A Moment of Silence for My Youth

Kathryn and I have been doing what any normal and educated person would be doing in the record setting heat of summer: doing intensive manual labor in the yard. Afternoons have been spent hunched over, ripping up weeds, digging up plants, developing blisters on my hands, and sweating most of my body weight away. Stupid, I know, but we are on a mission to put in some new beds in our front lawn and we will not let catci, bees, or 104 degree heat stop us. I like to call it: Mission Impossible. I sing the theme song often to Kathryn's dismay.

So, while we have been breaking our backs in the oppressive Charlotte heat, we have developed a quick friendship with a neighborhood girl named Jericca. I think that is how you spell it. She most likely will not be reading this, so I suppose it does not really matter either way. Jerrica is around 10 years old and has recently moved to Charlotte from Indiana. She is a very sweet girl and loves to pet our dog when we go on walks. Lately, she has meandered into our yard and helped us dig holes, spray plants (and me) with water, and get dirty with us.

And she has been relentlessly inviting herself over to spend the night with us. At first I thought, now, this is just odd. Why in the world would this kid want to spend the night over at our house? Honestly, what would we do? Does she think we'd stay up all night eating ice cream and playing board games? Does she not know that we are probably the most boring house on the block? We usually eat a healthy dinner (thanks Kathryn), watch an episode of Lost, and then go to bed around 10 o'clock. She would hate it over here. I could think of a few more houses on our block that would be much more exciting and entertaining.

But then I remembered what it was like to be on the same street with grown-ups. You assume their world is so exciting and adult-ish. And I realized that this is how Jerricca sees us: grown-ups. We are married. We have a house. We drive cars. We work with plants in the front yard. That is about as grown-up as it gets. It finally hit me. I am no longer a child. I am one of those grown-ups. Do I feel like it? Not even close. Do I feel like I am merely pretending at this thing called life? Yep. Do I have any idea how insurance works? Nope.

If only Jerrica knew who I really was. I wonder if she would still want to sleep over then, knowing that I am really just a person like her in this grown-up body living in this grown-up house. I don't have the heart to tell her that I am not nearly as interesting as she thinks I am.

Bee-asco

Our latest run in with the elements of nature have taken the form of us getting attacked by bees. I know, it just never stops. So allow me to describe the Bee Fiasco (hereafter Bee-asco):

Episode 1: We were out doing some yard work about a week or two ago and out of nowhere Kathryn screams at the top (and bottom) of her lungs. I run over to her and she is hunched over clutching her ankle. "What happened?" Her reply: Something bit me and it really hurts. I surveyed the ground and happened to see a bee, somewhat stunned and motionless, so I stomped the life out of it thinking it was the culprit. I wasn't sure. Kathryn limped around for the next day or so it hurt so bad. We thought that maybe it was a spider. When it began swelling and developed a red rash around it, we knew that Kathryn was allergic to it....whatever it was.

Episode 2: I was mowing the other day and was going over a particularly rough patch of grass. There were twigs and small rocks around this area, so it was not a smooth mow but one marked with the clanking sounds of rocks hitting metal and sticks getting snapped. Out of nowhere, a searing pain hits my leg and I immediately assumed that a shard of glass had been shot out of the mower and stuck in my leg. I looked down, expecting to see a blade with blood pouring into my shoe, but rather saw a yellowjacket burrowing into my skin. And almost instantaneously, another searing stab to the back of my leg, right behind my kneecap - you know that really sensitive spot on your body. I knew I was under attack when I noticed the swarm of bees developing around me. I did what anybody would do in this situation: I let go of the mower, frantically waved my hands in the air, and ran away screaming in panic. I had uncovered an underground bee hive.

Episode 3: The following morning I was making up the bed and upon turning over a sheet, exposed a yellowjacket crawling inconspicuously across our bed. I took off my house slipper (yes, I wear house slippers) and pounded the life out of it. I thought...ok, now we have a problem. They are making their way INTO our house. Something must be done. I declared war, then and there.

I was clueless as to what to do with them. How do you kill these things? Where are they even coming from? After talking with a few folks and reading about it on the internet, I learned what to do. Stake out the nest. Find out where they are coming from. After a good while I finally saw the hole. In and out they went. Then, last night was the first strike. A cup of gasoline down the hatch. That should do it. We'll see. Tonight is another stake out....just to see who survived. And if need be, I will pour some more down. I'm tempted to light it, just to end this nonsense for good. You know, let them know that I mean business.

Till We Have Faces

Well, I finally did it. After years of scoffing, slandering, and sneering, I finally succumbed to the pressure and created an account on Facebook. Back in the day, while everybody combed through pages of friends, wrote on each other's walls, and poked each other (a practice I am still uncomfortable with), I stood by the computer laughing at them. Judging them. Thinking they were inferior, less in the kingdom, and certainly not as good as me. But I must admit, I have had a change of heart. And a change of schedule as well.

I have not been able to get off of this thing for the past 48 hours. I find myself updating my profile, uploading pics, searching out long lost friends, and stalking my friend's friends every free moment I have. And when I am not doing that, I am brainstorming about it. The Book of Faces has taken over my life. I am now that guy I once hated. I am him. I am on Facebook.

My internet world has collided with my real world. Today someone related to me in person (that is, face to face) about something that I had done online (that is, facebook to face). "Nice pic," or something like that. Facebook has not only seeped into my personal schedule but it has seeped into my daily relationships. People now relate to me through my profile. They write on my wall then laugh about it to my face (my actual face) when they see me. I am not only on Facebook, I am Facebook. I have embodied it. I am a walking wall. People actually poke me.

So I ask you this...because you probably have much more Facebooking experience than I do...how do I stop the madness? How do I unplug? I'm telling you right now, as soon as I upload this post, I'm going back to Facebook. In fact I've wasted enough time writing this stupid blog. Must....go....back.....to....Face.....book.....

Why My Wife Would Never Survive in the Wild

Kathryn has been dominated by the elements. In the past few days alone, she has received like 20 mosquito bites, a crippling bee sting on her ankle, an open blister on her hand from using a rake, a searing burn on her elbow from a cooking mishap, and several spots of poison ivy on her arms and legs. Oh yeah, and last week she was scrapped on the leg by an old, rusted fence. My poor, sweet wife.

I am Inconsistent.....Like You

I drove to Baton Rouge this past weekend. It was a delightful trip. Good time with old friends. Good coffee. Good food. I like sitting at a coffee shop for 4 straight hours and have different people cycle through and sit down and visit. That's just good old fun. (Emphasis on "old.") Certainly the worst part of the trip was the 12-hour drive. Coming back from BR up to Charlotte took a bit longer. 2 hours were added as a I sat parked on the highway behind major wrecks and road construction. I never really realized how exhausting it is just to sit there and do nothing. And I got one of those half-n-half tans on my arm. My left arm is darker than my right, since it hogged all of the sun for most of the drive. My left arm had fun in the sun.

On my journey back, I had a stimulating conversation with one, Russ Edwards aka DangerRuss aka Fussel aka Russ-in-a-Bag aka Sandwich aka RussBomb aka R-to-tha-You-to-tha-Double-S-Yall. We discussed "phone talking" and which ear we usually use when we are operating a cellular tellular. We both noticed that it is challenging to hear and hold the phone when you switch to the ear that you don't use very much, your "weak ear," if you will. I can only last so long on my weak ear until I have to switch back. We have come to the conclusion that your "strong ear" has been trained to hear phone conversations, whereas your weak ear hasn't. My strong ear is my right one.

The interesting thing is: my strong side of my mouth is my left one. I mean, I favor the left side of my mouth to chew food on. Very rarely do I pop over to the right. I only do it when I am consciously thinking about it.

So I talk on my right and I chew on my left. I think that balances out somehow.

Cactus: Ode to Hatred

I have spent the better part of my week digging up cactus from our yard during my free time. I am convinced that cactus is part of the fall. This evil plant has stubborn, extended roots, water-filled cactus branches (ie., very heavy), and the obvious needle-peppered exoskeleton. I have been hacking away at these monsters bit by bit. Once they are uprooted, I try to manually lift them into a thick garbage bag with my extra-thick leather work gloves. But work gloves are no match for their penetrating thorns. I have to stop every minute or so, remove the gloves, and pluck out the piercing needle from my finger. Not the most pleasant experience. I have previously written (vented) about poison ivy and onions and their feeble, delayed, defense-mechanisms. I have finally found a plant that I can respect as far as its committment to not being harmed. There have to be millions of thorns on just one cactus stem. Every possible spot to touch this thing is littered with skin-piercing, bamboo-like splinters. The cactus is clearly an introvert. It wants nothing to do with anybody. Or anything. It remains, truly, an island.

I hate these things and I have no idea how to effectively get rid of them. As for now, I am loading them up in bags, struggling with all of my might to lift the bags to the street, and hoping that the city will take them away. Please, City, take them away. They have no place here in our yard.

Why I'll Never Be Rich

The other night as I was dozing off to sleep, I began to brainstorm about old television shows that I remembered NOT for their content but specifically for their opening jingle-like song introduction thingy. And if I was a betting man, I would bet that the majority of our culture knows these shows more for their opening songs than what these shows were actually about. For some reason, I can recite the songs verbatim, but could probably count on one hand how many times I've actually seen an episode.

1. The Andy Griffith Show
2. Cheers
3. Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
4. The Brady Bunch
5. The Beverly Hillbillies


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On another note, why is walking an old lady across the street the universally understood pinnacle of what consititutes a "good deed?" Honestly, who has ever ONCE in their life walked an old lady across the street? If I ever saw the opportunity to actually take an elderly stranger by the arm and assist her across an intersection, I would probably refrain from doing so out of the fear that I would naturally assume her to assume that I would be going for her purse. And if for whatever reason I did manage to assist her across the street, I think every one who would be looking on would be amusingly shocked. They would nudge each other and whisper, "Wow, that guy is actually helping an old lady across the street." And then I would receive my merit badge in heaven.

