#252 In which our hero discusses how he likes a little coffee with his sugar (HAHA! I’ve never heard that one before!)

Here’s the thing… I like my drinks sweet. I prefer piña coladas over beer, Kool-Aid over water. And, I like my coffee with lots of sugar. Is that such a crime? Well, at more and more fast food joints, it apparently is.

Starting about a year ago, I noticed that McDonalds had taken the sugar packets off the condiment area, and put them behind the counter. This was about the same time that they started heralding that they’d put the cream and sugar in your coffee for you. Which, on the surface seems like a convenient thing, especially if you’re going through the drive-thru. Now, I don’t eat at McDonalds a lot in the morning, but I’ll occasionally grab a sausage biscuit on my way to work. And with this greasy bit of heaven I enjoy a small cup of coffee.

Now, in days gone by, I’d just say “give me a bunch of sugar, please” and the drive-thru drone with grab a big handful and everyone was happy. Well, someone in upper management apparently figured out that if they gave out one less sugar packet per customer they’d save a gajillion dollars a year or whatever, so suddenly they weren’t so generous with the sugar.

And they don’t even want to give you sugar at all anymore, instead innocently asking, “how many sugars would you like with your coffee?” And, as previous mentioned, I like my coffee really pretty sweet, so the conversation usually goes like this (these are all real conversations I’ve had in the past year):

McDonalds McEmployee: How many sugars?
ME: Um… 10, please.
MM: (pause) Did you say… ten?
ME: Yes. Ten.
MM: Okay, I was just checking, because most people don’t want that many and I was just checking to see if I heard you right--“
ME: Yeah, yeah, I get it.

Or

MM: How many sugars?
ME: Ten, please.
MM: Whoo! You like it SWEET!
ME: Um, yeah.

Or

MM: How many sugars?
ME: Um… eight?
MM: Wow! It’s not just the caffeine for you, but the sugar, huh?
ME: Eh, yeah, I like it sweet.

Now, why should I feel like a second class citizen just because I want a bunch of sugar in my coffee? Seriously. If an obese person came up to the counter and ordered four Big Macs, would they say, “Wow! You like to EAT!”

I think not.

And yeah, maybe I should just be bold about it, and say something like, “That’s right! Ten sugars for my small coffee, mutherfucker!” but I find myself sheepish about it every time. Like I’m some sort of sugar junkie looking for a fix.

Next thing you know they’re going to start limiting the amount of sugar they provide. Limit 4 sugars per customer. At which point I’ll probably have to start bringing my own sugar. Or start demanding more than my allotted quota. I’ll suddenly be that pain in the ass customer who has to custom order everything. I’ll probably end up with some spit in my coffee.

But at least it will be sweet.

###

FANCY DANCY

I'm generally not a "OMG! This video is soooo the awesome!" But this just makes me happy.

###

JOKER HOAXER

Macey wants to know, why so serious?

###

TEA SPREE

About a month ago I was cleaning off my dresser when I came across an individually wrapped tea bag. I don’t remember where I got it or how it got on my dresser, but there it was. It might have been a remnant from my brother-in-law’s gift basket when we flew out to California for his wedding.

I’m not a big tea drinker, but I have read good things about green tea. So, I usually keep a box of green tea in the cabinet, and when I have a hankering for something hot, but can’t be bothered to make coffee, I have a cup of green tea. I like to think that the benefits of the antioxidants and whatnot in there makes up for the generous amount of sugar I use. But anyway, this mysterious tea bag is “Good Earth Teas’ Original Sweet & Spicy.” On a lark, I decide to give it a try.

And holy Lord, it is the most delicious tea I have ever had.

I cannot get over just how fantastic this tea is. Man! Naturally, I want more of it. So I hit my local grocery store. They don’t have it. I go to the discount grocery next door. They don’t have it. So I go to the Whole Foods, which is a little out of the way. They don’t have it.

I start getting a little desperate.

So I look it up online and, like everything else in the world, you can have it sent right to your doorstep. So I do.

A couple of days later I’m meeting The Scientist and the girls out for dinner. I’m early, so I run over to Wild Oats which is completely out of my way, but close to where we’re eating. I don’t expect them to have my tea either.

But they do.

Elated, I buy a box. Then, a couple of days after that, the tea I ordered online arrives. But here’s the thing: at the time, I was consumed with getting more of this mélange-like tea. I could have just got a single box of tea, but there were considerable savings if I bought multiple boxes.

Thus:

I got six boxes. Seven, if you count the one I bought at the store.

The tea is still delicious, but… well, it appears that now that I have an ample supply, it’s not quite at delicious as it seemed at first.

Does anyone know if you can freeze tea?

###

#243 In which our hero looks at high school photos, part 3

Sorry for the radio silence lately; it's been busy at work and, as you know, I only like to blog on company time. So, here's the final batch of HS photos:

Craig,
"87"
To a great guy with a terrific personality. Remember all the fun times during our senior year and good luck in all your future plans. Oh, I forgot I'm suppose to tell you. Keep the fuzzie naval, it adds to your character. (just kidding)

Love,
Marie

Here's another one that confuses me. Fuzzy Naval? That must mean something, but I have no recollection whatsoever of the context. Given my preference for booze that tastes like candy, you might think it was a drinking thing, but I'm pretty sure it's not. I guess it might have something to do with my actual naval, but damned if I know what Marie might actually have seen that.

Interesting aside: Marie was always a pretty straight-laced girl; we sat next to each other for a couple of classes and she had a dry sense of humor. But at the five year reunion, she showed up and was all slutty looking! It was such a bizarre 180 turn that I didn't know what to make of it. People change, I guess. I'm not saying that she was slutty, just that she dressed that way.

Craig,

To a good looking, sensitive and funny guy. You've been a good friend that I'll never forget. Have fun and good for the rest of your senior year. Keep in touch.

Love,
Kelly

"Good looking" ? That's awesome! I didn't get a lot of comments like that (in fact, including Kelly's I got one comment like that) so that's a nice little ego boost. Kelly was that super quiet and shy girl that never really talked in class. I sat next to her in a couple of classes, and chatted with her. She was really nice. Her sideways message is unique in all the photos I received.

Craig,

To a really sweet and careing guy who can always make you laugh no matter what kind of mood your in. Good luck in the future. Keep in touch.

Love,
Debbie

Another girl in my class. We didn't really hang out in the same circles. She probably had to work to think of something to write. Not sure why she would ID me as "caring." But that's better than "asshole-y."

Craig,
"87"
You're a great friend with a good sense of humor. You always bring a smile to my face.
Remember all of our crazy times in highs school. We've had some really good times. I wish you the best of luck in the future.

Love,
Debi
P.S. I'm still watching out for thunder-storms.

