I’m sitting here, legs up on the ottoman, fan whirling above near the ceiling. It’s kinda gloomy, grey outside, making the light a bit poor in the living room. I’ve been like this for an hour, first reading the Internet and then deciding what I want to write here.

I definitely wanted to write here. My family made me well aware that they like to read my blog when I was home for my little brother’s wedding. I’ve meant to blog since then, but just haven’t gotten in the mood. I was almost in the mood early in June, although that was artificial because I was drunk and that’s the only reason I thought of blogging. But that one is still a draft in my queue because it made  no sense.

No, really.

So anyway, it was sticky outside when I came home, first down the hill and side streets through a college campus, then up through the middle of the ninth-largest metropolitan population in the nation (just under 5.3 million, to whoever asked me that question last month). I couldn’t get on the highway, not the way I like to normally go. Instead, because of the traffic — or as I like to say, ‘Those fucking dickweeds’ — surface roads were the main point of travel.

Coming home only takes about 25 minutes, traffic not withstanding. I was about four minutes late because of the goats, however.

Yes, goats.

How this happens a relatively short distance from the geographic center of such a large populus is unknown to me. But they were there, strolling along the sidewalk of an old school, one that’s used for non-traditional students, or as it is known in the Park, idiots who dropped out but now need that piece of paper to get a job at Beef-A-Roo.

So there are these goats. I’m driving up the hill, just a block from home and how can I not stop? Surely, it’s just my imagination, right?

No. Sadly, no.

These little black goats are living a life in the city, on the street. They’re scavenging for food, wondering the cement trails, probably talking in some tongue we can’t understand and acting out like there’s a casting call for the live version of Madagascar 2. And they seem pretty hungry, as you’d figure goats would. Or maybe that’s me, but I assume they eat kind of like Joey Chestnut on July 4th. Except they like cans and shoes more than pig innards.

After a short-lived video encounter which proved I’m a completely citified boy — I wasn’t about to hang around and let the fuckers jump in my car window, shit — I came home and proceeded to pay some bills, think about doing laundry and put my feet up on the ottoman. That brings us to now.

And now is when I started thinking about where I was 10 years ago right now.

Do you remember where you were 10 years ago? Exactly 10 years ago from the time you read this, where were you? What were you doing? How did it affect your life?

I guess I’m lucky that tomorrow is Friday the 13th. It’s fairly appropriate that it’d be a Devil’s holiday, of sorts, on my anniversary.

That’s what made me think about what I was doing 10 years ago right now. Friday is my 10th anniversary — I guess it’d be Sugar Mama’s 10th anniversary too, if you want to get technical — and I know where I was and what I was doing.

I was in Las Vegas and I had a beer in my hand.

Pretty much any time over the next 24 hours — except about 17 minutes when we were in the ‘chapel’ for the wedding, pictures and hugs — I had a beer in my hand. I should have known then that I picked a good one because she didn’t say anything about it. That and she went to Vegas for a wedding that the ceremony literally didn’t last as long as it takes to play ‘Welcome to the Jungle.’

(FYI, Axl went on for 4:31, just for the record; we went about 3:30).

I guess she knew by then there were only two things she could never stop me from enjoying — beer and poker weekend. Both were grandfathered into this relationship, and have their own wings in my heart. She gets the rest.

It’s been an interesting 10 years, too, much of that time with a beer in my hand. At that point, when we got married, I had:

