The joke notwithstanding

Deadly disease kills 7 this year…

2008-05-22T20:40:00.000-05:00

Apparently, 7 people in the entire state of Illinois have died of West Nile Virus in 2007…

WARNING: RANT AHEAD

Seven people within the state of Illinois have died because of a simple thing but difficult to prevent thing like a mosquito bite. This is tragic.

BUT

Cancer – 204.1 deaths per 100,000 people died in 2004 Link
Anorexia Nervosa – In the United States of America, between 758,000 and 1.5 MILLION people will die from subsequent health problems caused by this disease (malnutrition, starvation, etc).
(Given that there are 298,444,215 people in the U.S.A, and that 151,783,235 are women Link). This estimate does not include the 5% of anorexia nervosa suffers that are male. Link
Heart Attacks - approx 460,000 people die every year. Link
Lung Disease – 360,000+ people die every year Link
Smoking – 298,000+ people die from smoking Link
Automobile accidents –42,815 people died in 2002 Link
Alzheimer’s –22.4 deaths per 100,000 people Link
AIDS – 16,000 people died of AIDS in 2005. Link
Falling down – 11,600 people over the age of 65 died from this alone!
Old Age – You are not legally allowed to die of Old Age or Natural Causes anymore Link

I mean no disrespect to anyone who has died of a mosquito bite. It is tragically ironic to die from one of the ‘cons’ of leading a healthy and active life in the great outdoors.

But why is the news dialing up the national fear level about mosquito’s? West Nile Virus doesn’t even rate the top 20 things that I can die of by waking up and going to work every day. I used to smoke, I am overweight, I drive a car, I used stairs, mass transportation and have been known to walk around outside during a thunderstorm. Yet of all these things, the most newsworthy story has to do with a mosquito-born virus that I would have greater odds in winning a state lottery than contracting.

THIS is why I stopped watching the news. How do the networks who put out this drivel expect to gain the public trust? Better yet, why in the world does the public actually trust these driveling idiots?

Sometimes, it good to get away

2008-02-23T23:11:00.002-06:00

Where are we going?

Italy.

Ah, Italy, to Rome to take in the granduer of the Collaseum and Vatican, to Venice to see how many tourists float by in a Gondola (The locals never use them), to Florence to learn about the creativity of our human race and see some of the best art in the world, to Milan to witness the perfection of the last supper and finally, Lake Como. Lake Como is to see just what all the fuss is about. Is it perfection in vacation destinations or merely really, really nice.

All shall be unveiled. All, will be answered...in about 10 days when we get back.

Christmas 2007

2007-12-19T22:15:00.000-06:00

As the year wraps up and Christmas approaches, My Girl and I have made a solemn vow: “Let’s shake things up and try to get our Christmas cards to our family and friends BEFORE Christmas this year.” It may not seem like much, but we like to keep trying to improve things. As you’re reading this, there’s absolutely NO NEED to consult a calendar, ‘try’ is a key word in front of ‘improve’.

My Girl got a dream job working for a high end tour operator company, in downtown Chicago. As all of you know, she’s always loved traveling as well as anything/everything European and this fits in very well with her job because, she’s in charge of all custom and standard tours to…Europe! wooHOO! She talks to a customer and sends them on their dream vacations all over Europe. There are some definite side benefits to this job of hers, but more on that in a minute.

Things WE did this year:
-Watched TV, watched each other, watched the scenery travel by the car window.
-Played “Remove Your Finger From My Ear…now.” (My Girl doesn’t like this game so much, but I still get a kick out of it)
-Played the Lottery on the chance to retire early
-Organized (to a highly unusual degree) the garage so that two, count’em TWO whole cars can now fit into it…and neighbors say “Wow. THIS is highly organized garage…”
-Had friends over for dinner, been to friends for dinner.
-We decided that THIS was finally the year we landscaped our very…uh…’open’ yard.
-Learned that commuting to Chicago on the train as a couple is more fun than commuting alone.
-Cleaned the house at LEAST twice…I’m still tired from all that activity. (According to My Girl, SHE cleaned all the time, I cleaned it only twice…then she said something about my butt, the couch, gravitational pull, etc, etc. (Honey! Shush! The games on!)…)

Things WE did NOT do this year:
Retire early
Landscape our yard
Organize any other part of the house in which anyone but me may use.
Travel the world!
Figure out how to productively and effectively plan a weekend so that I might avoid turning a couch and TV into a career choice.

Things MY GIRL did this year:
-Found a job that allows her to fulfill her travel addiction while sparing our spare change
-…and drink wine purchased by the CEO on Friday’s after he announces “Hey! It’s 4 o’clock! Who’s thirsty?”
-…and take trips to really cool foreign lands…like Paris in August…which the company pays for
-…and stay at 5 star hotels…which the company pays for
-…and eat at REALLY cool restaurants…which the company pays for
-…all while I’M AT HOME thinking ‘Well, the Sears Tower is bigger than the Eiffel Tower anyway,…who wants to see that?!’

Things WE’RE going to do next year
-DECIDE to landscape our yard…aaagain.
-Continue early retirement plan
-Organize a room of the house that OTHER people use.
-We’re gonna GO TO ITALY!
-…My Girls Boss David is SO way cool enough to suggest that she take ME on a Familiarization Trip to Italy! AND (against all expectation) SHE DOES!…yeah, that’s right! Because SHE WANTS TO!
-…My Girl needed someone to carry luggage (I’m so OK with that I may even clean the house again)
-…My Girls Boss David is my new bestest friend in the whole world (and he likes GOLF TOO! I’m gettin’ all misty. David, can I call you Dave? Oh…OK. That’s fine, Sir. Yessir. Nope, I won’t,…ever again, Sir, no Sir…Yessir…but, Sir…but, but, I LOVE ya! Sir.)

I hope that this year found you success in areas you didn’t expect, happiness in unexpected ways, and love all around. My Girl and I wish you a very Merry Christmas, a Happy New Year and hugs when you least expect them.

So, I wonder who still stops by?

2007-11-29T20:57:00.000-06:00

After careful consideration (i.e. I finally remembered my freakin password) I've decided to check in again.

Is there actually ANYONE I know who still stops by and reads this...stuff?

Twissy!

2006-08-11T14:52:00.000-05:00

My Twister came by for the weekend. She had a chance to get away from it all and visit for a couple of days, so she hopped on a train and came on by. We laughed, we hugged, we talked deep. There were no tears, there was no sadness, there may have been a little angst, but hey, what really good conversation doesn’t have a little angst? The kind when you really bare your soul and see what’s lurking down there, waiting to be shared? It was a great, communicative weekend. We had a blast.

We also watched Bridget Jones II as it’s a favorite of My Girl’s and Twissy hadn’t seen it yet. I’m a sucker for a romantic comedy (the ‘comedy’ MUST be present otherwise it’s way too much of a chick flick and I lose interest). We were joined by My Girl’s friend, Twiggs, who had decided to share her magnificent purchase of Effen Vodka. Thanks Twiggs! It was awesome. (If you like smooth vodka, try Effen! Yes, that’s the real name.)

All was going well, I was insulting Colin Firth, who currently rules supreme in My Girl’s Do List* and the girls were all insulting me. It’s a fair trade and much enjoyed by all the participants.

The thing with Colin Firth is, well,..he’s good. He’s really good, but don’t tell My Girl I said that. What chance do I have against him? Let’s see…I’m overweight, losing my hair, for every dollar he’s got, I have 1/1000th of a penny, and…um…oh yes, I look/act/behave absolutely nothing like Mr. Darcy with his smoldering eyes and reticent stare. My eyes are apparently not so smolder-y as just bloodshot and maybe a little watery. My stare on the other hand, makes My Girl itch.† My glasses probably don’t help either. So, because I’ve got WAY more than three strikes against me, I do what any red-blooded American male does.