Sweating Chicken Grease

A few months back I received a set of coupons from Chick Fil A in the mail. It wasn't those stupid 50 cents off coupons, these were the real deal: Free Chick Fil A sandwich (2 coupons of that one) - no purchase necessary....Free chicken biscuit with purchase of cup of coffee. However, on the coupons, it noted "Please use by 2/28." Interesting way to put it, I thought. They are politely asking me to "please" use this by a certain date.

Anyhoo - I let the coupons sit around until 2/27 and then remembered about the wonderful offer Chick Fil A had graciously provided me. So I went and got a chicken sandwich for lunch. For free. No purchase necessary. And then on 2/28 I went over in the morning and got my chicken biscuit with my (purchased) cup of coffee. And a few hours later I went back to cash in my last free chicken sandwich for lunch. I wouldn't have crunched in so many chicken outings if it hadn't kindly asked me, "Please use by 2/28." I wanted to respect their kind and polite request. On that final lunch trip, as I was awaiting my final free chicken sandwich, I asked the cashier just want it meant exactly to "please use by 2/28." She told me that it meant that it did NOT expire on 2/28 and that I can have used it for as long as I wanted. Hmmm. That would have been good to know on my first chicken outing. But as a result, I had Chick Fil A for 3 out of 4 meals. And I won't be going back anytime soon...although I did appreciate their coupon flexibility and their polite way of informing me.

Guilty Banking

Today we went to the bank to get out some money. And I noticed that while I was in the bank I felt...well...unnecessarily guilty. I feel very insecure/self-conscious at the bank. If I look around the bank I think that some police force looking through the security cameras will think I am being suspicious...you know, like I am scoping out the place for a future hit or something. So I catch myself looking around the bank and stop very suddenly. Which then makes me even more worried because a sudden stop of surveying the bank looks even more suspicious. Certainly somebody is going to emerge from the back and pull me aside for questioning.

So then I just look straight ahead, tunnel-vision style. Just plain awkward. The cameras are all pointed at me. Tellers are looking at me out of the corner of their eye. Certainly someone thinks I am about to rob this place. And all I want is to make a withdrawal. I thought about making some sort of joke about all of this internal insecurity with the teller, you know, just to make it absolutely certain that I was not going to rob the bank because afterall, I am joking about it now, and who jokes about robbing a bank and then actually rob it? That's what I thought. But then I felt that such a move would backfire...and they would see my joke as an intentional ploy to lower the teller's defenses. So I didn't make the joke about robbing the bank. I'm thankful I didn't. I think joking about robbing the bank while at the bank is equivalent to saying "bomb" on an airplane. It is just something you don't do.

Well, somehow I made it out of the bank without getting arrested for making my withdrawal. And then Kathryn and I went out and bought a house.

Memories of Awkwardness

I just remembered a very awkward, and yet very amusing, encounter I had a few months back. In January, I flew out to Colorado to represent RTS at Young Life's Staff Training at Frontier Ranch. My mission: Get YL staff people to get seminary credit with us. It was an easy assignment. And it turned out to be a great trip, despite several nights of 6 degree weather.

I had been emailing back and forth with a woman in the YL office named Barb. I had filled her in on when I would be arriving to the airport and she had notified me that she would be there to pick me up. Keep in mind, we had been emailing. I have no idea what she looks like, how old she is, or even how we are going to get in contact with each other when I touched down in Colorado. Oh, but I would know in time.

So I land that afternoon sometime and find my way to the baggage claim, surveying the crowd for anyone holding signs or wearing YL garb. There was an older woman standing alone by the carousel holding a handmade cardboard sign and as I approached her, what was black-markered onto the cardboard read "Matt." I approached her smiling and said, "Hey, I think you may be waiting for me." Her eyes lit up and she set down her sign to embrace me. Sweet woman, I thought. I returned the hug and said, "Hey, it is so nice to meet you," but I was interrupted by her - "Oh my goodness!! You have changed so much" (by this point, she was touching my face). She was gazing into my eyes in a way that gave me confidence that this woman was indeed not Barb. I stepped back a bit and interrupted her (she was going on about something) and asked her, "Are you looking for Matt Howell?" Her smile began to fade. "I think you may be looking for a different person." We both gave an awkward laugh, she picked up her a sign and moved along. Here, I had just embraced a complete stranger...an elderly woman...one that touched my face and gazed into my eyes. The awkwardness persisted though, because I had to stand there and wait for my luggage and she had to stand there and wait for "Matt." I watched her out of the corner of my eye to find out if Matt ever showed up and what he would have looked like.

He never did. And by the time I left and got paired up with my real ride (which incidentally was not Barb at all), she was still standing alone beside the luggage carousel holding her little sign and waiting for "Matt.". I sort of want to think that she is simply a lonely old woman who spends her days waiting at the baggage claim holding a sign with a generic name on it in the hopes that she might, for a moment, feel what it is like to be embraced. In that event, I am glad I made her day. She certainly made mine....at least from the standpoint of, "Wow, I just held a complete stranger in my arms."

May Sadness

One a day for all of May.

Well, my friends, it is officially over. The month long meyhem of May is complete. What a joy it has been to wake up every morning and shuffle into the office in a zombie-like state to contemplate, create and produce a thought-provoking, socially-aware contribution to the market place of ideas. It is a shame that such an endeavor ended in but a whimper. Whimper.

So, after perusing the month-long catalog, feel free to note which post you particularly enjoyed or particularly hated. That way we can feel like we are in this together....that we have both survived the madness of May. And it will make me feel good about myself.

1. How do boy-bands get together?
2. Kathryn and sleeping pills
3. Ancient Near East salty meat
4. Organic Peanut Butter Snobs
5. Man Vs. Wild (Zebra Sushi)
6. Hot House, Cold Water
7. Nut Thins = Nuthin
8. Climaxing of: American Idol, 24, House Closing, Exams, May Madness
9. B.O.N.E. = Bone Heads
10. Double Digit Day
11. Termites Only Eat Wood
12. Kathryn's Trump Card Wins Argument
13. Mother's Day
14. Debit Card Madness
15. Half the Madness
16. Leftover Banquet
17. YouTube Debube
18. B.F.Egypt
19. M&Ms Melt in Your Hand
20. Litterbugs
21. Check Writing and Church
22. 24 is Getting Lame-O
23. I Shaved a Mustache and Took a Few Pictures
24. Adverbs Are Going Extinct
25. Onions and Gum
26. Oops, I Forgot About May Madness
27. It's Opposite Day!
28. $4 Rebate and 41 Cent Postage - Wha Happened??
29. Nougat Conundrum
30. I Don't Want to Write Any More
31. May Gladness

Whimper.

May Sadness Eve

One a day for all of May...

This morning I am tired and grumpy and not much in the mood for carrying on the torch that is Mad Madness. I hate May Madness right now. I hate its ever present pull on my life. It is an ever-present storm cloud, hovering over my head. It is the law - demanding of me everything and promising me nothing in return. It is the mean office manager hanging over my shoulder tapping his clipboard, evaluating everything I do with a suspicious and critical eye. And tomorrow it is all over. Tomorrow I am free. I am bound, I am bound, I am bound, I am bound for the Promised Land - the liberation of May Madness into what I will implicitly think of as June Gladness. Free from the pressure. Free from the anxiety. Free from the relentless demand to write and write and write. I want to go back to bed. I am sleepy. And grumpy.

A.C.R.O.N.Y.M.

O.A.D.F.A.O.M....

Ok, seriously. What is nougat? I know they pack this stuff in 3 Muskateers, Zero, and Choc-O-Fun candy bars, but what is it? Is it chocolate? Fluffy caramel? Something completely different? Last night at the restaurant where Kat and I went for dinner, they offered some sort of dessert something-or-other that featured nougat. I've never seen nougat outside of the context of a 3 Muskateers candy bar. I suppose that either I've been very sheltered when it comes to nougat or more likely, nobody really knows what this stuff is and occasionally includes the word on their dessert menu. TTFN.

Rebates and Postage Rates

one A day for All of mAy...

I bought a Brita water filter replacement filter thingy yesterday. It came with a $4 rebate. A whole $4 rebate. Wow. Are they really going to send me a check in 6-8 weeks written out to Matthew T Howell for 4 bucks? It is really completely pointless. I wasn't even counting on doing the rebate, it was just there and available. Here is the interesting part (as if you weren't already riveted thus far), postage is freakin' 41 cents. That's like nearly 1/8th of the entire rebate. So really, this rebate is worth about $3.50. It is probably going to cost me more in gas to actually take my rebate check to the bank for depositing. $4 rebate? Absolutely worthless.

Opposite Day

"Hey Matt, you're the coolest kid in class."

"Really? Gee, thanks."

"Ha ha! It's Opposite Day!!" [haughty laughter here]

Remember Opposite Day? Remember its irregularity on the calendar? You could go to school and never really know if today was the day where everything said was really the opposite of truth. You would try to insult somebody and on that special day they would receive it as a compliment. And compliments become insults. What I never really understood about Opposite Day was that if you declared it to be Opposite Day on the given day where all things were truly opposite, then it wasn't really opposite day. In other words, the statement "It is Opposite Day" must be opposite-ized as well, which means that it isn't truly Opposite Day. And then if that is true, there is really no point in opposite-izing the statement. It is a logical conundrum, this Opposite Day. If it was TRULY Opposite Day, these little kids should have declared that "It isn't Opposite Day." But then again, this would not be very helpful information to the person who was just informed that they were the "coolest kid in class." They believe that they received a kind compliment. And afterall, today is not opposite day. But it is. Only you can't say it is. Because then that statement would be subject to being opposite-ized. And round and round we go into the logical abyss that is Opposite Day. Or rather, Opposite Madness.

