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.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 15, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, September 28, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, August 31, 2007
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.
---
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.
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.
---
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.
---
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.
Monday, August 20, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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.....
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.....
Saturday, July 21, 2007
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
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
----
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.
1. The Andy Griffith Show
2. Cheers
3. Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?
4. The Brady Bunch
5. The Beverly Hillbillies
----
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.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
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."
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."
Thursday, May 31, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
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.
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.
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