I tell her he’s gay** at every opportunity.

I figure it’s the only shot I’ve got at keeping My Girl as MY girl. Because if she ever DOES meet him, I will be yesterday’s news and promptly tossed into the white-trash can. She’ll be phoning in the Do List report somewhere between England and the Greek Islands from his private jet on her way to a thrilling new lifestyle. By my labeling him as gay, see, she’ll think about it at the opportune moment and voila! Suddenly Mr. Balding, Overweight, Middle Aged Guy with No Cool Vacation Plans and no real bank account doesn’t look so bad! It’s GENIUS!
Alright, fine. It’s stupid, but cut me some slack here. He’s Colin Freaking Firth for crying out loud.

All the previous was mentioned so that I could tell you this one thing: We’re watching the movie and an early scene show’s Colin running romantically in slow motion across a field of wheat towards Bridget. The camera time the guy gets for this one scene could easily have been replaced with a reading of War and Peace. By Mel Tillis (he stutters).

I pipe up with “No straight man runs like that.” Much to the amusement of Twissy and Twiggs, My Girl dryly replied; “Have you seen yourself run?”

* Do List – A short list of famous people who if you run across in your life, you’re allowed to “do”. No harm, no foul, story must be shared and everyone is happy at your good fortune.

† - I tried ‘the stare’ once and “success” doesn’t describe her reaction. “Falling down laughing” may but it’s my blog and against all appearances I do have some dignity left.

** Gay – Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

How I Spent the Next 4 Weekends

2006-08-09T17:08:00.000-05:00

Healing.

It sounds like such an easy thing to do. You sit back and relax, you heal. You let the body fix itself because after all, the body knows what it needs to do and it would like you to get out of its way so it can do it. What the heck, maybe if you relax a little bit more you’re body, now free of any pesky outside distractions such as who’s going to mow the lawn or who’s going to pick up my socks, can heal faster. It’s a working theory I have and one I took full adva…… put into action to determine the final truth of it.

After all, if you’re spending energy working around the house, you’re NOT spending energy healing your body, right? The doctor also said that I “…was not to use this hand AT ALL because this could adversely affect the healing process.” THIS, was my point.

I needed to heal. I needed to direct all of my body’s energy at healing my broken bone. Needlessly directing my energy elsewhere would actually delay or even ruin my ability to fully help around the house later. My Girl’s point, for the dissenting side, was that someone else (i.e. me) REALLY needed to pick up my dirty socks, books, and god forbid she find last week’s dinner plate before I do…OK, fine. Maybe she’s on to something with that last one. But still. I’m healing, be nice to me.

One of the things that the doctors and nurses don’t tell you about when you’ve got a broken hand is that there are going to be some rather invasive…adjustments, that you’ll have to make. I suspect instead of telling you, they place bets on when you’re going to ask them about…things. Then they giggle evilly as they bring out charts, graphs and wonderfully descriptive analyses about exactly how many adjustments you’re going to need to make.
I hadn’t put much thought into how a broken hand was going to affect my life other than “Crap, I won’t be able to do ANY golfing for most of the summer.” Sometimes, I have a bad habit of not looking just a bit further or more precisely, more in-depth into the immediate future. I don’t know why, I just don’t. My neighbors on the other hand, hit upon the ultimate indignity within seconds of seeing my broken right hand. Surprisingly enough, they had struck upon the very sentiment I had just expressed.

“You’re right handed aren’t you?” They asked innocently.
“Yep, it’s gonna rot! No golf at all for six weeks, and it’s summer.” They smiled and agreed that yes it would rot because, against all probability it was indeed now summer. Then, completely without any warning at all, they sprang this on me.

“How’re you gonna wipe?”

Blink.

Aaaaaaaaaaa, shit. Visions of switching hands fleet momentarily through my mind. This is really going to suck donkey wangers.

This is not something I wish to think about. It’s not something I ever thought about before. You wipe till you’re clean than maybe a couple more just for good measure. No muss, no fuss. You flush, put everything back where it belongs, wash your hands and move on with your life. NEXT!

But see, that was with my right hand. My right hand is the hand that’s use to doing the dirty work and all the detailed work. Now, I’ve got to use my left hand. The hand that saw “Fine motor skills” on my body’s list of things to learn and decided that anything involving motors was way too complicated for it and instead rode it’s Harley to the pool hall for a couple of racks and a few beers.

This was going to be tricky. Worse, it was going to be potentially messy. Even more worse, I was going to have to think about what I was doing. This is not an area of my body I’ve given much thought to aside from the occasional “Whoa, what the hell did I eat yesterday?” kind of thinking. It was going to be tricky and very unfortunately, probably time consuming.

I can pretty much sum up the initial event with this: It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. It took longer. Everything now took longer. Showering, dressing, eating, they all took longer. Try making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with one hand and two arms. You can do it, it just takes longer and initially it may be a little messier, but you can still do it. Then as a little time goes by you get better at it. The key to the whole thing is this: You already know exactly what must be done and the steps that it’s going to take to get it done. Now, you’ve just got to do it. I did it. I can say without fear of reprisal that I did not however, particularly enjoy it.

How I spent the weekend

2006-06-24T16:05:00.000-05:00

To the Utter Moron on the 5 o’clock news:

2006-05-26T21:08:00.000-05:00

A phrase that I’ve heard on the news before (and just heard again) finally jumped up and down on my last nerve. It was said by a very solemn, very serious man that appeared to be in his late 30’s. He said, “Everything [this business does] is oriented at getting more of your money…” and also “[the business] took everything I had.”

Blink.

Blink, blink, blink.

Bearing this in mind, I present for Stupid People everywhere, a lecture on ‘Just One Way of Being an Adult’ and ‘What Being an Adult Means’. Please feel free to print this out and hand it to a stupid person you know. Circle the big words so they can come back to you and find out what they mean. You never know, it may make a difference. i.e. It will make you feel better because really, it’s wasted on them. They’re stupid.

BUSINESS LECTURE BEGINS

A business is ‘in business’ for one reason: It wants to make the most money it can. This means that it (the business) wants you to give it your money. In return, it provides you with a product or a service that it wants you to believe is worth your money. This is based on the premise that if you don’t like the product or service that the business is offering, you won’t give it your money. Any business alive today is actually interested in getting MORE of your money than it already has. This is because more money is actually good for a business. This therefore, is the goal of businesses everywhere. No, really! It is. You can believe me because I work for a business and I know.

Now this may be hard to understand BUT, businesses really don’t care if:
1) You look good,
2) You dress smart, or even
3) How you feel, so long as:
4) You give it your money.

That’s what it wants because that’s what it needs to survive. No money = no business.
So, what does it do to get more of your money? This gets a little complicated so be patient and re-read it as often as you need to get a really good understanding of the intricate details.

In order to get more of your money, the business improves a product or a service. Another way to get more of your money is that it makes more and different types of products and services then, we’re getting close to the tricky part, it will tell you that you can’t live without it’s products and/or it’s services.

This is the tricky part: (Feel free to re-read this next sentence as many times as you need to in order to understand it because, as an ‘adult’ it’s expected that you do understand.) You DON’T have to believe it! It’s all up to you and your needs as you define them. If you don’t like the product/service OR if you think it is too expensive, you DON’T need to buy it. It’s YOUR decision. No, really, it is. No, I’m not lying. Remember, I actually work in a business, so I know that what I’m saying is true. YOU are supposed to be responsible enough to determine what “enough” of your money is. When you give a business “all” of your money, then at some point the world presumes that you must have felt that you got something more or something better in return, right up to the point where you realized YOU had no MONEY left and that YOU must be a friggin’ IDIOT

In the world of adulthood, not having money is YOUR problem, not mine or anyone else’s. You HAD money, you GAVE it to the business. It’s THEIR money now (remember, this is the business’s goal).

