We drive by a big cemetery on the way to Will’s baseball games. 100% of the time, the boys ask what that is out the window with all the trees, flowers and big stones sticking out of the ground. I tell them it’s a cemetery and they yell at me saying no it’s not, its something else. I say, it’s a graveyard. They light up with glee and say, “Yah, it’s a graveyard where they bury people.”
Last time was the same as always except just Will (the six year old) was in the car with me.
“Daddy what is that called again?”
“What, the cemetery?”
“Yes, what is the cement-tary called again?”
“A cemetery is a cemetery. Some people also call it a graveyard.”
“Yah, a graveyard where they bury people.”
“Yep, people are dying to get in that place.” I laugh obnoxiously, but Will doesn’t bite. He has more questions.
“Do people’s skin go to Heaven?”
“No, all that gets buried. Or it gets incinerated.”
“I thought the skin goes to Heaven. But what is incinder-dated.”
“Incinerated. Burned. It is when peoples’ bodies are turned into ashes instead of getting buried.”
“What are ashes?”
“They are like what you get after a campfire. They are powdery and are collected and kept in an urn. Or some people want their ashes spread out in cool places like the mountains, ocean or Wrigley Field.”
“What is an urn?”
“An urn is like a vase. Just like a vase keeps flowers, an urn keeps the ashes.”
“I am going to ash you.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I am going to ash you and keep you in a vase. And I am going to dress mommy up like a princess and bury her in the ground in a glass coffin.”
“I hope you don’t plan on ashing me anytime soon. That is fine. I wouldn’t mind if you ash me, but not until after I’m dead.”
“Daddy?”
Shit. I thought we were done. “Yes Will?”
“If the skin doesn’t go to Heaven and if you are ashed and don’t have any skin or bones, what goes to Heaven?”
“Your soul goes to Heaven.”
“What is your soul?”
“Your soul is invisible. It is what makes you who you are. It is what you believe in and what helps you make decisions in life. It is inside you and goes to Heaven when you die.”
“Or Hail.”
“What?”
“Your soul goes to Heaven if you were good and it goes to Hail if you weren’t good.”
“Well, lookie here we are at the baseball field. These were great questions and a good talk buddy, but you have to get in baseball mode now. You need to think about swinging that bat and being a good teammate. Ready?”
“I’m hungry and I have to poo.”
I’m just trying not to screw these kids up. Thank goodness I brought snacks and knew where the closest bathroom was to the baseball field. I don’t want to go to Hail. And I don’t want my son to ash me anytime soon.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Talk to the Nun - *UPDATED*
So, there is this nun that is always in my office. I often put my hand up her skirt. Well, it’s not really a skirt. I checked The Google and the proper terminology is a habit. I stick my fingers up the nun’s skirt and she lashes out like a psycho bitch.
I should back up. I have posted a couple photos of the nun in the past. And I believe I have mentioned that a favorite tactic of mine when a co-worker is bugging me is to tell them to talk to the nun, as I then ignore them and hold the nun out at full extension flailing away at said co-worker.
My pal Steph was behaving like my three year old a few blogs back and asked me a bajillion questions, mostly about the nun. Wait, my three year old doesn’t ask me questions about the nun. I don’t think he knows what a nun is. I’d tell him they exist so that when he is older he can date girls that wear pregnant nun costumes for Halloween or so his future girlfriend can get the kink on by coming out of the bathroom in a sexy nun outfit. Oh, and they also exist as complementary characters in The Sound of Music in order to help the Von Trapp family escape after their circus Vaudeville act to the mountains where they sing “the hills are alive…” which is thereby now often bellowed by idiots (like me) when we go on hikes in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado because it just never really gets old. Oh yes, and there is just one more important thing about nuns I’d be sure to tell my three year old. Be careful of Sister Mary Stigmata and definitely don’t call her a fat penguin. Just get the band back together and have an orange whip.
So Stephanie asked and I aim to please, so here we go. Pics of the nun to get you in the mood and then Steph's questions along with the answers:
What is the story of the nun who looks like a dude on your desk?
I use her to intimidate the work peeps. No one gives a nun shit, especially if my hand is up her sexy black skirt. I lost her white hat so she looks even more like a scary dude. But have you ever seen a real nun that isn’t scary looking?
Where did you get her, or from whom?
My pal Kimmie sent her to me. I can’t remember why. It might have been a birthday present, which is coming up again soon, by the way. 42 will be the new 32 on July 9th. Just so you know. Anyway, Kimmie is a total nut job and her sending me a nun puppet is standard operating procedure for her.
What does she mean to you?
The nun or Kimmie? Actually it doesn’t matter because it’s the same answer. She means good laughs, shenanigans, and always leaving people in a semi-state of shock and bewilderment.
How do you keep your bamboo looking so healthy?
I water it and nurture it with tender loving care. Or, perhaps I had a lot more stalks in there and I simply pull out the dead ones. It’s almost time to replenish.
What’s your secret?
I just told you the bamboo secret. My other secrets can be bought on eBay by the highest bidder.
Also, what is the nun holding?
She isn’t holding anything. Other than a sassy attitude and a powerful punch.
Are those punching gloves or is she shaking those things I forget the name of?
You Canadians sure talk funny. Those punching gloves are called boxing gloves and no they are not nunchackus, tambourines, or rattles. She’s got little levers up her skirt that I can move with my hands to take punches at my enemies / co-workers.
Is the nun from Vegas (she sort of looks like she might be)?
She is not from Vegas. She was mailed from California, but upon further disrobing of the nun I have determined she is from China and although she does give a soothing backrub with a series of jabs to the spine, she does not give happy endings.
I hope that this satisfies Steph’s curiosity and also provides others with valuable insight as to why I often put my fingers up the skirt of a nun causing her to involuntarily flail her arms about wildly.
***UPDATE***
I was cleaning up my office area and I found the nun's stoopid hat under a stack of unopened Playboy magazines. How ironic is that? FYI, we get comp magazines up the wazoo over here and the gals always put the Playboy in my mailbox. They come in those dark plastic wrappers I guess so the mailman doesn't get off delivering the mail once a month. I just haven't found the time or reason to rip open the Playboy and peruse it here at the office. But I am saving them for some reason. Maybe for the same reason guys have nipples - just in case.
Anyway, I found the tranny nun's wimple and did my best to afix it for a picture. Here you go:
I should back up. I have posted a couple photos of the nun in the past. And I believe I have mentioned that a favorite tactic of mine when a co-worker is bugging me is to tell them to talk to the nun, as I then ignore them and hold the nun out at full extension flailing away at said co-worker.