May Forgetfulness

Still one a day for all of May...

It is 1:19 pm. This is the first time in all of May Madness that I have forgotten to post a blog in the morning. I woke up. Went about my day. Went to RTS graduation as an usher and I must say, I ushed the mess out of that event, as I tend to do in my ushing engagements. After graduation I went to the reception to get my recept on. They had lemonade. And soy-glazed chicken nuggets on a stick. And Scottish Meatballs. And a vat of 7-layer dip. It was nice. But yet, I left the Madness of May behind. And in turn, I let down all of my committed, dedicated, faithful fans who rise each day with me in eager hopes of reading this blog. Please forgive me. I know this must be a shocking blow to all of you. I'm sorry. For the remainder of May Madness, I will rise extra early and write with more vigor to atone for my own forgetfulness.

Onion Gum

One a day for all of May!

I put onions in the same camp as poison ivy - I simply don't understand their self-defense systems. Cutting open an onion, for whatever reason, emits a fume/odor/?? that burns your eyes. I've actually cried before while chopping up an onion. I hate it. And as for it's self-defense? It doesn't really stop me from chopping it open, probably because the self-defense fume/eye thing only happens AFTER you've already chopped it open. How does that help preserve itself? That's like having an electric shock connected to my wallet and whoever steals it receives some sort of said shock. Sure, they get zapped but they also get my wallet. Not much of a security system. And so, I'm perplexed by the actual point of the eye-burning fumes that emit from a gutted onion (and poison ivy). But I have learned a trick that will even prevent the onion eye fumes. The next time you are chopping an onion, pop in a piece of gum. Some type of mint works well. Spearmint, even. I read about this trick on the walls of a bathroom stall. Tried it out. It worked. No more weeping while chopping.

Killing the Adverb Slow

One a day for all of May...........................

I believe that we as Americans are slowly killing the adverb. We just don't use them anymore. For some reason, they have lost their usage. Or we simply hate the L-Y combination. Kathryn sometimes tells me she feels "badly" when she feels...bad. That just sounds really odd. Badly. I want her to say that she feels bad. But that is not grammatically correct. It is not adverbially accurate. It is not syntactically significant. So, she feels "badly." And sounds silly.

A "Must See"!!!

One a day for all of May...

In lieu of my stashing away my exams yesterday, I thought it would be nice to memorialize this moment on my face. Everyone told me that I "must stash" away these exams and so that is just what I did. I "must stashed" them. Hey! You've got to hide your love away. (Hey! You've got to stash your love away.) Aside from "must stashing" away my exams, I thought it convenient to include that I also "must arded" my shirt yesterday from the Tuna Club at "Musty's" Tuna Shack. I "must confess" that I also used to watch "must see" TV while chewing some "must achio" nuts. "Must Stang" Sally watched it with me.

Twenty-Bore

One blog post for every 24-hour cycle within with the entire month of May...

Kathryn and I have faithfully committed to Fox's 24 for the entire season. Week in and week out we were there to witness terrorist plots escalate, internal governmental drama, international conflict, Chloe's witty-but-not-so-funny one liners, and Jack Bauer get out of life-threatening jams (and/or pickles). And I feel like my faithfulness to this relationship is in jeopardy. I am considering an affair. There is just no excitement in this relationship anymore. It is the same thing, over and over. 24's only tool in their tool shed (or tool belt (or tool hamper)) is to drop something crazy on you with 4 seconds remaining so that you stay hooked for the subsequent episode/season. This is all they got. In the beginning this was exciting. But now....it is just mundane. For every resolution, there awaits even more conflict. And on and on it goes. I'm just not happy in this relationship anymore. I must confess, I've been thinking about Lost and Family Matters and other TGIF sitcoms that seem so much more attractive and fulfilling. Maybe I'll just hang with Mr. Cooper from now on.

Checks and Balances

Still one a day for all of May...

I've noticed something a bit...well....odd...about Sunday mornings. Every time I write the check for our weekly offering/tithe, I can't help but notice that I write it the same way that I write every check: On the "amount" line, where you actually write out the exact numerical amount with letters and words, I make that same long squiggle throughout the remaining part of the line that I haven't written on, you know, so as to prevent the recipient of the check from adding in to the amount whatever they want. It's self-protection, I guess. And so that is why on Sunday morning it feels a bit odd. With that long scribble on the remaining part of my "amount" line, I am inadvertently suggesting that unless I didn't do it, my church would fill in the remaining part with whatever they wanted. And that is a terrible conclusion and accusation to make....all from one single stroke of the pen. A long squiggly stroke, at that.

Bugs Don't Litter

One a day for all of May...

How come the only act of injustice to receive the pejorative title "bug" is for littering? And why in the world is it a "bug" to begin with? It sounds like an after-school public service announcement cartoon character. Larry the Litterbug. Don't be like Larry, he litters. Throw your trash in the trash can. Be like Timmy the Trash-in-Trashcan bug. Other criminal activities should have the "bug" suffix thrown in as well, I believe. Hey, don't be a Speedbug. Or a Shopliftbug. Or a Badtaxesbug. Or a Lie-to-me-about-how-your-chocolately-flattened-oval-sphere-things-don't-melt-in-my-hand-when-they-really-do bug.

(Patty) Melt in my Hand

One a day for all of freakin' May...

Yesterday I took it back to the proverbial old school and ate a few M&Ms. They were delightful and I can't tell you the last time I had plain, brown-packaged M&Ms. Of course, I pondered the whole experience. I remember growing up that I actually used to think that there were "E's" on them. Now I get it. They are Ms. Another thought - why in the world do they market them as "melting in my mouth" and "not in my hand." Everyone knows this is a blatant lie. M&Ms very clearly "melt in my hand." And I'm sure they melt in everyone else's hands as well. It is not the "melting in my mouth" bit that I have a problem with. This part is true - and quite rewarding. But the "melting in my hand" bit is the lie - and frustrating. I think they should have a new marketing gimmick. It should be, "M&Ms...I bet you don't know what the Ms stand for." Or how about, "M&Ms....They make you say Mmmmmm." Or maybe even, "M&Ms....You know you want some bite-sized, thinly candy-coated, chocolately-flattened-oval-spheres with "Ms" on them that melt all over your hands." Magnificent & Mouthwaterings.

B.F.E.

One a day for all of May...

I'm grateful that I have not heard the expression BFE in several years. This is an expression that really should never have been started. I mean, seriously people. How did BFE get chosen to express one's semi-frustration with long distance? Of all places - Egypt??? I am going to modify it....I think from now on it should be "Bare Foot Ethiopia." Or "British Freakin England." That's it. British Freakin England. It's the Freakin England, baby, I'm about to have me some fun.

My YouTube Debut

One a day for all of May...

Overlefts

One a May for all of day...

Tonight we had leftovers. And I love leftovers. Especially when the various leftovers are piling up a bit in the fridge and you have one banquet-type blow out. That is what we enjoyed last night: a leftover cornucopia of maddening proportion. I will provide a list:

- one slice of Digiorno pepperoni pizza
- calamari with dipping sauce (courtesy of Kathryn's corporate lunch)
- Tuscan salad with fresh chunks of fresh mozzarella (Kathryn's corporate lunch)
- rigatoni with meat sauce (again....Kathryn)
- blackened chicken from Saturday's date night at Cajun Queen
- crawfish etoufee (again....Cajun Queen)
- water to drink

It was truly a confusing cuisine. It was a beautiful buffet. It was a monster mash.

Half the Madness

One a day for all of May...

Wow. We are exactly one half way done with May Madness, the maddening self-induced project of composing one blog post a day for the entire month of May. And let me say, it has been quite mad. (Madness). So, with this post marking the half-way point, I thought I'd brainstorm about a few other "halfs" that "half" been meaningful to me:

Half-n-Half (the delightful coffee creamer)
Half Nelson (a schoolyard bully favorite)
Half Life (the time taken for the radioactivity of a specified isotope to fall to half its original value)
Halfway House (welcome to society...halfway so)
Half Empty/Half Full (the age old conundrum)
Half Caff (a specialty order at Starbucks)
Half-Handed Cloud (one of my new favorite bands: www.halfhandedcloud.com)
Half Monkey (zoological medical/genetic condition where a monkey is born with only the torso up)

Debit All to Heck

One a day for all of May...

Have you ever noticed how many freakin' times you have to hit various buttons on those debit card thingys at the end of the grocery check-out? I swipe my card. It wants to know "Credit or Debit." So I push "Debit." Then it commands me to type in my PIN. Ok, so I do so. Then it displays the total and wants to know if this is correct. Yes it is, so I push "Yes." Then it wants to know if I want cash back. I push "no." I'm surprised it doesn't have one more screen that asks, "Are you sure?" And the biggest headache is that you can't just hit the same green button over and over. You really have to pay attention and hit the green button, the "yes" button, one of those odd-side buttons that never really correspond to the thing you want to hit, etc. It takes me forever. I'm always stressed out too because I'm holding up the line and meanwhile the checkout person is trying to help me and walk me through it, messing with her own screen which inadvertently messes up the progress on my screen. This is only Reason #218 why I hate the grocery store.

Mother's Madness

One a day for all of May...

