Repost Sunday: Whoa, That Was My Nipple!

I rerun some of my older posts on Sundays as a way to highlight stories that you may have missed. Just think of it as 'thought recycling' and a day off, or that I am incredibly, incredibly lazy.

After all, it is Earth Day, so what better way to celebrate than by recycling, right?

After my last post, this one just seemed to fit right in for today...

Don’t let the title fool you, this post is pretty clean, unless of course you are squeamish at the sight of blood. Our story begins on a December night two years ago. I was sitting in the ole recliner with Ethel on my lap watching ‘Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’ when my heart skipped a beat (well actually, several beats). When that happens, it’s time to head to the friendly local Emergency Room for a quick electrical shock to get the heart rhythm back to normal.

Knowing that time was of the essence, I showered, called in to leave a voicemail for my boss that I’d be out the next day and ate a quick meal consisting of steak, salad and pie so that I could head off to the ER. The ER staff greeted me, told me how they vaguely remembered me from my last four visits that year and proceeded to start my IVs containing medication that hasn’t worked yet to correct my irregular heartbeat. Along about the 4th hour of waiting for the meds to kick in (about 2AM), the doctors came in and said that it was time to be knocked out for a few minutes so that they could shock me back into rhythm. I told the doctor it was probably a good idea since I have horrible rhythm, two left feet and almost everyone I know denies my existence when I hit the dance floor. Perhaps this is because I learned to dance while making fun of the way other people danced. To describe my dancing you could say it's something between a wounded penguin and the way Joe Cocker moves when he sings. OK, I guess I strayed a little off course.

Prior to the anesthesiologist coming in to tell me that he’d be the one putting me to sleep (which I translate as presiding over my brush with the unknown), a nurse came in to shave me. I calmly explained that I had showered prior to coming in to visit her nice hospital and I didn’t see the relevance of a five o-clock shadow when correcting heart arrhythmia. As her English was a little hard to understand, I don’t think she appreciated my joke. She indicated that she needed to shave my chest. This puzzled me as it’s not like I’m Sean Connery or Austin Powers and the middle of my chest is already barren thanks to my first open heart scar. Again, my complaints and concerns went unnoticed.

The nurse took out her construction grade non-lubricated razor and started scraping (not shaving, mind you) away. What happened then was a blur of flesh and blood highlighted by intense, albeit brief pain. I looked down at my left nipple only to see that it was bleeding…and gone. It was as if I was lactating blood. As I began to ask the nurse for something to soak up the blood, she noticed my concerned and puzzled look, not to mention my squirming. She stopped me and said ‘oh, did I cut you?’ The only answer I could muster was a mumble accompanied by a grunt and a point of the finger in the direction of my bleeding nipple-stump. Realizing the sensitivity (or extreme sensitivity) of the moment, she attempted to alleviate my fears and concerns with a simple ‘oops’ and a sheepish grin. Sadly, it really didn’t help.

All of the doctors and nurses were now gathering which means sleepy time and shocky time are fast approaching. Feeling a little embarrassed at the proceedings so far, I asked for a blanket to place over my nipple-stump, as I sure as heck wasn’t going to place a band-aid or other sticky substance over it. Then they knocked me out and cranked me over like a dead battery. It’s funny because I always remember them using paddles on TV, but now they just use pads that are very, very sticky. Now I know how a fly stuck on flypaper feels. For the record, wheeling the crash cart into the room in case I try to pass over to the great beyond should really be done after I’m asleep. It doesn’t boost my confidence level seeing it before.

I then remember mumbling that I wasn’t asleep and I didn’t want to be shocked while still awake. After several minutes of this, the doctor became annoyed enough with hearing it to the point that he finally said ‘uh, we shocked you about eight minutes ago.’ I felt a little stupid but then began to think if I was so out of it then maybe my nipple cutting was an anesthesia-induced dream. I confidently looked down at my left nipple only to discover it had bled through my blanket and the guilty nurse was peeking into the room. Finally, I was discharged from the ER without my nipple, dignity or an apology from the nurse.

What made me remember this tale? Well, it’s very cold today and those are the times that I notice my ‘loss’ the most…

Getting To The Heart Of What Makes Me Tick

This is about 3 days worth of blogging space for me, so I am posting it today. I’ll post again on Sunday or Monday, so feel free to read it in chunks if your attention span is as short as mine is. What was I talking about again?

I was recently engaged in a very interesting conversation with one of my favorite bloggers, Mist1, about the role of the animal kingdom in human cardiology. Translated= putting animal heart parts into humans. I decided to write about my somewhat non-humaness. It got me thinking about all of my heart related stuff and since my therapist told me it’s been almost two years now since my surgery and that I need to get over it, I figured what better way than to blog about it, right?

For those of you who may not be aware, in June 2005, I had my second open-heart surgery to replace my bad aortic valve with a nice shiny artificial one. The ring on the picture to the left is now a foreign object deep within my chest cavity. How they got it there is another story entirely, but I tend to wrap my arms around my chest and curl into a fetal position when I think about its installation (for lack of a better and more humane description) and that makes it hard to type, so I’ll write about that some other time…maybe.

The choice of whether I was going to get a pig valve or the artificial one was entirely mine to make, although I didn’t have a lot of input from my cardiologist or the surgeons. So, like any semi-literate person, I took to the internet to educate myself about the pros and cons of animal or artificial valvization (I made that up, but boy it sounds scientific, doesn’t it). Consulting the interweb was my first mistake. Not only did I read lots of testimonials by patients who went through the surgery who thought it appropriate to describe what the removal of their chest tube felt like, but I also found actual footage of the surgery itself. I’m not normally squeamish but I don’t think I could close my eyes for about a week and a half after that.

If I went with a pig valve, I would have to have had surgery in another 15 years to replace it, but I wouldn’t need to be on blood thinners for the rest of my life. I had many concerns about getting a pig’s valve that I could not find addressed anywhere on the interweb. The concerns might seem trivial to you, but as someone deciding whether to have pork parts sewed into me, let me assure you that they were important to me. My first concern was whether or not I would smell like bacon on a hot day. What would happen to the pig who ‘donated’ the valve (most likely without its consent)? Would that pig then get an artificial valve to replace the one it just had removed? Does the rest of the pig’s heart just get BBQ’d with an age-old slow smoking process? Isn’t there a cleaner, more well respected animal that I could select from? If I decided on a pig valve, would I then take on a pig’s characteristics over time (besides the aggressive eating, which I already seem to have)? Would filthiness all around me not bother me? Would I rather play in mud than take a swim? Would the knowledge of my piggyness cause my friends to call me Hammy, Porky or Oinky? Would my speech become peppered with phrases like ‘whole hog’ or would I start to stutter like Porky Pig?

Perhaps I could choose a dolphin’s valve. Surely, this would improve my ability to hold my breath longer or eat fish whole. It might even improve my entertaining skills. How about a cow? If a bovine has several stomachs, would I adapt over time to have several stomachs too? Then I could eat nachos across the street from my office and not have to walk 4 miles just to burn off the 1300 calories from them. Mist1 suggested something small like a rabbit’s heart. My only concern with that is if a heart that small could efficiently pump blood to my extremities, like my feet for instance. Think of the sad irony if I lost some of the use of my feet from this and then could no longer aspire to perform the bunny hop on ‘Dancing With the Stars.’ I guess that’s more of a moot point since I am neither a dancer nor a star.

Then there were the pros and cons of becoming the $60,000 man (after all the medical bills are tallied) if I chose the artificial valve. Perhaps my biggest concern with that was being perceived as too fake (get it, artificial, fake – trust me, you’ll laugh about that later tonight). Would I lose some of my human-like qualities if I went with the mechanical valve? Would I become more of a cyborg? Really, by definition, I could be considered a cyborg. Knowing myself as well as I do though, I would take it too far and ask to be dressed like Darth Vader or Cylons from the original Battlestar Gallatica (Borgs from Star Trek were too ugly). Heck, I’d just settle for Vader’s or the Cylons’ voices!

I could imagine how excited my friends would be to brag about their friendship with a real cyborg. Just like plastic surgery though, once I consented to mechanical implantation within me, would I be able to stop there? Would I ask for technologically enhanced vision or muscle strength? Would I ask to be able to lift my enemies off the ground by crushing their necks? Would I want better lung capacity so that I walked around breathing like Darth Vader? I might ask to be able to receive email in my head rather than the computer. I’d also like to be taller. Then there’s the fact that I would need to be on blood thinners for the rest of my life and that I might tick, sometimes loudly. Clearly, I had a decision to make.

