Posted By startswithanx on February 7, 2010

*** So, Jake and I got some news a couple weeks ago. The kind of news that prompted my man of few words to write this here tribute. Check out Jake’s second guest post.

I met BMuttz at the bus stop during my first day at a new elementary school in fourth grade. He didn’t hesitate to say hi to the “new kid” while all the other kids looked at me like I had a booger dangling from my face. He made that first ride to school less frightening and somewhat tolerable.

From that point on I knew him as the nice guy from the neighborhood.

We didn’t really start the BMuttz-Jake torrid love affair until sophomore year of high school. That’s when we started playing on the same sports teams. By senior year, our math teacher separated our desks. A few weeks later, we were kicked out of the class entirely and demoted to remedial math. We both got a kick out of our antics. Our parents, eh, not so much …

BMuttz was accepted into Michigan State University and started rocking MSU gear in the hallways. I was mulling over my college options and nervous about rooming blind. But then it came, the acceptance letter I was waiting for. BMuttz would be my roommate freshman year.

From that point forward we were an inseparable duo, a Starsky and Hutch, so to speak. He was Hutch because he was the smooth, carefree, ladies man. I filled the role of Starsky, a nervous, fidgety, pragmatic dude who always thought about every little problem way too much. Neither of us wore leather jackets. But we could both grow afros like the best of them, mine with a distinct Latin flair, his, traditional-Jew style.

During the next five years Bmuttz and I shared hazy nights in the dorm listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Californication.” We sweated off the previous night’s hangover as we battled it out on basketball courts. We held each other’s legs doing keg stands while the other sucked on God’s sweet nectar. We celebrated a basketball national championship with about 15,000 of our closet friends at the off-campus party spot. Oh yeah, and there was some studying thrown in there, too.

There was even one time when we were hooping and happened to piss of a ripped Asian guy. He took exception to the ass-whooping our team gave his team and decided to ambush me with a full sprint and unexpected Bruce Lee kick to my mid-section. As I tried to gather my breath, I ducked punches in what seemed to be slow-mo, “The Matrix” style.  Next thing I know BMuttz was on the kid’s back before the guy could swing a fourth time. A two against one fight was not fair. The kid was better off accepting the loss and going home.

I couldn’t sleep that night because the pain in my ribs was unbearable. But I’ll never forget the first person who rushed to my defense. To this day, I’ve never taken a punch square on the face. I have BMuttz to thank for that.

Fast-forward 10 years and BMuttz has a law degree, a beautiful wife and cute dog named “Bear.” They live in Michigan. I’m in Las Vegas doing my thing in journalism and have two amazing ladies I come home to every night. We text like we’re still hanging out every night in college, but we only see each other two times a year at best.

That’s why the news X recently gave me was so unexpected and for a short while, devastating: BMuttz has cancer.

She said he didn’t want to tell me himself. It was probably too hard for him. I heard her words but didn’t process them. I even said, what? BMuttz? and then said his last name out loud —as if she didn’t know it — hoping she was mistaken. Tears welled up in my eyes. I felt like punching the wall. I texted him almost immediately afterwards and told him I would do anything I can to help him and his wife. He shrugged off the ordeal like it was no big deal. He didn’t really want to talk about it or make anyone worry. BMuttz has cancer, and he was more worried about others worrying about him. …

The next two weeks were difficult. I got a few e-mails from him and his wife updating me and others on his condition. I wondered how he was coping. I knew he was spending a lot of time seeing doctors. I texted him every few days with words of encouragement.

I broke down a few more times, especially after a mid-afternoon trip to a bar. Alcohol makes me sentimental. I texted my brother, and he told me I have to be strong for BMuttz. My 24-year-old brother couldn’t have given me better advice.

BMuttz has been more than strong throughout this ordeal. He’s been positive and almost stubborn about changing his life. I recently spoke with him on the phone, and he said he’s continuing to work, and continuing to stay active, even rolling in a bowling league. BMuttz is treating cancer like the government does terrorism, not changing a damn thing or else Al-Qaeda wins. And I couldn’t respect him more for that.

