

IT'S CALLED HELPING...YOU'RE WELCOME

By Aaron Blaylock

Published by Aaron Blaylock at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Aaron Blaylock

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1: Men are Dumb Women are Insane

Chapter 2: Obsessed and Unhealthy

Chapter 3: Oh the Humanity

Chapter 4: I Should Just Stay Home

Chapter 5: Oh Boy

Epilogue

# Prologue

It started out as a desperate cry for attention and grew into an online cathartic therapy session on the World Wide Web. IT'S CALLED HELPING...YOU'RE WELCOME is a compilation of posts from a blog (don't stop reading) I kept for a couple of years with a sprinkling of notes and articles that I wrote on various topics related to the human experience.

If you too are human then you will relate to the themes and topics in this book as it was written by a human for other humans. If you are not human then that's pretty cool. How did you get a copy of my book? How can you read our language? Do you also care deeply about food? I would like to meet you but it's probably recklessly irresponsible to publish my home address in a book so just Google me.

Anywho, human or not, you'll find a comprehensive look at the world as I see it with helpful (hopefully humorous) tidbits on topics ranging from male/female relationships to bacon from parenting to poop jokes. Enjoy.

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# Chapter 1: Men are Dumb, Women are Insane

### Being Boys

Boys never grow up. They do, however, grow old.

When not in the presence of a girl, boys of all ages are endlessly entertained and amused by poop stories and farts. They continue to exchange 'your momma' jokes with their buddies decades after they should have stopped. Really the only difference between an eight year old and a twenty-eight year old is the eight year old can't buy his own video games yet.

Don't believe me? I'm comfortably into my 30's but in my department I'm the youngster, as my coworkers are all in their 40's and 50's. Just this week I busted out my atomic fart app (BOOM, iPhone!) at lunch and we giggled like school children all the way back to the office.

My wife still shoots me the same bewildered/disappointed 'grow up' look she did when we were seventeen. We call it her seminary look. We sat next to each other in seminary. I'd do things like read 1 Corinthians 13:34 for the opening devotional and hi five my buddy seated behind her before sitting down. The guys would laugh and the girls would get mad and I'd be quite proud of myself; that is until I caught a cold stare from the girl of my dreams (Neither of us is sure why she married me. I'm afraid to question it). Now I get that look for teaching our children that the Los Angeles Lakers are all criminals and would be in prison if they didn't know how to play basketball (Again, I don't question it).

There's an old adage "You're only as old as you feel". Well that's a lie because I feel I can relate to children and teenagers just as well today as I did when I was one. I don't "feel" old, my joints and bones disagree. Getting out of bed in the morning is a symphony of cracks and pops; and not the good kind coming from a bowl of Rice Krispies.

I used to slam into people and the ground fifty times a day playing football and I'd pop right back up. Last week I hit the ground once during a rugby game and had serious concerns that my entire rib cage might have shattered from the inside. (For those over thirty, have you fallen recently? Try it and tell me how you feel.)

I used to be able to roll out of bed cold and play pickup basketball for hours. Now I've got to stretch for five minutes before going on a long walk.

I used to be out looking for something to do at 10:30 at night. Now if the phone rings after nine I worry somebody must be in jail or the hospital to be calling that late.

Here's where the gap between my mentality and my reality get me in trouble. Occasionally I'll run across a situation where either I believe I can still do something or I'm challenged by some young punk to prove I've still got it. Of course the mature thing to do is just let it go, but as we've established men and maturity are rarely simpatico.

Case in point: I was playing basketball with my nine year old son on our adjustable hoop in the front yard. We usually keep the rim at 8 ½ feet and on occasion, during our one on one games, I'll show off my 6 inch vertical leap and dunk it (gotta show him who's boss). We decided that his jump shot had progressed to the point where raising the rim to 9 feet would be appropriate. He then commented "And also then you won't be able to dunk." Incredulously I replied "Pump the brakes there son, back in the day your old man could throw down. I can still get 9 feet."

The ridiculous thing was not that I made such a claim or that I felt I had something to prove to my son. The most ridiculous part was that I actually believed I could do it. I'm 6'2 with my shoes on. I weigh two hundred and shut your mouth pounds. "Back in the day" when I could "throw down" was over ten years ago when I worked out or played basketball nearly every day.

There was no turning back though. I was committed. I stepped back, palmed the ball and sized up my objective. A shuffle of the feet and three bounds later I was ascending towards my goal with the ball at the end of my extended right arm. I got just high enough to slam the ball into the side of the rim. This sent a shockwave reverberating straight down my spine. Upon landing on the ground it felt as if a balloon had been inflated underneath my shoulder blade. Immediately I regretted the last 50 seconds of my life. The cherry on top of this crap Sundae was my son looking at me and saying, "Told you."

I hung my head and went inside with more than just my pride hurting. I told my wife what I'd done and she looked at me and said, with all the patience and compassion you'd show a puppy that'd once again peed on the floor, "Why'd you do that?"

Because I'm a boy. That's why.

### Cuteness over Comfort? Really?

At work yesterday I heard the following conversation.

Lady #1 "Cute shoes."

Lady #2 "Yeah, but they are really uncomfortable."

Lady #1 "But they look so cute."

Lady #2 "I know that's why I got them."

This has been a constant fascination/quandary of mine. Why do women buy uncomfortable shoes?

Just last week I witnessed a girl, preparing to go home for the day, change her shoes ala Mr. Rogers. When I questioned her on this she explained that pair #1 goes with her outfit and are "cute" but uncomfortable and also not allowed in the lab where she had work to do that day hence the need for pair #2.

I don't know why I continue to question this behavior as it is clearly insane and I am left baffled each time I peel back another layer of insanity. I keep thinking that I'll move closer to a logical explanation when in reality I know one doesn't exist.

I recently purchased a new pair of running shoes. I walked into the store knowing which pair I wanted. My wife had shown me an ad in the paper and I selected the pair that looked good to me. Upon arrival in the store I found my size in the desired pair. Mind you I really liked the look of these shoes. However, upon trying them on I found them to be a bit on the uncomfortable side. I tried on several different shoes before finding a pair whose look wasn't exactly what I was looking for but whose comfort was off the charts. I purchased the shoes and haven't had a moment of regret.

You see that is what a logical sane person does. You put on a pair of shoes and think 'Boy these are uncomfortable' and then you put those shoes back. You do not think 'Well these babies will probably cause me feet to bleed but they really set off this pant suit. SOLD!'

What is it about shoes that cause women to cast aside common sense and dive into this world of masochism?

Could you image hearing someone say "Sure this blanket feels like sandpaper but it's so cute." Or "This hat has cut off all circulation to the top of my head but it's adorable." Or "Having to cram myself into this mini Cooper everyday has given me scoliosis but it looks super cool." No, you'd call the loony bin and have that person carted off for their own protection. So why do we all stand by and allow this self-destructive behavior to continue? Who is there among us that will stand up for feet?!

I too, in my quest to understand this sickness, have sat idly by and shook my head and smiled. But no more! It's time for an intervention. Ladies please, stop this madness. If you try on a pair of shoes that suffocate your feet like a boa constrictor put them back. I don't care how cute they are, it's not worth it. Taking off your shoes at the end of the day should not feel like being liberated from a Nazi internment camp.

You spend all the time and money taking care of your body, your skin and your hair but treat your feet like John Rambo passing through Hope, Washington. Why?

They deserve better, you deserve better. Say it with me "My feet are my friends." Now next time you see a "cute" pair of hoof hurters just ask yourself, 'Would I treat my friends like this?'

### Empty Headed Animal

Men like to pretend to be thoughtful. On occasion we'll bring home flowers or candy. We'll write a love note or bring home a card. We like the reaction and enjoy the adulation much like a toddler who learns to poop in the potty.

Women also like to pretend that men are thoughtful. You enjoy the heartfelt words expressed in pen and paper. You are delighted to open an unexpected gift from the wind beneath your wings. You love to brag on your man and how sensitive he is.

Here's the truth. We brought you home something as a reflex action to something we saw or heard. Perhaps we saw it in a movie or on TV; possibly a coworker or neighbor had recently done something nice for his wife (no doubt as a reflex action to something he'd seen) and we wanted to do the same. The most probable reason is because you've dropped several not so subtle hints that such a gesture would be appreciated and it finally sunk through our thick skulls. Both of us erroneously believe that this idea sprung forth from some instinctual attentiveness. It's not that we don't love you or think about you; we do, it's just that we're incapable on our own of reaching that level of consideration.

There are those reading this right now who are thinking 'Not my man, he's so thoughtful'. He's not. You are compiling a list of nice things he's done for you "out of the blue" and formulating a comment to retort what I've said and defend this supposed thoughtful man. Let me just stop you right there.

It's not that men don't do thoughtful things. We do. That only perpetuates the illusion of thoughtfulness that later gets us into trouble. An expectation is set that will only lead to a letdown when you realize what an empty headed animal you are dealing with.

Case in point. Let's say that, hypothetically, there is a day where it is customary to exchange gifts with those you love. It could be a jolly holiday just passed or a rapidly approaching day that might fall somewhere in the middle of February. In the course of preparing for this day you and your significant other discuss the whole arbitrary gift giving situation and through this discussion it is decided that you won't get each other anything. This idea comes from the woman mind you because no man in his right mind would suggest such a thing. She may be motivated by the amount of money already spent on others or by a sincere feeling of contentment. It doesn't matter. The point is an agreement is struck and both leave with an understanding of haud donum verto [that is Latin for I'm not getting you anything because that's what you freak'n said we were doing].

In the words of Admiral Ackbar, "IT'S A TRAP!"

The man leaves the conversation fully confident in his love for her and her love for him. He feels a sense of relief not having to stress about what he's going to get her and whether she'll like it.

The woman leaves the conversation fully confident in her love for him and his love for her. She feels a sense of relief not having to stress about what she's going to get him and whether he'll like it. But then...

You start to think about how much he does for you and how much you care for him. You think of something he might like or need and the thought of him opening it. You then imagine that, although he agreed to it, he'd probably be disappointed if he didn't have something to open (because deep down you know you would be). After all it is a small gift and he needs it anyway. You then buy it, wrap it and hide it. You smile to yourself thinking of how surprised he'll be. (And he will be surprised since you told him you weren't getting him anything!)

Meanwhile the man naïvely goes about his business barely aware that the holiday is approaching.

Now the day of reckoning arrives and to his horror he receives an unexpected gift while having nothing to offer in return. You'll tell him not to feel bad and justify why the agreement you made didn't really apply to this gift. You'll tell him that you really didn't want anything but he sees the mourning in your eyes.

It's not mourning for the lack of a gift but rather mourning for the death of the thoughtful considerate man you both imagined.

It's nobody's fault really. We want to be thoughtful and you want to believe that we can be. The problem is that if not compelled or prompted to do something we will happily choose to do nothing.

Sadly, there is no electroshock therapy that will condition us to behave the way you wish we would (raise your hand if you just pictured your man strapped like a chimpanzee with an electroshock headband) (Now raise your hand if you just raised your hand) (Stop raising your hand I can't see you).

I propose a plan to eliminate such frustration and disappointment. Ladies if you want something say so. We'll be glad to do almost anything you want because we love you. Waiting around for us to discern what you want us to do is just frustrating for you and baffling to us because we seriously have not a clue. It's a game that we are going to lose nearly every time because we're ill-equipped to play.

If you want us to pick up our socks off the floor you are going to have to say something, probably many times. Angrily staring at the back of our head as we walk away isn't going to make us think about our actions. If you want a bite of ice cream we've just scooped for ourselves then speak up because we're not giving up that rocky roaded goodness on our own. You subsequently ceasing to speak to us doesn't convey your thoughts it just makes us worried for what we've done...or haven't done...or might have said...or didn't say...or notice...? Wait, what were we talking about? Oh right, for the love of Flannigan Flynn just say what you want! We don't know what you are thinking, we're barely aware of what we are thinking.

If we thought about it we'd be just as disappointed in ourselves as you are.

### Memo to Women: I don't get you.

In my life I've come to accept a handful of absolute truths. 1) You can't name a food that I can't improve with either bacon or chocolate. 2) I can gain weight easier than I can lose it (see No. 1 for confirmation). 3) Bleeping out swear words on TV makes me laugh, every time. 4) Most people, through no fault of their own, just annoy me. 5) I will never EVER understand women.

To be fair the list of things beyond my comprehension is long. Quantum physics, macro-economics, micro-economics, Yo Gabba Gabba and why some people actually like salad.

The difference is that I like to think if I put in enough time and effort I could come to at least a basic understanding of the above mentioned quandaries. Women, however, are an entirely different subject.

Even at a young age they perplexed me but I thought then with enough exposure I'd come to understand them. I foolishly believed that when I married one of them that the daily close up observance would enlighten me to their inner workings. Unfortunately the more I learn about them the less I understand. Recently I wrote about their inexplicable shoe fetish, but this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Ladies the way your minds work just astounds me. No offense but to an outside observer you all come off as, well, kind of crazy and interaction with your gender is a bit maddening. (By the way when you start a sentence with "No offense" you are not allowed to take offense to any ensuing statement no matter how offensive. That's the rule.) Don't get me wrong I think women are great and I love my wife dearly but seriously sometimes I think you all are conspiring to drive us insane.

Case in point, my wife has had a cough for some time now. I have repeatedly told her that she should go see the doctor. She resisted and I did not push it. This past week while I was out of town she visited with a couple of old friends. They also witnessed her coughing and her friend said "You should go get that checked out." This was almost verbatim what I had told her a handful of times. Well guess what? She finally went to the doctor. Now I'm glad that she did but what the frack?! Why was my suggestion invalid but her friend's counsel words of wisdom?

To further drive home the point she even posted this on her friend's Facebook wall "I went to the doctor. Bronchitis. Thanks for telling me to go." AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

This situation was beautifully explained by one of my favorite TV shows, Scrubs. Yes the last few years of the show were dreadful but this gem came from the final season.

"A wife cannot hear logic from her husband. It must come from someone else; a friend, a stranger...Oprah." – Dr. Perry Cox

If this recent cough-n-stance was an isolated incident then I could happily dismiss it but I've witnessed this phenomenon again and again. I've even been on the other side where my neighbor had made a suggestion to his wife which she rejected but when hearing through my wife that I had said the exact same thing she reconsidered. Why?!

Shouldn't the information be judged on its own merit and not marginalized because it was spouted from the dolt that you call your husband?

Please, ladies, I beg you. If this is some carefully crafted worldwide conspiracy to cripple our mental faculties then we give. Call off the dogs. Have mercy. Stop the insanity.

Alas I fear this will not be the case and this universal struggle for understanding will inevitably be our downfall.

Guys, our only hope is to just accept this. Don't try to understand it. Embrace the crazy like it's a free chalupa. Do not attempt to fight it. Resistance is futile. Peel back one deranged layer and you'll just be confronted with another. Trust me this is better left as is. With any relationship communication is paramount; so continue to talk, continue to share, continue (or start in some cases) to listen but stop trying to analyze their ways. That's just what they want us to do. They're trying to drive us mad, yes. That's how they're going to do it. They wants to break us. Drive us crazy. We mustn't let them do it. No. No. We've gots to stay sharp. Yes. Keeps our wits about us. Yes precious, yes...yes.

### Men's Lib

Catching up with some old friend's at lunch this past week I came to a disturbing realization. My friend rides motorcycles, has for years, and he rides with a group of buddies. Talking about a trip they took he stated, in a matter of fact way, his friend doesn't ride in the rain anymore because his wife "won't let him".

Won't let him? This is a grown up man. Won't let him?!

Immediately I recalled a running dialog my wife and I have while watching Pawn Stars on the History Channel. In nearly every episode some poor schmuck shows up with a highly sentimental item from his past that he's trying to sell because his wife/girlfriend "won't let him" keep it in the house or is "making him" get rid of it.

We think it's kind of funny because usually it's a pretty bizarre item or something that a grown man probably should not have. It wasn't until talking with my friend though that I realized that I'd never seen a woman come into the store with something her husband/boyfriend "won't let her" keep in the house or is "making her" get rid of.

Why doesn't that door swing both ways?

I'm not ignorant of the progress that women have made in the last century or the unfair treatment they've received in the past. I'm not a chauvinist and have a tremendous amount of love and respect for women. I'm not a king of the castle, caveman mentality type either. However, it seems that scale has tipped ever-so-slowing and men now find themselves sliding off the back side.

Think about it. What if a man said to a woman, "I don't want that in MY house" or "I don't want you doing that anymore"? He'd be patted on the head like a toddler and given that 'How cute. You have an opinion' look.

When I brought up this injustice to my wife, not only did she not deny it, she smiled and said, "And I've had you change your shirt a time or two as well." What the frack is that?! She might as well have stamped OWNED on my forehead.

I know this is a popular sentiment now with shows like Man Up and Last Man Standing on the new fall schedule. But I'm not talking about returning to some bygone era or reclaiming a lost machismo. I'm talking about regaining an equal footing in a world gone mad.

I'm not a fool either. I understand that women will be able to get away with things that we never will. For instance I would never tell my wife I didn't like something she was wearing and order her to change it. I'm not suicidal. As much as a guy wants to look nice he will never care as much as a woman does about it so I'll concede to the more passionate position.

We may not be the king of the castle but we should at least be a co-captain on the same team. It can't be "her way or the highway", it should be "which way is our way?"

If you want to keep your life sized Wookiee figurine, that you've had since adolescence, in the living room then I think there should be a definite dialog around that (or an intervention if civil discourse fails), but I don't think Chewbacca should be thrown to the curb at her command.

Men if you enjoy playing rugby well into your 40's even after multiple concussions and broken bones then I think your partner should be able to voice her displeasure at your pursuit of death and disability. I do not, however, think she has the final word on the matter and that you should abandon something you love because she "won't let you" do it.

I've heard all the "secret of a happy life is a happy wife" or the key to a happy marriage is two words, "Yes, dear". I get it but I think it's gone a little too far. The best marital advice I ever got, besides never say "I bought you a cookbook", came from my father-in-law. He said you've got to have compromise, sometimes that's a 50/50 compromise and sometimes someone's got to compromise 100%.

Listen, if you want a happy successful relationship you've got to respect your companion and her feelings. That goes both ways ladies. It's time to stop this "I have spoken" attitude and find a place of compromise and mutual respect.

There's probably some of you reading this right now thinking 'I can't believe she "let him" write this'. Well I'm a grown up man and I do as I please...and she said I could, so there.

### Saying What We Mean

Once again I am here to help men/women communications. But first, a story.

I recently took a course on ethnic relations and multiculturalism (don't stop reading I promise I'm going somewhere). It was an interesting class where we discussed societal issues and prejudices (if you feel yourself falling asleep just bite down hard on your tongue, that's a trick I learned in this class). During one discussion we were asked how the subordinate position of women is similar to that of oppressed racial and ethnic minorities and also how they differ (I nearly fell asleep typing that but it's about to get good, hang in there). After outlining some similarities I mentioned that one way I could see their positions being different is that, in some cases, women share an intimate relationship with a member of the majority group and therefore have influence and consideration that would not be given to an oppressed racial or ethnic minority. And then it happened...

A woman in the class launched into a full blown attack/tirade about what a stereotypical viewpoint this was. How men think that women are always trying to be subversive to "the system" by using their feminine wiles and that this attitude dated back to Adam and Eve. How a man can use persuasive argument to get what he wants but how a woman is never given the benefit of the doubt by what means she garnered such influence.

In the moment I sought to subdue her outburst by explaining that I meant "intimate" as in close personal relationship and that there is a difference between intimacy and sex. I simply stated that I meant that a woman might receive consideration from the majority group (like her feelings and general wellbeing) that was not afforded to racial or ethnic minorities and that consideration is influence. Initially I chalked this up to semantics and went on with my life.

The more I thought about it, however, the more it bothered me that her reaction had been so severe to what I thought was a fairly benign comment. And then it happened...an epiphany.

It had little to do with what I said and more to do with what she applied to what I said. Everybody, man or woman, takes their experience and applies it to whatever they may be presented with. That's human nature it's how we form our perspective. Therein lies the rub.

Let me explain. Men are very simple creatures. Scientists say that humans are 96% similar to chimpanzees, in my experience that 4% difference is entirely you, ladies. Men are an uncomplicated thoughtless lot. We give little consideration to things other than food and intimate relations, by that I of course mean close personal relations (get your mind out of the gutter). If asked for an opinion we'll say what we think. And by "what we think" I mean the answer that comes to our mind first, seems most logical and requires the least amount of effort to articulate, while getting us in the least amount of trouble. Really that's what our communication boils down to.

Women on the other hand, of course I'm speaking as an expert here, you are incredibly complex. Before expressing your opinion in an instant you've considered your past and present experiences on the matter, who you are speaking to and their feelings on the topic, the thoughts and feelings of those who may or may not ever possibly hear what you are about to say, potential reactions based on those feeling and how to best state your answer in terms that will be broadly accepted. The synapses in your brain light up like the Fourth of July while we may barely generate enough sparks to light kindling. It's a credit to your gender that with all the going on you are able to select a single response.

That being your experience, naturally, you don't express all that you are thinking. Therefore when processing information you believe that there is more being left unsaid by others leaving more work to be done to get to the meaning of what was said. The expectation is not the same for us.

What you've got to understand is that we mean what we say and not a lot more. You are searching for meaning behind the words. You drill to depths that we shallow beings simply don't have and when you find nothing you apply meaning of your own. All of that would be fine except that on occasion you apply meaning that gets us into trouble. We can do that on our own; we don't need your help.

For those still unconvinced let me use this illustration; the word "fine". As in "I'm fine", "it's fine", "that looks fine", etc. For a man the word fine has, tops, three or four meanings and that's only because of the fairly recent edition of "Dang, girl! You look fine!" Otherwise "fine" would range somewhere between satisfactory and of superior quality. For a woman the word "fine" has like seventy meanings and depending on voice inflexion can actually mean 'If I'm questioned again I'll stab you in your sleep'.

If we tell you we like something it is because we actually like it or because not liking it will lead to unpleasantness from you. If you say you like something it can mean that you truly like it, you think we want you to like it, someone you know likes it and you don't want them to hear that you said you didn't like it, you think we think you thought you should like it because someone you know likes it and...AHHHHH! My brain hurts. It's exhausting in there.

Here's the bottom line. For women, you need to understand that what we say is what we mean. Sure there are underlying motives behind what we say or sometimes what we say is born out of our natural thoughtlessness but there isn't a deep, penetrating meaning underneath. So stop looking because you won't find it and please don't feel the need to fill that void with meaning of your own that is going to make you angry at us. For men, understand that she didn't believe a word of the previous three sentences and has completely disregarded them as the inane ramblings of a fool so like it or not you are going to have to start thinking about how you say what you mean. You are going to have to consider your audience and how your words will be perceived. That's just the way it is.

Now let the communication begin.

***disclaimer*** This is in no way a reflection on my experience with my wife. She had foreknowledge of me writing on this topic and granted permission. Our communication and relationship are sound as is her knowledge of my love for her. Love ya boo.

