Mondays

I encountered someone with “The Mondays” today, and the result was not one many might desire. Those unfamiliar should know that having The Mondays basically involves experiencing the frustrations in life that might only seem to occur on Mondays – the oft-dreaded start to a work week. The origins of the phrase are unknown (as far as I’m concerned… The Writings: Who Says Writing Involves Research?), but said phrase was made popular in the film “Office Space,” in which an ultimate result is a scheme gone wrong followed by workplace arson. It’s true, The Mondays are not anything to take lightly.

As far as I’m aware, if you have ever said any of the following, you may have suffered from a case of The Mondays:

- “I lost my keys.”

- “I locked my keys in my car.”

- “I locked my car in my house.”

- “I lost my house.”

- “I overslept.”

- “I underslept.”

- “I slept in my neighbor’s boat.”

- “I slept under my neighbor’s boat.”

- “My girlfriend discovered that my sales job at Vandelay Industries is a farce.”

- “My coworkers discovered that my girlfriend is a farce.”

- “I discovered that my life is a farce.”

- “My credit card was declined at lunch.”

- “My credit card was declined at lunch with a client.”

- “My presence was declined at lunch with a client, though he did ask for my credit card to stay.”

- “My dog ran away.”

- “My cat ran away.”

- “My goldfish ran away, despite the fact that it cannot run.”

- “Someone keyed my car.”

- “Someone vandalized my home.”

- “17 yokels that were raised by shrews robbed my home, hijacked my car, and left me with nothing but a 1989 Don Aase baseball card and a pair of non-matching socks.”

- “I lost one of my non-matching socks.”

Whether or not the girl I encountered today had previously uttered any of the above remains a mystery, as I don’t make it a habit of asking strangers for printed transcripts of their daily conversations and inner monologues upon meeting them. No, the first clue of this case of the Mondays unfortunately came at my expense.

(Insert appropriate appalled gasp here.)

While the drive-thru attendee at my favorite local fast-food establishment passed my order through the comically small window, she managed to fumble my cup and spill a portion of my carbonated beverage. The splash zone was unfortunate, somehow extending from my driver’s side window all the way to the passenger seat. Had it not been for the fact that my pants resided in said splash zone, I might have marveled at the way the soda seemed to defy physics. Instead, I put napkins into immediate action, attempting to sop the pop before my car seats were stained and my cup-holder was left in a sticky state that would make future passengers wonder why I had apparently attempted to manufacture taffy in my motor vehicle.

Alas, it was not the fact that the drive-thru gatekeeper also gave me stale French fries, or the fact that she forgot to provide some ketchup packets (despite specifically asking me if I might desire extra ketchup – a query to which I responded, “Yes, that would be great.” … Apparently, she was just taking a survey...) that cemented my diagnosis of this case of The Mondays. No, said realization came directly after the employee chose to baptize my dungarees with Pepsi. Rather than apologize profusely (or even minimally), she instead followed with “I think that cup spilled a little.”

Apparently she was curious whether the Mondays were contagious.

Brrrr

In the denouement* of my last Writing, I mentioned that more thoughts on the ice and snow would be on the way. I’m a man of my word, however there seems to be a more pressing weather-related issue. It’s true that snow is everywhere, leaving every yard, sidewalk, and street looking as if they’ve been encompassed by the fallout from a Hostess powdered donut factory. And, sure, the snowy roads do give me ample opportunity to put into practice everything that I’ve learned from The History Channel’s “Ice Road Truckers.” (Rule No. 1: Avoid ice roads and the truckers that occupy them.) The snow is rough, but the cold is far worse.

*Let usage of “denouement” serve as proof that I passed my freshman English course many years ago... Surprising, I know.

The cold we’re getting (-4 with the wind chill at noon today) is the kind that makes penguins feel smart for not migrating. It’s the kind that leaves the dials in your car frozen and difficult to turn, while your engine makes a sound more like someone asking “Are you serious? You expect me to move?” than the force behind a matriculating motor vehicle. It’s the kind of cold that makes a person long to see the big people wearing far too little that always accompany summer. Lousy weather.

The best way to combat said cold? Stay indoors or move to warmer climate. Unfortunately, those options are not always realistic. (Oddly, many jobs require the employee to show up in order to provide them with a paycheck.) Knowing that the outdoors are unavoidable – since I’ve yet to construct a series of heated, underground tunnels that lead to my workplace as well as other hotspots around town – I’ve resorted to layering clothing. From doubling up on socks to wearing three different shirts, I’ve basically become a walking closet. The result? A warmer Derek, though one with ever more laundry to wash.

On the drive to work this morning, I did notice one person that took a different route to keeping warm. Clad in jeans and a sweatshirt with no coat, jacket, parka, hoodie, vest, or life preserver to speak of, this guy* had apparently decided to simply pretend that it was not cold. Was it working? My observation was inconclusive, though he did seem to look jealously at my heated car as he crossed the crosswalk… Then again, maybe that expression was just the result of him not being able to feel his face.

*This youngster looked to be headed to class and he was wearing a K-State football sweatshirt. If he was indeed a KSU football player, I look forward to seeing him on the field next season… That is, if he recovers from the hypothermia and frostbite.

Luckily, there seems to be hope of waking from this frigid nightmare. After all, Punxatawney Phil – the rodent who apparently has a greater brain capacity than all meteorologists combined – reportedly did not see his shadow this morning. Using the sort of elementary logic that comes with many traditions (bunnies for Easter? OF COURSE!), this means that Spring will soon arrive. For the sake of my Midwestern existence, I hope that groundhog is right. Sure, he may not have seen his shadow because he’s ridden with hypothermia or maybe he’s been blind ever since an unfortunate bar fight after the 76ers won their 1982 NBA title. Honestly, the fur ball could be lying about the whole thing just because he does not want to suffer the wrath of some crazed Spring enthusiast. Whatever the case, I think that the 2010-2011 Winter has served its purpose.

That purpose? Forcing the author to walk with the speed of a geriatric tortoise in order to avoid slipping on any ice. Lousy winter.