Today is Mother's Day. It is a day set aside especially for Mothers, Moms, Mums, Mommys, and Flooms. You know, Kathryn and I have had a change of heart concerning said day. We both thought that the day has always been an artificial, Halmark-created, American invention to perpetuate capitalism. But now that we've grown up a bit (Kathryn more than me) and have experienced more interaction with a number of little children around Charlotte, we have had a change of heart. Mothers are freakin amazing. They should get Mother's Day every day. They actually touch snot and "poopy." They deal with infants screaming in their ear. They have to spank cute little people sometimes. My hat is off to you (and my socks). Mothers of the world unite. Mothers Against Drunk Driving. May MADDness.

Kathryn Wins Argument

One a day for all of May...

Earlier this week, Kathryn and I got into bit of a "scuffle" over the breakfast table. It wasn't anything serious, just a discussion of sorts with both of us on two different sides of the issue. And it was so insignificant, neither one of us can recall just what it was about. However, the thing that we both remember was how the argument ended. At the height of the "scuffle" (not to be confused with skizzle), Kathryn said, "Yeah? Well, my mom is putting my childhood cat to sleep tomorrow." The argument was officially over. Kathryn laid down the "Dead-Childhood-Pet" trump card and ended it right then and there. I am now on the search for my own trump card in the hopes that it will end any "scuffle" with me coming out on top. I've thought about, "Yeah? Well, I had my wisdom teeth taken out when I was younger." But that doesn't seem to have the same umph (sp?) that hers does.

All Wood Diet

One a day for all of May...

It really must stink to be a termite. They eat nothing but wood. Now, that has to get old fast.

Double Digit May Day

One a day for all of May...

Congrats to Matt. We have moved from single digits to double digits. May 10. 10 whole days of May Madness. It only promises to get madder. To celebrate, I thought I'd brainstorm about other "doubles" I am fond of:

- Doublemint Gum (double the pleasure AND double the fun)
- Double Stuft Oreos (more is better right?)
- Double Dragon (best NES game invented...outside of Punchout and Mr. Coogie's Day at the Beach)
- Double Trouble (the handheld travel-game)
- Double Dare (the 80s Nickalodeon kids' game show where there was an enormous nose that the contestants had to comb their way through the snot (most likely 'gak') to find the desired flag)
- Double Monkey (the zoological medical/genetic condition where two monkeys are born stuck together)

Harmonizing Thugs

One a day for all of May...

Wake up! Wake up! I couldn't help but notice yesterday that Bone Thugs-N-Harmony has come out with a new album. It is called "Strength and Loyalty" with a few choice songs that include: "Bump in the Trunk," "Flowmotion," "Gun Blast," and of course "Bump in the Trunk Remix." Wow. I used to actually listen to these guys. Bone Thugs-N-Harmony? Help me out here people. How in the world does a group of "thugs" figure out that they can sing, much less harmonize? This goes back to my Boy Band question. This one is all the more puzzling because they present themselves as "thugs." But the "thugs" that I've seen around town are not gathered around burning trashcans harmonizing with each other. The whole image is a bit off-putting to say the least. Are these "thugs" arguing about which one is going to take the baritone or the soprano? How did they decide which key sounds the best for them as a group? They are essentially a "thuggish" glee-club from the streets. I miss my Uncle Charles yall.

It All Comes Down to This

One a day for all of May...

If you thought May was already full of Madness...oh...you don't know the half of it. In this month alone, there are several areas of my life that are climaxing and completing. For one, 24 will end in a few weeks. Jack Bauer will somehow save the day...but with 3 seconds left, some enormous catastrophe will happen which will hook us all into committing to another season. Furthermore, an American Idol will be crowned soon. However, that is going to be anti-climactic. We already know who it will be. On top of that, I have exams in a week or so, which will cap off a grueling semester. And our lease for our apartment runs out....forcing us to make moving decisions....which we have....and our new house is "supposed" to close this month, but that is a whole 'nother story. And if things weren't already out of control, the relentless pressure to produce a blog-a-day-for-all-of-May hangs over my head like a pregnant storm cloud, just waiting to unload and ruin everything I have so desperately worked for.

Nut Thins

One a day for all of May...

Kathryn and I recently purchased a box of "Nut Thins," not to be confused with its competing product "Wheat Thins." First of all, Nut Thins have "nu-thin" on Wheat Thins. I thought they were terrible. Crackers made from chopped up nuts. Terrible. Second of all, can we be a little original with the name? Nut Thins?? Seriously. What's next? Corn Thins? Rice Thins? Grain Thins? Clarinet Thins?? It's called a break, now give me one.

Hot House, Cold Water

One a day for all of May...

The other day we couldn't help but notice that the house was...how do you say....unbearably hot. The AC had been "running" while we had stepped outside for a bit, but it turns out that it was really only "blowing" sticky, hot air throughout our apartment. We called the maintenance dude out to fix it. After tinkering with it for 30 minutes or so, he apologetically informed us that there was no hope for our AC unit and it would have to be replaced....which would take a few days. Ok, fine. There is nothing you can do. We will wait in the Amazon-like swamp land of our apartment sauna for a few days. I went upstairs (which of course is soooo much hotter than downstairs) to wash off the sweat that had been gathering, and it turns out our hotwater heater was busted. Or so we thought. Maintenance Man flipped the breaker and failed to flip it back....but we didn't know that at the time. All we knew was that we could either stand in a freezing shower or a muggy sauna. So that is what we did. We alternated back and forth all night long. Kat slept for 30 min in the cold shower while I slept for 30 min in the hot bedroom. And then we switched. Back and forth. Miserable.

Man Vs. Wild

One a day for all of May...

Last night I found myself watching "Man vs. Wild," a delightfully insightful program on the Discovery Channel where a lone man (and camera crew) treks across the African Sahara with nothing but a knife. He gives you all of these survival tips as he goes - how to determine whether or not a carcass is safe to eat on, how to avoid being killed by hippos, how to find certain plants to burn for insect repellent at night, etc.. It was all very informative. And quite helpful....well, only if I ever happen to find myself alone in the middle of Africa with nothing but a knife (and a camera crew).

Butter Organic Peanut

One a day for all of May...

Kathryn and I are getting into organic peanut butter, you know, the healthier, more expensive stuff that you have to stir each time you use it. But we are concerned as we head down this road. We are slowly becoming Peanut Butter Snobs, which means that we would not be able to partake of the other typical brands of pb (Jif, Peter Pan, Peanut Happiness, etc.) One problem with this particular brand of snobbery is denying yourself something so universal. Kathryn brought up a good point - "What if you are on a camping trip or something and for whatever reason, you can't eat the meat they are cooking, you know, it is too rubbery or something...And so they say, Ok, we'll just fix you a PB and J....what do you do then? You can't eat that either." I think she has a point. Becoming a peanut butter snob means that there may be a situation in life where you have to go hungry over returning to the generic, now-plastic-tasting, name-brands of peanut butter that don't require you to stir before every use.

Meaty Salt

One a day for all of May...

In Bible studies over Christians being "the salt of the earth," I have always, without exception, heard that "salt was used as a preservative." The Bible study leader makes some sort of remark like - "Because they didn't have refrigeration back then, they had to use salt to preserve their meat." I have never thought much about that. I always just assumed this was the case. But this morning, out of the blue, the questions were summoned. Ok - so did "they" just completely smear their meat with salt? And then did they let these salt-coated meat hunks just sit there in the sun all day? And what did this meat taste like when they did decide to cook it? Was it so unbearably salty? I can't see how it couldn't be. Eating meat back then must have been absolutely terrible. You better eat it when it is nice and fresh because if you decide to wait and eat it in a few days, your meat totally just got saltified nasty style. Gobs and gobs of salt. Mountains of salt. Tlas.

Obviously Oblivious

One a day for all of May...

Kathryn sometimes takes sleeping medication to aid in her sleeping. This morning she was reading the "Possible Side-Effects" on the prescription bottle. One read: "May cause drowsiness." She calmly said, "Wow, I sure hope so."

May Madness Begins

Here we are. The first blog post of many more to come. One a day for all of May. That is the slogan. Absolute madness.

I am curious to know how all these boy bands got together. You know, N'Sync, Backstreet, 98 Degrees (terrible name), New Kids, Boyz II Men, etc. I am pretty sure they just got selected individually and grouped together by some upper ups in the music biz. But how did they select these guys? Did they drive around and do auditions - American Idol style? I never saw any advertisements for auditions in Dallas growing up that said - "Who wants to be in the next boy band?? Come audition for instant success!" So then I start thinking, maybe these guys were actually friends growing up. Somewhere out there is a group of buddies who are all attractive, musically talented, and they can all dance in unison. But even with that, I am curious to know how a group of guys par excellance ended up together on their own. Perhaps these questions can be characterized into the "age old" category...unless VH1 puts out a series called "How Boy Bands Became Boy Bands."

What a terrible start.

May Madness

You have heard about March Madness. I'm sure you have. If you haven't, then you have issues.
But you most likely have not heard about May Madness. This "madness" is a bit different for two reasons:
1) May Madness is not in March
2) May Madness has nothing to do with college basketball

The Madness of May will be more or less a publicity stunt/personal challenge for me as a blogger. I pledge to blog once a day for the entire month of May. Nothing big. Nothing long. Just the first thought of the morning. I will wake up, go to the computer, sign in to the blogger account, and write. Every morning. All month long. Madness.

I was reading about a musician who wrote/recorded a song every day for an entire year. It was an album of 365 songs. I really liked that idea. Seeing how I could never do that as a musician, I thought, I could certainly do that as a blogger. But certainly not for an entire year. So I limited myself to an entire month. Madness.