### Foolish Pride

I don't know why I have to write this because it seems pretty obvious to me but I think we can alleviate a lot of distress if we all can agree on this one point. Men are prideful.

It's not something we try to be. It's not something we're particularly proud of (no pun intended). But nonetheless at our center we are full of pride.

Sure we can suppress this and appear humble, but acts of humility do not make one humble.

Ladies, take everything that bothers you about men and it all comes back to pride. The much maligned "ask for directions" situation. Pride. Inordinately and irrationally confident about his body. Pride. Resists holding your purse in public. Pride. Failure to recognize Father Time's repeated messages that he ought to avoid contact/extreme sports at his age. Pride. Always believing he has the answer no matter how little experience he has on the topic. Pride. Taking on nearly any bet or challenge no matter how ridiculous. Pride. Failing to admit he is wr...wro...wr...not always exactly 100% in the right, sometimes. Pride.

We will ask for help ONLY when we have exhausted all of our considerable resources AND come to grips with our emasculating predicament in our own due time. Forcing the issue will only cause grief for us both.

Side note: What is good grief anyway? I can't think of a single grief that is good.

You may think you are "helping" by circumventing us all together and asking a professional, a neighbor, one of our own friends or, the worst of all pride hurters, your father. You are not helping. Stop it.

If your man is working on a problem or a task (most likely that you have given him) leave him be. This is not "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" he does not want to phone a friend. Final answer.

This becomes especially vexing when the problem or task lies in an arena where a man should be proficient. You know yard work, home repair, small insect extermination; that kind of thing.

Recently I was attempting to hang a full motion wall mount for our new TV. Although I had read the instructions carefully and was mildly confident I could do it myself the thought came into my mind to call a friend of mine, who I'm fairly confident could built a house from the ground up without directions. As I laid out my tools and checked my measurements for the fifteenth time my wife suggested the very thought that was in my head, "You should call Brigham to help you."

An incredulous look sprang to my face and I started to shoot back that I was not in need of assistance. At that moment I realized that she had just suggested what I was already thinking and in so doing made it about as appealing as a rectal exam from a cold handed nurse practitioner. Why you ask? Pride.

I thought of the Proverb "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." Since I didn't want my new TV to fall and be destroyed (I'm pretty sure that's what the scripture was talking about) I swallowed hard and said that was a good idea.

Fighting back the tears I called my buddy and tried hard to pretend that I had things under control but would appreciate a second set of eyes and hands. The hardest part was suppressing the resentment, as she had done nothing wrong except for publicly doubting my ability and unintentionally emasculating me like a neutered Rottweiler by suggesting back to me an idea that I was already contemplating.

Instead of fighting it I laid face down on the cold kitchen floor in front of the refrigerator until my friend arrived. Although I had already taken the measurements and drilled the holes prior to his arrival I was glad for his help and expertise. The task was complete and I was happy with our work. Still each time I look at my new TV I think, "I could have done that myself." Pride.

Look ladies, I'm not saying that you are wrong and we are right or that you are right and we are wr...wro...less than right; I'm simply suggesting that by acknowledging our natural tendency as the prideful animals we are you might save yourself and us some undue pain.

Remember, "There is this paradox in pride — it makes some men ridiculous, but prevents others from becoming so." –Charles Caleb Colton

### Mean Girls

Growing up we're taught that boys are made of "snips (whatever that is) and snails and puppy dog tails" and girls are made of "sugar and spice and everything nice".

Well isn't that special. The only problem with that is it's a big fat lie. We've all met sweet girls (I married one) and spicy women that is true but, individually and as a whole, women are anything but nice.

Am I nervous about writing that? Do I fear the repercussions of my actions? Is there any chance I'm wrong and have simply misjudged this fairer gender? Yes, yes, and NO.

I've put off writing this for months in order to be sure of what I wanted to say and that it was at least based in truth. (And because of the fears listed in the paragraph above) I write this now with the hope for a positive change for women everywhere.

This is born of no ill treatment I've received from women. On the contrary I feel that by and large men tend to get their fair share of sugar and spice and, ya know, nice. I'm not even here to question the motives behind said niceness heaped upon mankind. (I'll save that for a different time)

No ladies, I'm here to ask a simple question, "Why are you so awful to each other?"

As I was formulating my thoughts on this topic I came across an article on how women are viewed in the workplace written by a woman named Gini Dietrich, she said, "Here's the thing, though. We're our own worst enemies...We're catty, we're mean, and we're judgmental. We treat one another poorly, and we rarely support one another."

That's from one of your own, sisters.

Here's an illustration of what I'm talking about. Say you have a friend who is overweight. That friend loses fifty pounds. If that friend were a guy his guy friends would say, "Dang man, you look great! What did you do to lose all that weight?" Furthermore they'd be genuinely happy for him. If a woman were to see this same man they'd say, "Wow, looking good! Did you lose weight?" And they'd be genuinely happy for him. However, if this friend were a woman...? First of all a man would say nothing for fear of overstepping his bounds and appearing to come on to her (single guys fearing rejection and guys in a relationship just fearing their companion). A woman would SAY, "Wow, you look great! What's your secret?" (Implying something other than diet and exercise like bulimia, anorexia and/or a tummy tuck) Using every ounce of energy to force a smile and appear to be genuinely happy for her. Inside, regardless of her own dress size great or small, she's begrudging the accomplishment and attention while simultaneously hating herself.

I think that's where it starts too, with self. Women are so hard on themselves. They minimize their own assets and accomplishments while maximizing their own perceived flaws and imperfections. It's no wonder that this cruelty extends to anyone with two X chromosomes.

For those of us with a Y chromosome, sure we can get down on ourselves from time to time but, for the most part we feel we can do no wrong. I'm a hefty approaching-middle-aged bald man; yet I step out of the shower, towel it up and stand in front of the mirror brushing my teeth humming 'I'm Sexy and I know It' without a hint of irony. (I work out!)

Women on the other hand get as close as they can to the mirror inspecting every pore, worrying about every wrinkle and bemoaning the dark circles under their eyes. Everywhere they look they have impossible standards of flawlessness shoved in their faces. Picture "perfect" women on the cover of every women's magazine. You know what's on the cover of every guy's magazine? Pictures of "perfect" women. Think about it.

This problem is perpetuated by their own attempts to cover up their "flaws". Women go to great lengths to conceal not only their physical "imperfections" but they attempt to conceal their true nature, you know overcompensating with that sugar and spice stuff. Thus women actually believe that this woman or that woman is perfect and they somehow have failed.

I assure you that she is just as big a mess as you, in her own special way. We all live with challenges and insecurities. Just do the best you can and take care of yourself; chalk the rest (wrinkles, grey hair, etc.) up to a road map of your own personal journey in life. My giant butt is a landmark to my traveling companion on this earthly sojourn, bacon.

The physical appearance and skewed perspective stuff are just the most tangible examples. It goes deeper. Women cannot be happy for one another. They begrudge every achievement attained or fortune that befalls their fellow women and that includes close friends. And it's not plain old envy or jealously either. Guys are envious and get jealous too. It's more than that. It's a special blend that can only come from womanhood. It's...It's like...It's like boogers and lice and everything vice. I'm not saying women wish bad things on other women (although sometimes they do) they just don't particularly care to see good things happen to them either.

I'll end with a quote from Ms. Dietrich (show of hands: Who just judged her for being single? What is wrong with you? Haven't you been listening?) and then a final plea. "If we [women] want things to change, that has to start with us. The next time you are faced with making a snap judgment about another woman, think twice. Support one another. Be kind. From there, change will happen."

Now, stop being awful to each other.

***Disclaimer*** I wrote this with my wife's full knowledge and blessing. She neither admits to these practices nor seeks to separate herself from her fellow women. She's fine with me posting this with the understanding that she'll offer me no protection when I'm inevitably attacked by womankind.

### Stop Ogling Women

I'll get right down to it. Men, stop ogling women. It's gross and you look like a creep.

With that said, women please understand something; men have the innate ability to spot an attractive woman. That is how he found you. The act of finding you did not rob him of this ability or blind him to all others. Oh and men, pretending that it did just cheapens both of you.

However, this ability to recognize an attractive woman does not mean you don't have to control yourself. You should refrain from leaping in the air, whistling and howling, while your eyes pop out of your head like a cartoon wolf. There are many reasons for suppressing such a reaction, if for nothing else so you don't look like a lunatic.

I am a man. When not with my family I spend most of my time in the company of other men, young and old. (That sounded bad. I just meant I hang out with guys. Don't judge me.) On multiple occasions I have witnessed old men ogling women half their age. This immediately triggers my canned reproach, "Stop that. You disgust me."

As for the young men whose company I keep (Why does it keep sounding like that?), I try to teach them that every young lady is somebody's sister or daughter with the potential to be somebody's wife and mother. I ask them, "Would you want somebody treating your (sister/daughter/wife/mother) that way?" The response invariably comes, "No." To which I respond that we should keep in mind that every girl is somebody's baby.

Don't get me wrong this is no easy task for two reasons. 1) There's a reason that one of the adjectives for a beautiful woman is stunning. A man can find himself gawking at a woman without even realizing it. Honestly, it sounds like an excuse but it's not. And B) there are women who have every intention of flaunting what the good Lord gave them. That is their right I suppose.

I'd like to tackle each of these separately. First, intent matters here boys. If a beautiful woman happens across your path there will inevitably be a Wow factor but that lasts only a second or two; anything longer than that and you've entered the creeper zone (If you start hearing Ferris Bueller's 'Oh Yeah' in your head that's a giveaway you've gone too far). Let me say it is not okay to objectify women in any way. Even in cases where they clearly don't have respect for themselves that does not give us freedom to be disrespectful. Be a man. Know who you are and remember who they are, whether or not they act like they know. No excuses.

Second, Mademoiselles you can help here. While we have the responsibility to control ourselves no matter what, you can make that so much easier by dressing modestly. I'm not saying you have to wear a hijab or anything but short skirts and cleavage are going to attract our attention like a monkey to a shiny watch. Don't hang your junk out there for the world to see and then feign offense when some dude stares at you. Help us respect you by respecting yourself.

This message is intended for all men but I'd like to particularly address married men. You are under no circumstances allowed to stare, gaze, gape, gawk, peer, leer, ogle or peep at another woman, EVER. I will jack stomp the next guy who says it's okay to "look at the menu" because it's not like he's going to order. That's the stupidest analogy I've ever heard. What are you doing at that "restaurant" anyway? Go home. There's no menu there, you just choose from what you've already got in the house. Imagine how you'd feel if your wife went around squeezing guys buns and saying, "What? I'm not going to buy it I was just seeing if it was ripe." For you it's more than not being disrespectful it's being considerate of the woman you love. FYI ladies, for those of you wondering I'm rock'n two ripe melons. BOOM! BAM! (The woman I love is no doubt shaking her head right now)

Let me be clear, this goes for women who are up close and personal as well as the women you see on film and in print. Just because she's famous doesn't mean she's not somebody's little girl. Just because, to a degree, she makes a living having people look at her doesn't mean you've got free reign to be a scoundrel.

Since I know, in some cases, I'm address the lowest common denominator among us and all appeals for reason will fall on deaf ears I'll make my final case for the worst possible reason to refrain from ogling. Guys, there is no scenario where you look cool checking somebody out. You always come off looking like a putz. It's pathetic. Not to mention you give them all the power. So quit it.

One last thing, ladies, feel free to ogle us all you want. We're not offended in the least. Our self-esteem is low enough that we don't care and crave the attention, so gawk away. We'll even shake what our mothers gave us upon request.

That is all.

Top

# Chapter 2: Obsessed and Unhealthy

### Bacon or Chocolate

Are bacon and chocolate the foundation of a good meal? No, everybody knows that is a deep fryer and/or gravy. However, I have long held the notion that you can't name a food that I can't improve by adding either bacon or chocolate.

Now I know right away there are those of you who will reject this for two reasons: First, you either don't like bacon or chocolate. Or second, you can think of things that you would not like no matter what was added to them.

The first group I will not even address because I can't fathom such a person and you must be either a communist or a Martian.

For the second group who are thinking of disgusting things like liver or goat intestines, that is not the game. Bacon or chocolate won't make gross things good but ask yourself this; if you had to eat them wouldn't you rather have them with bacon or chocolate?

You see the game is you can't name a food I can't IMPROVE with either bacon or chocolate.

Example:

Cheeseburger - Good

Bacon Cheeseburger - Improved

Strawberries - Good

Chocolate covered strawberries - Improved

Liver and onions - Bad

Liver and onions w/bacon - Improved

Cherries (I know this is debatable but for me personally...) - Bad

Chocolate covered cherries - Improved

Oh and don't bother with lemons. That is not a food. Nobody sits down to eat a lemon, unless you are a communist or a Martian in which case I don't recognize you in this or any other game.

Just keep this in mind when looking for ways to improve your eating experience.

By the way this idea will haunt your thoughts in the coming days and weeks but I assure you it is impossible to come up with something that I can't improve with either bacon or chocolate.

### Burger Me

I LOVE BURGERS!! I love 'em. For me, there is nothing better than a plump juicy piece of grilled ground beef topped with cheese and nestled between two toasted buns. And of course to improve said burger you could always add bacon.

Matter of fact, a burger would be the center piece of my death row meal. A 1/2 pound patty medium well topped with sharp cheddar, two thick crispy pieces of hickory smoked bacon, lettuce, tomato and onion on a potato roll. On the bottom bun I'd put Thousand Island dressing and straight yellow mustard on the top. That's it, no need to go too crazy. Throw in a side of deep fried tater tots and wash it down with some ice cold grape lemonade Kool Aid (half grape half lemonade, try it and thank me later) and you can hall me off to the executioner.

Side note: I'm not sure what I will do to deserve capital punishment but I want to be prepared all the same. If you haven't figured out your death row meal you really should. Think of it as insurance for the criminally insane, it's a must. Oh and for my death row dessert a warm, fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookie...the size of my head.

I realize I write (and think) a lot about food. Well I didn't get this big by eating rice cakes so deal with it. This latest literary obsessive ranting was triggered by one of my favorite shows How I Met Your Mother. An entire episode focused on the search for New York's best burger. Marshall gives the most eloquent summation of what a burger is in what I am calling Ode to the Burger.

"Just a Burger? Just a burger. Robin, it's so much more than "just a burger." I mean... that first bite-oh, what heaven that first bite is. The bun, like a sesame freckled breast of an angel, resting gently on the ketchup and mustard below, flavors mingling in a seductive pas de deux. And then... a pickle! The most playful little pickle! Then a slice of tomato, a leaf of lettuce and a... a patty of ground beef so exquisite, swirling in your mouth, breaking apart, and combining again in a fugue of sweets and savor so delightful. This is no mere sandwich of grilled meat and toasted bread, Robin. This is God, speaking to us in food."

I've tried burgers all over the place. That is the first thing I order when I try a new restaurant. I've even ordered a burger at Macayo's. I'm not a burger snob either (although McDonalds you are pushing your luck). Give me a Sour Dough Jack, a Big Buford or a brown bag special from Sonic and I'm a happy man. I've had (and loved) the Widow maker at Claim Jumpers, the Triple King at Fat Burger (you get your picture on the wall for that one) and created my own master piece at Chee Burger Chee Burger (I call it Onion Ring Delite). Big or small, sit down or to go, it really makes no difference to me; as long as all of the essentials are there then just burger me, baby.

### Fat Guy Stroke of Genius

Last week I was preparing for a combined activity with the youth. I was on my way home from work and needed to go get stuff to make root beer floats. I was mentally going through what was in the freezer (yes I can recall at any moment the entire contents of my freezer, I'm a fat guy what do you expect?) to see if there would be room for the ice cream. It was then that I remembered that there was still 1/3 of a chocolate pie that Lola made for my birthday hidden away to be enjoyed at a future date.

At that instant I experienced one of those rare moments of absolute clarity where inspiration just washes over you as I had a realization, nay an epiphany. What if I combined the frozen chocolate pie with vanilla ice cream? That's right Chocolate Pie Ice Cream.

For the past several days I've been able to think of little else and last night for Family Home Evening my dream became a reality. Using the leftover ice cream from the root beer floats and the frozen chocolate pie I combined them Cold Stone Creamery style to make Chocolate Pie Ice Cream. I just love saying that.

The chocolate pudding and graham cracker crust blended beautifully with the creamy vanilla ice cream. Lola had a good point that it would be even better if the pie wasn't frozen, which I totally agree, but all and all it was good. The kids loved it, I loved it. I need to call Ben and Jerry.

### The Cookie Van

A couple of times a year the cookie van comes to where I work and sets up in the parking lot. Without fail I'll make an appointment to visit the cookie van at some point in the day. I'm a big fan of cookies. Before my wife vetoed it the plan was to name our third child Cookie (true story). However, each time I go to the cookie van it's quite an ordeal just to get some free cookies. So this time I formulated a plan.

I walked into the cookie van at my appointed time. I signed in and read the required literature. When it came time to step into the closet with chairs I followed the cookie attendant in and announced:

"I'm feeling well and healthy today. I don't have a cold or the flu. A friend in the 3rd grade had hemophilia but we didn't share more than a No. 2 pencil. I've taken nothing outside of ibuprofen in the last 12 months. I haven't traveled to Europe since 1980 and neither I nor my mother has spent more than three months in Mexico since 1977. I've never had malaria, syphilis or gonorrhea. I don't use needles to take drugs not prescribed to me by a doctor. I have no body piercings or tattoos. I'm a heterosexual male who's never traded money or drugs for sex. I'm 6'1 and my weight is none of your business."

I then stuck out my hand Colbert style to accept my cookies. The attendant looked at me quizzically for a moment and then stabbed my right index finger with a pin. I recoiled in pain and she promptly wrestled control of my hand and squeezed a drop of blood into a small container of Windex. After briefly watching it float to the bottom she had me sign some papers and exit the closet.

As I emerged from the small closet with chairs I spotted at the other end of the van the object of my desire, a bag of Famous Amos Chocolate Chip cookies. I made a beeline for the cookie area but found my path blocked by a stocky serious looking woman; for a moment I thought about giving her the old shimmy shake head fake but the cramped quarters of the van precluded such a maneuver. I made a desperate appeal with my eyes towards the cookies but she remained firm gesturing towards the seat to her left. I acquiesced and lay down in the recliner.

She set to work scrubbing my arm at the bend in my elbow, which was odd because I've never tried to eat a cookie with my elbow pit. After handing me a small piece of pipe to hold she stabbed me in the arm and instructed me to squeeze the pipe every 30 seconds, which I dutifully did still not understanding what any of this had to do with me getting a cookie.

I nervously watched a couple of coworkers already in the cookie area visiting. One of them reached for the last visible bag of Famous Amos Chocolate Chip cookies in the pile. Instinctively I leapt forward but was restrained by the stocky serious looking lady who warned me to lay still. I thought to myself if there's a god in heaven that won't be the last chocolate chip bag leaving me with only lemon cookies. Following a brief supplication with deity I again scanned the pile for a tan bag with blue letters to no avail.

A few minutes later she removed the shank and bandaged my wound with all the care of a battlefront field medic. She then told me I had just 15 minutes to stay in the cookie area! I had to move fast.

I bolted to the cookie pile and picked through the bags like a child in search of the prize at the bottom of the cereal box. Chex Mix, fruit snacks, the dreaded lemon cookie, more Chex Mix. 'It can't be gone,' I thought. 'It must be here.'

After what felt like an eternity I abandoned my search for Amos' Famous cookies with chocolate chips. Collapsing into a chair with a juice box I tore open my bag of Knott's Berry Farm's Raspberry Shortbread cookies.

As I sat there, trying to swallow this dry tasteless cookie topped with hardened raspberry goo, I began contemplating what it was all for. What kind of diabolical organization would throw so many obstacles and hardships between a man and his cookie?

They told me I was a hero. No. The real heroes are those men and women who wake up every day to make and bag cookies for those poor souls forced to endure the rigors of the cookie van to get them. Those are your heroes, folks. I'm just a man looking for a cookie.

### Backseat to No One

I do not address this next topic lightly. I am aware of how strongly people feel about this but something needs to be said. Someone has got to stand up and say "Hey! Wait your turn." There must be a champion for the neglected and silently suffering. Who will stand up for the little guy when the world seems all too willing to let it fall by the wayside? As usual it's me.

I was driving home from work yesterday and flipping through the radio stations when I heard one of my favorite songs. You'd think I would have been thrilled with such a happy coincidence that one of my all-time favorites was being played just when I happened on the station, but no. Why you ask? What was the song you ask? O Holy Night...in the middle of November!

Good people of this great land hear me. Far too long have I stood idly by while the Christmas season has swept through the calendar like a spilled cup of grape juice on the kitchen counter. Gone are the days when people put up their tree on Christmas Eve. Christmas lights started appearing on houses in November and we said nothing. Department stores donned Christmas decorations while our pantries were still full of Halloween candy and we smiled. Radio stations devoted their slates to Jingle Bell Rock and Holly Jolly Christmas just after Veteran's Day and we sang along. No more!

I too am complicit in this insurgence in the war of holidays. I live on a street where neighbors revel in holiday cheer. I love their devotion to Christmas and the lights, decorations and music that flood our street at this time of year. A couple of them already have their lights up and a few others are working on it as I type. But I cannot remain silent any longer.

How dare you step on Thanksgiving?! HOW DARE YOU!

I know it doesn't have scores and scores of songs devoted to it. There aren't bright shiny decorations associated with the season. There aren't weeks of anticipation leading up to an event so big that its eve is also a holiday and children don't receive a multi-week break amping up said anticipation. But doesn't it deserve the same treatment that we give every other holiday? That is, to be left alone un-encroached upon by its neighboring holiday.

What other holiday is treated so poorly?

Thanksgiving is a glorious day of feasts and football, family and gratitude (yes in that order). Close your eyes and imagine with me...no wait, strike that, if you close your eyes you can't read this anymore.

[I'll pause and wait for my slower readers to figure that out]

Are we all back? Good then.

Imagine the smell permeating the house; turkey, pie, stuffing, pie, mashed potatoes, pie and rolls, pie... The family is together and the game is on. Heavenly.

This is a day that deserves better and we can give her better. We can give her our full attention; for the love of pie we must give her our full attention.

I too love Christmas and understand the temptation to bust out the wreath and mistletoe just as soon as the mall goes all winter wonderland on us. It takes a good deal of restraint to stave off this premature jubilation and wait.

If you won't do it for Thanksgivings sake then do it for Christmas sake. Sure the idea of Christmas spirit all year long is great but if it were Christmas all year long then Christmas wouldn't be special and we'd have just destroyed everything that we look forward to.

I'm not asking that you wait until that blessed day or even that we shove Christmas back to its own calendar month; I'm just asking for one more day. The Friday after Thanksgiving you can just go nuts. Put up a forty foot inflatable Frosty (my neighbor's got one), go all Griswold on your house, bust out your Blu Ray edition of Polar Express and wear it out, you get the idea. We can do it and we and both holidays will be enriched.

### From lbs. with love

A friend of mine, Randi, keeps a truly hilarious blog. She wrote a letter to her 15 pounds (http://keepingupwiththekartchners.blogspot.com/2009/08/dear.html). As someone who recently welcomed back my own 15 pounds I can relate to such a letter. This morning the thought hit me, "How would my 15 pounds reply to such a letter?" Well here it is.

