Silver Dollar Clarinets

When I was in sixth grade, I joined the band at my elementary school.  I had always wanted to play the saxophone, and that’s what I requested when it was my turn to pick an instrument.  But the teacher had other ideas (or maybe he just had it out for me), and he stuck me on the clarinet instead.  His rational was that if I could master the clarinet, then I’d easily pick up the saxophone, but nobody starts on the saxophone.  Which lasted all of 30 seconds until he got to the next guy in line.  That guy also picked the saxophone, and the teacher was actually delighted as he said, “Good choice!”  Needless to say, I really hated that teacher, an animosity that only grew with time, but that’s not what this story is about. 

Despite this somewhat un-ideal beginning to my music career, I embraced the clarinet.  I was determined to be the best clarinet player the world had ever seen.  So, I practiced constantly.  In fact, I was actually quite good.  It seemed to come naturally to me.  I won awards.  I played in the concert band.  I was a fiend on that wooden tube!

The coolest part of playing an instrument, though, was when my grandmother would come over to the house and request a recital.  I would get out my black and silver clarinet and play her the most complicated things I could manage.  At the end, she would always applaud, tell me what a great job I had done, and then hand me a silver dollar.  I’m not sure why silver dollars, but it was always the same routine.  I guess she would stop by the bank sometime during the week in anticipation of getting to hear me play.  I never really appreciated how supportive she was of me at the time; but to this day, I still have every one of those silver dollars.

Caboose

I was thinking this morning about my grandfather.  He died when I was very young, so I never really got to know him.  The only thing I really remember about him was that he was a clown in the Shriner’s Circus.  His costume was a policeman, like those old keystone cops, with a blue wig and white face paint.  His clown name was “Groovy”.

When my brother, two cousins, and myself were old enough (I had to have been about three at the time), my grandfather decided that we were ready to join the circus too.  So, he got us all outfits and wigs, and he gave us clown names.  I was “Caboose,” because I was always the slowest, and everyone had to wait for me to catch up.

I can even remember being at daycare, and the teacher taking me into the bathroom to help me get ready for my big debut.  I had a rainbow outfit, red wig, and a yellow hat.  I even had my face painted, just a dab on my nose and cheeks.  My grandfather took us with him in the parade at the beginning of the circus, each holding the hand of the one next to us.  I was last, of course, but that’s okay, because I was the only one that got to wave to the crowd as we walked around the arena.  But the absolute coolest part came afterward, when we went outside and signed autographs!  Everyone wanted us to sign their programs, and my grandfather couldn’t have been prouder of his little clowns.

Organic Paint

I don’t understand the point of fancy names for paint colors.  I mean you can’t just go to the store and get white paint anymore; instead it’s ochre, or cotton, or lily of the valley, or egg shell.  And there is almost no difference between them! 

But the one that really bothers me is egg shell.  Have you seen an egg shell?  There is no one color of egg.  Besides, my wife only buys brown eggs, so a shade of white doesn’t even apply.  And furthermore, I don’t think my wife would let me paint the walls egg shell unless I could confirm it was organic, because she will only buy organic eggs.  Cage free, hand fed, happy chicken eggs.  So, what would that paint color look like?

Me to Me

On a whim today, I decided to record myself singing, so I put on some headphones with music and used my phone to record a video.  I was kind of curious if I sounded to the rest of the world anything like I sound to myself.  Secretly, I was hoping I actually sounded better, which would be difficult, because I sound amazing to myself!  And today was no exception.  In fact, I was really on form today, belting out high notes and resonating with good pitch.  I think I could have actually been one of the tenors I was listening to.  When the song was finished, I played back the video.

All I can say is…I…am…so…sorry.  To anyone that has ever been forced to listen to me sing, I can never begin to make it up to you.  I swear that it sounded better in my head.  I definitely sing with a lot of enthusiasm and energy, but I suppose a dying cat also has those things.  My sincerest apologies, if you have ever had to listen to me think that I was actually getting it done. 

So, obviously my professional singing career is over before it ever began.  I guess I’ll start taking down all of my YouTube videos with the cover songs I had been singing, before someone actually listens to them.

Convincing Eve

I was wondering the other day that if I could go back in time to the very beginning and talk to Eve before she ate the apple, what would I say to her.  Obviously, I would want to convince her not to do it.  I would want her to see the spiral of consequences that would come out of that one, single act of disobedience.  But how could I do that?

I would be talking to someone with no frame of reference.  I would be using ideas and concepts that she didn’t even know.  Her absolute innocence would keep her from understanding evil or sin.  How can I stop something when the only weapon I have to use doesn’t exist yet?  Did the devil prey on this naiveté?  Would Eve have even known what disobedience was?  Would she have truly understood the concept of consequences?  I mean how can you truly understand something until you’ve experienced it?  She wouldn’t actually be able to understand unless she did the very thing I was trying to convince her not to do.

Sitting on My Face

When I was about eleven or so, my brother and I got into a fight.  Now, this was a pretty regular occurrence with my brother and I, so that’s not what made this day special.  What made this day special was that my brother beat me to the ground and sat on top of me.  It should be noted that my brother is three years older and was probably double my weight and size at the time.  Suddenly his face lit up in a vicious grin, and I knew instantly that whatever happened next would not go well for me.

Quick as lightning, he stood up, turned around, pulled down his pants, and sat on my face.  So, here he is pinning me to the ground, butt on my face, while I was struggling violently to get him off me, and he farts.  The violence of the flatulence was so bad, that I could actually feel my cheeks slapping against his.  The smell was so unbearable that I couldn’t breath.  Suffocating, fearing death, I did the only thing I could think of at that moment…I bit him.  I took a big chunk out of his left butt cheek, and he jumped off of me as blood began pouring down his backside.

Off he goes running into the other room, screaming to our father that I had bit him.  Our father comes storming into the room and starts yelling at me.  I tried to explain what my brother had been doing to prompt such a response, but he didn’t seem to be listening.  I think back now, and I’m amazed that it didn’t puzzle anybody how I could have managed to bite my brother on his bare bottom, unless I had been telling the truth.  Of course my brother admits to sitting on my face now.  In fact, he brags about it, like it’s a badge of honor.  Whenever he conveniently leaves out the part about me biting him, I always make sure to remind him.

I may have been “outnumbered” so to speak, but I wasn’t going down without a fight.  Some might say that my brother won that round, but I think it was a draw.

Our Own Battle at Little Bighorn

When I was twelve, my family took a vacation up north to South Dakota.  The main thought was to go see Mount Rushmore, which we did, but that wasn’t the best story to come out of that trip.  No, the best story happened, when we went over to Montana to see the Little Bighorn Battlefield.