Ah, Debi. Had a huge crush on her our junior and senior years. I thought we would have been an excellent match, boyfriend/girlfriend-wise. Debi, it seems, did not concur. Unlike most of my crushes, I actually tried to do something about this one. Never coming right out and saying, "Hey, you want to date?" of course, but I did take her to lunch, once. But, she only had eyes for an upperclassman named Mike. And he wasn't that interested in her. Oh the humanity!

Also, the thunder storms thing? No idea.

Craig,
You leave me speechless! What can I say!? We've had some pretty wild & crazy times together that I wouldn't have missed for the world! I can't believe we're finally seniors. Never forget the great times our class has shared and hope for more int he future.

Luv,
Lisa

And the final crush of the season (and another redhead, to boot). However, in this case, Lisa and I actually dated for a time. A very brief time. I can't even imagine what a dork I must have been... because I had been crushing on Lisa for some time, then she actually agreed to go out with me (hopefully not by checking the YES box on a mash note, but I don't really remember). I was over the moon. But, this relationship probably lasted all of a couple weeks. I think we kissed maybe once or twice. She pulled the plug, of course.

Years later we made out at a drunken college party. I don't remember much of it. Had I thought that I might have had a snowballs chance of hooking up with her at this party I wouldn't have drunk as much as I did.

So, that's it. Kinda a pathetically small number of photos, huh? I like to think that since my graduating class was small (around 100) that percentage-wise, I'm not that lame. Right? Not that lame? No? Oh well.

###

#242 In which our hero looks at high school photos, part 2

Right back to the fun:

Craig,

Well sweety, this is it. We are going to be forced in to the real world. God help us... and the real world. Thank you for all you've given me. You've been one of the main influences on my life and I know I will always remember your quick wit and honest humor.

Thank for being there and don't forget those wonderful moments of high-school. Thanx for being you.

Love ya,
Michele

Michele are I spent a lot of time together in HS. That said, I don’t know if I was one of the main influences in her life… maybe I was and just didn’t realize it at the time. I wonder if she looks back and still thinks that? Everything in high school is so d r a m a t i c, but years later it all seems so minor. To me, at least. But Michele was a good friend. If I could travel back in time I would tell her never to date my friend Eric, because I knew at the time it was a bad, bad idea. But I kept my mouth shut and it ended badly, as I knew it would. Sorry about that.

Craig,

This isn't easy trying to think of what to write. Your friendship has meant more to me than I think you realize. I can always count on you for an honest opinion, even if it's not what I want to hear. I respect you for being so honest. We've had some great times in the plays, EPIC is questionable, but what do you expect... I really don't need to wish you luck with your presonality and "CHARM" you'll be successful in whatever you do. I only thank you for the memories and hope there will be more to come before this year is over.

Love Ya,
Susan
"TOOTS"

Boy, I thought posting these photos would be a lark, a little ha-ha weren’t we all so shallow in high school? sort of thing. But when I re-read these, and some of the clearly heart-felt messages written on them, I’m starting to feel like a bit of an asshole.

Susan and I were pretty good friends in our senior year. We were co-editors of the school newspaper (“The Epic”). For a time, Susan really wanted to date me, but I knew it wouldn’t work. And for perhaps the only time in my life I put aside any potential for, ahem, “physical gratification” and stuck with just being friends. Because being boyfriend/girlfriend would never have worked, and probably would have ended in tears. I don’t know what she’s getting at with my “CHARM,” but I choose to take it as a compliment. And I don’t remember what the “TOOTS” thing was either. Did I actually call her “Toots”? Good Lord, I was queer.

Susan was the main contact for the first 15 years of high school reunions, so I got to catch up with her every five years. She’s married, has kids, never left town. She seems happy, and I’m happy for her.

Craig,

To a real sweet guy that has a great personality. You have been a real special friend to me ~ Don't forget all the great times we've shared ~ Good-luck in all you do!

Love,
Missie

Thank God, back to the meaningless platitudes! Nothing to question or feel guilty about here. I don’t remember sharing any good times with Missie, really; unless she’s talking about field trips or whatever. And I would remember, because I wanted to share “good times” with Missie (if you know what I mean) in the worst way. Me and every other boy in the class. But, if I remember correctly, ended up dating an older guy from our arch-rival high school. Maybe even marrying him? Can’t remember.

Craig,

To the sweetest boy in our class. Remember all the good times our class has had. You're a very talented person and I know you will always succeed. Good luck in the future and in everything you do.

Love, Carol

Carol was a really nice person. We sat next to each other in several classes. That’s really all I can think to say about Carol.

Craig,

To a really special guy that I've had alot of great times with. Remember our affair in 6th grade + Camp Fitch. And of course the one acts. Good luck in all you do. You deserve the best + I know you'll go far. Please stay in touch.

Love,
Dionne
"87"

Dionne was my first girlfriend. And I use “girlfriend” in the loosest sense… this was only 6th grade after all. We talked on the phone, went to a couple of dances together (driven by my father) and finally kissed. My first kiss, I believe. It’s hard to remember such an innocent time, when kissing was a big deal, and tongue kissing (!!) was going “all the way.” The Camp Fitch she mentions was a camp on Lake Erie that my class went to for something like four days. It was in the dead of winter, we stayed in cabins (boys in one, girls in the other, naturally) and high school seniors were our chaperones. Here’s the two things that stand out most in my memory about Camp Fitch:

One night someone crapped his pants. And instead of chucking the evidence out into the woods or just stuffing it in the trash can, he left his nasty underwear in the shower. This was reported to our senior counselors, and they made us all strip down to our underwear and stand in a line while they checked the brand we were wearing to the “tainted” underwear. One kid was horribly upset and burst out into tears because he was wearing the same brand, even though the evidence was nowhere close to his size. I think they finally found the culprit, or at least a convenient scapegoat, and made him hike into the woods and bury his stinky shorts.

My other memory (and oddly, also poop-related) was the bus ride home. It was something like three hours. I had to go to the bathroom before we left, but for whatever reason I didn’t get the opportunity before we had to load up on the bus. I had to poop SO. BAD. I was sweating bullets the whole way home. I remember that Dionne was really made at me that I didn’t sit next to her on the bus. But I was afraid to, just in case the worst case scenario played out. But the story has a happy ending: I made it back without incident, bolted into the middle school and took care of business before my folks came to pick me up.

I suspect Dionne’s memories of the trip differ from mine. She probably was thinking of us holding hands around the fire while people told ghost stories or sledding down some serious hills. Sadly, our innocent romance didn’t last much longer after Camp Fitch.

One more batch of photos to go!