Yo Aaron! What's up?

Don't know why you had to write a letter, I'm right here. But if that's how you want to do this then fine. I know we've had an on again off again relationship (mostly on again) but it ain't all been bad. Remember all the fun we have when I do come back? The bacon double cheeseburgers, those trips to Cold Stone, or that Chinese buffet that we love. Remember that? We've had some good times man. You know that game we play where we sneak a cookie (or three) late at night and then try to be cute when your wife catches us with a reply like "No I'm not." Classic. Good times...We both know you hate to exercise. Is there any exercise when I'm around? No. You're welcome. And don't pretend you didn't enjoy those nights on end in front of the TV finishing off the kids left over Halloween candy either.

Come on man be reasonable, as hard as you try to push me away we both know you miss this rotund ball of fun when I'm gone. Why else do you keep bringing me back?

Sure, I'll go, if you really really want me gone. You know where to find me when you get tired of eating apples and celery sticks; when you're tired of "working out" and counting calories. I'll be around.

With love,

YOUR 15 lbs.

P.S. I'll be waiting at the BBQ Company if you need me. Remember 1st and 3rd Wednesdays are all you can eat!

### Hopelessly Addicted

The dictionary definition of addiction is the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

It comes from the Latin word addictiō meaning a giving over or surrender.

The medical definition of addiction is habitual psychological and physiological dependence on a substance or practice beyond one's voluntary control.

I am addicted. I have a problem that I don't fully understand and can't control and admitting it is a first step.

I thought I was passed this but recently had a relapse. I'd been clean for months. I stopped thinking about it and the shakes and night terrors were long gone. No shamelessly ransacking the house looking for another score while my disappointed wife and children looked on. No more stashing away treasured caches for a later fix. I was clean. But then, like a crazy old high school buddy, it returned.

Sure, at first when Captain Crazy comes around you're happy to see him. You've missed him because, after all, he's lots of laughs. So the party is on and it's like old times but you know that regret is just around the corner. Before too long you've had your fill of his depravity and are wishing he'd stayed away; wishing you hadn't gotten sucked into the madness again. Soon you are left alone and in a hellish limbo between never wanting to do it again and mentally planning for the next time.

It started innocently enough like most addictions do. I was a child and couldn't possibly have known the lifetime of yearning that lay ahead of me. I first tried it at a friend's house and was immediately hooked.

As I grew older it only got worse. The more I had the more I wanted. I was never satisfied. I'd buy enough for five or six people and handful after handful it'd disappear. Before I knew it my stash was all gone and I was left to face what I'd just done and the shame of it.

Of course I'd try and hide what I was doing because no one could know. No one would understand. How could they? I was a full blown addict.

I finally confided in my wife and begged her to help me. She was sympathetic and agreed to do whatever it took to keep me away from it and it from me.

That worked for a time but all the while it was there with me. Lurking in the shadows; waiting for a moment of weakness, waiting for us to be reunited once more, to have me, to own me.

That moment came Thursday when my wife returned home from the store. As I helped her unload the groceries to my horror I found my orange nemesis staring up at me, taunting me. I questioned my wife on her betrayal and she very flippantly replied, "Come on, it's been a while since you've had it."

She didn't know. She couldn't understand what she was doing to me. No, if she knew she never would have brought it back in the house. How could I restrain myself? Doesn't she know the power it has over me?

I could just have a couple, I told myself. Yes, a little won't hurt. I'll just have a taste and that will satisfy the craving. Yeah, no harm in having a bite or two. I can stop myself whenever I want.

Half a box later my sweet innocent children approached to ask if they might have some. I snatched the box out of their reach like Gollum protecting his Precious. I may have even hissed at them while baring my teeth. I don't know what happened next as I'm sure I blacked out. I woke up in my room alone again with orange stained fingers and a box as empty as my soul.

Looks like I'm back to step one. I'm Aaron Blaylock and I'm addicted to Cheez-Its.

### America the gluttonous

It's well documented that Americans, as a whole, are a little bit on the hefty side. Fine! Outside of Keira Knightley we could all stand to miss a few meals. As Americans the only thing we like more than food is assigning blame. So who or what is to blame?

I let my children watch a part of Supersize Me a couple of weeks ago. While I laugh to myself as they shutter with disgust any time we drive by a McDonald's now, I fear they may have missed the point. My 4 year old says to me, "You're not fat. You don't eat McDonald's." As if that redheaded clown is the sole reason for obesity.

McDonald's or even fast food in general isn't the problem; although they aren't helping. I'm talking to you McRib. As with any problem of this scale it's complicated.

I'm going to gloss over personal responsibility, prosperity and mental health issues because let's be honest those are all kind of downers (we eat to feel better because we can. Sad face). I'm going to focus on our mindset and obsession with food.

We have television shows and entire networks devoted to food. They look at where to get delicious food and how to make delicious food. [Side note: when my children ask, "Is this good for me?" I ask, "Does it taste good?" If they answer yes I reply, "Then it's probably not good for you."] They have competitions to see who can make the best looking, best tasting food. Just last week I got the idea from Cupcake Wars to add crushed pretzels to ice cream. It's amazing by the way; I can't even imagine ice cream anymore without it. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh right, why America is fat. Moving on.

Our plump predicament comes from the way we think. In America life has become a daily quest for instant gratification. Do we think about the long term? Rarely. We ask ourselves, "What sounds good?" That's where we get into trouble focusing on what we want rather than what we need. Then we invent new ways to satisfy ourselves.

What's that you say? You like pizza but don't like the crust? What if we stuffed it with cheese? Better? Good.

What's better than a single butter burger? That's right, a double butter burger.

What if on your bacon cheese and more cheese sandwich we substituted the buns with two pieces of fried chicken? Sound good?

I recently took a survey from a convenient store on potential products and my level of interest in them. They seemed to grow in stages of absurdity reaching a crescendo at a breakfast sausage wrapped in a donut with cinnamon roll frosting (and no, I'm not kidding). I wavered between 'definitely would purchase' and 'probably would purchase' knowing that the right answer was 'definitely would not purchase'. I knew no good would come from putting something like that in my mouth but I was morbidly curious at what a concoction like that might taste like.

The problem with instant gratification is that it's fleeting. Sure in the moment you'll feel good but then you are left looking for another gravy-soaked or sugar infused fix while trying to suppress the shame of it all. Or worse yet you're locked in the bathroom, crying, eating a box of Oreos by yourself. Cue Fat Bastard, "I can't stop eating. I eat because I'm unhappy, and I'm unhappy because I eat. It's a vicious cycle. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's someone I'd like to get in touch with and forgive... myself."

I claim no moral high ground here. The other day I caught a waft of fried chicken which set off an unholy chain of events. While discussing my new found fried craving with my friend he said he'd been hankering for chicken fried steak. These two fresh obsessions were combined with a third conversation with another friend on chicken tacos and the chicken fried chicken soft taco was born [patent pending]. Tell me you wouldn't try that?

I love this country, I do, but this has gotten out of hand.

Like everything in life it's all about perspective. If we focus on "What sounds good right now?" then that's what we'll get. If we focus on "What do I need?" then a chicken fried chicken soft taco with a side of donut covered frosting glazed sausage probably isn't on the menu.

"What sounds good?" isn't just limited to what we eat either. Quick, what sounds good? Running two miles or lying on the couch watching your big screen TV? If you honestly answered that running sounds better than relaxing on your couch you are either a masochist or have a really uncomfortable couch. My point is that we have to change the question in our minds from "What sounds good?" to "What do I need?" You know like fresh air, companionship, exercise...a salad; stuff like that.

The bottom line is we eat too much and exercise too little and it's not because the government didn't educate or stop us or because of the mass-produced mal-nourishing meals that are available or even the endless barrage of delicious looking food thrust in our faces. It is because of the question on our mind.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to find out what's good on a chicken fried chicken soft taco, white or brown gravy?

### Leaves of Loathing

Of late my life has been infested with lettuce.

I have nothing against lettuce in its proper place. For instance, a leaf or two atop a ½ pound patty, a slice of cheddar cheese and three healthy pieces of smoked applewood bacon is perfectly acceptable. If you want to shred it and throw it in a flour tortilla with some steak, cheese and salsa I'm fine with that too. I won't even object to using it to cradle juicy bits of chicken marinated in a garlic, onion, ginger, vinegar, soy sauce, sesame oil bath mixed with pine nuts and water chestnuts (mmmm, lettuce wraps). However, using lettuce as the prominent member of your main course is an abomination.

Normally I give no thought to such things; as a meat and potatoes man the only green want to see is the garnish that snuggles up to my pulled pork sandwich. Tragically, that all changed on my last business trip.

Being away from home I am forced to eat out every meal. Generally this means I can expect to see a slightly larger number on the scales when I return. This becomes more problematic when compounded by the holiday weight I'm already toting around. So I devised a drastic plan to at least slow my rapid ascension towards the 300 lb. club; salads for dinner.

Day 1 of my descent into madness

We went to a Mexican restaurant. With a menu full of burritos, enchiladas, tacos, nachos and other meat and cheese based dishes I chose the tortilla chicken salad. Generally I find that I'm a fast eater. My entrée always seems to disappear before I know it leaving me a little disappointed that there's not more to be had. With this lettuce packed horror, however, there seemed to be no end. I felt as if I'd been eating forever and still the green remained, mocking me. When I finally finished I was surprisingly full. I thought to myself that this might not be so bad. If I only knew what awaited me.

Day 2 the mishap

Being new to salad I learned quickly that all salads are not the same and it is crucial that you read all that is in them. We found ourselves at an uncharacteristically upscale establishment, after a brief perusal of the menu I selected the chopped salad. It seemed harmless enough at first glance. At the outset it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Then it happened. I bit into something that repulsed both my nose and my tongue. It's what I imagine feet would taste like. As I delved deeper into the bowl I discovered these little balls of fungus were everywhere. I was so hungry though that I kept eating until the last bite. Unlike the previous night this salad did not fill me and now I was left with the taste of toe jam in my mouth. What horrible lengths people must go to in an attempt to hide the lettuce.

Day 3 the lone bright spot on my salad safari

We ended up at a sushi place. Getting a salad was easy as I only mildly dabble in sushi and have no real pull towards it. This time I read the descriptions carefully and once again selected the chopped salad being that I could find nothing that might possibly be foot fungi in the ingredients. The salad arrived with pieces of breaded chicken and bacon sprinkled about (remember you can improve anything with either bacon or chocolate). The dressing was delicious and I hardly minded the dense and diverse lettuce arrangement. In all seriousness I could actually envision myself ordering this on purpose at a future date. I worried that I may have become possessed by some salad loving demon turning me into one of those people who profess to love eating salad. That delusion was dispelled later that night when I became ravenously hungry just a few hours later. Oh the humanity.

Day 3 appendix

I discovered two things that night. A) Salad, no matter how good it tastes, can only momentarily pacify the beast inside of me. And 2) my body was so unaccustomed to such a diet that the beast inside of me began to reject it in, to be delicate, an unpleasant fashion.

Day 4 the finale

Coming to the end of our trip we settled on a nearby and familiar steak house. Surveying the menu I found only three salads. None of them were particularly appealing and my gut told me that none would quell the hunger pangs, so I settle on their house salad. I know that the nutritional and dietary benefits of a salad draped in two kinds of cheese, croutons and ranch dressing are minimal which is why I chased that salad down with a bacon cheeseburger. Finally satisfaction. That salad went down easier and faster than any salad I'd had all week. It wasn't because of the delicious toppings either but because at the other end of that tunnel was bacon and beef.

Eating that much salad is just not right. Sure I finished the week down a pound instead of up two or three but the price I paid was my soul.

I have great respect for people who diligently watch what they eat and force themselves to eat lettuce. A short time ago I witnessed my sister-in-law, who keeps herself in excellent shape, eating what can only be described as a small animal habitat. It was lush with dark green leaves and what appeared to be, and I pray was not, dirt. She ate it without complaining as I teased her for the appearance of her meal. To her credit she did not claim to love it but was eating it because it was good for her.

I do not debate that lettuce is good for the body. My contention is that the inclination to consume it is not natural nor is it satisfying. Cases in point, my 3 year old was eating a hot dog one night and also on his plate were a couple of baby carrots and some lettuce. He ate the hot dog and carrots without a word. He then informed us that he was done and we instructed him to eat his lettuce. He protested, "That's Gary food." Gary is our African desert tortoise who eats nothing but lettuce. Out of the mouths of babes my friends, out of the mouths of babes. You see lettuce is not food, lettuce is what food eats.

Case No.2, my wife (who also keeps herself in fine shape) made a nice looking and fine tasting chicken salad for dinner a few days after I returned home. Later that night this kind, gentle, beautiful, delicate creature apologized for being grumpy. I replied that I was unaware that she was grumpy. She confessed that the salad did not hit the spot and she'd felt ornery the rest of the evening. See there, salad leaves even the nicest person in the world feeling unfulfilled and grouchy. Lettuce just makes you angry.

To maintain a certain body type you'll have to subsist on this green crunchy vegetation and that's your choice. But all efforts to convince me that you like it are futile. It's a lie. Maybe who've told yourself that lie enough that you believe it but it's a lie nonetheless. Don't believe me? Okay, show of hands, you've got one meal left to eat before passing on; who's picking a salad? That's what I thought.

So choke it down if you must, just don't tell me "it's good".

### The unnatural and unholy

This week started like any other, but without warning tragedy struck.

On Monday the king returned to his castle at the appointed time and was greeted with a hero's welcome. That is if "a hero's welcome" is a 3 year old bounding towards you wanting to wrestle, a Wii entranced 9 year old's halfhearted acknowledgement that someone entered the room, an unrequited kiss on the cheek for your daughter as she races passed you to go to a friend's house and a wife who is on the phone. Ah yes, it's good to be king.

When my wife got off the phone she greeted me warmly and we exchanged a summary of our day's activities; followed by my standard query, "What's for dinner?"

She responded that we'd be having brinner [for the uninitiated that is breakfast for dinner], which is a favorite in our household. She explained we'd be having eggs, toast and...wait for it, bacon.

My heart began to soar. Oh bacon, how do I love thee? Let me count the...wait a minute. Who says eggs, toast and bacon? Isn't it always bacon and eggs, or at the very least eggs and bacon? How did toast rise higher on the marquee than bacon? Something was amiss.

In a panic I raced to the fridge and threw open the door. And just as I feared, there it was. An abomination; the worst fraud perpetrated on mankind since the Ponzi scheme and Milli Vanilli (kids ask your parents; they will know it's true ooh, ooh, ooh, they'll tell you). Staring up at me from the meat drawer was turkey "bacon". (get used to the sarcastic quotation marks around "bacon")

Fighting back the tears I reached in and retrieved the package so deceptively wrapped that, without careful examination, one could be led to believe that it was indeed bacon. My protests were rebuffed with, "You'll thank me when it comes time to step on the scale." If I lived in a post-apocalyptic hellscape subsisting mainly on bark and weeds where the only source of protein was giant mutant cockroaches I still would not be thankful for turkey "bacon". You think a pound or two is going to make this affront to my senses easier to swallow? How dare you madam and how dare you Oscar Mayer!

Bacon is a cured meat prepared from the blessed pork belly of a pig. It is cured with large quantities of salt. It cooks up greasy, crispy and delicious. It goes wonderfully with, well, just about everything. The word bacon is derived from an Old High German word bacho, meaning buttock or ham and cognate with the Old French word bacon.

Turkey "bacon" is a meat product prepared from reformed turkey and sold as a low-fat substitute for traditional bacon. It comes from the thigh of a turkey and is manipulated to look like bacon. The word is derived from the Latin words atrox meaning terrible and prodito meaning betrayal.

That knowledge aside, if I knew nothing else about it, the fact the turkey "bacon" does not change in size, color or texture when you cook it would be enough for me. That's not natural. My oldest child summed it up best when he said turkey "bacon" is "kind of like a fruit roll-up only salty."

Where is the beautiful popping sound when the meat hits the skillet? Where are the greasy leftovers that need to be drained after half the package? Where are the rolling hills of fatty goodness rising up from the pan to greet you and the one of a kind aroma that sticks with you as a blessing for the rest of your day?

America, I know we have our problems. I realize that the scale and our waistline are foremost among them. I'm willing to make concessions, I really am. I drink, and prefer, skim milk. I'll take water packed tuna over oil packed tuna any day. I can stomach low-fat ranch or I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Anything. I'll even look the other way on sugar free ice cream (believe me that one hurts), but I'll be darned if I'm gonna let somebody take my delicious delicious pig fat from me. I'd rather die.

There are some things that you just don't trifle with; a man's family, his home, his life, his liberty and his bacon. God bless you, God bless that pig and God bless the United States of America. Thank you for your suppork...I mean support.

### Making Me Ill

Have you ever eaten something that's made you sick?

I don't mean made your tummy hurt or made you a little nauseous; I mean something that's taken you straight down Upchuck Boulevard, hung that perilous right on Spew Street and brought you all the way to Puketown.

In my life I've had this misfortune befall me on three separate occasions. My poor friend Clay has had a handful of recycled McDonald's milkshake flung at him from the backseat of his VW bug after he was kind enough to pull over at sounds of my distress. I assure you he was NOT ba-da-ba-da-dah loving it. That earned me the nickname Barfy. (Again Clay, my sincerest apology)

My poor wife loves Fuddruckers and you'd think that would be a perfect match as I love hamburgers of all kinds. Alas no, another well chronicled adventure of Clay and Barfy has sadly robbed her of Fuddruck'n it up at least where I'm concerned.

In both cases I've completely blocked these places from my mind. If I'm in the mood for a hamburger Fuddruckers doesn't even register when mentally scrolling through my options. If I fancy a shake I have to be reminded that McDonald's even has milkshakes. I've consistently maintained that I'm boycotting said establishments due to "a bad experience" but it's more than that. It's almost as if my brain is trying to protect me.

Still the granddaddy of them all happened when I was a child. [Warning: kids it's about to get real] ***disclaimer***The following story contains graphic depictions of hurling, heaving, retching, tossing ones cookies and throwing up; also known as vomiting. This is not for those with a weak stomach or constitution. You have been warned.

Are you still reading? Seriously? You're sick.

I had a sleep over at my friend Brigham's house. We thought it would be a good idea to pool our money and go down to the Circle K and buy all the gummy products we could afford. We bought gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy rings, gummy spiders and gummy fruit in all varieties. We filled a stainless steel punch bowl with them and sat down with his brother to watch a movie while we consumed this cornucopia of gumminess.

We of course stayed up way too late messing around but finally settled in to the couches in the living room and went to sleep. I awoke suddenly in a panic immediately knowing there was nothing I could do to stop what was about to happen. I rolled off the couch in an attempt to reach the bathroom. At that moment a rainbow of regurgitated gummies came flying out of my mouth as I ran (it was like something out of The Exorcist). I eventually made it to the toilet just as the horror was subsiding. In my wake was a trail of decapitated gummy bears and masticated multicolored worms. It looked like the rainbow bridge to Asgard, only disgusting.

My friends awoke to the smell of the gummy madness that had just ensued. To their credit and to my everlasting gratitude, without complaint, they began to help me clean up this gummy tummy mess. Unfortunately the smell of gummy and gut juice triggered my sensitive gag reflex and sent me back to pray to the porcelain god once more. I don't know how they ever recovered because I still haven't.

It's been more than twenty years and to this day the smell of gummy anything makes me ill. Last weekend I was offered gummy bears. As the open bag of gummy bears was extended towards me and the aroma wafted towards my nostrils I felt that old familiar feeling and suppressed the urge to Ralph. I answered him as I've answered so many well-meaning gummy givers.

"No thanks [closed mouth urp suppression], I'll pass."

### Why do I do this to myself?

It's been nearly nine years since I've gone to a gym. No real reason other than the time and financial restraints that come with having a young family. Plus I don't really like working out. Sure I enjoy the end result but the whole gasping for air, heart beating out of your chest, sweating through multiple t-shirts thing I can do without.

Anyway that all changed this past month when one of the Superstition Little League sponsors, Fitness Works, decided to give all the volunteer coaches and their spouses a free membership. Not being one to pass up a freebie I sat down with Lola and we made plans on how we would make time for the gym.

As the time to return to the gym grew closer I became more and more excited. It's not that I've had no physical activity in the past nine years (although some would argue to the contrary) it's just that going to the gym is a whole different animal. I was so pumped walking through the doors Saturday that I climbed up on the check-in desk, threw my fist in the air, closed my eyes, turned my head skyward, drew in a deep breath and bellowed "FINALLY, BLAY-LOCK has COME-BACK to fitness!" The check-in girl asked that I climb down and quietly scan my key tag. I dutifully obeyed.

So Lola hustled off to some sort of Tae Bo man hater class where mild mannered women unleash all their feminine hostility for an hour or so and I jumped on the elliptical. I rocked the stairs for a half an hour (on level 5) and was feeling pretty good. Then I decided to lift some weights. I, of course, defaulted to my chest and tri workout from days of yore. Everything went great. It felt good being back in the gym.

Then I woke up Sunday morning.

As I struggled to put on my shirt for church I thought 'This is why I never thought about returning the gym.' So I resolved to change my routine, after all I'm older and have different fitness goals now.

Basically I'd just like the thought of taking my shirt off in public not to conjure up painful memories of a rather unpleasant shirts and skins basketball game in my seventh grade P.E. class (I'll let you guess who was skins). So I agreed to go with Lola to some of these classes that she swears by.

Monday was my first ever spinning class. As I thundered away on the stationary bike being prodded on by our 95 lb. instructor and a puddle of sweat the size of Lake Powell formed underneath me I thought "Why am I doing this to myself?" Too tired to form any type of a coherent reply that question went unanswered. Mercifully the class came to an end. The feeling of relief was so great that I didn't pick up this internal argument again.

Then came Tuesday.

As I stood there on one leg while twisting myself into a pretzel during the Pilates/Yoga/Tai Chi torture fusion they call a class, the thought again returned "Why am I doing this to myself?"

Fortunately, during the three minute cool down where we lay still in the dark while the instructor encouraged us to release the stress of the day (most of which, for me, was caused by said instructor), I had time to reflect on this question.

My first thought was that I love food. Delicious food; bacon and chocolate, burgers and ice cream, breaded food, fried food, food that makes vegans recoil and the fat kid in all of us salivate. That coupled with my aversion to physical activity above and beyond swinging a golf club yields less than desirable results on the scale and in the waistline.

During my life I've had different goals for working out; to get stronger, to increase stamina and flexibility, to improve performance in sports, to lose weight. I imagine that most people fall into those categories, but there is one underlying reason that motivates people to work out: to look better naked.

Of all the reasons people say they workout this is the most honest. Plus I take every opportunity to say naked.

Don't judge me, I know it's childish but you're no better. Go ahead, I dare you to say "naked" out loud and not smile. You couldn't do it, could you?

But I digress.

Why am I doing this to myself? Is it vanity? Is it pride? Is it for a boost to the old self esteem? Yeah, probably a little bit of all that.

