P.I.E.S.

The dessert (or treat) of pie is delicious. It's my favorite. As I've said before, I prefer birthday pie to birthday cake. Jim Gaffigan calls it liquid cake, but that is still putting a bit too close to cake in my opinion. Pie is amazing. It is simply breathtaking...for it simply takes your breath and sprints with it away from you.

But as I've discovered, "pie" as a term of dessert designation is vague. There are a lot of things described as "pie" that bear no resemblance to authentic, traditional pie. The term is being used way too broadly. So I'm here to set the record straight (and strate) and determine once and for all what is actually pie and what isn't.

1. Moon Pie. Not pie. Should be called "Moon Disc." Or maybe "Nasty Moon Disc That Necessitates Milk." (There is a banana flavor available for you banandy fandys.)
2. Pumpkin Pie. A bit more gelatinous than your average pie, but yes, still, certainly pie. And delicious.
3. Oatmeal Cream Pie. Not pie, but still delicious.
4. McDonalds Fried Apple Pie. Not pie. But close. And can be served boiling, lava hot in the middle.
5. Chicken Pot Pie. Nothing "pie" about this except for the crust replica. Should be called "Chicken Casserole Disguised as Pie." But it isn't fooling anyone with its disguise. "Wait a second! This doesn't taste like pie! This is chicken casserole! I don't want this for dessert! Why is all this Cream of Mushroom poured into a pie crust?"
6. Pie in the Sky. This is just confusing. Does the pie have wings? Jet engine? No more comment.
7. Pizza Pie. Despite contrary opinions (Steger), pizza pie is not actually pie. It is really just pizza. Not pie. It you baked a pizza inside of a graham-cracker crust and put whip cream on it, it would be a better fit for "pizza pie." But it would still run into the problems of Chicken Pot Pie above.
8. Coconut Cream Pie. Definitely pie. And definitely delicious.
9. American Pie. Bye, bye Miss American Pie. I don't think this is pie. I don't think I know what this is.
10. Humble Pie. Not pie. Not even food. Humility can't be eaten. Huckleberries can though apparently. This is a stupid pie type.

While we're on the subject, I also don't like back sweat.

Cold and Sore

I have a cold sore in my mouth. And it is ruining my week. It is in the perfectly unavoidable spot too - right on the other side of my lower lip - face to face with the gums on my lower incisors. It's in that front lip pocket where people often stuff snuff in. Yes, in the snuff-stuffed pocket. Convenient, huh?

Did you know that when you pierce the skin of a fresh, summer-time, acid-saturated peach that the juices squirt directly into the snuff-stuffed pocket? I do. I do now. Because I writhed all the way through my afternoon peach experience today.

Don't forget about hamburgers. Mustard, tomato, pickles - all the acidic juices seem to b-line (bee-line?) their way into the snuff-stuffed pocket. Oh, man. Not fun.

I hate this thing. If you have ever had one...you know because you hate them too. How do these things happen? Where do they come from? How does it happen to get in THAT spot?? How do I get rid of it?

And what's with the name "cold sore"? There's nothing "cold" about it. "Cold" conjures up images of Aspen, winter-green, and Altoid commercials, slish-sloshing on white, dusty snow. That sounds soothing and refreshing. This thing in my mouth is not soothing and refreshing. It is ruining every piece of food I place in my mouth. It should be called "Hell Sore." That's a bit more accurate. Or perhaps "Don't-Eat-Oranges Sore." Or maybe even "Don't-Eat-Anything Sore."

Danza Sore?

Review: May Madness 2 (For You (Ewwww))

ONE A DAY FOR ALL OF MAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As is my consummational custom, I review the previous 30 days of Madness and invite my loyal audience to chime in on what was the highlights, the lowlights, and the lights in between. Now is your turn to get mad.

Le' Review:

1. Sequels and Home Alone
2. Pros and Cons of Pros and Cons
3. Banandy
4. Squirrels and Rain?
5. Cinco de Mayonnaise
6. Territorial Dog Urine
7. Saving Water While Showering
8. Oranges: Hard to Open
9. Blame it on Dwane
10. Double Double
11. The Name Game
12. Three Thoughts
13. Jinx! Buy Me a Salad Bar!
14. Close but no Cigar
15. Emotional Cons
16. Chewing: The Lost Art of Self-Entertainment
17. Ms
18. Size O' King
19. Alex Li and Square Pizza
20. Gummy Insects
21. Milk: Why Advertise?
22. Grinning and Chagrinning
23. Dishwashing Philosophy
24. Easy Hearing Music
25. More Questions
26. Octopi and Freak Nastiness
27. Categories
28. TV Likes Odd Living Arrangements
29. Cats: Yuck
30. ¡Mexicana/o Gender Roles!
31. This.

It's over. Now I can finally rest. (And ingest (And digest.)). 

Gender Roles and Mexican Food

One a day for all of Mayo

The other day I found myself in the Taco Bell drive-thru with Kathryn. You have to realize, this never happens. Kathryn wouldn't eat Taco Bell if I forced her to at gun point (or point blank (or good point)). But there we were. At the Taco Bell drive-thru.

We were with some friends of ours and after acquiring our food, Kathryn asked this question, "Hey, did you get a Gordito?" Did you catch that? Gordito? I informed her, "I'm sorry, Kathryn, but GorditAs are feminine. Not Gordito!" I laughed. I made fun of. And then I got thinking about how odd it sounds when you switch the gender of Mexican food.

No one orders a soft taca.
People don't sign up for burritas, or enchilados, or chalupos. Or nachas. Or flautos. Or chimichangos. Or Mexican Pizzos.

Or Cinnamon Twistos. Or Danzo.

Why Cats Suck

One. A. Day.

If you are a cat person, this post will offend you. Stop reading now if you like cats. This is your chance to retain your current mood. Because if you like cats and you continue reading, your mood will get worse.

Because I don't like cats.

1. They destroy my allergies. And I'm willing to bet that they destroy yours too.
2. They are unbearably lazy. They lay around all day. Which makes them worthless. Sort of like fish. They are like enormous fish...only covered in fur...and don't usually die in transport.
3. They don't offer "just-got-home-and-happy-to-see-you-affection." Dogs do. Cats could care less. They just look up at you from their "spot" as if to say..."Hey, can you get me a bottled water while you're up?"
4. They eat nasty food. What is that stuff in that tin can? Fermented puke? Chocolate foot fungus?
5. They don't do tricks. No impressing your friends with this animal. Not unless their trick is to play like they are arrogant and worthless.
6. They shed. See complaint #1 above.
7. They have sandpaper tongues. Enough said.
8. They don't "move" like a normal animal. Instead, they are skitzy, crazy, unpredictable, and frantic. I don't understand. They are either uncontrollably nuts or sedated. Stupid animal.
9. As hinted earlier, they are pampered and spoiled by nature. They simply expect. They feel that they are entitled. They have rights. Dogs are grace-driven. Dogs are grateful for toys and food and pats on the head and comfortable spots to sit and lay. Cats demand them/
10. They poop in cat litter. Which means their poop remains exposed, naked for all to see who happen to pass by the litter box. They also urinate in there too. Dogs at least have the decency to take that trash outside. I think cats don't like to go outside because it isn't air-conditioned.

And that, my friends, is why cats suck. I'm sure there are plenty more reasons but alas, I am done for now.

The Brady Bunch Legacy

One a day for all Of may....

The Brady Bunch started it all. Well, what is "it" you ask? Good question. (Good use of diction as well, I might add.) The Brady Bunch started the sit-com trend to exploring the comedic bass line behind peculiar living arrangements. Here you have a single woman with three daughters and a single man with three sons. Throw them all together under one roof, toss in a live-in maid, and you have comedy.

Does this sound like "Step by Step"? It should. It's the same show, only 25 years later (minus the live-in maid). Odd living arrangement. Comedy.

"Who's the Boss?" Now you have an entire show built around a live-in maid, only with this hilarious twist of irony, the maid is a man. And there is a sexually-active grandmother up in the mix. Odd living arrangement. Hilarity ensues.

"Golden Girls." Again, more sexually-active geriatrics who happen to be living together. [I still can't get my mind around how this became a show.]