#241 In which our hero looks at high school photos, pt. 1

Last summer when I was home for Mom's birthday party, I went through some of my old high school stuff that Mom still had in a drawer. Typical junk... HS letter in football, National Honor Society pin, yearbooks, etc. I also found a stack of senior pictures. And, being the lover of schadenfreude that I am, I figured I'd let you, my faithful readers, share in what is sure to be a very uncomfortable group of comments.

Here's the first six off the top of the stack, in no particular order.

Craig,

to a real crazy guy who has a funny sense of humor. (Thanks for all the rides you gave me.) You have a great personality and you will go places with a personality like that. Remember all the fun times during this last year & good luck in the future.

Love,
Teresa

Well, that's nice. Seems pretty typical of HS picture comments. A little too typical, as we will see. Also, unlike some of the photos, I remember what she means with "thanks for all the rides." I drove to school and Teresa walked, and as I drove right past her house on the way home, I'd often give her a ride.

Craigy,

You are one sexy guy! No seriously, you're a super person & a great friend. I value these past 2 yrs of our friendship. We've grown so much closer. During this time, you've helped me to realize a lot about myself.

I love you!
Judy

Case in point of not remembering what a comment means. Judy and I were friends, but honestly, I don't remember us being that close. The thing is, I grew up in a little town (there were 100 people in my graduating class) so everybody knew everybody, and had for at least seven years. So while Judy and I were friends, I don't know that I ever helped her discover herself, or what-not. I guess maybe I had a greater impact on her than I realized but... jeez, I don't think so. And if we had really grown that close, she would have known that I wouldn't appreciate being called "Craigy."

Craig,

To a sweet guy who's alot of fun. Enjoy band to the fulliest (haha). Good luck in all you do-you deserve the best! Keep in touch.

Love,
Shirley

Oh boy. This is an embarrassing one. Shirley S. was a year older than me and I had the biggest crush on her (guess I had a thing for redheads ever back then). We were in band together, and I'm sure that's the only time I ever spoke to her. I'm frankly amazed that I worked up the nerve to ask her for a senior picture. Also, the first "keep in touch" of the lot; but certainly not the last.

And notice how the photo looks wrinkled? That's because I carried it around with me in my fabric Velcro wallet for years. Good Lord.

Craig,

to a great guy that I love to be around! You always know how to make me laugh! These years in H.S. have gone by so fast. Best of luck in all you do, I know you will do great!

Love,
Dina

These high school girls certainly were liberal with the "love," huh? If a fraction of the girls who said they loved me in their HS photo really loved me in HS, it would have been a very different experience.

Craig,

There are no words to describe you. You're a nice guy with a great personality and sense of humor. I hope your future brings everything you want.

Love,
Jenn

Have you figured out the common thread yet? Seems like everyone in HS saw me as a great friend with a great sense of humor and a great personality. Not dating material, Good God no, but I love having you as a friend!

But I have to say that Jenn's "I hope your future brings you everything you want" feels like the most sincere thing anyone wrote on their photo, and maybe the nicest.

Craig,

You are a real sweet guy, who you can always have alot of fun with. Remember all the fun times. Good luck your senior year. And gooBest wishes for the future.

Love,
Kandy

Ah, my sweet Kandy.

I didn't crush on anyone in high school like I did on Kandy. I had it bad. And somehow, to this day I have no idea how, I managed to get her to agree to be my date to both the 8th grade prom and our Junior prom. Because of this, I feel like I was this close to actually living the dream and having her become my girlfriend.

This is a colossal fabrication my mind plays on me, of course. Kandy was always out of my league... I think she started dating a guy in college shortly after we went to prom together. Probably minutes after prom. And, as you can tell by her generic comments on her photo, she didn't harbor any deep seated feelings for me. She maybe appreciated it that I didn't try to grab her ass during the slow dances, but that's probably as far as her feelings for me went.

But I could be wrong. Note how she started to write "good wishes" and decided, mid-stroke, to send me "best wishes" instead. Bad composition skills or hidden desire for my bod? I choose to believe in the latter.

So anyway, that's the first six. The stories will most likely get better, and the embarrassment greater, as we go on.

###

#240 In which our hero reminisces about his misspent youth and the man who attributed so much to it.

As geeks across the globe already know, Gary Gygax died last week.

His legacy, of course, is Dungeons & Dragons. Every article I’ve read in the past two weeks credits him as the “co-creator” of Dungeons & Dragons (along with Dave Arneson) but Gygax was, and always will be, D&D to me. Maybe it’s the exotic ring to his last name, or the unusual Y and X; I mean, doesn’t that sound like the name of an evil wizard? Tremble before the might of Gygax the Grievous!

I got into D&D when I was around 12 or 13. I don’t remember there being a big event, like I was first introduced at a friend’s house and became hooked for life or something like that… D&D has just always seemed to be there. I remember going into Walden Books at the mall with my dad; while he looked at the latest historical paperbacks, I’d always check out the D&D section. Walden had a shelf dedicated to D&D: all the hard cover books, plus countless flimsy modules with enticing names like The Keep on the Borderlands, Ghost of Lion Castle or The Lost Island of Castanamir. I’d be sucked in with their amazingly cool cover art and promises of adventure.

At some point dad finally bought me the Basic Set (in the red box). I devoured it. While I had played all the kid games you’d expect (Monopoly, Life, Risk, Uno, etc.) I had never seen anything like this. I guess I was predisposed in my thinking to want to be a romantic hero, sword flashing, slaying dragons and saving the damsel in distress. Even though at 13 it was more about killing the monster and taking its treasure than saving the fair-haired Lady.

I spent more time studying that rulebook than any of my textbooks. I went though it with a yellow highlight to mark what I considered the most important passages. My friends would later make fun of me because nearly the entire book was highlighted.

Advanced Dungeons & Dragons (AD&D) came out about this time (in the blue box) and I devoured that, too. At this point I actually had a group of friends (well, two others) to play with. I was almost always the Dungeon Master, a role I relished. I spent hours upon hours drawing maps on grid paper, seeding dungeons with monsters and treasure, and trying to write an engaging story about the adventure. Granted, these stories almost always began with the heroes meeting in an Inn over flagons of mead; being contacted by a mysterious benefactor to go fetch some magic artifact (which was always hidden deep in a monster-infested underground dungeon), and being rewarded handsomely at the end, IF they survived. Which they always did, because I was a softy with my players. I wanted them to be heroes, not corpses.

As time wore on I got involved with some new friends, our mutual love of the game bringing us together. This group was more interested in story that just grinding out EP and, most importantly, one of them liked being DM more than I did. So I finally got to play. I finally got to be the hero I had been dreaming of. So I created a character who was a… Thief.