If you come crying to me later, I will have no sympathy for you because you GAVE the business all of YOUR money. I would feel much worse for any wife or kids that are attached to you because you GAVE the business all of THEIR money too. This is considered to be very un-‘adult’ behavior.

You must watch out for yourself and for your family. You must not expect anyone else to watch out for you. It is you who must be responsible, for you. Not them. Not me. You.

You utterly stupid, self-righteous, mouth breathing, oxygen wasting moron.

People like you make me ill.

BUSINESS LECTURE COMPLETE

Suuuurrrreeeee you do…

2006-05-17T20:45:00.000-05:00

Most days (over 95%) I work out of the office. But every now and then, about once a month or less, I work from home. Stop that. I actually do WORK from home. Big Bro, shut it.

When I don’t have a steady diet of it, like doing 100% of the time, I find that I can get more things done. It’s quieter…or, noisier if it’s a good song, and there are less distractions. No telephone constantly ringing, no e-mails to answer unless I want to, it’s nice. Because I am at home, I’m more concentrated on the task at hand without all the distraction. I can get the task done faster than in the office which means, I get “home” faster. I am done for the day after completing a difficult task in less than a day.Now, if I work from home 100% of the time, I start doing the math and I start getting in trouble:
Lessee here, I worked 2.5 days kinda hard at home, that MUST equal 4 full days in the office, right? It should, right? I’ve got some calls and e-mails to return, but c’mon! I still got 2.5 days to do that! Is there anything critical in them? No!? Hello Mr. Calloway! Time to grab the sticks and hit the fairway, baby!

This would be why I don’t work from home 100% anymore.
No one found out because after all, the work was getting done and it was done on time. But I felt a bit, guilty. I couldn’t handle it. There were times when I did nothing but watch TV, make a few phone calls and called it a day. They PAID me to do this?? Well no, not really, they didn’t. But they were and they didn’t know it. If they had found out that they were paying me to do that I suspected that they wouldn’t have been paying me for very much longer. So when I felt GUILTY, instead of just guilty, I quit my ‘dream’ job and took another job that required more office time. That was good. That worked. Now I got more accomplished at home and got ahead in the office. Best part, no guilt.

Now I’ve got a job that requires more time, in the office and on the road, than I ever thought I would give a job. There’s the commute (2 hrs, each way = 4hrs/day), there’s the office time (9-13 hours, depending) and suddenly, I’m wondering how much sleep I’ll be getting that night. So when I get the chance to work from home, whoo boy, I work. No commute, work gets done faster, eat a comfy lunch, get a little ahead AND I get to spend more time with My Girl. Sometimes, she even WANTS me to do this! Can you believe it?! It’s a win-win!Why am I telling you this now? ‘Cause tomorrow, I’m workin’ from home, baby! WooHOO!

The ol’ Smack-a-roony

2006-05-17T20:43:00.000-05:00

I’m an adult now (Big Bro, just…shut up), so I should know how to do the ‘Kiss when you meet someone’ thing. That...thing that cool people do...the suave smooch on the cheek. I have no idea how to do this.

I know that I have no idea how to do this for one simple, yet highly significant reason. I’ve inadvertently kissed My Girl’s grandmother full on the mouth several times over the last few years. Grandma gets how to do it. I don’t. Smooth, Humor Me, smooth. Makin’ moves on Grandma…gonna get me summa that.

The basic question is, Who does the kissing? The second basic question is, When do you do the kissing and when do I do the kissing? The third basic question is, If they kiss first, do you kiss back? On which cheek? The same one or the other one? What if they pull away? This has also happened and then I’m kissing air. Complete with smootchy face while looking them right in the eye. Probably not as attractive a look as you may initially think.

I don’t know why it sends me into mental vapor lock. I see that I’m gonna get smooched and suddenly, I panic. Which cheek is she aiming at? Should I turn my cheek so it’s easier? Should I smooch back? Should I just make a smoochy sound as if to say, “If you weren’t kissing my cheek right now, I’d totally be kissing yours?” Is that bad? Is it required? What if she turns her head faster than I do,…again? What if, what if, what if.

So,...any idea's out there? Or am I the only idiot?

Working for $2.46 /hr

2006-05-16T22:03:00.000-05:00

My Girl has a mission this year and she feels strongly about it. She REALLY wants to accomplish it and she’s been working for over a month in order to get ready for it. While every second of her day hasn’t been devoted to it, a significant amount of her time has been dedicated to this endeavor. My Girl wants to participate in the Neighborhood Garage Sale.

Now me, I don’t really care for garage sales. It always seems like the Return On Investment is a little shy of the effort. I got this feeling because we had several of them when I was growing up. Mom would want to sell some stuff because we were moving someplace else and why would you want to waste the effort of packing and lifting something that you could didn’t need, didn’t use and could still sell to someone else? I would gather up my stuff that I didn’t want and at the end of it, I’d wind up with $3 or $4. Big Money, baby! This was great when I was 6 and dealing with a 25¢ allowance. Now that I’m (just a bit, ahem) older, I’m no longer so enthralled.

When I did my very own garage sale, with my very own stuff, I was definitely not as thrilled. After 80 hours of preparation and two days of selling, I had netted a grand total of $237 after I paid for the rented tables ($15.00). I’d just put in over two week’s worth of work for $2.46/hr. Less than half what I’d earned when I was twelve and had a paper route.

The day had started off great, I had a crowd of early birds waiting and they swooped in at it was ON. I couldn’t have had more people in my garage if I had shouted “Free GOLD!!” at the top of my lungs. That lasted for about three hours. After that I mostly got browsers. They’d come in and walk around, wouldn’t say anything and walk out. If I were really lucky, they’d make small talk.

I decided to donate the rest of the stuff and got more than $2,500 to write off for my taxes that year under Charitable Donations (make sure you get a detailed receipt). Donating everything took about four hours including drive time, which settles out to $625/hr. Hmm.To be fair, I should add in the 80 hours of prep time, plus four hours for “donation” time…$29.76/hr. HMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm...

But far be it from me to point this out to My Girl who is REALLY going at it. Well, maybe I did mention a little something now and then…at least, I didn’t point it out that often. You should know that I NEVER mentioned it while grudgingly going through my stuff looking at what I thought would sell. I can also assure you that I would absolutely have NOT mentioned anything on this subject frequently, just as a matter of discussion you understand, the benefits of a tax write off and how a little money today isn’t as good as a lot more money tomorrow. No sirree bob, not me. Wouldn’t of done it. Besides, it wasn’t working anyway.

The days of the garage sale were cold (50+°) and rainy. We netted about $200.

Hmmm.

Princess

2006-05-16T21:53:00.000-05:00

It’s wrong to look at someone and mentally sum up their lives. It’s really wrong to judge people without knowing anything about them other than the way they look. I know this because I really dislike it when someone looks down their nose at me. Don’t they understand that you can’t judge a book by its cover? Don’t they see that there is more to me than my skin? For crying out loud, if you have a question, ask it, but don’t stand there and judge me without asking the question!! If it goes on long enough, I’ve been known to harbor violent thoughts and even say things like “If you don’t stop that, I’ll have to remove that finger at the elbow and stick it up your ass.” Don’t judge me people, it makes me crabby.

And now, please put your hands together for…The Hypocrite.

