Birthday Rant

My birthday is that weird day of the year on Facebook when I want to say thank you to everyone, but I don't want to sound like some egotistical celebrity giving an Oscar acceptance speech (trust me, this will be much longer) But at the same time, I can't be hitting "like" and saying thank you all day. So, as much as I'd like to make you feel special individually, that was/is your parents job and if they didn't do that, quite frankly, they dropped the ball and I don't feel as though I should have to carry the burden of picking up the slack for that. Also, much like graduation day, today is kind of bittersweet because, to my knowledge, the only "celebrity" I share a birthday with is Benito Mussolini, and that's one of those July 29th dark family secrets that we'd rather forget. Special shout out to the kitchen crew for making coming in to work today special as the day featured a custom made Brunello Cucinelli birthday hat (which I'm beginning to think may have been a knockoff given the fact that it was made out of paper) and an absolutely angelic rendition of "Happy Birthday" that I'm positive would've got them through the first two rounds of American Idol. Also, an extra special thanks to a certain Spanish woman for making this predominantly Irish dude some French Toast (Boom! Ethnic Diversity!) And can't wait for my scrumptious spaghetti dinner tonight! I am happy to report that, at 23 years old, I am above the ages associated with Taylor Swift and Avril Lavigne songs. Which means that from here on out, I look forward to conversing with mature, independent adult women, much like I myself am now a mature, adult young man capable of expressing one thought and seeing that singular thought through to completion

Unromantic Getaway

I think the best part about having my own place is that now, whenever I'm talking to a girl at the bar and things aren't going so well, I have a place I can go to be by myself and cry

Wherefore is thy bathroom?

I fear that it may be a long time before I can start having company over at my place.
Just spent about 5 minutes looking around for where I decided to keep my sandwich bags and as I got more and more frustrated with each drawer, it just ended up looking like I was playing a kitchen-wide game of foosball (not my best metaphor, I'll admit. I was going to do something like I looked like the mother of 12 checking closets for monsters at bedtime, but I didn't like that one either)

Anyway, I can just picture it now:

"Mark, where's your bathroom?"
"Ummm, uhhh. Vacuum closet....Basement. Front door....Ahhhhh, not on the carpet!"

Multiple Choice

Someone whose fridge consists mostly of soda and beer is:
A. Awesome
B. A bachelor
C. In desperate need of a dietician
D. Both A & B...
E. Thinks he's A, but he's actually C
F. None of the above
G. All of the above
H.. OK, seriously, what happened to the good ole days when it was just A thru D, the test makers of today are out of control! You're telling me that I have 5 minutes to complete this section of the test and I have to read an encyclopedia-length essay and then go through questions with a battle of Gettysburg casualties sized list of possible answers! I imagine Regis Philbin is livid

More Swearing Per Capita Than Anywhere In The World

Sometimes, gaining recognition for something can take place over the course of many years. Such was the case with my childhood babysitters’ house becoming known as a place where, each day, we were forced to eat everything on our plate at lunchtime. We were then promptly ordered outside and told to stay there for hours on end. Coincidentally, once we kids were in the yard, an angry mob who were searching for a man named Jerry would enter into her living room. It was nice of her to protect us like that. In other cases, you can work your entire life to achieve success as a professional athlete and yet, your entire career is highlighted by one of the most highly broadcasted, gosh darn it Just Go for It pickup lines of all-time (i.e. Joe Namath)

This weekend, I had the esteemed privilege of visiting an area which boasts more swearing per capita than anywhere else in the world. And I will tell you, much like visiting the Grand Canyon and seeing the sunset right in front of you, rather than watching it on the Discovery channel through the antennaed TV at your grandmothers’ house while trying to mentally block out your grandfathers’ semi-inebriated rant about all the time he spent outside at your age, you truly don’t have an appreciation for it until you go to the paintball fields of northern New Hampshire.

Given the casual commonality of cursing used in today’s society by actors, musicians and angry elementary school bus drivers, my fear is that the art form of the beauty that is badmouthing and the absolute verbal versatility in being applicable to express so many human emotions that is vulgarity, will be lost on this generation. 

