IamWyatt.com Blog

Somewhere in the ancient mystic trinity you get three as a magic number.

We’ve gone through, again, some big changes in our lives as a married couple in the past year. You were laid off. We moved from Minnesota to Pennsylvania and were fortunate to spend three happy months with your grandmother. I was laid off, you found a job. I found a job. We bought our first home together, and soon thereafter thought we’d vomit together at the thought of paying back all that money. I quit a job (right before an all expenses paid trip to posh Mexican resorts) then found another job. We helped each other through the first passing of someone close in the family. We painted our first walls together. We hosted our first Thanksgiving for extended family together, and it was grand (mental note: 15 pounds of potatoes is too much). We traveled to the southernmost point in the US together. We made memories, lots of them, and I hope we never forget a single one.

You always say I’m not comfortable with showing affection in public. Well, it doesn’t get any more public then this.

Listen up, world: It’s time to be jealous, because I’m the luckiest guy out there. I’ve got her, and I’m not giving her up, for anything. It hurts when she’s away (like for our 3 year anniversary) but it feels oh so good when she’s back. She’s all that a guy could ever ask for, and she chose me. Wow. She chose me.

And as for that magic number bit, well, you know how that song ends. We’ll get there too, and it will be perfect, just like you.

Happy third anniversary, Love. Come home soon.

It is with a heavy heart that I announce the passing of a true American legend: Sick Day. Sick Day was diagnosed with terminal neverstopworkingitis three years ago. It seems the disease was hereditary, taking his mother, Personal Day, just three years earlier (though sightings of Personal Day have been reported in some public schools).

Many speculated at the demise of the Sick Day shortly after the boom of the internet, though none could predict the magnitude of this untimely loss. If you can recall, workers with hacking coughs, spur of the moment vomiting, and explosive diarrhea at one time could phone in early in the work day and announce their calamity. With the prevalence of broadband, network cards and laptop computers, even the sickest of sick can at the least respond to work-related email, if not more. When asked about the loss of Sick Day, Senior Management just had this to say (via BlackBerry), “Sick Day will always be with us in our hearts. What was your cell number again?”

Due to lack of funding a for neverstopworkingitis, a cure for this genetic disease is not likely (though unverified sources tell me that Europe has managed to keep the disease at bay).

Sick Day is survived by his father, Vacation Day, and his son, Mental Health Day (though both have been confirmed as carriers of the mutant gene).

Memorial services will be held Friday from 3-5PM at your local pub (with half price appetizers).

“A River Runs Through It” probably got me hooked (har har). Watch the trailer I’ve always loved the water, especially current, and how it plays and moves whatever it winds through. Watching that movie, the way the lines roll across the eddies, the serenity of it all, just kind of stuck with me. So, my senior year of college, I decided to take Fly Fishing at Penn State.

Two days a week we learned stream anatomy, how to tie flies, and how to roll cast in an empty gym. It sparked an interest for sure, but the constraints of a college graduate’s income kept me from actually fishing until last night.

My neighbor belongs to a local fly fishing club and he was kind enough to take me along. I donned the waders I hadn’t worn since my freshman year nailing smallmouth in the Susquehanna. I zipped up his wife’s vest (don’t have one of my own yet, but that’ll soon change), and clodded down toward the stream. First as a group we picked up some rocks and looked at some bugs. Seems Stone Flies were the most popular, with a yellow fly or two emerging. This being my first actual time on the stream, though, I wasn’t as concerned with catching fish as I was with just getting my line wet.

I waded upstream a bit, positioned myself with plenty of distance from my fellow fisherman, and targeted an eddy behind a small rock. I got stuck in a tree, of course, and soon figured out that a roll cast was the way to go. After about an hour or so the rhythm came back to me and I was hitting my target consistently. I had a few bites (or rocks that felt like bites), but as the sun set I came to realize that what attracts me most to this sport is not the catching of the fish (which I hope to do some day) but just the act of fishing. Paying attention to boil lines, eddies, structure, shadows, bugs, sounds–it just brings you closer to that innate sensation we seem to be missing more and more. Just being in the great outdoors.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lXOdv55Jy3g]

After the remarkable finish of last night’s playoff bout between the Celtics and Bulls, Kevin Garnett stole the show. For just over the last minute of the game Ben Gordon and Ray Allen dueled with clutch jump shots, finally ending with an Allen three despite Joakim Noah’s hand in his face (I still can’t believe this guy is in the NBA). Great shot, Ray, too bad your teammate stole the show.