There’s this little 20 something that gets on the train (at a very nice town) on my way into work most mornings. I don’t know her name. I don’t know what she does. I’ve never sat beside her, but I’ve taken an intense dislike to her.
She dresses nice. Well, more accurately put, she dresses expensively. Expensive as in, Expen$ive. The thousand dollar designer hand bag? Check. The latest fashion in women’s suits? Check. Silk shirts? Check. Ridiculously high pumps (If I knew what a Manolo Blahnik(sp?) looked like, I’d swear these were them) and the jewelry! My god, the jewelry. Today’s example of professional, reserved style are 2” long pearl drop earrings, dangling from what appears to be a silver base, both base and pearl drops are studded with little diamonds. And a sweat suit…a very expensive looking sweat suit, but still. THIS is what one wears to work?? I know that she’s going to work because she usually wears what one would consider expen$ive work clothes. But this? Is she going to work or is she going to be spending more of Daddy’s money on the way to work?

To be fair, I must point out that I am not a slave to fashion. For that matter, I’m not much of a slave to clothes in general. It’s a rare non-summer weekend that My Girl doesn’t request that I wear my “good” flannel when we go out instead of the eye-blindly bright flannel that really is much more comfortable. This is one reason why I find the Fashionista 20 Something so unlikeable. She obviously sets great store by fashion as her relative worth to the world.

Invariably, she looks ‘coiffed’. Coiffed as in, it looks like it took more than two hours to take a shower, put on the makeup (with a spatula), pull the hair back into a pony tail (because it’s quicker), and then push the hair on top of the her head forward just so (to look more like Julia Louise Dreyfuss from the early Seinfeld days).

Every time I see her, all I can think of is “Oh, look. It’s Princess!” adding a little squeaky rise to my inner voice on the ‘prin’. Immediately I check to see what she’s wearing to figure out what I hate. I imagine her with all sorts of 20 Something self-absorbedness. I imagine her driving around in the biggest or fastest gas guzzler because either road height or great speed makes her feel safer. I believe that she sees herself as worldly in her outlook while not knowing who the President of the United States is or what’s going on in Iraq because their fashion is just terrible there. In short, I cut her no slack whatsoever.

I cut her no slack because of The Attitude she radiates. It screams “I’m important and you’re beneath notice.” If I thought she took the time to see anyone as an individual instead of “servant”, maybe I’d just think she just worked hard and took care of herself. But she doesn’t, so I don’t. But this is not my dilemma, it’s my hypocrisy in action.

THIS is my dilemma. I don’t know whether I’m more offended by her attitude, my hypocrisy, or by the knowledge that I somehow know what Pearl Drop earrings, Manolo Blahniks, and the latest in women’s fashions are.

A weekend at Bernie's...

2006-05-08T20:35:00.000-05:00

The great thing about owning a lake house is that you get to go to the lake every week-end. All summer long at the lake, with the boats…the boats that take you to the bars…the bars that sell beer and other adult beverages for REALLY reasonable prices. It’s a good guy weekend. As a matter of fact, the only thing better than owning a lake house, is knowing someone who owns a lake house, a boat and access to a jet ski. Such was the case with me and my lake house owning friend Zebra this weekend. Throw in a couple classic cars driving by, the possibility of a well rounded bikini or three and suddenly, it’s a great weekend.

This was the first weekend of the year, before the warm weather really hits and the water’s still cold. There’s just one thing, in order to enjoy the boat, the jet ski, etc., the dock has to be put in. I volunteered under the mistaken impression that beer defeats cold and that docks are easy to put in.

Allow me to advise you, it doesn’t and they aren’t. But, if throw in:

Several chiefs and very few indians
Copious amounts of beer (Typically used by a chief suddenly become indian, its a status that rotates frequently)
A little patience (pretty much scrubbed by the beer)
A smattering of knowledge (several chiefs still on hand ready for providing instant, helpful and often undesired advice)
Direction (several chiefs still present and having plenty of spare advice handy)
Drive (instantly provided by the water temperature, locally known as “ball shrinking cold”)
A few dozen ‘cold water, tiny dick jokes’

Voilá! a dock is born. Then you get to put the boats, wave runners and other seriously cool toys in the water. Continue with beer and tiny dick jokes just because you’re guys away from the little women for a day or two and because that’s what guys do. You may want to add a few fart jokes followed by real world, ‘too much beer last night and what the hell was that thing you ate?’ example farts to keep the tiny dick and cold water jokes company. Again, because that’s what guys do. We fart while drinking beer and grade them against the other examples presented that day. Usually followed by such sage comments as “Whoooaaaa! I hope you brought another pair of pants!” or “Now that you’re done you better empty your shorts out over the side.”

The beer tastes good. The company is great. The lake is cold. At some point, you realize that this moment right now, with everyone laughing at the latest poke of someone’s masculinity, the cold water, the weekend stretching out ahead, the enthusiasm, you realize that this is a time that you’re going to remember for a while. Even the ‘D’ cell barking from a ‘AAA’ sized Chihuahua…maybe I’ll get the little dear a shock collar for Christmas.

It was a great weekend. Thanks Zebra, I had a blast.

Train Tips

2006-05-08T20:34:00.000-05:00

Unless you’re in the starring role of Risky Business, the things you can do on a train are relatively limited. While you sit still and don’t jiggle around much (you might disturb the other passengers and who wants to be the asshole that early in the morning?), you can work, read, sleep, watch the scenery go by (either inside or outside of the train), talk to your train buddies or even write your blog entry for the day. Anything else will usually get you arrested. At least, that’s the premise that I’ve been operating under for the last 3½ years.

The thing about limiting your horizons like that is that some would say you never really live life the way it was meant to be lived. Out there. On the edge. In control (which can actually be out of control, depending on your point of view). I may not live on much of an edge over here but, I am not in jail either, yea for me. If it really makes any difference to you, I sometimes feel in control and a little edgy. But that’s mostly on warmer weekends when I don’t have to wear clothes…but I digress,

Train Conductors are typically the kind of person who is ‘in control of the situation’ at any time. Except for two of them, all of the Conductors that I’ve seen are male. Noticeably male. Noticeably male from a long ways away. These guys have a swagger to them. An attitude. A visible confidence level that says, “I am in Control of You and This Train.” They have to be in control because if it goes bad, there isn’t much in the way of backup for them except the other passengers.

I can guarantee you that dealing with the general public is a thankless task, especially on a commuter train. They deal with drunks, assholes, bitches, cell phone talkers, loud Ipod users, librarians and people who put there feet on the seats everyday and someone needs to be in control of the situation. They are. They do a good job and somehow remain pleasant regardless of the jerks they encounter.

If you’re a woman riding the train (and chances are very good that if you’ve done this and not been arrested, you are a woman) you have more options available to you. Say for instance that you’re feeling more…open than usual. More edgy and out ‘there’, if you will. Especially if you’re sitting on the top level of the train, wearing a skirt of almost any length (underwear, I understand, is optional), while looking down at the Conductor as he goes by collecting fares.

Last week, the attractive young woman in the skirt (who was currently giving the now even more friendly than usual Conductor his tip for the day), seemed rather chatty. She was showing (among other things) all kinds of interest in the weather.

Tippee: “Might rain later today.”
Tipper: “Oh really? You’re so smart. How did you know?”
Tippee: “Well, yeah. Saw it on the news.”
Tipper: “Did they say anything else?”
Tippee: “Oh yeah. Said it was gonna be warm, too.”
Tipper: “Wow. How warm?”

I don’t know how they kept coming up with that high quality, weather fact finding banter, but they were really giving it their all. Both listening (just enough) to what the other had to say and looking intently at each other. She at his eyes, him at…her. A minute or so later, it was all over, she settled in to read a book, he went on collecting fares. With a smile. She had even paid full fare. Tips are fine but, apparently The Fare must still be paid.

The funny thing is, while they were in their own little world, no one besides me noticed a thing. Everyone else was too busy working, reading, sleeping, talking and watching in the scenery outside of the train.

