Been Away for a Very Good Reason

Hi Everyone! I apologize for my absence. I know you have missed me. I fully intended to write one last high school reunion blog. It was going to be about the people I bumped into that weekend who were "totally over high school." I was going to talk about how you couldn't be totally over high school because that doesn't make sense. But then I realized almost all the high school blogs sounded like that, so um, I skipped it! Also, my last few blogs weren't very funny. My humor was lacking and not modern. I needed help.

Luckily I found the help I needed in an antique store this past weekend:

Oh thank the Christ Jesus! I will be a modern humorist. I will tell jokes like this: 

Aunt Marindy had just been told that Ham, the Biblical character, was the founder of the negro race. The old woman snorted disdainfully.

"Tain't so!" she said. "We all ain't 'scended f'um no ham. We's 'scended f'um N*gger Demus. Dat's who!"

Haha! Hot damn! Let me pause for a moment so you can all slap your knees.

There is so much modern and not wrong with that joke. It's satire bitches! That was a real, modern joke in 1938. People were so funny back then.

Also, you should all probably start inviting me to host events at your parties, events, and galas. This book features 300 pages of "toast suggestions." I can weave in some pretty poignant stories about troops and graduating children.

So yeah, my absence has been worth it because while I've been away I've been busy BECOMING AWESOME. You understand.

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: I Graduated With a Black Person

I think one of the reasons people think high school reunions are going to be awkward is because deep down a lot of people fear that their ex-classmates will remember all of the embarrassing moments from the past. While reunions are not awkward (THEY ARE NOT), that's not to say they don't have a few weird moments. It was weird to see Scott B's small children who looked exactly like miniature Scott Bs. If it was my nightmare instead of my reunion, I would have assumed the apocalypse started amidst an invasion of miniature Scott B people. Also, some people are bald now (me) and some people are fat now (not me!) and some people think jeans with big rips in the kneecaps are fashionable (Ian?). Ian, those jeans aren't fashionable. Lots of people have kids now too, but that's not really weird. People have been having kids since high school.

But the weirdest of all, the STRANGEST OF ALL, is that I graduated with a black guy I didn't know about. Let me be clear: my high school has a history of white-ocity (white-icity?). When I was in seventh, eighth, or ninth grade a black man who attended my future-at-the-time and past-in-the-now high school committed suicide. The incident briefly shone light upon the fact that Cedar Falls, IA (at least at the time) was almost entirely white. The mother of the student claimed the community was racist. I don't know about that, but high school can be difficult enough when you are "normal" and have a slight difference--you're an athlete who likes to read, you're a cheerleader who likes to read, you're a high school student who likes to read. I can't imagine how difficult high school would be if you had an obvious, visual difference...even if that difference really doesn't matter. Racism or not, being "different" is never easy.

Out of my class of 400+ people, I could have named four black people I graduated with before the reunion: Owannatu, Robert, Deondre (who is a great example of someone who tried to fit in by hiding his blackness: he refused to go by the name Deondre and instead requested to be called Jimmy because it sounded whiter), and Wendy.

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: It's Not That Awkward

Leading up to my ten-year high school reunion, I heard a lot of people mention, "it will be awkward." No specific reasons were given for the potential awkardicity. I would even ask, "Why will it be akward?"  I wouldn't be given a clear answer. I would be told random musings about how it's always strange to run into people from high school.

Here's the thing though: it's not. It's not awkward if you're a well-adjusted, socially adept person (of which--SPOILER ALERT--I am). Why do people feel running into people from their past is such a bad thing? Is it because the people from their past knew them when they were an immature, irresponsible goon? Or maybe because we spent so much time with our high school classmates growing up that they've seen us at our worst and most of them departed our lives before seeing us at our best? Or maybe because you spent your childhood talking to your former classmates about your dreams and your hopes for the future and are secretly worried they'll judge you if your life turned out differently?

Look, I'm not a professional wrestler. I'll admit it. It turns out I'm not 300 pounds of solid muscle, nor do I like taking steel chair shots to the head. Sometimes it's okay when life turns out a little differently than how you thought it would when your biggest concerns were listening to Blink-182's latest CD and mastering your Knights of the Round materia in Final Fantasy VII (that was officially the nerdiest reference this blog has made).

It doesn't have to be awkward though. If you take all the thoughts, all the regrets you had from high school, guess what...the person from high school you are talking to probably has similar regrets and similar thoughts. It's called growing up. You do dumb things (like get pulled over by the cops for barking at police dogs--which is a crime). You do mean things (like having your kid sister tell Brad Johnson that no one is at your house even though there are thirty cars outside and a pile of shoes at the front door). But you do those dumb and mean things and learn from them. That way, when you see the people you grew up with in ten years, you aren't arrested and haven't become an asshole. People understand this.