"Alf." Here's a weird living arrangement for you: A normal, white, suburban family with a talking, sarcastic, pun-spittin' alien for a pet. Now that is funny!!

"Growing Pains." This wasn't a weird living arrangement, but it had a character named "Boner." I don't care where you are from, that's hilarious.

"The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air." Take a well-to-do, cultured, upper-class African American family in Bel-Air, CA and throw a wacky, urban, "Fresh," teenager in the house. That's an odd living arrangement. And that's hilarious. I can hear the producers around the table brainstorming about this: "Oh! Maybe he can do something crazy and RAP!"

The semi-current and current mutations of the Brady Bunch legacy? "The Real World." "Friends." "Will and Grace." Odd living arrangements. Funny. Pure, comedic genius from the outset.

Ruining Categories

Day. May. One.

Yesterday Kathryn and I went to the pool to celebrate Memorial Day. We memorialized Memorial Day by lounging by the pool and getting pounded by the ferocious sun (the sunburns are not pretty). While lounging, we witnessed a game of Categories being played by a group of female youths nearby. You all know this game - One person stands out of the pool with their back turned and begins working through certain "categories." The other players are in the pool trying to make it across without getting caught by the player standing outside of the pool. Their cue to begin moving from one side to the other is when the player standing outside shouts out their chosen item from the given category. Ok. You remember.

One poor girl was not getting anywhere. She was working through the category of colors. She said - Silver, Yellow, Beige (BEIGE?!?!?), Black....uh......Yellow. None of the girls were crossing. And this girl was apparently running out of colors to call out. She kept turning around and none of the other girls were moving, so she had to keep taking steps forward. She really was stinking at this game. So...I got involved. A few moments later she called out "green" (she should have just worked through ROY G BIV) and one of the girls quietly dipped underwater and began her silent crossing. So I shouted out, "Uh oh!!!" The girl turned, jumped in....and didn't catch her. Hey, I tried.

Another weird thing from this game. At one point they were working through the category of "Soda" and the first two sodas that this girl named were "Sun Drop" and "Cheerwine." Honestly - is that the first two sodas that come to your mind?!? Kathryn and I were shocked. I don't think Coke or Dr. Pepper even made it into the mix. Just weird, off-brand, generic sodas. I think she even included "Dr. Thunder."

When the Octopus Got Freak Nasty

Day a May....bla bla bla....

This is the image that just crossed my mind. It did. So here it is.
Imagine this. A cartoon octopus. With cool, sunglasses on. He's in the middle of an under water dance club (not to be confused with an Octopus' Garden, mind you). There is a spinning disco ball spreading out fragments of glittery light across the dance floor. And the octopus is straight gettin' freak nasty on the dance floor (not to be confused with "freaky naughty," mind me). His tentacles are wobbling. They're wibbling. They're thrashing. Straight up freak nasty style.

That's what I pictured. But the phrase that obviously stood out to me was "freak nasty." This made me laugh. Not to mention the fact that it was a cartoon octopus that happened to be gettin freak nasty (not to be confused with "Getting jiggy with it," mind us). I think they should let Octopi into dance clubs. Just for the sole reason that Octopi could teach us a thing or two about gettin freak nasty. Or about gettin jiggy with it. Or about gettin low. Or about gettin loose. Or about gettin goose. Or about gettin Danza. We could all stand to learn a thing or two (or Danza) from the Octopi.

Questions Aplenty

yeah yeah...May a day....

Why is Bible paper so thin? Honestly, you can rip this stuff if you turn too frantically. Face-paced Sword drills result in torn Bible pages, people. Let's "get with it" and have Bible paper be "the normal thickness." Are other holy books made with thin paper? Or is just the Bible? Or just books starting with "B"?

And why is Yahoo! so excited all the time that they have to have an exclamation point after it? You can check Yahoo! Mail. You can read the Yahoo! News. Why does Yahoo! force me into a state of exhilaration and excitement. I'm just checking my email, people. I'm not entering into a pie-eating contest.

And what's the deal with chicken?

Easy Listening

one A day for all OF may....

Music. Genre. Easy Listening. This is actually a type of music out there. Easy Listening. I'm not sure I could pick it out on the radio, however. It isn't easy to identify Easy Listening. What is it, anyway? What is this claim this genre makes - that it is easy to listen to? What, other genres aren't? Sure, some of that "scream-gothic-primal-terror" music is not "easy on the ears," but I would think that every other genre is fairly easy to listen to.

If you think about it, listening is pretty easy to do as is. You just....listen. So what is this genre claiming? That they are the most easiest to listen to? That isn't claiming very much. Jackhammering is easy to listen to simply because it is loud. It is noise. All noise is easy to listen to. Things that are hard to listen to would be whispering, mice chewing, and the natural response when someone says, "Shhhh...do hear that?" and stares blankly off into the distance with their finger over their mouth.

You know what else is easy to listen to? Cacti. And fungi.

The Domestic Areopagus

One blog post per 24-hour period for the duration of the entire month of May...

I have come across an ongoing philosophical discussion amongst marriages - One where argumentation is conducted with vehemence and determination. One which plunges us all into the mysteries of humanity, the age-old debates of yesteryear, and the conundrums that have plagued philosophers (and gnomes) for centuries.

Dishwashing philosophy. The crucial question is: Do you rinse the dirty plate before you put it in the dishwasher or not?

The "Non-washers" insist that this is the primary reason one is putting the dirty plate in the dishwasher to begin with: to have it washed. Their position insists that "if you are going to wash it off by hand, why even bother with putting it in there?" This view sees the "washing-off" step as unnecessary, arbitrary, and wasteful (of water). This view tends to view the "Pre-washers" as controlling, aggressive, and sensitive.

The "Pre-washers" insist that the dishwasher may not be powerful enough to remove the caked-on funk from dinner. Therefore, this preliminary step removes the funk and leaves the still-dirty plate to be thoroughly cleansed by the dishwasher. This view sees the "washing-off" step as necessary and helpful. This view tends to view the "Non-washers" as haphazard, careless, and calloused.

I hold to the "Pre-wash" philosophy. You?

Ever Chagrinned?

One a day...

"Much to my chagrin." This sounds like a good thing. It involves grinning. But ahh...don't be confused. It is not "much to my grin" it is "much to my CHAgrin." And this changes the grin into...well....a chagrin...which is bad, apparently.

You don't see much of the "cha" prefix, that's for sure. I've heard of people being "pro" choice, but never "cha" choice. I've heard of someone being a "hyper" Calvinist, but never a "cha" Calvinist. I think we need to utilize the "cha" prefix a bit more than we do. For example, I'd be cha-The Jetsons. The Jetsons don't make me grin. They actually make me chagrin. I'm also cha-Alf. And cha-black licorice.

Grinning. You don't hear much about people grinning anymore either. It is usually described as "smiling." Honestly, when was the last time you used the word "grinning"? "Hey, look at that guy over there. The one who is grinning." This word seems to have fallen out of our daily vernacular (and everyday language). And it needs to be brought back in. Much like the "cha" prefix. I am cha-not-using-"grinning." But much to my chagrin, most people are cha-"grinning."

Milk, Grass Stains and Paper Cuts

Day all of for a May one...

I looked through a magazine the other day and saw a "Got Milk?" ad in it. Apparently, they are still running this ad campaign. I was a bit thrown off, I'll be honest. It's been a good 8 years since I saw Cindy Crawford staring at me with a milk mustache. Or Kermit the Frog. Or Eleanor Rigby.

Here's another thing I'll be honest about - I don't understand why milk needs advertising. We know it is out there. We need it. We are going to buy it and we are going to drink it. And what is competing with it? There is nothing else jockeying for position on what to put on my cereal. There is no other ingredient I want to put in my MILK shake. Are the milk companies getting insecure? Do they think the American populous might forget about them? Do they think we can go on without it?

It's just assumed - if you are running low on milk, you make a note to go buy more. You have to have milk in the fridge. No one thinks to themself...."Hmmm I'm running out of milk. Should I get some more or should I wait a while?" No one thinks that. And furthermore, no one thinks, "Hey, you know what would be good for lunch? A handful of Skittles." No one thinks that either. And no one thinks, "Hey! If Skittles and Starburst got married, they'd be called Starttles. But don't confuse Starttles with Smarties. They are not the same. Neither is Fun Dip the same as Starttles. Or Fun Dipples. Or Eleanor Rigby." No. No one thinks that.

