What To Celebrate First?

Hello there friends, it’s holiday time again (and again, sorry Kat). There are actually a few little celebrations on the calendar for Tuesday. I’ll delve into them one at a time, but first, a disclaimer. I tend to disclaim a lot of things. Perhaps this is because I know I’ll do something wrong or offend someone, yada, yada, yada, etc., etc. The current disclaimer of the day is: I’m writing this while under a bout of atrial fibrillation (as opposed to Monday’s which was: before you go into the office’s breakroom, I made the coffee today, but didn’t know about that little hole that you aren’t supposed to fill the water beyond, but I will clean it up, eventually. In the meantime just be careful where you step because I used all the ‘Wet Floor’ signs to help me build that fort in my cubicle). So, just like my heart rhythm, my thoughts may tend to be a little pitter-pat, pit, pit-patter, patter, pitter patteryish today.

Now, on to the frivolity and general madcap mayhem! Tuesday we celebrate National Teacher Day, No Diet Day and No Homework Day. It’s been my experience that holidays that start with the word ‘no’ are always a ‘yes’ in my book. Seriously, it took me half a day to come up with that line! As usual, I have no earthly idea how to celebrate any of these days, though honestly, I’m guessing that No Diet Day and No Homework day are pretty self-explanatory. National Teacher Day may take a little more effort, but since we aren’t going to be doing homework or focusing on our diets on Tuesday, I’m thinking we all have time to put forward the effort.

Let’s get the teacher one out of the way. If any teacher is reading this, I apologize and mean no offense. Though (and I realize this will be quite hard for you to believe) I wasn’t that good of a student, so teachers and I kind of had that Democrat/Republican animosity thing going on. The only exception of course being that we weren’t running for office. It’s funny really, after I’d do something wrong, like being a donkey’s ass in class (see my mad rhyming skillz there?), my teachers would have the memories of an elephant about it. Get it? Perhaps if I’d only acted independently…

Being the child of two lifelong educators, I learned a lot. Again, that’s a bad joke. All that really meant was that most of my teachers and school administrators knew one or both of my parents. I’m gonna clue you in here: when your K-12 goal is to be voted class clown and you’ve spent your entire education openly campaigning for it, having your parents be fairly well known in your school district is not a good thing!

However, I do realize how important educators are and that they are grossly underpaid (well, ok, I have to admit that’s what my mom says whenever we get together and I mention something about having to put the game or the race on, but I am going to agree with her this time). Teachers amaze me. They get up in front of a bunch of children or very young adults everyday and attempt to teach them and even mold them. I simply couldn’t do it. Put me in front of a bunch of students, especially young and impressionable ones, and I’d do all the wrong types of teaching. At the end of class they’d know how to do the Macarena or Hustle and would all be speaking like little John Waynes. Or, each day would be themed, such as Match Game Mondays where everyone would have to insert the word ‘blank’ into their sentences. Fridays at noon we’d all go play outside for the rest of the day and it would be really hard not to parade them down the hall as we carol (singing hits from the 70s) for other classrooms. Long overly illustrative story made short: I would not make a good teacher.

So, polish up an apple, get a fruit basket and show your child’s teacher just how important what they are doing really is. Your sons or daughters may be accused of brown nosing or being the teachers pet or even of being the classroom bee-otch, but doesn’t your child’s teacher deserve just a little something on National Teacher Day? Unless of course they are a mean teacher, then just ignore everything I just said, OK?

Speaking of mean teachers (and totally kick-booty segues), let’s now discuss No Homework Day. Does it strike anyone else as odd that No Homework Day would be on the same day as National Teacher Day? Suppose (which is much more elite than assuming) that your child’s teacher didn’t support or celebrate No Homework Day. Let’s also suppose that your child did support No Homework Day. Do you see where I’m going with this? Have I built up the penultimate struggle good and bad, right and wrong, frivolity and discipline, the dark side and the force, white chocolate and milk chocolate, those who like Barry Manilow and that many more who don’t?

The scenario I just mentioned would sure make for a lousy day for teachers On National Teacher Day as none of the students do their assigned homework. But then maybe it serves the teacher right for having the audacity to assign homework on No Homework Day. I think the master scheduler for all things holidayish really blew this one (that’s what she said). He/she must’ve only looked at the ‘Fun To Celebrate’ calendar and forgot to cross check it against the ‘Days you really don’t want to celebrate or recognize’ calendar. That last one is the one that has Tax Day and my birthday on it. Despite the conflicting holidays, one thing is for certain: you can darn sure bet Lucy and Ethel won’t be doing their homework Tuesday night, or even Monday night because that’s No Homework Day Eve (wait, since I just mentioned 2 children and 2 days, does that mean 4 things are for certain).

Now if you are thinking I saved the best day for last, you’d be absolutely right. It’s also No Diet Day!! Isn’t that just a swell holiday? If you are thinking it’s odd that I just used the word ‘swell,’ you are correct sir, or madam! I am going all out to bring ‘swell’ back the forefront of our lexicon. Here’s an example: ‘Don’t you think it’s just swell that I have to go x-ray my chicken right now?’ It flows so smoothly off the tongue, don’t you think? More about that later though because you are probably wondering what the best way to spend No Diet Day is. Well, oh if you’ll excuse me, the 4-cheese quesadilla with Chipotle Tabasco sauce and sour cream that I’m making in the microwave is ready…

When A Dream Becomes Reality

Or, how about when reality becomes a dream? I’m pretty sure that one of those 2 scenarios is better known as déjà vu, but I don’t speak French. Oh wait, is Monte Cristo French? I know that beignet is. Well there ya go, perhaps I do speak a little French. Well, I don’t speak it when my mouth is full of beignets, because that would be rude, but I do speak it when I order them, with extra powdered sugar, of course. I also think I just won an award for excessive over-use of the comma in a completely unimportant sentence. I think I’ve won that award two years straight now, by the way.

Do you remember your dreams? Do you have dreams? My answer to both of those is: rarely. However, I had a dream the other night that I do remember and was vividly enjoying until it ended. No, stop that, it was totally ‘G’rated. It wasn’t too-Disney-ish, but definitely ‘G’ rated. While some aspects of the dream are a bit hazy, the overall tone and theme was important enough to make it blogable, or blogworthy or maybe even blogutmost, or (and make sure you are sitting down right now) tantaperfalicious. Yes, to me, the dream was that good. And what’s so surprising about that is that neither Tina Fey or cheese made in appearance in what I shall forever refer to as the ‘Perfect Storm of Dreams.’

Well, I’m two paragraphs in and haven’t even done you the courtesy of telling you what my dream was about. Of course now I’ve built the dream up so much that there is no way it will meet whatever expectations you have been forming in your far-superior-to-mine brains. So to combat that, I’ll just say that in this dream, not only was the secret of life revealed to me by Gonzo from the Muppets dressed like Yoda, but I was also given the key to solving our reliance on fossil fuels. And if that wasn’t enough, (now this is where you picture me doing that Don Knotts/Barney Fife thing where he runs is finger under his nose, scrunches his face and plays off the fact that he is a hero) some previously unknown facts about what was going on at the Grassy Knoll and well, let’s just say Elvis is still a major chart topping performer in a certain Southeast Asian country. Did that live up to the expectations I set in the first two paragraphs? Good. I hate to disappoint.

Now here’s what really happened. I was in some central meeting place for people like a plaza or park or maybe a Starbucks where a film crew was filming people talking about their ideas for TV shows on the Discovery Channel. Realizing that my time to amount to something had finally come, I waited patiently in line and then revealed 3 of my top TV show ideas. I remember that one was about me trying out other people’s jobs (which I did a post about), one was food related and I cannot remember the third one.

As soon as I was done revealing my TV show ideas, a nondescript female TV executive and the Discovery Channel’s very own Mike Rowe introduced themselves and asked me to meet with them for a little while. Now, before you start wondering why I had a dream about Mike Rowe, let me diffuse the situation and state that this dream happened after watching 2 episodes of Dirty Jobs AND Deadliest Catch (which he narrates). Also, I believe that I was placed on this earth to be Mike Rowe’s successor, although after recently watching him shove his hand up a cow’s rectum (which I think is a delicacy in most of the world), I’m no longer so sure.

In the meeting, they both seem very interested in my ideas and offered to set up an appointment for me to meet with some more TV executives, which I accepted. I show up at the meeting, resplendent in denim shorts, sandals and my coveted ‘More Cowbell’ SNL t-shirt dressed to impress. Remember, this was my dream, where I often wear shorts in very inappropriate circumstances. Much to my delight, they attentively listen to me describe alternate terms for a man’s crotch area, my favorite ways to eat cheese and my self-written dramatic monologue retailing the sad story of love, lust, murder and intrigue that is Barry Manilow’s ‘Copacabana.’ Feeling that they are now at ease with me, I go into pixel by pixel detail of my show ideas.