I'll learn

It seems that, once again, I jinxed a team I root for with my positive thoughts conveyed through written medium. K-State not only suffered a humiliating loss to rival Kansas on Saturday, but also lost one of the highest-rated players in the history of the program today when sophomore Wally Judge chose to leave the program. The ability is a gift(/curse). Someday I’ll learn that cynicism is the proper way to approach things and that, when it comes to sports, I can’t have nice things. Someday.  In the mean time, I’ll concentrate on not showing the balance of a one-legged barstool outdoors. As has been well-documented here (and by my friends and family) ice has proven to be my mortal enemy in the past. It’s the Bowser to my Mario, the Dr. Evil to my Austin Powers, the Voldemort (gasp!) to my Harry Potter, and the booze to my random yokel that eventually appears on Cops. It is all these evils and more, and now… it’s everywhere.

 

(Cue dramatic montage of water freezing, folks slipping, and cars sliding uncontrollably into others, all set to ominous-sounding music.)

 

Wish me luck. (Or, perhaps, ill will, if you have the same luck that I do when it comes to things you like.) Beyond that, expect more weather-related blogging soon. (Please, don't let the thought of being subjected to more of my writing drive you to spending the next few days attempting to replicate the life of an eskimo.)

Desperation

When I opened my refrigerator this morning, it was not to grab the milk or see what fruit might be inside. (Answer: none... The royal hierarchy of the food pyramid should be pretty upset with me right now.) No, I opened the fridge this morning in effort to locate my money clip. That's desperation.

The morning began as they typically do, with me sleeping later than I should, showering longer than I should, making more coffee than I should, and neglecting breakfast when I shouldn't. As I prepared to leave, I double-checked to make sure the coffee pot was unplugged* and made a move to grab the day's essentials: my cell phone, keys, iPod, and money clip. Alas, one member of the quartet was missing.

*Something I do about eight times each morning. I guess there are probably worse obsessive-compulsive habits. After all, at no point do I put my hand into toasting toaster.

I typically place all essential items together in order to avoid situations like the one I now found myself in. I began carefully moving the other items located on my coffee table to discover which of them had covered up the money clip. Oddly, the search did not yield the results I'd hoped for. I stepped over to my desk and calmly glanced about, expecting the lost item to present itself. Phase two of the search also proved unsuccessful and I began to show slight concern. Though the money clip rarely holds any substantial amount of actual money (that's what I get for habitually reenacting the scenes in rap videos where they toss paper bills around like they're used tissues), it does play host to my debit card, driver's license, and K-State basketball schedule - all of which are critically vital in regard to my day-to-day activities.

Because my apartment is just slightly larger than Shaquille O'Neal's shoebox, it took two steps to find my way to the kitchen to continue my search. Kitchen table? Nope. Kitchen counter? Empty. I was officially entering the danger zone, as sensible locations for the money clip were running thin. I zipped to my bedroom, tossing things about in effort to find it, but the mission proved to have the same level of success as all those prior.

Back to the living room, I took to the floor, doing my best army crawl while vainly searching for the money clip. Though I did discover a mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cup underneath my couch, it served as little consolation. I began to face the reality that my money clip was lost. That meant calling to cancel my my debit card, wading through a DMV line for a new driver's license, and facing the sheer hassle that comes with picking up a new basketball schedule. Life is rough.

Now officially desperate, I took to my apartment like a blitzed elf on December 26. I tossed things about, I looked in ridiculous locations (enter: the fridge), and I continually waved my hand in front of my face to make sure I had not gone blind.*

*Patent pending on this non-blindness assurance test.

I was late for work and life seemed grim when I found the pair of jeans I wore yesterday. A quick search of the right pocket brought my racing mind to a peaceful halt. The clip had been in the pocket all along; the pocket of a pair of jeans I'm fairly confident I had tossed aside earlier in the search. Oh well, life was right again.

As I threw on my coat and headed to work - all essentials safely in my pockets - I began to wonder why I had not checked the pockets of that pair of jeans earlier. After all, I'm fairly confident the same predicament has befallen me previously, and I'm fairly confident it did not turn into the chaos that this occurrence did.

Moral: Eat breakfast, kids. It might just help you think clearly in the morning and avoid looking in the refrigerator for your cash.

Deep Thought

Which came first, the tortoise or the egg? If a tree falls and crushes a chipmunk in the forest, does it make a sound? What is the sound of a footless person tap-dancing? Life is full of intriguing questions; the type that one could ponder for hours on end. Luckily for me, I seemed to have such time on my hands today, thanks to the insanity that comes with the holiday shopping season. (Note to self: Do your 2011 Christmas shopping in February.) I had the opportunity to be a part of a checkout line 25 people deep at a rather large consumer electronics store today, providing ample time to ponder the questions above, plus many more. Here's a sampling of today's topics of pondering.

Who or what is the owner of a camouflage Snuggie attempting to hide from... aside from good taste and common sense?

What level of a lush does one have to be to trust their perception of sobriety to a $14.99 breathalyzer keychain?

Why does the girl in front of me think that continually asking her boyfriend "What is taking so long?" will make the checkout line move more quickly?

If one pays for "Black Tie Protection" on their electronics, are they actually supporting the mob?

Does anyone need a new hobby more than the person who buys full seasons of "Reba" on DVD?

What is a "Plannerzine" and why does it feature that wolfy guy from Twilight on the cover?

Does your kid really need 13 different Nintendo DS games for Christmas?

Are the small bags of fruit snacks on sale for an overpriced $2 apiece in the impulse-buy area placed there as a simple test of sanity?

Finally - and most importantly - why in land of LED screens are there only two registers open on a Saturday during the holiday shopping season?

The Stubblings

I'm one week into the No-Shave November experiment and it already seems that I am a cheater. You see, I took my Schick Quattro (four blades means four-times as many opportunities to cut yourself. Woohoo!) to my cheeks this morning. It may seem like I've already rendered the whole idea moot, but I'd like to argue that I'm serving the greater good. Allow me to explain.

When it comes to growth of facial hair, my cheek bones seem to provide the same sort of growing environment as salted soil. Little grows, meaning the the whiskers that do present themselves stick out like fans in the upper deck at Kauffman Stadium in September. Seeing that there was absolutely no chance I'd feature a full beard this month (and deciding that I'd rather not attempt a comb-over beard with the then-present whiskers), I decided to upgrade my appearance from "completely ridiculous" to "mostly ridiculous" before venturing to church this morning.*

*Please note that, while I currently reside at the "mostly ridiculous" appearance level, I will downgrade to "beyond ridiculous" the day I decide to shave all but the mustache off my face. Luckily, I can take great pride in knowing that once the month is through, I'll be back to no longer looking ridiculous, just incredibly goofy.

With the seven-day milestone reached (mostly), I figured it was time for the first official evaluation.

