Monthly Archives: November 2012

Welcome To Flavour Country (Originally Published February 3rd, 2011)

Greetings faithful readers! I apologize for the lack of blogisodes lately. There was a lot going on in the Mitch household but nothing worth blogging about. As well sometimes it’s good to take a break from writing to come back with some fresh ideas. Did the break from writing help? Nope. I still don’t really have any ideas, so I decided I’m just going to riff and see where we end up.

This past Monday at work was one of the worst days I’ve had in a long time. It was the junior high equivalent of Wedgie323getting wedgied then nut punched by the class bully so hard that you end up throwing up in front of the girl you have a massive crush on but are too afraid to talk to. Yes, it was that bad. I won’t bore you with the details of why it was so bad but that evening a strange thing happened. I wanted a cigarette. I haven’t smoked in years. I quit about 6 years ago, and fell off the wagon 20 or 30 times in the meantime but for all intents and purposes I no longer took trips to “flavour country.” Yet for some reason I would have literally killed with my bare hands to get a hold of a smooth, refreshing, relaxing filter tipped Marlboro….oh yeah that’s the stuff…wait, what the hell am I doing? Quitting smoking was one of the worst things I ever had to do in my life.

What was the hardest part about quitting smoking? The cravings? The headaches? The crabbiness? The sinus infection? The short temper? Not even close. The hardest part was I absolutely loved to smoke. Ever try to quit something you love to do? It’s not just hard; its damn near impossible. When I did smoke you could lecture me on the health effects, the monetary cost, the stink, the bad breath, the loss of smell and a taste and so on. I didn’t care I knew all that stuff already. There was nothing more satisfying than that first smoke of the morning. Combine that with a coffee and it was better than baby ninja robot Jesus feeding you Hooters hot wings while getting a back massage from all the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders at the same time while watching a laser AC/DC light show. Morning coffee and cigarette AKA “The Supermodel Breakfast.” Imagine the greatest orgasm you ever had. Not even close. Smoking to me was that damn good. 

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So what prompted me to quit finally? Reason one was Mrs. Mitch. There is no bigger pain for a smoker to be married to a non smoker or vice versa. Her incessant, ceaseless, unabated, unremitting, persistent and relentless nagging was getting to me. I fifty percent quit just to get her off my back and to stop lecturing at me. I mean, err, I love my wife and I wanted to be in optimum health to be with her for the rest of our life together, yeah, yeah, thats it. I love you, honey. Whew, little shaky there in the middle but I managed to stick the landing, but the east german judge is going to screw me on artistic points.

The other reason? At the height of my torrid love affair with the Marlboro man I was finishing my last semester of university. I had one film seminar class left to graduate. The class was on the fifth floor of a building from about 1903 which meant no elevator. After hauling my flabby out of shape smokers ass up five flights of stairs I thought I was going to die. My lungs felt like they were being ripped apart by a monkey with anger management issues and dull fingernails. I was early for class and was milling about with my classmates catching what little breath I had left. I noticed a door in the lobby figuring that must be my class. 

Finally, the door opens and out popped the bespectacled ponytailed turtleneck wearing walking cliche known as the “Film Studies T.A. (Teacher’s Assistant) If you need a visual equivalent of the  Film Studies T.A. look , dieterGoogle “Dieter” and “Saturday Night Live”, the  sad part is I had about 5 different versions of this douche-bag in my postsecondary career. The really sad part is that all of them laboured under the delusion that this pseudo-intellectual german inspired look would get them laid. 

Enough of that rant, back to original point. The door opens and the T.A. says “come on in” and swings open the door. On the other side of the door; the longest single flight of stairs I have ever seen. 80 steps straight up. Son of a bitch. The class was on the fifth floor, the annex above the fifth floor. By the time I trudged up those 80 steps and sat down at my desk I was a sweaty wheezy out of shape mess. I vowed to quit smoking there and then. 

Long story short it took me six or seven tries to finally quit smoking, and I still fall off the wagon occasionally. 

Mitch: “Don’t worry honey, we’re in Vegas, smoking on vacation doesn’t count anyways. Look I’ll buy one pack and I probably won’t smoke half of it.” 

the next day, 

Mrs. Mitch: “Its the second day and you’re on your third pack. You were laying in the hotel bed this morning lighting up as you were waking up. You suck.”

Well there you go kids, this has been Tales of Mitch in Flavour Country. 