Therefore, keep your eyes peeled...stay on the edge of your seats....eat some pop-tarts....because May Madness approaches. And it is going to be maddening. And May-ening.

IRS = I'm Really Stupid

I love getting mail. I'll be the first to admit (maybe a close second) that I check my email periodically throughout the day. I love being the first one home at the end of the day to be the one to gather the various envelopes and coupon booklets from our little mail box. I love personal letters to me the most. Especially from our government.

The IRS wrote me a personal letter today. They kindly informed me that I did my taxes incorrectly WAY back there in 2005 and they want to "settle up." Unaware of just what my friends over there at the IRS were talking about, I recruited a friend (Brent Corbin) who knew a little bit more about their lingo. And in fact, it turns out that my government friends were right after all and that I did owe them a bit of money. I was glad to write that check today. I drew a smiley face on it. I wanted to let them know that I appreciated their meticulous attention to detail.

But here is what I don't understand. They sent me this "letter" with the various boxes that they had information for and compared those boxes with what I filled in. So, they have all the information they need. They have all the forms, files, data, and information available to them and they just compare their numbers with mine. Mine, apparently, were wrong. But why did I have to give them my numbers in the first place?? They already have them. If they are simply comparing the "right" answers (theirs) with mine, why not save a step and just have their, right answers? What is the point in me giving up an entire weekend of my life to crunch numbers, comb through confusing forms, and come up with some document that they already possess? Is this just some elaborate civil test of my ethics? I honestly don't understand the point.

But again, I obviously don't understand the whole system anyway, given that my governmental friends are kindly sending me personal letters that essentially say, "Pay us what you owe now or we will severely screw up the rest of your life."

Punching the Spike

You don't hear too much about punch being spiked anymore. I think that was an 80s fad. Come to think of it, it was more like an 80s television/movie fad. I watched plenty of sitcoms where a beloved character inadvertently finds himself/herself at a party, pours a few glasses of red fruit punch from a large bowl, and only finds out later that the punch had been, in fact, spiked. I think the character somehow ran into his/her parents while still inebriated, got a stern talking to, and the moral of the story was - don't go to parties where they have punch (because there is always a chance it could be spiked). This was a big deal in the 80s. It was the fall back episode if you ran out of ideas. It was - Let's put so-and-so in a situation where he has to drink red fruit punch...and we'll have somebody spike it!

I can count on one hand how many parties I've been to in my entire life where there was actually a bowl of punch available. Why did these people in the 80s think that we drink punch so much? It certainly is not my go-to beverage. Has anyone ever spiked something other than punch? Would anyone bring a funnel and siphon the liquor into a 2-liter of Sprite? Why is punch the only drink vulnerable to being spiked? Furthermore, who would want to waste their own money by buying a bottle of liquor and dumping into a vat of punch? Is the pay off really worth it to see all of your buddies get schlitzed? I don't even know if the act of punch-spiking is a devious-mean thing or if it is a let's-get-this-party-started thing. My memories of 80s sitcoms and movies aren't clear enough.

All I know is, the next time I am at a party where there is an enormous tub of red fruit punch, I'm going to leave the party immediately, hit a local liquor store, come back to the party, and straight up spike it. Someone has to keep this tradition going. I fear that it is dying out with our generation. Or maybe nobody drinks punch anymore, you know, because it is so disgusting.

Year in Review

April 8th, 2006. An entire year has slipped by since we exchanged our vows. Kathryn was beautiful and has only gotten more so. I, on the other hand, think that was the best I may ever look. And it wasn't that great. Our friends and family made the long hike out to Memphis, TN to be witnesses for our covenantal union. We danced all night. We ate like kings. It was a long and exhausting weekend. I was forced to get on stage and freestyle rap at my own reception. Aside from that, it was a wonderful time. The worst part about it was the lack of time to spend and catch up with everyone.

After 365 consecutive days of married-life, here are some stats/lessons learned upon looking back over the year:

- I think I have only shaved 3 or 4 times since we got married. I'm not lying, I'm just very, very lazy.
- The envelope system worked for about 1.5 months for us.
- I've learned that I enjoy folding laundry. It is my favorite chore.
- Kathyrn is a really good cook.
-Thank you notes don't make you grateful. They actually upset you that people gave you stuff that you now have to thank them for. They remind me of the Mosaic law - they are good but when they meet with me they are sin-intensifying.
- Corporate America is very scary. People are certainly not as kind as they are in the world of ministry and service.
- I'm thankful Kathryn loves to have fresh muffins/cakes/baked goods around often.
- The pollen in Charlotte is plague-like. Allergies have been dreadful.
- Kathryn is better at fighting than me.
- We love to grill (thank you to the groomsmen).
- One thing that has made marriage somewhat easier - We eat dinner together every night and we go to sleep together at the same time.
- On that note, I steal covers.
- We love to do Sudoku's together.
- Kathryn enjoys exercising and being outdoors much more than I do. I would be content to sleep all day.
- Kathryn has acquired about 40+ nicknames from me over the past year. My personal favorite: "Poop stain."

Good year. One down. Lots to go.

Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp???

I love walking down the cereal aisle at the local grocers. It brings back so many memories of a childhood long ago when I actually ate rainbow-colored, sugar-frosted, freezer-dried marshmallows for breakfast. So any stroll down the cereal aisle is a casual stroll down memory lane.

My trip to the grocers yesterday had an impact on me, however. I saw a new kind of cereal out - Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp. Think about that for a second. Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp. This is the new and improved version of the otherwise famous "Cookie Crisp." The original version was simply a bowlful of minature chocolate chip cookies. That is already pretty shocking. You're feeding your kids a bowlful of cookies for breakfast. That can't be good. And the brilliant minds over at General Mills decided to step-it-up, as it were, and make a new and improved version. But no, they didn't come out with "Cookie Crisp: Whole Wheat Cookie Dough!!" or simply "Crisp: Where are the Cookies??" or "Wheat Crisp." No, they said, "Let's stuff more chocolate and sugar into our cereal that is already a bowlful of chocolate chip cookies. Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp? Seriously people. Why don't you feed your kid a couple of Snicker bars for breakfast. Or just let them have a few spoonfuls from the sugar jar. The kid who eats a bowl of doubly dipped chocolate chocolate chip cookies for breakfast is going to need medication to stabilize him for the first few hours of his day and will then need more medication to get him through his pending debilitating sugar crash. Do we really need "Cookie Crisp" to be "Double Chocolate??" Seriously, people.

http://www.generalmills.com/stream_image.aspx?rid=15614

Television, TeleTubbies, and Telemarketing

Kathryn and I have spent the past few days in Charleston, SC celebrating our one year anniversary/Spring Break. One of my favorite parts about vacation is the all-you-can-watch-cable television in the hotel room. We have rabbit ears on our television at home. With aluminum foil crunched up on the ends. We get 2 channels. And one of them is a bit fuzzy. So endless channels of television is a treat for us.

After the initial first sitting of media-ized gluttony, I began to think about how absolutely terrible a number of shows are that were a regular part of my upbringing. For example - I remember regularly watching The Munsters and the Adam's Family reruns growing up. Looking back, I can't help but be puzzled by the decisions of television executive programmers. Who thought that a sitcom based on the domestic issues of a haunted, monster nuclear family was a good idea? And who was it that came along and said - that is such a good idea, let's create another show like that, only this time it will involve some members from the extended family - Uncle Fester, Cousin It, etc. The more puzzling question may be - why did we watch these shows? How were they at all relatable?

And who came along and thought that Golden Girls was a good idea? Who said - Let's make a show about the sex lives of four single senior citizen women? Yep, I watched that show too. And why in the world could Zach Morris stop time? We haven't made nearly as big of a deal with that as we should. That is absolutely crazy. Stopping time? So Zach Morris has supernatural powers??? Seriously.

Who's The Boss? Pushing the gender roles with this one. How does a tough New York Italian go from playing professional baseball to working as a live-in housekeeper? Not buying the premise. Who's the Boss also capitalized on the sexual escapades of a senior citizen woman, Mona, who was Angela's (Judith Light) mother. I just don't get it.

Full House. Ever gone back and seen those reruns. Sheesh. 3 single grown men living together in an enormous house in San Francisco raising 3 girls together. The plot was simple: Put a relatively normal though neurotic clean freak (Danny Tanner) together with a wild, out of work very bad comedian (Uncle Joey) mixed with a babe-chasin, long-haired, rock and roll wanna-be (Uncle Jesse) and let the hilarity ensue. Terrible, unbearable acting. Predictable, serious moral lesson moment at the end accompanied by orchestra. The producers cast two people for one part.

So many bad shows.

Medication Transportation

Though I (Kathryn) rarely make an appearance on this family blog-site, I felt the urge to comment on a CNN.com article that made the "frontpage" news. Did anyone see that the FDA made a statement on how sleeping pills cause sleep-driving? Surely the writers didn't intend to make us cleanly substitue "walking" with "driving", I thought to myself. Surely, they're meaning to convey something about how these pills cause takers to fall asleep at the wheel, or something like that. I read on.

The FDA has received a dozen or so reports of how users of sleeping pills have a tendency to wake-up in the middle of their slumber, walk, find their keys, find the door, and go driving. The word that gets me is "tendency". What is it about these pills that make the automobile so attractive? Why isn't the phone more attractive? We've all heard of drunk-dialing. Apparantly, people taking sleeping pills may also call someone during their nightly wake-session. But only a couple of people have done that. The overwhelming majority of sleeping pill users are heading for their cars.

I admit that I occasionally pop the pill. And now Matt is actually considering hiding my car keys.