I am a Connoisseur, I am not a geek

2006-05-03T20:34:00.000-05:00

My laptop at work has been on its last legs for entirely too long. Over the last three years, I've had memory cards replaced (twice), the hard drive replaced (twice) and just recently, the keyboard has started to go for the third time.

I've mentioned to my boss over the years that a new laptop would be a 'nice' thing to have. Not 'necessary', just...'nice'. Nice as in "It'd sure be nice to have a laptop that had a battery with more than 3 minutes of life in it!" or "It'd sure be nice to work on a laptop that I could have TWO big files open at once!" or even "Good god! YOU try to lift it up. Can YOU imagine hauling that rock through security at the airport? When the nice security person asks me to turn it on, what do you suggest I do, explain that 'I'd like to, but I have no battery power...' or should I just get used to being suspected as a possible terrorist with C4 packed in his laptop instead of electronics?" (Should you find yourself in a similar plight, I wouldn't suggest using that last one.)

I didn't realize it, but all that frustration was Small Time trying. I wasn't serious yet. I hadn't done my due diligence. I was just pissed that I had to work on a laptop that was the musical equivalent of disco.

In January, I finally started to pay attention to my laptop. It was hard not to pay attention to it with its fan making a growling noise that sounded like it hadn't been fed in a while. It was time to enter the Big Time.

I sat down and wrote my boss a professional e-mail requesting a new laptop. I included the date of all the repairs and what had already been repaired. I included the charge for all those repairs as well as the repairs that I was going to need, again. My laptop wasn't pretty, it was in fact, expensive and it didn't want to play anymore. After talking to him about my professionally worded laptop e-mail, I found that I now had a laptop champion. Someone who would say to the big boss "Yeah, it's a piece of shit, he needs a new one." But he'd say it professionally. I was on my way to Laptop Nirvana. Yay Boss! Go, go, go!

It took four months. Four months of more professional e-mails, a technical inspection where the lab-tech took one look at it in my hands and said "You need a new one" and re-entered the guts of some other unfortunate's P.O.S.* computer. During this time my laptop continued to growl, reminding me that I too could be a food source, both of my shift keys continued to not work at all (the CAPS button makes a working but poor substitute), and several keys worked too well (repeating three times when tapped once) or not at all.

BUT

I got my new laptop yesterday. It's gorgeous. It's sleek. It weighs less than a feather. When I look at it, I see Cindy Crawford, Jennifer Alba and Teri Hatcher. It makes me want to go away with it to a tropical island that has free booze and a good wireless internet connection.

OK, fine. I may be a geek. But at least I know what I like.
---------------------------------------------------------------
* P.O.S. = Piece of shit

Observations on life

2006-03-12T11:49:00.000-06:00

Few things suck worse than having to take a reluctant poop with a head pounding hangover...

My Guy Card may be at risk...

2006-03-11T22:58:00.000-06:00

The following secrets have been in the Guy Code for GENERATIONS. These are the treasured secrets that women want to know about their man. Why are guys the way guys are? What's the matter with their brains? Why do women with big boobs attract every man within a 1,500 mile radius? Are they idiots...or just attracted to the gravitational pull of silicon?

This is the secret that we, the 'guys' of the world, have held from you 'girls' for thousands and thousands of years. You think that it may have something to do with nature, but in reality it is a training program that goes back to our father's, father's, father...and then some.

Starting out when we're six years old, a camping trip, or some other male bonding activity happens between a father and son. Cherished generational wisdom is passed down male to male during these meetings where no women are allowed.

Things like:
'How to gain control of the TV remote'
'Ways to answer important questions with grunts'
'Acting stupid, very smart'
and of course
'Why you should NEVER argue with a pregnant woman'

I've made my bed, now I've got to lie in it

2006-03-03T21:35:00.000-06:00

For both of my new readers who don't know this, I am the Baby of The Family. Now I want to be clear on this point, this does not mean that I whined alot growing up.* This is to say that I'm the youngest. Mom and Pop already had a bouncing baby boy (check out those cheeks!) followed by a ba-Utiful baby girl (Hi Twis!) before I came along. Funny how BB and Twis were only two years apart and I came along four and half years later...but I digress. The point of all this is that I'm the youngest of three.

Big Bro is, quite frankly, one of the smartest people I know. If it's about computers and you want to know about it, he's your guy. He worked with computers all through the dot.com boom and the dot.com bust and has forgotten more about them then I will could ever possibly know. He's got certifications out the wazoo and is now qualified to do everything with nothing, which from what I understand, is commonly what his bosses expect. He's also a fan of the outdoors. Used to be golf, now it's more about bow and arrows. He buys the bows but he makes his own arrows.

Did you know that its not only possible to spend two days making one arrow, but it's expected? You gotta cut it just so long, and you then have to weigh the feather (Weigh. A. Feather!) and then glue it precisely and make sure that the feather is placed just so because if it isn't, it ain't goin' where you think it should be goin' once you shoot it. It's a very precise thing. Three feathers per arrow. VERY precise.

The man has an attention to detail that I just don't possess and never will. If I tried to do what he's doing, well, let's just say that anyone who stood around me as I shot an arrow that I made over two days wouldn't be standing for long and leave it at that, without the bloody descriptions. BB on the other hand, regularly nails 300 pts. down at the range. The guy is GOOD!

Twissy, a couple of years younger than BB, let me hang out with her and her friends in the Apple Core Gang. As I recall, I was the only member that paid dues (10 cents a meeting, which she later reimbursed me with fast food, but I didn't know about that at the time). She's sweet, she's smart, she'll tell you how it is regardless of how you want to hear it, and she's a dish too!

Would you believe that a flute once saved my bacon? Twissy played the flute in junior high and high school. When I was in 3rd grade I had to walk across the High School grounds on the way home from Grade School where one of the Low Grade Moron's would pick up chunks of dirt and throw them at me. I'm 9, he's 16, not exactly a fair fight. Twissy was all of 13, she walked up to him and totally slammed him in the back with her flute case (solid, hard, black plastic with silver edging), then screamed at him "You leave my brother alone!" I still remember his face when she hit him. Cripes, I remember MY face when she hit him! Yikes! Don't mess with my sister, she'll whoop ya.

I know this not only because of the flute case, but because I pushed her too far and she bopped me in the nose. Consider this a public service announcement - DO NOT MESS WITH MY SISTER, she will hurt you, but only when you deserve it. If you don't deserve it, she's like a baby lamb on a spring day.

The point to all this is that I'm The Baby. Personal pride makes me point out that I'm not A Baby, but I am the youngest of the family. As a result of the crap shoot of birth order, I also happen to be a spoiled, pain in th...um,...I meant, I tease them. Yep, that's what I meant. Ask them. Go ahead, ask my siblings if I've teased them to within an inch of their sanity. I am precisely what I commonly call myself, The Don't Example.

The Don't Example, as in: Don't do that.

Being the Don't Example works in a myriad of ways. Don't tease your older sister because when she's had enough, she'll bop you in the nose. In public. With your friends watching. Deservedly so, but still...Don't tease Mom when she's getting Thanksgiving Dinner ready five minutes before it's supposed to be on the table. You shouldn't do this because she'll say that while she loves you dearly, she WILL hurt you if you don't stop, and she's serious...Don't tease your much larger, 6 years older, brother because he will make you eat your own spleen or make you eat a worm. Believe me when I say, this is a choice you don't want to have to make...Being The Don't Example as far as I am able to tell routinely involves teasing people past their limits of polite endurance.

I AM the younger brother. I take my responsibility with all the seriousness of a Fort Knox Guard. It's a job people! It IS the youngest's job to pull the elder siblings in line with jokes, catcalls, pokes, jibes, what have you. IT'S OUR JOB. It's not something we take pleasure in, but by golly, we all do what we must. It's not fun (well, OK. Fine! Mostly it is fun but that's just a fringe benefit) but all of us, as we grow into adults too, do what we must. As the youngest brother it's my responsibility to tease the ever-loving' $h!t out of the siblings. Its my job, that's all I'm saying. I've taken it very seriously over the years and everyone (well...,OK, I) have had a really good laugh out of it.