45 seconds later, I finish explaining all three show ideas to them and they offer me a full season contract to go ahead with one of my show ideas. And this is where things get hazy. I CANNOT REMEMBER THE IDEA OF THE SHOW THAT THEY WANTED TO PRODUCE!!!!! It has haunted me every day since I woke up from the dream. I’m given a show based on ideas of mine that TV execs love and I can’t remember the dang thing. I haven’t been teased in such a way since I was at Sam’s Club and they were giving out little samples of lobster meat and as I reached out for it some punk kid shows up out of nowhere and takes the sample that the hair netted worker lady was going to give me and then they close for the night.

I know you are thinking how awful and frustrating a circumstance I now find myself in. Seriously though, it gets worse. I woke up just as I was at lunch with my coworkers getting ready to tell them about my new show and laughing at them for their thinking that I’d never amount to anything. And what actually made me wake up, you ask. The sound of Ethel calling me from the bathroom in the middle of the night with the words that still ring in my ears: ‘Daddy, I didn’t get to the toilet in time.’

If you guessed that I am not that pleasant a person to be around lately, you guessed right…

More End Of The Week Randomocity, Again

Wow, it’s getting harder and harder (that’s what she said) to keep coming up with titles that reflect more randomocity. I tried ‘Randomocity Squared,’ ‘Hey Watch Out, Here Comes More Randomocity’ and even ‘Get Aboard The Randomocity Train Because It’s Back Again’ but they just lacked that certain something. The ‘certain something’ of course being code for ‘good’ or maybe ‘decent.’

* In my book, a good father is one who has the patience to drive around town for an hour with his girls as he tries to teach them the background vocals to ‘Midnight Train To Georgia,’ especially with today’s fuel prices! Hey wait a minute, that’s what I did. I must be a good father. Well, thank you for noticing.

* I’m trying to get the phrase ‘excuse me, I have to go x-ray my chicken’ to catch on. It sounds dirty, but it isn’t. It was part of a conversation I had. With real people. I’m thinking if done correctly it has the potential for sitcom catch phrase AND must have t-shirt fad. Wondering how big this could get? Imagine ‘who you gonna call’ combined with ‘where’s the beef.’ Yeah, THAT big. Again, that’s what she said.

* I’m worried that a coworker caught me dancing and singing to Tom Jones’ ‘She’s A Lady.’ I don’t think my excuse that it has a great beat worked very well. But it does. Whoa, whoa, whoa, but it does now. (It might work better if you are actually saying that last part to the beat of the song -- one octave lower, of course).

* Is 34 too old to be eating ice cream out of a little plastic baseball helmet with an oversized spoon while wearing a Dr. Seuss Green Eggs and Ham t-shirt? A lot of people were staring as I walked from the concession stand back to my seat at the Angel game the other night. That’s the only reason I ask.

* ‘Good morning Daddy’ may just be the sweetest words ever in the English language. Then again, ‘cheese,’ ‘fried,’ ‘day-off’ and ‘free’ are pretty sweet too. Ok, now I’ve just diluted the original message, haven’t I?

* Is a thought really random when I sit in front of the computer for 2 hours waiting for it to come to me?

* Some day I hope to pioneer the ultimate social networking website. It will combine the best of both MySpace and Facebook. It’s current beta-title? MyFace, of course. Admit it, you saw that one coming…

* No matter how bad your work day is going, having a female coworker approach you with this question: ‘let’s say you run over a rodent-type creature with your car, what are you supposed to do,’ is guaranteed to immediately improve your day. For the record, I told her ‘well, we aren’t in the south (no offense anyone) so you can’t pull over, wrap it up and take it home for dinner, so you should call the authorities and surrender to them before they come get you at work.’ That didn’t go over very well and either will me showing up next week with recipes for cooking possum that I’m going to spend all weekend Googling.

The One About UFOs Because I Couldn’t Think Of A Better Title

You may have read this one before. Or, perhaps you did not. The good thing is that after reading it today you will be able to say that you have read it, possibly even twice. Have you figured out yet that I finally figured out that when I put the word 'Repost' in the title that less people are inclined to read it?

I also figured out that 'excuse me, I have to go x-ray my chicken' isn't catching on the way I had hoped. I tried it at work, I tried it with friends, I tried it here and on my little Facebook status thingy. Wow, it's a good thing I held off on ordering those 3,000 'excuse me, I have to go x-ray my chicken' t-shirts. That would have been awkward...

According to a Reuters news story from Monday, an international panel has asked the US government to reopen its UFO investigations. It also asked the government to open up its ‘Elvis is Dead’ file and to publish all of its research on the Flying Soda Bottle phenomenon. I however am going to focus on the UFO thing, although for the record, flying soda bottles can count as UFOs. There is however no truth to the rumor that the same panel has asked the government to open the doors to Hef’s Playboy Mansion.

A lot of people have reported seeing UFOs. Sometimes they are witnessed by groups and other times by lone individuals on dark highways in backwoods. Although it is somewhat embarrassing, I am going to use this blog to say that I have had my fair share of UFO sightings. I realize I may be ridiculed, but I have seen more than one UFO. Since I have shared that fact, I guess I should go ahead and give you the details of the sightings I have experienced.

- September 17th, 2003. During a feeding for my twins there was a soft dull rumble followed by what can only be described as something resembling egg nog mixed with cottage cheese flying across the room. I was too horrified to reach for my camera.

- Janurary 23, 2006. I watched an object that appeared to be very similar to the same shoe I was wearing for work zoom over my head. It was just about a second later that I realized it was actually the shoe I was wearing. About another second after that, I realized this was all because I was tumbling down my stairs due to my little balancing problem thanks to a little inner-ear difficulty. I was able to explain away this UFO sighting. Well I was after the headache and bruises went away.

- July 4th, 1996. During our annual 4th of July softball game I was playing centerfield. I momentarily took my eyes off the game to look at a girl strolling by the park. Next thing I know I hear a big ruckus and look up just in time to see an unidentified sphere just seconds before it glances off my head. This was followed by lots of laughing so I decided not to report it. There appears to have been many witnesses as the sighting is still referenced to this day

- November 3, 2002. While changing one of my newborn’s diapers, I turn away from the stinky subject and turn back around just as I see something streaming through the air. It was a yellowish liquid and therefore does not qualify as a traditional flying object. However, I saw it and that is all that matters.

- August 5th, 1997. While driving south on Interstate 15, I look up just as a UFO is striking my windshield. The same windshield I had paid to have replaced just two weeks prior. Damn UFO cost me a $150 deductible…and I never even saw it, just its aftermath.

- Thanksgiving, 1983. After the family meal of turkey, pie and a few libations, my drunk Aunt decided to show us her ‘special’ trick. This time, the UFO looked to be of the dental variety. It flew across the room and I have not been able to watch Florence Henderson do a Polydent commercial since.

- March 13th, 2007. During a ‘team building exercise’ involving nerf guns while we were supposed to be on a conference call, I hear a pop and just as I look up, I see a UFO sailing over my cubicle wall into the crowded public lobby of my office. We all scatter quickly. The UFO was never returned to us.

- September 29th, 1996. It is my first day of golf class so that I can complete my coursework and graduate from college. I am practicing my golf swing with a 3 wood while lined up with 22 of my classmates. Next thing I know, what looks like the same 3 wood is hurling through the air directly to my left. I notice that my hands are now suspiciously empty and thinking of nothing else to say, yell ‘fore!’

- June 6th, 2007. While teaching Lucy and Ethel how to hit Whiffle Balls off a tee, I am struck quickly and violently by a UFO in my Manitalia. This UFO sighting felt like it was followed by an alien probing. It hurt. That’s why I don’t talk about it.

Let’s Be Honest

Thursday is National Honesty Day. No, I’m lying. It’s actually today. See what I did there? It’s just a little honest humor. Honestly, National Honesty Day is today. What kind of person would I be if I lied to you about National Honesty Day? If you play it straight and honest just one day this year, surely it will be today, right?

As usual, I’m not sure what the best way to celebrate National Honesty Day is. I’m thinking it does involve a measure of oh, telling the truth? Even if the girl in the cubicle across from you asks what you think of her new hairdo inspired by Prince and Tina Turner (that would be purple and sticking out all over the place for anyone currently suffering from Mental Imagery Deficit Disorder), you can’t tell her how good it looks just to avoid hurting her feelings. I realize the moral dilemma with this, but it is National Honesty Day. Perhaps your best response to this should be to tell her to ask you tomorrow. Don’t give her a reason, because most likely it would involve you lying. Just simply ask her to ask you (I realize that’s a lot of asking) about her hair tomorrow, when it isn’t National Honesty Day.