After much introspection, I decided that my desire to become a cyborg was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. I was so excited with my choice. The burning question of whether or not my tick could be heard was answered before I even opened my eyes after surgery. The first time I was almost coherent, I remember hearing something inside of my head that I had never heard before. It was a very mechanical ticking sound, almost like the sound of hitting keys on a keyboard. This probably helped me wake up quicker, but as I did, I discovered that they had not mechanically altered any other part of me.

It did not take long to realize how different it was going to be living as part human and part machine. By the time I was ok to leave the hospital, I was already very annoyed at the sound of…well, me. The novelty of the ticking wore off very quickly. A few days after getting home from the hospital, I had to go have my first blood test. I could hear the older guy in front of me ticking, so I asked him when he had his valve replaced and he had a surprised look on his face until he heard mine tick. I still can’t fall asleep easily at night because I constantly hear the ticking (ticking, ticking, always ticking...). There were a few side affects that I did not anticipate. For some reason, I like to listen to Helen Reddy’s version of ‘Delta Dawn’ daily now and I am very, very attracted to stainless steel. It’s almost magnetic, like love at first shine or something. I can just sit now in front of a stainless steel piece for hours just gazing into its smooth and shiny surface. This has me scared (and scarred, but who cares about semantics).

There have been some interesting situations because of my valve. A different doctor wanted to do an MRI on my head to see if there was anything in there causing some difficulties I was having. Now that didn’t sound right, did it? He decided not to proceed out of fear that the magnetic power of the MRI could yank the valve right out of my chest. Boy am I glad he remembered that! I wanted to buy a scale that would also monitor body mass or body fat, but the label said it could not be used for anyone who has an implanted device. That was fine with me since I was able to get another scale much cheaper that didn’t exclude people with artificial components. Although I have not flown since surgery, I have had the opportunity to walk through a metal detector and flash my implanted device card. As soon as the detector went off, I showed the officer my card and explained why. I think I overwhelmed him with my story and he gestured me right through. In hindsight, it was probably the keys that I forgot to take out of my pocket.

Because my valve can be heard by others in a silent room or by anyone who places their head upon my chest (obviously a small group), there is the potential for a lot of fun. Although for some reason, people look at me oddly when I tell them to place their head upon my chest to listen to what makes me tick. I am eagerly waiting for the time when a member of my company’s upper management is with me and my coworkers in a quiet conference room or elevator. Everyone I work with has been instructed to say ‘I don’t hear anything’ whenever that upper manager finally questions whether or not anyone hears that ticking and asks what it might be.

I am not, however, looking forward to the time I enter a federal building or airport and am accused of carrying (or being) a bomb. I just don’t think the excuse ‘oh, that’s just my chest,’ is going to cut it. I have also thrown my wristwatch down in disgust several times after realizing that what was bugging me was my valve and not what I perceived to be my unusually loud watch. Now, I own a digital watch. It’s funny how people still ask me if the ticking will ever go away. All I can say in response to that is, ‘if it does go away, I’ll certainly be the last to know.’

So there you have it, that’s the story behind what makes me tick, literally. Assuming I live a few more years, hopefully I’ll get used to it. I certainly don’t wish to grow old mumbling about my ticking. Now I’m off to try and be fitted for metal arms so that I can finally pick up the cubicle next to mine and move it about 20 feet before I go Alec Baldwin on any of my coworkers. A cyborg needs its space people!

Well, My Burial Plans Just Went Up In Smoke

I got all excited for the possibilities of my ashes a few weeks ago when Keith Richards admitted smoking his father’s cremated remains. I thought it so exciting that I even blogged about it, but then again, I’ve blogged about space junk, toilets, dead deer, airline barf bags and Fred Willard at one point or another, so that’s not saying much. Then I read an AFP News story today about a scientist who says we should stop cremating our dead. He claims that it contributes to global warming in some boring, scientific, ozone, carbon related way. If I wanted to be able to thoroughly explain it to you, I would have paid attention in science class instead of making top-ten lists all the time.

I guess this is the type of news you’d expect as Earth Day approaches, but now I can’t pass away safe in the thought that some old rocker somewhere will smoke my remains for the heck of it, only to brag about it to a tabloid years later. That’s too bad because I had already started making a list of potential candidates. Heck, I even stipulated there would be a $25 Applebee’s gift certificate to whoever found my charred artificial heart valve among my ashes. It could be used to make a ring, earrings or a fancy napkin holder, unless surgeons recycle that type of thing. Maybe they use it in constructing a half man half machine prototype or they put it in the pig whose valve they just took out to place into a human, but more about that down the road.

What could we do to still dispose of our deceased and not slap dear Mother Earth in the face you ask? Well, the same scientist says that we should all be buried in a cardboard box under a tree. That way, we can all gradually become compost and fertilizer. It’s bad enough being called a piece of @%#%$ in life, but in death? That’s too cruel. It also means that I can’t use my second burial option now either. If cremation proved to be too expensive, I asked that my body be placed in big plastic bags that were filled with lots of foam peanuts and fastened with those plastic rings that hold six-packs together so that I could be floated down the river and into the sea. That’s pretty harmless, right?

Now I have to go back to the drawing board and figure out how I want to be thrown out, I mean disposed of, I mean preserved. Geez, how do you say not buried or cremated? I’ve already thought about being frozen, but I’d be afraid that my family wouldn’t be able to resist using my frozen block to cool their drinks during our annual 4th of July get together. After all, a frozen person would be pretty big and since I’d already be there, they would get the best of both worlds: a huge chunk of free ice and they would still get to celebrate with me (I’ve always loved fireworks).

Perhaps I could be preserved and mummified like us Catholics did with all of our 800 year old saints (I watched a special about it late one night when I couldn’t sleep. Needless to say, I wasn’t able to go back to bed when it was over, either). I could be dressed in my favorite Dale Earnhardt shirt and propped into my favorite seat at the California Speedway so I could enjoy racing even in death. The same could be done with me in my LA Clippers Jersey so I could forever sit at Staples Center and watch my Clippers play. The only downside is that even mummified, I would probably still completely decompose before the Clippers when the NBA Championship.

Of course, in both of those ‘burial’ options, I will need to get some type of health or safety clearance, which will probably be pretty costly to obtain. What does mummifying go for these days, anyway?

The Mutual Admiration Society Otherwise Known As My Office

Yesterday was the first day in quite some time that all of us were in the office. Boy do I wish we had cameras following us around. I just about used up all of my last special notepad that has my name on it writing down everything that went on. By the end of the day, my coworkers were saying ‘I have soooo much to blog about now’ along with me. It was a great blogworthy day. Ha, I fooled them though. I waited an extra day to post this.

Of course, yesterday started with all of us sitting around figuring out which former employees didn’t return their company issued digital cameras when they left the company. I must tell you that I still have mine, but then I haven’t found a new job yet…

As the day went on, we all switched back and forth between complaining that we didn’t have enough time to get our jobs done and talking in my office. No, I don’t think the two things are related. We also took an early lunch (about 11) and got back just after 1PM. Lunch may have been the highlight of the day. In attendance were new guy, female coworker and in the office two times a week guy. As soon as we got to our usual dive, we noticed that social oblivious guy from our staff was eating there with one of his clients. We politely said hello and then took our own table. As soon as we sat down, we realized that we all now had nothing to talk about since the client and that coworker were a mere two tables away and social oblivious guy and our clients are all we have to make fun of…I mean speak highly about.

After about twenty-five awkward moments of silence, female coworker admitted that she is thinking about getting the lap band surgery for quick weight loss, which is apparently not a belt that you can pull tighter whenever you want to eat less. This was followed by in the office two times a week guy telling female coworker that she was a fat a$$. Yes, right in front of new guy and me. To refresh your memory, this was the same male coworker who once referred to female coworker as the big lady carrying a death stick because she smokes. New guy choked on his lunch and I tried to get out of our booth since I was seated precariously between female coworker and in the office two times a week guy. Female coworker reacted in a very civil manner, given what had just occurred, by unleashing a string of F-bombs that will forever be referred to by me and in the office two times a week guy as ‘carpet-bombing.’ The fact that I started referring to female coworker as a B-52 Stratofortress certainly did nothing to smooth the situation. She unleashed another carpet-bombing that prevented me from explaining that the Stratofortress was the bomber that was used for our carpet-bombing in Vietnam. Lunch finally ended with me telling new guy how best to phrase the written statement that I am sure will be requested from all of us by our HR department. Our solid relationship as a team was further cemented when I stopped to refill my beverage on the way out of the restaurant only to notice that my coworkers were now half way across the parking lot. Those inconsiderate @!#%@$#$@!!!!!