My pal Steph was behaving like my three year old a few blogs back and asked me a bajillion questions, mostly about the nun. Wait, my three year old doesn’t ask me questions about the nun. I don’t think he knows what a nun is. I’d tell him they exist so that when he is older he can date girls that wear pregnant nun costumes for Halloween or so his future girlfriend can get the kink on by coming out of the bathroom in a sexy nun outfit. Oh, and they also exist as complementary characters in The Sound of Music in order to help the Von Trapp family escape after their circus Vaudeville act to the mountains where they sing “the hills are alive…” which is thereby now often bellowed by idiots (like me) when we go on hikes in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado because it just never really gets old. Oh yes, and there is just one more important thing about nuns I’d be sure to tell my three year old. Be careful of Sister Mary Stigmata and definitely don’t call her a fat penguin. Just get the band back together and have an orange whip.
So Stephanie asked and I aim to please, so here we go. Pics of the nun to get you in the mood and then Steph's questions along with the answers:
What is the story of the nun who looks like a dude on your desk?
I use her to intimidate the work peeps. No one gives a nun shit, especially if my hand is up her sexy black skirt. I lost her white hat so she looks even more like a scary dude. But have you ever seen a real nun that isn’t scary looking?
Where did you get her, or from whom?
My pal Kimmie sent her to me. I can’t remember why. It might have been a birthday present, which is coming up again soon, by the way. 42 will be the new 32 on July 9th. Just so you know. Anyway, Kimmie is a total nut job and her sending me a nun puppet is standard operating procedure for her.
What does she mean to you?
The nun or Kimmie? Actually it doesn’t matter because it’s the same answer. She means good laughs, shenanigans, and always leaving people in a semi-state of shock and bewilderment.
How do you keep your bamboo looking so healthy?
I water it and nurture it with tender loving care. Or, perhaps I had a lot more stalks in there and I simply pull out the dead ones. It’s almost time to replenish.
What’s your secret?
I just told you the bamboo secret. My other secrets can be bought on eBay by the highest bidder.
Also, what is the nun holding?
She isn’t holding anything. Other than a sassy attitude and a powerful punch.
Are those punching gloves or is she shaking those things I forget the name of?
You Canadians sure talk funny. Those punching gloves are called boxing gloves and no they are not nunchackus, tambourines, or rattles. She’s got little levers up her skirt that I can move with my hands to take punches at my enemies / co-workers.
Is the nun from Vegas (she sort of looks like she might be)?
She is not from Vegas. She was mailed from California, but upon further disrobing of the nun I have determined she is from China and although she does give a soothing backrub with a series of jabs to the spine, she does not give happy endings.
I hope that this satisfies Steph’s curiosity and also provides others with valuable insight as to why I often put my fingers up the skirt of a nun causing her to involuntarily flail her arms about wildly.
***UPDATE***
I was cleaning up my office area and I found the nun's stoopid hat under a stack of unopened Playboy magazines. How ironic is that? FYI, we get comp magazines up the wazoo over here and the gals always put the Playboy in my mailbox. They come in those dark plastic wrappers I guess so the mailman doesn't get off delivering the mail once a month. I just haven't found the time or reason to rip open the Playboy and peruse it here at the office. But I am saving them for some reason. Maybe for the same reason guys have nipples - just in case.
Anyway, I found the tranny nun's wimple and did my best to afix it for a picture. Here you go:
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Lost in Text Translation
I got a text from a friend late last night. Here it is, word for word, letter for letter:
“I don’t like Judy anyone txting me. T like to rid myself OT thetate pummuny to Wawa. Month OT their.”
My response was, “My goodness! Um, what?”
The response this morning was, “Oh my god. What was that? Sleep txting.”
I have heard of sleep walking. I have heard of drunk texting. But I have never heard of sleep texting.
Please tell me what you think she was trying to say. It will be fun. Winner gets a gold star on their ass.
“I don’t like Judy anyone txting me. T like to rid myself OT thetate pummuny to Wawa. Month OT their.”
My response was, “My goodness! Um, what?”
The response this morning was, “Oh my god. What was that? Sleep txting.”
I have heard of sleep walking. I have heard of drunk texting. But I have never heard of sleep texting.
Please tell me what you think she was trying to say. It will be fun. Winner gets a gold star on their ass.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Interviewing Tips
We are hiring over here at the corporate headquarters of my global advertising empire. Which means I get the fucking pleasure of deleting tons of unqualified resumes before settling on a short stack of okay sounding candidates along with perhaps a few highly qualified individuals that are probably praying I can’t access their Facebook, MySpace, or Twitter pages.
Here are some helpful tips for any of you that may be going through the job seeking process at some point in the future. These tips are based on real time experiences that I have had in the last week during our interviewing process.
•If you don’t have any experience at all, don’t bother applying (unless it’s an entry level position). The position I need to fill is very niche. I have gotten applicants from across the board. For example, if I’m trying to hire an experienced chef, don’t apply on the grounds that you eat food and therefore are qualified.
•If you are a struggling actress in Hollywood looking to move back to Denver to find some work while you figure out your next career move, don’t send me your resume and headshots. I don’t care how cute you are with your fake Hollywood smile and how big and curvy your fonts are. You aren’t a candidate.
•DON’T WRITE YOUR COVER LETTER IN ALL CAPS.
•Don’t tell me you are a perfectionist and then have two misspellings and use the word ‘know’ instead of ‘no’ by accident in your cover letter.
•If one of the parameters is seven or more years of experience, please don’t apply if you just graduated college.
•During the interview, figure out at least one question to ask me. Any question. Ask why I have a nun puppet on my desk or how to fix a flux capacitor on a Sunday. But for Pete Yorn’s sake, don’t just sit there and say you don’t have any questions!
•If I ask you how your best friend would describe you, don’t tell me party animal, hooker, ho, or swindler.
•If I ask you how your old boss would describe you, please don’t look like a deer in headlights and ask if I’m going to actually talk to your old boss.
•If you just ate lunch, even though I may be wearing mine on my shirt, I suggest you remove the poppy seeds from your teeth. They are distracting.
•If I ask you to answer something succinctly and eleventeen minutes later you notice a glazed look in my eyes and my mouth is suspended open, please wrap it up.
•I like a fun and relaxed office too. But please don’t answer seven of my questions with the fact that you just like to have fun.
•Tough is good. But don’t tell me how tough you are for answers to seven of my questions. And especially don’t give me the stink eye while you say it.
This is just from a couple days of resumes and interviews. I’m sure I’ll have more tips soon. Pretty soon I’m gonna have the nun with me in these interviews. If I don’t like how it’s going, I’ll say “Talk to the nun.”
Here are some helpful tips for any of you that may be going through the job seeking process at some point in the future. These tips are based on real time experiences that I have had in the last week during our interviewing process.