It seems odd to me now that I chose a Thief. I mean, why not a Fighter in shining armor? Why not a Magic User? (Well, I can answer that last one--Magic Users suck at the lower levels; it’s not until you get to level 5 or so that you have any spells worth a damn, and you still can’t wear real armor.) But something about being a Thief appealed. I could sneak around, pick locks, notice things other players couldn’t. I was part of the mysterious Thieves’ Guild, and even had a secret language, the Thieves’ Cant. And I could wear decent armor and use good weapons. I was known as “Strike.”

Strike and I saw a lot of action. Failed a lot of saving throws (I sucked at rolling the dice). Took a lot of damage, but somehow always managed to live to fight (and pick-pocket and backstab and climb sheer surfaces) another day.

I even took the thief thing a little too far, shoplifting several of the hardcover D&D books from my beloved Walden Books. This was during my shoplifting phase, which ended in disaster. Thank God my parents were supportive, and not the kind of people who bought into the media-fueled stories of kids going off the deep end due to playing “satanic” games like D&D. Because it would have been a short jump between identifying my D&D character as a thief, and realizing that their son was stealing things in real life. I certainly never made it to the Mazes & Monsters level of involvement (“I am Pardue, and I am a holy man”).

Funny aside, one of the guys I played with in high school recently emailed me to apologize for killing my character at the penultimate moment in what was probably the last campaign we played before leaving for college. I, of course, remembered the moment clearly: we had just vanquished the last bad guy, and it was just he and I in the treasure room. He was playing a Thief, which means I probably wasn’t playing Strike at that time. I don’t remember what character it was, but I do remember that I had a lot invested in him. It had been a long and grueling summer, and this was it, our final reward. I started to eye the treasure, planning on how the gold (and associated experience points) would give my character a must needed final boost when he used the full might of his backstab ability to drive a dagger deep into my back. It actually burst out of my chest, if memory serves. Wow, was I pissed. It was in character, being that his Thief was evil (or maybe just neutral-evil), but that did nothing to calm my outrange. I remember that the DM and I talked about me coming back as a Revenant, but for one reason or another our group never got back together.

I went on to play some D&D in college (it helped that my DM and I went to the same school) but I eventually grew tired of D&D’s rather obscure rules. Frankly, I never cared much about the game play, it was all about the role play. It never made sense to me that as armor became better at protecting you, the armor class number went down; until the best protected fighters had negative numbers. I would have been really happy if everything could have been converted to a simple percentage roll. I guess that would have done away with some of the cool dice, and I wouldn’t have wanted that.

I discovered some other games in collage that made more sense to me, most notably Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay. Great game. I think I was drawn to the storytelling aspect in Warhammer, which always seemed stronger than in D&D. Naturally, I put in my time playing tabletop miniatures (Warhammer and Space Hulk), horror roleplay (Call of Cthulhu, ‘natch), science fiction (Traveller) and more. I eventually got out of role playing altogether… not by any conscious decision, I just got busy with other stuff. But I’ll tell ya, I’d jump into a WFRP game in a heartbeat, if I could find a group of people who had the time to commit. Actually, some like-minded friends and I talk about it from time to time, but I think we all really know that it’s not going to happen. Not, at least, while I have two kids under the age of five.

But in my youth I played--and played a lot. It was Gary Gygax’s name that I saw on the stuff I loved, over and over again. He was (in my mind, if not in reality) the single driving force behind not just the game I loved, but the wonderful worlds I got to walk around in on Friday and Saturday nights.

And I’m not one to say that Dungeons & Dragons changed my life or molded me into the man I am today …but it did help. Gary Gygax and the game he created gave me an outlet, a way to funnel my creativity into something (arguably) productive. I made up people and places and creatures and entire worlds… and I really never stopped. I make up stuff today as part of my job. Of course, now I’m making up headlines to help sell car tires or making up promotions to get you to sample the latest flavor of sports drink or whatever… but I’m still exercising my creative muscles. And thanks in no small part to Gary Gygax, my creative muscles are strong and up to the task.

And unlike that kid of 13 pulling an all-nighter to finish an adventure, now I get paid to be creative.

Thanks, Mr. Gygax.

###

HATE STATE

Last week I had encounters with the two kinds of people I most hate in the world. And, lucky me, they both happened at the time.

I was at the grocery store picking up a prescription. There were two people in front of me, and the transaction seemed to be going slowly. Not horribly slowly; I was absorbed enough in my own woolgathering that it didn’t really register as slow. But, apparently, all time stopped for the lady behind me.

Now, I hadn’t been there that long, but apparently I had stepped into line as precisely the correct moment to avoid a line. Because three or four people quickly queued up behind me. The pharmacy in my grocery store is next to the employee time clock, and just as the first woman in front of me was finishing up, a manager came on duty and clocked in. Now, I’m not sure how anyone would know he was a manager; he seemed to be dressed in the same khakis and blue shirt as everyone else, but the woman behind me instantly knew what he was. “Excuse me,” she said to him. “Can you get someone else to ring at the pharmacy? The girl there seems a little… slow.”

Now, this girl did look a little slow to me, as in dim-witted. And when, I have to ask, did they start letting just anyone work at the pharmacy? At one point my prescriptions were only handed to me by actual pharmacists. But now, it seems like they just let any register-jockey man the desk.

Anyway, the manager, a fresh-faced young man in a freshly pressed shirt, was eager to help out this lady, so he went over to the pharmacy window and addressed this only employee who was typing things into a computer. By her equally dull-witted expression it was clear that she, too, was just a lackey, and not a pharmacist.

Now, I didn’t catch what he said to her, but I’m assuming it was something to the effect of, “Hey, can you stop whatever you’re doing and start ringing out some of the people in this line?” And I didn’t hear what she said to him, but I heard the rest of the exchange loud and clear.

FRESH-FACED MANAGER: Okay, put it this way, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you.
APATHETIC EMPLOYEE: You can’t tell me.
FFM: Yes, yes I can.
AE: No you can’t. You can ASK me, but you can’t tell me!

But, she got up from the computer and moseyed over to the register. This is kind of person I hate #1. The person who openly hates their job and, by extension, everyone they have to deal with as part of their job. One assumes that she was told that speaking directly to the public would be part of her job when she was hired; maybe she could try not to be so contrary about it. I mean, everyone hates their job at some point, but Jesus, it’s your JOB. You get paid to do it. Just fucking do it.

But, as much as I dislike the woman now “serving” me, I hate the woman behind me even more (she is kind of person I hate #2).

As soon as the manager and this dumbass employee get into it, she starts huffing and puffing behind me. “Unbelievable!” she says, just loud enough for the people directly around her to hear. “Unbelievable! If I talked to my boss that way, I’d be fired in a minute! Unbelievable!”

