Nothing in Particular

Massages, Flowers, and Questionable Mojo

It's difficult for me to bring home flowers for my wife. When I do, our cats eat them and then throw up. It's kind of a mood breaker. I mean, there's a reason that FTD doesn't sell a "Feline Vomit Bouquet". "Want to surprise her this Valentines Day?"

The fact that this has happened repeatedly makes me worry that our cats are experimenting with bulimia.

"You know, Fluffy, I just can't keep the weight off like I used to."

"Have you tried sticking your paw down your throat? It did wonders for Cuddles."

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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.

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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."

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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."

Late Night Philosophy

Both funny and philosophical:

Death Before Dining

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.

If the controlled substance is an artificial sweetener, security should first lob in tear gas and then proceed with some sort of public beating. Ten hits for every packet of Splenda.

Getting back to the weapons problem, any and all utensils should be removed from the cafeteria. After all, based on this school's zero tolerance policy, there is little difference between a surface-to-air missile and a fork. So from now on the kids will eat with their hands, even if the meal that day is soup. Making them eat like household pets is a small price to pay for safety.

Lack of coverage

I think I am being mocked by our own backyard. The grass growth back there can best be described as a garden version of male pattern baldness. It's to the point where, instead of seeds and fertilizer, I'm thinking we should start using Propecia. "I'm not just the owner of the 'Lawn Club for Men.' I'm also a client."

Fashion

Fashion show shocks audience with presentation of normal clothing worn by women who weigh more than 20 pounds.

Humor Times

I'm proud to say that my column is now being run on the Humor Times website.

Nervous

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.

Something in the Air

Although I have been living here in the East for a year, I'm still surprised how intense the humidity can get. In the summer the air is almost a solid. At the very least it is a kind of thick liquid, like the oxygen you normally experience has been replaced with some sort of clear hair gel. California has extra light air, the Midwest has average air, and the East Coast has something made by Vidal Sassoon. "Today's air quality: Firm Hold." I've eaten Jell-O molds that were less dense than the air out here.

And yet, there is something comforting about it. It's like a big soft blanket, like my grandma knitted an atmosphere.

"Do you need to borrow a jacket?"

"No thanks. I brought my humidity."

And the grandmother reference isn't that far off. My mom and I used to spend every August with my grandparents in upstate New York. So the humidity brings back some nice childhood memories and the occasional sweat stains. To me, humidity is a symbol of fun, family, days with no schedules, and stores cold enough to preserve dead fish.

In an effort to combat the heat and humidity of summer, a number of establishments in the East set their thermostats to "Antarctica." For some reason they like an ambiance that you would not describe as "comfortable" or even "a little cool", but more like "a numbness in your extremities." It's the middle of July and you will be in a restaurant freezing to death. You're ordering spicy shrimp with hot coffee. You offer the waiter an extra $20 if he will let you set fire to the table.

Movie theaters are the same way. They should hand out those emergency survival suits they give to Alaskan fishermen. It's not that I want to watch a film while in a sauna. I just think the air conditioning should not be so powerful that it slows my heart rate to the point where it's a cryogenics experiment.

"When science discovers a cure for your disease, we will thaw you out and bring you back to life."

"All I said was that I had a receding hairline."

If I ever met someone who was training to hike Everest, I would suggest that he or she first try climbing to the top row of seats during the matinee. It's not that steep, but the rapidly dropping temperature is a good test of your equipment, your resolve, and your willingness to continue even when a limb snaps off. The snack bar should offer popcorn, M&Ms, and rentals of Sherpa guides.

And after spending a couple of hours in places like those, you welcome the humidity when you finally get outside. It's the warmest, most comforting hair gel you have ever inhaled in your life.

The Writer’s Middle Finger

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."

Dress Code

There was a time when I could dress myself without panicking. Now, when I put on an outfit that has not been pre-approved by my wife, I feel like I am taking an unnecessary risk, one serious enough to raise my insurance rates.