Comfort
Ever worn a sweater that continually rubs against your neck? That's how my face felt for two straight days earlier this week. I don't typically make a habit of wearing sweaters directly on my face, so the comfort level of this phenomenon was not really appreciated. Luckily, the discomfort has subsided... Well, the physical discomfort anyway.

Appearance
With my cheeks barren, I am basically presenting all who encounter me with a horrible attempt at a goatee. (A fauxtee?) Seven days in, it's pretty short, leaving most with the impression that I am probably just incredibly lazy when it comes to shaving. As one part of the whole, the mustache portion of my Novemgrowth actually shows potential. If I were to dedicate myself to the whole mustache way of life, I could potentially sport one that would be envied by many in the world of highway patrol. Conversely, the patch of fuzz on my chin has the potential to be... well, a thicker patch of fuzz. Exciting.

What people are saying
During a lull in conversation on Friday night, my mom said "I think I'm finally getting used to you." My response was, "Well, that only took 28 years." Turns out she was not referring to me, but to this foolishness on my face. This served as a relief on multiple levels.

On Saturday, I received enthusiastic encouragement to let the mustache grow. Such encouragement leaves me curious as to whether people really think I'd be a good match for a blind woman.

Today, the main comment was "You should shave, it makes you look old." On occasions that I enter a bar, I typically have my ID examined as if it were an ancient artifact, so the "looking older" idea may not be a horrible one.


What's ahead in the land of laugh-worthy attempts to abide by alliterative rules promoting the avoidance of razors? Eval No. 2 is due next Sunday.

Thought for the Day - Nov. 3

As of today, I've been at my current job for six months. One added benefit of the job is the fact that my place of employment is just a stone's throw away* from the dealership where I bought my car and where I take it to be serviced. This means that, on any particular day, I could drop my car off for an oil change, a wheel alignment, or for installation of a couple of new tires and not have to ride the dealership shuttle back to work. Handy.

*Editor's note: This terminology was used to add color to this Writing, but is not meant to be taken literally. Unless said stone is being thrown by some sort of giant with a very strong arm or the stone features a jet-propulsion system, hitting the dealership with a stone thrown from my office (or vice versa) would be impossible. Should you ever get in a post-Apocalyptic rock fight with someone who takes shelter in the shaken remains of one of these two buildings, please pay heed to this information. The Writings: Your source for advice on potential post-Apocalyptic rock fights.

Through the wonder of foreshadowing, you may have come to the conclusion that I took advantage of this very situation today. You, dear reader, are correct.* In fact, my car can now show off the new oil, aligned wheels, and new tires mentioned above. (My bank account balance can show far too much evidence of this, as well.)

*Please, don't get cocky about being able to predict outcomes from my mundane life. I am, quite possibly, more predictable than the female-oriented flims (read: chick flicks) that my mom loves to view on the Hallmark Channel. (You mean the charming, hunky dream guy ended up choosing the quirky, slightly nerdy, career-oriented girl-next-door with whom he shared awkward sexual tension throughout the film instead of the hot-but-bitchy selfish woman that is out to ruin the first girl's career, exterminate all the puppies in the pet store, and end Christmas? No way!)

At the end of the work day, I journeyed back to the dealership to pick up my car. My route included a trip through an adjoining car lot featuring nothing but used vehicles. My mission was simple: get to the dealership, pay for my car service without throwing a key-chucking tantrum concerning the price, and leave. I was focused; so focused that I did not even glance at a used vehicle as I marched toward my destination. I'm sure I had the look of a very determined person. Nonetheless, as I neared the dealership, I heard the following shout, "Hey! Do you need anything?"

I stayed on my track, but glanced over my shoulder to see who was concerned with my presence. I saw a short man, balding with the type of gut that gives the impression that a man appreciates bacon in an unhealthy manner. He stood in the doorway of the small building that houses the salesmen of the used vehicles that I had steadfastly ignored. Apparently he was checking to see if I wanted to turn around, engage in small talk, peruse the used vehicles that I had just zipped by without a second glance, find a car I liked, waffle about buying it, decide to buy it, go sit in his tiny building, negotiate a price, threaten to walk out without purchase, agree on a price, get my credit approved, sign loads of paperwork, and ultimately leave with the burden of more car payments. Oddly, those activities were not on my evening agenda. I shouted back that I was in no need of his assistance, but just heading to pick up my car. Then, I kept moving.

Today's thought: If you are so desperate to sell a car that you resort to hollering out the doorway of your workplace - like a mother trying to get her children inside for dinner - at someone who has ignored your merchandise and is clearly using your lot as a byway to another destination, perhaps it's time to considering checking the Help Wanted section of the classified ads.

Putting the Pro in Procrastination

Nearly a year ago, a grizzled old man backed his Suburban right into the rear-quarter panel of my sweet, innocent Chevy Impala. My car has never done a thing to deserve such treatment, and truthfully, it has had a somewhat traumatic life. Upon researching the vehicle before I purchased it, I discovered through a VIN report that it had been repossessed from it's original owner. I've never had the nerve to ask my car what happened with the whole situation, but my guess is that there was some major neglect and possibly some name-calling. (That, or drugs anyway.)

Since the car has been under my control, life has been mostly good, however there have been some hiccups along the way. There was the hailstorm that cracked the windshield. There were the occasions that I went more than 3,000 miles before having the oil changed. (On a COMPLETELY UNRELATED note, please don't check my odometer right now.) There was even the time that - as the result of some sort of weird prank, gang initiation, or pagan sacrifice - I awoke to discover that my car was coated in sunflower seeds. (I still have no idea what sort of sign that was supposed to be.)

Through all those trials, my car kept its figurative head up and kept moving forward (or backward, depending on the gear). Then, the old guy - who had seemingly been at Hastings to search for "Hee Haw, The Complete Series" on DVD - struck. Upon hearing the crunch of his mammoth vehicle bullying my car, he exited his, checked out the result, and then finally spoke. His words of wisdom? "Damn. It's been a long time since I've hit anybody." I've consulted the Big List of Intelligent Things You Can Say After Backing Into Someone in the Parking Lot of a Book/Entertainment Store and this response comes in at No. 2,939,082,618. (Right after "Jellybeans are my favorite.")

Through the majesty of insurance, I was assured that all damages would be taken care of. I'd even be set up with a rental. All I had to do was get the car into a body shop for an estimate. Easy, right? Eleven months later, that has finally happened. My car goes in for body work tomorrow, and by Friday it should be looking as good as new(-used).