BMuttz still doesn’t know what type of cancer he has. Doctors are working to learn. But he has been greatly affected. He has a tumor near a nerve in his hip that is so painful he has to sleep sitting up. He struggles to walk at times. He is constipated a lot. His medicine cabinet looks like Eminem’s wet dream.

The good news is that he recently began radiation for the tumor in his hip. So, in less than two weeks it should be reduced in size and his pain should subside. He also has a tumor in his lung, and doctors haven’t figured out if it’s from smoking. He wants people to know that might be the cause of his health issues, and people who do smoke, should quit. But don’t take my word for it, get it straight from BMuttz on his new blog right here.

Well, BMuttz, I am taking your advice. And for the second time in consecutive weeks, I’m making a pledge in Cyberworld to better myself. Although I don’t smoke a lot, maybe three cigarettes a week, every time I light up I can’t help but think I’m disrespecting him. The annoyance of a craving can’t compare to anything he’s going through.

I hope my life is forever changed because of what BMuttz is going through. His life obviously is. While at first I struggled with his cancer, I now realized that I was being weak, the opposite of him. He’s a warrior and if anyone can beat this it’s BMuttz.

It’s that quality that has always impressed me about you. There’s a reason why you’re the only friend I kept in touch with after high school. There’s a reason why you’re my BEST friend. Keep on with that positive attitude. You’re well on your way to recovery. I will be there when you need me, but judging by your resolve, you won’t.

Category: memories, men, tribute | 14 Comments »

Posted By startswithanx on February 4, 2010

I had a breakdown Sunday evening.

It happened around 6 p.m., just after Jake and I took Penny to the dog park. As we were driving home I turned to my boyfriend and asked what could be the stupidest question that’s ever come out of my mouth: “Wanna go for milkshakes?”

If you know Jake, or if you read his guest post, then you know that’s like asking a hitchhiker if he wants a ride.

So, we pull a Dukes of Hazzard U-turn, skids and all, and head to the same fast food joint I always head to when craving the same treat I always crave: Burger King for an Oreo milkshake.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? And a little old-fashioned, now that I think about it. Two lovers heading to the ol’ drive-thru for some shakes with our dog wagging her tail in the back seat. All that was missing was his letterman’s jacket draped around my shoulders. And a chick taking our order on roller skates. And a big sign saying brown people aren’t served here.

But it wasn’t that simple.

After telling the woman on the other side of the fuzzy intercom that yes, she had Jake’s chocolate shake right, but no, I don’t want an Oreo sundae, but rather an Oreo MILKSHAKE, she confirms the correction and we pull up to the window. As I’m handing her my cash I do what any other anal retentive bitch would do and reiterate that no one in our car wants anything to do with an Oreo sundae, but an Oreo milkshake? We definitely want in on that.

Again, she confirms.

Ya know that feeling you get when you’re about to do something that’s going to bring you immense pleasure? When you’ve personally aligned all the stars so that you can just INDULGE? Probably the way a teenage kid feels when the parents and siblings are gone and it’s just him and his magazines. That’s how I felt as I plopped into our leather love seat next to Jake with my milkshake cup sticking to my fingers, Penny in between us, 30 seconds away from the new “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” episode.

But, after a few shovels into my little treat, I got the Nickelodeon slime shower. I realized the bites were missing something: OREOS! It wasn’t an Oreo milkshake at all. It was a bunch of vanilla ice cream with Oreo cookie crumbles sprinkled on top. A sham. A freakin’ sham, I say!

Five minutes later, the three of us are back in the car and on our way back to Burger King. The hands are at 10 and 2, gripping the steering wheel like it’s my man and Angelina Jolie is about to make a movie with it.

Pretty soon I heard a familiar voice: “Welcome to Burger King. Can I take your order?”

Well, she already proved she couldn’t do that so I pulled up for a little face-to-face.

After thoroughly explaining to the short lady in the window what a real Oreo milkshake is and that I’ve been getting them from that same Burger King for months, it was clear I wasn’t making any progress. So, I asked to speak to the manager.

