I wrote a few weeks ago about how I gave up ‘not having a fish‘ for lent.

Easter is tomorrow and I’m sure you’re all wondering if I succeeded.

In short, no.  I failed.  But I failed in dramatic fashion.

A week ago I went to Wilmington for my friend’s wedding.  While gone, I left the care of Walt (the fish) to my friend Chris.

He did a fantastic job and I don’t blame any of the following chain of events on him.

Last Saturday night, someone went into the library in my fraternity (where the fish was being kept) and smashed the bowl on one of the tables.

Lying in a tiny puddle of water for nearly five hours, he was discovered the next morning by another friend.

Miraculously Walt survived.

My friend filled up a styrofoam cup with water and poured Walt from his broken bowl into the cup.

When I returned from Wilmington, the story of the attack on Walt and his heroic survival was the talk of the town.

Celebrating, I fed Walt and made plans to buy him a new home the next day.

I went to bed Sunday night proud of the strength and courage of my betta fish.

I woke up Monday morning only to realize that our caretaker had thrown Walt away, thinking it was just another leftover cup of water.

Was I sad? Yes.  Was I angry? Not really.

Walt and I made many memories during the four weeks that he was my pet but at the end of the day, he was just an $8 fish.

And I like to think that it’s the end of the day that matters.  Because that’s when it’s night.  And night is where the fun part of college happens…

For those of you celebrating, happy Easter and Passover.  For those of you not, have a great Saturday.

(photo thanks to Marit Cooper)

And in my experience, a lot of people have similar resolutions. Here’s a list of the top ten most popular resolutions.

But if you know me at all, you know I’m anything but popular. So naturally, my resolutions rarely mimic that of the general public.

They also tend to be more on the difficult side.

Last year, in my never-ending quest to stay in college, my New Years resolution was to ‘Get Younger’.

Whether or not I succeeded is still up to debate. Yes, I’m a year closer to graduation but I don’t think anyone would argue that I have the maturity of a 12-year old. I’ll leave the verdict on my success up to you…

This year, I had no idea what my resolution was going to be until two days ago when I had an eye-opening experience.

I should probably start by letting you know that I’m a jack of some trades and a master of none.

I’ve got a few semi-talents (keyboard shortcuts, Facebook pokes, getting in the ‘friend zone‘) but I lack in some critical areas.

For example, I don’t know anything about cars.

I mean nothing.

So when my car started going into neutral whenever I took slow turns a month ago, I figured I’d just take it in for a checkup over break and everything would be fine.

Two days ago, I took it to the mechanic. Yesterday, I got a phone call. It went a little something like this…

Mechanic: “I’ve got some sort-of bad news…”
Pomer: (crap) “…are you sure?”
Mechanic: “Uh, yeah I’m sure. We’re going to have to rebuild your transmission.”
Pomer: “Okay…”
Mechanic: “Have you been refilling your transmission fluid…?”

(10 seconds pass)

Pomer: “You mean the motor oil?”
Mechanic: “No, the transmission fluid. You didn’t know there was transmission fluid?”

(Audible Laughter)

Pomer: “How much?”
Mechanic: “$1,600″
Pomer: “I definitely shouldn’t have bought those Snuggies.”
Mechanic: “What?”
Pomer: “Nothing, just fix it.”

Click

You’re probably thinking, You didn’t know to change your transmission fluid? You’re an idiot!

Well guess what, I can’t believe that you don’t know Pikachu evolves into Raichu with a Thunderstone. But you don’t see me rubbing it in your face…

But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s a new year and we all have our shortcomings.

And you probably think that I have way shortercomings than you…

But that’s exactly why I need to have lofty New Years resolutions.

This year, I resolve to become a jack of all trades and a master of two, maybe three.

And just how are you going to accomplish that, Alex?

I thought you’d never ask.

I’m never going to sleep past 9:30am.

I have a bad habit of sleeping until almost noon. But no more.

Starting tomorrow, I’m going to get up and do/learn something, anything, everyday. With an extra 2.5 hours per day, I’ll be able to accomplish far more than I could this past year.

Watch (read), you’ll see.

So I thought it would only be fitting to share a story about one of my Christmas shopping experiences.

Before I begin, let me hit you with a little background:

A friend of mine (Garrett) and I have a tradition of exchanging gifts on Christmas/Chanukah and our birthdays.

You’re probably thinking, Yeah, you and every other friend in the world.

Well you’re wrong.

