Tag Archives | feeling mental

2021, Mariah, & Chumbawamba

Unrelated Soiled Chamois file photo.

I know we’re only 4 days in, but so far, 2021 feels like I just stepped in a big hairy pile of spilled dog bowl water while making my way through a dark kitchen for my first cup of morning coffee.

One day into 2021, I found out that one of my close relatives had just tested positive for COVID (they’re reportedly doing well), and apparently, my family (sans Wifey, B, and myself) thought that it was a good idea to gather together on Christmas Eve, even though it was strongly suggested by the medical community that they don’t (they reportedly tested negative).

APPLICABLE SIDE NOTE: I highly recommend listing to Episode 9, Fire at The Beverly Hills Supper Club, from the podcast Cautionary Tales by Tim Harford. It really shows the dangers of what digging in and eschewing words of warning can do.

Two days later, we found out some BFFs also contracted and became ill with the virus and are just about to exit quarantine. That was followed by me going for groceries a few hours later and seeing close to 10 people selfishly deciding that they didn’t need to wear a mask.

[insert heavy sigh and head-shaking here]

I shouldn’t hate on 2021; I mean, it hasn’t had the best start, but it has a lot of pressure on its shoulders.

I can see ’21 sitting in its dressing room on New Year’s Eve as some guy no one has ever heard of, and a bloated and crazy Mariah Carey count down the last minutes of 2020. It’s nervously rocking back and forth, dividing its attention between making sure it has all the months in order, gawking at Mariah Carey’s massive fake boobs on the nearby monitor, and muttering, “don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020, don’t be 2020… .”

Then, as the guy no one ever heard of, Mariah, and her two boobs count down the final seconds of 2020, ’21 stands up, waits for the cue, heads towards the stage, and promptly trips and lands face-first on the floor at the feet of the guy no one ever heard of and Mariah Carey. Well, at least it assumes it’s Mariah Carey; from its perspective on the floor, all it sees is massive under boob ensconced in a sparkly dress and a whole lot of craziness.

2021 will be just fine; it just had a wonky start. It will stand up, dust itself off, push the guy no one ever heard of out of the way, take in one last view of Mariah’s two friends, hand her a card for a good therapist, and start the year as best as it can.

2021 doesn’t want to be compared to 2020 and will confidently point out that the issues I talked of above were technically 2020 problems. I get that, so I am willing to give ’21 a chance. I mean, things will get better, but just like a case of gonorrhea, it might take a while and may include some pus-like discharge from the tip of the penis.

I will not be making any resolutions, plans, or goals for 2021. Whatever happens, happens. I don’t mean that in an I give up, bitter fatalist sort of way, but rather in a Chumbawamba, get knocked down, get up again, sort of way. I am merely accepting that I can’t control what other people say or do, and much of what happens in life is out of my control; all I can control is how I react. And I got this.


The Longest Year

The end of 2019 and beginning of 2020 started so normal and promising: Wifey and I celebrated the New Year with some of our best friends (mid-Michigan power couple The Brookensesses, and Little Chris and his wife, the Mad Austrian), then it was watching B play soccer in the “bubble,” followed by his 16th birthday, passing his driving test, and a super quick trip to Pennsylvania to pick up the 2008 Subaru Forester that his Poppy generously gave to him in lieu of trading it in for a negative profit. 

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This Tape

Outside of the “squares” that somehow live among us, everybody has a favorite band, album, or song. I have too many to mention, but I’m certain they are all better than your favorite artist, band or album. I also have something that is beyond all that: I have a favorite cassette tape. 

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Finding Normal?

Yet another unneeded brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader,

The following mega-post written over a few days contains small doses of opinion and large quantities of a personal mental journey in search of some inner peace and self-love (not code for masturbation). There is talk of mental health and depression. I am CLEARLY not a doctor, just a putz with a blog and 49 years and counting of personal experiences dealing with some depression type shit. If the Google machine pointed you here because you were looking for immediate help, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or visit suicidepreventionlifeline.org.

— Management

Part of my job as CEO and 1st Shift Supervisor in Charge of Day to Day Operations at Soiled Chamois, Inc.™, is to look through the pages of the blog every so often and make sure that everything is the way it’s supposed to be. Sometimes that means getting rid of something —like when the Archive shit the bed—and then bringing that something back for some reason even though that something’s bed is still filled with shit. Other times it’s just me looking and shaking my head at why and the fuck I ever would create such a monstrous time-sucking beast of ill-written over-sharing and unneeded goofiness. Then I proceed to start writing more of said, unneeded goofiness, like today.

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Finding Peace

Another stupid brief message from the President and CEO of thesoiledchamois.net, and Soiled Chamois Enterprises, Inc.™

Dear Reader,

The following post contains a small dose of opinions and some large quantities of a personal mental journey in search of some inner peace.

In the context of “real life,” COVID, a historic US Presidential election, and the dumpster fire known as the year 2020, it’s a blind pimple on the ass of life that could have/should have easily been ignored.

— Management

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Water on The Brain

I’m trying to get back to normal posting, outdoor activities, and photography after two months of watching and shooting B play his junior season of (dystopian) high school soccer. I think the unintelligible, manic-like word vomit disguised as photo tips in my last post may have been my way of dealing with that, and the realization that there’s not much to look forward to over the next six to seven months that doesn’t have the word “tentative” attached to it.

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Soup’s On! Again

I’m Not a Vegan Creamy Vegan Tomato Soup with bread and vegan butter.

I visit you all here again with tales of wonderment, awe, and spectacular deeds done atop my bicycle!! No, not really. Not at all. But there’s soup! And pictures of my kid playing soccer!! The two main ingredients in any great crap—dare I say legendary infamous—cycling blog.

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