•If you don’t have any experience at all, don’t bother applying (unless it’s an entry level position). The position I need to fill is very niche. I have gotten applicants from across the board. For example, if I’m trying to hire an experienced chef, don’t apply on the grounds that you eat food and therefore are qualified.
•If you are a struggling actress in Hollywood looking to move back to Denver to find some work while you figure out your next career move, don’t send me your resume and headshots. I don’t care how cute you are with your fake Hollywood smile and how big and curvy your fonts are. You aren’t a candidate.
•DON’T WRITE YOUR COVER LETTER IN ALL CAPS.
•Don’t tell me you are a perfectionist and then have two misspellings and use the word ‘know’ instead of ‘no’ by accident in your cover letter.
•If one of the parameters is seven or more years of experience, please don’t apply if you just graduated college.
•During the interview, figure out at least one question to ask me. Any question. Ask why I have a nun puppet on my desk or how to fix a flux capacitor on a Sunday. But for Pete Yorn’s sake, don’t just sit there and say you don’t have any questions!
•If I ask you how your best friend would describe you, don’t tell me party animal, hooker, ho, or swindler.
•If I ask you how your old boss would describe you, please don’t look like a deer in headlights and ask if I’m going to actually talk to your old boss.
•If you just ate lunch, even though I may be wearing mine on my shirt, I suggest you remove the poppy seeds from your teeth. They are distracting.
•If I ask you to answer something succinctly and eleventeen minutes later you notice a glazed look in my eyes and my mouth is suspended open, please wrap it up.
•I like a fun and relaxed office too. But please don’t answer seven of my questions with the fact that you just like to have fun.
•Tough is good. But don’t tell me how tough you are for answers to seven of my questions. And especially don’t give me the stink eye while you say it.
This is just from a couple days of resumes and interviews. I’m sure I’ll have more tips soon. Pretty soon I’m gonna have the nun with me in these interviews. If I don’t like how it’s going, I’ll say “Talk to the nun.”
Friday, June 19, 2009
Dead Man Talking
I had another meeting with the old guys earlier this week. This is my volunteer gig where I listen to old guys that are physically and/or mentally disabled. I don’t think I realized how much this experience would affect me. My peeps at the office say I always come back from my old people chats with a hop in my step and twinkle in my eye. How do they know I didn’t just have a Red Bull or got laid? Okay right, the Red Bull option.
I had the best turnout yet. Eight silly old men sitting around a table, shooting the shit. I asked them to talk about their siblings. All of them grew up with brothers and sisters. And then we talked about coolest places they have visited. That turned into a conversation about craziest things they have eaten.
And then one guy went on a huge tangent talking about how he used to be the body guard for Robert Blake. And that he played piano with Blake’s first wife. He said Blake used to make rattlesnake headbands. They’d go out in the desert to hunt for them. They’d shoot the snakes with a 22.
This other crazy guy continued repeating the last couple words of every few sentences. “Rattlesnakes!” “Robert Blake’s wife!”
Another guy was talking about how everyone in his family was nicknamed Gooley. He had nine brothers and sisters. They were way ahead of Chuck Forman’s time. They had Big Gooley, Little Gooley, Pretty Gooley, Papa Gooley, Funny Gooley, Wild Gooley, Dirty Gooley, etc. I couldn’t catch them all.
Another guy is an ex-NFL football player. Big joyful man. He was sitting next to a guy I wrote about last time. A guy that I guess almost died and hadn’t been around for a few months. But this was his second week back and he is doing really well. One of the old farts was talking about eating frog legs and I noticed the big football player talking on the side to this man who everyone thought was going to die.
The football player took the nearly dead man’s hand and said, “Mister (I can’t give real names), I am so happy to see you. I really missed you and I am so glad you are with us.”
The nearly dead man visibly gripped the football player’s hand tighter and said, “Thank you Mister; believe me, I’m glad to be here.” Both men subtly wiped their eyes and rejoined listening to a guy from Long Island talking about eating chipmunks. I wondered if anyone noticed me wiping my eyes too.
“Eating chipmunks!”
11am came along and they started serving lunch early. I reluctantly got up to leave. They all asked if I’d be back next week and I said of course I would. One guy said nice to meet me even though he’s been in these talks with me the last two weeks. Another guy tried to stand up to say goodbye but he nearly fell over his oxygen tank. Another guy couldn’t see my hand when I stuck it out to shake. Another guy was muttering something about Salisbury steak.
Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough.
I had the best turnout yet. Eight silly old men sitting around a table, shooting the shit. I asked them to talk about their siblings. All of them grew up with brothers and sisters. And then we talked about coolest places they have visited. That turned into a conversation about craziest things they have eaten.
And then one guy went on a huge tangent talking about how he used to be the body guard for Robert Blake. And that he played piano with Blake’s first wife. He said Blake used to make rattlesnake headbands. They’d go out in the desert to hunt for them. They’d shoot the snakes with a 22.
This other crazy guy continued repeating the last couple words of every few sentences. “Rattlesnakes!” “Robert Blake’s wife!”
Another guy was talking about how everyone in his family was nicknamed Gooley. He had nine brothers and sisters. They were way ahead of Chuck Forman’s time. They had Big Gooley, Little Gooley, Pretty Gooley, Papa Gooley, Funny Gooley, Wild Gooley, Dirty Gooley, etc. I couldn’t catch them all.
Another guy is an ex-NFL football player. Big joyful man. He was sitting next to a guy I wrote about last time. A guy that I guess almost died and hadn’t been around for a few months. But this was his second week back and he is doing really well. One of the old farts was talking about eating frog legs and I noticed the big football player talking on the side to this man who everyone thought was going to die.
The football player took the nearly dead man’s hand and said, “Mister (I can’t give real names), I am so happy to see you. I really missed you and I am so glad you are with us.”
The nearly dead man visibly gripped the football player’s hand tighter and said, “Thank you Mister; believe me, I’m glad to be here.” Both men subtly wiped their eyes and rejoined listening to a guy from Long Island talking about eating chipmunks. I wondered if anyone noticed me wiping my eyes too.
“Eating chipmunks!”
11am came along and they started serving lunch early. I reluctantly got up to leave. They all asked if I’d be back next week and I said of course I would. One guy said nice to meet me even though he’s been in these talks with me the last two weeks. Another guy tried to stand up to say goodbye but he nearly fell over his oxygen tank. Another guy couldn’t see my hand when I stuck it out to shake. Another guy was muttering something about Salisbury steak.
Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Squeeze Them Cheeks
I usually avoid tags, memes, awards, and the like. I prefer to freestyle, yo. But this one from Sarah is cool because it’s easy and I dig the photo I’m supposed to use. The dealio is to go to your Pictures file and then go in the first folder and pull out the tenth photo to post and write about.
So here you go ladies, gentlemen and Blogger people (heh), take a gander at my offspring. Here is the tenth picture in my first folder:
This is Will when he was four months old. There is a lot of his daddy in him. Note the identical traits we have together:
• Laughing his ass off
• Stupid grin on his face
• Drooling
• Sporting fleece
• Kicking back at a coffee shop while not drinking coffee
• Sparsely covered head
• Never misses a meal
• Totally amused by something that probably nobody else is laughing at
• Big plans for the future
• Up to no good
He is a chip off the old block. Although now he likes to wear dresses, has a full head of hair, and eats like a bird. Otherwise, nothing has changed.
Fun. I am supposed to tag back. Let’s go with the first five odd numbered commenters. So, the owners of the first, third, fifth, seventh and ninth comments have to do this. This may ensure I get no comments, which would suck. So don’t let me down. Or go anonymous if you have to!
So here you go ladies, gentlemen and Blogger people (heh), take a gander at my offspring. Here is the tenth picture in my first folder:
This is Will when he was four months old. There is a lot of his daddy in him. Note the identical traits we have together:
• Laughing his ass off
• Stupid grin on his face
• Drooling
• Sporting fleece
• Kicking back at a coffee shop while not drinking coffee
• Sparsely covered head
• Never misses a meal
• Totally amused by something that probably nobody else is laughing at
• Big plans for the future
• Up to no good
He is a chip off the old block. Although now he likes to wear dresses, has a full head of hair, and eats like a bird. Otherwise, nothing has changed.
Fun. I am supposed to tag back. Let’s go with the first five odd numbered commenters. So, the owners of the first, third, fifth, seventh and ninth comments have to do this. This may ensure I get no comments, which would suck. So don’t let me down. Or go anonymous if you have to!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
A Simple Bless You Would Have Been Fine
“Ahchooooooooooooooooo!”
“What was that?”
“There’s more where than came from.”
“What was that, did you sneeze?”
“Yeah, I sneezed and usually they come in pairs. Hold on.”
“Why did you sneeze?”
“Hold on, I think I have another.”
“Why did you sneeze?”
“You’re not holding, but I think it passed anyway. What do you mean why did I sneeze?”
“What made you sneeze?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you ever just sneeze?”
“No, and I even have allergies. I’m allergic to some foods, cats and Pete Yorn. So why did you sneeze.”
“Oh my God. I don’t know. Pollen. Air. Spring time. I just sneezed. Kick Pete Yorn in the ribs for me.”
“We’ve been talking forever and you have never sneezed before. I can’t kick him until I take him out of the oven. But I am putting on my steel tipped boots. I can’t believe you sneezed.”
“Would you stop with the sneezing interrogation? What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I’m going to clean the toilets with Pete Yorn’s head.”
This all made perfect sense to me. I have strange friends.
“What was that?”
“There’s more where than came from.”
“What was that, did you sneeze?”
“Yeah, I sneezed and usually they come in pairs. Hold on.”
“Why did you sneeze?”
“Hold on, I think I have another.”
“Why did you sneeze?”
“You’re not holding, but I think it passed anyway. What do you mean why did I sneeze?”
“What made you sneeze?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you ever just sneeze?”
“No, and I even have allergies. I’m allergic to some foods, cats and Pete Yorn. So why did you sneeze.”
“Oh my God. I don’t know. Pollen. Air. Spring time. I just sneezed. Kick Pete Yorn in the ribs for me.”
“We’ve been talking forever and you have never sneezed before. I can’t kick him until I take him out of the oven. But I am putting on my steel tipped boots. I can’t believe you sneezed.”
“Would you stop with the sneezing interrogation? What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I’m going to clean the toilets with Pete Yorn’s head.”
This all made perfect sense to me. I have strange friends.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Spelling
I had a new business meeting today. I was with two co-workers and we met with four people on the potential new client side. We were sitting around a conference table having a good meet and greet style chat before talking more specifically about the project. The client wanted to show us a five minute DVD that would help us understand some background. One of the guys hooked up his laptop to a giant flat screen on the wall and we watched the DVD.
Afterwards, we were talking more about ideas and how we might work together. The guy who had hooked up his laptop to the screen was furiously taking notes. The screen was to my left and everyone else was either across from me or to my right. My two co-workers were on the far right so they were looking back toward some of the client side folks, me and the screen was in the background.
The client guy furiously taking notes didn’t realize everything he was doing was going up on the screen. My co-workers were trying really hard not to look, but apparently client guy is a horrible speller. I was on a roll, talking about giant ideas, marketing strategies and all kinds of cool ways to utilize media for their project. He was like a student taking down every word I said. But any big words were constantly coming up with the red underline for being spelled incorrectly. He would delete and retry but I guess he barely ever got one right on the first, second or even third try. So he’d often just move on.
And then there were a few times where I was talking about something he didn’t fully comprehend where he was trying to summarize it for his notes, but it didn’t make sense. He’d write a sentence or two and get midway thru a third before getting hung up and deleting the whole thing and trying again. He’d get a few words down and then get stuck again. Then he’d just delete it and blow off the note taking for that part.
He finally noticed and disconnected his computer from the screen.
I didn’t know any of this until we were driving away. This guy came across as really smart, but he just couldn’t spell or get his thoughts in order. My co-workers said they were struggling to not laugh every time I said a big word.
I’m just glad this guy wasn’t writing stuff like, “bullshit, these guys suck, etc.”
When we win this business, I’m going to have a planning meeting with him where I use lots of made up stuff and marketing buzzwords that don’t pass spell-check.
“We want to be impactful without appearalating to be fugusting to the fluxcapacitor tinkerers who’s paradig-um needs a hypertargeted inside-out of the box approach.”
Call me the Don King of advertising.
Afterwards, we were talking more about ideas and how we might work together. The guy who had hooked up his laptop to the screen was furiously taking notes. The screen was to my left and everyone else was either across from me or to my right. My two co-workers were on the far right so they were looking back toward some of the client side folks, me and the screen was in the background.
The client guy furiously taking notes didn’t realize everything he was doing was going up on the screen. My co-workers were trying really hard not to look, but apparently client guy is a horrible speller. I was on a roll, talking about giant ideas, marketing strategies and all kinds of cool ways to utilize media for their project. He was like a student taking down every word I said. But any big words were constantly coming up with the red underline for being spelled incorrectly. He would delete and retry but I guess he barely ever got one right on the first, second or even third try. So he’d often just move on.