The problem with all jobs are the unexpected consequences that you must face. Marketing people square off routinely against sales people. Zealots square off against heathen's . Policeman have more bullets shot at them then they shoot away from them. Firemen fight against FIRE!
Little brothers turn 40. Older siblings reminding you that paybacks are a bitch.

This is not something little brothers think about when they're 6. Or even 34 for that matter, when 40 couldn't possibly happen to them. Undoubtedly, this is one of those 'attention to detail' things.

I am in for an entire 4 decades of abuse. Abuse that will be delivered gleefully by those that know me best. Good grief, it's still 9 months away and they're already planning it! I am so totally screwed!

Does anyone have any good vacation plans around December 14th? I may want to accompany you. I'll keep quiet, I'll carry your bags, you can call me Raoul, I'll pay my own way even...

* ATTENTION SIBLINGS - If you want to say it different, get your own blog.

The only way to fly...

2006-02-25T15:50:00.000-06:00

Everyday I take the local Metra train to work. This is because I work an obscenely long way from where I live, around 60+ miles away. The fastest I’ve ever driven it is 1h 20m, the longest was 3hrs 32m while average is about 2hrs. The train ride itself is two hours and I find that riding in a train for two hours is far less stressful than driving for two hours.

I live around the Chicago area and driving 60+ miles through the 3rd largest city in the U.S. is nothing like driving 60+ miles between Kalamazoo, Michigan and Grand Rapids. You can't drive it in an hour at 7:00am and pop out of your car in the parking lot at work.

What you get to do in Chicago is sit behind someone who's sitting behind someone that's sitting behind someone else who ate 2 bran muffins and drank 4 cups of coffee 30 minutes ago. While deep angst has set in from still being in their car and the concentration required to keep their clothes from becoming soiled, they're feeling a bit on tetchy.

In other words, you find people with attitudes. The kind of attitudes that do not make “love thy neighbor” an easy thing to do.

Most attitudes are the old favorites, a little, retired lady/man staring out at the world between the top of the dashboard and the top of the steering wheel driving in the fast lane at 50 mph. They’re on the highway at rush hour because you just can’t beat grocery shopping early in the morning when nobody else is there. Then there’s Young Miss Thang jabbering on her cell phone driving Daddy's Sweet 16 b-day present at 200 mph while she cuts everyone off and can't understand why people are rude enough to honk at her and what’s with all those screeching brakes anyway? Don’t these idiots know how to drive?? Finally, let’s not forget Mrs. There's No Time Like the Present To Apply Mascara or Mr. Screw You, It's all about Me and My Mercedes/Lexus/BMW…but everyone has seen these people before.

What I like are the really novel attitudes - The 80 year old guy behind you that’s flipping you off and vocally questioning your parentage. He’s so close to your rear bumper that if he sneezed, you could hand him a hanky and politely request that next time, could he cover his mouth? You are going 70mph and he wants to pass you. Really, really badly. You find out how badly when he whips around you at the speed of light, swaying over a 1½ lanes of traffic, putting his life, your life, and several other peoples lives in jeopardy to get in front of you so that he has the freedom to go 71 mph. He’s not actually drunk, just old and pissed off at whatever. But on the other hand, all is now right in his world and that's really all he wanted, especially since now, you’re out of his way. So because he is now exhibiting all the calmness and tranquility of a tropical breeze, it's absolutely NO surprise when he slows down to let a cute, any age woman get in front of him with all the courtesy of Cyrano De Bergerac.

Of all these negative attitudes there is one that I LOVE because it isn't negative, it's polite. It is what's supposed to happen. In my ideal world of highway driving, THIS is the way it should be. The very rare instance when someone in front of you actually notices you coming up behind them on a major highway and pulls out of your lane so that you can float on by at the requisite Faster Than You Should Be Going Anyway speed. It’s always a stunner here in the big city where the popular attitude is “What? YOU want something from ME? Write a note and I’ll get back to you.” When it happens to me I make sure to do that three more times before I drive like I own the entire road again.

After all, we all live in the world and why shouldn’t we spread a little love, eh?

Stolen checkbook

2006-02-11T14:21:00.000-06:00

For those of you who are caught up in the drama of my stolen checkbook, strapped into the dentist chair waiting for the next thrilling post, this one's for you.

My bank just returned all the stolen money. How cool is that?

I may love my bank now. I don't know yet for sure if it's love or just fond feelings, but they are definitely giving me a warm, 'you're still rockin my world' feeling.

Who says Christmas is once a year?

2006-02-11T13:44:00.000-06:00

Today I did something that I've been wanting to do since December 15th. I would have liked to have one the lottery last night ($102M and really, who can't use a little extra spending money?), but instead, I finally finished a project that has taken literally MONTHS to complete. I've thought about it almost daily since the middle of January.

Today, with little fanfare, I finished mailing the Christmas presents for 2005. I. Just. Finished. Just now. On Saturday, February 11, 2006, I just mailed the last Christmas presents. Is anyone really this busy? "Hi, My name is Humor Me and I'm a lazy bastard, but I've thought about you often and how much you'll enjoy these...so here." I'm surprised these people still talk to me. We love them, we really, truly do, but we are shamefacedly TERRIBLE at getting up the motivation to drive CLEAR to the post office.

It's like before I had e-mail, I'd write a letter, put it in an envelope and address it. Put a stamp on it and set it next to the door so that I could take it out to the mailbox tomorrow morning. Then, the next morning I'd walk right by it. I'd get home that night, look at it, and think "I just got home, I don't want to go CLEAR out to the mailbox now, I'll do it after dinner." Three weeks later, I mailed it at work.

I know that you can send a wedding gift up to one whole year after the blessed event, but I don't think that really works for Christmas presents unless you're in a war, prison or a graveyard during the holiday. I know it doesn't work for Valentine's Day and I'm totally not brave enough to find out just how long the grace period lasts. I suspect that on Valentine's Day, the grace period only extends until 5 minutes after I come home from work. If a present hasn't been found by then, I'd better be returning to the war, prison or graveyard.

I am however in possession of what My Girl calls "The living example of the world's worst memory." I can still find my way home, but I'm not certain that it's because me or my car remembers the way most of the time.

Granted, we bought the presents in the beginning of December which, for me is pretty much shopping during July. It's way to soon to be serious about gift buying then. I look at it like this, the retailers aren't desparate for my paltry dollars until they think the season is almost over. They overbuy everything in anticipation of a "record year" in the gift giving industry so they're frantic come Dec. 21. THAT is the time to shop. Plenty of choices still thanks to overly eager purchasing agents and plenty of discounts thanks to overly panicked sales managers with Sales Goals and Sales Quota's.

Right now I can only cringe in embarrassment of the anticipated phone call. "Um, yeah, hi, it's us. Just wanted to tell you that the presents I've been telling you are coming will, um, be there on Wednesday..."

Introspection - don't let it happen to you.

2006-01-28T03:19:00.000-06:00

I'm a bad blogger. I think about it far more often than I actually DO it.*

Why haven't I blogged? Work blah blah blah no time blah blah bed early blah blah.

SO, it seems that some little girl has decided to STEAL my check book. To this date Miss Thinks She's Clever has written $450 of MY money to...herself. I am really going to enjoy busting her. I know her name.

In years past, this wouldn't be as frightening to me as it now. The difference now, is that there is no possible way I can spare $450. Today, $40 is a lot of money. $40 dollars means two weeks of freedom to buy lunch out of the machine at work. $40 means at LEAST two meals out to eat for me and My Girl so she won't have to cook every night of the month.