Most of the guys you know don’t give gifts to their friends on holidays. (They/We)’re too lazy.

But Garrett and I decided three or four years ago that we would exchange gifts. Sometimes, your friends know you (and what you really want) better than your family does.

And that makes for good gifts.

End background.

A few weeks ago while we were watching TV, an infomercial for Snuggies came on. Garrett idly mentioned that he wanted one of the ridiculous blanket-robes.

Being the good friend that I am, I made a mental note of Garrett’s desire and chuckled at how horrible he would look wearing a robe-lanket.

A few days ago, I saw the infomercial on TV and remembered my mental note (is that redundant?).

I picked up the phone, and dialed the 1-800 number. I’ve never ordered something off an infomercial so I had no idea what to expect.

The Snuggie is listed on the commercial as “Buy one, get one free for $19.95.”

Well guess what, it’s not that simple.

I have to say, the automated operator was very polite and sounded sweet…

…but she’s a sneaky b*&ch.

Let’s call her Kelli.

And I should’ve known because I never trust girls that substitute an ‘i’ for a ‘y’ in their name. But like I said, she sounded sweet.

The first thing she did was ask how many Snuggies I wanted. So I sat there, staring at my phone thinking…

Well I want two. But the second one is supposed to be free. So do I order one Snuggie or two…?

Realizing that I may be in for more than I bargained, I cautiously pressed ‘one’.

Kelli informed me that I’d ordered one Snuggie and that my second one would be included free.

Nice, I thought. (Pomer – 1, Kelli – 0).

Then, Kelli went on to offer me a bunch of “limited time special offers.”

I sidestepped most of them but couldn’t resist upgrading to the Deluxe Snuggie which is 50% thicker and has pockets for only $5.

What’s a Snuggie without pockets? I thought.

Finally, after giving them my credit card number, name and billing address, Kelli informed me:

“Thank you your order will arrive in 2-6 weeks.”

Click

No total cost. No conformation email. Nothing.

And by the way, it’s not getting here by Christmas…

I thought that was a little fishy so I got online and did some research to find some other people’s experiences. Here are some of my favorite quotes:

- “You call the customer service number on their site and it rings once and then they hang up on you.”

- “I placed an order of two blankets… Guess what, the total is $132.55. They charged $47.70 for shipping.”

- “They ask if you would like to upgrade to a more plush Snuggie (the Deluxe one). When you say yes you end up buying 2 getting 2 free.”

I quickly realized that something was not right. In fact, it might even be wrong.

I did some mental calculations (on my calculator) and figured out that I’d actually ordered:

- 1 Basic Snuggie: $27.90 ($19.95 + $7.95 S/H)
- 1 ‘Free’ Basic Snuggie: $7.95 S/H
- 1 Deluxe Snuggie: $32.90 ($19.95 + $5.00 pockets + $7.95 S/H)
- 1 ‘Free’ Deluxe Snuggie: $12.95 ($5.00 pockets + $7.95 S/H)

For those of you keeping track, I think that brings the score to something like…

Pomer – 1, Kelli – 81.70

Gulp

I’ll be giving Garrett his gift as planned and I decided to keep the second deluxe one…

But I don’t really have the kind of money to spend $80 on a blanket with sleeves so if any of you do and are interested in the pocket-less variety, let me know.

It would make a great Valentine’s or Easter gift. I’m not sure exactly when it’s going to arrive but I’ll be sure to let you all know when it does.

I think there’s a lesson in here somewhere and since it’s Christmas, I’ll try to break it down…

Anne Frank once said, “No one has ever become poor by giving.”

She was wrong.

UPDATE: A friend, Eric, just sent me this relevant article by Time on Snuggies.

A friend of mine wrote a blog post today about the frustrations of haircuts and it got me thinking (about haircuts).

After 2-3 hours of thought, I realized that while haircuts can be frustrating, they can also provide an opportunity for a little fun.

I know, I know. What do you know about haircuts? You don’t have any hair.

Well guess what… It wasn’t always that way. I used to have hair and I’m trying desperately to grow it back. So stop hating.

Besides, I have plenty of friends who’ve gotten haircuts before.

And in my experience, girls and guys have very different views of/responses to haircuts.

Lets start with responses why don’t we…

What?

You want views first? Really? Are you sure?

I’m telling you, responses would make a better intro…

Fine. If you insist…

Views of a haircut:
When a girl gets a haircut, it’s not just a haircut. It’s an event. It’s an experience.