Since today is National Honesty Day, I probably shouldn’t ask you if you like my idea of trying to get the phrase ‘excuse me, but I have to go x-ray my chicken’ to catch on. It was inspired by a real life conversation with some friends of mine and it seems like such a good alternative to saying goodbye or coming up with an excuse for why you have to leave. I’ll pose the question to you again later in the week so I can get your un-honest opinion. I feel like I should insert a winky smiley face after that last sentence for some reason, but saying winky makes me blush, so I won’t.

It seems that a day about honesty would be a good day to come clean about things that I may have been less than honest about. As embarrassing as that may be, I have never come across a holiday I didn’t celebrate, except for any holiday honoring tall people (no offense) or holidays that slander Barry Manilow. That’s just unacceptable. I guess the first thing I should be honest about is that I really, really like The Ray Conniff Orchestra and Chorus. The Conniff love started early and innocently enough as I grew up with their Christmas albums being played in the house. Then, I started seeking out his music on my own so I really can no longer blame the folks. There is just something about a bunch of men and women singing a slightly elevatorized version of the biggest hits of the 50s, 60s and 70s that makes me happy, dare I say, giddy. Don’t knock it until you’ve heard them sing such gems as Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive’ or Gordon Lightfoot’s ‘Sundown’ or even Paul McCartney’s ‘Live and Let Die.’ Then, you can knock it, because I know the temptation to do so will be immense. Honestly (again, it seems saying that should be followed by a winky face).

I should also be honest and say that I still wear Hawaiian shirts even though they appear to have gone out of style in about 2002, if you use Target’s clothing racks as an indicator of fashion, which I do. If you are over 50 and drive a PT Cruiser, they MAY still be in vogue, but neither of those criteria fit me. Either do the jeans I had in high school, but that’s really not important to this discussion. I’m just being honest. I wish the Hawaiian shirt would come back into style because I have so many of them. Perhaps if I threw more BBQs I could get to wear them more without feeling the social awkwardness that comes with being a thirty-something wearing a Hawaiian shirt to a cool hang out (which for me is someplace like Chili’s).

One more thing I would like to be honest about is that I recently used what I believe is an ‘imitation’ cheese product instead of the real (and delicious) deal when I was making a quesadilla at home. I know, I know. The horror, the humanity, the absolute degradation of my morals and values. I am a cheap, slimy rat-like creature that hangs out in the bottom of portable toilets at county fairs and other public places where extra temporary rest rooms are a necessity. Before you judge me though, I want you to stop and realize two things. 1: I had the guts to be honest about it and 2: I have a very nice smile and am good with old people and little kids. Well, let’s make it three things. 3: I was with Ms. I Want To Go To Mime School and we were at the local 99 cent store and thought that a dollar was a great price for pre-shredded bagged cheese.

Honestly, it never occurred to us to look at the package to see if it actually was a cheese product. In fact, had it not been for the fact that IT WOULDN’T MELT, I never would have had a reason to look at the package. Apparently, she experienced the same thing when she cooked with it. Seriously people, who the heck makes a heat resistant cheese-like product? Having cheese and not melting it is like having an entire container of new Play-Doh and not sniffing it. Well there ya go, I just honestly shared another thing. Yep, I am a Play-Doh sniffer. I can’t get enough of its doughy, salty aroma. Yes Lucy and Ethel have caught me PD sniffing twice, but I don’t care because the aroma is so dang intoxicating!

Well, I’ve run out of things to come clean about, honestly. No if you’ll excuse me, I have to go x-ray my chicken. See, it works almost anywhere!

All Growed Up?

Do any of you feel like grown-ups? No, I said feel LIKE grown-ups, not feel UP grown-ups. I’d hate to be accused of promoting inappropriate touchyness. Any way, touching isn’t what I wanted to touch upon today. I know you ARE grown-ups, but do you FEEL like grown-ups? Perhaps it was my death experience, which I detailed yesterday, or the fact that I spent 2 hours eating at Lucy and Ethel’s ‘pretend restaurant’ dining on plastic steak and ice cream on Sunday, but whatever the reason, I still don’t feel like a grown-up.

I am just months away from 35, but don’t really feel like an adult. Does that make sense to any of you? Now I know I am not the tallest dude on the ranch, but there has to be more to it. Yes, I have to look up at most people, but that can’t be it. I have a family, I have a corporate drone job and leave the house every day wearing a real tie (as opposed to the clip-on type that I want to wear), I have bills and I even have plenty of that four-letter word: responsibility. Ok, since you are such a go-getter you have probably already figured out that ‘responsibility’ contains at least 6 letters, but surely you view the word in the same context as ##$%$# and %&%* or even $%%$#()^%@#, just as I do. I meant 4-letter word in the comparative sense, not the literal sense. If I had meant it in the literal sense, I would have had to spell responsibility as ‘resp.’ That would truly be a 4-letter word, though it might not make any sense, just like the majority of this paragraph, or the report I had to turn in this morning that dealt with financials and stats and other squirrely stuff like that. When doing that type of report with so many numbers in it, you just eventually succumb to the temptation of throwing random figures in there to see if anyone notices them. Ok, I’m kidding. Or am I?

I can’t help but think that I’m not the only one who feels this way (about being a grown-up not fabricating numbers on reports). I’m sure most of the readers here (hello and thank you to all 8 of you) have at least one of the following: family, real job, bills, a car, a spouse, a pet, a velvet painting of Elvis, a subscription to Junior AARP Magazine and yes, responsibility (although if you don’t, can we trade places for just a day?). You know, those things that qualify us to be adults. Is there some magic experience that makes us officially adults? That moment when we hear chimes and then go ‘wow, I’m grown up now’ and are greeted by a marching band and the huge, cardboard ‘key’ to adulthood or maybe a symbolic grandfather clock?

Well, it doesn’t HAVE to be a parade or clock, perhaps it could be a pie or a commemorative shirt or maybe even cash. Yeah, ‘Growed-up Bucks’ would be kinda cool. Of course so would getting to spend a day with Tina Fey (yes, that rhymed. I’ve been trying to bust my mad rhyming skillz lately), but like they say when it comes to Tina Fey (I know, I rhymed again), ‘you can’t always get what you want’ (Rolling Stones). Did you remember to lower your voice when you said ‘Rolling Stones?’ It was kind of a test to see if you remember my song title post from last week. I have soooo many bonus points to hand out before the end of the month…

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining that I don’t feel like an adult, I’m just not sure I want to wake up one day at 53 years of age and have it hit me like ‘oh blurg, I’m an adult now, how the wrinkles did that happen?’ I’m usually good with surprises, but I don’t know if ‘hey you’re old now’ is the type of surprise I want. And before anyone fires up the ole email account, yes I did use 53, but that doesn’t mean I consider 53 to be old, it’s just a random number I threw out there like oh, ‘007.’ Ok, ‘007’ isn’t random; it’s a number I use a lot because it was James Bond’s number. ‘3’ would be a random number. No, I gotta be honest; that’s not random either. That was Dale Earnhardt’s and Babe Ruth’s number. 13,456 would be random, but it wouldn’t make much sense in this context, contextually speaking.

Lately I have tried to do things to help make me feel like an adult, but they haven’t worked yet. I tried to yell at all the neighborhood kids when they were on my lawn, but I ended up playing tag with them. I got ready to wear a short-sleeve dress shirt to work, but gave in to peer pressure (for lack of a much better word) when Lucy and Ethel told me I looked funny. I sat in front of the window staring at all of the gopher mounds in my front yard and started mumbling about how I plan on getting that dang gum vermin. In fact, I’ve taken to mumbling a lot lately. Heck, I’ve even tried eating softer foods and I actually wore socks with my sandals while mowing that yard a few weekends ago. I thought for sure that driving 45 in the fast lane and yelling at everyone who kept zooming by me while honking and saluting me as ‘#1’ would make me feel older, but it just made me realize how much gas I was saving by going slower (we all gotta do our part to be green ya know). One day I even took the good, took the bad, took them both and thought I finally had the facts of life, but it just made me remember how much I liked Blair when I was younger and that just made me lose my concentration. She and I share the same birthday, you know…

Despite two open heart surgeries, having been in the emergency room at least 8 times to have my heart rhythm reset, taking enough medication each morning and night to be able to stock a small mid-western main street pharmacy and visiting the cardiologist more times in a year than most 80-year olds, I still don’t feel like a real grown-up. It’s not that I feel like Peter Pan or that I am pretending, I just don’t feel like a full-fledged adult. Again, surely some of you feel the same way too?

Although, when I stop to think about it, I have never hosted a dinner party with wine or held a bunco night. Maybe those are rites of passage into adulthood? I have also never thrown a fondue party, joined a fancy lodge with a secret handshake or joined a bowling league. Maybe that’s the missing ingredient to being an adult? After all, Fred Flinstone did those things and he was certainly a grown up. Barney? Not so much. Fred was always bossing him around, thereby squelching his maturity and blossoming adult independence.