But My Girl's a great cook. She makes me food with things in it that I KNOW I don't like and she makes me like it. Examples - Spinach, cranberries and squash. I love the way she makes food.

$450 - well now, that's bill paying money. Missing that kind of money makes me think about what bills I'm not going to pay this month. Missing that kind of money makes me think, again, about how embarrassing it's going to be to have to call up a business and tell them (again) that I won't be sending them money for their service in full. Will they accept a partial payment and I'll get the rest to them next month...we both know I'm lying but it sounds better. Right? I'll try to pay them everything next month but I won't have the money really until two months go by.

People who I've had to do this or variants of this: Electric, Heating, Home Association, Water, Trash, Credit, Clothing Store, Hardware Store.

I've never missed a mortgage payment. I've had to ask for money to be able to say that.

What grinds my gears is that the little bitch has no idea, and if I'm honest with myself, couldn't care less that she has sent me into a mental downhill slide of sorts. I'm not breaking down and crying at work, or sniffling into my cherrio's, or even thinking about it every minute. The bank has told me that because I reported it and filled out an hour's worth of paperwork that I'll eventually get my money back. But, that won't help pay the late fee's, will it?

What gets me is that at 39 years old, a little more tarnish has been added to an increasingly cynical mind. This young thing (people over 30 don't write like that, they've had to sign their names on big ticket items and that gets rid of a lot of swirls) views my checkbook as a free lunch. She doesn't care about me, My Girl or anyone else. She doesn't care about anyone but herself that is.

I can take the apologies to these businesses, I've had to do it before and now I know that, I'll definantly have to do it again. It's just that I'm just having trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of having so little concern for another human being. I keep coming back to something my father said "Do you think I'm made of money??".

As I write this, I know it sounds obtuse, but dammit! I never thought it would happen to me! I thought about it happening to me and I thought that I had taken sensible precautions about it happening to me. But thinking about it is SO different from it actually happening to me.

*Seems to me that this thought can be used for many different things in my life. Hmmm.

LA Rots

2005-11-09T19:04:00.000-06:00

LA sucks. I know that someone has to love this town, but to me, it is endless miles of smog, people, cars and non-descript buildings.

I have no idea how someone could enjoy this town. I'm actually in Santa Monica, so local LA people will know where that is. But to people in the midwest, I'm just in LA. Surrounded by man's achievement in beating up Mother Natuer.

It took me 45 min of driving to find a drug store. I keep getting the feeling that if I had wanted some actual drugs, I could have been back to my hotel room much faster. Instead, I needed something to clean my glasses.

While I saw several candidates for the drugs, it took me well over an hour to complete my mission for the eye glass cleaner. All the while marveling at what some folks call "Fresh air".

It is pretty funny to see the wide variety of coats that are worn when the temperature is only 65 degrees though.

Good paint covers in one coat. HA!

2005-11-06T02:16:00.000-06:00

Let me say this about painting. I hate it. There's no better way to say it. Painting to me is like a paper cut. It hurts a little but for the most part it's over fairly quickly. Unless of course you want to do something fancy, like rag-roll. THEN painting is more like a root canal. As performed prior to anestethics.

My Girl wanted to rag roll the front bedroom. "OK," I said, as usual not having a clue about what I'm getting myself into. "If we're going to do this thing, we're going to do it right." So we bought the right paint (expensive), the right roller (expensive), and I stocked up on a limited supply of "painting patience" (6 pack of beer). If I were a smart man, I would have bought My Girl some nice jewelry and let her do everything while I consumed my patience. I however, am not a smart man.

I don't know what I was thinking. I don't like to paint, I know this. I've heard that rag-rolling is more time consuming than regular painting, which I dislike to do anyway. WHY would I volunteer my paltry services to an endeavour that is only going to make me pout like a 3 yr old and make My Girl question her reasoning on marriage (again)?

BECAUSE I am not a smart man, that's why.

After getting very pouty over the struggle to rag roll evenly (AAAUUUGGGHHH) I was relieved of further painting duties by My Girl who actually was trying to enjoy herself. I find that remarkable. It makes me wonder if she enjoys paper cuts, or sticking needles in her eye.

I think from now on, if she wants to do anything more difficult then standard painting, I'll keep our marriage safe by stopping by ANY jewelry store (and a beer store) and let her enjoy her painting solitude accompanied only by the sparkle of fresh sparklies.

"I 'Noopy!"

2005-10-26T07:50:00.000-05:00

I remember singing these words. Here’s why:

I remember that singing this song always seemed to happen on the car rides. They could be long car rides, short car rides, the song could take place anywhere, but it usually occurred on our longer trips to/back from Sturgis. Literally the only bit of the song that I remember Mom, Big Bro and Twissy singing is “I’m Hardrock, I’m Castle(?), I’m Joe…”. That’s it. I couldn’t tell you then, or even now, if the subjects of the song are people, dogs, or friendly houseplants. I didn’t really pay attention to that part because it wasn’t the important bit to me. I just remember that I was feeling VERY left out on this particular sing-a-long and had desperately wanted to participate in it for some time because it looked like fun!

Whenever that song happened, Mom smiled, Big Bro smiled, and Twissy smiled. Heck, now and then even Dad smiled after this song! Dad’s never smiled! At least, our Dad didn’t. Well, not when he was driving anyway.

One of the many things I’ve learned from my Dad is that there were an amazing number of Stupid Heifers out on the road. Stupid Idiots almost always seemed to accompany them, but that generally wasn’t a smiley kind of knowledge.

I wasn’t certain if Stupid Heifers knew of this Hardrock song or not. Maybe if they did know about the song they’d only be Heifers. Another thing I didn’t know was if being a Stupid Heifer was better or worse than just being a Heifer. What the heck was a Heifer and how did they get to drive a car, anyway? (As I’m older now and supposedly all grown up, I understand that this is probably an answer that our Dad would be interested in also.) But there were all three (Stupid Heifers, Heifers, and Stupid Idiots) driving the other cars, Stupid Heifers being the worst of the three.

On family trips, Dad’s would also every now and then mention that “If he had to stop this car”… well, let’s just say that singing would not be on the menu. At least, not singing with any close attention to lyrics, style or tune. This little bit of clearly identifiable reality was usually injected into the big highlights or lowlights of the trip (the determination of the ‘light’ status usually depended on who was getting teased, me or someone else).

Big Bro and Twissy took great pains to insure that I understood (i.e. stopped whatever it was I was doing) because they’d been down that particular Stop before and hadn’t really enjoyed the trip. They always did what was necessary to get it through my thick skull that “If I have to stop this car” was Dadspeak for ‘Sore butt’. In particular, I remember seeing strained smiles and some very intense looks followed by a hand gripping whatever part of me was causing trouble. Usually what followed the hand gripping part were the words “Brett, he’s serious. Stop messing around. You really don’t want him to ‘Stop This Car’.”

Anyway, I was fairly sure there was a rule somewhere that said, “Dad’s don’t smile when they’re driving.” Dad’s did a lot of other things while they were driving, but smiling didn’t seem to rate high on the list of Things To Do While Driving. So if Dad smiled, then this Hardrock thing must be a GREAT song!

But, if it was so great, then just why couldn’t I sing part of it? I failed to see any logical reason why this must be. Especially considering that after everyone had sang their part, they laughed and laughed! What a Great Song that song must be!

There I sat, grinning from ear to ear trying to wait patiently for when it would be my turn to sing, when all three of them would look at me and wait for me to sing my verse. It really didn’t matter to me that I had no clue what the words were to the song; I was willing to give it my best shot anyway. They seemed to know all the words and I certainly would have preferred to know them, but I saw no reason why I should let that hold me back from joining in. It was after all a Great Song.