The Little Bighorn Battlefield, if you know your history, was the site of Custer’s Last Stand.  It is located in the middle of nowhere just north of Garryowen, Montana.  If you don’t remember the details of Custer’s Last Stand, it was an armed engagement between the 7^th Cavalry and the combined forces of the Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho Indians.  The over-confident Custer took his 650 men up against nearly 2,500 Indian braves and was badly beaten, losing over 270 men and his own life.  Despite propaganda to the contrary, it’s historically believed that Custer’s arrogance and a series of bad choices led to one of the worst military defeats in U.S. history.

The site itself is predominantly a large, open plain.  The rolling hills are carpeted with tall prairie grass that appears brown and gold in the summer heat.  There’s a river and trees that snakes jaggedly off to the side.  To get to the site, you must take a one-lane, gravel road from the Custer National Cemetery to a little parking area near the monument commemorating the battle.  The road winds lazily through the deep grass, and due to the poor quality of the road and the number of cars trying to drive down it, it took us almost 10 minutes to get from the cemetery to the monument.

We had no sooner trekked through the grass to the monument, then my grandmother said that she didn’t feel very well.  She had been having stomach issues the whole trip, experiencing occasional bouts of diarrhea, so we decided to head back to the restrooms at the visitor center near the cemetery.  My father had just pulled the van out of the parking lot, when my grandmother said, “You'd better hurry.”  Something in the desperation or finality of her tone made my father floor it.

So, here we were, flying back down this gravel road, passing slower cars through the prairie grass on the side of the road, and my grandmother starts yelling from the back of the van, “I’m not going to make it!  I’m not going to make it!”  And my father starts yelling from the front of the van, “Yes you are!  Don’t you do that in our new van!”  Rocking and weaving, we made the drive back in just under two minutes, the van skidding to a halt in front of the restrooms.  My grandmother already had the door open before we had even stopped moving.  She bolted from the van and ran toward the restroom.  Just as she got to the door, a cleaning woman came out of the restroom, holding a mop and a roll of toilet paper.  Seeing my grandmother, she said in a thick Mexican accent, “I’m sorry, ma’am, the restroom is closed for cleaning.”  Not even slowing down, my grandmother shoved her out of the way, saying as she passed, “I don’t care, I’m going in anyway!”  I’m sure that poor cleaning woman had to earn her money that day.

So, that’s it.  That’s my memory of the Little Bighorn Battlefield.  I have been there.  I have seen it.  A little of it anyway.  I spent about two minutes at it.  Almost the same time it took for us to drive my grandmother from the battlefield back to the restroom.  And every time I think about that trip, I hear voices echoing in my head, “I’m not going to make it!”  “Yes you are!”  And she did…barely.

The Mustard-Yellow GMC

When I was growing up, my father had a 1972 mustard-yellow GMC pick-up truck.  It ran…rough.  At some point in its history, my father had lost the gasoline cap, so he had cut off the top of a Coors Light can and slid it over the gasoline intake.  It had a cover over the bed, and the back could be converted into a make-shift child storage facility, complete with bench seats and carpet.  Or it’s probably more suffice to say that the bench seats were covered in carpet.  Gray-black, course, itchy carpet.  I know this, because my brother and I spent almost all of our vacations sitting, playing, and laying on it as we trekked around the country.

My father had built the benches himself, and they could easily be pulled in or out of the bed of the truck.  They opened up so luggage and things could be stored underneath them.  All in all, it really wasn’t such a bad setup, except for the heat.  Summers in the south are brutal, with temperatures easily reaching triple digits.  But what’s worse than the heat is the humidity.  And there was no air conditioning in the back of that truck.  The cover had sliding windows, which we opened when we could, so we could get a breeze, and my father installed these miniatures fans in the back to help with the air flow.  But it was still incredibly hot, and the shag-carpet benches only made it hotter.

My father had replaced the back window of the truck with one of those sliding windows, so we could access the front cab if we needed to.  My brother and I would take turns sticking our heads through the sliding window into the cab to enjoy the air conditioner.  My father didn’t like us doing this, because it let all of the cool air out and all of the hot air in, so he’d generally make us go back into the bed.  The upside was that we had all of the snacks in the back, so we controlled the food supply to the front.  We used this to our advantage to gain air conditioning privileges.

So, this is how I spent all of my childhood vacations.  Lying in the back of a mustard-yellow truck on an itchy shag-carpet bench, hot air and gasoline fumes blowing through the open windows, playing with Legos and GI Joes, fighting with my brother, and hording the snacks.  And that was the backdrop for some of my fondest memories.

Motor Homing Through Alabama

The summer after my first senior year of college found me without a girlfriend for the first time in seven years.  I was not looking forward to the annual family vacation with the usual excitement, because I had grown accustom to having KE with us.  She had been with us for the last four years, so for her to suddenly not be there, was like losing someone from the family.  It wasn’t going to be the same. 

But that’s where God had other plans for me, because during the previous school year, I had met JT.  He would quickly become my best friend and my soul brother just when I needed him the most.  So, when the annual family vacation came around, I asked if I could bring JT instead.  Knowing how devastated I had been over the break-up with KE, my parents didn’t even hesitate to agree.  So, on our way to Alabama, we stopped in Gulfport, Mississippi and picked up JT.

My parents were between RVs at the time, so they decided that for this trip, we’d rent a small motor home.  This way we’d have enough space to sleep, cook, and hang out without paying a lot of money for hotels and restaurants.  When we picked up the motor home, the sales guy gave us a tour, showing us where we could find things and how the various gauges and accoutrements worked.  Everything was going along smoothly until he got to the sewage monitor, which currently showed the tank as half full.  He told us that it was broken and would be replaced when we returned the motor home.  In the meantime, he assured us that they had dumped the sewer several times, and he was certain that it was empty.  Figuring that we could deal with a faulty sewage gauge, we settled in and headed off in our newly-rented motor home.

The first camp site that we stopped at was in the Talladega National Forest.  If you’ve never been there before, it’s absolutely beautiful.  With mountains, trees, rivers, waterfalls, and scenic view points; it’s a nature-lover’s dream.  But it also didn’t have individual sewage hook-ups at the campsites.  Knowing that we were only staying for a few nights, and figuring that we could always drive down to the dumping station if needed, we set up camp.

Sometime later that night, we started to get faint whiffs of sewage smells emanating from the bathroom.  The gauge on the wall showed it nearing full, but since we knew it started at half full, we didn’t pay much attention.  It wasn’t until the next morning, when it actually backed up into the toilet, that we knew something was wrong.

So, we strapped everything down, unhooked all of the cables and hoses, and drove down to the dumping station.  We dropped the hose into the dumping pit, pulled the valve on the trailer, and we waited.  There was only a very small amount of waste released and then nothing.  Checking the gauge revealed that it had barely moved.  Something wasn’t right.  My father shone a flashlight up into the pipe and saw something, maybe some sort of plastic, covering the opening.  He tried shoving various implements up into the pipe, but the bends and turns prevented him from dislodging the obstruction.  And that is when he came up with his brilliant plan…we were going to use physics.