All I know is as long as these two opposing elements of appetite and au naturel exist there will be the necessary evil of returning again and again to that house of sweat and pain. Oh, what a world! What a world! At least I've got one less thing to wonder about when I'm pounding away on the treadmill tonight.

### Cover It Up Gramps!

Like most things I write I question what real impact (if any) it will have, but I write nonetheless because it's cathartic and hopefully entertaining. With that said I will cling to the small hope that throwing my words out into cyberspace may one day positively affect someone or more importantly stop somebody from annoying me.

My disinclination towards exercise, or any physical exertion that doesn't result in a trophy, is well documented. I gain little to no personal satisfaction from soreness and sweat, the result of endless minutes of punishing myself on modern machines whose derivation is most certainly from medieval torturing devices. If I had my way, outside of sport, people would only run when escaping a masked assailant wielding a stabbing implement or when pursuing a delicious sugary treat, rolling ever-so-slowly away in a vehicle playing jovial instrumental music. That's pretty much it.

Keeping that in mind, for some foolish reason, I decided to participate in a triathlon held earlier this fall. Almost immediately I made this decision public as to decrease my chances of not following through. So now trapped by an idiotic web of my own making and driven by a desire not to embarrass myself I began to run.

I took to the streets dripping sweat around my neighborhood and gasping for the sweet breath of life. Eventually I got a bicycle and endured the sore tokus that accompanies the early stages of pedal driven travel. Finally, being that a triathlon requires a third leg that also involves gasping for the sweet breath of life due to high levels of physical exertion while simultaneously submerging your head in water, I began to swim. That brings me to the crux of this post.

The cooler fall temperatures required that I find a place indoors to swim; as luck would have it my gym had such a place. It was a small lap pool in the back that I had never before used. Entrance to the pool was naturally through the locker room which was equipped with showers. In my previous gym-going experience I had seldom ventured into the locker room as I preferred to go home and clean up after my futile attempts to stave off obesity. Now however, with my daily swim it became necessary to shower and change at the gym.

Immediately following my first swim and subsequent shower I encountered an older gentleman nonchalantly standing in the middle of the locker room wearing nothing but his birthday suit. I smiled to myself as I passed by. Those of you who know me know that the maturity to not be amused by brief male nudity still eludes me. I laugh when somebody gets mooned, I laugh at streakers, Terry Bradshaw's backside in Failure to Launch was hands down the most memorable scene in that movie, I even giggle at the word naked.

Still when I found an even older man on Tuesday watching ESPN in the buff it was no laughing matter. Wednesday a grandfatherly type disrobed mere feet from where I was changing and was in no hurry to put on his underpants. This epidemic continued Thursday when two naked old men passed like ships in the night right in front of me as I exited the showers. I began to wonder if I was a victim of a prank. I half expected Ashton Kutcher to emerge laughing with his trucker hat slightly eschew but then I remembered that I wasn't famous and you couldn't show these naked old men on TV anyway.

Wondering if this was an isolated phenomenon I mentioned it to several friends who reported similar sightings. My brother-in-law told of an incident from the previous day where an elderly locker mate chose to hang up a perfectly good towel and air dry while casually sorting through his things and organizing his clothes. One friend suggested that it may be a generational thing as social nudity was common practice in saunas and bathhouses in days gone by. Whatever the case something has got to be done as this visual affront to decency cannot go on.

I have no firsthand knowledge of this but I'm told that old people au naturel isn't confined solely to the men's locker room either. So this goes for you too granny.

I am not a prude and I fully appreciate the human body in all its glory (or in this case past glory). I accept that a locker room is a place to change clothes and that a good deal of nakedness can be expected. However, that nudity can be minimized and should be brief in duration.

It is not okay to watch Monday Night Countdown with your boxers resting a few feet from you. While you are well within your rights to remove your towel before putting your pants on, you should confine yourself to that area until the task is complete. Relaxing in the locker room after your work out is completely permissible but for the love of all creatures great and small you can do that with your shorts on. Oh and under no circumstances are you to ever, and I mean EVER, sit your naked behind on the bench.

It doesn't matter if you are comfortable with it or proud of that fact that you are still working out at your age. I don't care if you are too old to be bothered with such things as pants or too tired to retrieve your underwear in a timely manner. I get that your loved ones don't want you parading around the house naked and this is your last refuge but don't take it out on us.

On the off chance that I will one day grow to a ripe old age and lose the will to cover my flabby fanny in a quasi-public area I will stop short of condemning you for this practice. I will simply plea for whatever sense of humanity you have left and ask that you please, please, cover your wrinkly old rump just as quickly as your tired limbs allow. Thank you.

### Dr. Internet M.D.

At a fairly young age I decided that I would not be pursuing a career in medicine. Outside of the long and expensive educational requirements, and the responsibility of literally taking someone's life in your hands, was the fact that blood and guts are just icky.

So I fell in with the masses of people who have no medical expertise and who happily rely on a physician to care for them when they're ill.

But then in the 90's Al Gore invented the Internet and things began to change. The Information Age dawned and now people had unprecedented access to seemingly unlimited knowledge at the touch of a button. While the impact of the Internet on our society is far reaching I wish to focus on one tiny phenomenon I call the Internet self-diagnoses or the Google Doctor.

You know when you get sick and it's more than the common cold but you're not exactly on deaths door and you wonder, 'Should I even bother going to the doctor?' Well it used to be that's where your options ended, either go to the doctor or don't. But hold on right there my friend; now you've got a magic third option thanks to Al Gore (did I mention he invented the Internet?). You can type a couple of key words into a search engine and voila! You can diagnose your own medical malady.

The problem, of course, is that you have no idea what you are talking about and the information you find is a summary at best that would require expertise and testing to come to any certain conclusion. No matter, you are now certain of what you have because you found all you need to know online.

Over the years I have openly mocked my wife, friends and neighbors for this practice. Going to the doctor with your own diagnoses is akin to taking your car to the mechanic and telling him exactly what's wrong with it and how to fix it. Well if you're so smart then why don't you do it yourself? Oh that's right, because you can't!

This brings me to Hypocalypse 2011: Return of the Hypocrite. I fell ill Tuesday and came home from work early. [Warning: boys and girls it's about to get real. Please do not continue to read this if you have just eaten, are currently eating or are about to eat.]

I spent most of the rest of the day on the couch except for all too frequent trips to the bathroom. I was suffering from a fever, a pretty bad case of diarrhea and painful gas that tasted of rotten eggs when I burped. After a long sleepless night my fever had broken but my stomach was still a tumultuous situation. I called in to work and wondered, 'Should I go to the doctor?' And then it happened, Al Gore's miraculous invention sprang into my mind, I hobbled to the computer, typed my symptoms into the field Google provided and clicked search.

Within moments I was reading about a feces dwelling parasite that lives in the small intestines and is passed along through humans and animals. Symptoms: abdominal pain, diarrhea, gas and bloating, loss of appetite, low grade fever and last but not least sulfur tasting burps. Check, check, check, check, check and check. There it was. I had a parasite. I was sure of it. I even named it. Norman. Storm'n Norman the parasite.

I read further and found a website where people posted their experiences with Norman's tiny relatives. Several said they had gotten it while camping. I coupled that information with my earlier reading that it can take up to three weeks from infection for symptoms to appear. I went camping with the kids three weeks earlier! It all made perfect sense.

I skipped all the signs and test stuff, I didn't need that I knew what I had; I needed a treatment. I formulated a scheme to get metronidazole, the most effective drug for combating my parasitic friend, from my south of the border contacts. That plan was quickly scrapped when I remembered that I didn't have any contacts south of the border and I settled on the lone FDA approved drug. I scribbled furazolidone on a piece of paper as I waited for my wife to return home from dropping the kids off at school so she could take Norman and I to the doctor and I could tell him what I needed.

When she got I home informed her that I had a parasite. She laughed and gave me the looked that I had given her so many times. You know the one, the 'you are so cute but that's the funniest/dumbest thing I've heard in quite a long time' look. [Note to self: be more conscious about not giving that look because getting it really hurts.]

I explained to her what I had read and that I had all the symptoms. I told her that Norman would not stop unless he was treated. She said, "Who's Norman?" I shook her off and told that I knew what I had and needed the unpronounceable word I had scratched on this piece of paper.

She sat me down and spoke gently and slowly like she was explaining calculus to a four year old. She reminded me that the flu had been going around the neighborhood and even right here in our own little home and that I had probably caught it from someone in the family and that's all it was.

I started to protest again and then it hit me. What had I done? These symptoms could easily have been associated with the flu. I completely dismissed that I had read most instances of this particular parasite happened outside the United States. I totally skipped over the stool samples or intestinal biopsy required to determine if I actually had it. I disregarded the paragraph warning that even with tests it was a difficult thing to diagnose, not to mention that fever with infection was uncommon. I was really going to go and tell my doctor what I had and what I needed. If I were my own doctor I'd have open hand slapped myself.

When it all set in how easily I had gotten sucked in to this delusional cycle my head began to whirl and my brain hurt. [typed "brain hurt" into Google...top result? Brain tumor]

It's not a tumor!

Top

# Chapter 3: Oh the Humanity

### Resolution Time

Tis that time of year. Time for reflecting on the year gone by. Time for looking ahead to the next. The holiday malaise is lifting and we are becoming acutely aware of the consequences of all our merriment. A prick of conscience is perfectly natural in our retrospection; as is a renewed desire to better ourselves with the dawn of a New Year approaching.

It's become customary, and unfortunately cliché, to make resolutions. Things we'd like to change or areas we'd like to improve upon in the coming year. Resolution by definition is a formal expression of intention or the act of resolving upon an action. In this case the medical definition of resolution may be more apt, the subsidence of a pathological state. That is the halting of any unhealthy, abnormal or ineffective condition.

According to several polls some of the most common resolutions are: lose weight, quit smoking, get out of debt, get in better shape, drink less alcohol, save money, get a better education, manage stress, travel more, find a better job and help others. Those seem to fit the bill, most stemming from self-reproach with an eye toward self-improvement.

Why is it then that so many resolutions tumble for you like Boy George and the Culture Club?

Cavett Robert said "Character is the ability to carry out a good resolution long after the excitement of the moment has passed."

My point is not to attack anyone's character (I'll let you do that to yourself) but to illustrate that we often make resolutions in a moment of excitement or reflection and that moment fades. We are still however, left with the original condition that prompted the resolution. So what then?

For those who truly wish to change they make public their resolutions. Basically it's not a real resolution until you write it down and tell someone. Keeping your resolutions private indicates a lack of sincere desire to change. Oh and Facebook doesn't count. Most are only "friends" in the academic sense. I mean real people you actually see and talk to. Also I don't want to read 300 "Time to get back in the gym" status updates nor do I wish to follow your weight fluctuation all year long. After a month of horking fistfuls of fudge and watching 'It's a Wonderful Life' I know it's time you got back in the gym; and 97% of your Facebook "friends" don't care about the 2 lbs. you lost last week. Posts of that nature don't impact you no matter how many "Super job!" comments you get.

Involving your friends and family is a good first step towards keeping your commitment after the initial feelings dissipate. Sadly though, this is not enough because of a growing culture of political correctness that has mutated and spread into every aspect of our lives.

I recently had lunch with a good friend of mine; he told me his wife had said that he was "losing his filter". To which I replied "Good, more people should."

We've all become so conscious of how we'll be perceived and so frightened to possibly offend someone that we've filtered ourselves to what borders on dishonesty. Sure, as my wife constantly reminds me, you don't have to say everything you think; but when did speaking plainly become such a sin?

Years ago serving a mission in Jamaica, when I first arrived, children would refer to me as "the fat one" when trying to differentiate me from my companion. They meant no offense; they were just trying to establish that out of the two white American young men in white shirts and ties they were talking about the pudgy guy. Later, having shed a few lbs. and while serving with a pale-faced Idahoan, I was referred to as "the brown one". They were simply calling it as they saw it. I'll admit that it took some getting used to but ultimately I prefer that type of communication to the hypersensitive over-analytical cowplop we deal with in the U.S. of A.

Furthermore it is this type of self-censorship that is hampering our ability to foster a support system that would enable us to take steps toward self-mastery. If we could be open and honest with each other we could affect real change.

For instance, my weight has fluctuated for as long as I can remember. I'll lose weight and then inevitably regain it. I'll have to resolve once more to step up my exercise and watch what I eat. Each time I lose weight I'm nearly overwhelmed with "Hey, have you lost weight?" or "Wow, you've lost weight. You look great." Of course this feels good and was earned through hard work and sacrifice. But where were these people when I was all porked out?

In my lifetime I've had just one person come up to me and say, "Boy, you look like you've put on a few. You've been hitting it pretty hard haven't ya big fella?" I consider him to be a good friend and a really funny guy but most people that know him just consider him to be a loud mouth insensitive jerk.

Who's more of a real friend though? The person who says "You've lost weight, you look fantastic!" or the person who tells you that fifth apple fritter might be a bad idea considering you need help to tie your shoes.

Old Bill Shakespeare said, "It's not enough to speak, but to speak true." If you are serious about change then you've got confide in those who care about you and license them to speak true. It might hurt a little in the short term but there is no growth without pain. In the long term it will be for your good.

No doubt my wife is reading this and thinking of the last time I told her to speak up when I was overdoing it. She is now recalling the subsequent scolded puppy dog look I gave her when she suggested that I return the handful of cookies to the pantry from whence I'd thieved them. Trust me it's not as easy as I'm making it sound. You've got to see it as help and not a hindrance.

While we're licensing friends and loved ones we might as well license everyone to share what they think and not consider it a personal affront. Just view it as their opinion and who knows, maybe upon further consideration, you might even find out that they are right. (That paragraph could be a post unto itself)

Now I fully realize that 'lose weight' and 'get in shape' will once again top my list of resolutions and that writing this is opening myself up to cynics and smart alecs alike taking pot shots at my pot belly. To them I say bring it on, let's see who cares about me the most. At the very least my Facebook wall should be full of some pretty good fat jokes.

### No Comment

One of my favorite writers, Bill Simmons, said at the launch of his new website, "Writing is a fundamentally lonely thing. It's just you and a blank Microsoft Word document. The process can drive people crazy."

I write first and foremost with the hope of being entertaining. When an idea strikes me I open up that blank Word document and start thundering away on the keyboard with the intention of throwing my thoughts out into the wide world.

Now, mind you, I put a good deal of thought into what I want to say before I even start typing. However, my thoughts are never fully formed until I've begun to put them on paper, so to speak. Once I begin writing I don't stop until I reach the conclusion or exit point of what I initially wanted to say and it is rarely a predetermined destination. Here's where the real fun ensues. I read and re-read what I just wrote. I add things as I feel inspired and remove sentences that don't flow well or words that are redundant. I proofread over and over again until I can go through my draft without making corrections (even after all that my wife usually catches a typo or grammatical error that makes me want to throw myself through the nearest window).

Once the piece is deemed acceptable I post it online. And thus begins my slow descent into madness (okay, further into madness).

I advertise my latest work through popular modern technological methods such as Facebook, Twitter and email. While writing certainly is a lonely process, sharing said writing can feel even lonelier. I wait for a response, a comment, a retweet, anything. I check back to count page views like the Mervyn's lady desperately waiting for those doors to open.

Immediately I begin second guessing myself. Was it clear and concise enough? Does it read well? Will they get it? Why hasn't anybody commented? Why am I being such a freak? I'm a fraud. Stop talking to yourself, you sound crazy.

Publishing your writing is a bewildering mix of emotions somewhere between parental angst and walking down a public beach wearing only a thong. [scrub all you want that mental picture isn't going anywhere] You feel all the pride and joy as well as the fear and trepidation that come with putting your child out into the world. At the same time you've exposed a part of yourself that is normally private and while you hope people will appreciate it, there is a very real possibility of a backlash.

You've prepared yourself for either eventuality but a 'no comment' feels like crickets chirping in your soul.

You don't have to write 850 words describing your neuroses to understand what I'm saying. With the advent of social media we've all throw out a line or an anecdote to the deafening sound of silence.

Personally I do not comment on everything I read. The fact is your comments holds value. The less of them out there the greater the value. I do not purposely withhold comments to keep their value high but if I don't feel I've got something to say I'll say nothing. When occasion warrants I will without hesitation let somebody know that they've amused, entertained or informed me or that I appreciate their efforts to do so. Commenting on every blessed thing you read devalues your comment to the point it becomes a textual version of white noise. It is folly to dole out your comments like a coupon for 10% off your next purchase of hand lotion. Sure people will take it but it only gets discarded moments later when they pass the nearest trash receptacle.

Not to belabor the point but you've got to treat your comments like Oprah's favorite things show; it's only cool because she doesn't do it all the time and you never know when it's coming. If she did it every show it would eventually become mundane. [Oprah voice] "You get a comment and you get a comment. EV-ERYBODY GETS A COMMENT!" It wouldn't be long before she looked like a crazy person getting so excited over something everyone knew was coming. You don't want to trivialize your comments. I get it, I really do.

However, that knowledge does not quell the overarching desire to be validated by you, my reader. Is too much of my self-esteem tied to whether or not you take moment of your time to write a note of gratitude or a thoughtful reply to something I've written? Yes. Does this piece I'm writing right now make me sound needy and insecure? Yes. Do I have a point to this line of self-questioning? No.

Everyone wants to be validated, to feel valued. For a writer they send their word filled children out into the world while strolling down the beach half naked; their only validation comes either from their own self-worth (which is fragile at best) or feedback they receive on their work.

I guess what I'm saying is, tell me what you think of my thong.

### L-O-L is O-U-T

I'll get right to the point. LOL is way out of control. I've put off writing this for a couple of reasons:

1) People who type LOL have no malicious intent and are just trying to express in writing that they've experienced a physical reaction to what they've just read.

2) Generally when I read LOL it is in response to something I've written that somebody liked enough to laugh out loud. So why would I want to crush that person, right?

Having said that, it's time that LOL went the way of "Not!", "Psyche", "Rad", "Whatever", "Sup" and all other clichéd rhetoric. Sure those expressions were fun for a while but their overuse grew to a point of annoyance. Soon those smiles on the faces of your friends turned to looks of disapproval as your go to phrase "My Bad" turned from acceptance to irritation.

This is where LOL becomes a tougher cookie to crack. In this age of texting and social media, communication has exploded but face to face contact has nearly disappeared. You share information with people daily who you see rarely, if ever. You also have the ability to throw out your two cents into cyberspace without any feedback in return. Also with this entirely written communication you are limited to how you can express yourself and to how your expression is received (no hand gestures, eye contact, facial expressions, sighs, grunts or...wait for it...laughter).

What I'm trying to say is that I understand where this has come from and the same reason that necessitated its creation is the same reason that it has hung on so long. No nonverbal cues to tell you that it's time to move on. I do believe that it has its place but people, please I'm begging you, show some restraint. If everything you read is making you Laugh Out Loud you may need medication.

When you regularly use LOL it just becomes contrived and trite. If something truly tickles your funny bone throwing out LOL shows no thought or originality. Not to mention you aren't even taking the time to spell out Laughing Out Loud.

As someone with a fragile ego who desperately needs people commenting on what I write, I get wanting to comment on something that you liked to show your appreciation for the chuckle it gave you. I'm just asking that you have something to say. I know everyone's not witty and I'm not saying that you shouldn't reply or comment unless you have something witty to say (although that would be nice); matter of fact one of my other pet peeves is people endeavoring to be witty when they are not (we'll save that for a different time). What I'm saying is that if you read something that made you laugh and you want to comment or reply to that effect let's try to mix it up. Maybe something like or "That was some funny crap!" or "Man you are really funny, and good looking. I adore you."

There's got to be a better way and I'm not saying I have the answer. For myself I go to great lengths not to use LOL. I probably overuse Mr. Smiley face in the process. :)

Using LOL is a personal choice. What I'm suggesting is that it should only be used in cases of emergency. For instance, you are skydiving and your chute doesn't open and you go to check Facebook on your Blackberry one last time and read one of my hilarious status updates about pant-less TV watching or my unnatural obsession with bacon. Sure the ground is rushing up to meet you but your last desire in this world is to tell me that my post amused you, then by all means use LOL because time is short and people need to know that something made you laugh...out loud.

### Dear NBA fans,

As the NBA owners and players sit in New York in an ego and greed driven standoff NBA fans sit at home powerlessly waiting to see who wins, knowing that whoever it is we've already lost.

We've lost games, we've lost respect, we've lost patience and, what should be alarming to the NBA, we've lost interest.

Willard Waller, a 20th century sociologist said, "In any relationship, the person who has the least interest has the greatest power."

Sure the lockout features greedy millionaires fighting for dollars. To be fair to the players and owners the NBA economic system is clearly flawed and the players are just fighting for what they deem to be a fair deal. But this is about a relationship, not just between the players and owners but between a league and its fans. And all the fans want is basketball.

What's become painfully transparent in all this is who has the power in this relationship. Where do all those millions of dollars they're fighting for come from? The fans? Not directly. It comes from interest.

Whether we shell out money for tickets and concessions or sit on our couches wearing team apparel and consuming beverages advertised at commercial breaks, interest fuels the league.

That interest, however, does not translate into power for the fans. Our interest in them, or rather their lack of interest in us, ultimately gives them the greater power.

As fans we care for teams and players on a level they will never care for us. We know the players' names and when and where "our" team plays. We know exactly when we became a fan and why we stay one.

I once remarked while watching a game, "I hate that guy." My friend turned to me and said, "Really? He doesn't even know you're alive."

You see, as fans, we're in a relationship where we'll always come in last.

We buy jerseys or make signs to show our support. We check the scores and stats in the paper or follow them online. We sit in the stands like a love struck school girl and talk incessantly with friends and coworkers about "our" team when, at best, they are vaguely aware of our existence. We are their fan but to them we are one of thousands. While we are theirs they will never be ours.

Do the NBA owners and players care about their fans? Yes and no. Yes they care about the interest we generate in them and the league. That interest equals power and money. However, even if they wanted to, they can't care for fans the way that fans care for them. This lockout has painfully illustrated that.

The Phoenix Suns are better than almost anyone at engaging their fans; their online presence and social media initiatives are second to none. The first day of the NBA lockout they were forced, along with every other team, to remove all images of players and were banned from using their names or referencing the lockout in any way.

Steve Nash famously tweeted, "NBA lockout day 1: Since player photos've been taken off team websites I'm having a garage sale of all my suns gear @canal and broadway. Cheap."

Since then the Suns have posted pictures of former players and carefully worded poll questions about favorite past Suns team members. So the grownups can't get along and of course it's the kids that suffer. They continue to squabble over petty differences with little regard to its impact on us; all the while posting pictures of the good old days in the hopes we'll still be around when they need us again.

The owners and players are banking on the fact that we will come back to them when they are ready. We have all the interest and they'll have all the power. Like it or not that is the way this relationship will always work. The lockout didn't cause that, it just shed new light on it.

When it's all said and done and they've divided up the money and opened their doors once more and professional basketball returns they'll no doubt try to reconcile with fans. The question we fans will have to ask ourselves, knowing now where we stand, is do we still want to be in this relationship?

