Category: blog

I recently learned, while watching TV, that the average American watches 4 hours and 19 minutes of TV each day. I couldn’t believe it. Then, after watching the fifth one hour episode on Investigation Discovery, I was a believer.

 

Not wanting to be average, I decided I would watch no more than 4 hours and 18 minutes of TV each day. With an extra minute on the remaining 19 hours and 42 minutes of my day, I thought it would interesting to research a few more statistics. I typed ‘statistics’ in my search engine and discovered this fun fact:

 

US Census Bureau is shutdown

 

Directly below this bolded headline was their url, www.fedstats.gov/. I clicked on the url to find this url, http://outage.census.gov/closed.html, and message:

 

Due to the lapse in government funding, census.gov sites, services, and all online survey collection requests will be unavailable until further notice.

 

I’m still trying to understand how a lapse in funding results in websites shutting down. My guess is some ‘nonessential’ IT employee decided they would take this opportunity to make their job seem a little more essential. Al Gore would be pissed if he knew they were messing with his world wide web.

 

Fortunately, the United States Department of Labor’s website is still working – Note: Labor works – and I was able to review the American Time Use Survey. The first header read:

 

Working (by Employed Persons) in 2012

As I reviewed the rest of the Economic News Release I quickly determined they will need to add two additional categories next year:

 

1) Working (by Essential but Unpaid Federal Persons) in 2013

2) TV watching (by the Average Furloughed/Nonessential American)

 

I’m pretty sure that second category is going to skyrocket.

 

After all of this reviewing and determining, I was exhausted but, like 49.2 million other Americans (according to the CDC website –  surprisingly, not closed), concentrating on things, such as this, is the number one reason for self-reported sleep-related disorders. Not wanting to get bogged down by the facts or lose any sleep, I decided to participate in the leisure activity that occupies most American’s time – watching TV. Based on my favorite phone app, Clock, I had plenty of hours left in my day to do so without skewing previous year’s data. So, good news Census Bureau, you can continue your furlough because from now on I plan to get my facts from a ‘shut down’ but syndicated source: The Facts of Life.

I got a call from my Aunt Winnie today. This is the first time she has called me in, and this is just an estimate, at least fifteen years. I’ve seen her a few times during this span but, clearly, we don’t talk often.

 

She had some basic questions for me about homelessness and substance abuse and, as we chatted, she started sharing stories with me about some of our relatives.

 

Many years ago her son, who had a ‘flipper tooth,’ was living and working on a boat in Northern Alaska. “He got really seasick and would throw up all of the time. In fact, one time he threw up his flipper tooth. That was expensive,” she said. “I remember that flipper tooth. Remember the wedding? You were so worried that he would purposely leave his flipper tooth home so he would be missing a tooth in the family photo,” I reminded her. “Oh, yes, I remember that well,” she replied.

 

Our conversation then moved to nursing homes; the flipper tooth was a nice transition.  On one occasion, when visiting my great grandma, an elderly male resident with dementia offered to ‘valet’ our car. The staff quickly put a stop to this. “You remember Grandmas was partially blind, right?” Aunt Winnie asked and continued on with a story, “Well there was one bathroom for every two rooms and one day she made her way into the bathroom, lifted up her nightgown, and sat down on top of a male resident who was using the toilet.” The man flipped out. Whether or not his teeth did, I have no idea.

For those of you who have been wondering if a federal government shutdown would have any impact on my blog the answer is y

While participating in my quarterly group physical exercise class the instructor advised, “If you can’t follow with your hands follow with your feet.” Sound advice. My follow up question, which I kept to myself, was simple, “What if I can’t follow with either?”

 

Studies (reports from friends) and evidence (Chicago intersection cameras) show that my feet are not followers. Much like me, they go their own way, regardless of what might be in their best interest.

 

Thus, although I tried to follow with my feet, I failed miserably. As the rest of the class turned counterclockwise I turned A Clockwork Orange. Wait, that’s a movie. I’m not sure what I did but it was definitely not in sync. Lance Bass would be so disappointed.

 

Fortunately, Beaner was by my side and, with a lack of coordination being a genetic condition, we had our own little show taking place.  “I’ve always had a hard time following her moves,” Beaner confided in me. “Follow with your feet,” I replied while tripping over mine. At the same time, the instructor also fell out of step. Her recovery? Smile, yell one of those Zumba sounds (much like what the fox say, “Chacha-chacha-chacha-chow!”), throw down a dance style chest press, and move on.