So, we all piled into the motor home and headed for the mountains.  The Talladega National Forest is located at the southern edge of the Appalachian Mountains, harboring Cheaha Mountain, which is Alabama’s tallest point.  At over 2,400 feet tall, it’s an imposing site…especially when you’re sitting at the top of it in a motor home and a madman behind the wheel.  My father’s brilliant plan was to race up and down the mountains, hoping that gravity would move the contents of the tank around enough that the obstruction would dislodge and flow down the pipe.  So, down we plunged.

As we careened down the mountain, picking up speed with every passing minute, rocking and tilting as my father maneuvered around the tight curves and bends of the winding road, I suddenly heard a high-pitched scream coming from the back of the motor home.  I looked over at JT who was sitting next to me, but he wasn’t screaming.  In fact, he seemed to be enjoying this death race down the mountain.  I thought perhaps that it was a trick of sound, and that it was really coming from the front seat, but neither of my parents seemed to be screaming either.  That’s when it dawned on me that the scream was coming from my own mouth.  I was the one making that high-pitched noise.  I was the one screaming like a little girl, gripping the arm rest and seat with a white-knuckled exuberance. 

Every alarm and alert in my body was blaring that I was too young to die, but that death was imminent.  When we finally reached the bottom, I was exhausted and in pain.  My whole body had been tense.  I don’t think I had breathed the whole way down.  But it had all been worth it.  Somehow, this absolutely ludicrous plan had worked.  When we pulled up to the dumping station again and released the valve, we were relieved to see a plastic bag flow out the pipe, followed by a lot of other things. 

JT has never let me live down that scream of terror and assured fatality, even to this day; not because I was scared, but because of the octave level that I reached that day.

The Gum Lady

HR went hiking in New Mexico over the 4^th of July weekend.  She trekked up Wheeler Peak and Sandia Peak over the course of two days.  But that’s not the most significant part of her trip.  Before she left, she bought six packs of Extra Spearmint gum.  She intended to chew them to help stave off hunger as she plodded up the trail, but she instead started handing out pieces to all of the hikers that she met on the trail.  With each exchange, she would say, “This will help you go the Extra mile.”

It became a thing, and hikers going down the trail would tell other hikers they passed to be on the lookout for the gum lady.  Pretty soon, random strangers were approaching HR and asking her if she was the gum lady.  She laughed at the moniker, then would hand them a piece of gum and say, “This will help you go the Extra mile.”  By the time she finally reached the summit, hikers were asking to take a picture with her and her packet of Extra Spearmint gum.  Everyone wanted to meet the gum lady.

Never underestimate the impact that a small gesture can have on people.

The Milk Jug

When I was three years old, my mother decided to take my brother, cousin, and I to Walt Disney World in Florida.  We weren’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, so this was a huge treat for all of us.  But it also meant that we had to travel lean.  We drove the whole way, stuffed into my mother’s car, surrounded with all of our gear.  We stopped at night and camped in a little tent in a State Park, before piling back into the car and continuing our journey.

It’s about a 1000-mile journey from our home back then to Walt Disney World, and I probably made it about 20 miles down the road before I had to pee.  Now, keep in mind that I was only three years old at the time, but also keep in mind that it is a generally-accepted fact that I have a bladder the size of a thimble.  This is actually an ailment that still haunts me today.  At the beginning of the trip, my mother would pull over at a gas station or a restaurant and take me to pee.  However, it became increasingly more obvious that I was going to have to stop every 20 miles and pee again.  Do the math, and you’ll realize that that was 50 extra stops just to pee.  At that rate, it was going to take three or four days to get to Walt Disney World, and we just didn’t have that much time.

So, when the next appointed time came for me to express my need to pee again, my mother handed me an empty milk jug.  I looked at it, then her, then it again, and I asked, “What am I supposed to do with that?” 

“You’re either going to have to wait for the next gas stop, or you’re going to have to use the milk jug,” she replied.  “We’re not stopping anymore just to pee.” 

I was aghast…or at least as aghast as a three-year old could be.  “I’m not peeing in that thing!” I exclaimed. 

“That’s fine.  You can wait until we stop for gas then,” my mother replied calmly. 

“But I need to pee now!” I whined.

“Those are your only two options.”

The need to pee was becoming unbearable.  I could already feel the thimble reaching the point of overflowing.  A couple more minutes, and a disaster would ensue.  I was tempted to just pee in my pants to teach my mother a lesson, but the fear that she might make me stay in my wet attire until we stopped for gas dispelled that option.  I looked back at my brother and cousin, pleading with them to come to my rescue, but I was met only with laughter.  Of course, they didn’t have a bladder problem.  They didn’t understand the struggle.  I was running out of options.  I only had moments.  I grabbed the milk jug, crawled to the very back of the car, and I let loose with sweet relief.

I repeated this act every 20 miles or so.  The only thing that made the embarrassment even slightly bearable was the fact that my mother made my brother and cousin empty the milk jug when we stopped for gas.

Maps & Flying French Fries

I figured I’d keep with the vacation theme with the post today.  On another trip (the destination is irrelevant), my father was being a particular turd, huffing and gesticulating with his hands in the air, because my stepmother didn’t know every landmark and hidden turn along the route we were taking.  Keep in mind that this was back in the days before GPS, so we were navigating solely by a flat, two-dimensional, paper map.  If you hadn’t seen the route before, then everything was a new experience.  My father didn’t take that well.  He expected his navigator to have expert-level knowledge about the route, because he trusted her explicitly.

To my stepmother’s credit, she was normally a saint when it came to dealing with my father’s unreasonable expectations.  However, on this particular trip, she had had enough.  She snapped.  She took the map and threw it at him, saying, “If you think you can do better, then you do it.”  My father was wildly trying to fend off the flying map, while keeping the car safely on the road.  My stepmother grabbed the rest of her hamburger and French fries from lunch and headed to the back of the van.

For the next 15-20 minutes, my father helplessly drove down the road, trying to guess the way he should go, while my stepmother pummeled him with French fries from the back of the van.  That’s right, she was periodically throwing French fries at the back of his head to voice her displeasure!  Eventually, I took pity on my father and climbed up into the front seat to help him find the route.  But the French fries kept on coming, until every single one lay on the floor or clinging to my father’s shirt.  I bet he regretted super-sizing her order after that.

What Are You...Stupid?

My father, stepmother, and I used to take vacations every summer.  Always some destination in the United States, and almost always dragging an RV behind us.  When I was younger, my brother and grandparents came as well, but by the time of this story, my grandparents had long-since died, and my brother was too cool to hang around with us anymore.  I still loved to travel.  Even though I was in college and getting busier and busier every year, I still cherished the times when we’d set off for some unknown adventure.