After lunch, in the office two times a week guy came over to my cubicle while I was mumbling how disgusting it was that I had to clean my computer mouse. He sat over my shoulder undeterred while I took my mouse apart and by navigating the web with my keyboard's arrow keys, he showed me the website where we plan on ordering lots of work toys like USB Port Nerf Rocket Launchers and annoying sound machines. Why yes, our boss was gone at the time, why do you ask?

After we determined what we wanted to order from the website, in the office two times a week guy took a phone call from one of social oblivious guy’s clients and needed to transfer it to social oblivious guy’s extension. He politely asked us all for social oblivious guy’s extension and female worker shouted out in the office two times a week guy’s extension. When in the office two times a week guy realized it was his own extension and said something, we all prepared for another flight by the Stratofortress. None of us were disappointed.

Other than not working, the late afternoon led to a discussion about collagen injections for lips with the ladies in the break room and a conversation in the office two times a week guy had on his speakerphone. The break room discussion about lip enhancement was very enlightening and we all agreed that most celebrities who get it end up looking like the love child of Mick Jagger and Carly Simon. When the news program that was on in the break room showed the fire at Johnny Cash’s house, I told everyone to look quickly at the burning house and asked them if they saw the ring of fire. Sadly, the joke didn’t go over very well. I happily got to hear two times a week guy have a discussion on speakerphone with his girlfriend. I now know his nickname but promised I wouldn’t tell anyone…and that he can call me Mikey.

The day ended perfectly after our boss complimented female coworker for having the highest numbers of all four offices in our division. Though I don’t care much for competition, I can tell you that I was ranked third for our division, but it’s not important that I finished third. Just so you make sure, finishing third isn’t important to me. You got it? Yes, I finished third…no big deal though. Where was I? Oh yes, female worker just couldn’t stop bragging about her outranking us, so new guy made a very fake and sarcastic award to present to her (he’s going to fit in very well). Our boss even got in on the action and called the entire office together to present it to her. We gave her a hearty round of applause and as female coworker wiped the tears from her eyes, we yelled that now she could knock it off. She won; we admitted it and we’d better not hear about it again.

That is pretty much a typical day in our office. Despite the surface hatred, we all seem to like and trust each other. As I left yesterday, female coworker and in the office two times a week guy were contently talking and enjoying each other’s company. In fact, I only heard four carpet-bombs. I just wish I knew who stole all of my business cards and I wonder when new guy will decide to come back to work…

Ring Of Fire

A company named Toto in Japan has some explaining to do according to Reuters. If you’re like me, you love a good toilet story. Yeah, I’m not sure that came out the right way, sorry. The company manufactures high-tech toilets. Don’t worry; the phrase high-tech toilet is new to me, too. Some of the features of their toilets include warmed seats, blow drying bidets and even air purification. Hmmm, all of these features being operated within a bowl that contains several gallons of water? Yes, their customers have been having problems with them. Almost 30 of their toilets have recently had problems with smoking or worse, fire. Fortunately no one has been injured (although would anyone really report having their backsides burned by a toilet) and the company is offering free repairs.

Now I thought that mankind had reached its technological peak when the singing mounted bass was unveiled, but the warming toilet definitely sits atop the technology throne (sorry, it just seemed so appropriate). You have got to want to reward the smart scientists who looked upon the conventional toilet one day, providing they weren’t sitting atop it, and decided to figure out ways to enhance it. Did they put the toilet in front of a blackboard and start writing down ideas and improvements on their science pads (which I think are the same as legal pads, with the exception that they were bought at one of the science supply stores like Beaker Depot or Test Tubes and therefore cost more)?

You know that the first thing mentioned was the dreaded cold toilet seat first thing in the morning. Really, when you give it a lot of thought, it’s amazing that something like this was ever invented. If everyone involved with the project was proper and well mannered, no one would admit any bad experiences they had suffered while on or around a toilet. Without the scientists’ experiences, no one would know what could be improved upon. I suppose the general public could send letters into the toilet manufacturers with their complaints or suggestions, but can anyone name the manufacturer of their toilet…without peeking? I said peeking…

The bidet is the thing I’m the most interested in. Until a coworker corrected me, I thought that it was a miniature beret, perhaps to be worn by a pony. I guess I really hadn’t thought it through. I also used to think a bidet was the fancy way of spelling and pronouncing ‘Biddy,’ but I called a biddy that once and it took two weeks for the ‘purse welts’ to heal. At any rate, the thing looks like a water fountain and apparently, it’s meant to wash parts down yonder. Well, that’s assuming that what I really saw was in fact a bidet and not a true water fountain. Either way, I don’t think I can ever drink from the public water supply again.

If you are wondering when these techno-toilets will arrive in the US, my guess is that it is now several months later than when originally anticipated. I can’t possibly imagine that Home Depot and Lowe’s are as excited now to begin stocking toilets that burn and smoke. It might be great for the gag shop in your local mall, but not for the discerning American public’s arse. Whoever thought that walking up to the bathroom door when someone is using the facilities and yelling ‘light a match’ would take on such a different meaning. But then I guess the discussion on bathrooms and toilets in our society has always been a ‘hot’ issue…

Insomnia Man

Considering that I couldn’t come up with anything else for today and in light of the feedback I received when mentioning Insomnia Man on Friday, I thought I would delve deeper into the life of Insomnia Man. This will be somewhat different from my usual posts and embarrassingly; THIS is my longest post to date.

Insomnia Man (IM because I’m too lazy to type the full name) was a sheepherder until being laid off in the late 90s when computer software and technology made it possible to count sheep more cheaply and efficiently than a mere mortal could. This disturbed Insomnia Man deeply and disrupted the ebb and flow of his life, but he found work not long after in a local office complex. He would spend his days in his drab mono-colored (coloured for any of my European readers) cubicle staring at a computer monitor listening to the incessant droning native to the office environment while pushing papers and taking things in and out of manila folders because that’s what he saw those around him doing. Due to the lack of excitement he was used to on the sheep farm, he would often fall asleep at his desk. IM could get away with this because he always had plenty of manila folders on his desk and was never seen not clutching one. This daytime sleeping made it hard to fall asleep at night and before too long IM became a full-fledged insomniac. Well, that’s what he believed after seeing that he had a few of the same symptoms as an insomniac does on the internet. Perhaps he was too quickly convinced that he was an insomniac because he thought it made him a candidate for disability until he was laughed out of his company’s HR Specialist’s office. This made him bitter and agitated which further deterred his ability to sleep.

The insomnia didn’t bother IM too much at first because it made it much easier for him to sleep through his workday and that made the workday pass much quicker than if he actually worked straight through 8 consecutive hours. IM would spend his nights learning foreign languages by watching their infomercials or enjoying his TiVo’d episodes of ‘The Wonder Years’ (don’t we all have Winnie Coopers or Kevin Arnolds in our past). One night while craving a Chalupa, he took to the streets to find a Taco Bell. It was at this time that he witnessed his very first crime. At least he thought that the guy was breaking into his neighbors house until he called the police and they discovered that it was his neighbor’s Father-in-law trying to get back into the house because he locked himself out while house sitting. Never the less, the adrenaline rush he experienced while thinking he was foiling a criminal act now and forever would be in his blood. It was only a bonus that his neighbors later dropped the charges against him.

IM now knew what he must do. He would use his sub-super powers to prevent evil in his city by finding crime in progress and calling the police. Sadly, IM was not smart enough to realize that the crime would be over by the time he reported it. He upgraded his cell phone plan, bought a digital camera and while his wife slept one night, he assembled everything he would need to fashion his own superhero costume, although he disliked the term costume as he felt it belittled him and referred to it as his ‘Superuni.” He later realized he had no talent for combining words and just stuck with ‘My Uniform For Deterring, if Not Repelling, Because I Can’t Really Fight, Crime.” One night after driving himself to the emergency room to have his fingers removed from the cape he had accidentally sewed to them, his Uniform For Deterring, if Not Repelling, Because I Can’t Really Fight, Crime was finished.