This is the kind of passive-aggressive harpy who never confronts the object of her scorn directly; she only mumbles about the situation, hoping that the people directly in front and behind her will take the bait and initiate a bitch-fest. She’s hoping that I’ll chime in with “I know! You just don’t get good service these days!” or some such shit.

The really crappy thing is that this kind of person usually pipes up when the person behind the counter is doing the best they can. Like they have some crazy return and refund they have to coax out of their computer; something that only comes up once in a lifetime. In these situations I like to say something really cynical to the huffer and puffer; like “I know! How dare she not know those beans were 36 cents a can, and not 38! The nerve!” Sometimes they get that I’m making fun of them, sometimes not.

But, back to this pharmacy situation, the lady behind the counter wasn’t doing the best she could; she was barely doing anything at all. So I just kept my mount shut.

And once again wished I could shoot laser beams out of my eyes.

###

SWELL LOL

Holy crap. Rarely have so many odd and esoteric things come together to make me laugh.

LOLsheviks

Awesome. The people demand you click NOW!

###

FEMME MEME

Dressage Mom has tagged me for one of those bullshit meme things. I usually think they are pretty stupid and ignore them, but this is my wife and I do need to post something pronto before I go to bed so...

SEVEN UNUSUAL THINGS ABOUT ME.

1. When I order take-out Chinese, and the rice come separately from the meat/veggies, I always eat a couple bites of plain white rice first.
   
   
2. I have a geographic tongue. When a dentist first told me of this, he called it a "psycho-reactive tongue," which is way cooler than geographic tongue. I never noticed it before it was pointed out to me.
   
   
3. I have gout. Which is ridiculous, because in my mind gout is a disease only to be had by fat cats in three-piece suits and bowler hats. Or fat kings. Neither of which I am.
   
   
4. I suffer from ocular hypertension.
   
   
5. I'm rather terrified of sharks (bit of cheat on this one, since it was a NoBlowMe topic last year)
   
   
6. While I'm a writer by profession, I'm a terrible speller.
   
   
7. I secretly developed a fetish for the 1893 World's Columbia Exhibition (aka, the Chicago's World Fair) after reading The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson.
   

There, done. Now to bed. Final updates to the Maryland trip tomorrow.

###

POOP GROUP

Today's post is brought to you by the letter "D" as in "Diarrhea." Specificially, diarrhea from my oldest. I thought maybe it was just because she ate a bunch of junk this weekend, but now I think it's more of a stomach thing. Hopefully, something that will pass quickly (no pun intended).

Because if it doesn't... well, it's going to be a long eight hours tomorrow.

###

POP-POP ROCK

Eight hours later, we arrived in Maryland without incident. I have to say that the girls, once again, were fantastic. Strapped into car seats for seven hours, only getting out twice (once for dinner and once for a quick potty/gas stop) isn't the most fun for anyone, let alone a four- and two-year-old. Yet, they watched movies (thank you portable DVD player; if you were a living thing I'd offer you sexual favors for how much better you make my life on these trips) and slept. They conked out for good around 10pm, and we were able to get here, unload the car and transport them into the house without waking them up. Which is, of course, awesome.

And better yet, when Lily got up at 6:30am, I immedately sent her into her grandfather's room. She tried the door, but couldn't get it open. She then came back over to my side of the bed, and in a loud whisper said, "Daddy! Pop-pop's door is locked. I can't get in!" To which I answered, "Did you try knocking?"

So then I heard Lily knocking on their bedroom door for a good eight minutes before he finally got up and let Lily in. Macey woke up soon thereafter and followed her sister.

And The Scientist and I rolled over and went back to sleep.

For this, if nothing else, I am truly thankful.

###

WRITE BLIGHT

Oh boy. NoBloPoMo day#19, and I’m tapped. Only 12 more days, but I think I’ve run out of crap to write about. Or maybe the spirit to keep going. Worse yet, we leave for Maryland to visit the in-laws in two days. I had hoped to create a bank of posts in advance, but now I can hardly fill up the space day by day. Not good. How am I going to be creative during the hustle and bustle of the holiday?

At least I should return to Ohio with a bunch of stuff to write about. Holiday gatherings are like that.

I’ll attempt to be less lame tomorrow. At least I'm not just posting about my shoes.

###

SEED FEED

Something is eating my pumpkins:

Squirrels, I assume. But, given my previous post, perhaps something more ominous? Regardless, this is scarier than anything I could have carved myself.

###

#231 In which our hero, shockingly, sympathizes with a train wreck of a pop princess.

Sometimes there are elements of my life that dovetail in a seemingly seamless fashion. Take, for instance, my deep love of schadenfreude and my deep hatred of spoiled and idiotic pop stars.

The epitome of two things are manifest perfectly in the person of Britney Spears.

Now, given my previous rant about a certain worthless celebrity heiress, it should come as no surprise that I hate Britney Spears. Well, hate is a strong word… it’s more like I’m offended by the fact that this thing lives on the same planet as my family.

And make no mistake, Britney Spears is a thing, not a person. She stopped being just a simple girl from the country once people started referring to her by a single name only and obsessing about her every action. Every time she leaves the house it’s an event. Everything she says is a headline. She’s no longer just a musician just like Ikea is no longer just furniture. Both of them have far surpassed their original purpose.

And you could argue that none of this spectacle is Spears’ making. She clearly been carefully cultivated, groomed, styled and packaged as an American pop star to make music that tweens go crazy for with just enough T&A to attract an older audience. It’s only recently, when she’s escaped her handlers, that her career has really gone off the rails and she’s become the hideously watchable train wreak that she is now.

Personally, I never really got Britney. I mean, her music was catchy enough, but I wasn’t the target demo, so no surprises that I didn’t rush out and buy her albums. And I never found her that sexy, either. She’s a little horsy, I think (and I thought this before her well-reported weight gain).

You could say I’m just jealous… which, of course, I am. I mean, who wouldn’t want to make $700,000/month, and turn around and spend $16,000/month on clothes and nearly $5,000 just on eating at fancy restaurants? The Scientist and I maintain a weekly grocery budget of about $100, and every once in awhile treat ourselves by eating out at Red Robin.

Yet, as much as I enjoy the flood of schadenfreude I experience every time I see her latest downward progression in the entertainment section of the paper; recently I’ve been feeling something new, something different about Britney Spears.

Sympathy.

Which is nothing short of amazing, of course. Now, don’t get me wrong, she’s clearly as dumb as a box of rocks, so I have no sympathy whatsoever when she gets busted for driving without a license, or goes to rehab or has her kids taken away from her (apparently she’s a bad mother, too… another strike). But, when I see a video of her up on The Superficial (my go-to site for celebrity gossip and boobie pictures) I can’t help but feel a little bad for her. I mean, look at this:



She is literally swarmed by paparazzi jamming their cameras in her face, blinding her with flashes. Every walk from car to store is like swimming against the current of a raging river.