I feel as though my point is best illustrated in this way: Several years ago, my family and I went on a trip to Yellowstone National Park. As our plane touched down in Jackson Hole, we were greeted on all sides not by the super structures, heavy industry and crutch-bearing bums that inhabit the inner city, but we were enclosed by beautiful mountains, mountains! Not too far off, there were also several deer eating some grass in the field. It was an absolutely serene setting. However, after several days, and being treated to the sight of bison, black bears and sulfur stinking explosive geysers, quite frankly, seeing a deer had the visual wow factor of a mailbox. On an unrelated note, after witnessing a traffic jam resulting from 1,800 pound bison meandering into the middle of the street and practically brushing up against our car, I will not likely ever complain about freeway congestion caused solely by the human inability to adequately operate heavy machinery ever again. The point of this now hopelessly derailed metaphor being, we can’t lose our appreciation of the deer just because we’ve had an overexposure to them.

Now, it would be impossible for me to cover all of the swear-worthy situations one would encounter on the paintball field by myself, so I’ve enlisted the help of a few foulmouthed friends who, thanks to the implementation of the Swear Jar, have amassed a debt rivaled in its monetary value only by that of the government which supposedly allows them the freedom of speech to use such language in the first place. They’ve unfortunately now been forced to take up jobs as fictitious, situational stand-ins used to illustrate a silly point. I, for one, do not believe that the use of such language is prudent or necessary so in place of the written words I will be using old 1960s superhero TV show onomatopoeias used to represent violence. So, without further ado, let’s meet our characters:

Peter Pain: Meet Peter. This man’s anatomical framework contains more inked on art than the Sistine Chapel and his breakfast each morning consists of nails, bolts and the hopes and dreams of today’s youth. But for some reason, getting hit by a tiny ball of paint sends him into an absolute fit of rage

“Holy CRASH! What the BOFF! Oh wow, that smarts!”

Bruce Banter – After you clearly see one of your paintballs make contact with and break on his shirt, this guy proceeds to jump behind a bunker and do more wiping than Kate Gosselin. I mean, this guy is a walking freakin’ Paintball Rulebook. Although you can’t help but notice that, much like the stairwells within the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, these rules seems to change as to whether the outcome would benefit you or him. Be warned, if he gets all green and veiny and his clothes start to rip, just walk away to diffuse the situation. Take comfort in knowing that you can legally shoot him as much as you want later on.

“You missed me! You BOOPin’ missed me! And that shot was from 9½ feet away, not ten you piece of WACK. No, I didn’t wipe that THWACK, it smeared off a bunker!”

Christina Agrolera – She’s one of those annoying short chicks who feels the need to make up for what she lacks in the vertical sense with a gross verbal overcompensation. With her constant cursing and blatant burping, she has everyone but her doctor convinced that she is indeed one of the guys. Vegas odds makers have it at 1:1 that she will one day become a fighter in the UFC. But boy is she pissed because some scrawny white kid in a Detroit Red Wings hoodie seems content with using one of the outermost bunkers as a way to keep tabs on the line at the snack shack rather than use it to flank the opponent

“Move your BIFF! What the KA-DOOJ are you looking at anyway? We’ve got POW to accomplish here, bro!”

Happy Killmore: You get into a shootout with this guy, who, unbeknownst to the paintball place staff, has a gun that’s being powered by the engine from Delta flight 824 to Carson City. You yell to him that you’ve been hit, but he can’t her you, cuz he’s too busy shooting you!   

“I got you, you little THWACKer! Take that all up in your CRACK! You think you can handle this KABOOM!”

 So there you have it folks!! If you ever get annoyed with the editing or sick of the censorship just head on down to your local paintball fields, where there’s more swearing per capita than anywhere in the world!

The Nerds and the Bees

Today, at my part-time job I had to put in my 2 weeks notice because I got offered a full-time job. And after 3 years of studying the Ancient Egyptian art of persuasion known as.....you know what? I'm actually just kind of a people person and we had a nice discussion and using my boyish/young manish charm I got them laughing a bit. After that, I was talking to one of my co-workers who circled the "F" when the employee application question that asks what gender you are. At the conclusion of our dialogue I was given a secret code of 7 numbers. So I added the numbers up, then divided them by 2 and the latitude and longitude coordinates came out to that of Kumasi, Ghana. Not really sure what I'm supposed to do with that. She said "call me sometime." So tomorrow at 2:43 a.m, I'm going to tell her she needs to be more specific