And then there were a few times where I was talking about something he didn’t fully comprehend where he was trying to summarize it for his notes, but it didn’t make sense. He’d write a sentence or two and get midway thru a third before getting hung up and deleting the whole thing and trying again. He’d get a few words down and then get stuck again. Then he’d just delete it and blow off the note taking for that part.
He finally noticed and disconnected his computer from the screen.
I didn’t know any of this until we were driving away. This guy came across as really smart, but he just couldn’t spell or get his thoughts in order. My co-workers said they were struggling to not laugh every time I said a big word.
I’m just glad this guy wasn’t writing stuff like, “bullshit, these guys suck, etc.”
When we win this business, I’m going to have a planning meeting with him where I use lots of made up stuff and marketing buzzwords that don’t pass spell-check.
“We want to be impactful without appearalating to be fugusting to the fluxcapacitor tinkerers who’s paradig-um needs a hypertargeted inside-out of the box approach.”
Call me the Don King of advertising.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Snip Snip Remix
I was laughing at the wit of Ms. Smack and her contraception blog. I then took it upon myself to send her one of my very first posts on Blogger. She was kind enough to read it and let me know she had a good laugh or two. I looked back and only two people that still read my shit today actually commented on it just over a year ago when I first posted it. Since I didn't have any other blog buddies, I know there weren't any non-commenting lurkers either.
A friend of mine is about to go through what I did over a year ago and I was telling him my story. Between that and Ms. Smack's blog, I thought what the heck - I'll bring this bad boy back and see what y'all think. I hope you enjoy:
Originally posted May 6th, 2008. The incident occured in March of '08.
Snip Snip
Who’s your daddy? I guarantee nobody new can claim it as me! A lot of guys take Fridays off to hit the slopes, start a long weekend away, or perhaps to tie one on at the local pub. Well I tied two on a couple Fridays ago. Yep, I took the day off and got a vasectomy. The doc tied up the plumbing. Snipped and soldered is more like it. As a public service for the guys, and entertainment value for everyone, this blog is a tell-all. Everything you ever wanted to know and more!
The only prep work I had was to not take any aspirin within ten days of the procedure. This made a couple hangovers a little more of a hassle (it was a busy week) but otherwise was of course no big deal. Some docs instruct you to shave yourself bare before coming in. I keep things trim and tidy down there, but I don’t go bald, so I was kinda glad that my doc is full-service and takes care of the grooming. In hindsight, I recommend you shave yourself, but I’ll get to that later.
My wife drove me in – it’s a ‘simple’ outpatient procedure that only takes about 15 minutes (45 minutes if you count paperwork and waiting time). They jack you up (not off) on valium, so you can’t drive afterwards. I really haven’t been worried about this and have no problem doing it. But as I sat in the waiting room, I admit I got a little squirmy thinking about ‘the boys’ and sharp objects in their vicinity. Side effects can be nasty, but are incredibly rare. But what if this doctor had a really bad day or didn’t get his caffeine fix? What if he always got buzzed trying to grab the wishbone in the game Operation? I decided I’d shake his hand when I met him and if he had any trembling or one of those weak-ass wussy clammy finger shakes that me and my nads would roll right out of there.
The nurse called my name. I gave my wife a squeaky voiced “see you later” but then the nurse said the doctor had an emergency at the hospital and that he should be only about 20 minutes late. My balls relaxed themselves from their reflexive clenching and I sat back down. Although I got a little nervous again wondering what his emergency was. Did he butcher some other guy during a vasectomy? I crossed my legs tightly and shook off the cold tingle down my spine.
Just then, I got a work call from a vendor. I stepped out in the hallway. It was a couple people on the line so they had me on speaker phone. They made some small talk and asked what I was doing. I like these two a lot and they are cool. So I said, “I’m minutes away from getting my balls snipped, what are you guys doing?” When they were done laughing, they wished me luck and let me get back to my squirming.
The nurse said she was ready. I put down my brochures with graphic pictures of penis tubes and smiling middle-aged couples. She brought me in a room where I’d meet the doctor and he’d explain the process in person. She was attractive and I began to wonder what would happen if I got ‘excited’. In this case, I didn’t have to recite the Cubs batting lineup or do the alphabet backwards. All I thought about was the family jewels being violated and any arousal from the nurse quickly dissipated.
The doctor walked in and I may have a little too aggressively stood up to shake his hand. Firm and strong handshake. Like my package. Haha. Thank goodness. Let the show go on. He gave me the lowdown and took me into another room for the surgery.
I had to strip down everything below the waist and sit on a reclining table with a paper sheet over my special place. I thought about leaving one sock on to see if they said anything, but figured this is no laughing matter or time for games. I also had to put a sticky metallic looking thing that was like an oversize butterfly bandage on my ass. This was to ‘ground’ me. Fuck. I don’t think it’s a good situation when you are half naked, especially the bottom half, and grounding is a concern.
I did what I was told and the naughty nurse, I mean nurse, came back in. She asked if I was ready and turned on the faucet. I mumbled, “I guess so,” while I fretted over whether or not she would be in the room during the procedure. She said she was warming up the water for the shaving. Now I was genuinely concerned that this hot nurse was going to be handling my package and that I’d draw wood. But then she said the doctor would be right in and she walked out. How messed up is it that I was relieved for the hot nurse to leave so an old man doctor could come in and manhandle my junk?
The doc entered and raised my paper blanket above my waist. Then he lathered up the package. He was using my dick like an Atari joystick, moving it around to get access for covering my scrotum in shaving cream. This was not pleasant. Although it would have been pleasant if it were the naughty nurse. Which made the whole thing even more unpleasant for me on so many levels. Next was the shaving. It was more like scraping. I found myself very tense, fists clenched, muscles taut. Not THAT muscle. THAT muscle was feeling extremely violated!!
Finally, the shaving was over. Next, he gave me a shot of valium in my arm. He said in a minute or so I’d feel like I had too much to drink. I asked him if he’d send the nurse back in so I could hit on her. Not really. I told him to bring it and don’t be shy. Sure enough, I was feeling light-headed which helped with the sharp pain of the local anesthetic he injected for my right testicle. For about five seconds I thought my right nut was expanding and was going to explode from the pressure. And then I felt nothing. The doctor snipped and then basically soldered the ends of my severed tube shut. I think the medical term is cauterized, but this is a layman’s blog. Another local on the left, repeat and he sewed up the incision on the middle of my sack.
The doctor gave me about six inches of gauze pads with some gel on the end and told me to put it over the stitches and get dressed. I checked out the newly barren, in more ways than one, package. I was still groggy but was sure there were still two balls. I had to buy a three pack of whitey-tighties since I’m a boxers guy. You need the support after a procedure like this. So I put in the gauze and pulled up my Fruit of the Looms for the first time since 5th grade. I finished dressing and felt like a dog with a tail between his legs as I walked out.