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Mitch’s Open Letter to Netflix Canada.

Dear Netflix Canada,

There is a distinct absence of the collected cinematic works of master thespian, auteur genius, and visionary filmmaker Sylvester Stallone. This does not please me. Rectify immediately.

Hugs and Kisses,

Mitch.

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Mitch’s Dating Vacation A.K.A. Aww Eff This Diary: Day Three and One Line Movie Review of Rocky II (1979)

So how did dating vacation day three go?

-Still wearing sweatpants. I actually wore them to the grocery store. Which for me, is a huge deal. It’s a lot of effort for me to look like I’m putting no effort in. The novelty of wearing sweatpants in a “don’t give an eff” manner for the length of seven days is wearing off. Think I’ll go back to wearing jeans tomorrow.

-The beard is beard-ifying as we speak. Ive gone from a “grizzled manly stubble” vogue to a “weathered homeless drifter” chic. I got a ways to go to get to “Riker-esque.”

-I purposely did not respond to a introductory message from a lady from the dating site today. I deleted the message right away before I was too tempted to respond and check her profile. Please God, please I pray, P-R-A-Y  “SexyFITSarah453″ was not hot, please God, please????”

-The Rocky marathon to heal my battered weathered soul after too many mediocre months in the dating game continues with Rocky 2, and of course a one line review;

“Man tears. Every time I watch, man tears.”

Three days down, four to go.

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Mitch’s One Line Review Of Rocky 4 (1985)

“When Rocky 1 came out In 1976, no one could have predicted or believed there would be a robot in the 4th instalment of the  Rocky series. Yet somehow, inexplicably, a robot seems to make complete logical sense in Rocky 4.”

(I’m cheating a bit here on the “one line premise”, but I do have to say I will be in my 90’s and I will never tire of this movie and its xenophobic awesomeness. Never gets old.)

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Mitch’s Dating Vacation A.K.A. Aww Eff This Diary: Day Two

So how did dating vacation day two go?

-I decided to do yoga today because I actually wanted to, not out of guilt that I need to keep fit for the dating game. However, I may have defeated the purpose of this by having Kit Kat Ice Cream for appetizer, dinner, and dessert. Do I give a flying eff? Nope.

-I’ve come to the decision that for the entire length of my dating vacation I will wear sweatpants. Even so far as to break my “no sweatpants outside the house rule.” Why? Think of it as committing to the role. However it does pose possible erection in public risks. Think: “Circus Tent.”

-I’ve decided to re-grow my beard, for the entire length of my dating vacation. Two reasons. One, think of it like growing a playoff beard. Two, once I am done the dating vacation I could do that thing they do in movies and shave to signify my “rebirth.”

-Rocky 4 should be required viewing by international law when one is in a dating slump. Exploding boxing gloves, a robot, The Godfather of Soul, Drago, Apollo dies and the fall of Communism by a 173 Lb Italian “heavyweight.” How could this movie ever NOT be awesome??? (Thanks for the suggestion brianhmohl. I needed this.)

Two days down, five to go

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Mitch’s Dating Vacation A.K.A. Aww Eff This.

Greetings, faithful readers.

Mitch had a first date this past week. Being that I work from home most of my dating prospects are from internet dating sites. She seemed nice enough, well written profile, decent messaging skills, good profile picture. We chatted for a week online before we set up a coffee first date. Seriously, never do a dinner and a show first date because if the date is terrible you are on the hook financially for feeding and entertaining someone for 3-4 hours you don’t want to be around. Learned that one the hard way.

The day of the first date had arrived. A friend of mine asked me if I was excited at all. “Nope,” I replied, “I’ve been on too many dates this past year. At this point, in the dating game, I just hope when they show up they aren’t grossly obese.” It’s kind of amazing how quickly the whole “novelty” factor of dating post divorce has worn off. So I did my usual pre-date prep: haircut, shave, refill contact lens prescription, and iron a nice shirt.

For the sake of brevity let’s sum up what instantly killed the date. She shows up in sweatpants, hoodie and no makeup. Then it occurred to me she did look like her profile picture but she wasn’t accurate with her profile picture. Now that I met her in person I realized her picture was a professionally taken photo, professionally touched up, taken from her good angle, and her hair and makeup done professionally.