IM was now free to patrol the streets at night looking and listening for crime. He found that the longer he went without sleep, the harder it was to walk or drive straight and trust what he was seeing. Unfortunately, he missed more crimes than he prevented and was asked by the authorities to stop searching for crime after striking a group of elderly women leaving a bingo game one night. In time, the police dispatchers stopped taking his calls and then became further irritated when they had to dispatch officers nightly to get him off the yards of the town’s citizens. It turns out that those Neighborhood Watch programs really are effective. But then, how difficult is it to spot someone in a mask and cape with big ‘ZZZZs’ on their chest peeking in through your neighbor’s window.

Times were tough for IM. Then when having to go to the grocery store for his wife one day (despite his insistence that he needed to try and sleep during the day because he did really important stuff at night like Elvis used to), he realized that he actually did have an almost superpower. The bags under his eyes had become so big that they repelled the sunlight allowing him to not have to squint, just like the pro athletes who paint black streaks under their eyes before they compete. Now he could seek out and report crime to the authorities in the daytime too.

Insomnia Man patrolled the local streets day and night unsuccessfully for over 20 years. Then one day his social security check began arriving and his wife retired. She insisted that they buy a motor home and travel the country (mostly to escape the constant ridicule for being the wife of the sleepless caped idiot). While driving the motor home, he fell asleep at the wheel driving through Needles, California and was hospitalized for 8 months. Ironically, that day driving and the ensuing 8 months was the best (and by best I mean only) sleep he had experienced in 23 years. After recovering; they retired to Florida, took up lawn bowling and he now falls asleep at 3PM everyday while watching ‘The People’s Court’ in his recliner.

It’s still a sore subject for him when his grandchildren make fun of Insomnia Man. Except for the one grandchild who is afraid of sleep and found Insomnia Man’s Uniform For Deterring, if Not Repelling, Because He Can’t Really Fight, Crime in his grandfather’s attic one day…

Repost Sunday: Welcome To The Hottest Club In Town

I rerun some of my older posts on Sundays as a way to highlight stories that you may have missed. Just think of it as 'thought recycling' and a day off, or that I am incredibly, incredibly lazy.

Wow, what an explosive week this has been and we’re only half way through it! North Korea apparently successfully tested its first (if not second) nuclear device. For some reason, this has generated a lot of press. In many of the stories I’ve read, there is a mention of North Korea joining the “Nuclear Club.” I’ve never heard of that club before so I did a little of my hasty research and wanted to share it with you.

The Club (as I’ll refer to it) is about as exclusive a club as you can join. There area very few select members and to gain entry, you have to have nuclear capabilities. So naturally, this is one club that you are not easily kicked out of. After all, if you possess nuclear weapons, chances are no one is going to approach you and ask you to turn in your key to the clubhouse, so to speak. The members are the US (club founder and I presume President), Russia (second to join and by longevity and sheer warhead numbers, VP), Britain (very few estimated warheads, but as America’s buddy, they get to be Club Secretary), France (Treasurer), China (Club member), India, (Club member), Pakistan (followed India in when no one was looking), North Korea (got in only because they figured out the secret knock) and possibly Israel (they say they are a member and as I already mentioned, this is a club with credentials you really don’t want to question).

It nearly killed me, but I was able to get my hands on a pamphlet for the Club. Except for the fact that half the Club hates each other and the US and Russia have a love hate relationship, the Club looks like a lot of fun. There are pools, tennis courts, an 18-hole Arnold Palmer designed golf course with the world’s largest sand trap (courtesy of repeated underground atomic testing) and the obligatory 50,000 square foot nuclear research facility. I hear the food is excellent though and they play bingo every Wednesday night.

The odd part about the Club is that most of the members don’t usually pal around together so the clubhouse is usually as empty as the Big Brother house during its last week. Hey, there’s an idea if anyone from CBS is watching (or Saturday Night Live, if you take it to the other extreme). Since it’s hard to top Big Brother All-Stars, why not Big Brother – Nuclear Style. The members of the Nuclear Club could all be sequestered in the same house for several weeks and one by one vote each other off. Wouldn’t the alliances be great? Something tells me that America and Britain would form an alliance on day one and get everyone voted off but France and then ultimately betray and evict France. When all the former “house guests” return for the final vote (assuming they all didn’t nuke each other), Britain would be voted the winner since everyone hates America. OK CBS Network President Les Moonves or Lorne Michaels, I can be contacted via the email address located under my links list…

So the Nuclear Club has another member. Whether or not Kim Jong Il chooses to take advantage of the Club’s perks remains to be seen. The bottom line is he and North Korea have joined the Club and now no one can take away their membership. I guess membership truly does have its privileges, especially when that privilege is the ability to wipe your real or perceived enemies off the face of the earth. When I get a little older, I’ll just follow in my Grandfather’s footsteps and join the Elks Club, thank you very much.

Things I Learned This Week: 4-14-07

Because I want to spare you from experiencing some of the things I endured over the last few days, I post “Things I Learned This Week” each Saturday. It’s educational, sometimes insightful and for some reason it never makes me look good. I hope that knowing about at least one item on this list will make your upcoming week much easier. So here are the “Things I Learned This Week” for the week of 4/8/07-4/14/07.

! I learned that it is possible to pay the Vet $500 and still be able to leave his clinic without knowing why my wife’s cat lost the use of her front paw.

! I learned that when I am smoking meat on the BBQ and it is a rather windy day, I should close the sliding glass door to the patio. Or I need to have a very strong scented Yankee candle ready and burning before anyone else gets home.

! I learned that when I am trying a new sleeping medication for the first time, I should not answer a call from work at 3: 15 in the morning. This is especially true if I do not wish to be taunted about my incoherence during that phone call for the remainder of the week!

! I learned that I need to make sure from now on that I hard-boiled the eggs before Lucy and Ethel color them. I also need to verify that all eggs have been found after the Easter egg hunt.

! I learned that my niece wasn’t wearing a belt that had a squeeze toy attached to it so it would make a sound when you touched her tummy. Apparently, it was my nephew holding the squeeze toy in his pocket. I hate being so gullible, especially in front of the in-laws.

! I learned that Thursday was not casual day at work after I showed up in cargo pants an untucked shirt but that Friday was when I showed up in a shirt and tie. For you regular readers, I guess I got a taste of my own medicine.

And lastly,

! I learned that you know you are in the middle of nowhere when you see a street called Whispering Spur and you notice that just feet from there is a red barn with a sign reading ‘Cow Town USA Square Dancing.’ I was tempted to enter the building and ask for an order of dose-e-do to go.

Top Ten (And A Half) Things To Do When Suffering From Insomnia

I post a Top Ten and a Half List every Friday. Why ten and a half? Because I don’t want to be accused of stealing a great idea, of course…So, here are the top ten (and a half) things to do when suffering from insomnia:

11. Lie in bed and daydream about sleeping.

10. Drive around your city taking note of all the 24-hour fast food drive-thrus and then visit both of them on successive nights.

9. Sew a mask and cape and patrol the streets at night enforcing the law and repelling evil as Insomnia Man. Remember to recreate the bags under your eyes on the mask.

8. Grill up a steak and try to learn a foreign language by watching foreign soaps or infomercials.

7. Edge the backyard.

6. Apologize to the neighbors for edging the backyard.

5. Wash the cars (after all, there won’t be any water spots caused by the sun).

4. Apologize to the other neighbors for washing the cars, as well as the authorities when they arrive to answer both neighbors’ disturbing the peace calls.

3. Visit my blog. Better yet, visit my blog and leave a comment complimenting me on my witty writing. You can leave a comment about the lack of my witty writing skills, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t delete it.

2. Call your coworkers around 3AM and when they or their angry spouse answers, apologize and say that you dialed the wrong number in a deep eastern European accent.

And the number one thing to do when suffering from insomnia is:

1. Grab something exciting to read like a dictionary or the directions for your refrigerator and read until…

China Sounds Like A Nice Enough Place

After reading a story by the Associated Press, it sounds like China is taking steps to ensure that they put on a good and proper Summer Olympics next year. The story says that Olympic organizers there want to ban bad manners, spitting, run-down housing and nonsense English. If they successfully implement these bans and the International Olympic Committee ever adopts them, Los Angeles can kiss their chance at the 2016 Games good bye. Parts of L.A. excel in every one of those categories!