Me: “Oh, you ARE the manager?”
Her: “Yes, I am.”
Me: “So, if I park my car and go to the front counter, they’re gonna tell me that YOU’RE the manager?”

I guess my disbelief was in the fact that she didn’t know that a true Oreo milkshake has chunks of Oreos all throughout the shake, not just on top of it. And that Burger King makes their shakes like this 364 days out of the year.

After an exchange of words that went about three sets of headlights in my rear view mirror too long, I finally got my money back and started to pull away. As I’m doing that I notice Jake is holding his Google phone up to my face. This fool’s been recording the entire showdown.

Now I know how David Hasselhoff felt.

I got bamboozled, yo. First by the short lady at Burger King then by my boyfriend. I thought it was odd that he wanted to tag along on my tirade instead of anxiously waiting for a shot of one of the Kardashian sisters turning around, but now it was all making sense.

Jake: “OK, let me play it for you now.”
Me: “Uh, no that’s OK and you better not show that —”

But he hit play anyway and we had our very own mini intervention right there in the Honda Accord with our little furry daughter in the back seat. It was hard to watch and I still haven’t seen the whole thing, but this is the part that was truly alarming:

Me: (In the kind of voice that’s gonna get to the bottom of things) “WHO MAKES THE SHAKES AROUND HERE?”
Her: “What?”
Me: “I wanna know who makes the shakes around here and I want to talk to them.”

Right about there I expected a nice man holding a pamphlet for a facility in sunny Florida to pop out of nowhere and tell me how much my family and friends care for me. And then I’d have to listen to Jake read a letter about how happy we were before the Oreo shakes took over.

Luckily, I was able to see the light on my own. I immediately started to feel ridiculous and guilty about how I treated the short lady at Burger King, as well as the Shake Maker, who, by the way, actually came to the window.

Instead of turning around to apologize, though, I tested my luck and took a bit of a detour. A few minutes later I was talking into a fuzzy intercom and asking the voice on the other end how Jack in the Box prepares its Oreo milkshakes.

Category: relationships, this happened | 13 Comments »

Posted By startswithanx on January 24, 2010

***As you may have noticed, I’ve been a little busy the past couple weeks. Looks like the next few weeks will be just as busy. For your entertainment while I’m tied up, my beloved boyfriend, Jake, who you’ve all come to know and love, has agreed to fill in for me from time to time. So, without further ado, I give you THE ONE, THE ONLY, JAKE, raw and uncut. …

Do you ever get the feeling the real you is someone you’re not? Like the case of the high school jock who is dashingly handsome but also dangerously shy even though all the girls would drop trou’ at the snap of his fingers.
Well, I suffer from this affliction.

I’m a fat guy stuck in a chubby guy’s body.

What’s the difference, you ask? My bod bares a likeness to Turtle on “Entourage.” I’m obviously a chubster. Ya know, half way between Mick Jagger and James Gandolfini. But I love food like a fat person. Not that I have anything against fat people. Some of my closest friends are metabolically-challenged.

See, for someone who doesn’t know the difference between a wok and a frying pan, I spend entirely too much time in the kitchen.

I’ve been like this my entire life. My weight has yo-yoed more than Oprah’s. Age six through 10 I was legitimately fat. So pudgy, in fact, that my mom put me on the swim team. How do you shatter a husky boy’s self esteem? Put him in a Speedo and make him swim laps.

Good job, Mom. I now know why I cried myself to sleep until my teen years.

But Mom’s plan worked. I got in shape. And even became athletic. I excelled in most sports. I dare say some girls wanted me for my body.

But then came high school. It seemed I was chubby on the opposite years, and then I would hate myself, work out, and get skinny for the even years. Same thing in college. My social life went great during the years I could’ve been the body double for Jon Favreau in “Swingers.” And when I looked like Favreau does now? Well, that’s when I learned women are as shallow as men.

So now here I am, age 28. Wanting nothing more than to have the scale read 15 pounds heavier than my heyday. For the curious, I’m 15 pounds away from that goal right now. I bring this up because for the last four months I must have told X three times a week that next week is the week I begin to work out again. … “I MEAN IT this time,” I proclaimed.