The camera couldn’t seem to get enough of Garnett, tweed and all, thrusting his chin and scruffy Jafar beard at the Bulls, loping like an ogre. The camera panned away, then came back just in time for us all to clearly read his lips, yelling profanities somehow related to fornicating with someone’s mother (take a look at the 50 second mark of the video).

Really? How old are you now, Kevin? I understand you made the jump straight from college to the NBA so I guess we can cut you a little slack for being a mental midget, but there comes a time to mature a little. You’re a veteran in this league (made all to clear to us by your inability to recover from a mild knee sprain in time for the playoffs) and it’s time you started acting like a professional. If not to save you or your family from the embarrassment, then at least for the fans. They certainly pay you enough.

The Fourth of July has the Popsicle. Christmas has the candy cane. And Easter has the sugar coated marshmallow goodness that is the Peep. Yes boys and girls, put the chocolate bunny and Cadbury Egg aside, at just 32 calories the Peep is perhaps your best bet this, and every, Easter Sunday.

We’ve all had them. Some detest the decadent delectable, while others, connoisseurs even, will artfully age the Peep until desired firmness (stale) is achieved. My father still, at age 56, likes his Peep nuked for 15 seconds in the microwave, swelled and soluble. Me? I don’t like the things. Yet they always find their way into my Easter basket, and now that I think about it, it just wouldn’t be the same without them.

I installed this app today and it’s fantastic. Coverage doesn’t start until 4 PM today, so this is a great way to get your fix. Of course, your job being top priority.

http://www.masters.com/en_US/interactive/mobile/iphone.html

Deep brown silky sensuality, perked in sugary bustier, in such a tiny cup you are my mid-afternoon revolution against torpidity: Espresso.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MOCJzhiLyk]

Thank you Fox News. Seriously. I now know the reason for my self-involvement. Thank you. See, the thing is, I love myself and now everyone hates me.

It’s true. In my (correct) opinion, I am utterly, unequivocally fantastic. My size 13 feet are just large enough to touch the underside of the steering column and the floormat all at the same time making driving compact cars oh so serene (and safe). My legs are long enough to offer lumbar support to the passengers sitting in front of me on airlines. They also help manage my weight, because my knees keep my tray table from lowering, preventing me from indulging in salty airline snacks and calorie laden soft drinks. My arms. My glorious arms. They’ve reinvented fashion. Dress shirts used to be worn with sleeves to the base of the wrist. I, singlehandedly, have started the trend of rolling up sleeves to the elbow, cleverly masking the incompetence of clothiers and their inability to make a 38″ sleeve without an elephantine waist.

Yes, I am perfect, in every which way. For the longest time I struggled with others frowning at my self-confidence. The belief that I am special. Now I know I’m all wrong. My personal beliefs are merely the sadistic constructions of the devil reincarnate, Mr. Rogers. From his seedy blue sweaters to his uncharacteristically clean white-toed sneakers, he brainwashed me. Thanks to Fox News and their world-changing, fact-driven, vetted research, I now know the opinions of myself are all a hoax. I’m not special. I’m a freak. And now, with Fox News as my mentor, I can reconstruct the shattered shards of my fractured facade.

It’s starting to warm up a bit. That means grilling extraordinaries will soon be shedding the covers from their backyard centerpieces and the spring air will soon waft with waves of charred beef and singed eyebrows. Well, before going back to the old standby of frozen beef patties on a white bun, give this a try: Boursin Cheeseburger.

Cheeseburgers are fantastic in their own right, but I couldn’t be more happy with this latest evolution in the world of hand-molded ground beef. Boursin Cheese adds delectable creamy delight to your juicy burger. The soft, white goo inevitably slides out the back of the bun and into the crevices between your fingers. Before you know it, you’ve become oddly intimate with your hands and you just don’t care. It’s too good to waste on a napkin.

So sauté some onions in butter, add your lettuce and tomato, and liberally spread some Boursin cheese on your next burger and revel in in the goodness that is the grilling season.