The trademarked crazy upon which you've come to depend

Note to self: Do not ask for a Karl Mecklenberg jersey for your birthday.

I'm sitting at a Mariner's game with the Commish a few months ago, and in the course of the conversation I blurt out, "Ooooh, you know what I really want for my birthday? I want a Karl Mecklenberg jersey." At the time it made complete sense. We were talking about some sort of football or other sports-related topic, and my stream of consciousness brain went on a little thought pattern voyage that went something like this:

• September is coming soon.
• Football season starts in September.
• I love September mostly because my birthday's in September.
• I really can't wait for football season. Oh how I love football Sunday.
• But my true, true love? The Denver Broncos (at which point I could feel the orange and blue blood pumping through my veins).
• La, la, la... I was born in 1977.
• I really miss the Broncos' uniforms of my childhood.
• It would be really cool to have a vintage Broncos jersey, but as much as I love Elway, that's too cliche.
• Karl Mecklenberg used to wear #77; I wonder what Karl's up to these days?
• Ooooh, kettle korn.

And it is at that point that I blurted out my birthday wish of wanting a Mecklenberg jersey. See how I did that? Yes, it was a random, and specific request, and if you were the Commish and weren't in my brain at the time, it probably seemed to come out of left field, and may appear to some as a, dare we say it, request from a crazy person. But, Internets, you see my train of thought, so it makes sense and is not the least bit crazy, right? Okay, well the Commish knows me pretty well, so this should not have been unexpected (and I think I may have even explained to him in great detail my thought process on this one, because that's what crazy people like me do). Plus, the random request was not a real request for a present. Well, okay it was, but it wasn't.

Although the words that fell out of my mouth were, "Karl Mecklenberg jersey," the vision in my brain was a women's cut jersey in the old orange mesh-like material (not the new fancy wicking moisture away kind). And do you know what, Internets? That jersey can be found in one place only: my brain. Okay maybe two places, because my brother was in Korea and could get anything he wanted made there, so I bet I could walk into some shop and describe what was in my head and in an hour or less come back and have it in my hands (thanks to several overworked abused children), but I don't want any kids harmed in the making of my happy birthday. So when I said I wanted the jersey, I meant I wanted the imaginary jersey in my brain. Kind of like you want a bed made out of bacon, or you want to sit in a hot tub of hot fudge, or whatever crazy thing you want, Internets. But here's the problem, unlike a bacon bed, you can get a Mecklenberg jersey, it's just a Mecklenberg jersey that I don't want.

Time passes, and I'm at work one day and I'm struck with the realization that the Commish may actually think that I want a Mecklenberg jersey, which I do, but not the one he's thinking of, the one I'm thinking of, that, you know, only exists in my head. And also that he may actually get me that jersey, the one he's thinking of, but not the one I want. Let me also point out that my request at the baseball game was not my attempt at dropping an obvious hint of what I expect the Commish and Monster to get me for my birthday, because I don't expect or want anything (well, except I do want the imaginary Mecklenberg jersey, but I certainly don't expect them to try and get that, what I really want is just for it to exist out there. If I knew that was a reality, then I may really want it, but first things first), it was genuinely me thinking out loud in my random way and hoping with nerdy childlike innocence that my dream Mecklenberg jersey actually exists and if it did, wow, it would be what I would want for my birthday. It was kind of like wishing for world peace, it sure would be nice, but ha ha ha, who's really going to make that happen?

So there I am, as I so often am, caught between a rock and a hard place. What if the Commish and Monster actually do get me that jersey, the one that they are thinking of, but not the one I'm thinking of that doesn't exist? Because I don't want the jersey they are thinking of, I want the one that I'm thinking of, and I would absolutely hate for them to go to the trouble and the expense for something that I don't want--I don't want a man's ginormous jersey. But then I think, how daft are you to think they are actually going to get you a jersey in the first place? So do you let your friends go down a path buying you a gift you do not want, or do you tell your friends not to get you a gift that they weren't planning on getting you anyway? Either way I come out a total arse. Can't win 'em all, I guess. So, I casually text the Commish something to the effect of please don't buy me a Mecklenberg jersey for my birthday. I try to explain that it's a silly request, but it's hard to sufficiently explain, "I don't want the jersey that you can buy, but I do want the jersey that only exists in my head" in 160 characters or less.

More time passes and the three of us are having brunch yesterday. We get into a conversation all about the jersey that I don't want, but that I really do want, and every sentence begins with, "but you know what I really want?" The Commish just keeps laughing more and more, and with every sentence tells me I'm that much more crazy. And I can't really deny the fact that to some it may appear crazy, but I like to think of it as creative, imaginative, inspired. And then he says, "does Mr. McMichael know that you're this crazy?" And I'm all, "of course he does--YOU CAN'T HIDE THIS. But I'm not crazy, this is just how I normally am." And as his claims on my craziness escalated, all I could think was, but you keep coming back for more! I mean, come on. This is why you love me, people. Okay, so I may think my little German sedan can hop railroad tracks, and so I steal the pop cans of famous people. Does that make me crazy? I can't not do those things, and if I stopped, then you'd be forced to read posts about google spellchecking, and nobody wants that.

So my birthday is tomorrow, and I'm not expecting anything, especially not the jersey that only exists in my brain, but how cool would it be if I did get that? And, Commish, that is not me acting crazy saying that I want that, but that I would be so floored if what I don't think exists anywhere--my "world peace," if you will--was actually all wrapped up with a pretty little bow on it. But you know what I'll probably end up with? A bacon bed. And if you're thinking of getting me a bacon bed, please stop, because I really do not want a bacon bed.