Well, next week is today. The treadmill beckons and no excuse is keeping me out of the gym.

Let’s just hope that during that stroll down the frozen-food aisle I don’t see the pint of “Chubby Hubby” ice cream that has made me its bitch more than X in our who “wears-the-pants” arguments. Let’s just hope the “Jersey Shore” reunion is not on. Or that I don’t suddenly take up horseback riding.

It’s 2010, right?

Let’s hope Obamacare passes because the treadmill is looking mighty menacing.

Category: guest post, men, pop culture, random thoughts | 16 Comments »

Posted By startswithanx on January 6, 2010

A couple days before Christmas, Samantha and Miranda and I planned to get together for a little wine-sipping, queso dip-munching and — most importantly —  shit-talking. I had what was arguably the worst idea ever about a half-hour prior to that little meeting.

Knowing a rotweiler-lab mix (Dexter) and a pup so tiny you could flatten her with one misstep (Stevie) also live there, I should’ve never asked if we could bring Penny along. But I wanted to show her and her new candy cane sweater off and Samantha replied to my text with an enthusiastic “Of course!” so I brought her along. Like a moron. (Jake joined the estrogen pow-wow because, well, he was muzzled and hog-tied into coming.)

From the moment Samantha answered the door, it was straight up Barnum & Bailey in there. Like Harry before him, Dexter immediately saw something in our daughter, Penny, and proved as much by chasing her through the house at 90 mph. That caused Stevie to yap and nip like a mad woman (jealousy brings out the worst in bitches). Samantha was chasing Dexter. Stevie was chasing Samantha. I was chasing Penny. And Jake was juggling bowling pins while riding a unicycle.

When Dexter got distracted for one-tenth of a second, I picked up Penny to shield her from this middle-aged man’s lewd advances. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, Dexter had no idea where she had gone. That would seem like a good thing, but it’s actually the point at which I asked Jake if it would be too much trouble to drive Penny back to my mom’s and then find his way back to Samantha’s. Forget the fact it’s snowing outside and he has no idea whether he’s in Park City or Juniper Creek (where my “Big Love” fans at?!).

Dexter is sprinting through the house, going from room to room in search of the little blond piece of ass he’s now thinking was a hallucination. The more he looks, the more pissed he gets. Forget the pussy, he wants to give her a beat down now! Penny is trembling in my arms as we both watch him storm through the joint like he’s goddamn Mike Tyson in the late ’80s and she’s Robin Givens.

“Oh my God, do something!!!!”

All I remember from there is the sight of big, burly Dexter, in the snow, watching all of us humans sip wine and munch on queso dip through the sliding glass door that looked into Samantha’s dining room. We didn’t even have the decency to close the blinds. Oh and we didn’t forget about the shit talking, either. Except, to our utter surprise, the source of our shit talking was a dude named Dexter who clearly has a sexual assault record.

When Samantha let the horny lunatic back in the house, he tried to play it cool, only occasionally glancing at my little honor student and licking his chops.

Look, I can’t help if my Penny drives the guys crazy. I can’t help if they lust after her as though they’ve never seen a female dog in their lives. I can’t help if, well … what I’m trying to say is … I can’t help if she’s a chip off the ol’ block.

But if what Samantha and Miranda started to accuse her of is true than I guess the ol’ block’s been around the block a couple times. These traders who claim they’re my best friends were trying to say Penny was enjoying the attention. Um, she wasn’t running away anymore because she was TIRED, hookers. And, she only let him lick her ears until drool hung from them because she hadn’t had a bath in a week, fools. As for laying on her back and spreading her legs wide open while he did the ear-licking — similar to the ol’ downward head push so many male humans are fond of — well, I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason for that, too. I just was too busy taking notes to bother asking what caused it.

I could brush off all that nonsense because, CLEARLY, it came down to misunderstandings. But what I couldn’t tolerate were the sweater attacks. No way. (Said sweater can be seen below on my innocent pooch, who’s got her ass in the air on Harry’s bed here. Insignificant detail.)