The story says that the newest ban is the crack down (is it me or do the words crack down and China make anyone else thing of Tiananmen Square) on badly worded English. China fears that people or signs that butcher our language could be an embarrassment for them. There are currently English worded signs in Beijing that make no sense to anyone, with the possible exception of Yoda or Sylvester Stallone, and the country hopes to work on getting that stopped and will even have a phone line for people to call if they spot poorly translated signs. Taxi drivers in Beijing are being required to pass English tests so that they can keep their licenses. I wonder if the phrases “So, where ya from,” “Yo, the meter is running” and “Hey, anyone call a taxi,” will be covered on the test.

I don’t know about you but it seems awfully nice of China to want to be so accommodating next summer to those who speak the English language. While I don’t keep myself too current on world affairs (or men’s fashion or the works of P. Diddy for that matter) and can’t recall actually studying in school, I always thought we never got along with China. Well, relations must not be too bad now. They are focusing on the use of correct English in Beijing and they keep sending our zoos Pandas, so things must be going pretty well. I guess they can take France’s place at our next world diplomacy slumber party. “I have like an announcement every one, we’re letting like China join our like clique. Like is that OK?”

Perhaps we should be concerned about the rest of the bans being put in place for the 2008 games. Think about it, no spitting and no bad manners. How’s that going to affect us Americans in Beijing? And I’m just talking about the athletes. How are our gymnasts, swimmers and equestrian competitors supposed to vent when they lose without bad manners? Can you imagine an American Olympic baseball team that takes the field and does not spit? Well, that’s like having an Olympic games without suspending an American or Canadian runner for failing a steroid test or an Eastern European judge who gives high marks to anyone from the west. Darn it, the whole thing just violates the spirit of the Olympic tradition.

I applaud China for going to the lengths they appear to be going, but let’s hope that the games aren’t too polite. Why it wouldn’t feel right traveling to another country and not getting lost because you can’t understand the signs or anyone you ask for directions. For me, the best part of the Olympics has always been the chance that I might see two athletes from different countries cause an international incident that sets the rest of the world on edge. Am I going to the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing you ask? No, my passport was just revoked for some reason…I'm sure it had nothing to do with me submitting "Goodness, Gracious, Great Wall of China" as the 2008 Summer Games theme song.

That Could Have Been My Gambling Money

We have a cat. OK, my wife has a cat that I became co-owner of upon my marriage. Figaro, or Figgy or &@#!# as I often call her was born in my wife’s backyard 16 years ago. Needless to say, she is part of the family. At least that’s how I felt after she adopted me 5 years into marriage on that fateful day when she decided not to hiss at me anymore when I attempted to get into bed. The relationship I have with Figgy now is wonderful. I get to clean up whatever emanates, leaks or is projected from either one of her ends. She makes a mess and then looks at me knowing that I will lower my head and clean up after her. Whoever thought I would become a cat’s B-tch. On a similar timeline, she finally decided to acknowledge the existence of Lucy and Ethel a few months ago; mind you, that’s four years into their lives. In fact, she even sleeps some nights in Ethel’s bed, which has caused severe mental anguish and an inferiority complex for Lucy. I deal with that by explaining that Lucy was much more popular than Ethel was. It’s worked well so far.

Prior to a scare we got last night (hence the reason for this post), the closest that ole Figaro came to bodily injury or giving us a scare was when she would fall asleep on top of the couch and fall off. As we were too busy watching TV, we would know she fell off by a sudden thud and meow. We would look over the couch only to find her shaking her head before trouncing off to pout at my laughing at her. Last night as I went to bed, I found her in Lucy and Ethel’s room crying out to me. She could not get up and when she finally did, she was dragging one of her front paws. There was no sign of pain so we assumed that at her age she might have had a stroke.

She was taken to the vet today for examinations and tests and we expected the worst. Several hours later, we were told that she didn’t appear to be dying, to the best of the doctor’s ability. It’s assumed that she does have a leg injury and we were sent packing with three different medications and instructions to call the vet every day through next week. Obviously, I was relieved when my wife called me with this news, until she said that we essentially paid $500 to be told that Figaro could come home and that we really don’t know what happened. Let me recap, $500 for no real answer. So, if the vet used the words, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong,’ to describe her condition, it worked out to $100 per word. I gotta tell you, I used to be a freelance copywriter and never even got a quarter of that per word. Apparently, I was under charging.

Now I know that veterinarians are very important and offer a great service and that Figgy’s diagnosis could have gone either way, but that’s a lot of money for a guess. I could have gambled that money and had a chance to at least make some of it back. Well, not in roulette, which reminds me to tell you that you should never bet NASCAR numbers when playing roulette. It’s not that I’m cheap, unless you consider it cheap to buy only pregnant fish so that I get about 10 for the price of 1 or having my wife cut my hair. Although in her defense, she’s really good at it and it’s hard to mess up the short and spiky look.

Even though they weren’t grand plans, I did have hopes of using that $500 other ways. I could have gotten new tires for my truck since they’re almost as bald as Patrick Stewart is or bought eggnog in bulk next Christmas and so I could freeze it to enjoy the whole year round, thus eliminating my annual nasty mid-June withdrawals. I could have purchased about 8 gallons of gas here in Southern California or hired a really cheap lawyer to contest my paternity of Anna Nicole’s child. I might even have been able to buy a door for my office cubicle or a sport coat that actually fits me. That money could have been used to finance my Off-Broadway production of ‘Welcome Back Kotter the Musical.’ I’ve been working on getting Squiggy to play Horschack, it’s pure genius. Lastly, I could have paid that guy Jimmy back for the money I borrowed last time I was in Vegas. After all, I’m going to have to answer my phone and front door eventually.

I’m glad to know that Figgy will be with us for a while longer and that she might even regain the use of her front paw. Every time I’m bending down to clean up her regurgitated dinner, hair and hourly litter box deposit, or when I find myself sleeping on the edge of the bed so that she can be comfortable, I’ll remember the best $500 I ever spent…Welcome back, to that same old place that you laughed about. Well the names have all changed since you hung around, but those dreams have remained and they're turned around. Who'd have thought they'd lead ya (Who'd have thought they'd lead ya) Here where we need ya (here where we need ya). Yeah we tease her a lot cause we've got her on the spot, welcome back, welcome back, welcome back, welcome back…

The Deadliest Job In The World?

I don’t care too much for reality TV, with one exception. I thoroughly enjoy watching ‘The Deadliest Catch’ on the Discovery Channel. The show follows a handful of crab fishing boats out of Alaska. These fisherman face peril at virtually every stage of their jobs and when you consider the stormy seas they sometimes have to navigate, even getting to their jobs can be dangerous. In just the first episode this season, one boat already sank, and these aren’t little weekend pleasure boats. They are huge boats that keep the crews on the ocean for a few weeks at a time.

Why do I care enough to write about crab fisherman today? Because every time I watch them in action, I can’t help but feel somewhat like I am less of a man because of my job. I can’t say that I really risk life or limb when I leave for work in the morning. Yes, there are a few times when female coworker is having a bad day that injury becomes a real possibility, but that danger is negated by the rest of us avoiding her and sneaking out to lunch whenever she has to use the restroom. Still though, it’s not the same as reporting for work in a major storm on the high seas with only the quickness of the US Coast Guard standing between me and my maker should something go terribly wrong. If female coworker snaps, I only have HR as recourse and they don’t have cool helicopters.

Let’s compare my job with that of a crab fisherman’s. I drive to work and the worst thing that could happen then is a minor fender bender because you can’t drive to or from work more than 5 miles an hour Monday-Friday in Southern California. And if I did have a fender bender, it would probably be my fault anyway because I’m such a late braker. It really puts things in perspective when I have to put on a tie for work instead of rain slickers or a life suit. When I get to work there are no slippery decks or choppy seas. Yes, I may accidentally clip a file cabinet while walking down the hall, but the worst thing that ever happened when I did that was my watch breaking. Do I grind up bait every few hours? Not in my office. I get to shred paper every now and then, but there’s no blood or fish scent. Unless I cut myself and someone decides to reheat salmon for their lunch, but the chances of that happening simultaneously aren’t as great as you might think. In my office, there is no chance of being washed overboard. Although we do occasionally have to wash the dry erase board. Comparative level of difficulty on that one: .001. While the brave crab fishermen risk being hit by a several hundred pound crab trap as it’s moved by crane onto the deck, I just have to make sure I don’t bump into anyone in the break room in a way that could be misconstrued as sexual harassment.

