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Recently I got a chair massage. The name makes it sound like they somehow rub you down using office furniture. "Hold still. I'm going to shove the armrest into your neck."
Really though, it is called a chair massage because you sit in a chair for it. This is as opposed to the traditional massages where you lie on what appears to be a modified doctor's examination table. And maybe that was done on purpose. After all, most people are used to the idea that, when they see one of those tables, at some point they will have to remove their pants. You could put one in the food court at the mall and people would start lining up at Subway in their underwear. "Yeah, I'd like a foot long tuna and a hernia exam."
With the chair massage, you don't have to remove any clothing. To me this is a big plus. I'm not what you would call an exhibitionist. If it wouldn't hamper the cleaning process, I would wear a wetsuit in the shower.
-----Tonight we ate at one of those family-friendly restaurants, the kind that brings crayons to your table, even if you don't have children. And I realize those places are not seen as establishments of high cuisine, but I really like the food they have. I'll admit, it is not gourmet. Everything comes with a side of fries, even if you only ordered a baked potato. I think even some beverages come with a side of fries.
"Here are your fries, sir."
"But I just stopped in to use the restroom."
It's the kind of place where the menus are laminated. And you know a place is classy when they have menus capable of going through the dishwasher. The menus also have bright, colorful pictures of the food. These photos look better than some shots of our family. In fact, I'm tempted to hire their photographer to do portraits of our son. "We're looking for the beauty and quiet dignity you captured in that shot of the mushroom cheddar burger."
---A friend recently said I had mojo. However, I think you have to be cool to have mojo. Samuel L. Jackson has mojo. I'd be lucky to have mo. And even that might first require a meeting with a loan officer.
Really the only way I could have mojo is if it were a kind of breakfast cereal. "New Kellogg's Mojo: Fortified with vitamins, minerals, and the kind of funky goodness you can only get through witch doctors and banned substances. It stays crispy in milk. Rum too."
Of course, imagine the warning label that would come with. "Warning: It is a crime to transport Mojo across state lines. This cereal has also been banned by the International Olympic Committee."Posted in Life and stuff | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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Both funny and philosophical:
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There was a piece in the news about a six-year-old boy in Delaware who was suspended because he brought some camping utensils to school to eat his lunch with. The school said this fell under their zero tolerance for weapons policy. In addition to suspending him, they want to have him sent to a reform school for further discipline.
I think if the school is going to go that route, then they have to be that strict with every policy. For instance, under the policy that no drugs are allowed in school, I think any child found in possession of granulated sugar should be forcibly removed from the premises. He should be cuffed and dragged away by security personnel dressed in full riot gear.Posted in Current Affairs, Food and Drink, Life and stuff, News Desk | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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I get nervous a lot. And although I wish I were more relaxed, what’s really annoying is that this nervousness hasn’t really lead to any weight loss. You’d think, with as often as I am tense and stressed, by now I should have abs that could deflect close-range gunfire. Instead I have a bit of a gut. Nothing that would pass for third trimester, but it’s the kind of curvature that only looks good on a panda.
Some of my nervousness is normal, such as with meeting new people. Given the choice between attending a party where I know no one and having my leg hair removed with strips of duct tape, I would seriously consider the second option. In fact, my first thought probably would not be “That’s an awful choice”, but “Is the hardware store still open?”
Apparently it is common to feel nervous in those situations. At least, I have seen many people enter a party with an awkward, painful smile, like they were asked to pose for a portrait in the midst of severe intestinal cramps. I’m guessing I’m the same way. I’ve never seen video of myself entering a party, but, based on what I am feeling on the inside, it is possible I look like I am passing a kidney stone.
Once, at a company meeting, a lady I had never met before walked up and asked if I was OK. At the time, I was just hanging out, leaning against a wall. I was even feeling kind of relaxed.
Apparently my look of relative calm, though, is viewed by others as a sign of shock and possible memory loss because she asked the question with the same concerned tone you would use with a person just pulled from a flaming car wreckage. It was not the “Are you OK?” used by people who want to refill your drink or direct you toward the cheese balls. It was the “Are you OK?” used by people who need to assess your vital signs and maybe slow any bleeding.
Another lady who knew me and was standing nearby said, “Yeah, he always looks like that.” On the one hand, it was nice having the support of a friend. On the other hand, it was a little disturbing to have it confirmed that I regularly looked like some sort of trauma patient.
My nervousness can also increase dramatically when I am somewhere with either of my parents. Although each means well, they can sometimes create the kind of unspoken tension not seen since nuclear disarmament negotiations.
Once, when my dad was visiting, my wife and I took him to a local winery. It was a small, cozy place on top of a hill. You would expect to see it in movies about tragic love stories, the kind that women see over and over again even though it always makes them weep uncontrollably.
At one point during the wine tasting, my dad decided he didn’t want any more of the variety he was sampling and dumped the rest on the floor. This is known as a faux pas, which roughly translates to mean “legal excuse for the shop owner to remove your liver with a corkscrew.” In some cultures throwing wine on the floor is how you declare war or at least contest your cable bill. The only appropriate time to chuck your wine onto the ground is if you are attempting to put out a burning trail of gunpowder. Even then, it might be better manners to use tap water or a bloody Mary mix.
My wife and I stared at my dad in stunned silence. I wished I had the ability to become invisible. At that moment I would probably have been happy to self combust. Granted, blowing up can put a damper on the rest of your day, but I was willing to risk that to avoid the extreme discomfort I was feeling. I figured the explosion would be over in a second, but the painful sense of embarrassment would last for years.
At that point my dad said to the bartender, “That’s OK, right?”
The bartender also looked shocked, like he had just seen a cow sing selections from Barry Manilow. He said, “Yeah, just don’t do it again.”
And although his words were forgiving and friendly, his tone suggested he might be heading outside to urinate in our car. “Let’s see how they like ‘wine’ spilled on their floor.” I was convinced I could never return to this winery, not unless I got some cosmetic surgery and changed my name to Vicky.
Sadly that’s only one of many occasions where I became extremely nervous and uncomfortable while out with one of my parents. And I still don’t have rock hard abs.
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I thought this post by writer A.S. King was one of the best pieces of advice I have ever read about writing. Improve your writing by telling everyone else to go to hell.
Her reference to the reams of bad advice about writing that is out there reminds me of a line in a Michael Crichton book. The character says, "Most of what people tell you is wrong."
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