Reflecting on Sunday

Question.

Is it a bad sign if the highlights from my fast Sunday were the following?

NB walking into class with a glorious/heinous mustache:


AM's stomach vocally protesting the fact that it was fasting. I'm trying to pinpoint the voice. The closest approximation I can come up with is when "20/20" interviews a key witness for a huge criminal case, but they use that voice distorter to disguise their voice; the difference here being that this witness, instead of sounding passive and scared, had demands that needed to be met. AM took it all in stride.

The closest personification Google
Images allowed me to find

DJA, Josh M and I quoting Will Ferrell movies ("I hope you have sons! Young, beautiful, articulate sons!" "Boy...that escalated quickly"):

That's about it.

So, to recap my Sunday: A mustache, a growling stomach, and quoting Will Ferrell.

I think I just answered my own question.

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One Man's Trash... -- Photo of the Week 30 Mar 2009

Our church does this thing called "Gifts of the Heart" semi-consistently, where members drop off all of their Goodwill-worthy items at the church, the stuff gets organized in our gym, and then less fortunate people from the community have free reign to come in and take what they need.

I was unloading a box that had just been dropped off, and this is what greeted me:

Unused, granted. But I guess this just lends credence to the ol' "one man's trash is another man's treasure" maxim. Or something.

Happy Monday to all (I tried for at least 10 minutes to muster an exclamation point, but couldn't).

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Sleep? What's That?

In an irony of ironies, I returned to a normal 40 hr/week work schedule last week, and somehow manage to get less sleep than when I was doing crazy shiftwork. The only guess I've got is that, to my body, my abnormal schedule became normal, and vice versa. All I know is is that my body is more confused than I was the first time I got a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book and tried to read it cover-to-cover. It has no idea what the hell is going on.

And so I continue to wake up at 4am. The only winner in this scenario is my relieved bladder.

Seriously, though, what happened? I used to be amazing at sleep. Ask anybody who knew me in high school or my early college days. In high school, my finest sleeping moment was a Rip Van Winklean-feat of sleep where I slept for 17 hours straight. All that was missing was the amazing beard. Now sleep avoids me like that large penguin avoids Adam Sandler in Billy Madison.

Remember in one of the crappy Superman sequels (I'm actually proud that I can't remember which one) when Superman loses all of his superpowers and gets the crap kicked out of him at that diner?** That's what I feel like.

Oh well. Nothing some Tylenol PM can't fix. Hopefully.

**Readers, please refrain from any and all Christopher Reeves jokes.

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The Jug -- Photo of the Week 23 Mar 2009

Had an interesting passenger in the seat next to me the other night. Sociopath disguised as an innocent hitchhiker? Crazy man in a clown outfit? Not quite:

That's right. AM returned from central Pennsylvania and brought me back a half-gallon glass jug of Amish-brewed root beer. Awesome gift, right?

I wish I could tell you a lot of things about the contents. I wish I could tell you that it was brewed in a bathtub, or that I nearly passed out when I first opened up the bottle because the fumes were so strong, or that I temporarily went blind after my first taste.

Sorry, no such luck. The best way to describe the taste is just a nice, tasty homemade feel; earthy. In fact, AM started calling it "Earth Beer," but in the initial elation of presenting me with the jug, she was overcome by excitement-induced dyslexia and called it "Ear Birth." Yeah. I was confused, too.

Half the greatness of the present is that when I'm done with the beer I'll be able to wash the jug and stick it on top of my bookshelf with all of the other empty root beer bottles. Something tells me the jug and its massive girth ("...and I don't know what girth means") are going to stick out like the kid in middle school who hit puberty before anyone else, and was like six inches taller and 50 lbs heavier than everyone.

don't ask me why i'm always
kissing bottles/jugs of root beer

At least it won't have uncontrollable B.O. and acne.

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Abacus for Children -- Photo of the Week 16 Mar 2009

Friends: Continue to send me funny picture texts you see while you're out and about. They make my days entertaining, almost cause me to wreck my car as I recklessly drive while checking my texts and erupt in laughter...oh, and provide material for PotW.