The year we went to Corpus Christie was a particularly special vacation for me, because it marked the first time that I was able to bring a girlfriend along.  KE was an amazing girlfriend.  She was a lot of fun to be around, loved to do all the same things I did, and I obsessively adored her.  As a matter of fact, everyone did.  She was positively likeable, and my family took to her immediately.

It’s a long drive to the southeastern, Texas coast, so we spent the time singing to the radio, talking, or playing car games.  On one occasion, I was leaning on the console between the front seats, and I pointed at something in the road.  “What’s that in the road?” I asked.  Without missing a beat, my father said, “A head.”  It took us all a few seconds, but one by one, we started laughing.  It was so simple and so absurd that it was funny.  Capitalizing on the captive audience, my father said, “What’s that running down…your leg?”  More laughter ensued.  Wanting to join the fun too, KE said, “What are you…stupid?”

The car fell into complete silence.  We were all trying to gauge if she was joking or if she had completely missed the point of the game.  Either way, I couldn’t help it, and I burst out laughing.  Another quality of an amazing girlfriend, is that she’s a good sport when she’s the butt of her own goof-up.

Looking at Eyes Upside-Down

Today, my wife was sitting on the couch watching TV.  I walked up behind the couch, and she tilted her head back to look at me.  As I stood there staring deeply into her eyes, the other features of her face started to dissolve into an unfocused blur.  I was left with only her eyes, and I realized that even upside down, they looked like a normal pair of eyes.  That is to say that if I could only see her eyes and nothing else, I would think I was looking at her right-side up.  It was so freaky and uncanny, that I started to laugh.  When I explained to her what I was laughing at, she started to laugh too.  Suddenly, she was looking at me the same way.  The more we laughed, the squintier our eyes became, and the funnier they looked.  I kept telling her that she was blinking the wrong way, which just made her laugh harder.

Gym Gliding

I love the sensation of walking right after jogging on a treadmill. It's like the whole earth is whizzing by you, and you're gliding across its surface at super-fast speeds.

DFW at Night

I live in Dallas, and my journey home at night takes me right by the DFW airport. The planes descend right over the highway onto the runways on the other side. It's really cool at night, because you can see all the planes lit up across the sky in well-formed lines as they get into their landing patterns. There's something simplistically beautiful about the coordination and execution that it takes to pull that off. It's even cooler on cloudy nights, when the planes drop through the clouds one by one, right in line behind each other. It's like some kind of aerial synchronized swimming routine.

Sour Cream

HR has a friend that cannot tolerate extremely hot cuisine.  HR being an Indian used to spicier food has no frame of reference for someone that likes to actually taste their food, instead of experiencing something that instantly burns your taste buds with a hot poker and removes the ability to ever taste again simultaneously.  When she goes to Firehouse Subs, the spiciest hot sauce is so “tame” to her that she has to combine several of them together to try to up the spice number.

Now, I can relate to this poor non-Indian friend, because I can’t tolerate spicy food either.  HR has taken to referring to us both as having a spice level of Sour Cream.  Apparently, that’s the hottest food we can eat.  The funny thing is that neither of us are offended by this comment.

There was an episode of Psych titled Bollywood Homicide that perfectly sums up what it’s like for someone with a Sour Cream spice level to eat Indian food made the way HR likes it.

GRANDMOTHER: Wonderful. More mouths to feed. Thank you for the advanced notice.

SHAWN: No, we didn't come to eat. [Gus and Shawn sit down and load up food on their plates.]

RAJ: You know, guys, my grandmother tends to make her food a little spicy. You might want to take it easy.

GUS: Please. I'm one-quarter Jamaican. [Digging into the food with relish.]

SHAWN: I'm also one-quarter Jamaican.

GUS: You are not! Stop telling people that!

GRANDMOTHER: So how do you know my grandson Jay?

SHAWN: We're actually friends of Raj.

GRANDMOTHER: You're not here for Jay and Sita's engagement dinner?

GUS: We're helping Raj with a problem.

SHAWN: I'm sorry, was this chicken seasoned with molten lava?

SHAWN: Really? You're just fine?

ABIGAIL: I taught English to children in Mumbai for a month. This is very authentic. What's the matter, Shawn, you don't like it?

[Tears are running down Shawn and Gus’s faces. Gus is sniffling, but both of them keep eating.]

SHAWN: I think I like it too much. It's so authentic. [Whispering to Gus] I can't see anything out of my left eye.

GUS: I see dead people.

[Shawn takes a big drink of water to cool off his mouth. Gus continues to eat next to him.]

SHAWN: My god, even the water's spicy! Who does that?!

Green Light Honk

Whenever I'm at the front of the line at a stoplight, the moment it turns green, I honk my horn. I figure I'll preemptively get it out there to deflate everyone else.

My Mom’s Adventurous Spirit

Dear MoM,

I wanted to thank you for changing my life.  Last year, when I asked you what you wanted to do for your birthday, I never dreamed that you’d suggest zip lining.  It was crazy, extreme, and so unlike you.  Or I guess I should say, it was unlike the old you, but I’m getting ahead in the story.  So, off we went to Trinity Adventure Park to go zip lining.  Both of us had a blast; whipping through the trees at high speeds, jumping off of a 60-foot platform into the void below, climbing across obstacles so thin and treacherous that certain death waited for us below.  But that’s not where it ended.  You wanted to do more…indoor sky diving, whitewater rafting, escape rooms, rock climbing…overnight, you had turned into Extreme Sports Mom!

Perhaps, you’re thinking that I am thanking you for adding a bit of fun and spice to my life.  And I am…partly.  Your simple birthday request awoke something inside me; an unquenchable need to live.  Since that day of adventure back in May of last year, I have worked my tail off to get back into shape again.  I have participated in the Breast Cancer 5K, the Heart Walk 5K, the Hot Chocolate 5K, the Dash Down Greenville St. Patrick’s 5K, the 200 Miles in 100 Days Challenge, and the Must Dash 5K.  Besides yourself, I have talked four other people into doing these races with me.

But your little stone in the pond has had even more ripples, because 6 months ago, I challenged my brother to compete in a Spartan Sprint with me.  Encouraging and pushing each other through competition, we both did something that neither one of us ever thought we could.  We pushed our bodies to the breaking point, and we came out victorious.  But it didn’t stop there.  We were so fired up by the Spartan Sprint, that we signed up to do another one in a couple of months.  And this time, we have a team of seven other people to do it with us.

So, you see, Mom, I want to thank you for being courageous enough to take that first step with me.  Your adventurous spirit has already changed the lives of 13 other people.  You have gotten us off the couch and out into the world.  You have shown us that there is more to life than watching TV every night.  You have given us something to live for each day.  I hate to imagine what the last year would have been like if you hadn’t answered my question about your birthday with the most unexpected two words I ever thought to hear.  Zip Lining.

I love you, Mom, for all that you are.  And thanks for helping me see that there is more to me than even I knew.