My job doesn’t get me grimy from setting up fish bait or emptying King Crabs out of traps. The only time I get dirty at work is when I might break my ink pen (usually my fault), have to change the printer toner (which I usually do incorrectly causing it to get all over me) or rest my arms anywhere that the nightly cleaning staff might neglect to clean, like my desk, for example. No, I don’t face injury with virtually every step or tick of the clock like crab men do. My greatest opportunities for injury would actually leave me too embarrassed to admit that it even happened. For me, there is the ever-present threat of having my pride wounded by a coworker when we begin to exchange barbs about our work performance. Yeah, that really showcases the testosterone. Yes, I could burn the tip of my finger or knuckle on our industrial sized copy machine when it jams and I’m sent to open up the machine and retrieve what’s left of the jammed paper, but there’s no adrenaline rush with that. Believe me, I’ve tried. Once after grabbing the jammed document, I jumped out and down, whooped and hollered and attempted to give everyone high fives, only to be asked to settle down and get back to work. Could I accidentally strangle myself picking up my office telephone? Only if I’m not paying attention, and happen to be spinning when I pick it up.

Surely there must be some similarities you say. OK, just humor me and say it once. Why yes, there are similarities. Thank you for asking. My cubicle is about the same size as the crewmen’s bunks. Actually, now that I’m really thinking about it, their beds might be larger. Dang it! OK, here’s a good similarity, we both get paid for what we do. Wait a minute; they get paid much better for just a few weeks of work than I do for a whole year.

I guess after thinking about the inadequacies I feel because of my job, there’s only one thing to do to make me feel like more of a man while earning my pay. I’m going to begin wearing rain slickers to work everyday. You know, crab legs sound pretty good for lunch tomorrow…

Insomnia Ain’t For The Tired

Thanks to a nice new medication I am on, I haven’t had more then three hours of sleep for the last three weeks. It wasn’t too bad at first and the delusions didn’t come until midway through week two, but the last few days have really been tough. Since I’ve had all of this extra time on my hands, it got me to thinking about the best way to handle insomnia.

Initially, you’re really only faced with two alternatives: lie in bed and suffer through it or go downstairs and watch TV. I’ve tried both but figured after purchasing the Ronco Set it and Forget it rotisserie, a beautiful set of steak knives, Jessica Simpson’s Proactive acne fighting solution (I’m still not sure why I bought that one, maybe I’ll use it as a white elephant gift in the office next Christmas) and a tape set that will make me a millionaire in real estate with no money down, that staying awake watching TV all night was costing me too much money. Not to mention that I’m on some really weird mailing lists all of a sudden.

Trying to lie in bed isn’t a good alternative because around 4:00AM, I start accusing the alarm clock of trying to pick a fight with me and that usually wakes the wife up. I still swear that clock was giving me dirty looks last night though.

Then I did some research on insomnia and famous insomniacs at about 3:30AM one morning (ironic but appropriate) and learned some things that made my late night TV watching seem pathetic in comparison. Abraham Lincoln wrote the Gettysburg address while he couldn’t sleep and Thomas Jefferson drafted most of the Declaration of Independence while suffering from insomnia. Other notable insomniacs were Winston Churchill, Isaac Newton, Charles Dickens and that guy that played Ralph on ‘Happy Days.’

Actually, I made all of that up. I don’t have enough energy to research insomnia. Although maybe insomnia research is just the thing that would put me to sleep for at least eight hours. At any rate, last night I decided to put all of the extra hours to good use. The only problem is that judging by the neighbors screaming at me over the fence, I’m not going to be able to mow the lawn when I can’t sleep anymore. Ditto on the vacuuming around the house. When I realized we were low on ice cubes, I thought that emptying the ice trays would be nice for everyone when they got up in the morning, but I got a very similar reaction to the one I received from the neighbors. We’ll call it a ‘cold’ reception at best.

Finally, I decided I could blog all night as surely the sounds of me striking the keys on the keyboard wouldn’t wake up Lucy and Ethel. Did you notice that I didn’t leave comments on any of your blogs late last night or early this morning? Yep, too loud, so I began cruising the internet looking for the inspiration for today’s post. I thought I had found it when I came across the story of a 102-year-old California woman who became the oldest person to sink a hole in one on a regulation golf course. She died of a heart attack moments later.

Yes, I made the heart attack part up, but that’s all I could think of and it’s only two sentences. I tired to tough this insomnia thing out regardless of the fact that it’s hurting my job performance, not allowing me to help enough at home and that I think I struck a light pole while driving home from work the other night (at least that’s what the unexplained dent on the front of my truck looks like, although I suppose it could be a tree and all of this is just a bad dream like in ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’). However, when the insomnia starts affecting the length of my writing (the quality is already suspect), I decided it was time to call the doctor.

Since I was too tired to actually go in for an appointment, the doctor tried to determine a diagnosis over the phone (I still don’t understand why I had to stick my tongue out). I was asked a lot of questions about stress, my diet, what I watch on TV before going to bed and anything else that might make it hard for me to sleep at night, like the fact that I try to sneak in frequent naps (and by frequent, I mean every 45 minutes) at work. I could tell the doctor was taking copious notes and she said she would consult with one of her colleagues and get back to me just as soon as she could. I told her to take her time because I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it, although I don’t think she appreciated my sarcasm. My hint is that she actually hung up on me. Boy I can’t wait until I get the survey from my medical provided about her.

A few hours later the phone rang as I found myself standing in front of the mirror trying to force my eyelids shut with my fingers while going back and forth between singing the Beatles’ ‘I’m So Tired’ and mumbling to my eyes, ‘close you #$@##$%, close!’ The doctor said she did some research and it turns out that I need to stop drinking soda, coffee and tea (I call it my goodnight cocktail) right before I go to bed. Who knew? There’s no sleep deprivation warnings on those things. Oh well. Never mind…

Repost Sunday: Is There A Nomination Form For Sainthood?

I rerun some of my older posts on Sundays as a way to highlight stories that you may have missed. Just think of it as 'thought recycling' and a day off, or that I am incredibly, incredibly lazy. Since I'm reposting this particular story on Easter Sunday, I will probably be struck by lightening later today, so this might be my last post. Happy Easter!

I read recently that the Pope named several new saints. Embarrassingly, I was not familiar with any of them, but it got me thinking of whom and what should be eligible for sainthood. Growing up Catholic, I was always reminded of St. Christopher every time we left for a family vacation when my mother said we needed to pray to him for a safe trip. I was also told about St. Anthony, the patron Saint of lost or stolen things. Although I might be abusing this saint’s time when I pray to him daily to help me find my favorite black ink pen that I constantly misplace around my office.

I don’t know how the Pope, Vatican, Electoral College or whoever it is nominates and votes on new saints, but I think there are several that the selection committee has overlooked. There are people who have completely altered the way we live and to the best of my knowledge, none of them are saints. If anyone from the Vatican is reading this, I’ve got a few folks who should be considered for sainthood.

Without a doubt, the first person is Juan Valdez – the Patron Saint of Caffeine, which a coworker of mine pointed out when she sent me an email stating that there is a special place in heaven for Juan Valdez. Just think about it, although if you’ve yet to pour your first cup of coffee for the day, you probably can’t think at all. Saint Juan of Valdez is responsible for our societies being able to start up every day.

Next would be the inventor of the toilet, Thomas Crapper – Patron Saint of Bodily Relievement (I can’t believe my spell check doesn’t think relievement is a real word!). If there were ever someone we need to thank our maker for, it would be Saint Thomas of Crapper. Just imagine what life would be like without his toilet, well not his toilet, I mean his invention, the toilet. Equally important is Willis Haviland Carrier. You probably don’t know who he was, but he invented the modern air conditioner and should become the Patron Saint of Home and Vehicle Cooling. Again, life would be a lot more uncomfortable, not to mention smelly, without him. Without Carrier’s contribution, we’d all smell like garlic – ALL THE TIME! Speaking of garlic, (this is the worst segue ever, by the way) how many meals did you cook in the microwave this week? That’s why my next nomination for sainthood is Percy Spencer, the man who invented it. He should become the Patron Saint of Entrée Reheating.

Then there are Ray Kroc, Dave Thomas and Colonel Harlan Sanders. We all need to be grateful for their contributions to fast food. All three (I call them the Culinary Triumvirate) need to be named the Co-Patron Saints of Speedy and Convenient Nourishment. I’m using the word nourishment very loosely, but it sounds so much better than fast food. Lastly, Frank Sinatra should be named the Patron Saint of all Things Hip, Cool and Swinging, Too.