Gummy...Maggots?

one a day...

Gummy Worms. Let's think about that for a bit here. What can be more disgusting that a wringing, wiggly, slime-coated, dirt-covered worm? They are like a prehistoric, algae-like snake. No eyes. No legs. Just a wiggly tube that slides in and through the earth. Eating dirt. Pooping dirt. I personally think they are nasty. The cool thing about them though is that if you split them in two...you get two wiggly worms. Two for the price of one. (That one's free.)

So....who decided that we should craft a gummy replica of these disgusting things. I bet if I pulled a worm from the ground and plunged it in your face, your first thought wouldn't be, "Oh, I want to eat it!" And certainly not, "Hey, let's cast a mold of one of those and fill it with glucose, corn syrup, and gum acacia." But crazier things have been done.

Like the Tony Danza Show.

And a season of The Real World filled with the former members of Pearl Jam and Public Enemy.

The Letter E

onE a day for all of may...

Cauliflower au gratin. I ate some last week. I probably haven't had cauliflower au gratin since 6th grade. But last week broke the streak. As well as my heart. And my nose.

When I was in 6th grade I would buy my lunch from school. Only on Wednesdays though. That was pizza day. Square-pizza day, actually. I remember buying two slices (or squares) of pizza...which was a bit radical back then because everyone usually got one. You got one square and then some vegetables. I found out how to work the system though. 2 slices. No vegetables. Same price. I was a happy 6th grader on Wednesdays.

Well...until I had to go out to the bike rack to face Alex Li. He was older. He was bigger. He had long hair. And he wore one of those chain-wallet things. And I think he wore Jencos and Doc Martins. Everyone was scared of Alex Li.

King Size

one a day for aLL of may...

I'm a little upset by the false advertising of King Size candy bars. Sure, a King Sized Snicker comes in a big, King Sized package, but when you open it up, you don't find a massive, bar-of-gold-esque Snickers. You find two smaller Snickers in there. This whole "King" size doesn't exist. If I wanted two smaller Snickers, I would have gotten a "Fun" size. All a "King" size is is two "Fun" sizes wrapped together.

King sized beds are King Sized. It's one enormous bed. Not two twin beds pushed up against each other. Don't lie to me and tell me a King Size Snicker is fit for a king. A "King" size Snickers is only two "Twin" sized Snickers not fit for a king. If I wanted two twin candy bars, I would have purchased a Twix. Or an Almond Joy. Or a Mounds. Or a Nutto Bar.

Do we really need a "King" sized anything? We have stuff that you can get Super Sized. Biggie Sized. Jumbo Sized. And King Sized. I think we should have the option for "Obese Size." Don't waste my time with this "Biggie" light weight crap. With the amount of stuff that we Americans enjoy BIG, I would have thought someone would have complained by now about this whole, King Sized lie about King Sized Snickers. Perhaps America is content with two Twin, "Fun" sized Snickers in a King Sized wrapper. Or perhaps America is too Tony Danza to notice.

M & Ms

Day a one for May of all...

No one knows what M & Ms stands for. I've asked around. All people can come up with is: "Mars." Oh, thanks. That's helpful people. What about the OTHER M??? It isn't just Ms. You aren't eating a handful of Ms (that do melt in your hand, and everyone knows it). You are eating M AND Ms. Two Ms. So what does it stand for?

I did some research. Apparently, the creators are Forrest Mars Sr. and F. Bruce Murrie. We all know about Mars...so what happened to Murrie?

I did some more research. R. Bruce Murrie is the son of William Murrie - the unsung President of Hershey Chocolate Company. Hmmm. Mars and Hershey. The Chocolate Juggernauts. Two companies from originally one idea. I'd like to think the parting of ways originated from a massive chocolate battle - one enormous, cocoa-bean apocalyptic show down. The end result would be the creation of two companies and both Mars and Murrie would get a pie in the face.

Sit Boo Boo Sit, Good Dog

One a May for all of day...

Our dog has a toy bone that she chews. She sits there gnawing away for hours on this thing. She loves it. Pure, chewy entertainment. This got me thinking...

What if "chewing" was entertainment to us? Imagine carving out an hour block on your schedule with nothing but a good stick of gum. You're there, sitting there on the couch, passing the day with a good chew.

Friend: What are you doing?

You: Chewing.

Friend: Yeah, I see that. But why are you just sitting there?

You: I'm just enjoying my chew.

Friend: You're just chewing?

You: Well, I'm enjoying also. I'm chewing and enjoying. I'm doing two things, I guess.

Emoticons

OADFAOM...

You all know about Emoticons. It's "emotional shorthand." If I'm happy and I am interested in communicating that emotion, I no longer have to actually write it out (like a caveman would). I can simply type a colon, followed by a parentheses (like a college grad would). In case you haven't been around a computer in the past 15 years, I will demonstrate:

:)

See...it's a sideways smiley face. :) I'm smiling. I'm happy. I wanted to communicate that to you. But not in a way that one might confuse as being sincere. I am not going that far. I'm not going to elaborate on my happiness. I'm not even going to communicate in person (like people do). I'm simply going to communicate through rearranging punctuation.

Now, I'm sad. :( And now I'm crying. ;( And now I have a unibrow. }:(

And now I am a unibrow-cyclops with my mouth open. }*0

And now I am a unibrow-cyclops with an ampersand for a mouth. }*&
I'm really not sure what that emoticon communicates about my current emotion... Maybe that I'm constipated?

Close but no Oppression

one a day for all of ay-may

Yesterday I spoke these words aloud, "Ahh....close but no cigar." Upon reflection, I realized that I have no idea what this expression actually means. I think it should be removed from even the outskirts of our vernacular. No one gives away free cigars anymore for getting a right answer. I'm not sure that this practice was ever done, actually. Who has a sackful of cigars they carry around with them to give other people when they happen to answer a question correct? Honestly. And who decided that a cigar (of all things (for goodness sake)) would be the worthy reward for a correct answer?

What would you do if you opposed smoking and yet received a cigar for a correct answer? Could you trade it in for, say, a handful of lima beans? Does the person with a sackful of cigars simultaneously carry around a sackful of lima beans that the non-smokers could take advantage of? If they don't, that's a bit discriminatory to the non-smokers of the world, don't you think? Oh, I see...only the "SMOKERS" get rewarded if they get an answer right. All you non-smokers get nothing but a smile and a thumbs up.

It's this type of discrimination that slowly erodes our communities, our neighborhoods, our cities and eventually our country. "Close but no cigar" caters to smokers at the expense of non-smokers in theory, for it assumes that only those who smoke are worthy to receive a reward for precision and excellence. It indirectly indoctrinates the next generation to see a divide between humanity - the worthy are those who smoke cigars...and the unworthy don't. The slippery slope begins there. Soon, the smokers see the non-smokers as not only not worthy, but as lower, as "less human." Once they are seen as inferior, they can be marginalized and caricatured. And once this happens, they can be oppressed and treated with blatant hostility, injustice, and disrespect. Do you want to see this happen?

Do you want to see a world divided like this - saturated with oppression, discrimination, and injustice? I suggest you do as I do, and refrain from the expression "close but no cigar."

Jinx! Buy Me a Coke

one a day for all of MAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You remember what it was like at the junior high cafeteria table during lunch hour (block A or B?). You would be talking with your friends about last night's Saved by the Bell episode (it used to be on Prime Time television, didn't it?) and suddenly you would be saying the exact same thing in unison with the person directly across from you (they may or may not have been enjoying a Slim Jim). Now, you have three options here. You can 1) chuckle, giggle and snicker at the odd coincidence, 2) remain dumbfounded and perplexed and therefore silent by the irony, or 3) quickly shout, "Jinx! Buy me a coke!" to which the other person (the jinxee) was then obligated to remain silent until released from the jinx. The jinx was officially released by the aforementioned jinxer's speaking of the jinxee's name. However, depending on the charity (or lack thereof) of the jinxer, the jinxee could remain silent beyond reason and decide to "break the jinx" (and the rules) and begin speaking. The penalty for such behavior would result in the purchasing of a can of Coca Cola Classic (they actually used to be 50 cents) for the jinxer.