Ninja Naps

When I was in kindergarten, class was broken up into two sessions.  I was in the morning session, which meant I got out of school around lunch time.  Most days, my stepmother would pick me up, feed me something delicious (Spaghetti O’s was my favorite), and then insist I take a nap. 

She learned early on that she couldn’t put me in my own room, because I would just sit in there and play with my toys.  So, she would make me go into her bedroom to lie down.  It should be noted that I was not fond of taking naps at this age.  Even my young brain could comprehend that the sun was out, so I should be playing.  So, I would lay there, my brain a tornado of childlike thoughts, subconsciously counting the minutes until I was sure that the whole hour had transpired.  I would then get up and walk into the kitchen to let her know that I was awake and ready to go again.  However, what seemed like an hour to me was in reality only about 3 or 4 minutes, so off we’d go again back to the bedroom where I was told to lay there until she came to get me.

On one such occasion, I lay on their bed, staring at the patterns in the paint on the ceiling.  My eyes darted around the shapes, drawing creatures and monsters, making up stories and having them interact with each other.  As my imagination ran unchecked, minutes turned into hours.  Hours into days.  The monotonous boredom overwhelmed me.  It was pure, agonizing torture.  I was sure that my stepmother had forgotten about me.  That was the only explanation for how she could have left me in here this long.  It was up to me to remind her that nap time was over.  So, up I popped, back into the kitchen, and once again informed her that I was awake and ready to go again.  She unceremoniously told me that it had only been 5 minutes since the last time I had come in there, and that it didn’t count unless I stayed in there for the whole hour.

Obviously, she couldn’t count as well as me, because there was no way it had only been 5 minutes.  I decided right then and there that it was a conspiracy.  She wanted me out of the way, so that she could play without me.  I was outraged.  So, I lay on their bed, plotting and scheming.  I had to know what she was doing.  I had just slid off the bed to gather reconnaissance, when I heard a creak in the hall outside the door.  I bolted back onto the bed, squeezed my eyes shut tightly, and tried my best to pretend that I was asleep.  Of course, I had no idea what that looked like, since I was always asleep when I was doing it for real.

It must have worked, though, because my stepmother stood looking in at me for several seconds and then satisfied, headed out again.  Now, was my chance.  My ruse had bought me time to figure out what sort of playing I was being excluded from.  Quiet as a ninja, I slid off the bed and tip-toed out of the room and down the hall.  I slunk to the floor and slowly peered around the corner into the kitchen.  This couldn’t be right, my stepmother appeared to be washing dishes.  Her back was to me, so I couldn’t tell for sure.  I needed a better angle.

So, I quietly crawled across the open doorway, keeping my eyes on my stepmother’s back in case she started to turn around.  When I was safely on the other side, I jumped to my feet and darted through the living room and into the den.  I stop behind my father’s recliner to assess the situation and formulate the next part of my plan.  This was going to be trickier, because the door to the den opened up right onto the sink.  If I left the safety of the recliner, then she’d spot me.  I had to be smart about this.  So, I made myself as small as I could, which wasn’t difficult for someone as skinny as I was, and squeezed into the space between the recliner and the end table.  Halfway through, I got stuck, and I was sure I was a goner.  But a bit of squirming, and I was free on the other side.  I quickly crept across the den, keeping close to the couch along the wall, so as not to be seen.  I once again slunk to the floor and peered around the corner into the kitchen.  I was aghast.  My stepmother was in fact merely washing dishes.  What kind of stupid game was this?  Obviously, not one that I was interested in, so I crept back and retraced my steps.

Once again, lying on the bed, I contemplated what I had seen.  Is that all she did while I was napping?  Washed dishes?  Surely not.  Something bigger was afoot, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.  I needed more data.  Once again, quiet as a ninja, I slid off the bed and tip-toed out of the room.  Just as I was rounding the corner into the hall, I came face to face with my stepmother coming the opposite direction to check on me.  She screamed in surprise.  I froze.  Fearing that the mission was lost, I turned tail and darted back into the bedroom, leaping the last few feet and landing on the bed with a squeak.  I once again assumed the best sleeping position I could muster, squeezing my eyes shut and hoping that my stepmother hadn’t seen me.  It had happened quickly.  There was a chance that I could still pull this off.

But she wasn’t fooled.  I had been caught.  She wasn’t mad, though.  She stood there looking at me for several seconds, sighed, and said, “I guess nap time is over.  Go play.”  That was all I needed to hear!

How Did They Know?

In honor of my stepfather's birthday, I want to share a classic quote of his, and one that always pops into my head when I watch movies at home.

"This film has been modified from its original version to fit this screen. How did they know what size screen we had?"

WFH

I decided to work from home today, but forgot to send out an email to my team to tell them. Apparently, it caused a mass panic at the office. One guy casually asked where I was, and three other people started taking my desk supplies.

The Domestic Experiment

Day 4975

We have reached a new phase of the experiment. I feel we are very close to the end now. During Phase One, we employed the use of  observations and subtle manipulations.  We saw the subject not only do the tasks we had set aside for him, but also accept doing the tasks without fighting back or grumbling.

In the Phase Two, we saw the subject become more independent and actually assign some of the tasks to himself. In that phase, the longest so far, we had actually reached a sort of harmony with the subject; where the tasks were equally divided and we had balance.

No, in this final phase, we have seen the subject starting to take over all of the tasks. While not fair to him from an equality standpoint, I have to say that it's nice to be able to relax while he's slaving away over there. Oops! I just burned my tongue a little on my hot chocolate. I live such a rough life.

Aroo!

Well, it's the day after my first Spartan race, and it's very anticlimactic. After building toward yesterday for over five months, the day after is mundane. I know that everything must return to "normal" tomorrow. But I don't want that normal anymore. That will no longer be enough. Nobody will care about yesterday. Nobody will understand what we achieved. They will go on with their lives and have their problems, petty as they will probably seem to me. And I will no longer care. I have had a taste of more, of something greater. And I can't, or at least don't want to, go back to that life. How can I?

What's the Point of Living?

I find myself sitting here today wondering what I have to live for. I would never live for work, but work is not satisfying anymore anyway. I feel as if they no longer are investing in me. They have found others more compliant and malleable, those that will go with the flow rather than fight the system. But I don't care. It holds no meaning for me anymore. I don't care if they realize how amazing I am, and that they are wasting me. My home life is just as stale. It's just a rut; a monotonous, repetitive routine. I have no goal, nothing to look forward to. My relationship with my wife is not bad, but it's not fulfilling its potential either. And I constantly feel like she's not trying anymore. She seems content with us merely being friends, not lovers. She's so wrapped up in work again, that she doesn't even notice me. I live alone inside myself. The saddest part is that I'm tired of trying to be something in her eyes. I shouldn't have to fight so hard for someone to want me, to be important. So I don't try either. I am dutiful, but not much more. I'm here to serve; to be used...to be used up. There doesn't seem to be much point in any of it anymore. All the potential in the world, and I'm wasting it on...nothing really. I'm not using it at all. I know I could change things, but I feel like my responsibilities are holding me back. I'm stuck doing the things I feel I have to do to give others a comfortable existence. I'm sacrificing my happiness to give others brief moments of happiness of their own. I don't regret doing things for others, but it's not enough to keep me moving forward anymore. Nothing seems to be enough to keep me moving forward anymore. I see no point in it at all anymore. The whole process is just a huge waste of time. What am I supposed to do, just spend the next 50 years of my life doing this same thing every day? I don't think that prospect of a future is good for me. If you aren't fulfilling your potential, then what's the point of living every day?