While you’d probably agree that all of these individuals are worthy of sainthood, there may be some (if not all) at the Vatican that don’t agree. Maybe we could compromise and create a hall or shrine to induct them into. It would be a category for mere mortals deemed to be just shy of deserving sainthood. We could have a huge annual induction ceremony where we honor them for their contributions to mankind. Why don’t we call them the Saintys? The little gold statues would depict a traditional saint complete with halo. Maybe someone will even broadcast the ceremony.

So there you have it. As society evolves and we reflect upon those who have sacrificed for the better good, it is time to consider broadening the definition of Saint. I don’t know that the Vatican has a website, but if they do, I hope there is a downloadable nomination form for Saints on it. Now what was the name of the guy that invented blogging?

**Author’s note: since I am Catholic, the answer is yes, I am wracked with guilt after writing this sacrilegious post about would-be Saints and will be attending the next confession closest to me**

Things I Learned This Week: 4/7/07

Because I want to spare you from experiencing some of the things I endured over the last few days, I post “Things I Learned This Week” each Saturday. It’s educational, sometimes insightful and for some reason it never makes me look good. I hope that knowing about at least one item on this list will make your upcoming week much easier. So here are the “Things I Learned This Week” for the week of 4/1/07-4/7/07.

! I learned that when I am at lunch with my coworkers and they are talking about their trips to Hawaii, I shouldn’t shout out “I watched a special on the Discovery Channel about Pearl Harbor last night’ just to fit in.

! I learned that when we are going to be staying in a nice hotel for a few nights I should not allow Lucy and Ethel to bring their musical instrument toys with them.

! I learned that when I notice that the new guy at work is shorter than I am (and believe me, that’s not saying much), I shouldn’t point it out to everyone.

! I learned that while calling all the females in the office by their last names may have seemed funny at first, I should have stopped doing it about a month ago.

! I learned that when I arrive late to work I should take the long way around the building to get to the coffee pot. Apparently, arriving late and then heading straight for the coffee before doing anything else doesn’t help my cause any.

! I learned that when my boss is trying to make a joke and he can’t remember the name of a certain medication, I shouldn’t be the first one to shout out “You mean Prozac?” Boy did I get some suspicious looks.

And lastly…

! I learned that when I get home from work and my wife says how tired she is because she’s been working around the house all day, I should not respond by saying, “Um, what did you do? Everything looks the same as it did this morning.”

The Top Ten (And A Half) Ways To Annoy Your Coworkers

I post a Top Ten and a Half List every Friday. Why ten and a half? Because I don’t want to be accused of stealing a great idea, of course…So, here are the top ten (and a half) ways to annoy your coworkers:

11. During a staff meeting, inconspicuously look up at the ceiling as though there is something there. Eventually your coworkers will look up too and when you catch them yell ‘Gotcha’ and get up and do the happy dance.

10. Sing the lyrics to either ‘Yellow Submarine’ or The Bee Gees’ ‘I Started A Joke’ all day. Trust me, by the end of the day every coworker will be cussing your name as they catch themselves singing it, no matter how much they confess to hating the song. This works. I’ve done this successfully in elementary school, junior high, high school, college and every job I’ve ever had.

9. When the coworker across the hall from you leaves their desk, steal their pen. When they leave again, put it back. Repeat as many times as you feel necessary to get enjoyment from it.

8. Every time a coworker asks you for the status of a project you are working on, simply respond by saying something like, “I don’t know anything about that. Are you sure it’s me?” “I disavow all knowledge of that particular subject at this particular time,” works well too.

7. Use the speakerphone for every one of your calls all day.

6. When you get into work Monday morning, excitedly exclaim, “Wow I caught that Matlock last night. It’s great! How long has it been on and why did no one tell me about it before?”

5. Force all of your coworkers to acknowledge and act as though there is a pretend door in the entrance to your cubicle like Les Nessman did on ‘WKRP in Cinncinnati.’

4. Call your coworker’s extension every few minutes, recite a few lines of ‘What’s New Pussycat’ in Spanish and then hang up.

3. Every time you need to get up from your desk to get something off the printer, skip instead of walking.

2. Even though he didn’t, tell your coworkers that your boss asked you to let everyone know that Friday will be casual dress. Then show up Friday in your shirt and tie and act shocked and appalled at everyone’s inappropriate attire.

And the number one way to annoy your coworkers is:

1. Get a glue stick, a green Sharpie pen, several large paperclips and fasten them to…

In Search Of The Perfect Post

For whatever reason, I rarely strive to undertake something to the best of my ability. I realize I should but it helps me manage people’s expectations. The lower I keep them, the less will hopefully be asked of me. I have made the mistake in the past of setting very high expectations, which only proves to be a pain to live up to. However, when it comes to this blogging stuff, I find myself striving for perfection at least three days a week.

Daily I read posts that are excellent and inspire me to create the ultimate post - one that should be marked as a classic in the dictionary or encyclopedia. Well, ok, I’d settle for an entry in Wikipedia.com. I came across a few of them again while surfing blogs this morning and it really got me thinking about what would make the perfect post, the post that when I realized it could not be topped would send me into blogging retirement, and maybe a book deal. Though I’d settle for getting a pamphlet published.

Of course by describing it to you, it kind of takes away the need to actually write the perfect post since I’ll essentially be doing that here, but maybe that’s just my way of talking about doing the work instead of actually doing it. While the perfect post means different things to different writers, for me it would have to be witty, laugh out loud funny and at the same time make the reader think long after reading it, though not in a college philosophy class type of way. The penultimate post also needs to force readers to contemplate such deep thoughts as their own mortality, their particular brand of spirituality, how we coexist as a global people and why the Dave Clark 5 could be the most underappreciated band of the entire British Invasion. OK, you got me. I ran out of ideas when I wrote that last item. Perfection is hard.

As difficult as it will be to accomplish, my ‘classic’ post should also leave people in awe of my brilliant intelligence, or my ‘brilligence,’ if you will. Oh yeah, getting people to cry would be cool too. So would having people quote it for years after or see it put into an email and forwarded dozens of times. And having it stolen for use as an advertising slogan. And having the post spark an entire new movement, but that’s it. OK, and it could lead to my own TV comedy development deal. Really though, if I had to choose just one effect of composing the perfect post, I’d just settle for the crying part. Or the quoting part. Although the TV thing would be pretty neat.

Now for the actual nitty gritty elements of my perfect post. I realize that by getting into these items that I am providing you with the elements and blue print to compose the perfect post, thereby making it possible for my perfect post to be stolen. However, I am trusting, or naïve or maybe just not that smart, so I don’t mind providing these secret ingredients for the perfect post. After all, the perfection lies in how the elements are presented, which by the way I will also provide for a nominal fee.

All right, now here is what the perfect post should contain. Oh, you know what; I’ve already exceeded my 500 words for the day. Now I won’t be able to share what is needed for the perfect post. I guess I spent too much time talking about it. Hopefully I didn’t get anyone too excited. Sorry about that. Well, as long as I’m around to see the sunrise and my computer boots up, there’s always tomorrow. Hey, that’s pretty good. I need to remember that.

I Blame Dancing With The Stars

The AP is reporting that a young woman in Chicago is suing a man that she claims was responsible for (and get this) ‘negligent dancing’ during a work event that she had to attend. During the event, the man picked her up and as a result, she fell to the ground on her head suffering skull and brain injuries. The story didn’t describe the severity of her injuries, but she was able to be quoted. I blame ‘Dancing With The Stars.’ It has made people want to dance all of a sudden when most of them have no right doing so.

I used to think that my form of uncoordinated herky-jerky moves were classified as ‘negligent dancing,’ but since the only pain anyone ever experienced from my master moves was stomach pain from laughing so hard, I guess it should have been called something else. Dorky comes to mind. My main motivation in the three or so times I have danced in the last twenty years (including my wedding but not including the Macarena, because I still hush the floor when I do that one) is observing other people dancing and then making fun of them. Yes, I have had to leave the dance floor in a hurry a few times. Apparently, I can be accused of negligent working, negligent dishwashing, negligent listening, negligent husbanding, negligent driving, negligent thinking and negligent blogging, but not ‘negligent dancing.’