Sbarro and Sleep

The other day I was in a conversation that forced me to raise this question: Why do you only find Sbarro Pizza joints in malls and airports? I've never seen a free standing Sbarro Pizza. They are always in the food court area, usually next to some Asian food option. Why is this? Do Sbarros have some sort of deal with the malls and airports? Are they not allowed to conduct their business outside of these facilities? Or perhaps they are too timid to compete with the corporate monsters like Pizza Hut, Papa Johns, Pizza Shuttle, etc. The same question might could be posed to Cinnabon or Auntie Anne's (those cinnnamon, pretzel places) as well.

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I have recently become more self-aware of my sleep philosophy. I’m sure everyone has one; I’ve just never been fully in touch with my own. It has always been there, as I’m sure yours is there too, hidden and subconscious. I challenge you to begin to discover what it might be if you haven’t already. My sleep philosophy is this: I don’t do anything excessive in the middle of the night that might potentially impair the rhythm of my sleep. To articulate: If I can help it, I don’t get up in the middle of the night to use the restroom because I fear that by getting out of bed, walking around, doing “my thing,” and returning to bed, will throw off my whole sleep flow and I won’t be able to slide back into sleep easily. So if I wake up in the middle of the night and feel the need to relieve myself, I fight the urge and return to sleep. Pee can wait till morning. Unless of course it can’t…and sleep is thus sacrificed. Same thing with getting a drink of water in the night. Though Kathryn will adamantly disagree with me on this one, I also resist the urge to pull covers on top of me. My argument: I may do this subconsciously throughout the night, that is, yanking and pulling the heavy covers from one side of the bed on top of me, but if I wake up chilly and the covers are not on me, I fear that the energy required to grip, pull, and move heavy covers will throw off my sleep. It will get my heart beating faster which will require more time to slow back down. So I sacrifice the yanking and opt for a chilly night’s sleep. That is my sleep philosophy. I don’t involve myself in any superfluous energy spending (unless of course it is absolutely necessary) for fear that it will throw off my sleep flow. What is your sleep philosophy? Any takers?

Our Refrigerator is Running (So Why Don't You Catch It?)

The tiny numeric dial in our refrigerator is set at 5 right now. It goes from 1 to 9 and it indicates that "9 is the coolest." 5 seems about right. Not too hot. Not too cold. Right there in the middle. I don't know how it is on your frige but apparently this lone dial also controls the freezer. And I'm not entirely sure how that is supposed to work.

All that to say...5 is not quite working for us. Sometimes I open the freezer and what used to be popsicles are now mushed up hunks of goo sealed in a plastic sack with a wooden stick floating on top. And today I opened the frige to have a pre-dinner chips and salsa snack and the bottle of salsa was frozen solid. I'm not making this up. We had to microwave the salsa. Oh, and the celery. We pulled out the celery tonight and it was all bubbled up and nasty looking. It looked as if it had come down with a terrible bout of acne since we last saw it. Then we realized that it was frozen and the water inside the celery stalk had expanded and was busting through its cellulose-skin prison.

I am not even going to attempt to understand it. All I know is: 5 is not the right setting. Melted popsicles. Swollen, frozen celery. I am not going to microwave my salsa anymore. The only problem is...I don't know which way to turn the dial. Do I turn it in a direction to get it colder? That doesn't seem smart. Gallons of milk will begin exploding. Do I turn it to get it warmer? There goes any chance of ice cream, popsicles, and oh yeah...ice.

Chuck Daddy Cheese

This is Charles. He is my friend. He lives in Kansas City. He listens to music from musicals. He calls pizza "pie." He thinks of names of older women in his free time (Carol Hathoway was one).

Congenial
Happy
Affable
Realistic
Laughing
Exciting
Silly

C-Rule in C-Lotte

This is Clint. Clint is my friend. Clint lives in Oklahoma. Clint plays the ukulele. He eats frozen fish sticks.

Courageous
Likeable
Intelligent
Nice
Tall

I Don't Mean to be Mean

'I mean' is the new 'um.' Everyone uses this little grammatical air-filler and no one even recognizes that they are doing it. In the 80s and 90s, the air-filler was 'like.' While it got pawned off on Valley Girl stereotypes, everyone used it to fill out their otherwise dull sentences. "So I was like going to the store and I like bought an avacado." Somewhere along the line of time, "um" took over. ("Um" can be substituted for its close cousin "uhh.") If you ever can't think of what to say next, throw a little 'um' in there. Maybe the motivation was because the thought of silence was too unbearable. Too awkward perhaps. Or perhaps we fill up the dead space because we don't know what to say next but we want the "floor" still. In other words, we don't know what to say but we don't want the person we are speaking (or not speaking) with to interject with something. We want the opportunity to speak even though we have no idea what to actually say. So we say 'um.' But now, 'like' and 'um' have been replaced with the preface of all prefaces: I mean.

"I mean, I was thinking that I would clear up this ear infection, I mean, maybe this Tuesday or Wednesday." I use this all the time. Why? Is it for the same reason as the 'like' and 'um' above? It doesn't really feel like a space filler. It is completely extraneous. It is this little preface stuck in there over and over. I mean, what is it that we are prefacing? Do we really want the other person to know that I sincerely mean this? Maybe it means, 'Listen, I REALLY mean this, so pay attention.' Or perhaps the emphasis is on me. 'I, me, Mr. Howell means this, so pay attention.' Unfortunately 'I mean' means neither. I don't know what it means but it doesn't mean that. I don't mean to be mean but 'I mean' means nothing to me, and yet I use it more than anyone.

Literacy is Overrated

Of all the songs to be memorized by the American populace, why in the world was it Baby Got Back?

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Kathryn randomly said this at the kitchen table the other day, "We should try chewing food up for each other sometime." It is utterances like those that confirm that she is the one.

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How do children, who believe the whole "stork theory" concerning babies, make sense of their mother's bulging stomach? How does that reconcile with a bird swooping by and just dropping a baby down from the sky?

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I'm no chemist, but how does blowing on food cool it down? Especially when you consider that your breath is hot?

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For some strange reason I've been thinking through the lyrics of 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' as of late. This song makes no sense to me. Rudolf, for whatever reason, has a red glowing blemish of a nose and is completely marginilazed within his little reindeer culture. The others "laugh and call him names" and forbid him from joining them in their "reindeer games." (What would a reindeer game look like? Odd. Simply odd.) So Rudolph is this total loser. Ok, fine. So far so good. And then Santa comes along and chooses Rudolf to be the frontman of his sleigh, mostly because Rudolph's enormous blemish of a nose can be used as some sort of headlight. And so Santa's utterly pragmatic selection of Rudolph causes all of the other reindeer to have a change of heart. They suddenly "love him" to the point that they actually "shout with glee." Furthermore, they announce that Santa's selection will "go down in history." What could possibly account for this change of heart? Santa needs a new headlight and now suddenly Rudolph, the biggest loser in all of reindeerdom, is the big man on campus? How could he be so hated one moment and so loved the next? If I were one of the cool, hateful reindeers, I would think that his being Santa's headlight would be reason for more insult. I don't know. Maybe that's just me.

Pizza: It's Remarkableness or Lack Thereof

Pizza is so casual, so trite, so "been-there-done-that." It takes one really freaking amazing pizza to really stand out in your memory of a life-long pizza consumption. I think that is because there is really nothing to it. A little dough, a little sauce, throw some cheese on top, maybe a little meat and veggies, and there you go. Not brain surgery. Therefore in order for someone to say, "Wow, that pizza is REALLY good," the pizza has to actually be REALLY good. Down below you will find a list of pizzas that I can remember as being noteworthy. They stood out for some reason or another. They were remarkable enough to rise out of the metaphorical dough of 'just-averageness,' to stand out as something truly worth writing home about. I decided to also include in my list pizzas that were so horrifically disgusting as well. For certainly those stand out too.

1. Papa Johns. True, it is fast food pizza, but good grief. Amazing.

2. NY Pizza in Norman, OK. Thin crust, greasy, NY style pizza. Can't explain it. But some Italian in the middle of Oklahoma can cook some amazing pizza.

3. The 'seafood pizza' I had with Russ in Cordoba while we were touring Spain. This stands out due to its inclusion in the horrifically disgusting department.

4. Mellow Mushroom. Love that crust. What in the world is it?

5. Bagel Bites. I grew up heating up those frozen minature bagels with the little cubes of pepperoni on top. And my mouth still waters thinking about them.

6. Square pizza lunch day in the cafeteria. Nothing like pizza, corn, a little individual carton of milk, and a Star Crunch for lunch.

7. Coach's Bar-B-Q Chicken Pizza in Norman, OK. Again...I don't know what is going on in Norman with their pizza. But this pie will melt your soul.

That is all that I can think of for truly remarkable pizza, both good and bad. What stands out to you as remarkable pizza?

Big Foot has Big Feet

I normally hate shopping at the local grocer's, but not today, thanks to the friendly folks at Weekly World News. These are the professional journalists that publish those black and white tabloids that you look at in the check out aisle. Don't pretend like you don't read the headlines. I know you do. If you happened to catch the latest edition, you would know that Big Foot has recently gone on a diet. And it was quite successful.

On the left half of the front page was a bloated, dejected, and obese Big Foot. He was holding his ballooned, hairy stomach with a pitiful look of disappointment across his bearded face. It read: BEFORE 800 lbs. On the opposite side of the page was a much slimmer, much more enthusiastic Big Foot. He was showing off his trimmed midsection with his hands on his hips and he was smiling wide for the camera. It read: AFTER 650 lbs. In a large, bold font, the text ripping across the top was: "Big Foot Diet! He loses 150 lbs!" (and here is the kicker...) "It can work for you too!!"