We finished the date, a friendly coffee, but I did most of the heavy lifting conversation wise. I probably should have walked out but I still struggle with not wanting to hurt anyone’s feeling in the dating game. We did have some interests in common so it wasn’t a total loss, and it was nice to get out for adult conversation mid week. But there was just no spark, I didn’t feel it, and the sweatpants thing killed it for me even before we started. Unfortunately, with the hug I got at the end of the date, you know the, “this was a good date ask me out again” hug women do? I sensed that she thought the date went a hell of a lot better than I did.

I’ve been in a slump since the ‘MEH’ date. The irony is I’ve started wearing sweatpants a lot more since then, with a “fuck it” attitude and a few more empty wine bottles in my recycling than usual. For me, it wasn’t this particular date per se, it’s been a string of lacklustre dates, and mediocre relationships this past year. It feels like a cumulative dating hangover has finally caught up with me. There’s been a lot of self loathing these past few days, a general malaise, and just feeling like why am I even doing this dating shit vibe?

Things haven’t been that bad dating wise all things considered but a string of mediocrity gets to a fella after a while. I would almost rather have a polarizing “ Oh, my god I need to kiss her right now” good first date or a “Oh my god I need to fake an aneurysm and get out of here right now” bad date, just to feel something other than pedestrian dating apathy.

So I took a weekend of me time to regroup and recenter. One night after too much wine in my sweatpants laying in my bed permeating with self loathing, I consulted Google for advice. Wine and Google, normally no good comes from this, usually its just means Youtube hair metal videos and German pornography. Not this time. I searched dating burnout. Every article I read described me to a tee.

Tired of logging on and coming up empty handed- Check! This wine is good, damn.

-All the profiles start to look the same-Check! Half gone, already? Knew I should have got two bottles.

-Too many first dates-Check! Where did I hide that emergency pack of Marlboros?

-Dating seems like work not fun-Check! Wine, you complete me.

-Going through the motions on a first date-Check! Drinking in my bed in sweatpants…Oh God, what have I become?

One article I read had a great idea I jumped right onto. A vacation from dating. I don’t like the term “break” it sounds too hard, and finite. Yet a vacation from dating, sounds like a nice break from the dating world. Now, I want to do this right. I have a bad habit of saying I’m taking a break from dating and three days later I’m back at it. I’m not completely blameless for the burnout as you see. I can’t make the dating vacation too long or it will be vague for me and I’ll quit. Lets start small. Seven days. I can manage that to start. If it goes well I’ll go for another.

To keep me on track, I enlisted the help of my sister and my friend and “volun-told” (volunteer+told) them I need their support so I don’t quit and get back at it in three days as I tend to do.

So how did dating vacation day one go?

-I deactivated my dating profiles on the dating sites I was on. Immediate sense of relief.

-I chose to NOT work out today and not feel guilty about it. 95% of why I work out is because I’m in the dating game I want to bait the hook for the ladies. One day off won’t kill me. Sedentary lifestyle empowerment for a day.

-Still wearing sweatpants, not shaving, no contacts put in, and not a fuck was given that day about my appearance and I feel pretty damn good about it

-I watched Rocky 3. It spoke to my soul.

-I started my day with a calorie laden peanut butter banana sandwich and I’ll end my day with a  calorie laden peanut butter banana sandwich god damn it.

One day down, six to go.

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Mitch’s One Line Review of Rocky 3 (1982)

“I asked both of my best friends for a sport movie recommendation to help my soul recover from a disappointing mediocre lost my faith in humanity bad first date. They both independently recommended Rocky 3. I can’t explain why or how, but it worked.”

 

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Who Wants A Campout?!?!?!?!? (Originally Published January 15, 2011)

Greeting faithful readers. A monumental decision was made this week. It’s time for Little Mitch to sleep in his own bed. Yes, that is correct. For the past four years Little Mitch has slept in our bed with us. We have a family bed. I believe the technical term is “co-sleeping”. I call it a matter of necessity to have a sweaty, squirmy, kicky, four year old who tries to wedge himself beneath me all night in our bed. 

When people find out that Little Mitch sleeps with us the response is usually one of shock and dismay followed by a “you’re never going to get him out of there, that’s such a bad habit.” First off, let me respond to these people by saying that him sleeping with us was not a matter of convenience or our laziness. It was a last resort for the sake of all of our sanity. From the first day we got Little Mitch home after his first 33 days of life in the hospital, the kid did not sleep. He did not nap, snooze, doze, siesta, power nap or do anything remotely resembling sleep. He just didn’t sleep. I don’t remember his first three weeks at home, it’s all one long hazy tired blur. 