The New Diet

I told my wife tonight that I was on a diet. She asked me what kind of diet could I possibly need to be on. I said that I'm on the keep me alive diet. I don't want to go before my time. I want to make it all the way until the day I die. She said that of course I'll be there on the day I die. I told her that she was finally encouraging and supporting me with the kind of positivity I need.

Happy 10 Years to Pockethair

Today, marks the 10-year anniversary of this blog.  The original purpose was a way to feel closer to my wife, while we lived in different states.  I wanted to entertain her with my wacky insights and possibly, slightly exaggerated imagination.  In essence, I wanted her to have a way to enjoy my personality, since I wasn't there to give it in person.

But this blog has become so much more over the years.  I find myself reading back over posts from years ago and re-laughing at memories that I had completely forgotten.  And not just me, but as new friends bump into my life, they will inevitably find themselves reading about pockethair, wondering what kind of lunatic did they just befriend.  And if they're really lucky, then they may even make it into a post.

This blog has become a journey.  It's a journal of my adult life.  My relationship with my spousal unit over our 13 years of marriage, the friends that have come and gone, the jobs that I have suffered through, and all of the random encounters.  I have enjoyed observing life.  I have enjoyed finding the humor in everything, no matter how bad it gets.  There have been many lean times, when I was busy or uninspired, and I can see gaps in my posts.  But I never gave up on it.  I am constantly jotting notes in my phone, so I can blog about them later.  There has never been a shortage of things in this life that make me laugh, and I can only hope that when you read them, you laugh as well.  If you do, then I have fulfilled my purpose.

So, Happy 10-Year Anniversary, Pockethair.  I never imagined when we started way back when, that we'd ever make it this far.  I look forward to the next ten years.

Smuggling Money for a Fleeing Prince

Yesterday, I received one of those emails from a supposed-immigrant, fleeing their country.  They were offering me half their money to help them smuggle it out of the country, so the government wouldn’t get it.  After giving it two or three minutes of careful deliberation, I decided that it seemed legitimate.  I mean why wouldn’t a complete stranger from Sao Tome & Principe reach out and offer to give me half of 5 million Dobra (which I would later find out was only a little over $215)?  So, I supplied the required bank account information as requested and waited.  A few days later, I received another email from the same person with the following message:

“Dear Sir,

To be honest, I sent the previous email with the goal of cleaning out your bank account.  I have successfully done this many times before, preying on people’s greed.  However, upon logging into your bank account, I was surprised to find that you had no money at all.  I was more surprised to see a negative balance of $25, a fee assessed for maintaining too low of a balance.  I realized at this moment that you were worse off than I could ever be, so I deposited $30 in your account to pay the fee and give you a little something to get you started in the right direction.  I hope your endeavors prove more prosperous, and maybe I can steal from you in the future.

Sincerely,

R.H.”

Ninjabread Cookies

Today, I went shopping with my wife and discovered an amazing gem that I just had to buy for myself. It was a kit to make Ninjabread cookies. That's right gingerbread cookies in ninja poses! Best purchase of the day.

Automated Soap Dispensers

We just moved into a new building at work, and they had automated soap and water dispensers put into the bathroom. When you wave your hand in front of them, they turn on. The problem is that the automated soap dispenser pauses after the initial spurt of soap, then after a few seconds it drops just a little bit more into the sink. This of course greatly bothers my OCD. So today I was washing my hands and that little spurt fell into the sink, so I splashed some water over there to rinse it off. My splash was a little exuberant, and the water hit the sensor on the dispenser. Out comes another gush of soap gooping in a pile in the sink. So I splashed more water over there to wash it down. As I was drying my hands, I noticed that there was a glop of soap dangling from the nozzle of the dispenser, so I took my paper towel and wiped it off. The sensor on the dispenser detected the movement and out comes another gush of soap gooping in a pile in the sink. I had to get my hands wet again to wash it away. All told I probably wasted half a dispenser of soap just trying to wash my hands. The worst part is that I was cracking up laughing the whole time. There was someone in the stall that must have thought I had lost my mind. I can only imagine him sitting there with his foot on the door to make sure I didn't bust in on him.

Indecisive Heater

The heater at work had some indecisiveness going on today. It would rev up and blow really hard and loudly, then it would rev down and be almost inaudible. Hearing this unconsciously in the background all day created a sensation of being at the beach and hearing the waves crashing on the shore. It was nice and calming...you know...for a heater.

Glade Candles for Men

Just in time for Christmas, in an effort to appeal to a broader audience, Glade has come out with a new line of products targeted at men. The new line includes instant classics like: Sweaty Men's Room, All-day Tube Socks, Unshowered All Weekend, and Is That My Armpit? Tested on an extensive sampling of men to ensure authenticity, these new fragrances are sure to remind you of the best parts of your day.

These new scents can be found exclusively at your neighborhood Wal-Mart on the seasonal aisle. Hurry and get your favorite scent today, because they'll only be sold for a limited time.

Halloween

Tonight is Halloween. The first batch of trick-or-treaters came to my door, and as I passed out the candy, the first little girl looked into my candy bowl and said, "Is that all you have?! You're never going to make it." I laughed and said, "I'll be ok, but I thank you for your concern."

Omar the Tent Maker

One Christmas, my father opened up a gift from my grandmother and pulled out a huge pair of khaki shorts. He held them up, and he was completely concealed behind them. Peeping around the side, he said, "My god, mom, these things look like they were made by Omar the tent maker!" 

And they did. They were so big that two of me could fit in these things. Holding them up, he looked like one of those guys in the weight loss adds, showing the pants you used to be able to fit into. But not to be deterred, my grandmother said, "Go try them on so I know what size we need to exchange them for." My dad went into his bedroom and tried them on. When he finally came out, he was beet red. The shorts fit perfectly. 

The moral of the story is not to insult the gift until you've tried it on, or at least don't make a big show and bring attention to just how fat you truly are.

Paper or Plastic?

I went to Walmart one day and the cashier asked me how I was doing. I replied, "I'm having the worst day of my life. I'll probably go home and kill myself."  She replied, "Thats nice. Would you like paper or plastic." I said, "Plastic, so I can wrap it around my head when I get home and suffocate myself."  She said, "You got it, plastic it is."