Seven Ways To Avoid Having A Girlfriend

I recently heard from a friend of mine that I used to go to school with that she had tried to set me up with one of her friends, but I ended up leaving the school and her friend decided to become a nun….yeah, so that didn’t work out at all. Ladies, I’m sick of the whole “Sorry, I’m becoming a nun” excuse. That’s right up there with “My dog ate my ability to be in a committed relationship.” A list soon followed from the girls entitled “Ways to avoid liking guys” Now, I can admit that I’m a sucker for a good, sarcastic nonsensical list, so here it is:
                                 
Seven Ways To Avoid Having A Girlfriend
 
1. Assume every girl you talk to has a vascular boyfriend that could break you in half for so much as thinking about looking in her general direction
2. When having a conversation with a girl, reference American Civil War facts as often as possible 
Girl: "Like, Oh my gosh! This purse cost me like $5,000!"
Me: "5,000 huh? Do you know that that number is equivalent to less than 10% of the total casualties that resulted from the three days of fighting at Gettysburg?"
 3. Become a priest
4. Make a really odd lists filled with sarcastic comments and post them in a public place, this will lead her to believe you can’t be taken seriously
5. Word questions that are supposed to be positively observant like “Is that a new haircut?” in an overtly negative way such as  “What happened to your head?”
6. If a story she is telling is dragging on, put on your best deep sportscaster voice and say “OOOONNNEEE MINUTE REMAINING IN THE STORY!”
7. Drive a 1997 Honda CRV which, given the combination of its age and your lack of mechanical skills, has essentially turned into a Mobile House of Horrors in both the rickety noises it makes at every turn or incline and the occasional screaming girl inside
8. Mislead her by stating something, whether it be at the beginning of a relationship or the top of a page, to set seemingly clear expectations at first, but then totally don’t stick to that, this will undermine your sense of reliability in her mind

Enjoy your microwavable pizza and Braveheart/Saving Private Ryan double-feature!

America's Past Time

Lately, in baseball there have been more injuries to fans than players

Beating the crap out of people who did nothing to deserve it

Sounds about right.

Won't You Be My Neighbor

Today, I had my first neighborly conflict in my new place. For me, it was a day recognized in the work world as something called a Day Off. This means I had absolutely no intention of getting out of bed before 9 a.m. Unfortunately, promptly at 5:45 this morning, right outside my window, Foghorn Leghorn up in the trees decided to start singing Miley Cyrus (Though I don't speak bird, I can only assume because the two sounded so similar) I groggily stumbled into the kitchen, reached into the fridge and pulled out the packages of chicken and turkey and placed them on the windowsill. I think he got the point because he immediately fell silent

If I Ask A Girl To Dance

If I ask a girl to dance, the worst thing she can say is no, right? While serving out my 12 year mandated sentence in the Pelham Public School system, this was by and large the only thing I learned that stuck with me despite my biology teachers’ insistence that in order to be taken seriously as an adult, one must have a basic knowledge of Sickle Cell Anemia, or the compelling arguments made in the Real Life Application section of my math book which stated that Pythagorean’s Theorem is used daily by  ghost hunters of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania in order to keep tabs on which bar the immortally inebriated ghost of General J.E.B Stewart has stumbled into. However, much like the 14^th century thinking that the Earth’s surface was flat, or the outlandish idea that Batman could hold his own in a fight against Superman, or the absolutely ludicrous notion that Edward was better suited for Bella than Jacob, the statement that I opened with, which for me had bordered on becoming Scientific Law, is a lie!

December 31, 2014: My family had been invited to my sisters’ boyfriends’ New Year’s Eve party and I was granted permission to tag along. Using context clues and your recollection of how many times your high school varsity quarterback began one of his Monday morning “I had an epic weekend” party tales with the phrase “granted permission to tag along” you can pretty much get a ballpark figure of how many high school parties I was willingly invited to. But by some Channing Tatum-like demonic possession I was somehow able to walk up to a female and string together a consonant and vowel combination that was, dare I say it, cool.  