Perhaps there are things that need to be GIVEN UP instead of EXPERIENCED that will mark the passage into ‘big boydom.’ I suppose I could eliminate doing the happy dance, or the pony, or yes, even the Macarena, at work. Maybe it’s time that Lucy and Ethel get in trouble for being mischievous on their own instead of getting intro trouble for something I started doing with them. As much as I dread it, I COULD stop rhyming all the time, stop insisting that the family goes to Disneyland 2-3 times a week, or even stop making the toy aisle the first section I visit at Target. While having a PEZ collection is a glaring obstacle to adulthood, getting rid of it is strictly forbidden by my code of conduct. Another obstacle to being a big boy is adding the letter ‘y’ to the endings of most of my words, like saying wishy-washy-y or fanatic-y (as in ‘yeah, she got all fanatic-y about it). One could argue that asking themselves ‘what would Homer or Captain Kirk do’ when faced with a serious decision automatically excludes one from adulthood. While that might be true, at some point, you kinda gotta go with what got ya here, you know?

I realize I should now wrap this up since this post is starting to exceed the bounds of acceptable length and that just results in people tuning out (or actually in this case, clicking out). Trust me; I’ve done a lot of comment analysis. Wait, that sounded pretty mature. Ok, it’s settled. As long as I use fairly big words arranged in an official sounding manner, I can consider myself to be all grown-upy. Dangit, I just couldn’t resist it…

When Duck Doesn’t Really Cover It

My friends, ‘technically’ I am writing this from the great beyond. There is a belief at the moment that I am dead. Like right now, while I type this. I know, it’s all spooky and stuff, huh? It sounds shocking, but I apparently perished in an unfortunate emergency of some sort or another that was very nondescript in its nature but ‘should’ have involved ducking under my desk.

I say ‘should’ have involved ducking under my desk because well, I didn’t duck or cover or even cower for that matter. For the record, I did squat but apparently in the case of this emergency ‘drill’ squatting doesn’t amount to, yes you guessed it, diddly. Oh crap, I meant to say ‘squat’ but I messed up the punch line again. Death makes it pretty hard to concentrate. You see, I was caught during this untimely and unfortunate emergency of some sort another that was very nondescript in its nature but ‘should’ have involved ducking under my desk (I guess I could have just said ‘drill’) in the hall speaking with another coworker. Well, that’s what I hope people think. In reality, I was doing a dance from the 60s called ‘the pony’ while waiting for a fax to go through to try and break up the morning monotony. Ok, I was trying to do ‘the pony,’ but I fear it came off more like ‘the donkey’ or more to the point, ‘the drunken jack ass.’ Sadly, I did not make it back to my desk in the allotted 30-seconds that work believes is long enough to reenact the unfortunate emergency of some sort or another that was very nondescript in its nature but ‘should’ have involved ducking… drill. The closest I got was squatting in front of my desk, which made me feel kinda weird because squatting just doesn’t seem right in public.

So, long story short, my safety warden told me I was dead. As the drill occurred at the end of the week, I am wondering if I should not bother reporting to work on Monday. Or, perhaps I should go to work to see what they are saying about me. Since I’m dead, no one will see me, recognize me or have anything to do with me. I guess it truly is ‘A Wonderful Life,’ except whenever I hear a bell ring; another HR rep is getting their wings…at my expense.

I gotta tell you, I never got to see that bright light at the end of the tunnel that everyone talks about. I did hear Don Pardo introduce me, but since it was neither a Saturday night or 11:30PM and I could plainly see Liberace pointing at me and laughing while holding up a salmon colored, diamond studded fur coat for me to try on, I’m assuming I missed heaven by a couple of exits. Oh wait, that was the dream I had last night after eating at that ‘B’ rated Chinese take-out place. Mental note: Female Coworker was right; only eat at places that get an ‘A’ rating. The after life looked a lot like my office cubicle. No light, no tunnel, just cubicle walls. Friends, I must’ve ended up in hell and to make matters worse, the heater is on.

There was so much I didn’t get to do in my life. Yep, I had a list and yes, I am going to share it with you. I was going to take out the trash, call the doctor about that thing on my eyelid, get more Englebert Humperdink on my Ipod, edge the back yard, wait, sorry, wrong list.

There were several bloggers I wanted to finally meet, get picked to feed Shamu during the Killer Whale show at Sea World, overtake Oprah or Rachael Ray as the Queen of All Media (wait, that didn't sound the way I wanted it to), get the gopher that has tormented me for 4 straight summers, finally beat Lucy and Ethel at a board game, write a sitcom that involves the ghost of Cub's broadcaster Harry Carey, open a restaurant, rent a karaoke bar out for just me, my friends and family one night and get to read the Top 10 List on Letterman. I also wanted to do the weather for the local news show dressed in a plaid sport coat and Bermuda shorts, establish a professional BBQ Team (called the Midnight Smokers), cook an egg on the sidewalk in the middle of the summer, be mistaken in public just once for John Wayne, get through work one day without causing a 'situation' or 'HR reportable event' and play ATV Polo. I really wanted to legally change my name to Calhoun C. Callahan, but I’d have settled for the other stuff on the list.

Now all those wishes have been dashed. And for what? A silly dance in front of the fax machine because I was bored and whomever I was faxing had a busy signal. Damn that unfortunate emergency of some sort or another that was very nondescript in its nature but ‘should’ have involved ducking under my desk.

Even More End Of The Week Randomocity

The weekend is finally upon us. What better way to ease out of the work week than to slowly drain the extraneous thoughts from our mind in the same manner that you’d wring out a rag after using it to wash your car. For some reason that doesn’t sound like a very desirable thing to do though, does it? I’ll work on better segues for next week. Now, let the randomness begin…

* If Joe Cocker had a seizure while performing, how would you be able to tell?

* I like to hum while eating hummus. It just feels right. I do not, however, like being smashed between two objects when eating a sandwich.

* Want to feel like a complete failure? Get up early, get dressed to go walking, go downstairs, put your walking shoes on and then go back upstairs and get back into bed. You could try to be cool and call it a run-through, but you’d just be denying your laziness. Though, I did go up and down the stairs twice…

* Isn’t Rory Calhoun a great name? Would it surprise you if I told you that he starred in Westerns? These aren’t rhetorical questions. I really do expect an answer.

* ‘Midnight Train To Georgia’ has the BEST BACKGROUND VOCALS OF ANY SONG, ALL TIME, EVER. This is not a random thought. This should be made into law. In all 52 states. Wait, that doesn’t sound right…

* How to succeed in the office tip: no matter how slow your computer is, don’t spend the time waiting for it by spinning around doing full circles in your desk chair. Your boss will walk by. If you are prone to dizziness and vertigo like I am, then you’ve actually got TWO reasons why you should not engage in this activity.

* Tina Fey spoke directly to me last week. In one episode of 30 Rock, she made reference to not knowing about the latest news because the Food Network doesn’t have a news show and that she feels pocket-sized deep fryers would sell well. It’s like our minds melded or something. Oh great, now I’m just asking for a restraining order!

* I was reminded how tragically unhip I am earlier in the week when I was having a conversation with a coworker. She was telling me that she got bit by a mosquito and feared having the Nile West virus. I told her that wasn’t right and that Nile West was a rap singer. She laughed rather loudly in my face and told me that’s Kanye West. I later realized she meant West Nile, but was not around to vindicate myself for the Kanye/Nile West faux pas I committed.

* I spent almost 20 minutes explaining the difference between sautéed, grilled and BBQ’d to Ms. I Want To Go To Mime School the other day, but I ended up looking like the jerk. I’m thinking this might be related to the fact that she was having a conversation about cooking with another coworker that I happened to overhear and she never really did ask for my opinion on the matter. You are aware that grilled is different from sautéed, right? I’m mean it’s not just me, right?

* Do you think Barack has ever slept in a barrack?

* When any female member of your extended family tells you that she has to have surgery on her mouth, do not ever, under any circumstances, respond by saying ‘is that because you use it too much?’

Ho AND Hum

I’m taking a new path today, blazing a new trail, breaking new ground, going where no man has gone before (oh wait, that one is probably copyrighted), going where no male has gone previously (ha, try to get me now!), forging new frontiers, being unique, exploring, mapping new vistas. I am hunkered down in the fetal position of the old cold war bomb shelter that we writers know as writer’s block. Instead of taking the easy way out and declaring defeat by subjecting you to a repost, I am going to write through my writer’s block and you are going to come along with me. What will happen? Where will we travel? Beats me. If I knew, I’d have a decent post to treat you to today, but since gas is just about 4 smacks a gallon here, it won’t be far. Plus, I don’t feel that usual limber feeling in my fingers which tell me that I am about to hunt and peck my way to writing satisfaction.