She plans it months (maybe even years) in advance and when the day arrives, she wakes up early, gets dressed up and puts on makeup.

She even does her hair.

Which makes no sense.

I asked a friend of mine last week why she was fixing up her hair to go to the barbershop (or is it salon?).

She began explaining something about how “it’s like cleaning your house for the cleaning lady but with hair.”

I don’t get that either so I just nodded slowly and let it slide.

For guys, a haircut is a haircut.

Here’s how it goes:

One day, a guy looks himself in the mirror and says, “Man, I need a haircut.”

Then, he walks over to the closest barber, sits down and gets his hair cut.

End of story.

You ready for responses now? You ready?

Good.

Responses to a haircut:
A girl never gets a good haircut. The hairdresser/stylist/designer always cuts it too short.

Does this sound familiar?

“I told her to take off two inches! Two! And she went on a cutting frenzy! I didn’t even have a choice. She just put the scissors to my hair and then chopped it all off!”

I thought it might.

When she gets back though, everyone who sees her had better recognize that she got a haircut the right way or they’re in trouble.

Allow me to illustrate three settings where I did NOT recognize a girl’s haircut the right way:

Setting 1:
Girl friend 1 (note the space) got two inches of her hair trimmed off but I didn’t realize because her hair was 14 inches long before and a two-inch difference wasn’t enough to recognize.

I spent the next two hours trying to figure out why she was treating me like I killed her cat.

Finally, when she went to the bathroom, her friend asked me,

“Why haven’t you said anything about her haircut…?”

And it all made sense.

I mumbled something about how “I thought she looked especially good today but couldn’t figure out what it was” and though I don’t think she believed me, at least I had some kind of excuse.

Setting 2:
I immediately realized that G F 2 had gotten a haircut because, as she would later complain, the hairdresser cut off way too much.

I was so caught off guard by her hair’s lack of length that I panicked and asked, “Did you get your haircut?” She bitterly responded, “Does it look like I got my haircut?”

We then sat in silence while I tried to think of an excuse to leave.

After five minutes, I blurted out something about needing to change my tire and ran out the door crying.

Setting 3:

Me: “Did you get your haircut today?”
G F 3: “No”
Me: “Oh”

End Settings.

Guys don’t ever get good haircuts either. But they also don’t get bad ones.

That’s because for guys, a haircut is just not that big of a deal.

And as a result, most guys don’t care if someone does or doesn’t notice a recent haircut.

But that’s most guys.

I care a lot.

In fact, my goal when I get a haircut is for nobody to know that I got a haircut.

Let me rewind real quick:

Until this year, in college I’ve been buzzing my head. It’s cheaper, easier and makes it harder for people to tell that I have a rapidly receding hairline.

This year however, I decided it was time to grow my hair out again and as a result, I’ve had to go back to the barbershop.

Play.

When I go to the barber, I intentionally do NOT tell anyone.

In fact, I usually make it a point to tell a bunch of people that I’m doing something other than getting a haircut.

Why? You ask…

Because I play a little game whenever I get my haircut.

It’s called, Wow, I really thought he got his hair cut. I guess I was wrong. It usually works something like this:

The Scene:

I get my haircut without telling anyone. I get almost nothing cut off, just enough to clean things up a bit. I see a friend of mine and we begin talking…

Action:

Friend: “Hey man.”
Me: “Hey.”

(Idle conversation goes on for a few minutes…)

Friend: “Did you get your hair cut?”
Me: “No… Why?”
Friend: “I don’t know, something just looks different…”
Me: “Really? Yeah, no haircut for me.”
Friend: “…are you sure?”
Me: “Uh…yeah. I think I’d know if I got my hair cut…”
Friend: “I guess so… Oh well.”

(The conversation goes on for a while. We go our separate ways. Later on, Friend runs into Another Friend.)

Friend: “Hey man.”
Another Friend: “Hey…”

(More conversation, blah blah blah…)

Friend: “Did Pomer get his haircut?”
Another Friend: “I think he went to refill the ink cartridges in his printer but I don’t know anything about a haircut.”
Friend: “Wow, I really thought he got his hair cut. I guess I was wrong.”

(Pomer – 1, Friend – 0)

Not in the beginning I guess. When you buy a fresh tube of toothpaste, you get that invincible feeling. It’s like a full tank of gas, an empty laundry bin, or a box of q-tips from Costco. You’re on top of the world and it’s never going to end.