It's not awkward. It's just sort of life.

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION: What I Learned About Lesbians

My ten-year high school reunion was this past weekend. I graduated with a class of four hundred plus people. I knew more than half of them and remember much less than half of the half plus I knew. I was excited for the reunion. I liked high school. Yes, it was shallow, it was vain, sometimes we all acted completely ridiculous, but it was fun. It wasn't the most fun in the world. No, the most fun in the world is having a good spouse, a good job, and some stability in your life. Duh. I'm the most fun in the world. But high school isn't bad.

I think this week I'm going to try to write a few short blogs reflecting on the reunion or parts of the reunion. I don't see much need to write one long blog that no one will read about the reunion or parts of the reunion.

But, before I do any reflecting or talking about real memories, I'd like to address lesbians. Last fall, while out for dinner my wife and another couple, I saw a bachelorette party being thrown for a lesbian. It was a unique bachelorette party to say the least: There was no penis stuff anywhere. Lesbians--not a fan of penises. I tried to determine while people-watching the party if both of the soon-to-be-married lesbians were there. I could not determine that. I wondered: When gay and/or lesbian couples get married do they have separate bachelor and bachelorette parties?

I'm not saying that both members of the relationship share all the same friends, but surely most of them feature some people who would be invited to both parties. This would lead to an interesting scenario where people could actually attend and compare both of the "pre-marriage" parties--generally people only attend one, aligned by gender.

Anyways, I have good news: On Saturday night, after my reunion, I ran into a very nice lesbian woman I know (she played softball with my wife). She was being pretty open with me about how girls are crazy (they are) and how we (people who like girls) put up with a lot (so much). She was basically an awesome and accurate lesbian, so I asked her my bachelorette party question. Here was her answer: "Obviously we'd have two separate parties. If we go somewhere and some woman wants to rub her shit all over my shit, I don't want my fiance there."

I've wanted this question answered for nine months, and that was easily the best answer I could have received. So, file that under mysteries solved.

I Certainly Like Rap More Than I Like Blind People

I’ve been listening to a lot of rap lately. I haven’t the faintest idea as to why. Usually I listen to what my wife calls, “suicide music.” My music generally consists of sad chords, depressing lyrics, and quality storytelling. Sure, Eli the Barrow Boy was killed while trying to earn enough money to buy his woman a coat, his woman who was also killed, but the song sure sounds pretty! Sometimes I think, “Hey I like this happy song,” only to find out later it’s ACTUALLY about suicide—like the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, “I Wrote It.” Here I thought a guy was writing a little love ditty to his lady cat whilst drinking in a Boston bar…nope, he’s writing a suicide note to no one particular because he alienated everyone he ever met. Those stories are so similar. I bet you easily see how I mixed up those two.

So yeah…I don’t know when I started listening to rap. I think part of it has to do with the 5:00am exercise class I take. Because we are exercising, we obviously need beats. Right? After six months straight of Lady Gaga every morning (confession: it took me two weeks to go gaga for Gaga—SUCH A GOOD JOKE), I’ve learned to really love me the beats and the synthesizers and the constant singing about doing it. It in this case being sex. Sex in this case being a non-marital encounter with anyone at a bar who will buy you a drink. A non-marital encounter with anyone at a bar who will buy you a drink in this case being Beyonce I guess? Are Gaga and Beyonce in love? Hip hop and rap are so confusing.

The beats got to me, that’s it. But being so hardcore, I couldn’t just listen to the “lovey dovey, hey let’s dance type” of beats. No. Of course not. I needed beats accompanied with mean-spirited lyrics and the constant rapping about doing it. It in this case being very naughty and disgusting and a little too detailed for my liking.

Also, rap is good to run to. It sure beats running to Beulah. Beulah is good to cry to in between rare bursts of happiness.

I do hope this doesn’t last though. Every time I pull up to a stop light I turn my music down and avoid eye contact with drivers from the other cars. I know they heard my mad beats approaching. I know they know I’m white. At least I hope they do. What I’m saying is I hope the drivers in the car next to me are not blind. If they are blind, and I knew that, I would keep my music turned up. BLIND DRIVERS: Please put stickers on your car alerting white people who listen to rap that they need not be embarrassed, you can’t see them.

When You're Here, You Have a Very Weird Family

It was a rough week. A bad thing happened. Luckily for me, I can always go to the nearby Olive Garden to cheer me up. Because when I’m there, I’m family. This is good, because when I’m with family I become an Olive Garden? Or are there more than two variables at work here? It’s only confusing if you think about it. So, America, DON’T THINK.