Well, I’ve managed to come up with one paragraph already. I was tempted to do an entire post today using nothing but song titles or lyrics. I did that one several months ago, so I’m overdue for another one. Here’s how it works: after every song I reference, you will find the name of the artist that performed that song in parenthesis. When you read the artists in parenthesis, promise me you’ll do so by saying it one octave lower than everything else you are reading. Why? Because it’s fun and that’s how I do it. Let’s practice: you might be saying right now that “Michael, we don’t want to do ‘the way you do the things you do’ (The Temptations). See, did you lower your voice when you said The Temptations? If you did, then we’re all set to go.

That’s two paragraphs right there in no time flat. I know I don’t often share intimate details with you, but since I’m blazing new forges today (or whatever), I am going to be very honest with you. Breaking through this writer’s block thing is a lot easier than I thought it would be (oooooooh, I hope I didn’t just jinx it. I’d knock on wood, but no one uses real wood anymore. It’s all laminate. I think it’s time that that phase is updated, don’t you? So, knock on laminate, this post is going as smooth as a baby’s butt after a close shave. Wait, am I mixing my metaphors again??). I think in honor of National Karaoke Week, I will continue with the song reference theme because, well, ‘I like it, I love it, I want some more of it,’ (Tim McGraw).

Three paragraphs in the can. Seriously, I am getting ready to start boasting here. It feels like I’m ‘on top of the world’ (The Carpenters). Of course, many of you have probably sensed the lack of substance and have decided to be ‘Movin’ Out’ (Billy Joel) in favor of a better blog, but it’s ok, I understand. ‘I will survive’ (Gloria Gaynor). Honestly, ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’ (Paul McCartney) that any of you are still reading this. I figured by now that I’d be ‘alone again, naturally’ (Gilbert O’Sullivan) after putting up such a fruitless effort today.

Wow, four paragraphs already, though that last one really shouldn’t qualify. It was ‘Bad’ (Michael Jackson). I promise I won’t ‘do it again’ (The Beach Boys). Really, ‘I should have known better’ (The Beatles) then to try to get something that lackluster by you all. ‘With a little luck’ (Paul McCartney), I’ll find something better to write about ‘tomorrow’ (Annie soundtrack, though don’t start thinking I go around singing that one much). Thanks for your willingness to ‘Keep on truckin’ (Eddie Kendricks) with me though. How do you all deal with writer’s block? For some reason, my writing today didn’t come as ‘easy as Sunday morning’ (The Commodores/Lionel Ritchie).

I was also tempted to write about all the things I am going to have to sacrifice now that gas is just about 4 ‘green back dollars’ (The Kingston Trio) a gallon here. I took my Chevy to the levy (Don McClean) (assuming that the rest of you refer to the gas station as the levy, like I do so that I can make yet another futile attempt at being clever) this morning and had to spork out about $3.80 a gallon (it’s time we updated that phrase too, because many people do actually favor the spork to the traditional spoon or fork. It’s so much more efficient). Not only is that way too much ‘Money’ (The Beatles), it also caused me to use way too many parenthesis in that last sentence and since I used to be a copywriter (as in: I actually used to get money for my writing), I should know better. It’s that type of poor composition that will prevent me from ever becoming a ‘paperback writer’ (the Beatles).

The first place I’ll notice the pain of the 4-dollar thing is at the convenience store. Getting gas seriously ‘cuts like a knife’ (Bryan Adams) into my Slurpee and Diet Mountain Dew purchasing when I’m out ‘Cruising’ (Smokey Robinson). When I am out driving around for work, I gotta ‘get my drink on’ (Toby Keith). I think that means that I get thirsty. I guess I should’ve just said that. I think Mountain Dew is actually an older word for ‘White Lightning’ (George Jones), which is another word for moonshine, which looks like ‘cool, clear water’ (Marty Robbins), so I need to make sure that you understand that I mean the soft drink, not the illegal liquor that led to the birth of NASCAR. Perhaps many of you didn’t know that little tidbit about this country’s biggest spectator sport. After reading that you’re probably thinking wow ‘ain’t that a kick in the head’ (Dean Martin). That’s the problem with useless facts: you don’t get to share them that often. Eventually, you have to let all those little Cliff Clavens floating around in your head out to ‘Breathe’ (Faith Hill).

Ok, I’m done now. This is ‘the end’ (The Doors). I’m not sure I actually accomplished anything today, but at least you didn’t have to read a repost. And now you maybe have a little better insight into why I rarely meet deadlines, think something all the way through or make decisions easily. Or have trouble putting my pants on, matching my ties to my shirts for work, am not able to navigate easily through the city I have lived in since 1997 without my GLAND (Getting Lost Avoidance Navigational Device), am not able to go to a drive-thru and get the orders correct for my coworkers, have to sometimes walk around with Post-Its attached to my shirt to remind me to do something or tell my twins apart in the middle of the night without asking ‘which one are you again?’

Didn’t I start this post writing about the circus down the street from my office? What happened?

Groovy TV

When the discussion and idea of today’s post initially started between me and the way cool Sonia, it was going to be inspired by and about the Match Game or possibly, Match Game ’76, the ultra cool game show from the 70s. As we thought of how best to pay tribute to The Match Game, well, we drew a…blank. If you’ve seen the Match Game, trust me, that was funny. That was a great show with such wicked-hip panelists as Richard Dawson in his pre-Family Feud swinger days. Even Charles Nelson Reilly was part of the gang. I swear it was like a senior citizen’s Rat Pack. If you had asked me growing up what Florida would be like, I would have directed you to The Match Game. Anywhoo, we modified the theme ever so slightly so that we can discuss how 70s TV influenced our lives, and in my case, at least half of my cultural references.

Being yanked from the warmth of my mother’s womb and placed into the cold harshness that was the last week of 1973 (I’m thinking of starting a novel using that last sentence, but wanted to try it out here first), I don’t remember a lot about 70s TV as it was happening. I did however grow up on 70s reruns. Lots of them. In fact, by the time this post is over, you may well think I grew up on too many 70s reruns…

Do I really need to tell you that everything I expected high school to be was inspired and influenced by The Brady Bunch? You can imagine my shock and I dare say disappointment when I got to high school only to discover that kids didn’t go around in butterfly collar jumpsuits or sing songs like ‘Keep On Keeping On.’ Nope, we had MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice, who of course today goes by the name Vanilla Iced Macchiato. I debated and I debated and went ahead and kept that line in there. I do apologize and understand if you are already clicking to a different site…

If only Marcia Brady had been in my class so I could have fawned over her and befriended Jan in order to get closer to Marcia. I mean I like Jan, don’t get me wrong, but I swear Marcia winked at me once in that episode where Tiger runs away and fathers poodle pups with Sam the Butcher’s prized toy poodle. I’m making that up, but surely Tiger ran away at least once. Heck, weren’t there entire seasons where Tiger was MIA?

Then there was the phenomena that was ‘CHiPs.’ Lo, the countless hours me and all the neighborhood kids rode our bikes pretending to be the CHP motorcycle riding cast of that fine cop-show drama. For some reason though, I always had to be Sarge or John Baker. Once, just once, I wanted to be Ponch, but the neighbor kids never let me. There was also ‘Emergency,’ with the delightful Nurse Ratchett. Ahh Dixie. Do you know how many times in my life that I’ve said ‘Squad 51, squad 51,’ followed by an imitation of the alarm that rings whenever John and Roy got a call to go help someone? You can imagine my surprise as I got older only to discover that Dixie was the same Julie London whose singing sends shivers up my spine (the good kind, not the uh-oh do I have Meningitis kind) or that she was married in real life to the man who played Dr. Joe Early, who wrote the song ‘Get Your Kicks on Route 66.’ File those away for your next Trivial Pursuit Game!

There was the time that I had to wait in the psychiatrist’s lobby at my doctor’s office and I kept seeing Dr. Bob Hartley’s door from ‘Newhart’ in my mind. I also love to spontaneously sing the chorus of ‘The Love Boat,’ just to annoy people. When I wrote once about how I wanted my final blog entry to go, I made mention of wanting to do it Mary Tyler Moore style and have a group hug as we all shuffle to the door before I turn out the lights. Obviously, the practicality of doing this makes no sense, but I was caught up in the moment, the finale, if you will. I am also pretty sure that I called an idiot co-worker at my past job a ‘Ted Baxter’ once. He didn’t get it. In the same ‘how I’d end my blog’ post, I also said I wanted to display the words good-bye in rocks, ala the finale of MASH. Yes, I am aware that MASH ended in like 82 or so, but it began in the 70s, so my argument trumps yours.