Or look at this:



She can’t pull out of a parking garage without these dumbasses literally jumping in front of a moving vehicle.

It’s got to be difficult living in the public eye like that. Having 25 guys crowding you every step of the way. I know she courted public attention to a large degree… but does anyone really expect this level of abuse when they’re sitting in a recording studio making music? Or having their agent tell them how awesome they are?

I dunno. As shitty as it would be to have this tide of cameras record my daily routine, I gotta think that $700,000 a month would sooth that wound somewhat.

I for one, am willing to give it a try.

###

#230 In which our hero does his part to save the planet, which avoiding any actual work on his part.

I don’t remember if I’ve written about this before, but I’m the recycling guy at my work. I never intended to become the recycling guy, but become him I did. It went down like this.

Couple of weeks after I started here, I noticed that the agency doesn’t recycle. I’d see aluminum cans in the trash, and it bugged me. Now, I’m not the super-dedicated save the earth type, but we recycle at home. Generally speaking, it’s not that hard to do, and it’s a good thing for the earth. Mother Earth, good karma, all that crap.

At work we have a suggestion box. You can drop in anonymous suggestions, or put your name to them. I bypassed that entire system and went right to the General Manager. Hey, I said. Noticed that we don’t recycle cans. We really should.

In my naivety, I assumed that this was a simple fix, and that no-one had thought of it before. I thought we could get in some recycle cans, and that would be the end of it.

Foolish me.

As it turns out, we didn’t recycle cans at the agency because the building doesn’t recycle aluminum. They do recycle white paper and cardboard, which is dutifully hauled out by the cleaning staff every night. But there was no provision for aluminum. Which struck me as silly, but there you go.

The GM’s suggestion was that I gather a group of like-minded people with curb-side recycling at home, and we all take turns taking the cans home at night. Which seemed rather unworkable, to me. I mean, I didn’t want to take a leaky bag full of soda cans home in the trunk of my car, and I suspected that neither would anyone else. So I told the GM I’d think about it, and get back to her.

First thing I did was call the city. They confirmed that even though Akron has curb-side pick-up, they wouldn’t pick up from commercial buildings. Then I called a couple recycling places; they wouldn’t pick up unless it was a large amount of aluminum, as in a ton or more. So that was out.

Finally I asked around if anyone in the agency was involved with scouting. This is where I hit the jackpot. The husband of one of our production people was the fundraising chair for their kid’s troop.

I made him a deal: have the scouts come pick up our cans every week or so, take them to a metals recycling place (one of which is conveniently located three miles away from the office) and they could keep all the money. Perfect.

Management was very supportive of recycling; they ordered special recycling cans to put in the kitchens, created space in the warehouse to store them, and allowed me to work with a designer to create some signs and flyers, etc. At which point I thought my work was done. It bugged me to see aluminum cans in the trash, and now people had somewhere else to put them. Mission accomplished!

Then, it was decided that we should recycle other things, too. We contracted with a waste hauling company to pick up our used magazines (you wouldn’t believe the sheer amount of magazines a typical ad agency goes through). And this same company would pick up newsprint and plastic, too (but not aluminum).

So then we had to order more recycling cans, and the cans turned into recycling stations and suddenly it takes me the better part of an hour to collect all the crap from three separate stations and co-ordinate with the waste company to schedule pick-ups. And it was decided that I needed a committee to deal with recycling; so now I chair a committee of 12 people (only about five of which ever do anything). But still, everything was working very smoothly.

Until two weeks ago.

That’s when the scouting fundraising chair guy came to me and said that since his kids had dropped out of scouts a year ago, and he was becoming too busy at work, he wasn’t going to be able to pick up the cans any longer. And, he continued, no-one else in the troop was willing to pick up the slack.

So now there are 20 bags of cans in the back, and I don’t know what to do with them. Well, that’s a lie, of course… a couple of the guys on the committee have pick-ups, so we’ll have to load up the cans and drive them over to the recycling place ourselves. Which defeats the entire purpose of getting an organization like the scouts involved: I didn’t want to actually do any of the work.

I have people on the committee looking into other solutions… but it’s starting to look like it’s going to be a pain in MY ass, and not someone else’s.

All this because I bugged me that people put cans in the trash.

###

F'ING CHEF'N

Just finished watching The Next Iron Chef and I'm stupidly excited that the guy from Cleveland won. I'm not sure why... I'm not a Cleveland represent! sort of person; I mean, I moved up here because the woman I wanted to marry lived here... that's it. I'm not passionate about Cleveland.
But it does get old when people use Cleveland as an easy punchline. But while I know plenty of people who are all how dare you! when someone maligns the city, I don't really care. I mean, yeah, Cleveland does suck sometimes, I agree. In fact, stick around for about a week and you'll see for yourself when it starts dumping snow.

But, I do live here, and I'm raising my family here, so it's nice when Cleveland gets a break. So hey, Michael Symon, good on you for winning the big prize! The local paper has been abuzz lately about how Symon's performance is putting Cleveland on the map, culinarily speaking. I don't know about that, but Symon seems like a really nice guy, and I'm glad he won. I don't think his losing would have put the city into a funk (like a certain professional baseball team) but it's nice not to come in second again.

So, thanks for putting it all out there, Mike. Maybe The Scientist and I will make an effort to eat at one of your restaurants now.

###

SPACE WASTE

Posting on the weekends? Killing me.

Just about anything I do (even things I really enjoy, such as writing) take on the feeling of a chore when you tell me I have to do them every day. That's part of the reason that it's 10:30pm and I just realized "Oh shit, I need to post something. But I don't have any motivation."

So, to that end: 5 REASONS to keep posting every day:

$100 Amazon gift certificate
Professionally designed blog header
$25 iTunes gift certificate
Weird homemade plushes
$100 of Burt's Bees merch

These are, coincidentally, some of the dozens of available prizes for those who manage to post every day during NaBloPoMo. I would love to have any of the above (honestly, I'd love to have nearly anything on the list; it's a wonderful collection of the overtly valuable and the oddly adorable) and unless I keep posting, I'll be out of the running.

And so, I am done for the day.

###

#227 In which our hero is all out of sorts.

I'm feeling terribly ill at ease today; nothing specific, just out of sorts.

Quick background: the guy who sits next to me has a girlfriend who’s mother is sick. She (the mother) had a pain in her side, and when she went to the doctor she was told she had a cracked rib. Then, upon further testing, it come out that Hey! Y’know what? That’s not a cracked rib at all. It’s lung cancer. She was told that it was isolated to one lung. Not good, but treatable. But then, Hey! Y’know what? It’s not really isolated at all… it’s all through your body! And your brain!