Well it does end.

And with toothpaste, it starts ending earlier than you think.

About a week into a toothpaste tube, it has transgressed from a beautiful, flawless cylinder and begins taking that flat, deflated look.

After another week, you begin considering getting a fresh tube even though you know if you really work at it, you can make the one you have last one, maybe two more months.

So for the next two months, every morning, you wake up and in addition to preparing to face the day, you also have to do battle with your toothpaste.

The tube’s last week is the worst. The battles are fierce, bordering on epic. And each day’s victory is more uncertain than the one before it.

And eventually the day comes where you lose. You simply can’t muscle out a single drop of mouth-cleansing glory.

For me, that day was today.

I woke up, like most mornings, dazed and inexplicably angry.

Gathering my Old Spice Body Wash, Sexed-Up Shampoo, toothbrush and toothpaste, I headed to the shower.

When I got there, I mentally prepared for the upcoming tube duel and then after 20 seconds or so, made the first strike.

Earlier in the week, I’d begun using the slide-against-the-edge-of-the-counter method to great success so I began with that tried-and-true method.

No dice.

I stepped back, caught my breath and, vowing to get a new tube today, went to my ace in the hole.

I cracked my fingers, stretched my forearms and then pressed my thumbs against the backside of the opening, pushing with all my might.

Within 15 seconds, my thumbs began cramping. In 30 seconds, I was covered in sweat. When a minute passed, I’d almost fainted.

As the minute and-a-half mark was rapidly approaching, I gave up.

Toothpaste – 1, Pomer – 0.

Defeated, I turned to a friend of mine who was also in the bathroom and asked to borrow some of his toothpaste.

He said “Sure” and handed me this…

What the hell?

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no neat freak. Far from it.

And I’m not saying you need keep your toothpaste rolled up with a chip clip like my grandmother does…

But what the hell?

What happened?

Did my friend not ever put the top back on the toothpaste when he was done?

Did he not use a toothbrush at all and just rub the toothpaste on his teeth, directly from the tube?

I have no idea.

But I didn’t ask. I had to use the toothpaste. And at that point, I just didn’t want to know.

Taking a deep breath, I held my nose, squeezed out a crusty-minty blend and did the deed.

When I finished, I considered throwing up but decided not to when I realized I’d have to brush my teeth again.

All in all, it was a horrible experience and one I hope I never have to endure again. As soon as I finish this blog post, I’m going to CVS and spending at least $20 on toothpaste tubes.

And if you’re in the last week of your war against toothpaste, I suggest you do the same…

Shall I explain?

Just kidding, dumb question.

It all started Saturday. I woke up and felt a little under the weather. Not really unusual for me. I’m not really a morning person.

Actually I’m not a morning person at all. In fact, the second I wake up is the worst second of my day.

Everyday.

So waking up and feeling crappy isn’t really out of the ordinary. I started to get suspicious however, when a shower with Sexed-Up didn’t rouse me out of my funk. I started to get really suspicious when I didn’t feel better after a quesadilla and some chips and guac at a restaurant/bar in Athens while watching the Georgia-Auburn game.

As the day went on, the feeling got worse. Saturday night, I definitely had a fever. Chills, sweating, light-headed, sore throat. Not good.

By Sunday, the fever had gone down and by Monday, I felt like a new man…

…except my throat was still killing me.

Every time I swallowed food, it hurt. And each swallow was worse than the one before it.

Naturally, I did nothing and figured I’d be fine when I woke up Tuesday.

Naturally, I was wrong.

Tuesday morning I woke up and had a sip of water. As the water crawled down my throat, I eeked out a painful scream (a high-pitched, girly scream, not a masculine, shot in the arm in a bar fight scream).

I choked down 3 generic brand Tylenol and decided that a nice warm cup of coffee was the antidote to my ailment.

So on the way to class, I stopped by Alpine (a bagel joint on Chapel Hill’s campus) and picked up a large coffee. Unfortunately I couldn’t drink any of it on the way to class because it was too hot (I’m very sensitive). When I got to my class however, I took a gulp and had to punch myself in the (you know, down there) in order to distract myself from the pain. I then vowed that I would call my step-dad/doctor as soon as class let out and figure out what the hell was going on.

After class, I recounted the above story to my step-dad and he asked a couple questions before telling me what to do. The conversation is kind of fuzzy because most of it was doctor-talk (which I don’t speak/understand but he pretends I do) but a few quotes stand out in my sitting memory:

“You ate Wendy’s, Arby’s and Qdoba with a sore throat? What were you thinking?”

