Call Me by My Name

As some of you may know, I had it pretty rough as a child.

You see, my parents made the dumbfounding decision to have alliterative offspring, meaning my brother, Michael and I were given names that started with the same letter.

Why a parent would do this to themselves is lost on me. Sometimes my parents would stare in silence, looking at me like I was the two remaining answers after using the 50/50 lifeline on the hit gameshow “Who Wants to be a Parent?” Then they would try to mask the amnesia with affection and just throw out nicknames like “sweetie” or “dear” or just collectively refer to us as their “M&Ms” but I knew what they were trying to pull!

I’ve heard from people who think my brother and I look exactly alike and their are others who are certain that one of us was picked up at “the store.” Personally, I don’t see where the confusion is. Michael played football and lacrosse and I played Xbox and Minesweeper so I have to imagine it wasn’t so it really comes down to asking yourself “did I have to move to the side when walking down the hallway or did I just feel a light breeze?” I feel like it wasn’t so much the look as it was the letter that was to blame. I haven’t made a whole lot of preemptive parenting decisions, but I have decided I am going name children by alternating between first and last letters of the alphabet. So my lineage lineup will look sound something like Adam, Zachary, Bryan and Yadon  or or Andrea, Zoey and Brianna (sorry, but definitely stopping at 3 girls. I’ve heard too many stories of people holding out hope for that boy and long story short, the dad now needs to make bathroom reservations a week in advance.)

Rise of the Machines

I’ve never been one of those “the machines are listening in and will one day rise up” people, but this was just weird. Yesterday while I was in the car, “Let me clear my throat” was on the radio and I got to a red light right at the part when he goes “FREEZE!” And today I was getting my “Uptown Funk” on in downtown Nashua and got to a red light at the part “Stop! Wait a minute.” Years ago, the car in front of us did the unthinkable and actually used their blinker while my radio was blasting “to the left, to the left...” I also find an inappropriate level of inspiration from the fact that when I’m coming up on a yellow light, My CRV, or Sir Fix-a-lot, tends to throw on “Don’t Stop Believin’”

Awkward Silence

Another comedic misfire brought to you by yours truly 😒

I am very blessed to be the godfather of the newest addition to the family and that means I have seized the opportunity to make as many “Godfather” references as humanly possible.

A few days ago my dad text me saying “how u doing, godfather?” To which I replied with the second of the two Godfather references I can make and said “DO NOT ASK ME ABOUT MY BUSINESS!” Pretty solid, right?

So I don’t hear from him for two days and our next digitized dialogue has to do with his desire to see me diversify my dinner menu beyond the microwave. However, my fear is that my so much as preheating the oven and cooking up some concoction will lead to an unappetizing epidemic that social studies books 30 years from now will refer to as the “Wootonic Plague” and the “Blond Death”

Tough Crowd

Sometimes my jokes don’t go over the way I plan (yeah Mark, we know!)

My brother, my dad and myself have a group chat that was originally intended to keep each other accountable for exercising called the “Gym” chat. Unfortunately, the content of the conversation has strayed from its origins, but the group name is the same. Mainly because “Fart Jokes and Fight Nights” doesn’t fit as a group name. I had them over for the Mcgregor vs Khabib fight and at the end of the night my dad texted the group saying “Great night guys! Thank you Mark for hosting.” Now, if you watched the fight you know that after it was over, Khabib jumped into the audience and started whaling on someone. This is a huge “no no.” Among the post-it note of precautions taken in the UFC rule book are: 1. Don’t ruin the other guys chances of passing his single remaining brain cell down to his kids with a low blow 2. The cage is an enclosure, not a jungle gym 3. No interaction with the audience, this is a combat sport, not a Blue Man Group concert. So after my dad sent his text, I replied by saying “No problem! After you guys left I jumped the neighbors fence and started fighting their dog for some reason......” I’m not going to lie, I was kinda giggling to myself as I typed out the message and anxiously awaited their replies. And waited and waited and waited. The group chat saw no activity until there was a completely unrelated text the next morning. My hope is that there was some sort of cell phone snafu that caused the silence, but my fear is that the silence was a form of communication ☹️ oh well, they can’t all be winners.