It very well may have been winning my class’s 5th grade geography bee or perhaps it was making it onto the varsity Cross Country team my freshman year, but I had developed this carefree, ignorant attitude masquerading itself as confidence and thought “If I ask this girl to dance, what’s the worst that could happen?” We, as humans are only capable of using roughly 10% of our brains’ potential which means that, scientifically speaking, I was 90% more screwed than I could have possibly realized.

Her next decision, in all likelihood may have been the result of an excessive consumption of Bad Decision Juice, or possibly she had a few more high school community service hours to complete from several years ago, but I, Mark Woonton, was led on to the dancefloor by a 20-something year old Spanish girl.

Allow me to share with you my ethnic background. I am 50% Irish, 50% English and 100% certain of three things in this lifetime:

1.       My ancestors were some of the most horrible, awful and close-minded people in human history

2.       I don’t belong in direct sunlight for a moment longer than 2.5 seconds

3.       I must not come within a five mile radius of any dance floor anywhere at any time

Unfortunately, prior to this no one had bothered to tell me that most Latin songs have prearranged steps which are more numerous than those on an ancient Mayan temple.  So, she began to engage in an activity rhythmically and visually recognizable as the skill of dancing. I say skill, because I, on the other hand, had turned into an epileptic baby deer on ice skates.    

She looked at me and said “Are you alright?” But she didn’t say it like this was her first time seeing me after my grandmother had died. No, she said like the top of my head had just spontaneously burst into flames. After that, her voice took on a sound easily recognizable to any parent as Learning Curve Tone. LCT is used in an instance where you’re trying to explain something such as tying shoes or zipping up a jacket to your child a number of times not capable of being represented on a calculator and in order to compensate for your frustration of being solely responsible for bringing such a stupid little human being into this world and wanting to sound like Gandalf yelling at the Balrog on the bridge of Khazad Dum (“Child! Crawl back in to the warm, dark chasm from whence you came!”) But instead, you end up going up about ten octaves in tone and sound like a Furby in the soprano section. And standing in front of me on the dance floor I now had a Tony Robbins action figure complete with three motivational phrases: “Great!” Good job!” “There you go!”   

I very quickly sank into a positive self-talk, rehabilitating inner monologue “OK Mark, this isn’t exactly going how you had planned, but it’s going to be alright. Do you know why? Because you are calm and confident in who you are. Speaking is something that you do very well, so just think of something to say to smooth over the situation. Maybe try saying Thank you for the dance. Thank you for the dance? What is this the Royal Ball of 1704? No don’t say that!” But luckily, I had been so lost in my anxious thoughts that I hadn’t noticed the song was ending. The second the last note was hit she said “Ummm, I’m going to go check and make sure we have enough ice upstairs.” The lack of conviction in her voice coupled with absolutely zero direct eye contact told me that her and I had just entered into an evolved, adult version of the old “I think I hear my mom calling me for dinner” that I used on the neighbor kid who wouldn’t leave me alone in elementary school. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I live my life by the credo of Detroit singer, songwriter and my personal philosopher, Bob Seger “Don’t bother taking me to the disco, you’ll never even get me out on the floor!”

Bachelor's Duplex Directory

Diversity is a beautiful. From soda on the east coast being referred to as pop in the Midwest or a meal of mashed potatoes and sausage served in England being called Bangers and Mash. It truly is fascinating how each culture puts a spin on something to make it their own.  However, I am also aware that travel can be stressful enough let alone having to remember all of the different rules of social etiquette and foreign terminology.  

I just bought my first place and quickly realized that rooms I thought I had learned the names of as a child differ as I entered into Single adulthood. And with several days of experience, a still standing duplex and an overly self-stroked ego, I now consider myself the Muzzy The bilingual beast creature of Bachelor Living terminology and would now like to pass on what I’ve learned. I know that re-teaching yourself the names of rooms you thought you were familiar with may seem trying at first, but I promise that much like readjusting to driving in the States after a vacation in Europe or remembering the mandated One Finger Wave when traveling on the roadways of Boston and New York, with knowledge and repetition the use of these names will become second nature and allow you to communicate clearly and effectively to your bachelor friends. And as any of the members of society in The Giver will tell you, precision of language is a very important thing. So let’s begin:

Bathroom: Museum of Not So Fine Smells Odor Exhibit, Axe Body Spray Chamber

Kitchen: Salmonella Breeding Lab, Trans-Siberian Orchestra Preshow Pyrotechnics Test Site

Bedroom: Unexpected Guest Arrival Useless Junk Storage Unit, Mt. Laundry Treacherous Trek

Garage: Tenants Territorial Gaza Strip War Zone, 1997 Honda CRV Unfit To Be On the Road Weapon of Mass Destruction Holding Hangar

Family Room: Lonely Room, ESPN Observatory  

 

Well, any of my exes will tell you I’m not great at ending things, so good luck and happy traveling!