### Care in the Least

Earlier I wrote about a powerful principle as it relates to the NBA and its fans. The more I thought about it the more I felt it deserved further consideration.

The principle of least interest goes like this, "In any relationship, the person who has the least interest has the greatest power." - Willard Waller

There are two types are people in play here; those who understand and respect this principle and those who repeatedly fall victim to it.

Play back the relationships you've had in your life, look at the relationship you are in at the moment. Now tell me it's not true. Liar!

I'm reminded of this daily as my wife owns me. It was over before it started. I was immediately smitten by her and longed to be near her. I gladly forfeit this power as I am overwhelming interested in her and her happiness.

There are times when it is out of our control. For instance, if you work for a large company odds are their interest in you being employed is less than your interest in having a job. Therefore it's probably unwise to show up late in flip flops and a Hawaiian shirt to gut a fish on your desk unless your interest in being employed with them has waned.

Sometimes this power just swings naturally to us without thought or effort. If you really want Chinese food and would gladly dine alone and your friend wants Italian but really wants to talk with you over dinner, he'd better get his mind wrapped around dim sum and sweet and sour pork because that's what he'll be eating tonight.

Women are in the driver's seat in one particular area that men care about infinitely more than they do. They will always have the power in this sextuation, I mean situation. Women will always have the power in this situation. [Apologies to any minors who may have been shocked or offended by the preceding sentences. That begs the question, why is a minor reading a 1,000 word article on interpersonal relationships? But I digress] Oh and guys don't even bother trying to fake disinterest to retake the power. That's like trying to outlast a camel in the desert. That hump's got water for days and days, you will lose.

Relationships aren't just about people close to us either. I love shopping for cars. Salesmen are crafty little devils, full of tricks. You go to them because you want something they've got and they know it. They will seek to create urgency and scarcity to drive up your level of interest and their level of power in this relationship. Understanding this principle is paramount to getting a good deal. Here's a story to illustrate what I'm talking about.

Years ago I was looking to purchase my first car. I found an ad on cars.com for a used 1999 Isuzu Rodeo for $9,000. I called on it and went down to the dealership with my friend. We took it for a test drive and it was just what I was looking for. I really wanted this car. The salesman told me that there had been a mistake on the cars.com ad and that the Rodeo was actually $11,900. Shaking my printout at him I said, "Not for me it's not."

He agreed to honor my price after changing the price to $11,900 online right in front of me. I said, "Good deal. That's still more than I want to pay." He looked at me like I was a crazy person and started telling me that he had people lined up to look at this vehicle later that evening. At the time we were expecting our first child and I started telling him about all the diapers I'd soon be buying. He was unfazed.

After several entertaining minutes he'd come down a few hundred dollars but he was still a little higher than I wanted. I thanked him for his time and left my number with him saying I needed to sleep on it and we left.

I wanted that car and I thought I was getting a good deal but that's not the point. I had called him and therefore he had the power. By leaving and forcing him to call me I could take back that power. I didn't sleep all night as I thought about the fictional other buyers who no doubt had scooped up that killer deal leaving me wanting. My morning bowl of cereal tasted like emptiness and despair as I waited for the phone call. Many times I fought the urge to call him and see if the car was still available. Finally the phone rang and I heard the voice of Mr. Isuzu Sales Guy on the line. I pretended to not have been waiting for his call and half-heartedly committed to returning and talking about the Rodeo. As I hung up the phone an evil laugh involuntarily emitted from my person as I felt the power coursing through my veins. Oh the power, the absolute power! Ha ha ha haaaaaaa!

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh right, interest and power.

Of course there is risk with this kind of tactic as you may be dealing with someone who is truly less interested than you. You have to be prepared to lose out if that is the case [see above camel in the desert analogy].

The lesson here is temperament. Wanting something is fine but there's no need to be reckless. If you've lost the upper hand in a relationship you've got no one to blame but yourself. Taking a relaxed or even an aloof approach sometimes is the wise path. Be cautious though because being indifferent or callous to someone you care about is just stupid.

The principle of least interest is like building a fire. You can't just stack piles and piles of wood on and light a match, you'll smother it. The fire needs fuel, it needs room to breathe. Put a little space between you and what you want, be willing to let it breathe, and before you know it you'll be enjoying the warmth and light from the flames.

### 10 Commandments for getting along with your IT guy

I've given a lot of thought to this subject and I really think I can help. You see to many people IT guy is a mystery; a reclusive, surly shadow that descends upon you in your hour of need and disappears thereafter, from sight and consciousness, moving on to the next user in distress. Dealing with such a creature may seem complicated or daunting. Keeping that in mind I've come up with 10 guidelines for successfully navigating the pitfalls of dealing with your IT guy.

***disclaimer*** I am perfectly aware that there are many fine IT gals out there but for the purposes of this post both IT guys and gals will be lumped together and referred to as IT guy.

1. Thou Shalt Not Forget Thy Password

We understand that you have multiple passwords and most times they are different. Requiring you to change your password, for security reasons, to you seems unnecessary. We get that. Nonetheless you have to change your password and you know you have to change your password. Resistance is futile. When the time comes to change your password you must engage whatever cognitive function you can muster and retain the information you've chosen to use. That brings us to the next commandment:

2. Thou Shalt Not Excuse Thyself In Any Way

When you screw up, own it. The natural inclination is to say "It wasn't me." Well it was you. No one else uses your computer, just you. The argument is often proffered "I remember my password; the system is not letting me in." Let me tell you something "the system" doesn't care who you are, "the system" doesn't have any prejudice or bias against you and "the system" isn't trying to sabotage your day. "The system" just wants the correct password and when it receives that password (that you set by the way) "the system" will gladly let you in. You know how we know that? Because everyone who entered the correct password was promptly let in and did not have to call us.

Another thing, saying "I'm not a computer person" or "I'm computer illiterate" is a cop out. It's the 21st century; most jobs require some sort of interaction with a computer. And guess what? Your job requires that you use a computer. Why is it that people wish to be viewed as competent in every other aspect of their job but are unwilling to put any time or effort into figuring out what every ten year old knows how to do? You don't have to be a "computer person" to operate a computer and saying you are "computer illiterate" tells us you are either lazy or not bright, we'll let you pick.

3. Thou Shalt Not Start Thy Query With "Quick Question."

The implication here is that you're so busy that you need a brief answer right away or that the question is insignificant and therefore not worth either of our time. Both of these are irksome. We fully recognize that this prefix to your question is rooted in your IT guy's 'don't bother me' persona and that it is intimidating to call him. You may think 'I'm simply alerting him that I'll only require a moment of his time'. You don't know that and can't control that; beginning your conversation with "Quick question" is a bad idea. Simply state your problem or question and allow your tech support to judge the value of the conundrum and determine the length or brevity of his response.

4. Thou Shalt Respect Thy IT Guy's Time

We all know the Brothers Grimm tale of a shoemaker and his helper elves. Each night the good shoe cobbler laid out a piece of leather and went to sleep. At midnight the little elves would appear and make shoes while the cobbler slept. In the morning the elves would be gone and the cobbler would find a fine pair of shoes ready to be sold. Well you are not a cobbler and we are not elves. We work the same hours as you. In the evenings and on weekends we go home to our family. We too get to take lunch every day. Inviting us to work on your computer while you are at lunch, at 5 o'clock when you are done for the day or on Saturday when you won't be bothered doesn't work for us.

5. Thou Shalt Not Stop Thy IT Guy In The Hall

If you see your IT guy in the hall there's a good chance he's going somewhere. He's not just wandering aimlessly around the building waiting for someone to stop him with a question or a problem. Odds are someone has already called or emailed him with a question or problem and he's on his way to respond to them. Your hallway question or problem is the equivalent of cutting in the lunch line. It's not fair to the others involved. Oh and if he's not on his way to help someone he's on his way to the bathroom. He's been holding it for some time because he was on the phone with someone claiming that they did not forget their password or that they are "computer illiterate". So please give him a break. A smile or a polite head nod in the hall will usually be returned in kind.

6. Thou Shalt Have No Other IT Guys Before Him

Whether your boyfriend, brother or roommate is an IT guy, computer guru or tech geek is irrelevant. Your support comes from your IT staff. Going to someone else first only makes the problem worse when they can't figure it out and you are forced to call your IT guy anyway. Saying that you tried to work it out through outside resources does not garner you any points, only chagrin.

7. Hast Thou Rebooted?

With the inevitable bumps in the road that come with regular computer use you'll experience a glitch, a bug or a frozen application or system. Before frantically reaching for the phone and dialing your friendly neighborhood IT man, stop for a moment, take a breath and ask yourself "Have you rebooted?" You see this will save you from shamefully answering "No." when your IT guy asks you that very question when you know good and well that would most likely have done the trick in the first place.

8. Thou Shalt Not Be Cute

Your IT guy visits many different people throughout the course of the day. He sits in offices and cubicles, on some chairs that are comfortable and others that aren't. Working on computers requires that he sits at a desk that is not his own in a workspace where you are accustom to seeing others sit. When stumbling upon this out of the ordinary scene you may feel compelled to make comments such as these: "Why Barbara you've changed." or "My Bob, you look different today." or "Suzie, did you get a haircut?" These are not original and to your IT guy, who hears this six times a day, it is maddening. Resist the urge; fight it with every fiber of your soul. We beg you.

9. Thou Shalt Not Be Disingenuous

Starting your phone call with "Hey buddy" or "What's up brother?" does not make us buddies or brothers. Asking "How's your day going?" or "What's new with you?" may seem polite but in the context of why you are calling is moot. We are not buddies as we never hear from you other than when something is wrong or you need something. This is not a social call; you are calling because you have a request for help or service. Pretending it is anything else is just a waste of our time and your energy. You give no thought about your IT guy unless you have a problem. We accept that, let's move on.

10. Thou Shalt Express Thy Gratitude

IT guy is a thankless job. He is remembered only in your hour of greatest frustration and angst; to be immediately forgotten once the crisis has been addressed or the problem solved. If you really want to get along with your IT guy this commandment is above all others. Say thank you and mean it. You will endear yourself to him in a way that even he doesn't understand.

### Punch Me in the Face

I love movies about the old west. I love the no nonsense heroes; the cowboy who is carving out his piece of the world, the local sheriff standing alone against corruption or the outlaw with a good heart. These aren't complex characters in many cases, one commonality unites them; the expectation that people act civilly and responsibly. If they don't the repercussion is swift and definitive; a punch in the face.

Not unusual in these movies is the occasion where someone is shooting off his mouth or disrespects a woman or just in general is being a public nuisance. That is when someone will step forward and punch that guy in the mouth. Of course someone is there to catch him or pick him up off the floor. There is a brief pause in the action where onlookers wait to see if anything else will come of it. Sometimes a friend or relative of the recently struck will appeal to local law enforce, "Sheriff, ain't you gonna do someth'n." His reply will consistently be something like, "He had it a com'n." And that would be that.

Today we view those times as crude, uncivilized, even barbaric. But what if they had it right?

In movies today, set in present times, it is not uncommon to see someone take a well-deserved shot to the face. Generally it comes with a painful shake of the hand and a great sense of satisfaction for the character and the audience. But when was the last time you saw someone take one to the chops in real life?

If that happened today, instead of the piano player halting, the barkeep staring and the clobbered being helped to his feet while wiping the blood from his lip; you'd have people calling 911 on their cell phones and most assuredly a horrified bystander questioning the puncher, "What is wrong with you?!"

As a society we've progressed to a point where it is unacceptable behavior to knock someone down who is acting a fool. I teach my children to use their words when faced with a conflict. That's what civilized people do. All that is fine and good except for one small thing; we've enabled the fools.

You see, two rational intelligent people can work through their differences without physical confrontation. But what happens when a rational intelligent person is crossed by a clown without a shred of decency or common sense and no regard for the general welfare of humanity. The fool can act as he pleases, disregard any plea for civility and go about his business while the rational, sane, intelligent person is left frustrated and unsatisfied. So you do the right thing and the offending party leaves unscathed and largely unaware of the damage done. This situation will, most likely, be repeated again and again because rational intelligent people are bound by the expectations of society and are unable to correct the fool's behavior through reason and discourse. So the fool will continue being a fool because he can.

Now before you get too carried away I'm not suggesting that anybody go around willy nilly throttling people who upset or annoy them. However, on the occasion that you run across a fool and all attempts at reason have failed wouldn't it be nice if, in the end, someone could help that fool to his feet with a shrug and onlookers and authority figures alike could say, "Well, he had that a com'n."

Taking it a step further just look at what happened at Felcher & Sons when they brought in an office linebacker. Productivity went through the roof. The Terrible Terry Tate brand of justice produced immediate results and put the fools on notice.

What if people could expect a measure of instant justice when they were out of order? The acts of thoughtlessness would decline exponentially. If you give people license to be fools then you are left to deal with fools. However, if you put fools on notice then they'll be forced to snap to attention and act right or suffer the consequences. Think of it as an adult spanking.

What if the punk talking during the movie who's rebuffed repeated petitions for silence or the incompetent colleague whose perpetual thoughtlessness puts your team under the gun time and time again could expect a clothesline or a well-placed stunner or DDT? You think they might modify their behavior? You bet your sweet bippy.

At one point or another we've all wanted to belt a deserving somebody; a coworker, a neighbor, a stranger; I don't know a wife out there who hasn't wanted to pop her husband from time to time. That thought has probably crossed my wife's mind while she read this.

Look, I'm not condoning random acts of violence or saying that you should start punching people in the face...I'm just saying imagine a world where people had to think twice before they said or did (or wrote) something stupid.

### Kerosene Cruise Lines

In the words of The Refreshments, "Everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people". How else do you explain pizza prints, Rick Perry and planking? And that's just the P's.

So why are there so many stupid people? Excuse me, stupid is offensive, I meant common sense impaired people. No wait, I meant stupid. If you find calling stupid, stupid, offensive then you are stupid. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Yes he did. Really I didn't. He did.

We all share blame on this one. We try to legislate common sense. We make warning labels and put up signs to protect stupid people. And what do we get for our trouble? More stupid people. Stupid people aren't getting smarter; they are just living longer and multiplying.

Everywhere you turn you meet another stupid person. They are at work, on the road, in the grocery store; they're filling our jails and worst of all invading our recreation time on beaches, at amusement parks and sporting events. If you are reading this and thinking, "What is he talking about? I don't know any stupid people." If I may borrow from my friend Mike McDermott "Listen, here's the thing. If you can't spot the [stupid]..., then you ARE the [stupid]."

Odds are stupid people aren't reading this because it's longer than a knock knock joke, so I'll continue.

Everybody still here? Good.

Why do we go to such great lengths to protect the stupid? Some might say compassion; others might say duty or obligation. Those are partly true but the real reason is we just don't want to clean up their mess.

That's why we make them wear seatbelts and helmets and don't let them text while driving. We warn them that coffee is hot or that cigarettes can kill them. This hasn't stopped stupid people it's just prevented their extinction. If you think about it we've really just upset the natural order.

Do stupid people have a purpose? Sure. Those casinos aren't going to pay for themselves. Stephen A. Smith needs someone to yell at; that's right I'm talking to you Skip Bayless. And how else are reality TV shows supposed to get ratings? But beyond entertainment and reinforcing social norms the uses of stupid people are extremely limited.

Let's just say hypothetically that we did want to rid ourselves of stupidity or simply thin out the gene pool. I'm not a monster. Yes he is. Shut up. Pay no attention to him. It's dark in here. Quiet! Where was I? Oh right, stupid. I propose a plan to put the ball back into the court of natural selection.

Bill Engvall led a campaign in the late 90's to identify these people (Here's your sign). That's was a good start but what if we took it a step further. When a stupid person is identified, in lieu of a sign, they are given a free ticket on an all-expense paid cruise on Kerosene Cruise Lines. We'll worry about how to pay for this later, just bear with me.

As the name suggests this cruise ship is loaded from bow to stern with kerosene. No right thinking person would get on this boat, that's where natural selection comes in. This stupid person takes the ticket and actually boards the ship, on his or her own accord, with other stupid people. Let's even make it sporting and put up signs that say "Danger: Kerosene" all over the place. You know if you fill a cruise ship with enough stupid people somebody's going to light a match and then POOF, survival of the smartest.

You didn't force anyone on to the ship, you didn't light the match and with a sinking ship there's virtually no clean up. Where's the down side? Problem solved. You're welcome.

Now if you'll excuse me I've got to check on my reservation at the Hell Hell Hell Hotel. I want to get a non-smoking room.

### PUNCHMEN

Have you ever tried to pull into a seemingly open parking spot only to find an empty shopping cart blocking your way? Have you ever been behind someone at a Redbox kiosk who was casually browsing through the entire selection, reading each description, while a line formed behind them? Have you ever made plans to meet up only to have that person nonchalantly waltz in 20 minutes after the appointed time without so much as a "Sorry I'm late"? How about a neighbor who has a late night loud party outside on a weeknight? And don't get me started on Tommy Thompson cutting in the lunch line every day from 3rd through 6th grade. I mean who does he think he is?! Hey Tommy, there's a line full of people back here! Real live human beings with feelings. We're hungry too and want to get to the tetherball court before Jeffery McDougal hogs it for the rest of recess. I hope you die!

What was I talking about?

Oh right...jerks. The number of inconsiderate people in this world seems to be growing exponentially.

"Generation Me has grown up believing it's more important to 'do your own thing' than conform to the group. Unfortunately that also means people of this generation are more likely to be inconsiderate of other people." -Jean Twenge

If this disturbing trend was confined to Generation Me then I could just chalk it up to a group of young punks and fear for our future. However, it's people of all ages that are clamoring to do their own thing and leaving our social structure in ruins.

Thankfully my buddy Peder has come to our rescue. While on one of our daily BS sessions he fantasized of a revolutionary whim. He said it would be nice if he had a license to punch people who deserved it, sort of like a license to kill.

And there it was; a simple solution to this crisis of inconsideration. We empower Policemen to deal with those who've broken the law and we can empower Punchmen to deal with those who've broken a social contract.

The most egregious offenses generally come on the road so we'll have to mobilize this new Social Order Crime Control Department (SOCCD). The SOCCD would also need a 9-11 type call center for inconsiderate emergencies at the office or in a shopping mall (we'd have to pay them quadruple time on Black Friday). Other than that the only cost would be a note pad to mark the offense so that the punched would have something to read while rubbing the throbbing pain on the side of their face.

Imagine with me, you are riding along in the right lane preparing to turn at the next intersection. Some guy in the left lane, on his cell phone, gets over in front of you as the light turns red. He is going straight so you have to wait for the light to change instead of turning right when it was safe to proceed because of this inconsiderate soul. Has he broken a law? No. Did he rob you of anything more than a few seconds of your day? No. Can you get over it without letting it impact you in any way? NO!

Wouldn't it be nice, as you sat there behind this bozo, if lights flashed and sirens whaled and a Punchman pulled up beside him handed him a piece of paper and then punched him in the face? Yes, yes it would. Justice would be served and you could go about your day with a smile on your face while Señor Poopyhead would think twice about how his actions impact those around him.

Now application of this type of justice wouldn't be so simple. It is twice as likely that the "he" in our story was a woman and the cell phone could have been, well a cell phone and/or, make-up or she was reaching for a CD or, my personal favorite, no external distraction whatsoever just lost in her own thoughts and not too concerned with the fact that she is operating a lethal hunk of metal traveling at high speeds on roads also occupied by other living breathing humans. But I digress...

My point is that nobody wants to see some dude punch a woman no matter what his title or her infraction. Obviously our female SOCCD members would handle female offenses. We'll call them SLAP (Slapped Lady Alternative to Punch) officers as they'll hand out only well-deserved slaps to the face. Trust me this can be even more gratifying than a fist to the chops.

Then there's the elderly. I live in one of the snowbird capitals of the world and, although nobody wants to say it, sometimes Meema and PopPop have earned a little chin music. I'm not suggesting that able bodied men and women go around roughing up G-paw or slapping down Granny. I'm not a monster. I propose a group of senior citizen volunteers sort of like the Sun City Sheriff's Posse. We'll call them Citizen's Cane as they'll be allowed to cane one another. (Tell me you're not smiling at the visual of an old guy with a light and siren on his motorized shopping cart waving a cane and chasing another old guy on his motorized shopping cart. Oh you're smiling. You're smil'n big time.)

Of course, like the police, warnings will obviously be an option and leniency granted to first time offenders but that's not as fun as talking about people getting socked (or SOCCD) in the face.

Fortunately in these hard economic times government won't be able to shoulder the financial burden of SOCCD and therefore won't be able to get involved and screw it up. We'll have to deputize civilians who are willing to stand up for the faceless masses that are wronged by the inconsiderate among us; those willing to bear the burden and swear an oath to uphold all that SOCCD stands for.

Punchmen Oath

I do solemnly declare upon my honour and conscience that I will act at all times to the best of my ability and knowledge in a manner befitting a Punchman (or Punchwoman)

I will preserve the dignity and will respect the rights of all individuals as I strike them with my God-given appendage of justice (or as I cane them or slap them silly)

I will discharge my duties with integrity and will promote understanding and consideration

I will exercise my authority as a Punchman (or Punchwoman) in the manner intended by this post

I will faithfully obey the orders of my superiors (Peder and Aaron) and will be ready to confront jerks, fools and a-holes in the line of duty

I will act with honesty, courtesy and regard for the welfare of others, unless they are inconsiderate in which case I will punch (slap or cane) them

I will act justly and impartially and with propriety towards my fellow punchers (slappers and caners) I will constantly strive to honour this oath in my service as a Punchman (or Punchwoman)

Now go. Go! Get them my pretties. And their little dog too.

### Remove Far From Me

You're so vain; you probably think this thought is about you. You're so vain; I'll bet you think this thought is about you. Don't you? Don't you?

Well it is if you are one of the millions...AND MILLIONS of Americans that have shelled out your hard earned cash for a customized license plate.

Personalized plates, vanity plates, prestige plates, specialty plates, I DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOUR PLATE IS! The only thing that matters is that this trend has grown into an epidemic. A 2007 survey showed that 9.7 million Americans paid extra for their very own "special" plate. I'd wager that number is much higher now because I can't drive to or from work without spotting 4 or 5 of these bad boys every day.

I'm certain the Motor Vehicle Division appreciates your contribution too. Here in Arizona its $25 for the initial fee and $25 annually to maintain your vanity (if you get a sports team or college plate $17 of those dollars does go to charity so that's something). Far be it from me to tell you how to spend your money, if it's important to you to have [REALTOR] on your PT cruiser so that everybody knows you sell homes then so be it. If you've got to tell the world that you are a [HOTGRL] driving around in your convertible Mazda Miata, fine.

Personally I think everyone who applies for a vanity plate should be issued the same plate because most times I'm thinking the same thing when I read them, but that would be problematic trying to distinguish one from the next. [JACKASS]

Don't get me wrong some are necessary like [NOT OJ] on your white Ford Bronco. Some are clever like [ICU2COP] and some are funny like [LUV2FRT] or [IFLNGPU] (fart and poo are always funny). Still others are redundant like [BUG] on a VW Beetle or [MNICUPR] on a Mini Cooper; we see what you are driving we don't need to read about it. Then there are those that are just flat out annoying like [COOL GUY] (unless you're being ironic) or [LAKERS] (because everybody knows Laker fans are obnoxious).