 

After seeing this happen several times I can say, with great confidence, that this response guarantees perceived balance – I must try it at home!  Even if all you’ve got is two left feet, smile, yell, and chest press and you’ll always land on both.

Saturdays are often ‘free hot dogs day’ at the furniture store. This freebie draws in quite the crowd. We get people who appear to be filling their cabinets for the week, elderly people looking for a hot meal, and moms who are hosting a birthday party and think we are the caterer. Occasionally, I’ll partake. Most of the time, I do not.

 

This Saturday, as a thanks to us hard working employees, the store purchased sandwiches. So, while the customers gathered dogs for whatever their needs may be, we filled up our plates with sandwiches and cookies. As I walked out of the warehouse back into the store with my plate in hand the warehouse door hit my gimp arm bend and my plate of food launched across the store. Shredded lettuce, sliced tomatoes, deli meat and cookies were scattered everywhere.  “Damn gimp arm,” I told my coworker and asked, “Should I just leave it in case the mice or Hansel can’t find their way home?”

 

Being that I have some ethics, and the store has multiple CCTV cameras, I opted to clean it up. Hansel and the mice can have hot dogs.

For many years I had a relatively decent sized box that rarely got touched. Rated R would regularly remind me it could be turned on. One day, after negotiating rates for an hour or so, I decided to upgrade my package. As a result, my box is turned on a lot now.

 

My previous cable package was very minimal. In fact, the last time I called to cancel it they encouraged me to keep it and asked what channels I liked. “I just need the local channels and I quite like Comedy Central.” They told me they could give me a package that met these needs for only $25/month. When I sat down to watch TV one night I learned that was truly all I had. Five local channels and Comedy Central. Other channels were detailed on the guide but selected them resulted in an ‘upgrade in progress’ dialogue box that would only disappear if I turned off my TV.

 

Thus, a few months ago, while home recuperating from surgery, I had a friend take down my dish. It seemed pointless to have so few channels, plus, I rarely turned on that little black box in the corner. I would much rather have no options than just a few. Months later, when trying to get a better internet rate, I ended up agreeing to a bundled package that included cable. This go round, I informed them of several channels that I liked and now my options are multiple.

 

Even with multiple options, I tend to find myself glued to one channel, hour after hour – Investigation Discovery. When I shared my new favorite pastime with Tree he expressed concern, “Oh god, you must stop watching. You’re going to turn into my mother and my aunt. That is all they do.” A coworker expressed similar concerns, “I did that for a while, coupled it a little bit of BIO every now and again. After a while I became convinced that a family member was going to kill another family member. I even went so far as to share my concern. Needless to say, I no longer watch. Not as much, anyway.”

 

They were both right. The more I watched the more I thought, “I could see so and so being featured in one of these stories.” Alas, instead of turning on the black box tonight I listened to music,  made crafts and decided that if a box is going to be turned on in this house it should be my own. If only I could purchase a bundled package for that.

With my work conference over it was, technically, time to return home. A fan of spontaneity and armed with the travel school knowledge I attained in 1990, I thought it might be fun to take my colleague, tres cero siete host,  and carpool buddy, Irish Girl, to some of the nearby attractions before heading out of town.

 

When we initially decided to carpool I asked her what time she needed to be home. “Six or seven,” was her reply. As we started visiting canyons I requested clarification, “When you said you needed to be home by six or seven did you mean six or seven tomorrow morning?” “No,” she replied and added, “tonight.” “Damn. I’m really in no rush to get back. And this isn’t because I have a hard time with goodbyes. I have a hard time with hellos upon my return,” I informed him.

 

She, showing compassion, adjusted her return time, “I just need to be home some time tonight.”  With this new deadline we were able to do so much more. We visited a state park, shopped, and took exits to cities we had only heard about. In these places, I loved saying hello.

 

Approximately 11 hours after we were scheduled to make our four-hour drive home, we arrived at each of our respective homes; not yet ready for goodbye, but definitely ready to say hello to our beds. “Until next time,” I told her. “Tres cero siete!” was her reply and, for those not ready to say goodbye, is code for “Hello!”