The question is, "Why did it take 11 months to get to the point?" Unfortunately, the answer to said question is a highly-convoluted one full of hearsay, happenstance, and conspiracy theories. ... That, or it comes down to the fact that the dent really is not THAT noticeable, and eating a Vistaburger and reading (or eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watching television, or eating something off the Wendy's 99-cent menu and writing, or eating a bowl of cereal and reciting the lyrics to Journey's greatest hits, or eating Saltines and whittling the entire roster of the 1994 Kansas City Royals out of maple) always seemed like a better way to spend lunch.

Actually, I'm not really sure at all why it took so long to get my car into the shop, but I'm glad that it is finally happening. (Nice work, self.) Though my reminder of the serial parking lot prowler will be forever gone, My car will no longer have to be self-conscious about the dent in the rear-quarter panel.

Now if it could just do something about the fool driving it around.

Copyright Derek D. Larson

The Pumpkin Patch

Today is October 20. I have consulted several calendars to confirm this seemingly simple fact. My Windows desktop, a day-planner, and www.timetemperature.com also provide evidence that supports this claim.

Why go to such lengths just to confirm today's date? Mainly because it blows my mind... We're two-thirds of the way through 2010's tenth month, yet I'm fairly confident that it was just three days ago that I was telling my landlord that I could not believe how quickly August went by. The fact that time is flying by with such velocity seems to be a sure sign that I'm getting old. (The noises my back makes when I get up in the morning and the way I get drawn in to Wheel of Fortune whenever it's on a nearby television seem to support this notion.)  Nonetheless, it's time to cast aside such worries. Even though I may be just days from arthritis and cataracts, and - with the seemingly accelerated nature of this calendar year - tomorrow may be Christmas, it's time to pause and take a look a locale that truly fits the season: the pumpkin patch.

*Warning: Reading about events in the author's life may cause drowsiness. Please do not read The Writings while operating heavy machinery. The Writings have been known to cause severe befuddlement, mild aggression, and feelings of deep pity. Don't drink alcohol when reading The Writings. If you are, or may soon be pregnant, take precaution when reading The Writings. Please do not attempt to recreate The Writings at home. This blog is written by a trained professional.

As surprising as it may be, Saturday marked my first trip to such a location. I'm sure it sounds odd, but traveling alone to a family-oriented place to look awkward because I was the only single person there with no kids never really appealed to me. Saturday proved different, as my sister invited me to go with her family and a couple friends. Thus, when we arrived at the pumpkin patch, it was my sister, brother-in-law, and my niece, plus their two friends and their baby boy... and me, looking awkward because I was the only single person there with no kids. Oh well.

Anyway, the patch proved to be an interesting place. Admission for all seven of us to get in? $4. That's right, the owner's of the pumpkin patch took the approach that only those that would get the most enjoyment of the patch's activities (kids 2+) should be charged admission. The idea is a novel one and is something that more places should consider. Score one for the patch.

Inside, we first took a trip through the bale maze. As an astute reader might guess, this was simply a maze crafted out of bales of hay. Unfortunately, with a limited amount of space, there are only so many different routes one could make in a bale maze. Only the first fork of the maze seemed to make one pause for a moment wondering which way they should go. Naturally, I chose the wrong way. Luckily, two minutes later our entire crew escaped the maze with no severe injuries or mental trauma to report.

We moved on from the maze to a giant tree house and then the petting zoo. My niece, a master of animal noises at the age of two, was excited to check out the animals, but ultimately terrified of two pigs. Rather than petting one of the pigs as it ate, she decided she would hide behind her mom and shout that the pig was "naughty." I'm not sure what the pig did, but ultimately - when the battle is between my relation and pork - I have to side with my niece... That damn pig. Along with the dastardly swine, the petting zoo featured a calf that was in a coma-like trance at the rear of its cage, a goat that had also determined that people were evil, a cage of pigeons, and a pen full of chickens and a couple ducks. Disney's Animal Adventure it was not, but - again - it cost $4 to get in.

In my niece's eyes, the highlight of the patch was surely the giant pile of hay that existed only for children to jump into. After she climbed to a spot on a hay bale a few feet above the pile of hay, I expected a bit of hesitation on her part before taking the leap. I was wrong. The little girl jumped like a seasoned paratrooper. She laughed as she sank into the hay and then it was time to jump again. And again. And a few more times for good measure. After more jumps than the average game of Super Mario Bros. the young one was finally corralled and it was time to go pick pumpkins. (Unsurprisingly, we made it back to the hay pit later on.)

Unfortunately for those looking for quality, wholesome, pumpkin-picking fun (my sister) we had to walk back by the petting zoo to get to the patch of pumpkins. The niece can be a motivated individual, and at this point she was motivated to visit her animal friends again. She was told that they had to find some pumpkins first. It was at this point that my niece picked up the small pumpkin nearest her feet and handed it to her uncle. Technically, she had completed her mother's task; she had picked a pumpkin. After all, her mom had never specified that the pumpkin should not be half green. Alas, the niece's attempt to beat the system were ineffective and the pumpkin hunt continued. It was at this point that my brother-in-law received a text message with news of my brother's engagement. At this, there was much rejoicing.

The day at the patch wrapped with pumpkins picked, some s'mores cooked, and another visit to the chickens and ducks, this time with some quality animal impersonations tossed out. (Not by me... Okay, a few by me, but most by my niece. I swear.)

What's the point of this tale of the pumpkin patch visit? Honestly, I don't have a clue... I hear people start to tell rambling stories with no direction when they get old.

Family Matters

I don't regularly break from poor attempts at sports analysis and lame jokes to write about family, but I don't regularly find out that my family will be adding a new member. With that in mind, The Writings offer their official congratulations* to my brother and his fiancee on their recent engagement. (Names omitted so that they never have to admit association with this blog.)

*Does a blog need to offer "official congratulations" when the author has already congratulated said couple in person? Probably not, but I've heard several times lately that "nothing is official until it's on Facebook." I want to cover my bases, just in case those who uttered this phrase were thinking of the wrong incredibly popular website. I'm fairly confident that, just as with Facebook, there's a major motion picture coming out about the creation of The Writings... The Writings: Delusion is a way of life.

It's been fairly obvious from the start that the relationship between this couple was a meaningful one, so - even though I'm destined to receive a barrage of "So, when's it your turn?" inquisitions and "You're the only one left" remarks* through the eight months leading to the wedding - I'm definitely looking forward to the big day. Again, congratulations.