Samantha and Miranda tried to say the fabulous red and white striped sweater (given to her by her aunt Asian Spice) sent the wrong message. It’s so “off the shoulders,” said Miranda. I believe at one point they used the words “asking for it.” Oh, and I guess Jodie Foster in “The Accused” was asking for it, too, right? The nerve. Never mind the fact that sweater’s THE HOTNESS, these two just turned it into something entirely different. Someone call Gloria Steinem. Tell her the feminist movement just took 10 steps backward.

Oh, and Samantha and Miranda, which one of you do I send my third of the BFF necklace to?

Category: relationships, this happened, utah, women | 13 Comments »

Posted By startswithanx on January 5, 2010

The trip back to Utah was great for Jake and I, but for our daughter — who has four legs, blond hair and floppy ears — it was a wild, rip-roarin’ time. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve got a new suitor lusting after you with every corner you turn. I mean …. speaking from experience, YES, that is exactly what happens.

I watched Serena’s dog prey on my little Penny with the same calculated vigilance the old guy at the club uses with the girls who clearly fake ID their way in. Harry, a springer spaniel, is a little older. He’s rockin’ grey whiskers and has packed on a few pounds in the past year. But, just like a human male, that didn’t stop him from thinking he could snatch up the PYT who came prancing into his heart, ahem home, a week before Christmas.

After attempting several times to just straight up knock boots with my innocent little pup in plain daylight with “Little Drummer Boy” playing in the background and four witnesses on-hand, he finally realized that was no way to court a lady. So, he got slick and put into motion the full court press. Harry decided to show the prissy little Penny how real dogs roll.

On her second day at his house, Harry caught Penny staring and sniffing at his doggy door in awe. Recognizing an opportunity, he got up from his bed. I watched Harry go out the door and come back in. Go out the door and come back in. Over and over, and then he stopped. When he didn’t come back through I peaked out the window to find him sitting on the porch, staring at the doggy door with snowflakes falling on those gray whiskers. Well, well, well, I thought. What do ya know? An old dog’s teaching Penny new tricks.

By that night she was dashing through the doggy door and rolling around in the snow outside. Our little princess was acting like a real dog and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. This is a pooch who refuses to eat her food unless it’s covered in parmesan cheese. She held her bladder for 13 hours one day because it was raining outside. She rocks a rhinestone-studded collar for crying out loud. So, to see her digging holes while wearing her bright new candy cane sweater (thanks Asian Spice!) was hard to get used to.

Until she started eating Harry’s non-Parmesan-covered food and stopped whimpering whenever I left a room. She didn’t even notice if I left a room; she was having too much fun with her new sugar daddy. What attachment issues?

But, just when we were ready to have Harry over for Sunday supper, Jake exposed him for the fraud he was! It happened on Christmas Eve. Jake found them on Serena’s bed. In the dark. No joke.

I think there were satin sheets and a dozen roses involved. Apparently that wasn’t enough to lure our Penny, though. Jake busted in on the scene before anything was consummated. The next day, however, we made an outing that left the two cuddling canines home alone. We thought long and hard about it, but decided we raised our little girl with the kind of decency and self-respect that wouldn’t let her lower herself to the advances of Harry (read: the bitch is fixed).

All seemed to be well when we returned home. Until bedtime. That’s when Penny woke us up to the sound of vomiting. When I turned the light on, I found a mess in her bed that consisted of corn husks and a lovely green concoction.

Seeing how we never feed her human food and she’s too short to reach the counter tops, I knew it meant one thing. Harry valiantly pulled the homemade tamales off the counter and shared them with his sweetheart.

When Cliff heard the news I swear he developed a newfound respect for Harry, who he solely thought of as the creature that sheds hair everywhere and barks uncontrollably when the mailman comes. He raised one eyebrow and thought about it for a second. A smile came across his face: “At least he’s a gentleman.”

I have to hand it to Harry. He saw something he wanted and found a way to get it. And I’m not talking about the tamales. True playa for real!

Other four-legged creatures weren’t so lucky. But came dangerously close. In my next post I’ll tell you why my friends and family started FALSELY accusing our Penny of being a — gasp! — trollop.

Category: family, relationships, this happened, utah | 12 Comments »