Old Man…

It was not too many years ago my sister used to joke with me about being an old soul…I was known for rocking plaid madras pants on a regular basis.  She once asked me if I beat up a 90 year old and stole his pants, to which I responded, “that is making the assumption that I have the strength to beat up a 90 year old man” (I am not known for my athleticism, or strength…).  I did not listen to any music made after 1974.  I wore a tie nearly everywhere I went.

These days, I still get accused of being old…I drive no more than 5 mph over the speed limit; I think it sort of drives Jennifer batty since she is a speed demon…A safe speed demon – no worries, Susan…PS thank you for teaching her how to talk her way out of a ticket…I have several hats which appear to be from a 70 year old man’s wardrobe.  These are just a few of the reasons why some people may accuse me of being old…

Lately, this week especially, I have been feeling old.  I cannot eat a can of Campbell’s Alphabet Soup without it spelling “indigestion” in my stomach.  It used to spell “yummy” in my tummy.  I went to the gym on Tuesday and I am still sore on Friday – not just sore, but sore to the point that I am considering buying geriatric compression socks at Kroger during my lunch hour just to alleviate the pain in my calves…Yes, I feel old this week.

Old Man take a look at my life…I’m a lot like you.  If I am a bright eyed, bushy tailed 28 year old feeling this old, how old will I feel when I am 75?  If I cannot tolerate American Eagle stores because the music is too loud now, what will become of me later?  It is not that I mind getting older.  It definitely beats the alternative.  I just want this week to finish up so I can walk without cringing…

Remainder of None

Math has never been my strong suit…For as long as I can remember I have struggled with most mathematical calculations.  I was far more interested in figuring out the best way to remove the hair from my sisters’ dolls, or the next best way to launch a bottle rocket without a bottle. 

I did not realize it at the time, but looking back I now realize that I was once in remedial classes for math.  I believe it was around third or fourth grade.  I got to spend part of my day with Mrs. Manning.  I just thought I was special.  I was chosen to spend time with an extra teacher reviewing flash cards and working on long division rather than going to recess. 

It turns out I was indeed special, but in a different way…I now blame my lack of athletic ability on the fact that I was forced to stay inside and crunch numbers rather than hone my dodge-ball skills and master the simple skill of throwing and catching a ball on the playground.  They were my most decisive years for development of athleticism, and I was doing long division.  Tragedy…

Long division has always been especially frustrating for me.  I think it is mostly due to the fact that I felt (and continue to feel) it is irrelevant.  Why punish myself with long division when I have a calculator or Excel?  I guess I was just ahead of my time when I attempted to convince my remedial educator that I would not NEED to know how to do long division.  Turns out, I was right (thank you, electrons).

I managed to fumble my way through my math classes for the most part.  Geometry was the only other bump in the road.  We had a tenuous relationship at best; it seems I was a little too obtuse…Algebra, Trigonometry, and Calculus were not a problem for me.  Apparently my brain is better suited for the abstract and complex hypothetical calculations of higher level math, and simple things like multiplication and division are somehow beyond my level of comprehension.  Who knew?

Third grade was a long time ago.  Today, If someone held a gun to my head and asked me to solve a mathematical problem using long division I would no longer be alive.  It is difficult to imagine a scenario where I would be held at gun point and forced to use math, but hey, there are some crazy people out there.  Regardless, I would not be able to save my own life. 

I suppose I have a remainder of none when it comes to long division knowledge and ability.  I am fortunate in that one of my future wife’s many abilities happens to be mathematics, so I will not have to look like an idiot in front of our children when I cannot help them with their elementary level math homework…

What’s the Synonym for “Synonym”?

I do not envy those who endeavor to learn the English language.  There are words which sound the same but have two meanings.   There are words that can be replaced with other words and offer the same meaning; there are seemingly arbitrary rules about placement of modifiers, participles, prepositions.  Not to mention my personal pronunciation favorite, the diphthong.

Most of us have been speaking English (or some form of English) most of our lives, and we still do not have it mastered.  I know the rule about ending a sentence in a preposition, but that remains a trap I continue to fall into (or rather, a trap into which I continue to fall).  Having grown up in East Central Indiana, which is the home of ending a sentence in a preposition, I feel that I will forever violate that particular grammatical rule.

I recently noticed a “Tweet” on the Twitter that those kids are using on the interwebs.  I am unsure of its origin, but it made me laugh.  It posed the question: What’s the Synonym for “Synonym”?  My friends, that particular tweet is right in my wheelhouse when it comes to comedy.  After I finished laughing, I began to think about the question at hand.

According to the thesaurus in Microsoft Word, the synonyms for “synonym” are “substitute” and “replacement”.  Imagine any foreign soul armed with both this knowledge and a lactose intolerance attempting to order a milk-free latte at Starbucks.  The conversation plays out like this in my head:

Foreign Person: “I have the small size latte with milk synonym.”

Barrista: “Small is tall, and we do not have milk with cinnamon.”

Foreign Person: “Small is tall?  That confuses my mind.  Milk synonym, not cinnamon, if it pleases you.”

Annoyed Barrista: “Milk cinnamon?”