So what happens when both people opt for option #3 and shout "Jinx! Buy me a coke!" in unison? Were they both jinxed? Did it simultaneously negate the jinx? Was their a "second-tiered" jinx one could say, like, "Jinx! Buy me a can of snap pees!"? I'm not sure and I can't remember. But I honestly think that a simultaneous jinx would make the universe implode. Or at least Slim Jim into oblivion.

The First Three Things That Came to Mind

One a day for all of May...

Is it me, or am I the only one who has seriously thought about storing all of my toe nail clippings in a big mason jar?

----

Asparagus pee. Somebody help me out here people. You all know what it smells like. No answers. Scientific research needs to be done. Why? Why?! WHY??!??!??!?!

----

And by the way, what's the deal with cheese? The other day, I pulled some out of the fridge and it had a spot of green mold on it. Isn't cheese, by definition, mold? Mold grows on mold? And that's bad?!? We can eat the mold but not the mold that grows on mold? Does this apply to fungus as well? Do little, disgusting green mushrooms grow on normal mushrooms? I'm confused here, people.

Shirley Ellis - My Dairy Queen

One a day for all of...well....you know....

Matthryn Matthryn bo Batthryn banana fanna fo Fatthryn
Fee fie Mo Matthryn. Matthryn!

You know the song. You sang it in junior high (and high school (and college))). But did you know that it was a record that was actually #3 on the Billboard charts in 1965? I didn't. And it has other lyrics as well, I discovered. Here are the lyrics that basically explains what in the world is going on with all these bananas and fo fannas:

The first letter of the name, I treat it like it wasn't there
But a B or an F or an M will appear
And then I say bo add a B then I say the name and Bonana fanna and a fo
And then I say the name again with an F very plain
and a fee fy and a mo
And then I say the name again with an M this time
and there isn't any name that I can't rhyme

Please just watch this and get educated...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MJLi5_dyn0

Or if you are really brave...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6ycaH1Mzy0

Double Monkey

One a May for all of day...

We are officially into double digits, yall! Woo-wee! Wee-woo!! Pee Poo!!! See Through!! Pee-eww!!! Pea Stew!!!! Knee Glue!!!!! Tree Dew!!! Bee Flew!!!! Glee Chew!!!! Mee Moo!!!!!!! Me, You!!!! We, Who???? Sea Clue!!!!!! Tea, Blue!!!!! Free Zoo!!!!

Any takers??

May 10th. 2008. Only 21 more days of Madness to go.

Man, I hate this.

Blame it on "Blame it on the Rain"

one A dAy for All of mAy...

I found myself singing Milli Vanilli's "Blame it on the Rain" yesterday and as is my custom, I analyze and critique the lyrics. Here we have a sad story via really bad song about a man who "said good bye" and thus "sacrificed a good love" but is now feeling regret about the decision. He looks back on a poorly thought-through break up and decides that he "gotta blame it on something, gotta blame it on something." So he does what any rational, cultured, educated person does. He blames it on precipitation.

The part that never really stood out to me before but now does is the line, "Whatever you do, don't put the blame on you." This is clearly denial. I can see it now: No, no, it can't be my fault for prematurely breaking up with a "good love." It is just out of the question. It is isn't even an option that I might possibly be wrong here. It was the rain's fault. It was fallin' fallin'. And....and....(looking around frantically searching for something else)....I'll blame the stars! Yeah, that's it! It was the stars' fault! They shine at night. That is clearly blameworthy. But whatever I do, I won't put the blame on me.

I think I am going to use that excuse the next time Kathryn gets upset with me. "Matt, you said you would empty the dish washer." And I'll go, "Hey, don't look at me. Blame the precipitation. It was fallin fallin." Who blames rain?!? Honestly, people.

Oranges: Impenetrable Security System of Risk

Still, one a day for all of May...

There is nothing worse than spending an inordinate amount of time peeling an orange by hand to find out upon consumption that the orange is bad. You spend countless minutes (and seconds) carefully wedging your fingers between the thin outer peel/crust of protection and the soft, fragile, fruit beneath, pulling back and discarding the unnecessary "orange-bark" miniature-bit by miniature-bit. The anticipation builds. The suspense suspends. You anxiously await the first bite of pure, sweet, Florida Orange, the literal "fruit" of all of your labors.

And so you do. And something doesn't taste quite right. This isn't how an orange is supposed to taste, you think. So you keep chewing and give another orange wedge a try. You reason that maybe that first wedge tasted funny, but the rest will be good. And your reasoning turns out to be faulty. The rest is not good. It is, in fact, bad. Very bad. It tastes like chemicals. It is exceptionally chewy. It shouldn't be this chewy. It shouldn't taste like chemicals. It shouldn't be this way...not after all those countless minutes (and seconds) of peeling, discarding, wedging, wincing, gerunding, and tapping.

Pure Madness.

Conserving Water While Losing Dignity

One a day for all of May...

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Last night, I took a shower with a bucket. Now, don't misunderstand me. I didn't use a bucket to shower myself. I brought an empty bucket with me into the shower to collect the water that dripped off of my dirty body. Why did I do that? To conserve water for watering the yard. Translation: To save money on our water bill.

There I was in the shower standing next to an enormous 5 gallon bucket. I couldn't really tell where the most effective water-collecting spot to put it was. I tried beside me, hoping to catch some of those long, thick streams that seem to fall from my elbows. But it didn't seem to do the trick. So I then I thought about straddling it, having it be directly under me. This seemed to work fairly well, but covered the drain...so what didn't get collected by the bucket didn't get collected by the plumbing either.

Despite the awkwardness at times, I think it is a good idea. Brilliant even. Why waste all that water when you can snag it and pour it on your plants. It really sucks to be a plant, come to think of it. You get peed on my dogs and then dumped with 5 gallons of someone's dirty bath water.

My Dog Loves Urine

One a day for all of May...

Our dog has a propensity of sticking her face in urine. We go on a walk around the neighborhood and she incessantly stops to plunge her snout into a bush, a telephone pole, or a tuft of grass just to inhale a fresh wave of urine odor. She loves it. And I don't quite understand.

I don't understand why she would be so thrilled with that smell and not others (like freshly cut cedar, or roasted almonds). Sure...I know some dog before us has decided to "mark its territory" with a quick little squirt of pee, but why does my dog take the time to actually investigate? Perhaps she was thinking of "marking her territory" on that spot and wanted to make sure she wasn't going to get herself into some trouble with the previous "territory owner."

Ok...help me understand how urine equals territory. Everywhere one pees, that's now your property? That's how it works?! That is the #1 real estate law in the dog world, apparently. And what is with this global take-over mindset? I've seen dogs pee all over the place. Oh, so every single spot is now yours? That's really selfish. And a bit tyrannical and totalitarian, if you ask me. The dogs don't even utilize their new "territory" once they "mark it" anyway. They just pee on it, claim it as theirs, and move on. They may never come back to it again, but hey, they peed on it, so it's theirs. And my dog comes along behind them and breathes it all in...every last sniff of pure, dog urine.

¡Madness de Mayo!

¿Uno un día para todo Mayo?

May 5th. Cinco de Mayo. Today we celebrate Mexico. On May 5th, a long time ago, they became independent. We celebrate their independence. I'm not really sure what they were so dependent on. I am fairly ignorant on the whole holiday in all honesty. But that doesn't mean that I won't participate in the celebration. I will celebrate Mexico's independence. There is nothing like partying and celebrating the national history of a nation whose history I know nothing about.

It is a bit unfortunate that the Spanish word "Mayo" happens to be the American shorthand for mayonnaise. If you didn't know better, you would think Mexico was celebrating mayonnaise. A huge national holiday for whipped fat.

Confused....again

One a day for all of May...

A number of days ago, I stood in our backyard surveying the landscape. Wet. Everything was soaked. It had rained pretty hard the night before and now the earth was wet. The blades of grass were carrying beads of water. Puddles had formed in certain areas. As I metaphorically drank the scene in, one thought occurred to me.