After three weeks of little to no sleep, I was hearing voices. Sadly, that’s not an exaggeration, I heard voices behind me. I turned around and said to Mrs. Mitch “Did you hear that?”, the only thing behind me was the wall. Finally one long  night when Little Mitch was having one of his night wailing fits, I couldn’t take anymore and brought him into our bed placed him between us and we all had our first solid four hour sleep in over a month. That nap was damn near orgasmically good. Mrs. Mitch and I always said that our children were never going to sleep in our bed. It’s amazing how a few weeks of sleep deprivation and all around sanity desperation will change your mind. At that point in my sorry mental state if someone told me that shoving a firecracker up my ass, smearing dijon mustard on my chest, and singing ABBA tunes while spinning counterclockwise would make my kid sleep, I wouldn’t think twice to do it. Long sleep deprived story short, you name the sleep technique, and I’ll tell you how it failed miserably with Little Mitch. Four years later Little Mitch is still in our bed. 

Occasionally some people will ask “So with a kid in your bed, uh…how do you guys…you know…do…’it’?” I usually respond, “well, the usual way. Insert peg A into slot B, vigorously repeat. Best of Barry White CD is optional.” There’s a few ways around this issue. Little Mitch is quite fortunate to have two sets of grandparents who love to take him for a sleepover at a moments notice. Another way is that bathrooms usually have showers and door locks. Another option is to sell Little Mitch on the idea of sleeping in his own room for a few hours by calling it as a “campout” in his room. The trick to making this work is to pitch him on the idea with the same excitement level as you would if you were telling him your taking him to Disneyland. Another option is to involve the couch. Man if that couch could talk, I’m sure the term “dynamo” would come up when referring to my performance. The couches angles work out surprisingly well. For those of you coming to my Superbowl party, don’t worry the couch is scotch-guarded and cleaned regularly.

So why now? Why get him out of our bed now? Is he ready? No, not really. Mrs. Mitch wanted him out of our bed a while ago. I admit it was me who kept him in our bed about a year longer than necessary. I liked having him in bed with me. I got used to that warm little body nestled up to my back trying to wedge itself underneath me. I enjoyed the intimacy of sleeping with my child. I liked talking to him as we held hands as he fell asleep. I loved hearing about his day, his girlfriends at school, and his jokes with punchlines that 98% of the time end up with him taking a shot to the grapes. Yes, my kid calls his testicles “grapes” and no, he didn’t learn it from me, he made that one up by himself. 

I was the first one to hold him on this earth before the nurses took him from me to put him in the incubator so we’ve always had a deep unspoken connection that even Mrs. Mitch agrees is there. That forty five minutes lying in bed with Little Mitch waiting for him to fall asleep was a nice quiet way to reconnect with my son at the end of a busy day. I think I needed him in our bed more than he needed to be in our bed.

I can’t really put my finger on why I felt it was time to get him into his own bed. It just felt like the right time to do it. There were a few reasons. One being, now that Little Mitch is getting older and becoming more of his own person, Mrs. Mitch and I are reclaiming our individual identities other than “worn out parents.” I’m getting some of my hobbies back, and fulfilling my need for quiet alone time regularly and Mrs. Mitch is making her own friends outside of our circle of married friends or my friends. A very good friend of mine, Jen, put it best when she said “I need to get to know who Jen is again” when referring to her own search of balancing parenting and being an individual. As always, she gets to the heart of the matter and that’s what I love about her. It got me thinking, she’s right. I need to find who Mitch is again. 

Based on this premise, I want our bed back. I want our room back. I want to lie on my bed and watch TV, I want to be able to go into our bedroom and be able to lie down with a book and just read. I want to make a move on my wife in bed without having to plan logistically the location of the physical romance. I need my own space. Sorry Little Mitch, time to hit your big boy bed. 

No need to thank me. I’m an idea man. It’s what I do. 

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The Mitch Swagger (Originally Published January 9, 2011)

Greetings faithful readers. I trust you all had a fun safe New Years eve and didn’t do anything you regret. Or if you did do something you regret that you at least had fun doing it before you came to regret it, AKA: “Mitch’s Let’s do $7.50 Shooters at the Strip Club Principle.”