New TV

A friend of mine bought a new 70" TV cheap. I've never heard of the brand, but it sounds Japanese, so I'm sure it's fine. He said its from a company called Yomama.

The Secret Life of Shoes

There's a lady in my dad’s church that was collecting used shoes to fund a mission trip. I'm curious to know what she plans to do with the shoes to make money. Surely nobody would buy used shoes...you would just donate them, right? So I decided that the only logical answer was that she's going to start a YouTube channel where people can pay to watch her hidden closet cam. All day long they can sit enthralled at what really goes on behind closed doors. Perhaps they already have the hidden cams, but people were losing interest in only watching brand new, expensive shoes. So they decided to introduce some chaos, to see what would happen if used shoes were put together with new shoes. Imagine the drama and appeal as the used shoes corrupt the innocence of the new shoes. Imagine when one day you turn on the cam and find that a left used tennis shoe has paired up with a right new high heel. Imagine the scandal!

The Horse and His Rider (A Short Story)

A rider rides up to a tree where two other horses are already tied up. He dismounts and says to the horse, "We're resting here for a few minutes, but don't get comfortable because we'll be riding out soon. But while we have some time, I'd like to take a moment to address your performance lately." 

The horse neighs in disapproval. The rider walks around and looks the horse in the eye, holding the reins by the side of his face. "Don't give me that, you know what you did. It would take too long to talk about everything, so I want to focus on two things." 

The horse blows his lips at him. "I'm going to ignore that comment. Now, your ninja-walk...lets be honest here...it sucks. You know how to do it, but you just won't. There are times in our line of work where we need to be stealth. But you...you just clomp around all over the place." The rider walks to the side of the horse and starts to tie a rope to the saddle. "I've told you more than once, you need to walk on the outside edge of your hoof...the outside edge." 

The horse reaches back and starts to try to untie the rope with his teeth. "Stop that! That's another thing, your attitude needs some work. You can't keep treating me like this. I'm the rider and you're the horse. There is an order to these things." The horse reaches back and tries to untie the rope again, but the rider shoos him away. "This is not a democracy. When I say something, you do it. This constant undermining of my orders is making me look bad in front of the other riders. Besides, you don't know the full scope of the plans, so you can't see the big picture. That's on a need to know basis, and you need to trust that I have our best interest at heart." 

The horse tries to untie the rope again. The rider sighs in frustration and throws his hands in the air, "Are you even listening? Am I talking to myself here? This...this is what I'm talking about!" The rider starts to walk away and turns back to the horse. "This conversation is not over. When I get back, we're going to address your tendency to walk under every low-hanging tree branch you can find!" The horse neighs in laughter. The rider groans in disgust and walks away, shaking his head in defeat.

The Story of How Chris' Car Ended Up in the Lava

It started out as a little harmless fun. I made it back to my car in Borderlands 2 first, so I thought I'd push his car away a little so he'd have to walk a little further. Being as I was backing up, I didn't notice that there was a volcano behind me. And what started out as harmless hazing ended up with Chris' car in the lava. I did the only decent thing you can do at that moment, and I drove away before he got back. I told him that a bandit had blown up his car. Of course he asked why I didn't try to stop the bandit or at least hang around to give Chris a ride to the nearest Catch A Ride.

Tipping

Why do we base our tip amount on a percentage of the meal? So if a restaurant raises their prices, does that mean that the quality of the service suddenly got better? Does that mean that the waiter or waitress suddenly has more tasks to do and therefore deserves a larger tip? 

The price of the food is indicative of the quality of the food not the quality of the service. I have actually given less tip if the food is too expensive, figuring they can afford to pay their employees more since they're charging so much, so they don't need my tips to survive.

And why are we expected to give a certain percentage regardless of the service rendered? The standard nowadays is around 20%. Who came up with that arbitrary amount, and why did we all agree to it?

Why don't we base our tip amount on a list of defined tasks? For each task or service rendered, they earn a defined amount...not percentage. So, if I receive the same service at a hamburger joint that I receive at a 5-star restaurant, then they get the same tip.

It could go something like this:

• Makes sure my drinking glass is always full of liquid without me having to ask - $1
• Gets my order correct and comes back after the food is delivered to make sure it was prepared correctly - $1
• Checks on me several times throughout the meal to see if I need anything - $1
• If the food is taking too long, comes to the table to apologize and explain what's going on - $0.50 (bonus $1 if offers a complimentary something while we wait)
• Interacts with the table in a funny and personal way - $2
• Brings the bill at the right time without me having to ask - $1

In this way it becomes a reward system where they know what they need to do to earn the tip, we know how much to tip based on what they did, and the amount is consistent regardless of the restaurant or price of the food.

And why do we feel compelled to tip someone for doing their job? They don't even have to go above and beyond to get a tip, just do their job. Like tipping a taxi driver? Their job is to transport us from one location to another. Why should we tip for that? Now if they go above and beyond, like getting us there quickly or avoiding traffic by taking an alternate route, then ok. Or tipping my barber. I expect them to cut my hair and do it correctly. Why am I tipping for that? Now if they entertain me with conversation or consult on the best way to do my hair to be more advantageous to me, then ok. I just think that tipping should be in response to a service above and beyond, not just expected.

Just Be Yourself

People tell you to just be yourself. I know they mean to have the personality and style that is yours, whatever makes you feel comfortable. I know they are saying that you shouldn't let the world dictate who you're going to be or pretend to be someone else.

But what I think about is the freedom to walk around naked and just be free. I probably should move to a country like France or Italy where it's acceptable to be naked, but I'd need to be in a place with beautiful people. Because if other people are going to be naked too, I don't want them to be ugly. But not too beautiful, because I don't want to be the ugly guy either. So naked and the right amount of beautiful.

The Recycling Bin

The waste management company for our neighborhood recently decided to change the trash and recycling bins. They had one crew grab the bins on your normal trash or recycling day, and another crew brought you a new one later.

The problem was that we were out of town when they grabbed the recycling bin, which was fine because they grabbed it the next week. However, something happened because they never brought us a new one.

Our neighborhood is fairly new so they're still building houses on our street. So while driving one night, we saw a newly-constructed house that was still unoccupied. And lo and behold there was a brand new trash and recycling bin sitting in the driveway. So my wife and I got the bright idea to do a night raid and procure the unclaimed recycling bin.

We thought it would be a quick snatch and grab. So we dressed in dark clothing, waited until it was late, and quietly drove down the street. Everything was fine until we started to try to stuff the bin in the trunk. We didn't plan on the largeness of the bin or the physical limitations of our trunk. I can fit three dead bodies in it, but not one recycling bin!

I tried to maneuver that bin every way possible to no avail. I even tried holding it to the back of the car and roping the trunk down to hold it. Didn't work. I was growing more and more frustrated, not to mention more and more concerned that we looked more and more suspicious.