Where do squirrels go when it rains?

I looked up in the branches for squirrels. Not in that tree. And nope, not in that tree over there. So I thought, those squirrels are probably a few houses down, in someone else's trees. But this surely can't be right. I looked across the way to our neighbor's trees. No squirrels. No squirrels anywhere.

Where do they take shelter amidst the downfall?
Do they even have a place to hide at all?
What would happen if a squirrel got wet?
Does the squirrel have the capacity to be upset?
When it rains and pours, do they climb up high?
(For surely a branch can't keep them dry).
Do they burrow in holes simply out of fear?
Or are they wizards and just disappear?

Banana Runts

One a day for all of May...

I have been thinking about this for some time. There are a few food items that people either really like or really hate...without much middle ground in between. Loathing or Loving. For example: Banana Runts. You either comb through your bag of Runts to remove them or to savor them. I've been asking around and this seems to be true. Although in my informal surveys, I have (iHave) discovered that most people prefer the "hate" option. By the way, when was the last time you had a Runt? I can't remember. It has had to have been several years. That's hard to imagine that there really has been a Runt depletion in my life for YEARS (iWow).

Same way with coconut. You either love it or hate it. I love it. I also love Banana Runts. But hey, I'm also writing a blog at 7:00 am on Saturday morning. And I'm in desperate need of a shower.

Pros and Cons

Yesterday in the shower I was trying to think of the pros and cons of being either a professional or a con-man. Here is what I've come up with:

Professional

Pros:
-Well, you're a professional
-The title demands respect
-You probably get paid a lot of money
-You are good at what you do

Cons:
-The title can't be good for humility
-You are only really good at one specific area/niche
-People will demand much of you and your time

Con-man

Pros:
-You get to act (which is fun)
-You don't have to punch a time sheet
-You don't have to pay taxes

Cons:
-You're breaking the law
-You hurt people by stealing their money
-You run the risk of getting beaten up, shot, killed, or put in prison

So...after weighing the pros and cons of being either a pro or a con, it seems pretty even. Neck and neck, I would say. Cheek and cheek, even. The pros for being a pro are about the same as the number of cons for being a con. And likewise, the cons for pros are about the same as the pros for cons. I suppose the only thing that would tip the scale would be what kind of pro you were. A professional basketball player may be better than a professional pie-eater. A professional athlete would bring in more money than a business professional (and also someone who is told by their friends that they act 'professional.')

I suppose the perfect option here would to be a professional con-man. Or better yet, a professional con-man who cons professional athletes. I'm not sure if there are any cons to that.

May Madness 2: The Return of the Rerun

One a day for all of May...

This is officially Round 2. The SECOND annual May Madness. This is May Madness: The Sequel.

And this got me thinking about sequels. They can be pretty good...or pretty awful. Interestingly enough, most good sequels don't stop there. They go on to form Trilogies. There is something about 3 that is better than 2. And let's face it...if you got a good thing going, you can squeeze a couple more million dollars out of it by rounding out a trilogy.

Home Alone 2. Pretty good. Home Alone 3 dropped Macaulay and...well....you didn't see it did you? Exactly.
Terminator 2 was historic. It was so good, nobody really even talks about Terminator 1. Just Terminator 2. I don't think I've seen either, actually.
Men in Black 2. Uhh....should have just left it alone with #1.

And then you have the Disney sequels. The blockbusting Disney motion pictures that come out in the theater have been known to come out with subsequent and very terrible sequels that you can only purchase in grocery stores. The animation is sloppy, I'm not sure there is any Disney-esque singing involved, and don't count on recognizing any of the voice-over actors. Ever heard of Lion King 2: The Return of Mufasa? You wouldn't have, unless you shop at Food Lion. What about "The Little Mermaid 3: Unda Da Sea Again!!" And what about "The Land Before Time 8"? Uh....yeah.

Some movies rightfully don't make for good sequels. For example, the movie "The One."

Oh, the madness.

Rules of Engagement

With one week left till May Madness, I thought that I would lay down a few ground rules, clear the playing field, and wash the proverbial dishes before we embark on this month of madness together.

Rule #1: I will write a blog post every day for the month of May. You can see how it already is getting a bit mad.

Rule #2: I will write said blog posts every morning in particular. This means I will wake up, go straight to the computer and type whatever it is that comes to my mind in the waking hours of the morning. The madness is almost getting out of hand now.

Rule #3: There is no rule #3. There is so much madness involved with this publicity stunt that I don't know what to do with myself.

There you have it. One week away....and then.....madness.

Like the Mad Hatter. Or a Mad Scientist. Or a Mad Ostrich.

2.5 Weeks and Counting

Two words: May Madness.

It's coming.

It's coming much like Y2K came and went, with all of its anticipatory pomp, all of its promised apocalyptic chaos, all of its immanent destruction only to let the world down after having compiled storehouses of vienna sausages, bottled water, and ammunition. Just like Y2K...

It's coming.

It's coming much like Star Wars 1: The Phantom Menace, with its hordes of fans waiting on and camping out upon concrete sidewalks wrapped around movie theaters, dressed up like Darth Vader and wielding light sabers, exchanging a sleepless night for a promised ticket into the opening prequel of a pre-trilogy (which featured our culture's most hated character ever - Jar Jar). Just like Star Wars 1...

It's coming.

It's coming much like the downfall of Macaulay Culkin, with his instant, worldwide stardom as an 8-year-old in Home Alone, his follow-up flops and bad career decisions, his late night alcohol and drug binges as an 11-year-old, and the fact that he is named Macaulay (who names their kid "Macaulay"?). Just like the downfall of Macaulay Culkin...

It's coming. In 2.5 weeks the Madness of May begins. One a day for all of May.
(And whatever happened to Jonathan Taylor Thomas???)

Thought for Food

Sea Monkeys. Think about that for a little bit. See if that doesn't blow your mind after a while. It's like trying to think of one hand clapping. Or eternity. Or the borders of the universe. Or Crystal Pepsi. Or Sprite Remix. Or The Tony Danza Show.

Sea Monkeys. I looked up a few videos on YouTube yesterday about these interesting little things. They are real, aquatic animals that you can purchase. However, you don't bring them home from a petstore in a plastic bag filled with water. You buy a pouch of powder. Like Crystal Light (not Crystal Pepsi) packages that you dump into a pitcher of water. Sea Monkey powder. And before you know it - the powder mixes with the water and turns into living, breathing, moving underwater monkeys. I'm not sure if I had any of these Sea Monkeys growing up. But now I really want some.

Why Sea Monkeys? Who chose that name?
Did you know that Manatees are sometimes referred to as Sea Cows? What would happen if Sea Monkeys and Sea Cows were swimming in the same Sea? See? Do Sea Monkeys eat Sea Weed? Or do they smoke Sea Weed?

You also have Sea Lions. I'm pretty sure Sea Lions create Sea Seeds. And listen to Seal. And eat Sea Seals.

What about Sea Badgers? Do they exist? Do Sea Badgers make seeds? Sea Seeds? Do Sea Badgers smoke Sea Weed?

I'm pretty sure Tony Danza smokes Sea Weed.

20/20 in 2020

I was thinking about the television show 20/20 the other day. You all know this show. ABC field investigative journalism. Excellent television. Right up there with 60 Minutes. And Murder She Wrote.

Anyhoo...I was thinking about how this show is going to have a field day in the year 2020. They essentially have their advertising taken care of for the entire year. Some potential slogans:

"Watch 20/20 throughout 2020"

or

"It's 2020...watch 20/20"

or

"20/20 in 2020"

or

"Give us money"

20/20 is going to be an amazing year. I plan on watching 2020 throughout the entire year just to see what they do with the uncanny and albeit unbelievable irony. I just hope there are still things called "televisions" in 2020. And I hope David Schwimmer is still acting in 2020. And I hope Ted Danza is still alive.

Why MTV Should Quit Now

Remember when MTV actually played music videos?!? It was this really novel thing. Music Television. Now they really have no affiliation with music anymore. It's not Music Television anymore; it's Crap Television. CTV. That should be the new name. CTV (not to be confused with Cornelius Van Til).