I'm not totally against the personalized plate but I'd like to set forth some guidelines that might help everyone involved.

First, BE ORIGINAL. If you can't get [FXYLDY] please do not settle for [FXYLDY3]. If [CATLVR] is already taken do not reach for [CATSLVR] or worse [CATZLVR]. And if some cool guy beats you to [COOL GUY] do not, I repeat DO NOT, talk yourself into [KOOL GUY].

True story: A guy I work with had the license plate E8. When asked what the significance of E8 was he explained that originally he wanted E, being that his name was Eric. That was taken so he decided E1 would be just as good, nope that was gone too; as was E2-E7. That's right, eight other bozos had the same idea and still he thought that E8 was worthy of $50 out of his pocket for a "personalized" plate. Come on!

Second, BE CREATIVE (and/or funny). Now there's nothing wrong with something simple like [BACON] or [SUNSHINE] (especially if either of those is a nickname or an obsession) but you are mounting this on the back of your car for others to see so why not put some thought into it. Something like [GIVETHX], or [BACKOFF], or something uplifting like [U R NXT] on the back of a hearse. If it's got to be about you make it something interesting like [D-WIFED] or [ATHEIST]; you know something that tells us a little about yourself besides that fact that you are extremely self-absorbed (the specialty plate already tells us that).

Finally, BE CLEAR. I can't tell you how many plates I see where I have no idea what they mean. Through years of self-affirmation I've convinced myself that I'm of above average intelligence and like to think I can figure out even a coded message on a vanity plate but some of you use it as a mobile billboard for inside jokes or acronyms that only you and your significant other understand. Why? These plague me for the rest of the day, sometimes I even Google them to no avail. It's maddening. Please, I beg you, don't go too far in your attempt to be original and creative and sacrifice clarity. Missing on No. 3 can cancel out No. 1 and No. 2.

Well that's it. If a random government issued set of numbers and letters just doesn't do it for you, if the urge to tell the world that [IM CUTE] or that you are [2WICKED] or a [LTL CRZY] is just too great then I guess there's no stopping you. Just keep in mind the poor souls behind you laboring to get to work or struggling to return home and [B GENTL].

### Not the tweet'n kind

In 2011 Newt Gingrich announced his intention to seek the Republican nomination for President of the United States of America...on Twitter. FYI he couldn't have tweeted that last sentence because it was over the 140 character Twitter limit (I checked).

Weeks earlier, Pittsburg Steelers running back, Rashard Mendenhall caused a stir by posting his thoughts on Osama Bin Laden's death and the World Trade Center attacks; also on Twitter.

In both cases what was shocking to me was not the content of their entries but the weight people gave to them. In my mind there's nothing contained in social media of any real significance. It should be light, fun and entertaining. It should not be news. Nothing posted on Facebook or Twitter should be a catalyst for someone making a major decision or formulating a valid and lasting opinion. The forum is too limited and any clown with a keyboard and monitor and create content (yes smart alecs just like this post. Shut it, I'm trying to make a point).

Likewise texting and instant messaging are insufficient for communicating anything of substance. All attempts to use these mediums to replace more personal interactions are folly.

Imagine with me, if you will, that this technology had been available in times past. They never could have substituted for good old fashion speaking or writing.

What if Martin Luther King Jr. had tweeted his famous I have a dream speech?

I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply r

And that would be it because he hit his 140 character limit.

How about if Kennedy had posted his inaugural address on Facebook?

John Kennedy And so, my fellow Facebook friends, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country. Also please like this post and share with your friends.

Let's say Lincoln had texted at Gettysburg?

4 score & 7 yrs ago r 4fathers...

It would be ridiculous and no one could have possibly taken them seriously. Why then do so many give so much credence to the communication wrought by these methods?

People please; I beg you, let's have some perspective. If you've got a smartphone and two thumbs you can put your thoughts out into cyberspace [brain not required]. This is not earth shattering stuff. While there are brilliant and clever applications for social media they are not a conduit for crucial information or a sufficient primary vehicle for social/political reform.

Am I the only one who thinks it's insane to launch a presidential campaign with the same app Lady Gaga could use to share what she had for breakfast?

I'll admit I text now and then. I'm on Twitter and Facebook but there's a season and a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to tweet and a time to text; a time to update your status and a time to refrain from updating your status. We are all just getting a little too carried away. Now if you'll excuse me I've got to link to this post on Facebook and tweet this junk to my tweeps.

P.S. I had a text version of Bush's 9/11 address:

OMG Osama! WTF! Not cool. BTW 187.

But I thought better of it. Not because it was in poor taste but because I could imagine him doing it. Just too close to reality.

### Dancing in the streets

I hope you'll forgive that this entry has a different tone and tenor from my other posts but it's my post and I'll decry if I want to.

The events of the past week have caused me to reflect somewhat and really examine how I feel about certain things.

I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach as the planes collided with the twin towers and those massive buildings collapsed. I tried to imagine the horror those people must have experienced in the last moments of their lives. I felt sadness for them and their families. I was relieved that none of my family or friends had been killed and I was scared for the future.

Glued to my television for the rest of the day I watched report after report as the details rolled in as to what had just happened. Although I was somewhat aware that other people in other countries didn't like the United States I had no idea the depth of their hatred and what that blind hatred would lead them to do.

I was shocked and horrified to see the reaction in certain parts of the world where people celebrated and danced in the streets, burning the American flag and singing. It made me angry, just as angry as I was at the people who had actually carried out this heinous mass murder. What kind of people, regardless of their feelings towards us, would celebrate death?

Flash forward nearly ten years. Sunday night the announcement came that Osama Bin Laden had been killed by U.S. forces. Every local channel cut from their programming as we waited for President Obama to make it official. Facebook and Twitter exploded as the word spread.

People tweeted things like "FINALLY..." or expressed their pride in our armed forces. Facebook posts ranged from "Ding Dong Bin Laden's dead" to "Rot in Hell."

Crowds began to gather outside the White House and at the site where the towers fell. Jubilant crowds held up signs and waved flags; some woo who'd at television cameras as they jogged by to join the masses. They sang The Star Spangled Banner and chanted U-S-A, U-S-A, U-S-A!

As I watched this scene unfold something just didn't feel right. What kind of people, regardless of their feelings toward him, would celebrate death?

I completely understand the deep feeling of satisfaction that people, including myself, feel as some measure of justice was served to a man who has brought so much pain and suffering to so many. I get that we, as a people, haven't had much to celebrate these past ten years; lives lost, a seemingly unending clustercuss of a war, an economic recession, loss of jobs and homes, rising gas prices and just an overall feeling of uncertainty. It really felt like we needed a win.

The goal was to bring Bin Laden to justice. I always believed that ultimately that would involve him dying, whether it was in a firefight or an execution ordered by a court. That part felt right to me.

I can't tell people what to feel or how to act but my hope is that we don't get carried away and lose sight of who we are. We did not ask for this, it came to us. We do not "delight in the shedding of blood...Nevertheless, [we] could not suffer to lay down [our] lives, that [our] wives and [our] children should be massacred by the barbarous cruelty of those who were once [our] brethren." (Alma 48:23)

Life is a precious gift from our Father in Heaven. It is a joyous occasion when a new life begins and rightly so. When a life ends that passing ought to be met at the very least with reverence not revelry.

There is most certainly evil in this world and I am grateful to the good men and women who tirelessly work and sacrifice to guard against it. Sometimes that means taking a life. However, let's not ever take lightly just what that means.

Top

# Chapter 4: I Should Just Stay Home

### No Shame in Car Singing

It's time people, time to remove the shameful stigmatism from singing in your car.

You know what I'm talking about. You're cruis'n down the road when your jam comes on the radio. Under the guise of privacy that your car provides you start groov'n along to the beat. Slowly and ever so quietly the words begin to escape from your mouth. Before you know it you're singing at the top of your lungs and loving every minute of it.

However, lurking at the next intersection is an ominous red light; a clear sign that the party is about to stop. You're still feeling those good vibrations only now you realize that you are indeed not alone. With a glance to your left you see that you've caught the attention of the driver next to you. Maybe he's laughing or maybe she is just staring at you, head shaking mouth agape it doesn't matter, like Marlin the clown fish the "good feeling's gone".

You bashfully look away, turn down the radio that was previously blasting and sit in silent shame waiting for the light to turn.

Why should an observer or two stop our little private karaoke car ride? The answer: It shouldn't.

Last week, due to conflicting schedules, I was without my carpool buddy. I heard Katy Perry's 'California Gurls' on the radio three times. Did I sing along? You betcha, every time. The only way to break this shame cycle is to move beyond the fear of ridicule, abandon our self-reproach, set aside mortification and let the rhythm move you. Of course this was made easy because while I was rock'n out with Katy my lady there wasn't a car around.

The real test came on my ride home. With Lady GaGa's 'Bad Romance' bump'n through my Honda I was somewhere between "I want your love" and "I want your revenge" when I rolled up to the stoplight. I noticed the car next to me inch forward a bit; undoubtedly my famous seated dance moves caught his attention. Mid head-bob I threw him a nod without missing a beat and burst into an "Oh-oh-oh-oh-Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!" Then I shouted something that sounded like "La Cucaracha!" I don't know what she's really saying, something in French, it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that I was not ashamed. He started to laugh and the light turned. We both went on our way only, for me, the hit parade kept on rolling all the way home.

Say it with me "I [insert your name], sing in my car and am not ashamed!"

There, doesn't that feel better. Now the next time you are singing along to Taylor Swift (don't judge me you know you do it) and you find someone peeping in on your performance; resist the urge to turn down the volume and fall into the car singing shame spiral. Instead consider them an unpaid spectator to your show. If they don't like it they can look away. You just keep singing your little heart out.

My hope is that my children can grow up in a world where it's perfectly acceptable for them to sing in their car without fear of ridicule or rebuke. Now if you'll excuse me I've got to get my carpool buddy up to speed on our Carpenters 'Superstar' duet for the ride home today.

### Confessions of a Shopahater

There are those who love shopping. There are even those who are addicted to it. They find browsing through potential purchases euphoric and love bringing home something new, especially if it was on sale. It's more than just something they choose to fill their time with but the actual event or destination that has prompted them to leave their homes.

I am not one of those people.

Shopping, for me, has always been more of a chore than a pleasure. It boils down to two things really. First, I'm cheap and would prefer not to spend money. Second, and probably more important, if I need something I'm going to get it and only it and I want to find it as quickly as possible.

There's a certain mindset one needs to go shopping and I don't have it. This deficiency makes shopping almost painful to me.

Case in point, when I was single I went grocery shopping once a week. I went to the same store each week and bought the same things. I had a route mapped out where everything was that I was looking for and I followed a preconceived pattern that got me back to the register with the fewest amount of turns and no back tracking. I could complete my shopping odyssey in under five minutes which seemed just right to me.

One of the first shopping trips after I got married we went to the same store that I had always shopped at. I fully expected to deviate from my routine being that she was new to the store and had different tastes and requirements than I had. We began by getting a cart and heading to the produce section which was foreign to me but I was fine with it. She perused through the fruits and vegetables and made her selections and we moved one. We turned down the first aisle we came to and followed it to the end, selecting nothing. That was immediately followed by a trip down the adjoining aisle where we got the peanut butter that I was accustom to getting, although she looked several other brands first. I began to get antsy as we were already well over the five minute mark and the thorough aisle by aisle pattern we were setting would certainly have us there a while longer. Still I was happy to spend time with my new bride and didn't much care what we were doing. Fifteen minutes later I fought the impulse to run screaming as she examined the contents of two different brands of the same product. By the time we reached the register I was a shell of my former self; a shaken sweaty mess desperate to escape from this gondola bordered prison.

It wasn't too many more such shopping trips before we agreed that it was best that I not accompany her to the store any more. After all she didn't want to drag around an agitated mess and I found it excruciating to hover over her shoulder in an aisle where nothing might even be purchased.

I know some of you are saying that grocery shopping isn't really shopping and that real shopping is fun. Oh contraire.

Women have a shopping stamina that men just don't possess. Women can shop for hours on end, store after store, and not feel the effects until they are nearly done. Men on the other hand aren't built for shopping. You know those little sitting areas in the mall? They were built for men; men and little old ladies, but mostly for men. I can go on a three day backpacking expedition and not feel as tired as one trip around the mall.

Recently I've had two terrifying experiences in an IKEA. The first was to purchase a gift for my wife and the second was to return said gift with my wife to get her something she'd actually like (I could write an entire different post on this topic but that will have to wait).

My first IKEA adventure was solo. I knew what I wanted to get and had been there once before so thought I had a rough idea where to find it. I was, however, unaware that IKEA was Swedish for 'Abandon all hope ye who enter here'.

I quickly became disoriented in the labyrinth of home décor and accessories. Trying not to panic I looked for signs or landmarks that could tell me where I was or how to find the section I was looking for. At long last I happened upon the object of my desire. I gave brief consideration to several different patterns and made my selection.

Sadly my adventure was only beginning. I discovered signs and arrows on the floor that said they led to an exit. I followed them twisting and turning through the dizzying maze of shelving and furniture and finally came to stairs that I hoped would lead me home.

At the bottom of the stairs I was met with disappointment as the network on the bottom floor was just as diabolically constructed as the top floor. I still followed the now taunting blue arrows but began losing hope that I'd ever see the light of day again. Just as I felt my legs would give out I saw it; a large sign that said EXIT. I crawled past the potted plants and plastic ware and entered what appeared to be a warehouse. Surely this was the end. It was not, and don't call me Shirley. I saw nothing that resembled registers or an exit. I forged on while planning in the back of my mind a potential rescue plan for when my strength inevitably failed me. With great relief I caught sight of the registers around the next corner and felt renewed energy as I saw the light at the end of this eternally long shopping tunnel. After a few more minutes in line with two bitter man-hating women and a young mother with a hostile child I was free at last. A tear came to my eye as I climbed in the car, rolled down the windows and exited the parking lot. It was over, if only temporarily.

Experience told me to save the receipt as my taste in purchases for girls and women...well it stinks. So it was no surprise when the decision was made to return the item. What was surprising was the timing of the return as my wife thought that we could go together as part of our next date. So with silent horror I once again returned to that Swedish death trap.

I took comfort in the fact that I now had an experienced and well trained guide who could gladly withstand the rigors of a shopping trip. After all this is the woman who chooses to go shopping without a particular object in mind and who gets up early on Saturday mornings to go garage saling, for fun. I completely forgot about what other hardships coincided with such a battle tested travel companion.

I tightly clutched her hand as we entered the store and ascended the escalator. The anxiety welling up inside of me with nearly unbearable, I suppressed the familiar urge to scream and run. I knew right where to go this time and began to hurriedly make my way through the hodgepodge of self-assembly furnishings when I felt a tug on my arm. I looked back to find her stopped in front of a small looking bed or table. She wondered if it was a basinet or a changing table. I bit my tongue as we had no immediate need for either and said that I thought it was a changing table and beckoned her to follow me and resume our march towards our objective.

The next unscheduled stop was to collect some bowls and plates that I was unaware we needed. She stated that it was her intention to get them all along, so we moved on without much more protest from me.

After stopping to peruse a few other odds and ends we reached the section where I had purchased the original item. After looking at the displays she said that another section existed downstairs with a better selection. I quickly grabbed her hand and led the way to the stairs following the aforementioned blue arrows. She paused at the landing in the stairs to look through some bins and picked up an ice cream scoop. I asked, "Did you want to get that ice cream scoop?" to which she nonchalantly replied "No," and returned the scoop to the bin. I held back a baffled head shake, as I knew that would certainly provoke a dirty look, and we continued on our way.

Following several brief detours in the kitchenware section we came to textiles where I hoped we'd conclude our shopping for the day before making our way to the exit. I laid my head down on a large ergonomic pillow display while she looked up and down the vast array of different patterns. After briefly dozing off I looked up to see her holding something. I asked if she'd found one that she liked and she said she thought she had but that we'd need to get new curtains to match. The room began spinning and I felt as if I might throw up; I can't be certain but my eyes and ears may have begun bleeding. I pulled myself together and said that we should go look at them as we had passed the curtains just a few minutes earlier. I placed her selection with the other things we'd picked up and threw that IKEA bag on my back like Chewbacca carrying C3PO in Empire Strikes Back and we back tracked to the curtain section.

We didn't find anything to her liking and she suggested that there were better selections elsewhere and that we could go. A surge of joy bubbled up inside of me but almost immediately burst as we'd spend the next several minutes looking at chairs that we both agreed were too expensive but were just what she was looking for to go in the living room.

I could no longer remember what life was like outside the walls of this fabric and plywood laden tomb. I was sure that I'd spend the rest of my days looking at rugs and assorted cutlery but then suddenly and without warning it happened. We checked out.

My sweet wife bought me a cinnamon roll, most likely as a reward for being such a good boy, and we left. As I put that blue and yellow nightmare in my rear view mirror I was happy to be eating that frosting covered goodness, but not half as happy as I was to be done shopping...forever.

### Just the beginning

I am not a "handy" man. I do not say that to excuse myself as these are self-imposed limits to my home improvement abilities. These limits were set years ago when I discovered that I'd rather do other things with my time than re-tile a bathroom or install crown molding throughout the house. From my conversations with other men I realize that I am in the minority here; still there hasn't been a compelling argument to change my mind, so I do what I feel comfortable with and leave the rest to others.

My general rule of thumb is that if I can't complete a task in a weekend I'm enlisting the help of someone else. And by "enlisting the help" I mean I'm going to pay someone because I don't want to do it. I'll do what needs to be done but feel no desire to stray far outside my comfort zone.

It's not that I don't get that deep sense of satisfaction from a do-it-yourself job, I do. Matter of fact in many cases that feeling of satisfaction is probably disproportionate to the actual task. For instance I can repair a broken rail on a kitchen drawer and feel like Bob Villa. Heck I installed a couple of ceiling fans in our first home and you would have thought I framed the walls and poured the foundation that held them up the way I showed them off. The thing is that feeling that comes from a do-it-yourself job hardly ever justifies, at least in my mind, the headache that accompanies said job.

Case in point, this past weekend I had some work to do on my grass. I had some other errands to run and took my youngest child with me. We went to Home Depot and made our way over to the lawn and garden section. I found the necessary bags of stuff I was going to spread over my wilting lawn and to my delight saw there was no waiting at the lawn and garden register. I paid for my things and we loaded up the car and returned home.

I hadn't taken two steps in the door when my wife asked if I remembered to get the replacement sprinkler heads for the back yard. Doah! In my excitement at finding an open register I had forgotten about the sprinklers.

I retrieved my keys from the kitchen counter and headed back to the Depot. I arrived at the irrigation isle and only then remembered that there were two heights of sprinkler heads. I had run into this the last time I had to replace one and remembered that fortunately at that time I had guessed right. I held the 2" and 4" heads in my hand. After a brief internal debate I decided that I was 51% sure that I had the 2" sprinkler heads. I grabbed two with the appropriate configuration and headed for the checkout. It was then I ran across a display of 4" sprinkler heads bundled in a 4 pack for additional savings. The cheapskate inside of me caused me to return the 2" sprinkler heads on the chance that I could save money and have a surplus for the next time I needed one. So I, with some trepidation, tucked the 4 pack under my arm and headed home.

After unearthing the first sprinkler, much to my chagrin, I found that my gamble was folly as a pulled a 2" casing from the ground. I cursed my foolishness but wisely dug out the other sprinkler head as well. I discovered that it too was a 2" head but with a ½ inch extension, meaning that I would have had to return for a third trip even if I had stayed with my original 2" selection.

So I took the shameful trip to the returns counter and explained that I had gotten the wrong part. She said 'no problem' and took my 4 pack and placed it in a full bin next to like six other bins full of returns. As I was leaving the store, with the correct parts this time, I passed a man in the parking lot who had exited the building with me on my first trip. He was walking towards the store carrying a bag with a receipt. We exchanged a knowing smile and nod as we passed each other and he continued on his own walk of shame.

Can somebody tell me why it is that trips to Home Depot are like potato chips, you can never have just one?

I know you purveyors of hindsight wisdom will say that with a bit more planning or preparation you can avoid multiple trips. If we were talking about any other place in the world I would say that you were correct, but not Home Depot. Oh no, it can't be done. You'll forget something or buy the wrong size or get too much or not enough. You'll discover a previously unseen problem buried beneath the original problem or find that the final product isn't how you imagined it and you'll have to start over. It will happen; something will compel you to return.

It's a phenomenon like Big Foot and UFO's or ESP and Déjà vu; you can't explain it but you know it's there. So don't smirk at the wild eyed tales of an unending loop of Home Depot horror trips. One day it will be you. When that moment arrives remember me and remember at Home Depot you can do it and they can help but more saving means more doing and low prices are just the beginning of your descent into madness. Sometimes it's just not worth it.

### Proud Parenting Moments

The longer I live and the more I'm around people it seems the more I find that bothers me about them. I've long ago accepted that I may not be meant to get along with people at large. As a parent I try very hard not to pass on my contempt for humanity to my children and find that with a few (more than a few if you ask my wife) exceptions I've been successful.

One of those exceptions seems to be when I'm driving on the road, you know, with humanity. Don't get me wrong it's nothing close to road rage or anything but I'm beyond baffled by the inconsiderate and completely oblivious way people operate motor vehicles. On semi-frequent occasions I'll verbalize my discontent towards a fellow motorist in front of my children. Of course there are two immediate consequences for my tirades. First is the inner guilt and shame for the poor example I've just shown to my children. Second, my sweet loving wife looks at me with both shock and horror for the manner in which I've addressed another human while simultaneously looking like she wants to hurt me for the aforementioned poor example.

As my children grew older and began to speak something funny happened. Thankfully due to the more prominent role their mother plays in their lives they took to her disposition and became quasi-deputized bad word police.

I'll never forget one time while driving on the freeway I was cut off by a woman on a cell phone who never even saw me. After spewing several kind words in her general direction my daughter spoke up from the back of the van saying, "Dad, we don't say idiot. Mom, is freaking a bad word?" After absorbing a long wicked look from the woman I love I resolved to do better.

Still I've found it nearly impossible not to backslide periodically because of the aggravating nature of my relationship with stupid people. That leads me to my proud parenting moment of the day.

Let me say in my brief parenting career I've had many proud parenting moments. Whether it was when my first born child was just a year old and said "Son of a" when he fell backwards on his bum or when my daughter raised her hand during a Sunday School lesson on making good choices and announced to the entire primary that, and I quote, "My daddy says bad words...all the time." When I mentioned doing a regular 'Proud Parenting' segment my wife suggested that I might have enough material for a bi-weekly installment. She's so supportive.

Anywho, I was running errands with the kids and had multiple unpleasant run-ins with people of below average intelligence. First up was a winter visitor from the great state of Wisconsin who was unable to find the gas pedal and put me in the uncomfortable position of squeezing in on a yellow light. I may or may not have muttered something about people not native to our state which my son apparently overheard. When he questioned me about who I was referring to I explained that Foreigner was a 70's rock band. He sat in confused silence pondering why a 70's rock band had upset me and we moved on.

