Marriage, tracking packages, and roller hockey prospects.
Hockey
My local YMCA started a roller hockey league.
I signed up to create a Michael Jackson–themed team.
We’re called The Jackson Five Hole.
Still waiting on my first teammate.
Pastimes
I’ve been very busy lately. My favorite pastime has been taking up a lot of energy. Checking to see if my stuff that I don’t need was delivered.
I’ve become quite good at it too. Sometimes they’ll be like, “Expected tomorrow.”
I’ll check the origin. From Albuquerque? What kind of truck are you using? A time machine? It’s not even in transit yet. Check a map before you get cocky with the tracker.
Dueling intros
Man 1: I’m Jim, by the way.
Man 2: I’m Ralph, by the trash can.
New Job
I got a new job.
Posting “Who’s here in 2026?” on old YouTube videos.
It doesn’t pay well, but the hours are confusing. Which I like.
Tables
Being married is great.
Before that, I could sit down at any restaurant table, eat a meal, and leave perfectly happy.
I didn’t even realize I was constantly being seated at unacceptable tables.
Find Things
I’ve never found a thing my wife has asked me to look for. Not once.
Wife: “Can you grab my navy sweater with the white stripes?”
I go to the closet, open the door, and without fail it will be filled with orange dresses. It won’t even be close.
Me: “I don’t see it.”
Wife: “Our bedroom closet.”
Me: “Do we have another bedroom?”
Anything my wife can’t find is lost. It’s never actually lost, but she abandons hope immediately. And everything tends to disappear in the same spot—outside the car. I think she believes that her pockets are cut at this odd angle, or that she moves so violently exiting a vehicle it creates some odd vacuum whereby keys, chapsticks, sunglasses are just launched into an unrecognizable dimension.
The car isn’t transportation. It’s a portal.
It’s either that or I’ve thrown it away. For some reason, I’m accused of a sheer inability to pick up recycling or take out the trash without also scooping up her earbuds and sending them straight to a landfill.
And I get it, when I see a small valuable object near a box, my instincts kick in. I just want to sweep it in and bury it. It’s all garbage to me, right?
Status
I read Post Malone felt like Domino’s at 9:30 in the morning.
So he drove to one, stood outside, and banged on the door.
The guy let him in and made him wings and a pizza.
I tried the same thing.
I owe the city forty dollars for loitering. And am still hungry.
Careers
I frequently make up what I do for a living when I meet people. Not for any particular reason, just to keep things interesting.
For a while, I was telling people I’m a taxidermist. I said my business was called Furever. The pun purists enjoyed it. Everyone else just stared. Which was also fine.
Lately, I’ve been saying I’m a garbage man named Tom.
This woman finally caught me.
She goes, “My husband’s a garbage man. Are you SCOTUS or SCUBA?”
I hesitated. “SCOTUS.”
She says, “My husband too. What’s your last name? I’ll tell him.”
“Jefferson.”
She stared at me. “Your name is Tom Jefferson. The garbage man?”
“Yeah. My parents thought I’d be taller.”
See you soon,
—Ricky C.