I don't normally watch MTV (hereafter CTV) due to the fact that we actually get .5 channels in this house (we only pick up ABC...and that is, if one of us is standing by the TV, holding the antennae, and leaning to the side at a 90 degree angle). But when we are on vacation and we have a TV with 999 channels, for some reason I gravitate toward CTV. I suppose I am curious what is happening in the world of music, culture, and the arts. I suppose I want to reconnect with the channel that first exposed me to Aerosmith and Eminem. I suppose I want to actually see a music video. But when I get there - I don't find music. No music videos. No TRL. No "Yo! MTV Raps." Only a group of random 20-somethings thrown together in a house being followed around by cameras. And everyone is making out.

Here is something that needs explaining to me. Why are the characters from the Real World battling it out on the sand with the characters from Road Rules? What is going on here? It's like having the cast from Diff'rent Strokes (sorry, Kathryn, you wouldn't know anything about that) in a cage match with the cast from Webster. Or maybe the cast from Step by Step in a bar fight with the cast from Full House. Frankly, I'm a bit confused. This group of random 20-somethings who have lived together in a plush New York penthouse for the previous 6 months are now all wearing red uniforms and running through an obstacle course of enormous rubber tires on a beach. Why am I watching this? And remind me what any of this has to do with music. At least back in the day on CTV they had....you know....MUSICIANS doing stupid obstacle courses and playing basketball and rapping on stage during Spring Break. Now it's just this random cast of nobodies. I might as well be looking through the blinds at my neighbor's house.

And I miss Coolio. Where did he go? Gangsta's Paradise? Come back, Coolio.

Shoop: Musings on Salt N' Pepa

We've been singing a lot of Salt N' Pepa around the house lately. Shoop. Whatta Man. Push it. Classic hits that influenced a generation. These songs changed the way we thought about the world, about ourselves, and about others. These are timeless songs, to be forever stored in the archives of music revolutionaries. They were the ones who wanted to first "talk about sex, baby," and boy did they. I think every song they wrote had this basic erotic theme running through it. Just think about it. Is there one song they aren't famous for that has something to do with...well....you know?

As I think back on Shoop and Whatta Man, I get a bit confused. Aren't these two really just the same song? They were on the same album. They became popular at the same time. They both have catchy choruses. They both are the same tempo and they sound nearly identical They both are about...well...you know. They are pretty much the same song. One song split into two. They go together in my mind. Just like you can't hear Queen's "We Will Rock You" without it being followed up by "We Are the Champions," so it is with "Shoop" and "Whatta Man" in my mind. I challenge you to find the difference to these songs.

Their most memorable line: "You so crazy, I think I wanna have your baby."

Now this is a fascinating lyric. Pepa (in 'Whatta Man') comes across a man (a mighty, mighty good man) who is humorous. She says that she has finally found someone who can make her laugh. That's exciting. Funny people are hard to find. She found one. And what is her reaction to this exciting discovery? ...I want him to impregnate me. That's just odd. Most girls I know who come across funny guys don't first think to themselves, "I think I want to be pregnant." But of course, that's why Salt N' Pepa gets the big bucks. They think of stuff like that.

Second most memorable line: "Can I get some fries with that shake-shake boobie."

Here, Salt (in the song 'Shoop') asks this particular gentleman for some fries in addition to his "shake-shake boobie." I must be honest, I am at a loss as to what a "shake-shake boobie" actually is. But it is clear. She wants it. And she wants a side of fries, apparently.

Whatchu Talkin' Bout Kathryn?

The following is an actual dialogue that Kathryn and I had one night this week...

Matt: Do you remember that Diff'rent Strokes episode that Adrian mentioned tonight?

Kathryn: I can't remember any Diff'rent Strokes episodes. All I remember was Tootie.

Matt: Tootie was in the Facts of Life. You don't remember Diff'rent Strokes?

Kathryn: I guess not.

Matt: Wait, you're telling me you've never seen an episode of Diff'rent Strokes?

Kathryn: Nope.

Matt: Do you know what "Whatchu talkin' bout Willis?" is?

Kathryn: No.

Matt: Wait! You've never heard the expression "Whatchu talkin' bout Willis???"

Kathryn: Never heard of it.

Matt: Holy crap, I'm writing a blog about this.

The Philosophy of Toothpaste

Every now and then I get to thinking about toothpaste. It's just something I do. It's a hobby. And a habit. It's a hobby-habit. But not a hobbit.

Why is the predominant scent (the predomi-scent) of toothpaste - mint? Why does "mint" have a monopoly on the scent? Just look down the toothpaste aisle. You'll see: Whitening Mint. Fresh Mint. Avalanche Mint. Cool Blue Mint. Chunnel Mint. The craziest they get is - Peppermint. But of course, peppermint is a close cousin to regular mint. I realize mint is a much better aroma than say - hummus - but there are other pleasant smells out there as well.

Consider this - Lemon. When you spray down your kitchen counters with lemoney Lysol, it smells refreshingly pleasant. So, why in the world isn't there a lemon-scented toothpaste? Or what about orange? We recently purchased an orange-scented counter-top spray cleaner and trust me - this smells good. Orange is the new lemon. Good smells. But not good enough for our breath?

Mint seems to have the monopoly on the toothpaste scent. Mint scent. But again, I ask you - why? Ever washed your hands at someone's house who has that good vanilla/cinnamon/lavender soap stuff with the little bits in them? Oh...that smells good. What is wrong with lavender smelling toothpaste? Is it not minty enough for Crest? Would someone with lavender breath be welcomed or shunned? I'm not sure. But the possibilities are endless and yet the toothpaste people feel pretty content with mint. They are mint content. Content with the mint scent.

Clint?

The Writers Strike is Over....

After a good 2 month blog-free vacation, I feel rested, refreshed, and ready to begin collecting my observations and ideas about the world around me. With the real writers strike being officially over now, I feel compelled to begin writing myself. If they can quit striking, so can I. Quit the strike. Strike the strike. Sprite.

Thesis: My dad got me a flashlight for Christmas. Not just any flashlight, mind you. This is a flashlight that does not use batteries. This flashlight is powered by a simple crank that is...well....cranked - somehow powering this interesting little device and enabling it to emit light. Is that all it does? No. It also has a radio in it. That way when the power is out, one can still stay updated with weather reports (all the while cranking it, of course). You may think....surely this is all that this device does? You'd be wrong. It also charges your cell phone. So when the power is out and the house is dark and the feeling of uncertainty is the highest - you can illuminate a room, stay in touch with news updates, and call loved ones to inform them of your safety. It is the perfect apocalyptic, Y2K gizmo.

But to me, the most interesting part about this contraption isn't what all it does....it is the name of this product. It's actual, official name is "The Forever Flashlight EZ Crank Radio Cell Charger." In case you haven't put it together, the name is basically just a list of everything that it is capable of doing. Reading the instructions is actually quite humorous. "When an emergency arises, simply turn the crank on the Forever Flashlight EZ Crank Radio Cell Charger to power it." Another excerpt: "No batteries are needed for the Forever Flashlight EZ Crank Radio Cell Charger." How about a product with a little bit longer name?

I wonder what life would be like if we simply named things by an exhaustive list of what it accomplished. Take a car for example. How about changing its name from "car" to "The EZ Move-Along While Sitting and Listening and Being Air-Conditioned Transporter." Or how about changing the name of "phone" to "The EZ Button-Pushing Communication Device That Goes In and Out of Coverage in Charlotte." What about "book" - "The EZ Multi-paged Flipping Paper Weight with Information In It."

Conclusion: It's good to be back, although I will be honest...I feel a bit rusty. And crusty. And dusty. Trust me. Justly. Busty? Sushi.

Fat Bottomed Christmas

Every now and then (and again), I get somewhat obsessed with a particular song and listen to it as many times as I have access to it. For example, this past Spring was the inauguration of my "Shins" phase, where I mostly listened to their song "Australia" over and over and yet over once more again. At one point in my life, the song on repeat was the New Kids' "Step by Step." (Step One, we can have lots of fun) I can't say that I am proud of that one (or two...or step three). But as it is, for this Christmas season, the song that has selected me (I would have never selected this on my own) is Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls," their 1978 release dedicated to...well....girls with fat bottoms (this is the fifth parenthetical aside in this paragraph).