A few days after New Years Eve Mitch was at his doctor’s for his quarterly lithium checkup. Banal story short, I got another 3 month supply of crazy pills that have the amusing side effect of making me pee like I got the bladder the same size as four year old Little Mitch’s. Then my doctor tore me a new one about my weight and blood pressure.

As I’m sure you know, a few months back I broke up with working out. In retrospect, probably not the best life choice but a few months of injuries, sickness and a lack of motivation jaded me on exercise. Now this is serious, my doctor was giving a stern warning about my health. At least I think he was my doctor he kept checking my testicles but never asked me to turn and cough and he gave me his phone number afterwards.  

And honestly, Mitch hasn’t been feeling very sexy as of late. There is no sobering reality of how out of shape you are than living in a second floor condo with 5 flights of stairs and a full length ceiling to floor mirror directly outside your bathroom as you step out naked from a tub. Combine this with being sick for the past 6 weeks had me feeling like a disgusting flabby schlub. It was inescapable; Mitch needed to get his sexy back. 

Step One: Exercise. The worst part about working out after a prolonged absence is the aching muscles, the burning lungs, the abdomen cramps; and that’s just from bending over to tie your running shoes. The upside is Mitch has a few years of exercise walking under his belt. So once I get going, the body remembers what to do and the pounds peel off pretty quickly. I’ve already dropped a few pounds. I must be looking better as I caught the homosexual gentleman on my commuter bus checking out the Mitch package as I stepped on the bus, followed by eye contact and a playful smile. Let me tell you, that brought back “The Mitch Swagger”, I should get him a thank you card.

Step Two: Find My Motivation. In the past when Mitch worked out, I would often quit after a few months because I never had a motivating factor. My overall health is too vague, blood pressure too vague, and I never had an ideal goal weight in my mind. I took some “Personal Mitch Contemplation Time” to come up with some external motivators, usually this involves a copy of Esquire magazine, 20 minutes on the porcelain Captain’s chair, and the hope that those bran bars are doing what they are supposed to do. 

Motivating Factor One: Little Mitch. With the way my weight gain was  going I was on the heart attack  highway with an off ramp to diabetes county. I need to be there for Little Mitch. If I were to die who would be there to teach him important facets of contemporary masculinity? Such as the subtle kin-esthetic nuances of dropping a Macho Man flying elbow on your friends in the playground, why you never want to get involved with a woman who says “Who’s Bruce Springsteen?”, and why Sylvester Stallone is an under-appreciated thespian auteur genius.  

That and the fact that Little Mitch asked me with the cutting brutal honesty only 4 year olds possess. “Daddy? You got boobies. Why don’t you wear a bra like mommy does?” Let me tell you, I was getting my running gear out of the closet with the vigour of a horny 16 year old boy on prom night with a drunk date after that question.

Motivating Factor Two: Look Good for My Hot Wife. After 15 years Mrs. Mitch still does it for me. In fact she’s gotten hotter than when we first met. In all fairness would it be fair for her to have to live with  some fat, out of shape guy, who sweats while watching TV? Hell no, I want to look good for my smokin’ hot wife. 

I definitely got in the ground floor of her hotness investment. We met when she was 17, she was pretty and always has been but in the past 15 years she has matured into a gorgeous, sexy, self assured woman who still finds my material funny, even when its not. I lucked out big time. So therefore it would only be fair that I reciprocate and look good for her. 

Yesterday to feel good about ourselves Mrs. Mitch and I went on a clothes shopping date. As part of my New Years resolution to get my sexy back I have officially deferred all my fashion decisions to Mrs. Mitch. I figured who better to make me look good than than the woman who’s invested 15 years in me and still had sex with me when I was fat and out of shape? 

There is no more soul crushing esteem killing endeavour than jeans shopping. The multitude of styles, cuts and shapes is a recipe for Hindenburg-esque self confidence catastrophe. If you ever want a real life definition of “ridiculous”, next time you’re jean shopping try on a trendy cut of jean that doesn’t suit your body shape. The resulting fashion train wreck is akin to a tube of lumpy squeeze cheese that was thrown in the microwave for 3 minutes and looks like its about to abscess.

No need to thank me, I’m an idea man, it’s what I do.  