*Judging by the number of such comments I've received in just the two days since the engagement became public knowledge, I'm likely to set some sort of record.

Honk if... uhh, nevermind

While idling in a fast-food drive-thru lane today, I noticed that the vehicle to my fore wore a 30-day tag. Good for the driver, I thought. He’s not letting economic struggles hinder his life and he has a new/used vehicle to show for it. Further examination of the dark Jeep Grand Cherokee, however, left me slightly concerned. You see, a window on the driver’s side wore a sticker bearing the phrase, “Honk if U Horny.”

I’m not one to judge folks for the messages promoted by their vehicles. After all, the sticker could have been part of scientific research, with the driver attempting to determine which areas of town respond in most positive fashion to such a window-borne stimulus. (Please note that there were no honks heard while at Burger King.) The concern I have is with the fact that, again, this vehicle wore a 30-day tag, dated Oct. 11, 2010. The leads a thinking person* (which I am nearly 38-percent of the time) to one of
three conclusions (aside from the fact that Mr. Driver really needs to get his vehicle legally registered):

 

1. The call for action put forth on the aforementioned sticker is so important to the driver that he adhered it to the window prior to even ensuring that the vehicle was legally registered.

 
2. The vehicle wore the sticker prior to being purchased by the new driver, meaning a previous driving approved of said message and the new driver found it thought-provoking enough that he purchased the vehicle without consideration of having the adhesive directive removed prior to transfer of ownership.

3. The car dealership placed the sticker on the vehicle as further incentive to purchase the mode of conveyance. (Car salesman: You see that sticker? You'll be the life of the party.; Car shopper: What party? I'd be driving...; Car salesman:... Uhh... Hey, look. It has heated seats.)   

Whether the reasoning behind said sticker is No. 1, 2, or 3, my concern for the driver (and society in general) remains the same. After all, if folks are busy following the “Honk if U Horny” motto, how is one supposed to be sure if someone is actually honking because you just cut them off, or your light turned green, or you’re about to back into them in the Hastings’ parking lot? Frankly, though the message communicated is an intelligent and highly sophisticated request, I’m not sure this whole “Honk if U Horny” idea will lead to anything but problems.

Beyond that, the sentence is one out of a writer's nightmare.* If kids are going to be reading this, can we at least have it appear in grammatically correct fashion?

*Yes, a writer (which I pretend to be nearly 38-percent of the time) has pretty lame nightmares.

Grizzly Adams did have a beard

I'm facing quite a predicament. Well, that's not entirely true. The predicament is still about a month away, but the time to seek solutions is now. You see, my employer has declared that our company should observe the rules of "no-shave November" this fall. This means that all males employed by the company are encouraged to ignore razors for the month. The thought behind it is that it's a small way to be environmentally friendly, as it would cut back on the water and/or electricity on might typically use when shaving. I suppose it also encourages all involved to embrace their inner Santa as the holiday season nears. No-shave November proves to be an issue in my world because I don't feature a face rich in follicles of the whiskular* nature.

*Whiskular: Of or relating to whiskers... Obviously.

I feel like I've been blessed with plenty in my life. I'm blessed with the sort of impeccable timing that allows me to blink approximately 49.7-percent of the time when my photo is taken. I'm blessed with the uncanny combination of optimism and poor short-term memory that makes it possible to continually root for the Kansas City Royals year after year. I'm even blessed with the opportunity to commit so many poor attempts at being entertaining to the highly sophisticated world of the Internet. Alas, I'm not blessed with the ability to grow a decent beard.

I've put much thought into the situation, and I've decided I basically have five different options of how to approach the 11th month of 2010. Please, dear reader, review the summaries below and then vote in the poll at the side of the page to help determine what November will bring for the author's mug.

1. Nothing
I know the title is a complicated one, but the premise of the "Nothing" option is that I do nothing. I'd approach November like any other month, which basically means shaving on a sporadic schedule.

Pro - Life is good. Why change?

Con - I risk being taunted by so many coworkers sporting full November beards. Noogies, wedgies, and stolen lunch money would inevitably follow.

2. The poor man's hobo
This is what I'll look like if I fully embrace the "no shave" rule. There would be a good whisker patch on my chin, but my cheeks would resemble something like barren desert with the occasional cactus.

Pro - Shaving can be a pain in both the literal and figurative sorts. This option eliminates that problem for a month, plus adds five extra minutes to my morning a few times each week. Exciting.

Con - I don't appreciate the thought of people being repulsed by my grotesque appearance.

3. Magnum P.I.
Leave the upper lip unshaven and embrace the power of the mustache.

Pro - It has, by far, the coolest name of any option.

Con - I have no intention of pursing a career in law enforcement.

4. Seriously Going Green
Step one: Buy Chia Pet.
Step two: Ditch the pet portion.
Step three: Coat cheeks/chin with water and Chia seeds.
Step four: Bathe daily.
End result: A beard that will be the envy of any greenhouse owner.

Pro - I'd be a hit in the gardening community.

Con - I'd have the "Ch-ch-chi-CHIA" jingle stuck in my head all day, everyday for a month.

5. Fear the Beard
Maintain the regular shaving routine, but wear a fake beard of the Abe Lincoln costume variety to work each day.

Pro - The shaving schedule maintains status quo, but I put forth a VERY CONVINCING facade.

Con - Applying adhesive to my face each day is about as appealing as riding to work belly-down on a skateboard.


You've read the options, now it's time to choose. Vote in the poll at the side of the page, or feel free to add a write-in as a comment below. There's a good chance it would be added to the poll, as well.

That's Life - All in two blocks

Life is funny and is often taken far too seriously. For these two points, I will accept no arguments.* It's been far too long (hours, possibly even days) since we at The Writings took a deep look at some of life's foibles. It's time to right that wrong. Let's examine some of the things you can encounter over a span of 20 minutes, no further than two blocks from home.

*Note: In this usage, "Life" is not meant to refer to the board game bearing that very name. There's nothing funny about that.

-----

There is not much funnier in life than seeing a guy rolling down the sidewalk on a skateboard, attempting to do some sort of kick-flip, round-dealie or jump-waggle*, and nearly falling on his face. That may sound mean-spirited, but it's the truth. Mr. Skate-or-die has already made the decision that a four-wheeled board - rendered useless in the face of steady inclines - is his preferred mode of conveyance. He then determined that rolling in such a manner was not showy enough; that he needed to show his friends a bit of flash. If he's bringing that show to the center ring, he better be ready for the spotlight.

