New "Ask Uncle Trey Pound" questions!

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

My good friend has a habit that is none-too-endearing. She has the habit of, while talking to someone, pulling out her phone and sending or responding to texts. I get that some things can’t wait, but I’m getting really tired of talking to the top of her head all the time. How can I remind her that I’m standing right in front of her?

Signed,

Put On Hold

Dear On-Hold:

Increases in technology (as well as our dependence on it) mean that more and more people are showing an appalling lack of manners when it comes to social interactions. While it seems impossible to change how everyone with a cell phone behaves, you can at least offer your friend some clues that she’s being rude. Chances are she’s not even aware of how her actions are coming across. I’d suggest a casual approach: when she whips out her phone to check her texts, try sending her a text that reads, “top of ur head is nice, but id rather c ur face.” That should get her attention… at least until the next text comes through on her phone.

Dear Uncle Trey Pound:

A friend of mine recently came out to his parents. Unfortunately they didn’t react quite as well as he’d have liked. They basically cut him off and refuse to speak to him or even say his name. While he’s glad to no longer be “living a lie,” he’s heart-broken that two of the most important people in his life won’t speak to him. I’m trying to be a supportive friend, but I have no idea of what to tell him. A little help here, Uncle Trey Pound?

Signed,

Straight Ally

Dear Ally:

Tell your friend that there’s good news: he’s already done the hard part by coming out. That first baby-step out of the closet can be the most difficult one to take. So he should be proud of himself for being honest with himself and with the world. As for your friend’s parents, try looking at things from their point of view for a moment. Even if they had some clue as to your boy’s true orientation, they still have to deal with a hard truth. They no longer have the luxury of ignorance and denial. Now that they know their idea of their little boy isn’t an accurate one, they have to sort of mourn it. They’re going to have to let go of their preconceived ideas of who their son will be and what his life will look like. And the hard truth is that they may never get to that point. There may never come a time when they embrace their son openly and without reservation. But tell him not to let that stop him. While it might be hard to believe, there’s a whole world out there waiting to accept him for who he is. And you’re being a good friend to him. Good luck to the both of you.

Last Call with Uncle Trey Pound

There’s a fine line between a hobby and a habit. In the case of drinking, that line is usually the one a cop asks you walk to prove your sobriety. Thankfully, that’s never been an issue for me, but recent events have caused me to rethink a major part of my life. In April, I turned 33 and I began planning the birthday celebrations like any other year. Little did I know that this year would mark a turning point in my drinking career.

Everything was going fine at first—if you can call five shots of Jager in twenty minutes “fine.” Before long I was having difficulty navigating the trip to the bathroom, and my words seemed to have a lot of trouble coming out of my mouth in an understandable fashion. After copious amounts of alcohol, we made our move from Chico’s to 5^th Street Distillery. About that time that things began to get a little…..hazy. And by “hazy,” I mean strange drinks I hadn’t ordered kept appearing in my hand. Thinking only of the sober children in China, I made every effort to finish each drink. Finally, I got to a point where the only acceptable answer to the question “Hey Trey Pound! Want another shot??” was “Hell no.”

I clearly remember the exact moment when things took a turn. My stomach began to make this odd, threatening gurgle, and I knew that I would very soon be returning all that alcohol to the bar. I made a half-assed attempt to stem the flow of vomit, but when Jager, vodka, beer, and something that tastes like Mike’s Hard Lemonade are all determined to exit at once, there’s no stopping it. I’m told that I managed to limit my vomit to my friend’s boots, but then he knew what he was getting into when he kept handing me drinks.

I finally emptied the tank and started trying to figure out what the next plan should be. There’s the old Puke-n-Rally: you get it out of your system, then you’re back for more. But at the (newly minted) age of 33, I had a major revelation. As I flicked a chunk of vomit from my cheek, it occurred to me that I’ve become That Guy. There I was, belligerently drunk, surrounded by people who were fetuses when I drank my first sip of beer. Talk about depressing.

Thankfully, I was surrounded by friends who’d been there before and knew how to handle the situation. They quickly moved me away from the crime scene—I was coherent enough to respond, “Hell if I know…” when one of the bouncers asked me who puked on the deck. I managed to make it out of there without getting caught/embarrassed/photographed, but the lesson was learned.

I could pontificate on how moderation is the key to safe enjoyment; I could also mention the healthy side effects that come from cutting back on one’s drinking. But anyone who knows me knows what a load of bull that would be. Instead I’ll say this: if you happen to encounter me and I’m not my usual ebullient, out-going (possibly naked) self, I’m probably not depressed or suicidal. I’m probably just sober. This might take some getting used to.

The Time God Showed Up at My High School Reunion

There’s one thing that can always be said about the North Pitt High Panthers: we sure know how to throw a memorable reunion. Not twenty minutes into last night’s Panther Palooza multi-class reunion, a little girl almost drowned in the pool of the hotel. Apparently there was a group of teenaged girls having a pool party, and one of them slipped beneath the water on the deep end and went unnoticed. At the same time, a group of Spaniards were in their room on the fourth floor and one of them looked out the window and noticed the girl, lifeless, at the bottom of the pool. The men raced down to the first floor, one of them dove in, and together they pulled her out of the pool.

It was about that time that the attendees of the reunion noticed the commotion and some with medical training ran to help. I (not having had any significant medical training) went out to be nosy. It was a horrifying scene: the little girl was laid out on the concrete, still as a stone, with gray lips and eyes that looked permanently closed. While the men who’d pulled her out of the pool tirelessly performed CPR, all I could do was stand there and pray. So pray I did. I prayed with a fervor I’ve never known before. I’m not a particularly religious person, but I felt a distinct calm settle over me as I prayed. I felt a certainty that she was going to be okay. After about ten minutes of rescue breathing and chest compressions, the girl began to spit up copious amounts of water. The volume of water that came out of that little body was amazing. It was also reassuring. About the time the ambulance and rescue crew arrived on the scene she began to respond and breath on her own. I’ve never felt so relieved in all my life.

After, while we waited in line at the bar (my nerves were shot to shit), we all agreed that the little girl’s survival was a result of God moving in her life. And that’s the story of the time God showed up at my high school reunion.

The Undeniable Allure of the Unattainable

There’s a certain appeal I’ve always associated with the unattainable. I hardly think I’m alone in this—nothing makes an object more desirable than one’s absolute inability to have that object.

In no circumstance is this more pronounced than unrequited love. No man is as attractive as the one you can’t have, and no woman is as hot as the one that’s way out of your league. An unrequited crush is the seventh level of Hell.

So what do you? Do you pine endlessly over the one you can’t have? Or do you make up your mind to move on and cut off the feelings like a gangrenous limb? I guess the answer is as unique as each person who experiences the dilemma. For some the only reasonable solution is to man up and make a move. For others, the best thing to do is move on. Figuring out which answer best fits your situation is the hard part.

The reason I’m thinking so much about unrequited crushes is that I’m feeling one now. I know he’ll never be mine, and that makes it all the more difficult to be around him. His smile is a bittersweet thing: it changes my day for the better, but it breaks my heart because I know I’ll never be the cause of it. At least not in the way that I want to be.

So, as much as it sucks, I’m going to have to cut off the feelings. It’s not really who I am—I’ve always warn my feelings on both my sleeve and my face. But in this case, it’s better to keep the friend and ditch the feelings. The feelings would never amount to anything, but the friendship is something to treasure. I can feel it when I’m with him—he’s going to play an important role in my life. I would hate to ruin that with my silly crush. The best thing to do is let go….how exactly does that happen again?