Olive Garden commercials are the best. They share similar themes: everyone smiles too much. Everyone laughs too much. Everyone says stuff that real humans don’t say. Everyone says stuff with giggly hiccups in their throat. Everything is generally interracial. Kids like their parents. Parents like their kids. The staff likes their customers. If you could pull Utopia out of my imagination, censor the nudity, add in my family, and place it in an Olive Garden, wah-la! Good advertising.

Dear The President, Mashed Potatoes

Dear The President,

I am an unemployed man who cannot afford education. I've been unemployed for a looooong time. So long. I really need money. It's too bad there aren't jobs for everybody, am I right? Yeah. Okay, but please could you make sure they don't put a mosque in the middle of where an accident once happened? That seems like something important we should talk about while the rest of the country falls apart.

I remember in eighth grade when my teacher Mr. Clark taught me about how statistics are funny. And they are so funny. He asked me if I knew that 100% of big-time serial killers have eaten mashed potatoes. Did you know that? Since that day I haven't had any mashed potatoes because ANYONE WHO EATS THEM WILL KILL SOMEONE SOMEDAY. I think that's what Mr. Clark meant. If Mr. Clark wanted to open a mashed potato store next to the house of someone who knew someone who onetime died, I bet they would say, "No way Mr. Clark, be respectful to the dead."

But here's the thing: I sort of like mashed potatoes. And just because some people who ate mashed potatoes went crazy and made some bad decisions, doesn't mean all the people who eat mashed potatoes will go that crazy and make the same bad decisions. I understand this. Fourth graders understand this. I also understand there are real issues in our country like joblessness, wars (both real and fake), declining work ethics, lack of passion for education, divisive and/or unproductive debates, glorification of teen pregnancy, parents who just want to be buddies instead of disciplinarians, child porn, and ETC ETC ETC. Really, we're worried about peaceful mashed potato eaters wanting to build mashed potato stores? LEAVE MR. CLARK ALONE YOU JERKS!

Love,

ME!

My Trip To Texas Pt 2: The Mexican Perkins

San Antonio is very different than Houston. For one, San Antonio is better than Houston. I say this not out of disrespect for Houston. I say this because it is a fact. Sometimes facts can be disrespectful, but it's not the fact's fault. It literally is what it is.

Fact: Messing with Texas would be such a waste of time.

So, San Antonio: My best friend from my childhood, Ian, moved to San Antonio sometime after college. I think he moved for a girl. Or he moved there with a girl. I can't remember the timing. I think this is because sometimes I'm not a very good friend. Either way, he moved there with or around the time a girl, who he has since broken up with but still hangs out with quite regularly, moved to San Antonio. They don't hang out as much lately. I think she moved to Guam now or something. I don't know. Maybe Ian will move to Guam? Ian, don't move to Guam.

Noah's Rebuttal

Below is Noah's (the before mentioned ten year old) response to my disco alien.  This is the wild rainbow swirl edward guy. Well done.

I think I have the mind of a ten year old.

Disco Dancing Aliens

I am outside at my brother in law's outdoor celebration of his trip through the birth canal. I am having an art contest with a ten year old. I drew a disco dancing alien named fred. It is awesome. He has bad fashion sense though because he is green and he is wearing green. Oh fred.

Tall People Need to Respect Other People's Property

The other day I was at Barnes and Noble. That's a bookstore that sells books. You should go there sometime. I think you'd really like some of the books they sell at that store.

While I was at Barnes and Noble I had to pee. Luckily Barnes and Noble has a bathroom in the back. It's next to some books. I went inside the bathroom and urinated into a very low to the ground urinal. Here is a picture:

You should notice how high up the linoleum tile gives way to wallpaper way above the toilet.

But What About the Laughter and the Future?

Did you all hear the horrible news about life today? Cathy, the eponymous comic strip starring a Cathy and written by a Cathy will have its last comic strip ever on October 3rd. This is news most fowl! (That’s a play on a word. Fowl is a bird. Chicken is a bird. Cathy loooves food! Chicken is a food AND a bird! Cathy loves chicken probably.)

Whoever will the women of the world laugh with when their diets aren’t working? Whoever will tend to their hearts when love goes bad? Who will understand their unending devotion to chocolate? Who will understand how frustrating mother’s can be and how frustrating it can be when you realize you are becoming your frustrating mother? NO ONE! Women will only have friends and family to talk to and learn from now. They will not have a sexually androgynous, frizzy-haired dynamo of humor.

For those who don’t know, Cathy is (soon to be was) a HILARIOUS comic about a woman named Cathy doing all sorts of woman things like saying, “Ack!” when confronted with the urge to eat cake and saying, “Ack!” when exercising, and saying, “Ack” so much. Giggle giggle. Remember the time she said, “Ack!” when her mom visited?