Apparently Fat Bottomed Girls are worthy of serenading because they "make the rockin' world go round." I suppose this was the case back in 1978. I'm not sure when large-bottomed women stopped making the rockin' world go round but I know that they certainly don't make it spin anymore. I'm not all that sure what is currently making the rockin' world go round, but I'm fairly certain it is no longer girls with fat bottoms. It's probably heroin or something like that. I do know that fat bottomed girls were at least making the rappin' world go round in 1992 when Sir Mix-a-lot announced to the world that he liked "big butts." Maybe the fat bottomed girls made a genre switch from the rockin' world to the rap world. And I would venture to say that they may be in fact still makin' that world go round.

The B-side to Queen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" was a song called "Bicycle Race" where Freddy Mercury sung over and over that "all he wants to do is ride his bicycle." And he wants to ride his bike "where he likes." This is all he wants to do. He gives it to you straight. His bare and honest confession is that all he wants out of life is simply to be able to ride his bicycle wherever he would like to ride it. No restrictions. No parks with closing times. No bike trails roped off. All he wants to do is ride his bike. Wherever he would like. A simple life pursuit. A catchy song. And a really sad song if you think about it.

So for this Christmas as we gather around the ornamented tree with egg nog filling our glass and yuletide cheer filling our heart, we'll be singing "Fat Bottomed Girls" and "Bicycle Race" alongside of the traditional holiday hymns like "O Holy Night" and "O Come All Ye Faithful." Fat Bottomed Girls are makin' the holidays go round for me this year.

Merry Fat Bottomed Christmas.

My New Diet

A number of weeks ago I found myself over at a friend's house for dinner. That friend was Julie Goff. She had Kathryn and I over for what we have later referred to as "a delightful dinner." The fellowship was quite enjoyable and the food was rather impressive (shrimp and goat cheese quesadillas). And when it was time for the first restroom break, my night became even more amusing. They had a scale in the bathroom. A digital one. It had been a long time since I actually weighed myself and so I was quite curious to see what I weighed these days. I have never really been one to be concerned with weight, simply because I have been a walking skeleton for most of my life. (The only period in my life that I was weight-concerned was in high school when I was trying to heap on the pounds for basketball season - only so I wouldn't get mauled by the much larger men in the paint.)

So I stepped on the scale and waited. I was waiting for weight. You could say I was weight-waiting. So after a moment of weight-waiting, it finally registered on the screen. 143 pounds. I gasped in astonishment. That is a far cry away from my all time highest weight - a whopping 190 pounds (this was acquired while living in Baton Rouge due to a steady diet of late night fried chicken fingers, Taco Bell, and pizza). I went back into the other room and reported my terrible news. Somehow or other over the past 2 years I have lost 50 pounds. And that is without the aid of a tapeworm. Julie informed me that I was doing it wrong, that I had to tap on it and let the scale calibrate to zero, and then step on it. I returned to the bathroom with new hopes, with new expectations, and with more weight-waiting.

This time I weighed in at 170 pounds. This was much better than before - but still disappointing. I stood there on that digital scale, peering down at my skeletal frame and made a decision right then and there. I would go on a diet. A diet to gain weight. A diet to get back to 190 pounds.

So far, my new diet has been going great. The second night of my diet involved me eating a late night chicken leg and half a tub of ice cream to my wife's astonishment. The rules of this diet are fairly simple - eat everything. And when you get full, keep eating. And eat a lot of crap that is bad for you. Candy, ice cream, fried foods, soda (though not too much....you remember how delicate my teeth are these days), etc. So far, I have been loving my new diet, though I have been much more lethargic as of late. I have been going for seconds every night at dinner, which has been nice, though the leftovers have been depleted as a result. Breakfasts are still the trickiest meal - they involve preparing something while you are still half asleep. But I make sure to catch up on lunch and dinner.

I wonder how much I weigh now, after a week of pure Thanksgiving gluttony. I did not hold back. And I wish I would have. Several nights I went to bed groaning while holding my sides. But I was still thankful.

Apocalyptic Contentment

This morning as I was packing my lunch (in an old Wal-mart sack), I found myself singing the Temptations' classic "Stand By Me." After a line or two into the first verse, Kathryn joined in - taking the lead vocals and I quickly moved into the "da-dum-dum" bass line. It was pure, musical delight.

And perhaps for the first time ever, I paid attention to the lyrics. And I found myself unexpectedly suspicious. I don't believe that singer. I don't believe that if a girl simply "stands by him," everything will be ok. And not just as a remedy for loneliness, but as the remedy to the end-of-the-world, apocalyptic meltdown that he describes.

The second verse begins: "If the sky that we look upon should tumble and fall, and the mountains should crumble to the sea." He is clearly describing the end of the world. The sky is actually falling. Mountains are crumbling into the sea. This is a picture of what Y2K was supposed to be - worldwide chaos and destruction. Planes crashing. Economies imploding. Mass hysteria. Death to millions. This is the catastrophic, portentous apocalypse.

And he continues, "I won't cry, I won't cry, no, I won't shed a tear just as long as you stand by me." This man is easily satisfied. Upon the advent of doomsday, this man won't even cry. Not one tear will befell his face as he looks upon his house being crushed, all his possessions being destroyed, his entire family screaming in agony as the "sky that we look upon" falls on them. He simply surveys the destruction with an apathetic contentment - because a girl is standing by him. It is the end of the world and this guy could care less just as long as his "darlin" stands beside him.

Frankly, I don't believe him. I love Kathryn to death but if the world was tearing to pieces right before my eyes, I would need a little bit more than just Kathryn standing beside me.

Brace Yourself

I haven't been to the dentist in probably over 2 years. And I went this morning. The following is a true story...

So there I am sitting in the waiting room of a small, modernized dentist office. I'm filling out the little info/bio sheet thingy that they give you with a clipboard. They want to know the name of my previous dentist and my current physician. Well, I don't know their names. So I have to turn back on my phone (they make you turn it off when you walk in....I guess phone calls disrupt their fancy high-tech equipment) and call my wife. Because she knows. And I don't. And now I feel like I'm 14 again.

They bring me back to the room for X-rays and drape that enormous, heavy X-ray protection bib on me. Now, if this thing is supposed to protect my body from X-rays, why aren't they putting anything on my head, especially since they aim that cannon-like X-ray thing 2 inches from my face. I'm sitting there the whole time wondering what kind of brain damage I am undergoing. And meanwhile, as they electro-shock my skull, I'm "trying to hold still" while biting onto those hard, plastic, gum-piercing pieces of film. Why must she position them in a way that lifts up my tongue and presses the razor-edge corner of the plastic 3 inches deep into the sensitive flesh underneath? And why does she honestly need 30 different X-rays?

The main dentist comes in next. She's got to be in her mid-twenties. It is a strange feeling when the professional doctor working on you is younger than you. So she pulls out that gnarled metal hook thing and begins probing into my gums and as she's doing so, she's dictacting some dentist jargon to the other nurse who is filling out my chart. I don't know what they are saying, but I know it doesn't sound good. "We've got a ruptured indocresin on 38....we're going to need to bridge up the mesial on 21....we've got bleeding around the decayed endroscular at 29." Not good when they use works like "ruptured" and "bleeding." I at least know those words.

After they do their thing, the main dentist (the teenager) sits down and reads the damage. She didn't even give me a round figure as to how many cavities I had. She just said "numerous." I have to go back three more times just to fix them all. Three more times. And three hundred dollars later. Not good.
And then she says that she's going to have to do what is called "a deep cleaning," one that involves novacane (yes!!) and drilling. It turns out that some of the "pockets" in my teeth are way too deep and that if she can't fix them, I'll need to see a specialist. Otherwise I risk having my teeth fall out. Not good.
And then she recommended "adult braces." She pulls out the little model set of skeleton teeth to show me what this "new technology" is capable of. No more primitive hunks of metal plastered onto each tooth and tethered with rubber bands, pulling the teeth into their desired position. Oh no. "Adult braces" are basically two clear, plastic retainers that you wear over your teeth. I can only wonder how much this is going to cost. And the sad thing is, I had braces in middle school. More shame. More humiliation. More expenses. Not good.