  • Never been to a foreign country. Australia was the first in 2004 and even though Sugar Mama didn’t go, she can’t pin that on me. I tried to convince her to just let me put it on my credit card and bring her with, but she said no. (Note: the best beer I had there was Victoria Bitter). Instead, her first foreign trip was with me to London two years later. An incredible week it was. (Best beer: take your pick, so many European beers to choose from). And then there was Belize last year. (Beer: Belikin, and more Belikin, and more Belikin). In about 40 hours from right now, we’ll be landing in Aruba for another adventure. (National beer is Balashi, according to my research). I’m pretty glad I have her on my side in this world-trekking thing.
  • Been working at the best job of my life for about two years. Since then, we’ve move from the apartment to the townhouse, then bought a house in Lincoln. Then she left me and moved to Atlanta and a few months later, as I started my ‘freelancing’ job, I moved down with her. Since that time, we’ve lived in two places in two years and are about to move into our second home that we purchased in a few weeks. Our level of wanderlust will have to wear off some day, I assume, but I’m glad she’s right next to me with every rental truck we pack up. (Best beer in Lincoln: Burning Skye Scottish Ale).
  • Speaking of that best job ever, I think it bothers her when I say it was my best job ever. I don’t want it to bother her. It was the best job. It was the greatest staff I could ever work on and I loved every fucking minute of it, long hours, little pay, all of it be damned. It was incredible. But even more incredible is the fact that she’s still with me when I went on the road so much and worked so much and ignored her needs so much. I would never have left that job for anyone else, but in this case, it was totally worth it. (No beer to mention here, but Budweiser and Old Style helped me cope with the move).
  • More hair. I don’t think Sugar Mama had anything to do with the loss of it, but fact is, I had more hair in 2002 than I do right now. Although on a side note, I do think I’m much more healthy and in shape than I ever was when we were dating. (Beer: in a historical perspective, when I had hair, I was in college, and that was called a mullet. And I drank a lot of Milwaukee’s Best Light when I had a mullet).
  • No idea that I’d live in the South again. I had already lived in the ‘south’, if you will. I spent nearly four years in North Carolina, which is where I met Sugar Mama. I still remember the first time we met, even though at the time I never thought of it romantically, but I guess it is. She was a student and interviewing for a job in our office. She was wearing a white button up shirt that had three-quarter length sleeves, and earrings and lip stick and khakis with tennis shoes. She was young, just as some of my best friends would say I like ’em. That never bothered me, not the way she did. (Beer: Pretty sure I drank a lot of Bud Light the night I ‘won’ her. Me and my roommate were at BW3s with her and a couple other people; we got drunk and then played Crazy Taxi, the full-sized arcade game, to decide who got to take her, er, I mean, drive her home.)
  • Never believed I’d get Southernized, which she has done. Since our move to Atlanta, she has gotten me to eat — and like, no actually, pretty much love, even crave — foods like collards and black eyed peas. I never in a bajillion years would have thought I’d eat that shit, but I had both with my chopped brisket and smokey turkey the other day at what is now my new favorite barbecue joint although Big Daddy Dz is on the list to be tried tomorrow; southern girls like barbecue for lunch, a big plus. (Beer: Plenty to choose from down here, although Sweetwater Road Trip has a good hold on me).
  • Little to no interest in seeing a cat, let alone having one live in my house. Yet, Sugar Mama outfoxed me. She got me to give in, and probably knew how my logic would work: ‘If you are getting one, I don’t want to hate it, so I’ll get one too so I only hate mine and not yours.’ Yup, she’s a smart one because that’s exactly what I did and we have two, F’ing and Glenda. F’ing is mine. She’s my F’ing cat. She’s pure black, completely a ditz and will make me cry when she dies. Because, you know, animals suck because they die. (Beer: F’ing loves to drink any kind of beer. She’s obviously my cat).
  • Only one tattoo. I bring this up because Sugar Mama tricked me into liking my cat so much that I’m getting a black cat tattoo. I just went in this week to meet with my tattoo artist Malia (she’s the shit) and I’ll be under the needle again in about a month. That’ll be No. 6, or if you’re counting, the fifth since we got married. (Beer: I don’t associate a beer with this, however, I do with my first tattoo. Not sure what kind, but the guy who gave it to me was visibly drunk the minute we walked in that tattoo shop two blocks from campus and next to my favorite bar).
  • No interest in each spinach or broccoli. I still don’t. She’ll never get me to give in on that one. (Beer: All of it. I’d need every fucking kind if I was to eat these two grotesque foods).

Well, that’ll do for now. I’ve probably shared a bit too much, but hey, you know my motto: if you don’t like it, I don’t fucking care.

Now I’m off to eat dinner with Sugar Mama. And drink another Victory Golden Monkey tripel ale.