Hit Me Baby One More Time

I am unfortunately the kind of person who has been cursed to have an onion-like effect on the eyes of an infant the second anyone has invited me to hold their baby.

Over the Fourth of July weekend, while I was at a BBQ, a family introduced me to their little boy whom they had just adopted from Latvia. Without hesitation, he climbed up onto my lap, turned his head and gave me a Gerber baby cute smile. I remained absolutely motionless, as if watching a pelican in its natural habitat while on a trip through the Everglades.

My dreams of future fatherhood were quickly dashed as he farted, laughed hysterically and ran away

Wrong Number 2: The Second Circle of Hell

Some of you may remember a while back I posted a story about receiving a phone call from a number I didn’t recognize, but I answered the call anyway. The person on the other end was looking for someone not likely belonging to the same ethnicity, generation or gender as myself. I hung up and moments later received a second call from that same number. (If this synopsis was not eloquent enough for you, please consult my earlier post entitled Wrong Number and perhaps that will be more to your liking) I thought that this was the most awkward phone conversation one could possibly have.

I was wrong.

No less than one hour ago, I received a phone call from a collection of numbers not symmetrical to any of the numerical patterns already in my contact list (by the way, the moral of this story comes now, if you are not in my contact list, I’m not picking up) but I pick up and say “Hello.” Without pause, in return I get an enthusiastic and sweet “Hey baby!” I am not in a relationship, nor am I a tech savvy infant so although it pained me to hang up on someone who was clearly a sweet and loving woman, I said “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.” (P.S. when did referring to your significant other in the same likeness as a small child become endearing?? I hope to one day understand….Anyway….oh yeah, end parenthesis!) She hangs up and not moments later I get a call from the same number. I rationally decide to let it go to voicemail where she will hear a message in which MY voice states MY name, my current status of unavailability and a brief apology that if, after restating my name clearly and eloquently, I am not in fact who you are looking for, I’m sorry to have wasted your time. No voicemail. Good! Five seconds pass, I’m in the cl……Dangit! My ringtone is one of those random, preset, really happy sounding jingles that’s really deceiving when you know you’re either A.) Going to argue with the person on the other end or B.) Getting called by a complete stranger for the third time in ninety seconds. It occurs to me that this may very well be Matthew Mcconaugheys’ wife (Lord knows this wouldn’t be the first time our phone voices got misconstrued…..must be so awkward for him!)

Now, growing up in the Woonton household, we had a rule (Bahahaha……A rule) No cell phone use after 9:30! On any given evening at 9:29 and 50 seconds my mother would be at my door giving me a countdown. However, this rule, much like touching the top of a beautifully lit stove or fitting a fork oh so snuggly into the electrical outlet, I had to find out the adverse effects of breaking for myself. I could still hear her sharp yet somehow sweet voice in my head. I was jolted from this reminiscent daydream by the sound of my phone.

 Well mom, you were right yet again! She had clearly done what she did in order to keep me away from crazy clingy women like this.

I choked back tears as I glared up at the clock realizing that I had only 7 ½ hours until I had to be up at 5 the next morning for work. With a shaky hand I placed the phone against my ear and in an absolutely grief-stricken voice pleaded with the woman on the other end “Please! Just let me go to sleep! But do me a favor, will you? When you do get in touch with your husband, tell him that I said if he EVER needs anything, a place to stay, a friend to talk to, a new cell phone provider, I PROMISE to be there for him. Here, let me give you my number……”  

On This Date In History

Celebrating a dating anniversary is kind of like winning a Triple A baseball championship. A handful of people hear about it and pretend to be happy for you for twelve seconds, but deep down everyone knows that so long as you continue to work hard, the difficult and most stressful times are still in front of you