*The Writings: Where skateboard lingo is like a second language. Gnarly! Radical! Et cetera!

I witnessed a "skater" fall victim to this very course of events earlier this evening. He was rolling down the sidewalk toward me, while his cohorts - all on foot - trailed behind. After a near not-so-tender kiss of the pavement (and my own stifled laugh), Mr. RollerDerby recovered and decided that walking for a bit might not be a shabby idea. As I walked by him and his buddies, I heard him mutter to one, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news..." Unfortunately, my pace was to quick to catch the conclusion of the sentence, but I'm pretty sure it ended with something like, "... but I think I wasted $50 on this board."

-----

On the same jaunt, I walked by an idling car. The vehicle's radio was blasting. The song: Britney Spears' "Hit Me Baby One More Time."

Remember how I said that there is little that is more humorous than a near-faceplant resulting from a failed skateboard trick?* This is one of the things that is.

*See previous section of The Writings if you have no short term memory.

-----

While walking back home after picking up my dinner, I noticed a flier advertising a garage sale. According to the flier, the sale will feature "Everything you can imagine and even more that you can't." At this, I was intrigued. The ad went on to describe many things the sale would feature; things like DVDs, books, clothing, and adult magazines (yes, the ad's writer was brutally honest). Alas, everything the ad mentioned fell into the realm of things I have the capacity of imagining. Thus, I'm now trying to figure out what the bargain bonanza could feature that I cannot imagine.

Here's what I've come up with so far:

- a Twilight book that I'd be interested in reading;
- an autographed photo of Ron Prince that I would want to frame and hang on my wall;
- a show on MTV that could actually be deemed "quality entertainment";
- a person that was actually interested in the recent Writing about fantasy football;
- an item of KU apparel that I would consider wearing;
- an episode of Cops that does not feature someone who is either, a) shirtless, b) wearing a wifebeater, c) sporting a mullet;
- a photo of the author from from his junior high years that does not feature an incredibly awkward-looking Derek;
- anything that can help you get the last five minutes of your life back.

Oh Deer

As I drove the highway leading from Riley to Manhattan tonight, I thought to myself "Wow, it would be unfortunate if a deer would materialize out of seemingly nowhere, run in front of my car, and ultimately end up as a new fixture in my grill. After all, I need to get home and pack for a work trip, plus, I don't really condone the slaughter of wildlife with motorized vehicles. Plus, the deer probably would not be fond of the whole predicament either... And let's not even begin to think about the PETA backlash"*

*Yes, my thoughts while driving ramble in much the same way as my thoughts while writing.

Not more than 4.376 seconds after completing this thought in my head, a deer darted across the road. Had it not been for my trusty breaks (thanks, Chevy*), said deer would be - at the very least - one very sore mammal right now. As things stand, I was able to avoid hitting it by about 10 feet.

*Look, motor companies, free advertising to the 3.5 people that read this blog. That could be you; just give me a car... Think about it.

I write this blog (while I should be packing) not to relate a pointless story of the near-demise of a deer, but to clear up one thing: though it may sound like it, I cannot control things with my mind. Sure, I thought of not wanting a deer to parade in front of my vehicle like a drunk with no sense of direction and then a deer did just that, but the situation was a coincidence. Nothing more.

How do I know?

Minutes later, I thought to myself "Wow, it would be unfortunate if a woolly mammoth would materialize out of seemingly nowhere, and run in front of my car, meaning I would ultimately end up as a new fixture in its hindquarters. After all, I need to get home and pack for a work trip, plus, I don't really condone striking beasts thought to be extinct with motorized vehicles. Plus, the mammoth probably would not be fond of the whole predicament either... And let's not even begin to think about the Smithsonian backlash."

I saw no woolly mammoths on the drive.

I rest my case, and I'm glad I could clear that up for everyone.

They say it's your birthday...

Since Friday, I've been a part of more birthday action than most pizza-place-owning animatronic mice could imagine possible. I guess that's what happens when one hits a milestone like turning 28.

(Waiting for realization that turning 28 is about as notable as eating a cheese sandwich... There it is. Let's move on.)

The birthday shenanigans started up on Friday, when (on the actual anniversary of the blog author's birth) I decided I would pick up some donuts and take them to work to share. Little did I know that one of my customer service staffers would bring in brownies and another coworker would trot in with cookies. Feeding a sugar craving at work is never a bad thing, however there was enough glucose there to put Willy Wonka into a diabetic coma. I left work that day with the feeling an eight-year-old has after too much Halloween candy, plus a plateful of leftovers. (Let my dentist rejoice.)

Friday night, the party moved to my parents' home, where our family enjoyed a quiet evening of insightful conversation... with a good mix of my two-year-old niece's brand of celebrating mixed in. I'm not sure I could name the last time I'd listened to "The Wheels on the Bus" as a way to ring in my birthday, but I wouldn't change it if I could.

On Saturday, there was an actual milestone to celebrate, as it marked my grandpa's 95th birthday. The party brought more time with family and more toddler mayhem. The company was good and the occasion was great. Though he can't get around like he used to, it was undeniably enjoyable seeing my grandfather have the chance to interact a bit with his great-grandchildren, just as he did 20-plus years ago when his grandkids were young.

Saturday night, I helped a friend (who happened to be born the day after me in the hospital room next to mine) celebrate his birthday. Today, there were no official birthday celebrations, but I brought home a leftover slab of ice cream cake roughly the size of a Honda Accord and had to figure out how to fit it into my freezer. The task is now complete, though I'm a little worried about being crushed by a falling chunk of DQ's finest the next time I open my freezer door.

The birthday weekend is now complete, and it was one that was truly enjoyable thanks to contributions from family and friends. With that in mind, we close this Writing with some words of wisdom about birthdays.

- Without family and friends, a birthday celebrates little more than the fact that you have yet to be hit by a bus.

- Without family and friends, "birthday" is nothing but an eight-letter word that rhymes with girth-ray.

- Without family and friends, birthday party photos prove to be more depressing than the draft history of the Kansas City Royals.

- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you were cute.

- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that (age here) years ago, people actually thought you had potential.

- Without family and friends, a birthday is nothing but a reminder that people will try to profit from anything; even from copyrighting the birthday song.

- Without family and friends, The Writings entry on birthdays would have been composed of nothing but transcriptions of the lyrics to The Beatles' "Birthday" repeated over and over until I reached 2,000 words.