At one point, a man went walking by with his dog. I hissed at my wife to freeze. So there we stood, not moving, holding a recycling bin half in the trunk, waiting for this guy to slowly meander by us. It took what seemed like an eternity, as his dog decided to stop every six inches and smell something. The guy, completely oblivious and absorbed in his phone, never looked in our direction once.

After that close call, we resumed our heist with renewed vigor. But realizing now what a compromising position we were in, I was all ready to tie the bin to the bumper and just let it roll behind the car, or hang my arm out the window and roll it alongside. I was desperate and running out of creative ways to procure this stupid recycling bin.

That is when my wife decided to give her first suggestion. To her credit, she had stayed out of it and let me work through failed plan after failed plan, laughing silently to herself as each one escalated into more ridiculousness. But enough was enough, so she finally said, "Why don't you just put it in the back seat?"

I sighed with frustration at her stupid idea. But I held in most of my feelings and talked to her in that "humor the dummy" voice that we all have and pull out from time to time. "It obviously won't fit through the door, which is smaller than the trunk opening," I replied. "Maybe it will, have you tried?" she asked. "No, because I can see it wont fit. It's a spacial awareness problem. I have always had better spacial awareness than you, so just trust me." 

Getting annoyed, she grabbed the bin from my hands, flung the back door open, and shoved it in in one smooth motion. She closed the door, looked at me and smiled, and said in that "humor the dummy" voice that we all have and pull out from time to time, "I guess you were right...spacial awareness."

In the end, I really don't care, because I had my stolen recycling bin, which proved harder to get out of the car than to get in it. But that's another story.

Wait...what?!

Today my wife hit me for making fun of her.  As a complete automatic reaction I raised my arm to ward off the blow, and she hit my elbow with her knuckle. She squealed in pain and told ME to apologize for hurting her.  There is something so wrong with that!

Only Way to Watch a Movie

What a beautiful thing to experience a movie, not by watching the screen but by watching the face of someone watching the screen. To see the play of emotions cross their face as they feel sadness, happiness, anticipation, and pensive thought. It gives you a completely different perspective to movie enjoyment.

Need a New Bed

Our memory foam bed has Alzheimer's.  It no longer knows how to find its form again.  Either that or there is a ghost sleeping in our bed right now, because there is an outline of a body still etched in the foam.

Vendor Specifications

Sometimes trying to read and interpret vendor specifications at work is akin to spending hours wondering what drugs they were on when they wrote them.

"Yes, after reading these specs, I'm detecting that at least eight separate narcotics were in use simultaneously when you wrote this. Please review and confirm after you're sober."

The Replacement Pact

I told my wife that if she dies, that I'm going to wait about a week and start looking for someone else. It is no disrespect to her memory, just that I can't be alone. She told me that she understood. She said that if I ever get sick that she'll start looking too. Wait...what?!

Duck in Flight

As we drove over the dam this morning, I saw a duck take off from the lake. He was flying so low that the tips of his wings were batting the water, leaving twin ripples in a wake behind him. The orange-red sunlight filtering through the purple clouds filled the ripples with moving colors.  What a beautiful way to start the day.

The Floor Mat

If I died, I wonder who would miss me.  I imagine people would show up at my funeral, even my vaguest acquaintances could do that. But who would actually care?  The sad truth of it is that the majority of the people that would probably care are at work. They'd probably miss me, but not for the right reasons. 

It's not because they've developed a life-long friendship with me or because I touched their lives in some way. No it's because they wouldn't have someone to ask their questions and even worse...they'd have to divvy up my workload among them. I have actually been told by several people (not in jest) that I can't leave my job; not because they'd miss my smile, or laugh, or witty sense of humor; but because I'm the only one that will take time to help them.

I'm constantly being used, and nobody really cares to get to know me in the process. It's sad. On the flip side, I need more true friends. People that don't care what I do for a living or what I can do for them.

Assessment Test

I took this assessment test at work. One of the sections was a series of math problems. The example in the instructions was encouraging:

16 / 4 = ?

Without thinking, I knew the answer was 3, and I immediately smiled and said to myself, "I am going to own this test!" I flipped to the first problem. I kid you not, this is what I was given:

(11^3)(1/3)(18%)(0.0825) = ?

What the heck is that?! How much further from the example could they have gotten on the first problem out of the gate?!

Having lost all confidence, I slowly slogged through this obvious test of genius, until I came to the last problem. It went something like this:

Phil saves 18% of every dollar he earns.  He works two jobs. At the first he makes $6.25 an hour. At the second he makes $7.50 an hour. Phil works a total of 40 hours a week between the two jobs. What other information do you need to solve this problem?

Are you freaking kidding me?! Who saw that coming?!

Weird Like Me

I love thinking up some weird idea, like a slogan for a t-shirt or sticker, and then Googling it only to find someone else has had the same idea. It's gratifying to know that there are people out there just as strange as me.

Lost Cat

There's a sign posted in my neighborhood that says, "Lost Cat - Black with White Paws." At first I thought these people felt like I would have felt in that situation...jubilation and exhilaration. Then I read further and saw it say, "Reward Offered." I was confused by this, because it seemed that they actually wanted the thing back...instead if enjoying the freedom of a house without a worthless animal that messes with all my crap and only shows me attention when it wants something.

That must have been a mistake.

New Year...New Workout

Being as it’s a new year, I decided to start working out again. Me and the other one hundred enthusiasts who stupidly believe that this year they'll actually stick with their workout routine for more than 4-6 weeks.

Based on a doctor's advice, I decided to give the elliptical machine a try.  High reward and low impact sounded exactly like what I needed. I picked one of the preset programs, and off I went. 

The first three minutes or so were ok as my body got used to exercise again. Then the machine made a strange noise and suddenly walking (or ellipticalling?) was not coming so smoothly anymore. I realized that the strange noise was the machine going from level 1 to level 3. Determined to give this a fair go, I grunted it out and struggled along for another three minutes. At which point the machine made that horrible noise again and jumped to level 6.

That's when my body started protesting the torture I was inflicting on it. My thighs were burning...I could literally see smoke coming off my pants. My knees suddenly decided that bending side to side was easier than front to back.  My legs felt like burning jelly, knees going side to side, the motion of the machine going forward and back. At one point I lost my balance and was almost thrown violently from the death-inducing device.  I managed to grab the handle just in time.

That's when I saw the little buttons on the handle to adjust the level up or down. I frantically started pushing the down button, only to have the machine override my attempts and keep it at level 6...all the while the stupid display is screaming "Peddle Faster!"

I finally managed to push the Stop button and was violently thrown off the machine in a heap. It was at this point the machine started beeping again. As if to add insult to injury, the screen flashed, "Workout Summary...Below Average." I have no idea why people don't stick with a workout routine.