With the last day of our work conference just around the corner, we had one last celebration in tres cero siete.  After the celebration, the majority of us returned to our rooms early. Steve Rodeo, however, wasn’t ready for the night to end. Right soon after I donned my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and put in my retainer, I heard a knock at the door. Even though I knew who it was, I looked through the peephole to be sure. I was right, it was Steve Rodeo, and he was standing outside my door, one eye open, hoping to be let in.

 

I let him in the first time, for a few minutes, and then told him he needed to leave. Somehow that worked. Seconds later, he was knocking at my door again. I opened it, with the deadbolt engaged, and advised him he needed to go home. He insisted he had left his phone in my room. I insisted it was in his pocket. I then turned on the TV, turned it up and attempted to zone out the next 30 minutes of knocking; as did Irish Girl, whose room, tres cero siete, was right across the way.

 

The next morning, as we discussed the previous evening, she apologized for Steve Rodeo’s behavior. “I’m used to people knocking and not letting them in,” I told her. “Is that your dating philosophy?” she asked. “Perhaps,” I said and then heard what sounded like the pop of one of my shirt buttons. “I think I may have just busted a button,” I informed her. “I thought you didn’t let people in,” she said. “That was a small window of opportunity,” I replied.

 

We then decided to pay attention to the conference and learned two key points:

 

Almost doesn’t count.

 

Sometimes a lot of people want to participate. The easiest way to fix that is to shrink the stage.

 

Use the deadbolt, shrink the stage. Same, same.

 

Being that my colleagues and I are in the business of saying things, what we say is important. As we reviewed last night’s soundbytes one of my colleagues commented, “Clearly, we were just being folksy.” A few minutes later, the whiskey, and the folksy, was back.

 

We’ve gotta kept drinking or we’re doomed.
It’s our only way out of this situation.
I’ve been ejected from nicer hotels than this.
I did not have to fart on anybody’s face and I was winning.
Why would someone take a second wife? So I can have one more person make me feel guilty?
Whiskey: what does R&R stand for?
Rich & Rare.
I thought it stood for Rape & Relaxation.
Pick a condiment you had as a kid for your porn norm. Fry Sauce.
If you wanna get sauced I’ll walk to the Trampton tonight.
I have a lack of mobility in my legs and it has nothing to do with alcohol.
If you could feel what’s going on in my legs right now.
My thighs say no but my eyes and heart say yes.
I’ve never been put in handcuffs in any other state.
Am I the first known person who self-roofied?

 

Give me the Eccles special.
What is that?
Lack of empathy and a heavy pour.

 

This is Maria.
Marisa.
Nice job misinformation officer.

 

If you have a mistress and sister wives is she a sistress? No, she’s a cyst.
My eyes look empty and my ass looks tight. Put that in your notes.
My face just buzzed.
Bury me behind the tramp stamp.
I peed a little bit when you said that.
I don’t need your respect, I need your trust.

My eye is openish.

 

I don’t like to mix business with pleasure.
But do you like to mix business with leather?

 

I wanna body slam your choices. What is that?

Perhaps you want to put that in your book of remembrance.

Are you a grandmother? Do you have grandkids?

On the first eve of a work conference a few coworkers and I gathered together for a nightcap that quickly turned into the Whiskey Olympics. Three countries were represented (by the whiskeys): Canada, Ireland and KentuckyUSA. As we sipped the gold hoping to win the gold we came up with a lot of winning comments which are detailed below without context, primarily because most of them were said out of context.

 

Perimeter of Darkness.
Delineated Edge of Light.
Brown piece of golden.
It’s like conflict porn.
Shit glider.
Look beyond the stucco to see the stars.
Every week I get revelations from Warren Jeffs.
You can’t skip the social – the ice cream!
High economic development opportunities = recently depressed real estate. It was very posh in the 60s.
Posh corn.
COPS 86-88 were the best years.
My favorite show is the Rockford Defiles.
I totally just farted on you. Deflect. Deflect.
I have spilled most my whiskey.
Stay golden ponygirl.
Why are not in Hollywood?
Maybe if you don’t understand why I’m not in Hollywood you should tread lightly.
Sorry for headbutting you.
She smells like an Irish girl.
Who pays my retirement? Your balls. Listen up Tier II nuts.

 

The next morning, as I shared my notes of our opening ceremony with the other players, one of them said, “I need to apologize to Tier II and I need to make a withdrawal….of all my comments from last night.”