Upon signing out, I was given a cup in a bag and told to fill it with semen in five weeks. I’d need to drop it off within two hours of the deed and be sure to not refrigerate it. Ahh the thoughts running through my mind. From thinking of whacking off in the waiting room to ensure freshness to leaving a jar of my magic sauce next to the yogurt and milk in the fridge, I was cracking myself up.
Lastly, the doctor said to wait a week and then be sure to ejaculate 12-15 times over the next five weeks before bringing in a sample. And that I’m not sterile until they test it. Twice actually. I’ll have to bring back a second sample a week after that.
I spent the weekend watching NCAA tournament basketball and periodically supporting a bag of frozen peas on my big and now swollen package of good luvin’. The wife was cool about keeping the kids away and minimizing my activity. She asked what the next steps were after the initial recovery. I smiled and replied:
“The doc said I need to ejaculate 20 to 25 times in the next four weeks.” Heh heh.
A friend of mine is about to go through what I did over a year ago and I was telling him my story. Between that and Ms. Smack's blog, I thought what the heck - I'll bring this bad boy back and see what y'all think. I hope you enjoy:
Originally posted May 6th, 2008. The incident occured in March of '08.
Snip Snip
Who’s your daddy? I guarantee nobody new can claim it as me! A lot of guys take Fridays off to hit the slopes, start a long weekend away, or perhaps to tie one on at the local pub. Well I tied two on a couple Fridays ago. Yep, I took the day off and got a vasectomy. The doc tied up the plumbing. Snipped and soldered is more like it. As a public service for the guys, and entertainment value for everyone, this blog is a tell-all. Everything you ever wanted to know and more!
The only prep work I had was to not take any aspirin within ten days of the procedure. This made a couple hangovers a little more of a hassle (it was a busy week) but otherwise was of course no big deal. Some docs instruct you to shave yourself bare before coming in. I keep things trim and tidy down there, but I don’t go bald, so I was kinda glad that my doc is full-service and takes care of the grooming. In hindsight, I recommend you shave yourself, but I’ll get to that later.
My wife drove me in – it’s a ‘simple’ outpatient procedure that only takes about 15 minutes (45 minutes if you count paperwork and waiting time). They jack you up (not off) on valium, so you can’t drive afterwards. I really haven’t been worried about this and have no problem doing it. But as I sat in the waiting room, I admit I got a little squirmy thinking about ‘the boys’ and sharp objects in their vicinity. Side effects can be nasty, but are incredibly rare. But what if this doctor had a really bad day or didn’t get his caffeine fix? What if he always got buzzed trying to grab the wishbone in the game Operation? I decided I’d shake his hand when I met him and if he had any trembling or one of those weak-ass wussy clammy finger shakes that me and my nads would roll right out of there.
The nurse called my name. I gave my wife a squeaky voiced “see you later” but then the nurse said the doctor had an emergency at the hospital and that he should be only about 20 minutes late. My balls relaxed themselves from their reflexive clenching and I sat back down. Although I got a little nervous again wondering what his emergency was. Did he butcher some other guy during a vasectomy? I crossed my legs tightly and shook off the cold tingle down my spine.
Just then, I got a work call from a vendor. I stepped out in the hallway. It was a couple people on the line so they had me on speaker phone. They made some small talk and asked what I was doing. I like these two a lot and they are cool. So I said, “I’m minutes away from getting my balls snipped, what are you guys doing?” When they were done laughing, they wished me luck and let me get back to my squirming.
The nurse said she was ready. I put down my brochures with graphic pictures of penis tubes and smiling middle-aged couples. She brought me in a room where I’d meet the doctor and he’d explain the process in person. She was attractive and I began to wonder what would happen if I got ‘excited’. In this case, I didn’t have to recite the Cubs batting lineup or do the alphabet backwards. All I thought about was the family jewels being violated and any arousal from the nurse quickly dissipated.
The doctor walked in and I may have a little too aggressively stood up to shake his hand. Firm and strong handshake. Like my package. Haha. Thank goodness. Let the show go on. He gave me the lowdown and took me into another room for the surgery.
I had to strip down everything below the waist and sit on a reclining table with a paper sheet over my special place. I thought about leaving one sock on to see if they said anything, but figured this is no laughing matter or time for games. I also had to put a sticky metallic looking thing that was like an oversize butterfly bandage on my ass. This was to ‘ground’ me. Fuck. I don’t think it’s a good situation when you are half naked, especially the bottom half, and grounding is a concern.
I did what I was told and the naughty nurse, I mean nurse, came back in. She asked if I was ready and turned on the faucet. I mumbled, “I guess so,” while I fretted over whether or not she would be in the room during the procedure. She said she was warming up the water for the shaving. Now I was genuinely concerned that this hot nurse was going to be handling my package and that I’d draw wood. But then she said the doctor would be right in and she walked out. How messed up is it that I was relieved for the hot nurse to leave so an old man doctor could come in and manhandle my junk?
The doc entered and raised my paper blanket above my waist. Then he lathered up the package. He was using my dick like an Atari joystick, moving it around to get access for covering my scrotum in shaving cream. This was not pleasant. Although it would have been pleasant if it were the naughty nurse. Which made the whole thing even more unpleasant for me on so many levels. Next was the shaving. It was more like scraping. I found myself very tense, fists clenched, muscles taut. Not THAT muscle. THAT muscle was feeling extremely violated!!
Finally, the shaving was over. Next, he gave me a shot of valium in my arm. He said in a minute or so I’d feel like I had too much to drink. I asked him if he’d send the nurse back in so I could hit on her. Not really. I told him to bring it and don’t be shy. Sure enough, I was feeling light-headed which helped with the sharp pain of the local anesthetic he injected for my right testicle. For about five seconds I thought my right nut was expanding and was going to explode from the pressure. And then I felt nothing. The doctor snipped and then basically soldered the ends of my severed tube shut. I think the medical term is cauterized, but this is a layman’s blog. Another local on the left, repeat and he sewed up the incision on the middle of my sack.
The doctor gave me about six inches of gauze pads with some gel on the end and told me to put it over the stitches and get dressed. I checked out the newly barren, in more ways than one, package. I was still groggy but was sure there were still two balls. I had to buy a three pack of whitey-tighties since I’m a boxers guy. You need the support after a procedure like this. So I put in the gauze and pulled up my Fruit of the Looms for the first time since 5th grade. I finished dressing and felt like a dog with a tail between his legs as I walked out.