While it used to be easy to look proficient by pointing your finger to the sky like John Travolta while dancing, ‘Dancing With The Stars’ has raised the amateur dancing bar. Well, at least when the Bee Gees aren’t being played. Now, you have to be able to do a few steps of the Tango, Jitterbug, Paso Doble and I think the Mashed Potato in order to look respectable while dancing.

This accident is the type of thing that can have far reaching repercussions. I can just picture all the high school kids across the country standing around listening to music during their proms after the no-dancing rule is enforced out of fears of injuries caused by ‘negligent dancing.’ Although I never saw it, wasn’t ‘Footloose’ the story of kids at a high school where there were ‘negligent dancing’ fears? Oh wait maybe that was ‘Top Gun.’ I know Kenny Loggins sang in both of them. No, I think ‘Top Gun’ was the one where Tom Cruise was a racecar driver. If that’s right then which one was he a pilot in? Oh yeah, ‘Risky Business.’

Maybe the more important issue here is for employers to stop having parties that are mandatory or where dancing can occur. I think the injured woman should consider suing her employer. If the party had not been mandatory, she would not have done a swan dive into the dance floor. After all, the man who threw her into the air was just acting in the spirit of the party that they were attending.

This is a sensitive issue for me because of something that happened while at work today. I was driving with female coworker and suffered head trauma in her vehicle. She was driving while I dropped my cell phone and immediately bent down to pick it up, as most people would. While bending over, I struck my head on the dashboard handle over her glove box. The collision was violent and I haven’t been thinking clearly since. I think, I don’t know, I really can’t remember now. What was I talking about again?

Upon further inspection, I noticed that the handle was neither padded nor rounded. It was essentially a weapon aimed directly for me. I figured if a lady could sue the ‘negligent dancer’ then I could sue her, the vehicle manufacturer or my employer. If we hadn’t had to leave the office on official business, I would not have struck my fragile head.

Assuming I had an airtight case, I opened the phone book and began calling the first accident lawyers I saw. If there is one thing I have learned in my life, it’s that if someone can afford a Yellow Pages ad, then they must be doing well and if they are doing well they must be reputable. The first few I called sounded promising until I heard the sounds of sirens in the background followed by the sound of them hanging up on me. Another one asked if I was wearing a neck brace and the one after that said if I wasn’t seeing double they couldn’t do anything for me. I tried a few more and was advised they did not want to take my case. I guess if an accident lawyer won’t take my case, it isn’t as airtight as I thought. Darn, I really thought I had something going here. Oh well, maybe I can at least guilt female coworker into closing for me tomorrow. I’ll probably drop my case against her if she agrees…and buys me a milk shake after lunch.

Ashes To Ashes

With the possible exception of the Mt. St. Helens eruption, I can’t remember there being so much said about ashes in the news before. Obviously, I am stretching that fact in blogworthy desperation, but really, two stories about ashes in the same day begs some attention. Therefore, I am begging you to keep reading.

I used to think of the great scenes from ‘Diamonds Are Forever’ and the original ‘Ocean’s-11’ when I thought about cremation, but that has forever been replaced. Our first dusty diatribe is about the remains of James Doohan who played ‘Scotty’ on Star Trek. I think I wrote about this some time ago, but in case you weren’t aware, his family is sending his ashes into space. The rocket carrying his remains and about 200 others will launch from New Mexico later this month. Once in orbit, Doohan will join the remains of Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry, which have been in space since 1997.

I guess there is really nothing wrong with that. Having your earthly remains circle the earth for years until its orbit decays and it falls back to earth in a tiny fireball seems like a fun thing to do. I’m sure Scotty’s loved ones will enjoy the fact that he is circling overhead every night. For the modest $495 fee, space travel is finally affordable. Of course for less than $50 you can put that special person’s remains into a model rocket and launch it tens of feet into the air, but I think you have to get some type of city HAZMAT clearance for it first.

I got a little ashen when I read this next one. It has often been said that the two things that would survive a nuclear holocaust (wasn’t the height of the Cold War fun) are cockroaches and Keith Richards. Well now we know the secret to his longevity. It’s a mixture of cocaine and human ashes – his father’s ashes. That’s right, I just read a story where Keith Richards admitted that he mixed his dad’s ashes with cocaine and snorted it (or him) after his death. One could argue that Keith was so inconsolably saddened by his father’s passing that he didn’t realize what he was doing. My guess is that he was not without an alternative mental influence when he decided to partake of his father, so to speak.

Do you think Mick Jagger and Ron Wood made mental notes not to be cremated when they read the same story? I bet this is just the type of good advance publicity that the nice and proper folks at Disney were hoping for to help promote the upcoming ‘Pirates of the Caribbean 3’ and Keith Richards’ cameo in it. It reminds me of that time back in 1964 when Julie Andrews was picked up for prostitution by local authorities on her way to the premiere of ‘Mary Poppins.’ Yes, I’m kidding. Or am I?

Well, if you have been considering cremation as a memorial alternative, hopefully Scotty and Keith Richards have provided you with two more options. It sure is a lot better way to be treated than having the cleaning lady accidentally knock the urn containing your ashes off the mantle and vacuuming them up only to discover in horror that she also emptied a large dust ball from the bagless vacuum when she filled the urn back up. Right?

The New Guy

Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. The new guy started at work today. While the new guy should be the one on edge, it seems like our staff was the one trying to impress him. In the ritualistic dance of office dominance, the established veterans lost round one. Don’t worry, we’ll be OK. During a staff meeting last week, all of us good team players discussed all the ways that we could haze; I mean welcome, the newbie. We ran them by the boss man but surprisingly, he wasn’t that enthusiastic. After all, the goal is to have a new employee be excited about their new job, not mortified by it. Although what fun is there in that?

The first idea was to clutter our desks with as much paper, file folders and reports that we could find. Along with that, all of us would have our hair mussed and act as though we are all over stressed. I decided that at some point in the morning after meeting new guy I would tell him ‘you know; only 6% of all new hires make it past the 15-day probationary period.’ That one was popular with the co-workers. So was telling him that our medical benefits have great psychiatric coverage, which is a good thing because we’ve all had to use it. In fact, we can tell him that we’re there so frequently we’ve been given an office discount.

We also thought of yelling at our clients on the phone about what would happen if they threatened us one more time. The phrase ‘I swear on my relatives’ graves that if you try to sue me one more time I’ll cancel your contract,’ was bandied about. I decided against picking up the phone in front of new guy and pretending to ask my client if he could instruct his staff to stop pulling knives on me because they should know me by now. I thought that placing a call to my insurance agent stating that my car was broken into for the third time this year while visiting one of my clients was a good idea. Our case was so easily helped when my boss had to interrupt us saying that one of our clients had been shot by one of their employees. It turned out to be a rumor, but we could not have scripted it any better, believe me.

Of course all of that stuff is just the warning part of welcoming the new guy. We also were excited to give him our tips of the trade as well. The staff thought that new guy would love to hear that two-hour lunches are the norm as is casual shorts Friday and bring your dog to work Thursday. Although I’m not sure what we’ll tell him when we all show up in our shirts and ties this Friday. In hindsight, telling him that ANYTHING he buys can be expensed out may have been stepping a little over the line. If that’s the case then I guess it makes giving him a Sharper Image catalog to order from almost sinful. Oops.

Don’t get me wrong. We are a loving and forgiving people at the office. We do nice things for each other all the time. We buy the office donuts, share paperclips, announce loudly so that all can hear when someone’s performance numbers fall just in case that person wasn’t aware of it and we usually return whatever we borrow from our coworkers within the same quarter. In fact, we didn’t even talk behind new guy’s back while at lunch today. Granted, we didn’t invite him to dine with us either, but we decided that was for his own protection. We felt we should wait at least a week until we criticize company policy in front of him. And when I say a week, I mean two business days.

It’s great having another coworker around the office, and I’m not just saying that because it lightens the workload we’ve been handling while there was a vacancy. Hopefully he likes playing our song of the day game where we pick a word and then everyone has to come up with a song title containing that word. Hopefully his palette can grow accustomed to eating at the same Mexican food place every day, because it really is nice walking into an establishment where everyone knows your name. Maybe this will be the elusive coworker who DOESN’T make fun of NASCAR. Just to be sure, I think I’ll forget about office dominance for a while and work on getting on his good side.

That reminds me, I need to tell new guy tomorrow that no one cares if he plays computer Solitaire when he has a little down time. Well, I’ll tell him once he figures out the password we entered to lock his screensaver and make his mouse move super slow. The only problem is that no one seems to have written it down…