Irate Foreign Person: “My stomach make of the gas when milk I have, so synonym my milk with non-milk liquid, if it pleases you!”

All right, that is enough of that…The argument continues in my head, but for the immediate example I believe this exchange will suffice. 

Learning any language is difficult, but it seems that English is likely the most difficult to grasp.  It is almost intentionally confusing at times, and one can only hope to achieve a level of sufficient comprehension in order to convey his, or her, thoughts. 

Just remember, Superman does “good”, and nine times out of ten, you mean to say you are doing “well”.  Unless you are a charity worker or volunteer, then I suppose you can state that you are doing “good”…

STOP BREATHING [On Me]!!!

I have the fortunate blessing of having an amazing family.  I am the youngest of 4 children, having one awesome brother and two amazing sisters.  We have always been close, but at times I may have gotten on my oldest sister’s nerves…

Our family vacations usually consisted of a trip to Alabama to visit my Nana and Papa.  We had some great trips, and I have fond memories of Papa commenting on how much he enjoyed our visits, but wished we would not clog up his septic system…

Most trips were aboard the 15 passenger van, affectionately referred to as “Big Blue” on account of its color.  It was red….Colorblindness is no joking matter.

I, along with my 3 elder siblings, was confined to the back of the van.  The situation was almost ideal in that the large van had three rows of seating.  Too bad we had 4 kids each fighting for their own bench seat.  As the youngest, I drew the short straw and was placed with whichever sibling could tolerate me for a few hours.  This meant I usually shared a bench with my brother as he belched up the noxious gas produced when one combines Mountain Dew and beef jerky. 

My oldest sister was notorious for her type A personality and short temper when we were growing up.  She did not travel well and often got car sick.  My parents attempted to drug, err umm, appease her with dimenhydrinate; Dramamine being the brand of choice.  The meds usually knocked her out for most of the trip, but sometimes its efficacy was inadequate, which meant she was groggy, sick, confined, and awake.  The perfect storm…

On one occasion I was relegated to the rear bench seat as my brother and second oldest sister were each sleeping on their respective bench.  This meant I was confined to the back of the van with my oldest, cranky sister.  Apparently I was offending her with my involuntary respiratory function, and every couple minutes she insisted that I stop breathing on her.

In a relatively short time period, the command of “STOP BREATHING ON ME!” became, “STOP BREATHING!”  While I do not truly believe that she in fact wanted me to discontinue respiration and end my life, I do believe that I was annoying her immensely.  I thought I was just enjoying the ride, listening to my cassette tape of Plain White Rapper – it was the only tape I owned.  Sometimes I got to borrow my brother’s Milli Vanilli tape…

As we travelled down Interstate 65 I would keep an eye out for the rocket at the Alabama welcome center near Huntsville.  It was a beacon of hope that signaled our trip was nearly over, and I would finally be able to breathe in peace (photo courtesy of my oldest sister, Adrienne).

 But seriously, the van was blue…

Quick Lube

I am not known to be a particularly handy man.  Long ago, I realized that I am better with creative pursuits than mechanical.  As such, I patronize local establishments when I need my oil changed every 5,000 miles or so.  I openly admit that I am not particularly loyal to any one establishment, and I often visit the one with the lowest priced coupon offer. 

Most recently, I attempted to take my car to a place near my work for a $19.99 oil changed and tire rotation.  Not too bad for a coupon printed on the back of my Kroger receipt…Upon requesting said services I was informed that the approximate time in the queue was 20 minutes, and another 45 minutes would be necessary for the actual service.  Unable to accept the fact that an oil change would consume an hour and five minutes of my life, I chose to take my coupon and find a shop which could perform a simple lube job at a more agreeable pace.

My second choice was more expensive, coming in at an alarming $50 for services rendered; however, I happened to have a $10 off coupon which made it slightly more tolerable.  Sure, $40 was twice what the other place was going to charge, but the second establishment promised to have me in and out in 20 minutes.  That’s a quick and simple lube job my friends.

 I had pulled my car up to the bay and was waiting in line as the drama began to unfold before my very eyes…Service on the car in front of me was just being completed.  As I was next in line, I was in the waiting queue as the technicians reviewed the work with their customer.  They changed a light bulb in her rear turn signal.  They topped off her fluids.  They put a new sticker on her window stating her next oil change was to be done at 128,000 miles.  She was in full agreement as they ran down the list, until they said 128,000 miles…

The woman politely informed the technician that her odometer only read 80,000 miles when she brought in the vehicle.  She asked for an explanation as to how her car accumulated 48,000 miles during her 15 minute oil change.  This is where the technician made his first mistake, informing her that she must have been wrong and the car must have had more than 80,000 miles on it when she brought it in…

Clearly, this man is neither married or dating a female…To instantly respond to a woman by telling her she is wrong without offering any other reasoning is certain to cause problems.  Further, he offered no suggestions other than the fact that she was wrong and refused to discuss the issue further.  She was clearly, and rightfully, frustrated with the technician and sped away after arguing her point.