I found this humorous enough to actually lift from its spot on the magazine rack and flip through it (there was only one copy left). I feel like the editors of Weekly World News deserve my time with this headline. I've seen the front pages about Bat Boy, impending apocalypses, and Satan-shaped clouds before, but nothing has demanded my attention like this one. Here they are trying to sell me a diet program by appealing to its success on Big Foot. They deserve nothing less.

My question is - How large do you really have to be to resort to the Big Foot diet? At what point is that even an option for you? When Jenny Craig, Atkins, and South Beach doesn't cut it, is the last option honestly the Big Foot Diet? Certainly, there is something inbetween. I'm curious to know what is even involved with the Big Foot diet. Just what was that mythic monster cutting back on? No more eating of humans? No more wildlife? Tree bark? And how in the world is that going to apply to ordinary folk like you and me.

I should of read the article to find out. My attention was diverted when I opened it up with a different article about a message from the future. Supposedly there will be a ground breaking story on Mars in 2023.

Butter, Chicken, and Middle Fingers

As a 16-year old, my buddy and I invented this game to play with our new-found freedom of driving without parents in the car. We drove around Dallas with the mission of seeing how many people we could get to flick us off. We would keep score and everything. This usually involved interactions with other drivers at stoplights. We would look out the window to the adjacent vehicle and make faces at them. Simple as that. And if the timing was right and the other driver happened to be in a particularly bad mood, we would get the finger. And we would laugh and giggle (and snicker) and keep score. Wow, that was 10 years ago now that I think about it. Sheesh.

I was reminded of this the other day when I was driving around and repenting of my road rage. I got to thinking what it might be like to try and revive the old game. Here I am, a 26 year old "adult," married, attending grad school, and all that and driving around, intentionally trying to get people upset with me enough to communicate with me very bad things through their fingers. Would that be inappropriate? Probably immature. And actually, probably sinful. But man, it would be fun.

Maybe to redeem the game, I could drive around and see how many "thank you" waves I could get. You know, instead of making people angry, I could intentionally try to make them thankful. I'd let in anyone who wanted in my lane. I'd politely swerve out of the way when people cut me off and I'd smile and wave at them to communicate, "Hey, that's ok. I'm not upset about that." Maybe then people would appreciate my driving sacrifices for them. And they'd raise their hand to me to let me know they were grateful. Redemption in action. The same hand raised from 10 years ago, only with all five fingers in the air.

Ins and Odds

People who are concerned with their language prefer the expression "T.O.ed" to ticked off. Now, whether or not "ticked off" is an expletive is not the reason behind this observation, though I do not think "ticked off" is vulgar in any possible way - rendering the Wal-Mart style, edited version of T.O.ed moot. The point that I want to make is that T.O.ed is not a proper correlation to ticked off. If you are going to edit the expression, you should say T.ed O (ticked off). Nobody is "tick offed," therefore nobody should be T.O.ed. And certainly not P.O.ed. They should be P.ed O.

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Horse shoes? Think about this. Why do horses need shoes? Now, I am no equestrian, but I really can't think of any good reason why they would need to nail on those iron-wrought bars onto the bottom of their hooves. Is it to make the horses more comfortable? Do they prefer to walk around on iron rather than grass? Is that what makes the clip-clop sound? I'm not sure, but I can't think of any other animal that we staple or glue on shoes to the bottom of their feet. Why horses? Confused, I am. I wonder if these are the "gift horses" everyone is warning me about.

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Kathryn loves chocolate. Occasionally, for whatever reason, I call her a chocoholic. Then I got to thinking about it. People add on the suffix "oholic" to just about anything to make their point that the person is doing x in excess. The famous one is "workoholic." But this makes no sense. It is all derived from alcoholic, where the actual word "alcohol" has "ohol" in the root word. Now, bear with me here. Think of it like this. Alcoholic = Alcohol + ic. The think that makes someone who drinks alcohol abusive is adding the "ic" on the end, not the "oholic." For some reason, half of the alcohol word got carried over into all these other words when we add "oholic" on the end. So a "workaholic" is really someone who abuses alcohol at work (or, I guess, someone who abuses work while drinking alcohol). A "chocoholic" is really someone who abuses alcohol with chocolate (or someone who abuses chocolate while drinking alcohol). So I guess the proper way to call Kathryn what I really wanted to call her is chocolateic. And all you hard workers out there, don't be demeaned in letting people call you workaholics, you are simply a workic.

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I saw a Chia Pet in the store the other day. Has anyone ever actually owned one of these "pets?" How is this company still in business. Ch-ch-ch-chia!

Donkey Kong: The Key to the Meaning of the Universe

Today I had the pleasure of baby-sitting Caleb, the cutest 4 year old little lad you possibly have ever seen, for the afternoon. His mother is bursting-pregnant and so I volunteered to take him around town for the afternoon. We had a delightful time. First, we dropped by the public library where we combed the shelves looking for books on cars, coyotes, volcanos, and dinosaurs. Then we stopped by the local Dairy Queen and each had a little cup of ice cream. I ate mine. He decided it would be better instead to smear it all over his face, his shirt, and his pants. We walked across the street to a little pizza joint that happened to have one of those old school arcade machines, you know, the ones where you drop in quarters and they let you play for a few turns? It was one of those classic ones - where you could either play Ms. Pacman, Galaga, or Donkey Kong. Caleb gave Ms. Pacman a few runs but inevitably got cornered and subsequently killed by those roaming, neon ghosts (Blinky, Inky, Pinky, and Sue). We stuck around a little bit afterwards to watch the arcade self-run through various levels of Galaga, Donkey Kong, and Ms. Pacman again.

Caleb was fascinated by Donkey Kong. I think it may have changed his life. For the next 20 minutes, we had one of the most stimulating philosophical conversations I may have ever had. He fired questions at me left and right. It was relentless. He was plagued by what I perceived to be a simple plot and his little brain would not stop until he had sufficiently figured it out and what it all means for him, his family, and the universe. Our conversation went something like this:

"Who is that guy at the bottom?" Mario. "Why is he climbing up those ladders?" He is trying to get the Princess back. "Why does he want the Princess back?" Because Donkey Kong has her. "Why does Donkey Kong want the Princess?" I don't know. "Does Donkey Kong want to eat her?" He probably does. "Does he want to eat her for breakfast?" I bet he probably wants to eat her for lunch or dinner instead. "Why is Donkey Kong throwing those barrels?" He's trying to stop Mario from getting the Princess. "Why does Donkey Kong want to try and stop Mario?" I guess Donkey Kong wants the Princess all to himself. "Why is Donkey Kong so bad?" That is a good question. I'm not sure. "Why does Mario have two hammers?" I guess two is better than one, right? "How can he climb up the ladder with two hammers?" (I thought this was the best question he asked) - Wow, I don't know. I guess it would be hard to climb up the ladder while holding a hammer in each of your hands wouldn't it? "Why does Mario want the Princess?" He wants to save her from being eaten by Donkey Kong. "Does Mario want to eat her?" No, he wants to take her to the Candy Cane factory. "Who is that at the bottom?" That's Mario.

And on and on we went. I think our conversation ended with Caleb deducing that Donkey Kong kidnapped a woman of royalty to appease his carnivorous appetite, while a jumping, Italian plumber scaled multiple ladders to retrieve her back and take her to the North Pole where Santa was so that she could take her mind off the traumatic and perilous event. And somehow that made sense to him. Although with all of his inquiry, he failed to ask, what I thought, was the most important question, namely, what does a big, barrel-throwing gorilla have anything remotely to do with a donkey?

Onions + Fun = Geometrical Madness

I can't think of anything more repulsive than the thought of eating onion flavored, deep fried snack chips. But that is exactly what Funyuns are. Why in the world would anyone want to eat onions, raw and by themselves (by the handfull) as a mid-day snack? I went to the Funyuns website and they have this paragraph included to describe this zany product:

"Funyuns Onion Flavored Rings are a deliciously different snack that is fun to eat. These playful rings have a crisp texture and are packed full of zesty onion flavor. Next time you're in the mood for a snack that's out of the ordinary, try Funyuns Onion Flavored Rings."

Oh, I see. Please forgive me, Funyun people. I didn't realize that Funyuns were "fun to eat" and "playful." I wasn't thinking about them as entertainment. I was only thinking about how gross it is to eat crispy, zesty deep fried onions at 3 in the afternoon.

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Off brand, generic, non-name brand cereals always entertain me. They usually don't come in boxes, but bags. They have a different cartoon mascot. They usually taste a hint different. But other than that - the exact same. Well, of course for the names. And that is the best part. You want Apple Jacks but can't afford them - just go with Apple Zings. You want Corn Pops but don't want to shell out $5 a box - go with a bag of Corn Bursts. Can't keep up with Golden Grahams? Go with Honey Graham Squares. Now, I have not made up any of these fake names. I promise. Go to malt-o-meal's website and see for yourself. Other wonderful off-brand names of comedy include: Scooters (Cheap Cheerios), Cocoa Roos (Cheap Cocoa Puffs), Cinnamon Toasters (Cheap Cinnamon Toast Crunch). Malt-o-Meal started it all by my observation and other companies have hopped on the bandwagon - exploiting well-known cereals by making them the exact same, giving them an extremely similiar name, but putting them in a bag. Kathryn came home from the grocery store the other day with Food Lion's generic brand of Crispix, and get this, the name was Crispy Hexagons. I am not lying. I am looking at the box right now. Crispy Hexagons. What in the world kind of name is that? Is there any ounce of creativity involved? At least with "Apple Zings" you get a small dose of imagination and creativity. But Crispy Hexagons? That is just telling us at the most basic metaphysical level what it is. How will that sell on the same shelf with intriguing and ominous Count Chocula? Or adventurous and exciting Fruit Loops?