Next up we were approaching the store and this punk teenager with his hat on backwards was doing 50MPH in the parking lot. My son asked "Why is he driving so fast" to which I replied, "Because he's an idiot." My distain for that delinquent at that moment caused the words to bypass my parental filter which even in the best of times only operates at sixty percent.

We next found ourselves waiting in line behind a lady and her daughter at a Redbox dispenser. She allowed the youngster to peruse the child's section at her leisure before eventually selecting the movie of her choice. Then this discourteous wretch browsed through the entire selection in the machine looking at several movie descriptions and even took a phone call when her cell phone rang. I bit my tongue and kept my cool even when after all that she failed to pick a movie. I was able to shake it off because we only had one more stop to go and then I could return to my sanctuary away from..., well, everyone.

We drove to our final destination and pulled in to an open parking slot. I started to get my toddler out of his car seat while the other two exited the van on the other side. As they were opening the doors I spotted a white sedan in the other aisle cutting through the open spot between our van and the car on the other side of it just a foot away from my children who were opening their doors. I yelled at them to stop and only then did they finally see the car whizzing past their faces. They were frightened as was I. I walked around the car to supervise their safe exit as the sedan sped away, no doubt off to spoil somebody else's day with his thoughtlessness. I kept my children close as we walked in silence towards the store when my sweet baby girl looked up at me with exasperation and said, shaking her head, "Two idiots in one day." I smiled to myself put my arm around her as we continued towards the store and said "Sometimes that's the way it goes."

### The Way You Lie

Each person who purposefully embarks on the journey of parenthood has a basic understanding of what will be expected once the new life they've spawned enters the world. That is they will be responsible for the necessities of life; food, clothing, shelter and protection. In addition they have the obligation to care for the emotional and mental wellbeing of the child.

Naturally young children look to their parents to provide these fundamentals. They look to their parents as they form the foundation of morals and principles that they'll carry with them throughout their lives.

As parents we want our children to be healthy and happy; we want them to understand basic principles of right and wrong. We use stories and fables to illustrate the importance of honesty like "The boy who cried wolf" and "Pinocchio". No child wants to be eaten by a wolf or sport an unusually long nose while their bloomers are a blazing. Why is it then that we parents have given old Jiminy Cricket a collective flip from off our shoulders?

I'm not a psychologist but my understanding of cognitive dissonance is basically when our idea of who were are, or who we are supposed to be, doesn't match up with our actions. If I may get biblical it's like trying to serve two masters. There are immediate and acute feelings that accompany this gap between what we say and what we do. When faced with this chasm we can either change our attitudes, beliefs or actions; or take the much easier road of justifying, blaming or denying.

Its Christmas time, as the song says 'the most wonderful time of the year'. This is the season where Christians celebrate the birth of our Savior Jesus Christ whose life exemplified the manner in which we should live ours. However, our modern celebration of this event is built on the biggest worldwide conspiracy to deceive and bamboozle the most innocent amongst us.

***SPOILER ALERT*** For those of you reading this who truly believe in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, the Easter Bunny, leprechauns, and all other magical beings please stop reading now. It's about to get real, kids.

Now I know there are those of you out there saying ho-ho-hold on a minute you're not going to tell us that you have told your children the truth about Santa and the tooth fairy? No, of course not, I too am complicit in this monumental betrayal of trust. I too live by ingesting a healthy dose of justification and denial (note: a spoon full of sugar really helps it go down). My purpose is simply to point out inconsistent behavior in others and pretend that I am, in every way, above it all.

So why do we do it? Sure, our parents did it to us. Sure, everybody's doing it. Sure, we're not hurting anybody. But aren't those just the excuses that we would never accept from our children? What could possibly compel us to halt the practicing of what we are preaching?

Let's examine the word "Santa", shall we? S-A-N-T-A, Santa. Let's see, what have we got here? We've got an S and an A, an N, a T, and another A. Hmm... Who would help grown men and women peel the focus from the baby Jesus on his birthday? Who could it be, I just don't know. Could it be... Satan!! [Church lady voice]

Seriously though, the origins of these traditions and stories came about far before our arrival here on earth. They've changed and grown throughout time. They are harmless enough. Most are used to provide gifts and a sense of wonder and magic in the world. Each of us have our own cherished memories and feelings as it relates to these mythical creatures and want the same for our children.

Imagine with me, if you will, the alternative.

A young impressionable child approaches you and looks up with those big innocent eyes and asks, "Is there really a Santa Claus?"

You bend down, place your hand gently on his shoulder and say, "Listen Bobby,"

"My name is Billy."

"It doesn't matter what your name is. The only thing that matters is that you know the truth. You've been duped. The media and the entire adult community have conspired against you and those naïve little toddlers you run around with. Your parents buy toys weeks in advance and hide them in the closet, in the garage or at a neighbor's house. It's all right under your nose. They wait until you are asleep and then sneak around like cat burglars assembling and wrapping presents only to later tell you that they were built and delivered by magical elves that choose to live in a frozen wasteland that you can never find. To top it off they commit a Class A misdemeanor by forging the name of the head magic elf on your packages. Oh and the tooth fairy is your mother, your dad hides all those eggs and the leprechaun thing, well, I'm still not sure how you bought that one. I'm not going to lie to you kid. I wouldn't do that to you. This is honesty. You're welcome. Now clean up this mess; just use those tears to wipe up your hopes and dreams off the floor."

Nobody wants that. So we lie. We tell ourselves that it's a good thing we are doing and then we lie. Oh and for those of you saying to yourself 'I don't lie to my children, I just let them believe'. You are the worst kind. You feel more deeply than most that something in your behavior is amiss and you can't even bring yourself to say it out loud. You say things like "Well what do you believe?" or "It's real if you believe it is." Remember honesty is not only truth telling but truth living. So don't think you can separate yourself from the rest of us just because you don't tell your children stories of a jolly fat man who can fit down a chimney barely big enough for a squirrel, or spin wild tales of a giant storm in fairyland that delayed the tooth fairy when you forgot to replace that tooth with a quarter the previous night. You're no better than we.

That brings me to the final tangle in this web we weave. Eventually they get wise to this game. They grow older and smarter. We too get old and sloppy. Gifts are found prematurely. Inconsistencies develop in our stories. The questions become more penetrating and poignant. So what do we do? We ramp up the lies of course.

We tell ourselves we're doing it for them. They are too young to let go of the magic. It's too soon for them to handle it. The truth is though that we are terrified at how they'll handle our betrayal and will do whatever it takes to cover it up for as long as we can.

So pull it together. Get your stories straight. If you have to invent new magical creatures to cover for the old ones who've failed or slide down that chimney yourself; you do it. Use props, costumes, elaborate stories, skits, magic tricks, whatever it takes. You lie until you've painted yourself so tight in the corner that only your little piggy is touching. You keep up the deception until they are old enough to learn the truth from their friends, older siblings or strangers on the street because that kind of thing should never come from their parents whom they trust. Remember it's all for the children.

### You Can't Handle the Tooth

Welcome to part II of my deceiving our children series.

Any rookie parent can pull off the Santa thing. It's an annual event that you spend weeks gearing up for along with everyone else. The application of carrying out such a charade is well established and you just plug yourself into one role and your children into another. "Santa won't come until you're asleep and he only comes to good little girls and boys." Badda boom badda bing. Done.

Hollywood lends a hand cranking out film after film and TV special after TV special. They keep children's heads spinning with a dizzying array of stories and different versions of how the magic happens. Really you just pick one and go with it.

If you can't pull off Christmas you should just take your kids back and get a refund (by the way, can someone find out if that's possible? Just curious.)

The real test of parental fortitude is the perilous and unrelenting molar parade that is the tooth fairy. Although it sounds dainty I'm here to tell you it ain't for sissies.

Once they hit that magic age it can strike at any moment. And you've got to be on your toes for years. Doesn't matter if you're tired, sick, busy or distracted; when that tooth pops loose you've got to be ready for action.

Unlike Christmas you are on your own. There's no massive worldwide effort complete with reminders in every store and on every channel. Nope it's just you versus your own guile.

And don't expect any help from Hollywood either. Sure the tooth fairy has a cameo now and then but there's only one full length feature film dedicated to the topic and despite The Rock's best efforts even he can't save you when the day (or more appropriately night) of reckoning arrives.

Whether your sweet innocent child comes to you with tooth in hand or you pry it loose from their gaping jaws with a set of pliers; operation incisor has now been activated. Tying a string to it and slamming the door or dropping a toaster is only half the battle; and it's the easy half.

No your task is, without outside aid or assistance, to remember.

You help your child place the tooth underneath their pillow, hopefully positioning it for easy extraction later. You kiss them goodnight and tell them to sleep tight. Then you settle into your nightly routine. Therein lies the problem. Your nightly routine does not include a stealth recon mission into enemy territory. Nope, you wind down or straighten up; you finish up work or veg out in front of the TV. Then it's off to bed.

Then in the wee hours of the morning a tiny disappointed person approaches your bed. "The tooth fairy didn't come last night." Horror and shame washes over you. How could you forget? You are in it now. You have no choice but to lie (and by "lie" I mean lie more). You try to comfort the child with fabricated stories of the perilous lives of tooth fairies. Maybe there was a blizzard in tooth fairy land or maybe the tooth fairy was trapped by the neighbor's dog and couldn't make it. Maybe the tooth fairy called in sick.

At first the tender hearted innocent fruit of your loins accepts your canard, but then comes the questions. "What's tooth fairy land like?" Of course you don't have an immediate response to this out of the blue question. Seeking satisfaction your child pens a letter to the tooth fairy and places it under their pillow with the forgotten tooth.

This time, motivated by guilt, you do not forget. You replace the tooth with money and reply to the child's note with a simple story of a magic land with tooth shaped buildings and pray they don't recognize that the tooth fairy and Santa have identical hand writing.

Now's where the tangled web you've woven becomes suffocating. Their younger sibling is delighted by this reply and decides they too will compose a letter to the tooth fairy at their next de-toothing. Only this time they go a step further and ask for a picture of you, the tooth fairy. The tooth fairy, you, replies back that you, the tooth fairy (Which is, again, you...wait I'm confused. Where were we? Oh yes, the tooth fairy), don't have a picture but will gladly draw one. You, the tooth fairy, sketch a tinkle bell like picture and replace the note with a monetary token for the lost tooth.

Seeking to head off any further written correspondence you, the parent, explain to your children that they ought not to bother the tooth fairy, you, with letters because they are busy and might miss other girls and boys if they take time to respond to your note. Shameless, I know.

So that is settled and all is right with the world until that blurry eyed child wanders into your room again, lower lip protruding, mournfully exclaiming "The tooth fairy didn't come last night".

Without hesitation you reply, "Sweetie, that's because it's Cusp of Carabelli Day. It's a tooth fairy holiday."

You're a monster.

### Kids Gone Wild

Let's start with a little back story. As a child I routinely spent part of my summer with either my mom's dad or my dad's mom. Not only were these visits a chance for me to spend quality time with my grandparents but they were a wonderful opportunity to learn from an older generation. At the time I didn't even realize the lessons learned but as I've grown older I find myself drawing on those experiences more and more.

One such experience came as I went to church with Grandma Millie. From what I could tell my grandmother was well liked by the congregation and had many friends where she attended church. That's what made what happened next so shocking. As we sat in the pews listening to the speaker this particular Sunday I noticed a small child wandering down the aisle unsupervised. My grandma turned around and looked at the child's progenitors. When she saw that they weren't moving, without hesitation, she got up and laid hold on the child and delivered him to his parents. She returned to our seat looking more than mildly annoyed.

I was mortified by her actions. Over the years I witnessed that scene play out a half dozen times. Finally I questioned her as to why she did that. She explained that children cannot be allowed to run the show and parents ought to be setting boundaries. My grandma had no problem showing us kids who was boss and I had the bruises on my backside to prove it.

Being a parent is extremely difficult. It is no mystery where the source of the difficulty lies. As the legendary comedian put it, children have brain damage. "My parents never smiled... because I had brain damage. My wife and I don't smile because our children are LOADED with it." -Bill Cosby

Before I had children of my own I used to tell people that I was prejudice against children and I believed it. Since becoming a parent I realized that my beef was not with that brain damaged miniature person but with his or her parents.

You see parenting is a war. The first rule of war is know thyself and know thy enemy. Parents you are in charge. A child is looking for boundaries, constantly testing their limits. Yes, it is an exhausting and seemingly never ending battle but you cannot concede. "In any moment of decision [or parenting], the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing." -Theodore Roosevelt

Kids don't act right. Sure it's embarrassing when it happens but any reasonable person won't fault a parent when a kid throws a fit. However, when a child doesn't act right and a parent doesn't act at all then we've got a problem.

Parents get up off of your rears and parent your children. Please I beg you stop these little bedlamites from running amuck at church, in restaurants, at the movies, in the store or really anywhere that I may be.

I understand that reasoning with your little brain damaged offspring is a fruitless endeavor and I'm certainly not condoning anyone abusing a child but there's got to be some effort to restrain or subdue these tiny psychopaths. The great General Sun Tzu said in The Art of War, "To fight and conquer in all our battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting."

All I ask is the establishment and enforcement of rules and boundaries. Provide real and immediate consequences and you'll be surprised how quickly behavior changes. Does this mean that the battle is over and the war is won? Hardly, but that's the game you sign up for when you take the title of "mom" or "dad". Oh and one more thing, "No" is not a bad word. Use it, liberally if necessary, because a child who is unaccustomed to hearing it becomes a nightmare for future adult authority figures whom they will inevitably encounter.

My fear is that those who will take this the hardest are those that are genuinely trying and fighting that good fight. For those I echo the words of Jeffrey R. Holland "...if you are trying to do the best you can...in spite of the bedlam that sometimes reigns in a houseful of little bedlamites—then give yourself high marks."

As for the rest of you, you're on notice. I will no longer sit idly by and watch your tiny terrorists wreaking havoc upon the masses and setting a poor example for my own diminutive derelicts. Like my grandmother before me I am going to intervene for the good of the child and humanity. You have been warned.

### Fathers and Star Wars

The other day it struck me that the Star Wars saga is a pretty accurate representation of the journey of fatherhood.

Father of children (Episode I)

When your children are small you run around the galaxy like Qui-Gon Jinn with a mostly obedient Obi-Wan Kenobi tagging along. You call the shots and mold your trusty young padawan with the intention he'll one day be just like you. Although everyone warns you that the next phase is fraught with peril and destined to end badly you press on full of optimism. Alas, all too quickly, it comes to an abrupt end as you take a light saber to the gut from a mysterious dark force (adolescence).

Father of teenagers (Episodes II & III)

All of a sudden you are a flustered and befuddled Obi-Wan strapped with a moody, angry, slightly whiny padawan who thinks he knows everything. You see the great potential that Anakin possesses but fear you are going to have to kill him before he reaches it. When Anakin isn't busy not listening to you he is hanging out with shady figures that are bad influences. Inevitably comes the conflict that ends with you, literally or figuratively, screaming at him through weary tear soaked eyes, "YOU WERE THE CHOSEN ONE!" while he growls up at you wallowing in his resentment and remorse. [Disclaimer: this isn't indicative of all teenagers just those that eat and breathe.]

Father of adults (Episode IV: A New Hope)

Your reward for those tumultuous Anakin years is a much more willing subject, Luke. You are older now and a little wiser and more patient. Your apprentice understands he doesn't know everything and is eager to learn what you know although he is at times impatient; wanting to possess skills and knowledge it's taking you a lifetime to acquire. Still you are grateful for a second chance and a more receptive vessel. While you want to instruct him in all things you will wisely decide that it's best that he learn for himself. As scary and painful as it may be, when the time is right, you will choose to leave him alone.

Father of Adults part II (Episodes V & VI: Return of the Jedi)

Although he is grown and more experienced he will still seek for guidance. The years have given you additional knowledge that can benefit him but are too old to go chasing around the galaxy. If he wants your wisdom he's going to have to come to Dagobah and put up with a heaping spoonful of your craziness and eat whatever crap you cook up. If he shows the slightest disinterest or lack of faith you can hit him with your cane and say bad things to him and he just has to take it because you are old. Do or do not, there is no try.

One day you'll fade away and all you can do is hope you've prepared him well enough to deal with crazy old Anakin and the dark side better than you did.

Top

# Chapter 5: Oh Boy

### Close Encounter

Trust me, I know this will sound like a dream or like I'm making it up but this terrifying story is absolutely true. I wouldn't have believed it myself if it hadn't happened to me.

I found myself in a room, with only a fuzzy recollection of how I'd gotten there. The walls were plain and the environment sterile. Although I was alone I sensed it would not be for long. Surveying my surroundings I could see the room was lit almost entirely by artificial lighting.

Before I could move, the surface I was laying on began to rise from the floor. I felt a weight on my chest, like being restrained by a thousand blankets, but in place of alarm I felt oddly comforted. Out of nowhere an odd cylindrical device appeared hovering in front of me. It must have been examining me because it swept across my face from left to right emitting an unearthly buzz at certain intervolves and then as quickly as it came it disappeared and the weight lifted.

Alone again the foundation on which I rested descended back towards the floor. Just then I heard sounds of distress and anguish coming from the other side of the wall. Immediately they were almost completely drowned out by the sound of mechanical machinery. A wave of panic swept over me as I lay there helplessly wondering if whatever misfortune occurring in the adjacent cell was meant next for me.

Suddenly a blinding light emerged directly over me. Simultaneously, very calmly and silently, it entered the room from somewhere above and behind me. Its face was covered by a mask of some kind but from the genteel high tone of its voice I gathered that it was probably female.

She wasted no time setting to work on me. First she jammed a long probe into my mouth. I can only imagine it was with the design of extracting vital organs as a vacuum of some sort engaged and began to pull with great force. Somehow I remained calm. Not knowing what it wanted I wasn't going to show any signs of weakness.

When attempts at extracting my organs through suction failed she moved on. Without word and without warning she plunged a metallic instrument into the open cavity where the first probe still remained. A sharp pointy apparatus whose sole purpose could only be for torture. Then the interrogation began; she questioned me about my family life, my occupation and inane details about the events of that day. Instinctually I began to speak before I could stop myself. Ashamed at how easily I had succumb to this clearly superior being, I tried to console myself that through the pain and torture my garbled words might not be understood.

As she continued to poke and scrape at the soft tissue in the recesses of my skull I wanted to cry out, to beg for mercy, to attempt to break free and run. "Why are you doing this to me?!" I thought. "What do you want from me?! Please, I beg you, let me go!" I had to steel myself against such thoughts for I knew from the tone of her voice that any such supplication would be met with cold indifference. Something that could remain so calm and even friendly while carrying out such unspeakable acts was no doubt passed feeling. I gripped the sides of my support with white knuckled fury and desperately tried to remember happier times.

With a new probe she injected a liquidy substance down my throat. Surely this was some sort of advanced enhanced interrogation method akin to water boarding. I fought hard now gasping for air as I attempted not to swallow the liquid and bile filling my mouth. I found unexpected relief from the suction probe still actively engaged. Unwittingly it seemed that her multiple uses of torturous techniques were momentarily canceling each other out.

Finally another figure, her superior from what I could discern, entered the room. Eyes just as cold and empty as the last, this overlord perched opposite from my tormenter. Again the tone of its voice was friendly like the last only deeper, male perhaps. Calmly he produced a reflective sphere and slowly started to circumnavigate the interior of my mouth as if inspecting the work of my afflicter. When he was satisfied he got up and left.

I was then escorted down a long hallway and released into the marvelous light of day; a sight I feared I would never see again. I was free. I don't know how long I had been held or why, all I knew was that it was over. It was only then I realized they had put something in my hand before liberating me. I looked down to see a card with a date on it, exactly six months from that day. Horror welled up inside of me at the thought of repeating this encounter in six short months. I immediately tried to block it from my mind with a vague inkling that I had previously repeated this exercise.

Believe me I know how this sounds. I wish it weren't true, but it is. Please I implore you, not to dismiss this or scuff at my wild tale because one day soon it might be you.

### Farewell old friend

This morning my wife found a teeny tiny hole in my black Eddie Bauer polo, that I've been rock'n for nearly a decade. Sadly that means its days are numbered.

Soon my black Eddie Bauer polo will go the way of the plaid frayed collar shirt, or the faded used-to-be navy blue shirt or the you-can't-wear-that green shirt (with a hole in the armpit).

You see my wife is the grim reaper of old shirts. One day I'll look in my closet and my black Eddie Bauer polo will be gone. I'll ask "Say Love, have you seen my black polo?" She'll reply with something like "What black polo?" And then her gaze will turn upward, she'll get that far off look in her wild eyes and a small evil grin will form on her lips. Then I'll know that my black Eddie Bauer polo is no more.

It doesn't stop with shirts either. She secretly hates all things old. Shoes, socks, numerous tooth brushes, my mission backpack all met their demise at her hands. And what was their crime? They had been useful for far too long.

Every day that passes, each time my knees pop or I groan when I stand up the fear grows inside of me because it's happening. I'm getting older.

It's inevitable, one day I'll be "old". Metaphorically speaking I'll be faded and frayed with holes in my proverbial armpit. When that day comes and you say "I haven't seen your husband in a while." and she gets that far off look in her eyes and says "What husband?", don't doubt your memories. She did indeed have a husband...that is until he got old.

### Parting is such...

I'm an ardent supporter of the old adage "Use it up, wear it out, make do or do without." Not sure why but that's always made sense to me. Perhaps it was observing my grandfather, who was brought up during the Great Depression. He kept everything and used it until it couldn't be used again, then he'd try and find another use for it before eventually, reluctantly, discarding it. And by "discarding it" I mean he stored it in his garage/workshop.

I take a good deal of pride and satisfaction in making something last. I've written before of a beloved twelve year old polo shirt, that I still have by the way, and my attachment to it. The old worn out belt I'm wearing right now is nearly as old and I've had my Costanza-sized wallet since the mid 90's (a gift from my grandpa).

Last night I saved a toaster that we got as a wedding present from a diabolically placed Lego. Some of you may say, 'Hey, 10 years is a good life for a toaster and you could get a new one for under $20.' And you'd be right but that's not the point. That toaster still has some life in it. With a little TLC I'd love to squeeze another ten years out of it.

I wear socks and pants until they get holes in them and then try to conceal those holes as long as I can so my wife doesn't throw them out. This practice my grandfather would not approve of. I remember as a child staying at his house, in Sun City, for the summer and having an argument over a holey football jersey that he didn't want me to wear any more. In a battle of wills two stubborn cusses dug in our heels and I ended up spending the remainder of the summer at my grandma's apartment in Glendale. But I digress.

On the surface, to most people, this would seem like a virtue and I've long viewed it that way. However, there is a dark side to this game that borders on the unhealthy. Deep in the murky recesses of my mind this need to stretch the usefulness of things meets with my cheapness and my aversion to change and an unnatural connection is welded by my fear of becoming old and useless. I feel a bond to an inanimate object and forge an imaginary relationship that exists only in my head. I've tried to deny it, to hide it, but it's there; ever-present, lurking in the shadows.