“Wait, you ate Wendy’s twice?”

“You thought to drink coffee? That’s like pouring battery acid on your throat.”

I think two things are clear here.
1. I don’t know what to do when I’m sick.
2. Regardless of whether or not I’m sick, I need so change my diet. Soon.

The conversation ended with instructions to get some Prilosec OTC (which I later found out is ‘frequent heartburn’ medicine) and to only eat ’soft’ food.

I then convinced a friend to go with me to CVS in exchange for accompanying him to Wendy’s.

We went to Wendy’s first and I decided to try my luck with a large Frosty and a large Dr. Pepper ($4). I immediately regretted the purchase after my first sip of Frosty hung on my throat like a girl on whatever guy is standing next to me on any given night.

At CVS, frustrated and starving (I’d eaten a burrito and four chicken nuggets in the last 36 hours), I picked up some Prilosec OTC ($10) and $25 worth of apple sauce and pudding ($25).

A lot of people wake up each morning with a full day planned. Sometimes though, unexpected things happen and you have to change accordingly; you have to make do with what you’ve got.

And right now, all my friends are downstairs eating chicken and broccoli on rice with breadsticks and drinking sweet tea…

But hey, I’ve got tons of apple sauce to eat…

…and a melted Frosty to drink.

For some it’s a relationship. Others, a job.

For me, it’s online courses.

I tried. I tried setting aside specific hours each week where I had to work on that class. I tried moving that class to the top of my work priorities. Instead of improving, my other classes suffered.

So I made the executive decision this morning to drop the course.

I’ve never dropped a class before. I didn’t know how. And you know what…

It’s not easy.

And maybe it shouldn’t be that easy. Maybe UNC doesn’t want people to get a bad grade on a test, drink a little too much, go online and in a moment of angry spontaneity, drop a course. Fair enough.

But maybe it shouldn’t be that hard either…

I went to the Journalism advising office today, signed in and waited 15 minutes to ask an assistant what to do if I want to drop a class. She informed me that “all class-dropping is handled in the Steele building.”

So I strolled over to Steele and asked the receptionist where to go to drop a class. After I told her my major (Journalism), she instructed me down some stairs to the basement.

Have you ever walked in on a couple that just broke up? Everyone’s crying, angry and absolutely does not want to see you.

That’s sort of how I felt in the basement of Steele. Today was the last day you could drop a class. Students were packed in a tiny, hot, smelly room with one sweaty, balding guy walking around with a clipboard trying desperately to keep things organized.

So I signed in, scanned the room for the cutest girl that I could find, walked near (but not too near) her and made idle conversation.

Have you ever walked in on a couple that just broke up? Don’t try to talk to the girl. She’s not ready.

After 5 minutes of chitchat and 15 minutes of (really not too near) solitaire, Sweaty Bald Guy called my (badly mispronounced) name.

He confirmed my major and year and informed me that “the Journalism school handles all registration issues with seniors.”

I looked at him like he was an idiot. He looked at me like I was an idiot. And I went on my way.

On my stroll back to the J-School, I tried to figure out where I’d gone wrong. I couldn’t. And decided to let it go.

Back at the J-School, I signed in (15 spots below where I’d signed in an hour ago) and sat down in the only open seat. The girl next to me took an interest in my class schedule and in 10 minutes convinced me to take an Audio-Video Information Gathering class with her to replace the online class I was trying to drop. She seemed nice enough. Could be fun.

Finally, the advisor called my name, I told her my situation and she handed me a form. I filled it out, signed it, she signed it and handed it back to me.

I handed it back to her.

She handed it back to me.

With a confused look on my face I asked, “What do I do with this?” She informed me that I needed to give it to the receptionist at the Student and Academic Services Building (SASB) by 5:00pm.

She looked at me like I was an idiot. I looked at me like I was an idiot. And I went on my way.

SASB is a 20 minute walk from the J-School and it was 4:45pm.

I strolled (briskly) to SASB, walked in and asked the receptionist where to go if I wanted to drop a class. She pointed up and I ascended a staircase to find the woman I’d been dreaming about all day.

I asked her, “Is this where I drop this off?” She said, “Of course” as if implying, where else would you take it. I walked out thinking…

There has got to be an easier way to do that.

I don’t know much about next year. But at least I won’t have to drop a class.