Crispy Hexagons? Good grief. I wonder what their name is for their fake Cheerios? Crunchy Round Things with a Hole In It? What about their version of Fruit Loops? Fruity, Crunchy Round Things with a Hole In It? What about their fake version of Frosted Flakes? White-Sugar Dusted Wheat Leaves? Give me a break. Crispy Hexagons? A second grader could come up with that name. Actually, now that I think about it...do second graders even know what Hexagons are? Just who is this cereal appealing to? The geometrical elite? The educated upper-class? But then you have to think, if they are going after the Wall Street Fat Cats, they have to know that these big wigs aren't shopping at Food Lion nor are they interested in generic-brand cereals. Quite a delimma these Crispy Hexagon people have.

Deck the Stalls

I can't believe I was tricked for so many years. With every passing Christmas, I honestly thought that an obese, bearded caucasian broke into my house not to steal stuff but to leave stuff. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have not seen through all the clues? Looking back, I at least thought I was capable of making sense of things, of deducing truth from the information I was given. But I guess not. Aside from the obvious indications that this whole Santa thing isn't true (you know, the claim that one man could single-handedly visit EVERY Christmas-celebrating house in the world in one lone night...not to mention that an obese individual would chose to enter into a house through the chimney), I have since had time to see more clearly.

Let's start with the whole cookies and milk thing. You know the scoop, before the kids go to their bedrooms, they leave out some cookies and milk for Santa and when they wake up in the morning they discover only some crumbs and a milk-film-lined empty class. If Santa has broken into your house to leave some goodies for you, he isn't going to waste his time with a couple of stale cookies and a luke-warm glass of milk. No, he would go INTO THE KITCHEN and find the good stuff. Ice cream, cake, maker's mark, wheat thins, I don't know, whatever Santa enjoys. Why fill up stomach space with meager cookies when you have access to the entire pantry?

Then you got the chimney entrance thing. Aside from the obvious (chimney - thin, Santa - fat), most people will have their chimneys going in wintery December, you know, flaming hot. Santa should know this. It is cold in December (except in Baton Rouge). Fires will be going. He should instead enter through the air conditioning unit. No one will be using that. But the burning, flaming fire place? Come now.

And of course you have the ongoing "e" debate. You are familiar with this - Is Clause spelled with an "e" at the end or not. There is no consensus on this. Some spell it Claus. Others Clause. And this is excluding the wonderful movie trilogy starring Tim Allen. What are children to do with this?

Down south (in Mexico) the folks there don't use a Bible. They use Santa's Bible. They honestly think Santa was the author. Ever seen one of their Bibles? It is titled "Santa Biblia." I guess that means Santa's Bible. This is just one more proof that the whole Santa thing has evolved to out of control proportions.

All in all, it is obvious to see that this whole Santa thing is a farce. And everyone has been tricked. We simply bought into it all wholesale. Speaking for myself, I must have been caught up in Santa's jolliness. It is obvious to see why Santa would be so jolly. He does nothing for an entire year. He sits bak and digests, I suppose, and lets his army of elven slaves build his products. Then he works one night out of the year. One 12 hour shift and the rest of the year is vacation. Not to mention that one 12 hour shift is littered with "milk and cookies" (translation: cake, bourbon, wheat thins, etc.) And let's not forget about that sweet red and white suit of his. Anyone would be jolly (or merry) to be rocking that. You know Santa is riding dirty. But even his jollity or merriness will convince me anew. I am forever scarred. And scared.

Milk Malaise Explained

In case you read the previous post "Milk Mania", but failed to read the comments, this blog post is for you. If you failed to read the previous post "Milk Mania," this blog post will make absolutely no sense to you. Either way, do enjoy. Here is a note from my unnamed friend (Dave Kulp) who was responsible for putting us in the milk malaise.

Matt,
Okay...here is the deal...Have you ever seen a movie where someone is on government food stamps? I always wondered what kind of stamps they were do you send away for free cheese or what? Or maybe you listen to the rap stylings of the roots who speak of "toast in the oven with government cheese bubblin." Now I like cheese as much as if not more than the next guy...and what is not to like about free cheese. So...A question I have had for most of my life is how does one gain cheese through the current government system...Where can i get said stamps...The Post office never seems to understand my request for a roll of the stamps that get me the free cheddar.
Recently we found out the deal. Becasue of the lack of money i am making by being a student we are now on WIC through which we recieve food stamps. We have come to find out that they are not stamps at all! They are more like coupons, and each coupon lists exactly what you can get free...Basically they take care of Baby formula, eggs, juice, peanut butter, MILK, and yes CHEESE!!!! Jackpot! Last month we were away from home for 10 days, then upon returning we had just bought milk (duh!) so our milk coupons were stacked up and had to be used before expiration. Thus the visit from the Milk Fairy. We got the free milk and passed along that which had been purchased through poor planning on my part!
Just so you know at all times we have 2 gallons in our fridge. 1=Whole milk for Benno, and then a 2% for Celia. Things get really nuts when Mary buys Skim for herself. When that happens basically the whole top shelf in the fridge is lactose...What a wild world...Thank God for Government cheese.
Sincerely,
Dave

Milk Mania

It was last Tuesday, I believe, though the exact day is rather inconsequential. We had just returned from the grocery store (Food Lion - which is a somewhat scary image if you think about it) and we were loading up the various items in their respected places in the kitchen. One of those various items was a gallon of 1% milk. We were in need of milk, obviously, so we stocked up. A whole, fresh gallon of pure, snow-white, liquid lactose awaited us.

Later that afternoon, a friend of ours stopped by the apartment. This is a friend that I will not name (Dave Kulp). He (being Dave Kulp) had too many milk gallons himself for some reason, and basically dropped a fresh, unopened gallon (skim milk) on our doorstep. Refusing to deny anything free, I brought it inside and placed it in its new home - right next to the other unopened gallon of milk.

So now Kathryn and I have a big problem on our hands. All of this milk must be taken out before the expiration date. The countdown had begun. Sweat beaded on our foreheads. Everything suddenly got tense. It was like a domestic version of 24.

We first made instant pudding, knowing that pudding used a good bit of milk in it. It required two cups - barely denting one of the gallons. We started eating cereal for breakfast (I normally eat a bagel). I would come home for lunch and have a glass of milk with lunch, something I don't think I have ever done in my life - but have certainly seen this done on television for macaroni and cheese commercials (and I think, Home Alone as well). Needless to say, it was not a pleasant experience. Chalky, thick milk and mustardy turkey sandwiches with jalepenos on them is not a good mixture. Moving on...Every night after dinner we would enjoy some cookies or cake or whatever baked goods were around the house with a tall glass of milk. We had two sets of friends over - and we both offered our guests as much cereal as they wanted in the morning as well as the offer to top off their pint of milk throughout the afternoon. We have done everything possible to get rid of this milk. And as I type this, in the fridge still sits two towering gallons of milk, each half-empty.

Now as I think about this, said friend above (Dave Kulp) could have been doing the exact same thing we are. He, for whatever reason, had acquired too much milk. Perhaps one of his friends dropped off a free gallon and my friend (Dave Kulp) was smart enough to know he couldn't possibly pound down two gallons in a week and a half, so he just kept passing along this orphan gallon of milk. And perhaps the guy who passed on the gallon to my friend (Dave Kulp), had the milk passed along to him as well. This gallon of milk could have theoretically been passed all over the larger Charlotte metroplex, concluding its journey with its arrival at my doorstep - and I was the only one stupid enough to take it in and break its blue, plastic seal. My friend (Dave Kulp) could have been suffering under the same plight that we are. He could be up to his ears in milk, dreaming about it, having a glass three times a day, peeing white, feeding it to stray cats, boiling milk "just to see what it does," and using it as moisturizer. But no, he opted to casually and comfortably enjoy his one gallon and pass along the insanity to me. Blast. Foiled again.

Here's the moral: Never accept free, unopened milk from anyone. And if you do, instantly give it to someone stupider than you.

Christmas Card Bloopers

Here are some outtakes from taking a Christmas Card picture. I wanted at least one of these to be our Christmas Card. Let's just say I was voted down. So here they are for all to see - Our Christmas eCard (or if you are rockin the Mac, our Christmas iCard.)

Exam Salad Sandwich

Upon preparation for my history of Christianity 1 class, I noticed that those church folk didn't make things too easy on us. Everything in the same period starts with the same letter. Why does it have to be this way? In the first few centuries of the church, it dealt with such heresies as Marcionism, Montanism, Monarchianism, Manicheanism, Modalism, Mythraism, Monophysitism, and Monothelitism. Now, why in the WORLD do they all start with M? Couldn't they have made it a little easier on us? Then you get to the 11 and 1200s and everybody is named Peter - Peter Abelard, Peter Lombard, Peter Waldo (my favorite). Again, throw us a bone people.

And don't even get me going with all the Gregories. Gregory the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, etc. Good grief. Somebody break out of the mold. Give me a Tim in there somewhere. How about Gregory the 9th, also known as Sammy? Help me out here people.

The thing that fascinates me about heresy in the early church was that the bulk of the heresies had to do with denying Jesus his humanity. They assumed that Jesus was so uber-God that he could not have also been truly or fully human at the same time. Its interesting to note that we deal with a much different heresy today. Critical scholars assume Jesus was truly and fully human, but nothing more. It is funny how the tide changes.

Pray for me. I am in the height of exams. 3 down. 2 to go.