With something as simple as a toothbrush I feel a kinship entirely of my own making; a sense of loyalty and gratitude born not of logic or reason but of madness. My wife cavalierly tosses her toothbrush in the trash and opens up a new one without a second thought, almost as if she's glad to be rid of it. My toothbrush has served me well for the past several months and to me that should be honored and regarded with a bit more ceremony and reflection when its time is done.

It doesn't end with toasters and toothbrushes either; I mourn the unexpected premature passing of a tool, a t-shirt, a cup, really anything I use or wear. Several years ago my 1999 Isuzu Rodeo threw a rod and died because I overloaded it on a youth trip and was trying to climb a mountain when it was past due for an oil change. To this day the sight of a grey '99 Rodeo saddens me.

I know I shouldn't care this deeply. I've been told it's wrong to feel the way I do but I can't stop. I've tried. I've flipped an old "useless" pen in the trash with a smug nod and a grunt, only to turn the corner and pay silent homage in my mind to my old trusted recently parted companion.

No longer will I apologize for this. No longer will I hide my old mission backpack in the back of the closet, banished, sun faded and threadbare; it hung from my shoulders for two years and carried school books and church manuals long after. There is no shame in being well used and it's time that my old friend returned to the marvelous light of day and felt valued and appreciated again. Something that feels this right can't be wrong.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm having a small intimate service today for sleeping pad who met its untimely demise in a thicket at the bottom of Tonto Gorge. You will be missed mi amigo, you will be remembered.

### Fedoras Anonymous

Ever since I was a child I've kept a dark secret. Motivated by shame I suppressed these urges and impulses and left my true desires unspoken. Those precious few who I've shared this secret with have scoffed and mocked me to scorn. I share this with you now in the hopes that there are more out there like me and that we can find comfort in knowing that we are not alone.

I'm Aaron Blaylock and I have a fedora fetish.

There, I've said it. I love fedoras. I'm not talking about the sissy little fedoras like Justin Timberlake wears. (Sorry JT you know I love you). I'm talking about the hat worn by a man's man. Those sported by the likes of Bogart and Ness. Worn by tough guys, private investigators and gangster from days long since passed.

The most iconic fedora was worn by archeologist explorer/adventurer Indiana Jones. I think that's when I first knew that this was the look for me. What kid didn't want to grab a bull whip, throw on a leather jacket and go tearing through the jungle searching for lost treasure? Indiana Jones was cool for so many reasons but I submit to you that it was the fedora that put him over the top.

If my fixation were limited to Dr. Jones then I could chalk it up to nostalgia and move on, but it's more than that. As I grew older and was exposed to classic cinema from the golden age of Hollywood my love for fedoras only deepened. Actors like Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant (quick, name five guys cooler than Grant...you can't!) and Gregory Peck (watch The Man in the Grey Flannel Suit, it's a fedora fiesta) just confirmed what I already knew. Fedoras are awesome.

So how did this fashionable hat drift into obscurity? Simple, we became casual as a society. T-shirt and jeans replace the shirt and tie. We don't wear a three piece suit to work, its business casual (which usually means a pair of khaki's and a polo shirt). Despite the best efforts of pop icon Michael Jackson (in the 80's and 90's) to add a casual cool look, which could only be pulled off by the King of Pop, the fedora still remained a relic from bygone days.

The day I received my first media credential I told my wife I wanted to get a fedora and stick it in the brim like an old time press pass. She laughed and said it would look ridiculous. I tried to pretend I was only joking but found it hard to hide the sting of her laughter. I dreamed of it becoming my "thing". 'Aaron who? Oh you mean the guy with the fedora? Yeah, I've seen him. Classy guy.' If only.

In recent years new hope sprang forth with characters like Don Draper and Agent P on television rock'n a fedora. Matt Damon even took a crack at it with his magic fedora in Adjustment Bureau. With each case I've pointed out the debonair looking individual, protested the unfair treatment of the fedora and petitioned to be allowed to just try it. My petitions have been in vain.

And so my quest to resurrect the fedora goes on. Up against the seemingly insurmountable obstacles of an increasingly casual society, a rising apathetic generation and that d-bag Kevin Federline; I fear that the fedora may be gone forever.

Maybe we can form some kind of support group. Fedoras Anonymous. Oooh, and we could wear our fedoras to the meetings! Yeah, that's the ticket.

### It's Complicated

I love golf.

I hate golf.

I want to play golf the rest of my life and dream of having more time (and money) to play as I get older.

I want to give up golf and never pick up a club again.

Confused by these contradictions? It gets better. I can feel all that on the same round, the same hole, heck, I can feel all that on the same swing.

Golf is a gentlemen's game. It's a game full of etiquette and ethics.

Golf is a game for losers and masochists. It's a game full of pain and discouragement.

At its best golf teaches lessons that extend far beyond the course and gives clarity to life.

At its worst golf makes you want to give up and forces contemplation of the trivial nature of life.

An illustration

You start your day on the links. The sun has just crept over the horizon and a gentle breeze blows through the mature lush trees that surround the fairway while the birds are singing to you. You start your day off with a par followed by going birdie, birdie on the next two holes. 'I love birds' you think to yourself, 'and eagles'. The sky is a brilliant blue with cheery fluffy white clouds, providing the perfect mix of sun and shade. What a beautiful day.

You approach the fourth hole with a smile on your face wondering how one applies for a PGA tour card. You can't think of any possible way this day could get any better and there's nowhere else you'd rather be. After a booming drive on the last hole you step up to tee off with anticipation of the greatness that is about to ensue.

Tempo you tell yourself as you start into your backswing. The club comes through the ball and from the sound you know you didn't strike it well. You look up to see the ball soaring to your right which wouldn't be so bad if the course didn't dogleg left. Still it's a par 5 and you can recover.

After a bit of searching you find your ball a couple hundred yards up just off the fairway in the tall stuff. Where's that cool breeze? Without much thought other than distance you pull out your 4-iron and line up your shot. You let back and swing topping the ball and sending it bouncing just ten or twelve feet ahead of you. Cuss.

Well at least it's on the fairway now. That's just two shots. You can still save par. You get out your 5-iron because you remember you've never been able to hit your 4-iron and don't know why you tried to hit it then. You double check your grip turning the club ever so slightly in to avoid going right again.

Good news, you avoid going right. Bad news, you go way left. CUSS. You are now in range of the green though and with a good putt you can save par. Why is it so blazing hot all of a sudden?

Sitting at about 150 yards now, even in the tall stuff your 8-iron should do and your 8-iron never fails you. A large tree stands about twenty feet to your left but that doesn't matter because the green lies dead ahead. Your backswing and follow through feel perfect, you get that beautiful ping sound you were looking for and know that ball is headed for the pin. Thwack!

Although the canopy of a tree is 80% air your ball manages to find a small part of the 20% which sends it flying over the fairway into the rough; back on the right side. CUSS! Where did those blasted clouds go?!

Okay, your laying four now but even with a bogey you're still -1 on the day. This heat is relentless.

Your next shot lands on the green and promptly rolls off the back. Why have you forsaken me God? You get out your lob wedge and take a halfhearted swipe at the small white sphere that torments you. The ball trickles up about six feet from the hole. A good approach by almost any measure, but you fail to enjoy it because there goes par.

Taking extra care on lining up your putt you decide it breaks slightly to the right and set up just to the left of the cup. Be the ball, be the ball. You strike the ball and watch it roll. To your bewilderment it doesn't break at all and rolls to a stop dead even with the cup only to the left. CUUUUUUSSSSS!!!!!

The usually delightful sound the ball makes when it drops in the hole fills your soul with disgust as you tap the ball in thinking of all the things you'd rather be doing right now. You're wasting a perfectly good Saturday morning out in the blistering heat surrounded by annoying chirpy little birds and lugging around these deficient heavy iron clubs. You could be mowing your lawn for heaven sake. This is a game for fools and clearly designed by the devil himself.

You step up to the next tee just wanting to pack it in. And I don't mean just golf but life itself. Thank goodness it's a par 3 so the agony will be over all the sooner. You snatch your stupid 6-iron from your bag with little hope for the future (again and not just in terms of golf). You strike the ball well and when you look up its sailing straight for the flag. With two soft bounces it comes to rest less than ten feet from the hole.

Ceremoniously you place your beloved 6-iron gently back in your bag, throw your clubs over your shoulder and strut like George Jefferson all the way to the green. The breeze is blowing, the birds are singing and you're the king of the world, baby. What a beautiful game.

### There isn't an App for this

In my life I've learned there are many things that, if I had to, I could live without; warm showers, Major League Baseball, sun-dried tomatoes and reruns of Saved by the Bell to name a few. I'm not saying I'd voluntarily give these things up, but if pressed to do so I'd survive.

There are a handful of things whose absence would cause a great deal of inner turmoil and distress. First and foremost would be my wife and children of course. Then come things like golf, the Google, opposable thumbs and movie trailers. But sadly I've learned that nestled snuggly between the latter group and my family is the greatest invention since the BLT, the extension of my hand and brain, a device without which I'd have to fill my down time with silence or thinking, my one and only iPhone.

I got my first iPhone years ago. I was immediately impressed with this little gadget and felt compelled to write about it.

Since then we've only been forced apart twice. The first came when a firmware update bricked my first 3G phone and I had to leave it at work overnight.

That's when we named her Mariah because I spent the evening singing, "I can't live, if living is without you. I can't LIIIIIIIIVE! I can't give anymore..."

You get the picture.

Then, again when another update on my 4G phone took far longer than I thought and I had to leave her while I went to lunch. I instinctually reached for my phone about 75 times during our meal. It was only then I realized I have a problem.

There've been warning signs along the way prior to lunchpocalypse. My wife has questioned me often about why I've turned to Mariah from time to time. I sensed she both envied and despised Mariah for her capabilities.

Another event that gave me pause was when my 1st grader was assigned to draw a picture and write a paragraph about our family and my iPhone made the picture (in my hand of course) and the write up.

"My Dad has a iphon my favrit game is Tom the tocking cat it's fun!"

Don't get me wrong I work hard to be a loving and attentive husband and father. I work hard at my job, sometimes, and have many varied interests and do my best to fulfill my calling at church.

The problem is my iPhone has the ability to tie in to all of those things. Taking pictures of our family hike, BOOM iPhone. Finding a place to eat or movie show times for date night, BOOM iPhone. Making reminder calls to the scouts before a campout, BOOM iPhone. Looking up the name of an actor from a show you just watched, BOOM iPhone. Sending and receiving emails while away from your desk, BOOM iPhone. Listening to music while tracking your time, pace and calories burned on your daily walk, BOOM iPhone. Checking a score before bedtime, BOOM iPhone. Entertaining/distracting an upset child, BOOM iPhone. Finding out what's new on Facebook, BOOM iPhone. Your turn to read at family scripture study, BOOM iPhone.

Writing and posting a blog post including the picture I just took? That's right, BOOM!

### Thanks a lot Steve Jobs

It is an interesting thing when someone famous passes away. In many cases they don't know you at all but you feel a loss in varying degrees because of a role they played, great or small, in your life. This was the case with the passing of Steve Jobs. We have never met and I actually consider myself a PC guy and mock Mac guy at every opportunity, however, Mr. Jobs gave me my beloved iPhone.

I've written on several occasions about my iPhone and how I'd be lost without it. This device hasn't changed or enriched my life in a holistic or spiritual way but in many ways it HAS changed and enriched my life. Just this week it aided me on my lengthy and sometimes arduous journey of self-discovery.

I start nearly every morning with a walk. I do this because of my well documented love of food. But I do enjoy my walks, largely because of my iPhone. I listen to iTunes and track my distance, rate of speed and calories burned on my RunKeeper App (yes I know it's called RunKeeper not WalkKeeper, shut your face). Having all my music on one small portable device is amazing enough but tracking my progress on that same device is really quite extraordinary.

A couple of months ago I became bored with my music and playlists and took advantage of another techno-delightful innovation, Pandora. I can stream music from a variety of artists and genres, depending on my mood, for free. I've got stations ranging from 80's music to hits of today, from Ozzie Osborn to Justin Timberlake and everything from Country to Reggae. It's magical.

The best part is you can control the music on the station by giving songs a thumbs up or thumbs down, telling Pandora almost exactly what you'd like to listen to. Over the past several months I've refined my musical cue casting my vote for songs I like and songs I don't. Pandora kindly plays more of the music I want and doesn't offend my ears with the rest.

This past week I set out on my walk on a beautiful morning. The temperature had dropped into the cool range. The sun was peeking through several well placed fluffy clouds. There was even an ever so gentle breeze. I was feeling good. I fired up Pandora and the first song in the cue was Katy Perry's California Girls ft. Snoop Dogg (Katy my lady).

Next was Rihanna's S&M Remix (don't judge me, that song is the jam. I like it-like it Come on!). I was feeling it now, stepping with the beat and moving. As I rounded the corner Your Love is My Drug by Ke$ha came on (great song but I'm really not proud of that one). I was still in the groove when The Cardigans Love Fool started bump'n (Love me, love me, say that you love me, I don't care 'bout anything but you. There, that's implanted in your brain the rest of the day)

It wasn't until the second Katy Perry song, Use Your Love, came on that I began to reflect on what I'd been giving my thumbs up to while Pandora-ing. All the likes for P!nk, Brittany and Lady Gaga's pop hits. Then, like a ton of bricks, it hit me. Pandora thinks I'm a girl. And kind of a dirty girl at that.

So thank you Steve Jobs, now I've got to reevaluate my life.

### Everybody Poops

Almost every topic I cover here is triggered by recent events and colored by past experience. Such is the case with the following men's room monologue.

Several years ago I attended football camp at the University of Nevada Reno between my sophomore and junior year. We stayed in dorms right on campus and it was there I first experienced stall talk (that's not a typo, I meant stall talk). I entered an empty stall between two occupied stalls and set about doing what I came there to do. Those on either side of me were engaged in conversation and soon became aware of my presence.

Teammate #1 said, "Who's that?"

I replied, "It's Blaylock."

Teammate #2, "Blaylock, what's up man?!"

I replied, "Not a lot. What's up with you?"

It never struck me as on odd place to have a conversation; flash forward several years to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, UT. It seemed that the monotonous routine of eat, sit, eat, sit, eat, sit, sleep had somehow synchronized the poo patterns of our entire district as we often found ourselves commoding at the same time. Without hesitation I openly engaged my bottomless brethren in stall talk small talk. Some readily answered back while others seemed nervous and a little bothered by it.

Over the years I've had multiple companions and roommates who refused to make conversation during my daily defecation. This has always been a source of great amusement to me personally.

Those who know me know that the word poop and nearly all potty humor really tickles my figurative funny bone. I have no problem speaking of it and relish the chance to joke about it. I am, however, aware that this subject is unappealing to most and completely taboo to many.

The longer I live the more opportunities I find for commode communication. I accept the fact that, with rare exceptions, in a business environment bathroom banter is frowned upon. Even with close personal friends a little powder room powwow can be unwelcome.

My question is why?

I'm not saying I hit the head looking for idle porcelain palaver but why is john jargon in any form off limits?

This opposition becomes especially peculiar to me when it comes to talking on the phone or texting. If you keep in regular or semi-regular contact with me via phone, text or email there's a good chance you've unknowingly engaged in a little can chat with yours truly. A little fecal phone if you will (that felt over the line. Too far? Maybe. Let's plop I mean plod on). That's just the way it is and I fail to see what makes people so agitated upon learning of this potty parley.

What's the big flop'n deal?

Look everybody does it. And by "it" I mean make twozy. It's as natural as...well I actually can't think of anything more natural. So where did this unspoken routine of the unspoken latrine come from?

Is it the unpleasant aroma, the business of doing your business or the public pantlessness that causes gigantic grievance over this lavatory parlance?

My friends, together we can break the chains of silent oppression against the occasional outhouse oration. I envision a day when we can without shame correspond with our throne adjacent stall mates without fear of rebuke or reprisal. A day where it is socially acceptable for a little comfort station confab. (Okay I'm fresh out of toilet talk euphemisms so I'll end with this thought) If you are shocked, appalled or offended by these restroom rap sessions (alright, so I had one more) then you probably should see a physician because I'd wager you've got more than just a stiff stool sample blocking up your bowels if you know what I mean.

### Phobophobia

I am a scaredy cat. There I said it.

Fear of the dark, the boogey man, heights, needles, evil clowns, dentists, vegetables, spiders, Roseanne Barr; I've got it all. Of course as an adult I suppress my natural response to such things. I shamefully hide them and pretend they don't affect me, but sadly they do.

One of my favorite traditions is hanging Christmas lights; that is until I have to climb on the roof. Then it turns into something resembling an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I get near the edge and I cling to the shingles like a capuchin monkey grips a banana, all the while doing my best Jimmy Stewart impersonation.

Speaking of Hitchcock, I can't shower at a hotel/motel without being full of trepidation and I'm very suspicious of any and all large bird gatherings. (Good evening to you, sir! Good evening to YOU.)

My nightly bedtime routine is a sight to behold as well; I make my way around the house shutting off the lights and double checking all the doors. I purposely leave the closest light to my room on until last, not because I won't be able to see in the dark but because I don't want to be alone with the dark. I flip that last switch and haul buns around the corner before anything can get me.

And this paranoia is amplified when I'm home alone. I actually turn off the lamp simultaneously diving onto the bed superman style, so whatever's under there can't get me, and quickly pull the covers over me. That's right my covers will protect me from whatever evil monstrous creature might be lurking in the dark.

That's actually what prompted this little confession. I was lying in bed the other night on top of the covers because it was warm. My mind flashed to a character in a movie I'd recently seen (P.S. You are a jerk M. Night Shyamalan and you ruined King of Queens for me too). Afraid she may actually be in the now dark room I retracted both feet, which were hanging off the end of the bed, and tucked them under the sheets. (Much better)

What safeguard did this provide you ask? Why did I feel less threatened nestled safely under the shield of my cotton\poly protection? First, I don't know. And second, shut up. I know it's ridiculous but it did the trick.

As long as I can remember it's been like this. It's a chicken and the egg kind of deal (with me being the chicken of course). I don't know if scary movies are the cause or if the movies perpetuate my pre-existing fears. In any case scary movies and I don't get along.

With regret, all too often, I watch movies that have the potential to adversely affect my life. As a child I had a reoccurring nightmare about twin girls and a long hallway that I later learned was a scene from The Shining. I used to regularly go camping by myself. Thank you Blair Witch Project for putting an end to my solitary enjoyment of the great outdoors. My wood centric fears don't stop there either. Even Disney screwed me over, forever ruining backward mirror writing and the name Karen.

Oh and forget about the ocean; I can't even swim in a lake, a pond or a semi-murky pool without worrying about being eaten by a great white. (You hear that Spielberg?! I hope you're happy.)

Do you have a predetermined plan of action for when you drive by a corn field at night? I do. I lock the doors and drive with a vengeance. If anything pops out of that corn and is hit by the car I'm not stopping to see if it's okay. I'll keep driving and I'm not looking back. No diminutive Amish looking kids are taking me out.

Unfortunately Mr. King's personalized reign of terror also extends beyond film to one of his many literary works. I don't tread anywhere near storm drains for fear of the children snatching clowns that live in them. "We all float down here Georgie." [A chill just shot up my spine]

With Halloween right around the corner I'm all but assured a fresh opportunity to develop new irrationally charged mildly debilitating compulsions to be shamefully concealed in the company adults and children alike. Yay!

I'd ask for your phobias but I'm afraid of what you might say.

### Valentine's Day Progression

It's mid-February and that means one thing, Valentine's Day.

As a child Valentine's Day was fun. You got to design your own little heart-laden box to accept all your classmate's Valentine's. Then you'd get to fill in the To: and From: fields on your G.I. Joe cards (because nothing says "Be Mine" like Snake Eyes). I remember each time taking extra special care when filling out a card for the girl who I happened to like that particular year. When the day arrived and cards were exchanged I would rifle through my haul finding the one from whichever girl it was and kept it apart from the others. It was special even though I'm sure she'd written the exact same thing on mine that she'd written on everyone else's. No matter, love was given and received. Valentine's Day was for a young boy not yet mature enough to express his affections and for him to hold fast to even a token expression from the object those affections.

As a teenager Valentine's Day was a stressful time. Either I didn't have a "girlfriend" and was forced to endure a day of hearts, cards and stuffed animals parading through my loneliness or even worse I had a "girlfriend" and felt pressure to provide just the right combination of cards, candy and stuffed animals to show the appropriate level of affection. Are flowers and a card enough? Should I get her balloons? Does she like balloons? If I don't get her candy will she think I think she's fat? Why did I want a girlfriend again? Valentine's Day was a report card on how you were, or were not in some sad cases, perceived as "boyfriend" material.

As a young adult I became disenchanted with Valentine's Day. I'd tell anyone who'd listen that Valentine's Day was for rotten lovers to make up for their shortcomings and failures throughout the rest of the year. I firmly believed if a man was doing his job and caring for his companion then Valentine's Day was just another day.

It was easy to take such a stance because as a newly married couple we of course had it all figured out. We had plenty of time and energy to heap affection on one another every day and had vowed never to become disconnected like those old fogies no matter what circumstances life had in store for us.

Adding to my distaste for Valentine's Day was the fact that the same dozen roses I'd bought for her the previous week cost $20-$30 dollars more on this love sanctioned day. Overcrowded restaurants offered just one or two Valentine's meals for a king's ransom. And last but not least cards failed to provide an adequate expression of my love for her. Valentine's Day was a needless day for a loving couple who felt no compulsion to share their affections with the masses.

Now as a slightly less young adult Valentine's Day is an oasis of sorts. I've become one of those rotten lovers who didn't keep his promise to stay connected no matter what life through at him. Between children, work, school and church each day just fills up. At day's end when the work is done and the kids are safely in bed it's time to unwind, decompress or just veg out. Sure we spend that time together but I forget to make time to take her in my arms and just stare into those beautiful eyes. I don't always take every shot I get to hold or caress her hand and tell her I've missed her today. I neglect to mention that when I catch a glimpse of her from across the room my heart still leaps in my chest. I don't remind her daily that she's the reason behind everything I do and she's given my life meaning. I fail to tell her that I smile every time I think of her or that I'm smiling right now as I type this because I'm thinking of her. Or that she's just as beautiful today as she was the day we got married, or how lucky I am to share a life with her. Valentine's Day is an opportunity to break from the dizzying array of stuff that crowds our day to day and say "I Love You".

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# Epilogue

Well I hope you enjoyed this comprehensive guide to the human experience written by a man who wants little or nothing to do with said humans or their "experiences". All this writing has made me hungry. I need to find something to go with this bacon. I know, chocolate!

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# About the Author

Aaron was born and raised in Arizona. He lived in northern California and Jamaica for a time but always returned home to the valley of the sun. He is a husband and father and loves to tell stories and entertain.

Discover other titles by Aaron Blaylock

 The Land of Look Behind

The Gorge

The Very Best

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