After she left, the technicians openly joked about her inability to read her odometer.  “How’d she mess that’n up!?” they said in their colloquial Hoosier accent (I have one too at times, so nothing against it…).  “She musta gone pert near 40,000 miles without’n oal (that’s how some of us say “oil” in Indiana – “oal”, like “coal” without the “c”) change!” they continued…

What the technicians did not realized is that 1 mile happens to equal 1.6 kilometers.  When THEY read the odometer, THEY changed the unit of measure from miles to kilometers (which is particularly easy to do on a 2008 Honda Civic, which happened to be what this particular female patron was driving).  As it turns out, 80,000 miles is roughly 128,000 kilometers (128,747.5 to be exact).

Now friends, I am no expert on the workings of the internal combustion engine or its maintenance.  I do not pretend to have a clue when it comes to fixing a car.  However, when a 48,000 mile discrepancy comes up in a matter of 15 minutes, I do believe I would have tried a little bit harder to investigate the mileage delta rather than insulting the woman’s intelligence.

After witnessing THEIR error in reading the odometer, I began to become nervous about having this particular crew service my vehicle.  My nervousness was an accurate premonition…

Upon completion of my oil change, I began to drive away.  Just as I was about to turn onto the main thoroughfare, every light on my instrument panel lit up; check engine, cruise control, traction control, etc…They were all on!  “What the what!?”, said the Liz Lemon voice in my head...

I returned to the shop to have the technician pull the codes.  No major mechanical problems, but the sensor to my air filter was not reconnected after they checked my filter for cleanliness…Though it was a simple fix, I do not see myself returning to that particular establishment.  Admittedly though, even if they hadn’t made that error on my vehicle, I would still “pass” on patronizing that location due to the way they treated the female patron with the crazy mileage…

Wedding Band

I recently had the honor of serving as my brother’s Best Man in his wedding.  It was a great day, and I wish him and his new bride nothing but the best.

Wedding Band – it’s a homonym…Meaning either the circular metallic object, which may or may not be covered in “bling” or “ice” as the kids say, or a cohort of musicians hired to play at a wedding.  This past weekend got me thinking about the words “wedding band” in both senses, especially due to my upcoming nuptials in April of 2012.

Aside from the food to be served, the music to be played is the single most important aspect to me.  To be clear, food is my number one passion, followed closely by music.  I cannot play a single instrument, or carry a tune to save my life, but I absolutely love the power of music.  I am a lucky man in that Jennifer shares my passion for music, now if only I could get her to be less picky about food…Even before Jennifer and I were officially engaged we had a running list of music for our wedding.

The wedding band in it first sense, a circular metallic object, is taken care of, and yes, it is covered in “ice”.  That’s just how I roll…Wedding band – check.

In the second sense, the wedding band is to be determined.  An event coordinator recently underestimated my bride to be and jokingly mentioned that a particular reception hall was large enough for a disc jockey, a live band, or both.  Little did she know that Jennifer is indeed considering the “both” option which was suggested in jest. 

It is crucial that the cover band be able to cover The Black Keys in a respectable manner (I know, that is a tall order as Dan and Patrick are pretty much unparalleled…)  Regardless, or irregardless as my grammatically challenged friend would say, I hope to have an amazing band that can do them justice…

Let’s Face It, Poop is Funny

Pardon me for being crass or immature, but…

Few things in life are more hilarious than bowel movements.  The BM is the great equalizer in society because we all know that everyone has to poop, maybe not at this very moment, but eventually….Being that everyone does it, it is best to be honest and admit that it is the most comical of all body functions.

When in an office setting, one is bound to encounter facilities with several commodes, and for men, a couple of urinals.  As any man will tell you, when at a urinal there are certain rules pertaining to speaking and one’s line of sight.  Eyes front, with limited to no talking…This means there is a great amount of silence in the men’s room, with the exception of our comedic friend the BM.

Recently, I was utilizing a urinal when a fellow restroom patron stormed into the restroom at a rather frantic pace.  Clearly, he was on the Panda Express, and the train was coming into the station at a rather fast rate.  The hilarity of the situation began when, once in the stall, I heard the man begin to fight with the sanitary paper ring that individuals with a germ phobia opt to place on the toilet seat (I blame Lysol for their extremely effective advertisements making everyone terrified of germs…but that’s another blog). 

Back to the story at hand…This poor individual was clearly on the verge of having a mishap for which the only solution is a change of underpants.  His own fear of sitting directly on a public toilet seat, because of the germs mind you, was about to cause him to soil himself and ironically expose himself to the germs in his own feces…

As I stood and listened to him struggle with the ring shaped sanitary paper, I could not help but laugh to myself; I assumed any minute this man would find himself stranded in the restroom stall, in need of new underpants.  This situation is clearly evidence that poop is indeed funny…

Perhaps the best public restroom incident involves my friend Stephen.  He claims he was using the commode when the custodian entered the restroom to mop the floors.  Rather than waiting for Stephen to vacate the stall, he simply asked Stephen to lift his feet so he could mop the floor beneath them from outside of the stall.  If this were indeed true, it would be hilarious, but unfortunately Stephen happens to be full of poop about 99.9% of the time…