One of the best things to happen to 70s TV was WKRP in Cincinnati. If you’ve never seen it, I just want to say: ‘Thanksgiving Episode.’ Possibly one of the finest 25 minutes of television, ever! If you do remember that fine ensemble show, you will no doubt remember news man and Silver Sow Award winner Les Nessman. His cubicle had no walls and no doors (yes, I bastardized adapted that from Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion) so he outlined where walls should be with tape and wouldn’t acknowledge anyone in his ‘cubicle’ unless they pretended to knock on his imaginary door. Many, many times have I asked people to knock before entering my cubicle. Sadly, no one has yet to honor this request and only a few have any clue as to what I am even talking about. It makes me chuckle though, so it’s worth it. But then seeing someone hit in the man area makes me chuckle too.

Who could ever forget that one of TV’s finest and longest running institutions, SNL, debuted in the mid-70s? And while the late 80s-mid 90s cast is probably my favorite, the original cast and first 5 years was AMAZING. I seriously think that not a day goes by where I don’t quote from the original SNL, particularly ‘Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute,’ just don’t ask why. I also love to quote Scooby Doo and say ‘if it hadn’t been for those meddlin’ kids’ whenever Lucy and Ethel (or LaVerne and Shirley as I also call them every now and then) do something they shouldn’t have. For the last few years, I have found myself eschewing (that’s what she said. I know it doesn’t really fit here, but it just sounded so good) the ‘OK’ hand signal in favor of the ‘thumbs up’ signal. We all know where that came from. AAAYYY.

I could go on and on about my recollections of 70s TV, but then you wouldn’t have time to read Sonia’s 70s TV post, and that is something you MUST do. So, head over there now and enjoy. Be sure to come back here tomorrow though, or in other words: come and knock on our door, we’ve been waiting for you. I’m done now. It’s out of my system. I promise…

It Makes Me Want To Sing!

I know you all have been waiting for this one! Yep, even though you were clueless about it, I know you’ve still been waiting. In fact, I’m not really sure how you even were able to contain yourselves. I mean I barely could and I knew about it. It’s probably been tougher on me since I’ve had to wait while anticipating it. Isn’t waiting hard? It’s probably not as hard (that’s what she said) as weight lifting (sadly, that was the only other play on the word ‘wait’ that I could come up with), but still, it’s pretty hard. How hard is it? It’s like ‘smelling bacon coming from your neighbor’s house and having to fight the urge to barge in and join them for breakfast even though you didn’t return their weed whacker and you still have their cat (don’t ask why)’ hard. That, my friends, is hard.

You might be wondering what I’m talking about right now. Folks, it’s National Karaoke Week. That’s right, it’s time to honor that age old tradition where we get up in front of mostly complete strangers and belt out tunes that really weren’t that good when they were originally released 20 years ago. In anticipation of writing about National Karaoke Week, I decided to break with tradition and do a little research on the topic I was going to be writing about. It hurt my head, but I am now able to ask you the follow question. Did you know that ‘karaoke’ is Japanese for ‘those who sing look like ass of overweight water buffalo?’ Have you ever seen an overweight buffalo? Friends, that’s one big backside. Though contrary to popular belief, water buffalo don’t actually become ‘overweight’ in the terms we are used to. They actually bloat because they are retaining water, because they are ‘WATER’ buffalo. I swear next time you are drunk, going under from anesthesia or suffering from blunt force head trauma, you will find that funny. In fact, when any of those 3 things happen, you may want to reread most of my posts…or maybe add me to your will, or pretty much anything that will benefit me by virtue of you not being able to make sound decisions. And do I really have to tell you how thankful you’ll be when you get either the karaoke or water buffalo question next time you are playing trivial pursuit? I bet that pompous ass Alex Trebec didn’t even know about those two factoids.

You may be wondering what the best way for you to celebrate karaoke is. You may be wondering a lot of things after reading that last paragraph. Namely, if you were speed-reading this post because I write way too much for you to have to try to read every day, you could easily have missed the fact that this post is about karaoke. Maybe you thought it was about water buffalo or dungarees or maybe even a salutation to the hits of Engelbert Humperdink.

Don’t worry; I’ve known for a long time that I write too much. After all, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to make the connection when my ‘bullet’ posts continually get more comments than my ‘paragraph’ posts. Dang it, now it sounds like I am venting when this post is actually about singing. OK, I’ve ordered my microphone shaped cake, warmed my vocal chords and put on my ‘hustle’ shoes so that I can help you celebrate the one thing guaranteed to help ensure that you are ridiculed publicly by your friends and strangers. Friends, it’s time for karaoke!!!

It would be way too easy to jump on stage and sing ‘I Will Survive’ or ‘Friends in Low Places’ or Jimmy Buffet’s ‘Let’s Get Drunk’ and announce that you are doing so in honor of Karaoke Week, but I say dig deeper, try harder, forge some new musical ground. Try a tune from the back of the song catalog that doesn’t get picked so often. Try a song you’ve never sung before, throw in a few new dance steps and belt one out! I know this will seem intimidating, so I am going to provide you with a few gems that are sure to get the audience on your side in honor of this joyous week…

Gilbert O’Sullivan’s ‘Alone Again Naturally’ – sure it’s slow, sure it’s depressing, sure it’s about suicide. That’s what is going to make this one a sure hit. No one will expect it and I bet you’ll have everyone singing the chorus with you before you are done!

Helen Reddy’s ‘Delta Dawn’ – Yes her version of ‘I Am Woman’ is a popular Lady-Anthem, but we don’t want to alienate the guys. After all, this is a holiday. Have you ever heard a room full of people sing the chorus of Delta Dawn? Well, I haven’t either, but 2 college girls in the car next to me heard me singing it at a red light once and they couldn’t stop smiling.

The Pips’ ‘Midnight Train To Georgia’ – I’ve got two words for you: ‘Woo Woo.’ Just do the ‘ole ‘pulling the train whistle’ move during the ‘woo woos’ and you’ll have them eating out of your hand!

Don MacLean’s ‘American Pie’ – You may have never taken your Chevy to the levy, but I guarantee you won’t be the cause for the day the music died if you sing this one. It’s long (that’s what she said), the chorus repeats too many times and everyone has heard it. Plus, it mentions pie and people like pie.

The Carpenters’ ‘Close To You’ – Sure everyone is going to be hesitant to join in at first because they don’t want their social status questioned, but just sing it 3-4 times in a row without getting off stage even when people are hurling objects at you and eventually everyone will be swaying back and forth, arm in arm to this feel good love gem. I think.

Barry Manilow’s ‘Copacabana’ – This one just straight grooves baby! It tells a great story and you can do the little finger gun dance move to the ‘who shot who’ line. I don’t mind admitting that my friends and I made this one famous in college. But then, we were reduced to singing karaoke in a Japanese restaurant on Friday nights, so really, how popular could we have been? Don’t let this deter you though. Look where I am today!

The Tramps’ ‘Disco Inferno’ – Seriously, do I really have to explain this one? A room full of people singing ‘burn baby burn’ for 14 minutes at the top of their lungs? I can see the lighters being held up proudly now…and maybe a visit from the fire marshall.

George Jones’ and Tammy Wynette’s ‘We’re Not The Jet Set’ – We’re not the jet set, we’re the old Chevro-let set. If you can’t sing this one arm in arm with your neighbor then you must be a supporter of communism, or, you own a Ford, which might as well be the same thing. I’m kidding! Well…

Frank Sinatra’s version of Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Mrs. Robinson’ – Does this song swing! That’s a rhetorical question. The answer is yes. Just make sure you have your totty glass handy and throw in lots of ‘goo-goo-go-joobs’ and ring-a-ding-dings,’ baby. That Mrs. Robinson is one cuckoo bird. And yes, for the record, that is how I talk when doing Sinatra karaoke.

And lastly, The Kingston Trio’s ‘Tom Dooley’ – Because there just aren’t enough good songs about hanging dead from a tree anymore.

So there you have it, just a few songs to help you get into the karaoke spirit. I know I am going to fire up my karaoke machine every night this week and sing like it’s going out of style. The only question is which song to do first, ‘You Light Up My Life’ or ‘I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing?’ I’m kidding. It’ll be Kenny Rogers’ ‘Daytime Friends and Nighttime Lovers.’ Or maybe, if I’m feeling saucy enough, ‘Mr. Bojangles,’ the Sammy Davis Jr. version.

La, la, la, la, me, me, me, me, me…

***And now for the previews: stay tuned Wednesday for a special look at 70s TV and how we base our lives on it by me and Sonia Sunshine***

Wait Until They See What I Hid In My Fake Arm…

Don’t you love tomfoolery? I don’t mean the word (though that’s pretty cool too), I mean people doing less than smart things. According to the AFP news service, tomfoolery can be done with limbs. You may not think that’s possible but the story I’m about to make fun of comment on totally proves it. Are ya ready? It’ll be good. I promise. A man was recently convicted for smuggling baby iguanas from a small South Pacific island into southern California. I guess he was thinking ‘Iguana have lots of illegal baby lizards in my home.’