It sounded like there was always a chorus, but that was just “I’m Hardrock…” and it was NEVER my turn! I began wishing that I knew the words so that I could laugh too! So, how can I participate? Think, think, think. Aha! I needed a name. I’d make it my favoritist name in the whole world…thinkthinkthink…a name that could fit right in and not be noticed…thinkthinkthink…but would allow me to participate too. Hmmmmmmm…thinkthinkthink… After giving it a lifetimes worth of thought (at least 5 or 6 seconds), I had it! I was able to develop my very own favorite name (because everyone else had obviously already picked their favorite name right???). I was ready, I was (impatiently) waiting for the song to begin, I could now fully participate! WooHOO!!!

I’m ready. Mom starts the song because she knows how to do that. Mom sings “I’m Hardrock”, I wait my turn, Big Bro sings “I’m Castle”, I’m really clued in now, my turn’s coming up soon! Twissy sings “I’m Joe.” Then it’s my turn, the laughing hasn’t begun yet, and the smiles are just beginning, NOW! Sing NOW!.....

Brain Switches

2005-10-22T05:53:00.000-05:00

I just slept for 7 and 1/2 hours. While this may not be a newsflash to you, it was heaven to me. At least, a heaven that I would prefer to participate in nightly.

I don't know if you have this problem, but this is getting absolutely ridiculous. My Girl and I have no kids, it's just us and our brains in this house. Our brains, I think, is where the problem lies. My Girl has always had an issue with switching off her brain so her body can sleep. When we first started dating, I had no idea what "I didn't sleep good." really meant. What it meant was "I got to watch you while you were SLEEPING! ALL NIGHT!!" I know now (nine years later) that this is a sucky thing. Honey, I officially apologize for not realizing how much of a sucky thing this is.

My problem is now, because of marriage and how you eventually adopt your spouse's bad habits as your own bad habits, my brain switch is now busted. I have recently informed My Girl as to my feelings about this matter. Her response of "Now you know what it's like!" wasn't really what I was looking for. A little sympathy might have been nice. A little, "Awww, my poor baby." But no. I got me. I got how I reacted to her after she didn't sleep well. Hmm. Tactical error spanning 9 years, maybe?*

My Brain Switch used to work beautifully. I spent three years as an U.S. Army Airborne Ranger. I slept on the side of a hill that was so steep, my feet were braced on a friendly tree to prevent me from sliding DOWN the hill while I was sleeping. I woke up feeling a "little tired, but mostly OK." I once slept on a rock the size of my fist one night. I woke up feeling great! I only noticed it AFTER I packed my sleeping roll the next morning. I pointed it out to my Ranger Buddy and said "Wow! I must've been REALLY tired last night!" My Brain Switch worked, people! I wanted to go to sleep, I hit the switch, BANG!, it's tomorrow morning. It as magnificent!. If someone placed a mushy pea beneath my mattress now, I'd have a stiff back and proportionately crabby attitude. I'm a guy.

NOW, I hit The ol' Brain Switch, and suddenly, it's time to start planning tomorrow. Going over lists in my head to make sure I remember (Heh) what I want to do tomorrow. I've mentioned before that my memory doesn't work. My Girl is of the opinion that it doesn't really exist and that it's rather like Bigfoot or the Tooth Fairy. It may have been there at one time, but what has it done for her lately? So WHY am I wasting time on what I know is fruitless exercise? My memory (Heh) works just like a bucket with a hole in the bottom. You end up with residue.

My Girl is beautiful when she sleeps,** but on the whole, I'd rather not be aware of her beauty for more than 15 seconds at 2:30am. Or 3:45 am. Or, as it happened the night before last, from 2:23am to 5:30am. I get up at 5:30 am. That is a really sucky thing. That means that I got a whopping 4.5 hours of sleep. Add that to the 4 hours of sleep the night before, the 3 - 3.5 hours of sleep I got the night before that and I wind up with 11.5 - 12 out of 96 hrs of noticing how beautiful My Girl really is. She's a Hottie. She's All That. I married her because I KNOW THIS ALREADY!! I WANT TO GO TO SLEEP, DAMMIT!!

But, that is in the distant past (Not My Girl's hottieness, just my noticing at inopportune moments) I just got 7 and 1/2 hours of sleep. And I only had to pee once which doesn't count.

* For those concerned - I've recognized the error of my ways and now spend time in empathy.
** For that matter, she's pretty darn cute when she's awake too, but that's another blog.

My wife's worst nightmare

2005-10-19T20:20:00.000-05:00

Well, now. This is quite possibly my wife's worst nightmare. It's a chance for me to sit and expound all of my opinions to a captive audience. (Not that you're all that captive, but, humor me anyway and just pretend that you really can't click and go to one of the other millions of bloggers out there.) My Girl is either huddled up in the corner of the bedroom, sucking her thumb and trying to think Happy Thoughts, or she's called up our Provider, asked how to disconnect the internet service and will soon start looking into companies that recycle used computers. But for now, bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!! You're all screwed!

Technology has brought me to a place where the only thing between my opinions on life and the world is my ability to restrain myself. Riiiiiight. I'll start work on that little piece of adulthood right away. It's served me so well over the years. Like the time I danced on top of a table in a bar in Ohio for a bachelorette party. I was just passing through, what was the harm? They needed a male stripper, I'm a male. R-e-s-t-r-a-i-n-t. Well, if I can't practice it, at least I can spell it. The thing is, they took pictures. Then they posted them in the bar. I shall live in Infamy! Or jail. It depends on what the feds find out....Public nudity is mostly, not legal. And it was, oh, 18 (ouch) years ago?

OK. Seeing's as how I'm new to this and you're new to me, let's get a few things straight as far as what I want this to be. Kind of an executive summary thingy for those of you who can't be bothered with reading a few posts to see what it's really going to turn out to be.

- Funny. That is, funny to me. Hopefully you'll laugh with me, but that won't be necessarily be required for me to enjoy myself. Think of this as masturbation with the english language for the frustrated writer in me. If you enjoy watching, it's all good. No special eye protection is required.

- Honest. If I write it here, I should be willing to tell it to your face. Easy to say, hard to do. It's always easy to write about the hilariously funny way your Uncle Bart squints when he's reading something more complicated then a movie ticket. But do you tell him about it? I'd have to because I'd burst out laughing the first time I saw it. Then, it's either lie and say something like I think Morgan Freeman is HILARIOUS in this movie, OR tell him why I can't breathe normally when he's trying to find out which theater The Shawshank Redemption is playing in. Personally, I like the option behind Door #2. It's always better to get people to laugh at themselves. It's healthy. It's mind expanding. It gives you an easy target next time you need to make an example of someone.

- SOMETIMES, but not always, opinionated. Now here's a tough one. Do I come out and tell you everything I'm thinking, or do I just let you wonder which tree I fell out of and if the other monkey's are eating my share of the grub? To be honest, campers, I don't know how this is one is going to fall. I'm not afraid of sharing my opinions (quick check with the wife....Nope, she says I've got too many opinions anyway and mentioned something about strychnine.), but I'd like to be able to provide some giggles along the way without being overly obstinate. We'll just have to see. It is after all, my blog. Comments are open and we'll muddle through as we go.

So, those are the rules. I'll add to them as things go on. To be honest, the rules are less for you and more for me. This way, my superlative memory skills won't be bothered to try to remember why I started this thing, I'll be able to go back to my first post and figure it out all on my very own.

My memory...ha. Let's start there. It's easy. It's a small subject. It would have to be, as I know that I don't have one. I know I started life with one, but the older I get, the less sure I am of it's effectiveness. It's one thing to forget where I put my wallet. It's a whole other thing to realize I've been looking all over my house for a wallet that is on my dresser. The same dresser that it sits on almost every night. Sad.