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State Of Mitch (Originally Published December 27, 2010)

Finally! It took me three weeks but I have finally sat down at the laptop to fire off a blogisode. Why the delay? Four weeks. Four weeks of being sick. Week one consisted of a migraine then a sniffle, week two was a sniffle followed by a cold, week three was a sinus infection, and finally week four was a chest infection. Best part is after four weeks I was healthy a total of four days before I came down with another sinus infection, so I’m off to see some walk-in clinic hack doctor in the AM for some antibiotics. Based on the trend of “four” that seems to be occurring with my health, Im predicting a four hour wait to spend four minutes with a fresh out of med school doctor who can barely speak English to give me a prescription.  

Enough grousing about my health, let’s get to it shall we? The nog is run out, your pants are a wee bit tighter, the thought of more rich turkey and stuffing has your colon cringing in fear and the reality of the upcoming January VISA bill is sinking in. It’s time to admit it, Christmas is over. Like that it’s all over. The build up can never live up to the hype and the letdown is kind of well, a letdown. I call this Mitch’s “Wrestlemania” theory. One single day cannot possibly live up to the hype, the build up, the tension, the emotional highs and lows and the inevitable feeling of being underwhelmed when the big day finally happens. Christmas is like an orgasm in reverse. 

Fear not faithful readers we do have one final day to celebrate this holiday season, New Years. Mrs. Mitch and I have never been big on New Years celebrations. Most years we just end up staying home, alone or with my parents, having a nice dinner, and celebrating the eastern feed of watching the ball drop at 10 PM and in bed at a reasonable 11 PM. Last year was particularly unremarkable. Me, Little Mitch and Mrs. Mitch stayed home and watched “Titanic.” Mrs. Mitch was snoring on the couch before the ship left port let alone hit the damn iceberg, and Little Mitch and I stayed under a blanket until 3 AM finishing the film. Here, I’ll save you three plus hours, the boat sinks, they all die at the end and Kate Winslet officially makes it onto a permanent roster spot of my “freebie” list  of celebrities I get to have sex with, with zero marital repercussions. Don’t look at me that way, Mrs. Mitch has her own list and I’m cool with her thing for Ryan Reynolds. 

With New Years comes the inevitable reflection upon the past year. Let’s not. I’m tired of this year. It wasn’t a bad year by any means but why analyze and dissect what can’t be changed? And unless I get a Delorean and a Flux Capacitor there’s no point. I’ve come to a precarious point in my life. Currently at this point in my life I have absolutely no goals or aspirations. I don’t mean this in a negative, I’ve given up on life in a sweatpants and wearing shoes without socks kind of way. I mean it in a transitional still getting my poop together sort of way. I honestly have no clue what, if anything, I want from the future.

Is that strange? I don’t know how I feel about this. On one hand I feel that I got thirty two years until retirement, and I’m going to need to kill some time between now and then. On the other hand I feel a sense of contentment knowing that I really have no inner drive for “more.” If I had to sum up my current life state I would say, “I’m good”, not much more to say than that. In fact, let’s call this constant serene “I’m good” state with one’s life a “State of Mitch.”  Is this what those monks dedicate their entire lives to? That wasn’t so hard. Maybe those bald sheet wearers should spend a little less time meditating and more time getting to a Mitch like state of “I’m good.” I’m liking where this is headed. It’s been a while since we expanded on the “Tao of Mitch”, let’s add “State of Mitch” to the Tao. Can’t wait until I’m on the cover of Oprah magazine with my revolutionary life philosophy. 

Along with the reflection of the past year there’s the New Year’s resolutions. Every year I come up with a resolution to handle my finances better, handle my temper better with other people and try to be more understanding of peoples emotions. Well the finances are a constant work in progress, and that resolution will have to continue on for another year. The temper resolution was actually going quite well for the year, until last week. First, lady there’s only one person ahead of us in line do you need to stand so close I can smell the chow-mein you had for lunch? I told you to back up because you were making me uncomfortable and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Second, was the condescending smug psychologist who kept twisting my words around to satisfy her man hating agenda. Yelling “you can go (expletive) yourself lady!” so that the entire office heard as I stormed out was easily one of the most gratifying and satisfying moments of 2010, I salute you. Your “Mitchie” award is in the mail. 

Which leaves us with the emotions resolution. Other people emotions continue to perplex me and make me extremely uncomfortable. So unless all you Feely McGee’s out there learn to keep your feelings to yourself, I guess that resolution will continue to be a work in progress as well, and no I don’t want to talk about it. 

No need to thank me, I’m an idea man, it’s what I do. Happy New Year!

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