I think we're all thankful for family and friends now.

Have you ever noticed.... - July 29 thought

Have you ever noticed that the people that spell "moron" with the m-o-r-a-n letter sequence also seem to publish thoughts with that word more often than most folks in a public forum?

I've never been an expert in irony - especially since Alanis Morissette's song has a skewed view on the subject - but it seems that this phenomenon may be reeking of it. 

Weather or Not

I watched the film "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs"* recently. While the film is a fictional story (I think it's fictional anyway), it brings an interesting thought regarding weather. In the story, a scientist invents a machine that affects the weather in a manner that delectable meals will fall from the sky. Want to treat your entire town to cheeseburgers? Tell the scientist. Boom, quarter-pound patties dressed in cheddar for all. Been craving sweets? Track down Dr. Foodcrafter and you'll be riding a brownie sled down a sundae hill tomorrow afternoon. The scientist became a celebrity and everyone was thrilled with the weather... Until the food mutated into massive proportions that crushed homes and ruined people's lives, then folks weren't so happy.

*One might be saying to him-or-herself, "I wonder who this guy watched a movie intended for children like this one with." The answer to such a pondering? Surely not by myself via Netflix streaming online service... Boy, would that be embarrassing. (Insert nervous laugh here.) Follow up response: Why do you refer to me as "this guy" anyway? C'mon, my name is in the URL of this blog. (No, my name isn't Blog Spot.)

Frankly, the film is extremely far-fetched, though not for the reasons you think. Raining meatballs? I think such a weather anomaly is far more likely than the truly tall tale in this story: the fact that everyone feels the same way about the weather.

As I type this, the weather outside my apartment is - in my opinion - disgusting. With the near-triple-digit heat and humidity that rivals most aquarium habitats, a simple walk to my car is akin to walking face-first into a giant sponge that has been toasting in the oven. I'd rather encounter nearly any other sort of weather (aside from natural disasters, which are stricken from this discussion, since we're assuming that all people actually have souls) when offered the choice. And yet, on a drive by the park I'll see people out walking or jogging and enjoying themselves. I'll see kids having a blast at the pool. I'll even see folks motoring by with their car windows down and looking comfortable. It seems unbelievable to me, but some folks do actually enjoy this weather.

When you sit down and really examine it*, the weather is a lot like a political issue. You're never going to have consensus. Some people hate the rain. When my area had a run several consecutive days with precipitation a few weeks back, there were grumblers all over the place.

*Or even if you stand up and sort of examine it.

"Oh, I wish the sun would come out."

"The clouds are so gloomy."

"This rain really sucks."

... and so forth. Frankly, I love the rain. It may be the result of some sort of mental imbalance, but I find a rain shower to be relaxing. I just like to hear the drops littering a window, or a roof, or a sidewalk. Weird? Most definitely, but I'd choose a rainy day over one like today every chance I could. (Sorry potential future wife that I have yet to meet that potentially wants a sunny, outdoor wedding.)*

*Now we're really getting far-fetched.

In winter, there's snow. Kids love snow. College students who attend universities whose presidents love to call for snow days love snow. Folks with towing and/or plow businesses love snow. Unfortunately, those that have to go out and shovel their sidewalks and driveways are so fond. Same goes for the folks that never learned how to actually drive in the snow and fishtail on the road more than the entrees at a Japanese restaurant.

Whatever weather situation your mind can conjure (again, barring the natural disasters), I'm confident you'll find folks on either side of the fence. It's a beautiful Spring day? Not for some folks with seasonal allergies. Isn't the fall breeze wonderful? Not if you're the one raking those leaves. It's the weather, and it's a subject for which there will never be consensus.

... Though there should be. The heat/humidity combo is an ache that hinders the summer and I'm sweating just thinking about it.*

*No, shouts of "Captain Sweaty" my direction are not appreciated.

The Dating Handbook

If you know me (and since you're reading this, odds are pretty good that you do. (Good to see you. It's been a long time. How are the kids/dogs/televisions?)), you probably laughed when you read the title of this Writing. After all, I've never been confused for any sort of ladies' man. Generally, I go on dates about as often as someone says "That was a great way to spend two hours," after watching "Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny." Nevertheless, The Writings have given advice on subjects like child-rearing and stress-relief in previous entries even though I have never fathered/adopted a child nor do I live an insanely stressful life. (Though it can be tough deciding which frozen dinners I'd like to purchase at the market.) With that in mind, one has to figure I'm at least somewhat qualified to breakdown different options for entertaining a date. (After all, you can only go watch a bear drive around in a tiny car so many times.*)

*Note: If you did not understand this reference, you should really make a concentrated effort to see more episodes of The Simpsons. Watch them all and it will almost be like we're speaking the same language.

Though I've never lived in a larger city, I have to imagine dating options might be more diverse in locations where one can find some sort of live entertainment any night of the week. Keep in mind that this guide is written for an area where "supporting the arts" might mean going to watch a school rendition of "A Very Snoopy Musical."

Dinner and a movie
The good - It's a dating classic. When one hears the term "date night" this combo is likely the first thought to come to mind. (Unless one is a really big fan of dried figs.) There's much to like about this combination. Who likes dinner? Everyone. Who like moves? Nearly everyone. (Perhaps not the Amish.)

The bad - Scheduling can be tricky. If you plan to see a 7 p.m. show but restaurant service is slow, you're looking at a pressure situation, and even facing the possibility of missing the preview for the next M. Night Shyamalan film that no one understands.
There's also the rare (though terrifying) chance that the chef at the eatery will be someone who holds a grudge against you for declining a birthday party invitation in fourth grade. You didn't eat the birthday cake then, but you might be eating something that tastes like it's been sitting out for 17 years now.

Walk in the park
The good - It's scenic. You can enjoy the outdoors. You get exercise. The walks can even present new topics for conversation if you're struggling for ideas. (Or if you really just enjoy observation humor... Not speaking from experience or anything here.)

The bad - If you're prone to perspiring in the face more than the average person (again, certainly not speaking from experience), said feature may look like you've been steaming in a sauna after just a quarter of a lap.
If your date falls on the Attention Deficit side of the fence, your nice stroll might turn into 20 minutes spent chasing a squirrel.
Parks are public. That's not a bad thing, but the fact that old men wearing clothing that puts the "short" in "shorts" might be walking ahead of you puts forth an interesting date environment.