Upon signing out, I was given a cup in a bag and told to fill it with semen in five weeks. I’d need to drop it off within two hours of the deed and be sure to not refrigerate it. Ahh the thoughts running through my mind. From thinking of whacking off in the waiting room to ensure freshness to leaving a jar of my magic sauce next to the yogurt and milk in the fridge, I was cracking myself up.
Lastly, the doctor said to wait a week and then be sure to ejaculate 12-15 times over the next five weeks before bringing in a sample. And that I’m not sterile until they test it. Twice actually. I’ll have to bring back a second sample a week after that.
I spent the weekend watching NCAA tournament basketball and periodically supporting a bag of frozen peas on my big and now swollen package of good luvin’. The wife was cool about keeping the kids away and minimizing my activity. She asked what the next steps were after the initial recovery. I smiled and replied:
“The doc said I need to ejaculate 20 to 25 times in the next four weeks.” Heh heh.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Old People and a Chum Bucket
I had another round with the old people today. It was my last time with the volunteer coordinator present. Next week, I’ll have the mens' group to myself. It’s only an hour long and I have lots of ideas on how to get them blabbing, so I’m pretty stoked to be running the show.
I am definitely learning as I go along. The facility has a stupid rule that requires me to have to wear pants. I know! It’s an outrage! No jeans allowed. Did you think I wanted to go half nekked? So I have to wear nice bottoms to hang out in a cafeteria style room on padded chairs stained with who knows-what from leaking old people.
And because I have to wear non-jeans, I am going to be wearing nice shirts too. I hate to waste a nicely pressed and lightly starched button up at this if I don’t have any work meetings that day too. Like today. I had no meetings other than the old people. So I wore some black slacks (I think the word ‘slacks’ is much underrated, by the by) and a funky shirt that I didn’t really think twice about when I put it on all groggy this morning. I’ll come back to the shirt.
I got there and another new guy showed up this week. Well, he was new to me. He has been in the program for a long time, but had a setback a couple months ago. Nobody thought he would make it. Good news! He not only made it, but apparently looks and feels better today than he did before the last setback. This guy is from Kansas and was a computer programmer. He says he still does it.
He then asked what my deal is and I told him I just started volunteering here and this was only my third visit, but that I’d be here every Wednesday for an hour. He then pointed to the Coke machine and said, “Last time I was here, they introduced that contraption to the room. Remember that?”
I said, “No, I wasn’t here then. When was that?” Somebody else said it was over three months ago.
The Kansas guy said, “How long have you been coming here?”
I said, “Just three times, all over the last month.”
He said, “Remember when they brought that Coke machine in here? That’s when I was here last.”
I had to stifle a laugh and I remembered Vic's comment from my last old people blog. This wasn’t on that level at all, but still funny and a sign of things to come, I’m sure.
I showed the five men there today a picture of my boys on my iPhone. I was amazed at how they all lit up. It was really cool. By the way, my six year old called me a chum bucket yesterday. I think just as there really is too much cow bell, there is also too much Sponge Bob. Anyway, I am definitely going to bring the kids in sometime. The kid pictures got them talking about their own children and the hour flew by.
There was only one hiccup that I could tell. One of the guys was staring at me and had a glazed over look on his face. Not like the lustful looks women always give me, or the looks of awe guys always give me (you know I’m kidding, right), but rather the look of just about going to pass out (not kidding). I shifted uncomfortably and his eyes followed me, but appeared to wobble.
I asked him if he was okay. He snapped out of it, looked me in the eye and said, “Your shirt makes me dizzy.”
I laughed, stood up and said, “Well then you probably don’t want me doing this do you?” I proceeded to spread eagle my arms and do some stupid upper body only dance gyration leaning to and fro his bewildered and bemused old face. The guys were all cracking up and I realized I better sit down or I might lose my first old guy right there at the table.
This is the second shirt recently that has been noted as being dizzy by differnt people. I must like dizzy shirts. I took a self pic in the car on the way out of there. Check it.
Don’t be intimidated by my fake half smile. It is really dangerous and feels stupid to take a picture of oneself in a car while driving seventy miles per hour. Also, I got a haircut. It’s looking pretty sparse up there. Almost time to shave it all off and grow a thick goatee like all the other white boys.
I suppose I can bring a change of clothes so that I’m not stuck wearing fancy pants all day if I don’t want to. And I can be more careful about driving the old people to dementia because of complicated shirts. These are the lessons I’m learning on the fly.
And also that I am a chum bucket.
I am definitely learning as I go along. The facility has a stupid rule that requires me to have to wear pants. I know! It’s an outrage! No jeans allowed. Did you think I wanted to go half nekked? So I have to wear nice bottoms to hang out in a cafeteria style room on padded chairs stained with who knows-what from leaking old people.
And because I have to wear non-jeans, I am going to be wearing nice shirts too. I hate to waste a nicely pressed and lightly starched button up at this if I don’t have any work meetings that day too. Like today. I had no meetings other than the old people. So I wore some black slacks (I think the word ‘slacks’ is much underrated, by the by) and a funky shirt that I didn’t really think twice about when I put it on all groggy this morning. I’ll come back to the shirt.
I got there and another new guy showed up this week. Well, he was new to me. He has been in the program for a long time, but had a setback a couple months ago. Nobody thought he would make it. Good news! He not only made it, but apparently looks and feels better today than he did before the last setback. This guy is from Kansas and was a computer programmer. He says he still does it.
He then asked what my deal is and I told him I just started volunteering here and this was only my third visit, but that I’d be here every Wednesday for an hour. He then pointed to the Coke machine and said, “Last time I was here, they introduced that contraption to the room. Remember that?”
I said, “No, I wasn’t here then. When was that?” Somebody else said it was over three months ago.
The Kansas guy said, “How long have you been coming here?”
I said, “Just three times, all over the last month.”
He said, “Remember when they brought that Coke machine in here? That’s when I was here last.”
I had to stifle a laugh and I remembered Vic's comment from my last old people blog. This wasn’t on that level at all, but still funny and a sign of things to come, I’m sure.
I showed the five men there today a picture of my boys on my iPhone. I was amazed at how they all lit up. It was really cool. By the way, my six year old called me a chum bucket yesterday. I think just as there really is too much cow bell, there is also too much Sponge Bob. Anyway, I am definitely going to bring the kids in sometime. The kid pictures got them talking about their own children and the hour flew by.
There was only one hiccup that I could tell. One of the guys was staring at me and had a glazed over look on his face. Not like the lustful looks women always give me, or the looks of awe guys always give me (you know I’m kidding, right), but rather the look of just about going to pass out (not kidding). I shifted uncomfortably and his eyes followed me, but appeared to wobble.
I asked him if he was okay. He snapped out of it, looked me in the eye and said, “Your shirt makes me dizzy.”