Student Driver

I have seen a lot of scary things on cars in my day. Treacherous trunk trinkets like bumper stickers with curse words,  New York Yankee stickers on vandalism-worthy vehicles who have clearly taken a wrong turn and wandered deep into the heart of Red Sox country. However, the most attention grabbing auto ornament I have laid eyes on are cars with the catastrophic coupling of words informing me that the car in front is under the command of a "Student Driver." Everyone has to go through the process learning at some point and I understand that. In fact, it is mostly the teachers I have a problem with. I was behind a student driver doing 20mph in a 30mph zone for what felt like an eternity. The frequency and ferocity with which the brakes were being hit lead me to the only conceivable conclusions that either there was a small creature loose in that car both of them were unsuccessfully trying to kill or they were the first contestants on the new GSN Smash hit game show "Crash Cab." Now, I feel comfortable sharing something with you about one of my dads' shortcomings as a father because for him, getting into Facebook is like breaking into Fort Knox so I am sure he will never see this (RIGHT, PEOPLE?!) when he was teaching me to drive he said "Go five miles per hour over the speed limit to keep with the flow of traffic ('but Mark, it is a speed LIMIT! Yeah, well the rim of an ice bowl is the limit to a serving, but do we obey that? No, we compact that sucker down with a spoon like we are packing to leave for a Candy Land Cruise in the morning, heap on a Himalayan mountains sized helping of whipped cream on the top and pray that gravity and gluttony cooperate for the return trip to the couch. My point being, there are grey areas. Proverbs says "Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it." So, please for the LOVE OF GOD, train them to go a little faster!

Adult Language

One way I can tell that I am getting  older is that I am beginning to use adult language. Now, when I say adult language I don’t mean it in the Hollywood sense like using words that would get Dial soap shoved down my diaphragm. Nor do I mean I have started to use words like Periphrasis, which  to me sounds like the name of the Greek god of Paraphrasing and that theory provides enough evidence as to why that word has yet to be incorporated into one of my unabridged anecdotes.  I just find myself saying things that I never thought I would say. I went to look at a house with a friend over the weekend and out loud and excitedly I said “Are those granite countertops!” What the heck is wrong with me?! (Rhetorical question, please do not answer) 😕

The Measure of a Man

I feel as though I have one more hurdle to leap prior to becoming a full-fledged adult.
You see, in the past I have dogsat for my neighbor and she has sometimes paid me in cash which can be spent anywhere and on anything, but as a guy in my 20s I have also accepted a 6-pack of my favorite beer as payment for looking after her pooch. A few days ago, she gave me a very nice gift of some zucchini bread from the garden in our backyard. Several days later, I found a case of orange soda on my steps.

Now, if you have been in a conversation with me for any length of time, chances are you have been subjected to one or all three of these topics:1. Facts about the American Civil War
2. Some poorly remembered and recited bit from a comedian
3. My unyielding and undying love for orange soda.

You have to understand, absolutely ANY OTHER soda would have drawn suspicion. I would have slung a Sprite from my steps to Salem. I would have punted Pibb from my porch to Portsmouth, I would have diaper shot a Dr. Pepper from my deck to the campus at Dartmouth. However, because this soda happened to be my absolute favorite, Mr. Optimist Prime shows up like "Well, this was obviously the second part of my gift and was absolutely meant to be!" Breaking the seal on my third can of soda nearly drown out the bleep of my phone with a text from my neighbor saying that that after years of living in the same home, her son had accidently put a case of orange soda on the wrong set of steps and she inquired as to whether or not I had seen it.

The things that people consider lying about mostly include money or merchandise. For me, the knowledge of the whereabouts of a certain soda are included on that list. Luckily, she concluded her text by saying it was ok if I had drank a few, because what exactly constitutes "a few" is still open to interpretation. I handed over what was left and am alive to talk about, so it is safe to say everyone was a winner here.