Or not, but admit it, you saw that cheap line coming from a mile away. Seriously, these ARE the jokes folks. I’ll be here all week and remember to tip your waitresses please. Maybe he had just finished watching ‘Bizarre Foods and had a hankering for reptilian relish. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But, I hear it’s really good on all beef hot dogs. Again, kidding!

Whatever the reason, he stole them from an island preserve, and if I remember correctly, they are called ‘preserves’ because the areas are set aside especially for, well, PRESERVING species that otherwise might become endangered or extinct. Let me translate this for you: preserve is another way of saying hands off. Now, while that may be incredibly uh, ‘anti-smart,’ the story gets even anti-smarterer. How did he smuggle them into the states? Inside of his prosthetic leg of course. Now granted, I can’t tell you whether it was the right or left leg, but that’s not super important, right?

I’m just hoping that part of his fake leg had some type of compartment or pieces that closed up tight because frightened baby iguanas probably bite and since they can only crawl up, well, you know what I’m getting at. I’m sure they move around a lot when in confined spaces too. Can you imagine what that flight must have been like? No? Let me give you some examples…

Older Refined Woman With The Window Seat (ORWWTWS): Excuse me, do you hear that hissing sound? Hearing it in mid-flight is making me nervous, sonny. (Sorry, I had to add the sonny for effect)

Fake Leg Smuggler (FLS): Hissing? Really, hissing? Uh, um, well, it’s probably just the hydraulic fluid leaking from the plane’s wing flaps or something.

Or

ORWWTWS: Excuse me young lad, are you quite all right?

FLS: Me? Yes, uh why?

ORWWTWS: Well, I hear a lot of banging around and it seems to be coming from your leg.

FLS: Oh, that’s called Rickets. I’m surprised you haven’t already had them.

Perhaps this is what might have transpired…

ORWWTWS: Pardon me young man, but did you just put reptile food down your leg?

FLS: Yes, I was bit by a snake on vacation resulting in a custard thick greenish yellow puss-filled abscess. Shoving reptile food that will dissolve inside of it is the only known antidote. However, I am very self-conscience about it and I embarrass easily, so I’d rather not give you all the details, except of course to use the unnecessary and highly descriptive words ‘custard thick greenish yellow puss-filled abscess,’ ma’am.


And that’s why we should never steal baby lizards from South Pacific Island preserves by hiding them in our prosthetic body appendages.

The End.

More End Of The Week Randomocity

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but randomocity isn’t even a real word. What? Well anyway, we’ve made it to the end of the week, unless you work during the weekends, which makes today Sunday night, maybe? Just as you clean your desk off at the end of the day (unless you want your boss to think you’ve been really busy), I am clearing out my mind at the end of the week and this is what I came up with…

* It occurred to me the other day that I am now past the age that they stop singing about in the Beach Boys’ song ‘When I Grow Up To Be A Man.’ I am now 2 years past the last age they mention (and I should mention that you have to turn the volume up very, very loud during the fade out to even hear the last age they mention). I’m not sure how I feel about this. Maybe you female readers feel the same way when you hear ‘Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon’ after you have become a woman? For clarification purposes, I mean ‘becoming a woman’ in the age sense, not in the bow-chicka-bow-bow sense because that’s really none of my business.

* I have finally decided that there are really only 2 types of people in this world: those that think Paul Simon and Chevy Chase’s video for ‘You Can Call Me Al’ is the funniest music video of all time including any video that may ever be made from this day forth and those that do not. Yes, I am in the first group. At parties in high school, a friend and I would routinely perform our version of it, provided of course that a performance of ‘You Can Call Me Al’ still constitutes a party…

* Being bored is a state of mind. Being bored in the boardroom is not. It’s called work or possibly being held hostage. OK, I have to admit that all flowed a lot better in my head when it first came to me in the shower this morning. I’ll keep working on it…

* Things always seem better when in the presence of bacon, but they still won’t let me cook it at work. And no, Baco-bits do not serve as a good substitute in these instances. I have tried, oh Lordy how I’ve tried.

* I wish more songs used the phrase ‘tenement slum’ in them. That’s why The Supremes’ ‘Love Child’ is such a great and snappy tune. A real pick-me-up, if you ask me! Though I am still trying to figure out what the heck ‘Stoned Love’ means. I don’t want to get all biblical here, but where I come from, stoning most certainly does not equal love. That reminds me of a useful tip I’ve been meaning to share: when you get in early to work, do not ever stand up, dance around your cubicle to ‘Stoned Love’ while singing along with the background ‘ooh, ooh, oohs.’ Invariably, someone else will also show up early to work and then wait until lunch to tell all of your coworkers what they witnessed even after they promised you they wouldn’t.

* I can’t wait until I’m an old man. Then, everything I say will just be overlooked and ignored instead of it getting me in trouble all of the time. I think being irrelevant is going to work out quite well for me.

* Without even realizing how loud I was speaking, I blurted out ‘I don’t know how you all work 8 hours a day’ the other afternoon. I don’t recommend doing that.

* I recently asked Ms. I Want To Go To Mime School if she had heard back from the mime school she applied to not long ago. She told me they said they were interested but then never called her back. To make her feel better, I told her that they did call her back, but she just couldn’t hear them because they mimed it. It didn’t make her feel any better. It sure lifted my spirits though.

Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah

It’s another useless and quite possibly anti-real holiday Thursday (Hi Kat, sorry). It’s not everyday that we get to celebrate bogus holidays (when you count yesterday’s 3 celebrations ) during back to back days. Well, that’s excluding Christmas Eve and Christmas (I get my birthday on the 24th and then Christmas on the 25th. It’s ok; you can go ahead and write my birthday down just in case I forget to give it to you again. Though that is as likely to happen as it is having photos of me wearing a sombrero and hula skirt dancing to ABBA hits surface on the internet).

Today is Blah Blah Blah Day. I had my own idea regarding what the day celebrates, but it’s a good thing I went ahead and looked it up. I would have assumed (and no, assuming does not make me an ass, it makes me a motivated go-getter for postulating a theory without adequate information. I’m a trailblazer, if you will) that it was just a day where we are supposed to go around saying lots of meaning less things like blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada. And I gotta tell ya, the prospect of spending an entire day (especially while at work) just walking around getting to say ‘blah times three’ in response to everybody was really twitter-patting. Yes, I know it should be ‘titillating,’ but I blush and then start giggling whenever I have to say that word, which as you can probably imagine, is not very often. After discovering what Blah Blah Blah Day is really for, my twitter-pattingness decreased exponentially, which is science speak for ‘a whole lot’ or in some regions, ‘a bushel’s worth.’

Through my dogged research and hunt and peck techniques – and a little something called Google (don’t worry if you haven’t heard of it, it’s kinda new), I was able to find more about this holiday so that I could share it with you. It turns out that Blah Blah Blah Day is for getting all the things done that people have been bugging you about. Now see, that’s going to involve some work and let’s face it; if people have been bugging you to do something, it means you haven’t done it yet, although you probably should have and you are putting it off for a reason. Not a lot o’fun there, I’m thinking. Reenacting the bloodiest battle of the Civil War using Fisher-Price’s Little People? Funtastic! Doing chores and other annoying things that require effort you would rather devote elsewhere, like towards eating cheese or staring at a wall with textured surfaces? Not fantastic.

It seems that’s what this holiday is all about, Charlie Brown (to butcher slightly paraphrase one of my favorite all-time TV specials). Has your boss been on you to get that report done (I won’t hold it against you if it’s actually your fault because it’s overdue)? Were you supposed to clean out the gutters about 13 weekends ago? Forget to pick your child up at soccer practice this afternoon? Well ok, that one is nag-worthy, but you get my point. I guess we are supposed to make our lists of undoneables today and turn them all into doneables so that we can avoid being the recipients of blah blah blahings. And no, you don’t need to read that sentence again because I assure you that it really was written in English.

Wait, wait, wait, all these chores and crossing things off lists does not sound like fun. I have now completely lost any excitement I had for Blah Blah Blah Day. And let me tell you, I was mighty excited. We’re talking ‘I began The Happy Dance’ excited. That feeling of good well and yes, even a touch of merriment, is done now. In fact, I no longer wish to write about Blah, Blah…actually, I don’t even want to finish typing it. You can nag me about it, but I’m still not going to finish typing it!

So now, I am left having made a big deal out of a holiday I don’t plan on celebrating. Wow, this is awkward. So very awkward. ‘Carrying on a 30-minute conversation with someone (yes your new neighbor) after he has introduced himself and then having to ask his name again at the end of said 30-minute conversation’ awkward. Really awkward. I’m really wishing right about now that Blah Blah Blah Day WAS about just walking around saying ‘blah’ to finish my sentences. I could certainly use that conversational avoidance technique right here. Yeah, I’m done.