Final diagnoses: she has maybe a year to live.

This only tangentially affects me, of course. I don’t know this woman, but I do know my neighbor’s girlfriend (she worked here briefly). I feel really bad for her, naturally. But I suspect that the out-of-sortsness I’ve been experiencing today is memories of what I went through when my own father was dying of cancer.

But, to make this situation all the more convoluted, I think contributing factors also include my mother and my wife’s horse.

My mother.

First, she’s doing fine. She seems to have recovered well from her last bout with pneumonia, and is back to her old self. But mom is 75, and even though she doesn’t want to slow down, her body is sending off clear signs that she must.

But most of all, what has me down is that my sister is riding my ass to contact mom’s doctors and ask a bunch of questions. She thinks we should be much more proactive about mom’s care. Which I agree with, in principal, but I hate having to go around mom’s back and speak to her doctors, just to make sure the rosy story mom is telling us isn’t utter bullshit. Which is could be, because mom doesn’t want to worry us.

And since I’m the one with medical power of attorney, they won’t talk to anyone else. Honestly, I’m not even sure they’ll talk to me. I have emergency medical power of attorney, so I can make decisions about mom’s care if she’s incapacitated… I don’t know if that extends to just talking to the doctor when mom’s fine.

But, like a good son and brother, I called the doctor. On Monday. Left a message. Never heard back. Called again on Wednesday. Never heard back. Now I’m just pissed. I’m forced to do something I don’t even want to deal with, and this jackass won’t even return my calls? I called again this morning, and the nurse assured me that she had pulled mom’s file and left it with the doctor, and she actually thought he had returned my call already, blah, blah, blah. Y’know, I only want 15 minutes of his time on the phone. You wouldn’t think that would be so hard to accommodate.

My wife’s horse.

Is lame again. Or something. Read all about it over at her site.

While I know that riding gives The Scientist a great amount of pleasure, frankly all I register is the pain. The pain of dealing with his injuries. The pain of her getting all excited about how well his training is going, just to have him crush those hopes and go lame again. The pain of having to AGAIN go through the tears and turmoil of the possibility that he may never show again. And, of course, the financial pain of stupidly high vet bills.

None of this is aided by what I learned last night: instead of being $100 in the hole every month, starting later this month we’ll be $200 in the hole every month.

So I’m feeling a little stress lately. And it’s about to start snowing. And we’re going to have to start shopping for Christmas. And as the weather turns really shitty, I’m worrying about mom getting sick again. And my fucking head is cold all the time.

I guess I just need to keep everything in perspective: no-one is sick right now, no-one is in the hospital. The girls are great, and a constant source of amusement. I love my wife.

And no-one has been given just a year to live.

###

HEAD CRED

Never before have people been so interested in my hair. First everyone was amazed that I actually shaved my head; now everyone is interested in my plans for the future: Are you going to grow it back? Will you keep it shaved? How long are you going to let it get? Are you growing back the goatee?

And, I’ve also found that not only are people interested in my melon, they are influenced by it, too. In a good way. Allow me to illustrate.

Couple of days ago I ran into Dillard’s to pick up a new pair of shoelaces for my Docs. The shoe department guy (a rather tired looking man in an ill-fitting suit) said that the style of shoe I had wasn’t available in the states any more, and they didn’t have shoelaces that would fit it. One’s made by Doc Martens, at least. So I asked if he had any that would fit, I didn’t really care if they were the signature yellow laces that I already had (and had to knot where they broke). He came out with some fancy-pants Italian brand that was brown. They fit nicely. “What’s this going to cost me?” I asked.

Nothing, he said. You can just have them.

Then, yesterday, I went to the Chinese restaurant near our house to pick up dinner. I ordered and paid, and as I was waiting, the nice lady behind the counter handed me a can of Coke. “Here,” she said. “For while you wait.” She must have read the confused look on my face, because she said, “Oh, do you want a different one?” I told her that the Coke would be fine.

So, yeah, free stuff.

Coincidence, you say? Well, people didn’t start giving me free stuff until after I shaved my head. I see direct cause and effect.

For years I kept this money-maker under wraps. Now that it is revealed to the world, there may be no limit to its power!

###

TREAT DEFEAT

For Halloween, The Scientist walked the girls around our cul-de-sac, then I took over the took them down the block. I ended up taking them about four or five houses too far before turning around, because near the end they were more interested in sitting down and examining their loot then collecting more. And I had to carry both of them for the last three houses. Note to self: next year bring wagon.

While I was waiting for my turn to walk with the girls, I sat outside and handed out the candy. And while I was doing that, I could only wonder when, exactly, Halloween became less about playing dress-up and more about grubbing all the free candy you could?

I know I’m not alone in this because I’ve read several blogs from people who have had the same experience: kid comes to the door with no attempt at a costume whatsoever. Just a big sack in hand demanding candy. And, sometimes, his/her parent is right there too.

Now, a lot has been said about the underlying theme of racism in this line of thinking. And the people who are saying, “Well, these kids from other neighborhoods are being driven over here by their parents!” should probably re-evaluate what they’re really objecting to. Me personally, I don’t give a crap if these kids are black or white, or if they're from my neighborhood or not, I’m just pissed that they aren’t wearing costumes.

And don’t get me wrong, I know that not every family has the money to go out and get a nice store-bought costume. But come on… I don’t believe for a moment that you can’t cobble together something, anything, that would pass as a costume. I mean, throw on a Steelers’ jersey and say, “I’m a Steelers’ fan!” That’s good enough. Put on a red t-shirt and say “I’m the color red!” I’m good with that. But when I ask “what are you supposed to be?” you should be able to give me a reply. I got a lot of “I don’t know” or just silence when I asked that this year.

And that sucks.

There’s an unspoken contract at Halloween: you dress up and knock on my door; I give you candy. I put some effort into my part of the contract (albeit not much, but I do drive to the store, pay for it, and stand by waiting to dish it out) so you should put some effort into your part, too.

It’s come to this: next year, I’m going to buy the smallest, nastiest candy I can find. And when you come knocking in your jeans and t-shirt, and you can’t answer my question of “what are you supposed to be?” you're getting the nasty stuff.

Happy Halloween.

###

HARD CARD

It’s come to this… I’m only on day six of NoBloPoMo and I’ve already dipped into the “blog fodder” document I set up a couple weeks ago. Every so often, when something interesting hit me, instead of actually posting about it at the time, I wrote it down to be used in November. Of course, what I couldn’t capture on paper was the motivation to write about it. That, sadly, is fleeting.