This one came from JH/FH as they were out baby shopping. They felt this should be "the first toy" that my child gets. You know, so's to enable him to become good at math (as if his genes weren't going to ensure that already):

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Affirmation of My Career Choice

Forgot to mention I went to the dentist last week for the routine check-up/taking of my money. Needless to say, I got violated. And not in the good way.

Back in my ignorant days, I was considering the dental track. Good pay. Good work schedule.

Then two things happened that changed my perspective:
1) I became disenchanted with science;
2) I realized I don't hate my fellow human beings enough to inflict pain on them.

There is no pleasing dentists:

Do you brush and floss regularly?
"Yes"
How often?
"I brush at least twice a day and floss everyday. Is that 'regularly' enough for you? Are we going to start arguing semantics on top of you gouging my gums with that scythe-thing? Who am I, Braveheart?"
Well, your brushing and flossing don't seem to be very effective.

Well, this last visit pushed me over the edge. I'm openly declaring that I am a rabid Anti-Dentite (They DO have their own schools!). Thank you, Seinfeld, for giving me the strength to admit it.

Seriously, dentists. You and I are done, professionally.

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Last Week Recap

--There are a lot of common, everyday catchphrases ("Love is a battlefield," "Payback is a b***h," "Battlefield Earth is a crime against humanity," etc). After spending five days with my nieces, I have a new one: "Parenthood is a negotiation." It has all of the elements: Bribery (Eat that one piece of broccoli and I'll let you eat a quart of ice cream). Threats (If you don't stop smashing the sides of your little sister's head with your cymbals, you can't watch Dora). And as a final resort: Shameless pleading. All part of parenting.

...except unlike a police negotiator, if you lose your patience, you can't fire tear gas and send in a SWAT team to take care of business for you. This places the immutable advantage in the hands of the children. They may lose some battles, but they will always win the war.

I suppose the glass-half-full perspective would be that any parent has the proper training to, if needed, take over as the head of a major crime family. Negotiation. Bribery. Coercion. Threats. Grovelling (if things go south). Sounds like a pretty good resume to me.

--Helped a friend assemble an IKEA chest-of-drawers in what she accurately labeled as a "battle of wits and skill against the Swedes." After the experience, I'm convinced that the Swedes can/will take a very simple process -- think preparing a bowl of cold cereal, or toasting a pop-tart -- and write a manual with such vague illustrations that it would confuse the hell out of anybody. IKEA's inability to provide clear instructions on assembling their furniture is mind-blowing. I felt like the Egyptologists must have before the discovery of the Rosetta Stone: I saw the pictures. I know the pictures were trying to convey something. I just had NO idea what it was. I realize I'm not a skilled handyman, but I'm not a handymoron, either. Thankfully, it came together -- I suppose time and use will tell if it was done correctly.

On top of which, has anybody seen these weird formless men in the instructions? What. The. Creep.

Moral of the story: Don't trust the Swedes. They were neutral during WWII; they don't see the sun for half the year, etc etc

--Ironic Happening: Driving home from NC, I came up behind a car with the license plate "ANGELIC." As I passed, I saw a frizzy-haired, plaid-shirted, tattooed woman taking a long drag from a cigarette. Look -- I'm all about irony -- but when I pass on, if I see seraphims chain-smoking Marlboro's, I'm peacin out. It's disgusting.

--New Fear: Women rugby players. Chalk it up with clowns and creepy children. Yeah, I dunno. Came up in a convo with DJA.

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Asian Knee -- Photo of the Week 9 Mar 2009

Here's a new equation for you:

("Staying at Sister's" + Asian Knee) x 4.5-mile run + Hello Kitty Icepack = JD losing a man-card

At least my knee felt better. It's the least I can salvage.

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The Butt Itch -- Photo of the Week 2 Mar 2009

Title: "The Empathy Scratch"
Date: Aug 2007
Location: Downtown DC

JH and FH visited this weekend. The stories I could (and most likely will) tell you...

The visit did remind me of when CT and JT came into town in 2007, which created the opportunity for this classic photo. See, sometimes CT (right side) doesn't really have the part of his brain that draws a distinction between "This is OK to do only in the privacy of my own home" and "This is OK to do in public." He may or may not have had a lapse here. I'll leave that for you, my discriminating readers, to decide.

I'm a good friend, and naturally, I didn't want him to feel alone scratching himself in public. So I had an empathy scratch.

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