Concert
The good - Who doesn't love live music? (Other than the Grinch when Whos are involved... and I suppose those that can't hear are probably indifferent.)

The bad - If it's a popular act your going to see, you're going to pay good money and you'll have to deal with horrible traffic. If it's not a popular act, the concert might be free, but you might end up hearing a curse-filled song about Wal-Mart. (In hindsight, that would be pretty funny, but your date might be offended at the time.)
If your idea of going to a concert is sitting in the hallway outside your neighbor's apartment to listen to his horrible attempts at rapping, you won't have to worry about many more dates.

Putt-putt golf/Bowling
The good - There's nothing wrong with a little friendly competition. In fact, it can be an excellent way to break any (figurative) ice that might be present.

The bad - There can be something wrong with competition if you're a sore loser. Serious accusations that your date stepped over the foul line or didn't count a golf stroke, though they may seem relevant at the time, might ultimately have you viewed as "insane" or "unstable."
If you are genuinely horrible at either "sport" true embarrassment could be encountered. Sure, you're date will probably be civil, but it's never good when 7-year-old in the next lane over is laughing at the 89 you rolled.

Watching live sports
The good - There's action and there are an endless amount of conversation topics, from the play of your team's point guard to the fact that the chubby cheerleader looks like she's going to eat floor every time she does a backflip.

The bad - There's the chance your team will lose (If you have the author's luck, they almost certainly will) leading to an awkward close to the date when you say, "I had a really good time tonight... except for the fact that we can't make a freaking free throw! That was unbelievable! My niece's Elmo toy could shoot 48-percent from the line!"
 

With that, we've run through the most basic of date options. If you can think of any that I've missed that you would like analyzed, feel free to comment. Due to the fact that many females seem to have unfortunate allergic reactions that cause them to leave the area when I'm near, you probably don't need to worry about having any such date ideas stolen.

It was your birthday, USA, and all you got was this lousy blog

How does one celebrate a country's birthday? This weekend, I encountered a number of methods, from the practical to the ridiculous. (Actually, most are pretty ridiculous.) It's time we examine a few such party games.

In the small town of Randolph on Saturday, I took in a car show. Along with V8s and chrome, I also had the chance to see plenty of folks in sleeveless t-shirts at the vehicular exhibition. It was here that I was reminded of one simple lesson: sleeves are for suckers.

Just down the road from the car show, a large group of folks celebrated the nation's birth with an extremely patriotic activity: trying to run a four-wheeler through a pit full of mud. The event, known as the Mud Bog, is one that is known for it's complicated scoring rubric and abundance of sophisticated rules... That, or it involves nothing more than, again, running a four-wheeler at full speed and trying to drive through a mud-filled bog. (... I'm not sure why it's called the Mud Bog. It's a mystery.) There was quite a large gathering of folks watching young men drive into the ditch only to get caked in mud and be forced to have their four-wheelers towed out by a tractor. It's interesting; the event is no more a sport than when a person's 1980 Impala with bald tires gets stuck in the snow, yet people love it. Happy birthday, America.

Another staple in the celebration of America's independence is, naturally, eating as much greasy food as one can fit in their face. It's time for funnel cakes and deep-fried pork rinds. Why, one might ask, is overeating such an important part of celebrating America? The answer is one you'll find between two pieces of fried chicken posing as sandwich bread. Overeating is such a staple in our society that we have Competitive Eating competitions. In America, the person who eats the most hot dogs on the 4th gets a championship belt. In other countries, competitive eating refers to actually fighting for food in order to, you know, live.

The main way we celebrate Independence Day is the most subtle one imaginable: we blow things up. We're free... It's time for bottle rockets! We have the right to say whatever we want and practice religion as we please... Toss me an M-80 and a couple G.I. Joe figures, would you?

I joke about some of the idiosyncrasies that result from being a free country, but I'd be remiss (and no one wants to be remiss) if I didn't mention how much such freedom is actually worth. It's undeniably important to be thankful each and every day for the rights we do have. After all, without freedom to express ourselves, The Writings would not exist. Then how happy would you really be?

... On second thought, don't answer that.

Sitting in the Danger Zone

"Ball four. That's his second walk of the inn-"

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"They signed him out of Jefferson County Community -"

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"The Royals have driven in Kendall and De-"

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Welcome to my evening. As I attempt to take in the Royals game from the comfort of my couch, the analysis from Royals' broadcasters Ryan Lefebvre and Paul Splittorff is being continually interrupted by a buzz saw in the hallway outside my apartment. It's becoming a bit like the knock-knock joke about the interrupting cow. Just when you are focusing on what will come ne-

bbbbBBBBBBBZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzz*

*Please note: this is my best attempt to spell the sound that this saw is making in my hallway. I'm not sure it's entirely accurate, but I have not training in giving literary voice to power tools. If you have any better suggestions, feel free to comment below.

Considering the hour (7:34 p.m. CT), I'm not sure what Mr. Tool-time is doing cutting away in my hallway. It's a summer's eve. Go home and enjoy a beverage. Head out to the driving range imitate Jack Nicklaus instead of Bob Vila. Do anything else, just cut the saw story.

The fact that he's still working brings up an interesting point. My apartment complex is completing a thorough renovation; carpets are being replaced, new counter tops are being installed, and the breath-stifling smell of fresh paint has invaded the air like some form of chemosensical warfare. All in all, things should look pretty spiffy once things are complete.

... Well, they'll look spiffy in the apartments that currently house no residents.*

*This is actually a very large number. Either a lot of people moved on to new phases of their lives at once or I'm a horrible neighbor. (What? You think Mixmaster NoRhyme next door (who has not left) might be the annoying tenant around these parts? As he might say, "Yo, that's crazy. I will amaze ye. My favorite flower is a daisy."

You see, those apartments whose tenants have not moved away have the opportunity to stick with old carpeting, old counter tops, and the classic paint job we've grown so accustom to.

Odds are that I could have gotten the new carpeting and such if I had been willing to move my things out of my apartment for the summer. Of course, since I enjoy moving about as much as I enjoy doing my own dental work with medieval tools, the odds of that happening were slightly less than the odds of me going next door and having a rap battle with DJ D'oh.

The nice thing is that I get all the enjoyable parts of renovation (thought-crippling noise, allergy-inducing dust, and catcalls on top of catcalls*) without any of those pesky results.

*Okay, that last part is most definitely false. As far as I can tell, no one that might catcall after me (blind women with great sense of pity, mostly) are working on this renovation project.