So, one of the things (the first thing, actually) in the blog fodder folder was this:

Work thank you card

You know what I’m talking about… those thank you cards that are pinned up to the bulletin board in the break room. They’re usually of the thank you for your kindness regarding the passing of my grandmother sort of things.

I don’t get ‘em.

I mean if, God forbid, you lose a loved one, and someone at work gets you flowers, shouldn’t you thank that person? In person? I guess these cards are used more if you get a card from the entire department or agency… but still. It just strikes me as odd that you’d buy a card, write out a nice thank you message in it, then anonymously pin it up on a corkboard. Seems a little impersonal for such a personal thing.

And when I read those things, I’m generally at a loss. Unless they say specifically what happened, I read them and think, “oh crap… what’s going on with Mary? Who died?” Then I’m tip-toeing around her because I don’t want to say something that would conjure up bad memories. And then I feel bad if I didn’t chip in for flowers or whatever. I mean, I don’t deserve your thanks, since I didn’t do anything to help you through the difficult passing of your gerbil or whatnot.

Maybe it’s a female thing and I don’t get it. Or maybe I’m just a prick.

###

#226 In which our hero discusses a costume contest and his co-workers and the affects giant boobs have upon both.

I didn’t win.

I put some real effort into my Halloween costume, the least of which was shaving my head. I mean, that was easy. And free.

So I arrived to work that morning, and I was nervous that people won’t appreciate my costume and would just point and laugh. But, the reaction I got is pretty much what I was shooting for: unease. People looked at me askance, mostly because they didn’t know who I was. I don’t think a single person recognized me in costume, and probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t sat down in my office. One account coordinator in particular was really freaked out, and as I walked by I heard her whisper, “Who is that?” Later she told her co-workers that she thought I didn’t really worked here, and that I was a trespasser. Which amused me to no end, of course.

But once people started to figure out who I was, the were very complementary to my costuming efforts. Most comments revolved around, “Holy shit, you really shaved your head?!” People took pictures. A couple co-workers said “You’re going to win. No doubt about it.”

Now, I have some insight into costume contests. I once attended the Drexel 24-hour Sci-Fi Movie Marathon in Columbus. This was back when it actually was at the Drexel Theater, when there was still a Drexel Theater. That was actually Drexel Theater North, if memory serves. It closed down and was turned into a CVS while I was still living there. Probably the origins of my hatred of CVS. Anyway, it was just what it sounds like: 24 hours of sci-fi movies ranging from great to really, really bad. In-between the movies they ran shorts, cartoons and other odds and ends. One of the shorts they did was a 1950s-era atomic bomb readiness propaganda film (I thought it was the famous Duck and Cover, but after seeing it again, I realize it was not.) In this film there’s a portly man in the shower who either slips or is knocked down by the atomic blast. Some things, like people falling down, are always funny; so it generated a big laugh with the audience.

They also had a costume contest at the marathon. The girl I was dating at the time put a lot of time and effort into her costume, a replica of a Star Trek:TNG’s uniform (commander’s red, first season, for you hardcore geeks). She sewed it herself and bought little commander’s pips; it was a really great costume. She might even have drawn on a Bajorian nose ridge, but I don’t remember. So she went up on stage with the other hopefuls, and it was clear that her outfit was head and shoulders above anyone else in the theater. But who won the contest? A heavy-set guy who got up on stage, took off his shirt, then fell down like the guy from the atomic bomb short.

My girlfriend put in hours to sew a costume so it was perfect. A fat guy got up on a whim and fell down on stage. Who was more deserving?

So, going into the costume contest at work I knew that people are fickle, and it may not matter in the least how cool my costume was. In fact, that morning I told a group of co-workers that I would probably not win, and that it would go to some guy in a dress. Because what’s funnier than a man dressed up as a lady? Ho-ho-ho!

But, as the day wore on, I made the mistake of letting myself get excited about the contest. Everyone I talked to said they were going to vote for me. The Scientist and I could use those tickets to travel to California to visit her family or, well, we could go anywhere. We haven’t flown anywhere for a real vacation since we were married. How cool would that be?

The contest was popular vote. All the participants (and there were a lot of us, probably 20 or so) paraded in front of the assembled agency, each of whom could cast one vote. After the votes were counted, they called up the top three vote-getters. Who ended up winning? A guy in a dress, of course. In fact, it was this guy:


Much as I would like to, I can’t be pissed at the guy who won. I mean, yeah, he basically bought a costume at Wal-Mart and put on some make-up, but it was the agency at large who voted for him. I can hear it now: Tee-hee! Did you see Joe? He’s a slim fellow, but today he looks like a fat lady! With giant boobs! In a see-though dress! That is a laugh-RIOT!

So yeah, I’m bitter as hell. I won’t even try to claim that it’s not sour grapes, because it totally is. I wanted to win. I thought my costume was better--and I still do. I think the majority of my co-workers are idiots for not voting for me. As a friend of mine said after seeing the winning costume, “that’s typical, lowest common denominator crap.”

The best part? The day after the contest I had several people come up to me and said, “Wow, you really did shave your head!” Apparently a bunch of people thought it was a bald wig. Personally, I’ve never seen a bald wig that didn’t look awful, but they apparently think I am some sort of Hollywood special effects master. “I bet more people would have voted for you if they knew you really shaved your head.”

That makes me feel great.

The final tally? I lost the contest by six votes. Maybe if I would have walked around and shouted Hey! I’m really bald over here! I would have won.

Or maybe, I never had a chance against giant fake boobs.

###

CHEAP SWEEP

There's a chimney sweep in my house!

When we bought this house three years ago, we asked the owners how recently they had the fireplace flue cleaned. "It's probably due," was the answer. Since this non-answer could have meant anything from "last year" to "never," I resolved to have it cleaned, and soon.

But... as this things go, we moved in the winter, and had many fires in the fireplace, and there was never any sign of any kind of problem, so I pretty much blew it off. The following year I called a guy, but he only worked weekdays, so I blew it off again.

Well, this year I got a bug up my ass about it and decided that I wouldn't burn any wood until it was cleaned properly. I talked to a guy down the street who said he had a small fire in his flue; which turned out to be not a big deal, but I've read about chimney fires where the fire department has to destroy to chimney to put it out. That is, if the entire house doesn't burn down first. And considering all the other BS that we've gone through with this house, I wouldn't be surprised to add "devastating chimney fire" to the list.

So, that's why there's a chimney sweep in my family room right now.

I find it incredibly charming that chimney sweep still exists in our modern day world as a profession. Not that this guy showed up in a top hat and bow tie and started singing while he worked (but how much would I have loved that? I would have payed extra, even), rather, he's here with an industrial-sized sh