I laughed, stood up and said, “Well then you probably don’t want me doing this do you?” I proceeded to spread eagle my arms and do some stupid upper body only dance gyration leaning to and fro his bewildered and bemused old face. The guys were all cracking up and I realized I better sit down or I might lose my first old guy right there at the table.
This is the second shirt recently that has been noted as being dizzy by differnt people. I must like dizzy shirts. I took a self pic in the car on the way out of there. Check it.
Don’t be intimidated by my fake half smile. It is really dangerous and feels stupid to take a picture of oneself in a car while driving seventy miles per hour. Also, I got a haircut. It’s looking pretty sparse up there. Almost time to shave it all off and grow a thick goatee like all the other white boys.
I suppose I can bring a change of clothes so that I’m not stuck wearing fancy pants all day if I don’t want to. And I can be more careful about driving the old people to dementia because of complicated shirts. These are the lessons I’m learning on the fly.
And also that I am a chum bucket.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Lunch
This is my lunch today.
It is not a super-ball, giant marble, ping-pong ball, egg, golf ball, bird, plane, nor frog. It is a giant Jawbreaker or Gobstopper depending on if you are a pop or soda person. Actually, I don’t believe there is any correlation between those things. Ta-may-toe, ta-mah-to, let’s call the whole thing off.
Note the Buddha man lounging under my bamboo. He is fat and happy. No wonder he likes to be present and in the moment. What isn’t to like about that?
Further in the background is my couch and hip funky pillow that I picked out myself one day when I was feeling a bit dizzy and out of sorts. It resonated with me that day and I think it was speaking to me. The hip funky pillow said, “Mr. Wow, you look particularly sharp today.” Okay okay, you got me. Hip funky pillow didn’t say that but I know it was thinking how sharp I looked because I had on a shirt that didn’t have any lunch stains on it. That is a quite an accomplishment since usually I eat real lunches of substance that include things like sauces and splattery morsels of some kind of drippery goodness. So the hip funky pillow said, “It is time to rely on something other than the Magic 8 Ball, The Google, the ninja nun puppet and the fat happy guy by the bamboo to show you the way. Take me to your couch office and when in doubt you can stare cross-eyed into my wisdom circles for the answer.”
I clearly couldn’t pass that opportunity up, so I bought a pair of the hip funky pillows. Sure enough, those little couch accessories of yodaness have been quite handy. Although I haven’t really stared into them, I have put the backside of my head on them while I got some shut-eye or at least a little break. Amazingly, when I just sit there and relax, good things happen. A bit of clarity even arises. Good hip funky pillows!
To the right of the couch, you will see the catwalk. Nobody can approach my office without taking the catwalk. Hence the need for a trap door right there by the arm of the couch. So when anyone I don’t feel like talking to (which lately means just about everyone) comes toward my office; I can push the button and give a fabulous Dr. Evil laugh as they plummet ten feet down below to the conveniently positioned exercise ball that is always rolling around the downstairs which will in turn bounce them like a cartoon character right back to their desk or out the front door.
My lunch is done. I thought I’d write until the Jawbreaker or Gobstopper disappeared. Most of the issues in my life are like everlasting gobstoppers. Some just take longer than others to get through. Writing a little bloggy over a candy lunch is easy. Bouncing other issues away until later puts off the inevitable. Some stuff seems like it won’t ever go away (that layer of blue lasted forever – my kids would love to see my tongue). In the end, the layers of candy coated craziness will fade away and hopefully they won’t leave a bad taste
Unless you are really good at stuffing ping pong balls in your mouth, it is best to only have one jawbreaker at a time. There are plenty more in the bag.
There is something to be said about being present and living in the moment. Suck on that for a little bit while I go cuddle with my hip funky pillow and play with the Magic 8 Ball and ninja nun puppet while the fat and happy Buddha keeps an eye on my trap door.
It is not a super-ball, giant marble, ping-pong ball, egg, golf ball, bird, plane, nor frog. It is a giant Jawbreaker or Gobstopper depending on if you are a pop or soda person. Actually, I don’t believe there is any correlation between those things. Ta-may-toe, ta-mah-to, let’s call the whole thing off.
Note the Buddha man lounging under my bamboo. He is fat and happy. No wonder he likes to be present and in the moment. What isn’t to like about that?
Further in the background is my couch and hip funky pillow that I picked out myself one day when I was feeling a bit dizzy and out of sorts. It resonated with me that day and I think it was speaking to me. The hip funky pillow said, “Mr. Wow, you look particularly sharp today.” Okay okay, you got me. Hip funky pillow didn’t say that but I know it was thinking how sharp I looked because I had on a shirt that didn’t have any lunch stains on it. That is a quite an accomplishment since usually I eat real lunches of substance that include things like sauces and splattery morsels of some kind of drippery goodness. So the hip funky pillow said, “It is time to rely on something other than the Magic 8 Ball, The Google, the ninja nun puppet and the fat happy guy by the bamboo to show you the way. Take me to your couch office and when in doubt you can stare cross-eyed into my wisdom circles for the answer.”
I clearly couldn’t pass that opportunity up, so I bought a pair of the hip funky pillows. Sure enough, those little couch accessories of yodaness have been quite handy. Although I haven’t really stared into them, I have put the backside of my head on them while I got some shut-eye or at least a little break. Amazingly, when I just sit there and relax, good things happen. A bit of clarity even arises. Good hip funky pillows!
To the right of the couch, you will see the catwalk. Nobody can approach my office without taking the catwalk. Hence the need for a trap door right there by the arm of the couch. So when anyone I don’t feel like talking to (which lately means just about everyone) comes toward my office; I can push the button and give a fabulous Dr. Evil laugh as they plummet ten feet down below to the conveniently positioned exercise ball that is always rolling around the downstairs which will in turn bounce them like a cartoon character right back to their desk or out the front door.
My lunch is done. I thought I’d write until the Jawbreaker or Gobstopper disappeared. Most of the issues in my life are like everlasting gobstoppers. Some just take longer than others to get through. Writing a little bloggy over a candy lunch is easy. Bouncing other issues away until later puts off the inevitable. Some stuff seems like it won’t ever go away (that layer of blue lasted forever – my kids would love to see my tongue). In the end, the layers of candy coated craziness will fade away and hopefully they won’t leave a bad taste
Unless you are really good at stuffing ping pong balls in your mouth, it is best to only have one jawbreaker at a time. There are plenty more in the bag.
There is something to be said about being present and living in the moment. Suck on that for a little bit while I go cuddle with my hip funky pillow and play with the Magic 8 Ball and ninja nun puppet while the fat and happy Buddha keeps an eye on my trap door.
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