Busy Celebrating Wednesday

If you thought you were going to be busy Wednesday because it’s the middle of the work week and studies have proven that the 16th day is the busiest day of every month* (the asterisk I just put there means you need to skip forward to the very bottom of this story and read the little footnote I added. It’s ok, you can do that now and then come back), wait until you find out about the not 1, not 2, but 3 incredible holidays that need to be celebrated. And because I am writing about more 'bogus' holidays, this is where I say ‘Hi Kat, I’m sorry.’ So, clear your calendars, get out the streamers and Smore making kits because it’s time to celebrate International Moment of Laughter Day, International Stress Awareness Day AND National Wear Your Pajamas To Work Day.

Where to begin? Well, let’s get the negative day out of the way. If I recall, it was recently National Stress Awareness at Work Week and now we have International Stress Awareness Day. That’s really not important but I just wanted to weave that into the story, you know, to make me look all smart and stuff like Alex Trebec or that Miss America contestant that was really, really good at geography. I don’t know about you, but I am keenly aware of my level of stress EVERY DAY. I really don’t need Wednesday to celebrate being aware of my stress. I can however tell you what I am thinking when I am aware of my stress. It usually is when I am looking at Female Coworker or my cubicle or my work email or when my office phone rings. By the way, does anyone else equate that little red voicemail light on their office phone with Darth Vader’s breathing like it’s a warning symbol of impending doom? Oh, ok, maybe it’s just me.

Why does my job stress me out? Well, I have thought long and hard (That’s What She Said – admit, you saw that one coming) about it and have finally figured it out. Though I am horrible at math and numbers and geometry and cooking pastries and tying my children’s shoes or trying to give them pony tails, there is one mathematical equation I have been able to solve: Work Cubicle does not equal Island Retreat. With that problem solved, we can now move on to the better reason for celebrating today.

Up next on the celebratory platter for hump day (now I can cross that phrase off my unused list) is International Moment of Laughter Day. That sounds like a fun one. My only concern is if a moment of laughter here in the U.S. translates internationally, since it is an international day of celebration and all and I would never, ever want to be accused of offending someone with a culture or background that I do not understand. And yes, that does include polka musicians, those high school boys that are wearing those skin-tight ladylike jeans and anyone who says they don’t ‘get’ the 2 Airplane movies).

I’m not sure what my international moment of laughter will be on Wednesday. I’d like it to happen naturally, but I do have a few go-to plans just in case nothing materializes. Take for instance my twins’ favorite knock-knock joke : ‘knock, knock, who’s there? Boo. Boo Who? Why are you crying?’ Don’t worry, I may have mentioned it first, but that’s my deep, deep pocket go-to. Prior to that, I have a few ‘that’s what she saids’ I can always pull out as well as my patented skipping wildly down the hallway, bobbing my head back and forth while singing KC And The Sunshine Band’s ‘My Boogie Shoes’ (from The Saturday Night Fever soundtrack) at work routine. Granted, when I do this one I know I am being laughed at instead of laughed with, but what the hay fever, I figure it’s all in the spirit of the holiday. You’re right; let’s hope that something just happens naturally to provide that moment of laughter. Why is that I have the Bee Gees’ ‘I Started A Joke’ playing in my mind right now? Better yet, in the 550+ posts I have written, why can’t I reference a song title from the 90s or 2000s (or would that be The Ks)?

Last up for today’s party time is National Wear Your Pajamas To Work Day. I don’t know if we have been cleared to celebrate this one in my office yet or not. Since I have yet to see a memo saying NOT to wear our PJs, I’m going to go with the ole it’s easier to ask for forgiveness after the fact thing (like those rare but sweet occasions when I feed Lucy and Ethel key lime pie for breakfast – on a school day) and wear my PJs to work, thus guaranteeing that there WILL be a memo sent next year. Don’t worry, it won’t be the first time that a memo has been distributed to EVERYONE but is really only meant for me. Our HR department is so thoughtful sometimes. Hey, I just thought of something: when I show up with my Grinch Stole Christmas PJs, it just might provide that international moment of laughter thing.

So there you have it, a plate chock-full o’celebrations for the day. I am going to wrap this up so you can get off the computer, be aware of your stress, laugh for at least one moment and wear your PJs into the office. Now if only they made the PJs with the back-end trap door and rubberized footsie things for grown-ups…

* Though I have no statistical numerical stuff to back up my claim that the 16th is the busiest day of the month, I’m sticking to it. The number 16 was given to me in a dream by famed Cubs broadcaster Harry Carey and this was the only way I could find to work that number in.**

**Yep, now I have to admit that I’m making that up too.

What Do You See?

I know that I am very behind (would that make me ass-inine?) in getting this story out into blogsville, as it has been circulating for almost a week now, but I had to write about what I think makes up the reflection in the now famous photograph of VP Dick Cheney with his shades on taken while he was fly fishing. Let’s just say it hadn’t eluded my ‘noticement’ (I’ve had such a hard time finding other places to use that word lately). After all, this is the VP who takes congressmen out into the woods and shoots them for sport. I’m kidding. Really! Got that Secret Service? I’m making that up.

Though it does sound like something a James Bond villain would do doesn’t it? Don’t believe me? Just watch Goldfinger, or Moonraker or A View To A Kill or even Shadow of Gold. Yes, I made that last one up. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention. In fact, other than Goldfinger, I’m not sure if Bond is hunted in the woods in any other Bond film, but once I made the statement, I kind of had to stick with it. I’ve seen them all a gazillion times, but after about so many viewings, they all start to blend together. I will say this though; there is a good chance that a cute woman with a highly suggestive name like Booty McGee or Icey Cans will be in Goldfinger, Moonraker, A View To A Kill AND Shadow of Gold.

Yes, I was testing you again. It’s the same proven technique I use whenever playing that game where you have to write a definition and I always use the same definition for each word even after I tell everyone that I’m going to do it. Or, the way that I always hold one card face out so everyone can see it while playing poker. Since no one expects behavior like that, I know it’s going to give me the upper hand because it causes my components to be confused.

Enough about that though. Let’s get back to the Veep’s shades. A lot of people on the intraweb have put forth theories of what is reflected in those ‘semi-aviator, every VP has to have a pair’ sunglasses and most of those theories say that it’s a naked female (pronounced feee-mall-ee in Spanish; that’s right, just like tamale). Ok, all of the theories deal with female nudity. After all, it is the internet we’re talking about here. Well, there is ONE theory being postulated by a Nerdy Nerderson in the mid-west that says it’s an image of a bald eagle carrying a red hammer and sickle passing majestically by the Veep; thereby representing Capitalism’s triumph over Communism. It’s a nice theory, but where would an eagle find the symbolic tools of communism or better yet, how would the eagle know what the symbolic tools of communism are? And why am I using such big words in that last sentence?

I have my own theory. Remember my little diatribe on speculation yesterday? Well, I’m going to speculate again. I’ve looked long and hard (that’s what she said) at the image in Cheney’s glasses and I have to tell you that I think the image is pretty obvious. If you look (and you really don’t have to look that closely to tell), it’s without a doubt a Battle Droid from Star Wars. Seriously, compare the image to the left with the image in the sunglasses! I have no idea WHY the VP is fishing with a Battle Droid, but then I have never fly fished so it would be just as bad for me to criticize him as it would be for me to tell you that the directions you gave me to get somewhere I have never been are wrong, which I have done before, by the way.

Maybe because everyone is now afraid to go hunting with him, he has to take a Battle Droid for company. Maybe the Battle Droid has a built in fish finder feature. I know we can all see the undeniable usefulness of that. Perhaps George Lucas sent one as gift. It could be that Mr. Cheney just feels better when he takes the replica of a Battle Droid with him wherever he goes. It’s like a security blanket, except it’s not soft and he’s not Linus Van Pelt.

Now we can put this little bit o’gossip behind us. We can all go to sleep tonight knowing that our Vice President is not doing anything inappropriate with a woman who is lacking clothes on the bank of his favorite fly fishing spot. Honestly, I never, ever thought I would get to put that sentence into writing. Wow, I’m achieving more and more of my personal goals through this writing thing. Before I wrap this up, I can put it another way: and I repeat, he did not have sexual relations with that reflection. Wow, that’s two writing goals achieved in just one paragraph.

I’ll remember this day for a long time, just like when my dog Mable saved my life last 4th of July by licking my fingers until I woke up after I had fallen asleep in the kiddy pool for 3 hours and had become the color of a ripe plumb. Ok, maybe saying she saved my life is a bit dramatic. Now that I think about it, what the heck was she doing for the 3 hours until she finally woke me up? A battle droid wouldn't have waited that long...