Before I leave they make me sit through two short videos. One on how to brush. And one on how to floss. I was officially 14 again. "Hold the brush like this....vibrate the brush in your hand gently as you go in clockwise rotations....brush at least two times a day." On the flossing video they actually taught you how to pull out the string and wrap it around your fingers. I'm surprised they didn't play another video on how to tie my shoe.

This year I'm dressing up as a dentist for Halloween. Crentist.

Free Coke and Stomach Troubles

We don't really buy coke in our house. And by "coke," I am referring to all types of "soda," "pop," and "soda pop" (Coke included). Coke can be Coke. And coke can be Coke. But it can't be cooke. Or kreme.

As I was saying, we don't buy this stuff. It is a bit of a luxury. We drink water. Occasionally pink lemonade. Very rarely something with a prefix of "cran," but never really coke. So...anytime I am somewhere and there is free coke, I drink it. And I drink a lot of it. I can't stop.

Tonight we had a picnic for my seminary. There were burgers, brats (ooooh yeah), dogs, and chicken wing stew. And potato salad. And chips. And coke. Lots of coke. Free coke. Coca-cola Classic that is. And how classic it was.

I had three cans in the span of one hour and 45 minutes.

And I felt like I was going to yack the rest of the night. A stomach filled with cans of sugary-carbonated-syrup is not a good mix with junked out, bulk-bought burgers, handfulls of needless Lays Original potato chips, and an unnecessarily large scoop of room-temp potato salad. I think I am actually sweating coke. And about to vomit my entire dinner up onto this computer.

When Chances Diet

I realized something very interesting today. Something very interesting indeed....

A "friend of mine" (who will go unnamed) invited me to go out to lunch with him and a group of people. I knew that I had some things to do that afternoon so I wanted to communicate to this (unnamed) "friend" that there was a possibility that I would show up. And, I might add, it was a pretty good possibility. So I said to this "friend" (Dave Kulp), "There is a...fat chance that I will be going."

As soon as this sentence left my lips I realized that I had misspoken. A "fat chance" seems to imply that there is not much of a chance in me going. So I corrected myself and said the exact opposite, "I mean, there is a...slim chance that I will be going."

And of course, this didn't really correct my previous statement. I still implied that the chances were low for me going out to lunch. Hmmm. Fat chance. Slim chance. I guess it doesn't really matter the exact "weight" of the chance, as soon as you designate it, you mean, "There is not much of a chance in me going." Next time I am going to say, "There is a moderately-sized-average-weight chance that I am going." This should get across what I mean.

Honestly people, how can a chance be "fat" anyway? Maybe the word people are really pronouncing is "phat." Remember when that was cool...to say "phat?" What happened to this linguistic gem? Will it come around and be cool again? Phat chance.

Liars....All Liars

Kathryn and I, united as Matthryn, somehow acquired free tickets to a "jazz club" a week or so back. Kat got them through her work and the day that the tickets were for happened to be on an afternoon where we didn't have much going on. So...we bounced on down to the local jazz club for some smokey, blue-like-jazz.

The event was a silent auction to try and keep afloat a local pottery store here in Charlotte and the "jazz" music was to be the background ambiance. It seemed like a pretty cool idea. We could walk around and check out the pottery and groove to the smokey, sleepy, syruppy jazz.

Well....we sort of did that. We got there and we did walk around and we did look at the pottery...but there was no music in the background. There was a stage, for sure, but it was empty. But we were informed the "jazz" was coming, so we sat down at a table and waited. Let's face it...we were there for the smokey syrup jazz. I really could care less about pottery.

So then the "band" gets up there. Two guys. That's it. One is holding a flute. The other is holding...nothing. And there are two mics set up. I'm a bit confused as to how this is going to work and then...my confusion is broken by the interuption of a full jazz band pouring in over the speakers. Drums, bass, guitars, pianos, brass, etc. The two men start grooving to this pre-recorded, canned "jazz" track and then one grabs the mic and starts singing. My jaw hit the floor. Are we serious here? This is the "jazz band?" This is what I came out for? Two men singing karaoke (and playing a flute) over an instrumental tape?

Not only was it a big let-down, but even for them to be singing (and playing flute) karaoke, they were utterly unprofessional. The main singer (not the flute player) would interact with the "sound guy" in the back IN BETWEEN LYRICS. He'd be in the middle of a Stevie Wonder joint and be singing, "I just called to say..." then look to the sound guy and ask, "Hey, am I loud enough" and then jump right back in and finish the lyric a few beats behind: "I love you." At one point during another song the karaoke singer tried to get somebody's attention to bring him a stool to sit on. Although for some reason, he didn't just ask somebody and interupt his song like he did with the sound guy. So he was singing away and trying to make eye contact with this one guy who was walking close to the stage. He's up there waving his hands because, Heaven-forbid he interupt his song now and actually ask the man for a stool. Somehow he gets his attention and is able to communicate "I want you to bring me a stool" while continuing to sing. This involved a lot of distracting pointing and gesturing and leaning away from the mic to grab the stool and mumbling some forgotten lyrics as he tried to set it up and get comfortable....while singing. It was a total joke.

I think Kathryn and I were the only ones actually listening to this. Everyone else was too concerned with the pottery, which ended up being the main attraction anyway. We left soon after that with a justified sense of music-righteousness, knowing that what just happened in there was not only not "jazz," it was not music. Utterly terrible. It may have been redeeming if this guy treated it like a karaoke thing and invited others to come up and sing. I would have dropped it like it was tav.

Worcestershire Sauce and Other Anomalies

How in the world do you pronounce "Worcestershire"? I think everyone pronounces it differently. Some say, "Wore-shuh-shire." Others, "Wore-shuh-sure." And yet others, "Wore-chester-shire." There are a myriad of pronunciational options....and it drives me crazy. What is this word? What is it even referring to? Was Worcestershire the name of some English villa where it was invented? Is it the name of the dude who invented it? All mysteries.

Untiil I checked out Wikipedia. And they provided two pronunciations that I have not heard yet: "Wuster-sure" and "Wuster-sheer." Unbelievable. Turns out this stuff does come from Wuster-sure, England. Big whoop.

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When you pop in a DVD, it usually takes you to the Main Menu. I was thinking about that lately. "Main Menu." Why would we call this initial screen a "menu"? A menu is the list of dishes available at a restaurant. The options on the DVD opening page are not this at all. So, how random, in reality, is it to refer to this opening page a "menu?" It makes just as much sense to me to refer to it as a "Main Law Code." Or a "Main Itinerary." Seriously, people. A menu? Worlds of food and digital/visual entertainment collide.

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This past weekend Kat and I took a flight from Charlotte out to Texas. I hate flying. I am terrified of it. So, as we were sitting there waiting to take off, the flight attendant walks around and checks to make sure everyone is buckled in and sitting upright and all that. No big deal. Standard procedure. We had our window closed (because frankly, I can't look out the window without feeling like I am going to die) and she told us to open it. Well, no one questions why anymore. So we did. "Hey, why do you want us to open the windows? I don't understand why that is such a big deal?" Her reply was assuring, "In the event that we crash, I need to be able to sufficiently see our surroundings to make decisions." That is what I need to hear as I sit there sweating and panting in terror already. I have to open up my window because we just might be crashing. And, I might add, I don't really think that my open window is going to really accomplish much if we are all hurdling to the earth from 23,000 feet at 400 miles an hour. But I will comply to your silly rules.

Bicentennial Blogging

This is a self-congratulatory post. It is to celebrate the fact that this is my 200th time to do this. Ever since I started "blogging" way back in Feb of '05, I never dreamt I would keep it going this long. I never would have thought that I would make it this far. Wow. 200 posts. I feel like something. I feel like someBody. I am a somebody. I am important.

Feb '05 to Aug '07. Exactly 2.5 years. 30 months. 200 posts. That's almost 7 posts a month for 2.5 straight years (well, granted, May Madness throws those numbers off a bit). What a wonderful ride it has been.

Here's to public narcissism.

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.