Category Archives: File Under Random

My Cat Is Fat

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Last night, I was forced to admit a terrible truth, one that I had long suspected but habitually denied.

My cat is fat.

I knew she was lazy. Anybody who sleeps 21 hours a day earns that designation. The excessive girth my parents keep pointing out whenever they’d stop by for a visit? Nothing more than visual deception. A trick of the light. “She’s just furry,” I’d say. And, when that declaration was met with skeptical stares, I’d throw in an adverb to appease the masses.

“Really furry.”

About a month ago, Audrey decided to weigh Sydney. She came in at 11 pounds. I hardly thought this was anything to be concerned with. Why, she was the size of a large infant, and nothing more! So I went about my business, still believing my cat was not fat. And then last night, Audrey decided to do a little Googling about cats and their average weight and blah, blah, blah.

“Guess what?” she said. “Sydney’s fat!”

“No, she isn’t,” I replied. “She’s furry. Really furr…”

“The average female calico weighs between 7 and 9 pounds,” my daughter said, cutting me off mid-argument.

Sydney, looking very regal. And fat.

Well, then. I guess it’s true. My cat is fat. What’s up with that? I don’t overfeed her (though she is devious when it comes to her canned food, tricking both me and Tara into feeding her one morning last week). I suppose it’s the lack of exercise, but I can’t very well make her wake up and run around the townhouse, unless I grab the laser pointer and have her chase after that red beam of light (which, come to think of it, is always hilarious). Even now as I write this post she’s curled up at my feet, snoring contentedly.

That’s right. My cat snores. It’s the damnedest thing.

But as far as cats go, Sydney’s pretty cool. I’ve owned many cats over the years, and she is hands down the best I’ve ever had. She’s friendly and affectionate and tolerant, doesn’t shy away from strangers, and aside from her predilection for jumping onto the dining room table and chewing up napkins when my back is turned, really doesn’t cause any trouble.

I suppose I’ll overlook those few extra pounds and let her hang around for awhile longer.

Even though I adore her, the fact that I am blogging about my cat is a sad sign that I’m sort of scraping the bottom of the barrel for blog topics today. Sometimes the inspiration is there, other times it isn’t, but when five days have passed without writing I feel like I’ve got to put something out there. I actually have a running list of blog ideas saved to an MS Word document, but mostly they are random scraps of ideas without much substance. Some of them have been on there a year. In an effort to clean up the list, and add a couple hundred more words to this post, I thought I would finally allow some of them to see the light of day. So, without further ado, and exactly as I have written them, here are a few of those topic ideas (in bold), with my current thoughts.

Poaching an egg. 

I’ve never poached an egg before. I thought it might be fun to chronicle my first attempt, complete with photos documenting the process. Trouble is, I prefer my eggs scrambled or over medium, proving this idea wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

3-Day Rule.

Umm, what 3-day rule?! I don’t really remember! I think I was referring to the unwritten but widely accepted rule that some guys have about waiting three days after a date to call a woman back. Here’s my take on that: it’s a stupid rule. There isn’t much more that needs to be said about that.

Coaches surprised about Gatorade bath.

I was watching a football game and, for the umpteenth time, the coach looked genuinely surprised when his players dumped Gatorade all over him. This happens after every. single. victory. Do they really not know it’s coming?!

Chai Tea/Tai Chi

Love the play on words, but I’m not a fan of chai tea and I don’t practice martial arts, so really it was more of a punny title than anything else.

Pant like a dog.

One day last summer I was driving home on a sweltering afternoon and I spotted a dog on the side of the road, tongue hanging out of its mouth, panting away. I thought to myself, what an efficient cooling system a dog has – it’s so much better than sweating! 

Grocery stores require too much thinking.

I’ll bet you a hundred bucks I had just returned from grocery shopping and was mentally exhausted after having to choose between paper and plastic.

Comic strips – all the best are gone. Except Pickles!

R.I.P. Calvin and Hobbes, The Far Side, Bloom County, etc. The only comic strip that still makes me laugh on a consistent basis is Pickles.

Random Twitter followers.

Why are you following me, John G. and Cody and Ashley? Who the heck are you, Mildred and Pierce? How many people in this day and age are actually named Mildred and Pierce, anyway?! I don’t know half my followers on Twitter. Is that weird? And why won’t Zach Braff ever reply to any of my tweets??

There you have it! It’s good to purge sometimes, and now that I’ve removed those admittedly odd ideas from my list, I can focus on coming up with better content in the future! What do you think? Do any of those ideas deserve to be expanded on? Do you make lists for future blog topics, and then sometimes wonder what in the hell you were thinking later? Is there any topic that should make my list but hasn’t?

If I Had A Time Machine…

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364 days ago, I wrote a post that was rather – hmm, how to phrase this? – on the morose side. It was the first day of the new year, and I had spent the previous evening alone in my townhouse save for a cat, a frozen pizza, and a bottle of champagne. This led to a rather out of character self-pitying public diatribe the next day that is embarrassing to look back on now.

As the ball dropped on Times Square in glorious three-hour-tape-delayed fashion and “2011″ came ablaze amidst flashing lights, confetti, and a street-filled chorus of Auld Lang Syne, I just sat there, unsure of whether to cheer the passing year and welcome the unbridled virgin potential of a new one, or to mourn another unfulfilled 365 days and look forward not with jubilation but trepidation toward an uncertain future. In the end, I guess, I felt a mix of both. I am the type of person who always welcomes fresh starts and clean slates and believes that things will work out in the long run. Just once, though, I’d like to look back on a year and think, “Wow, that was a good one. I’m sorry to see it pass.” It’s been awhile since that happened.

Gloomy much, mister? The only reason I’m revisiting these year-old words is because, well, I’ve got something to say in response to this post…

Wow, 2011 was a good one. I’m sorry to see it pass.

I wish I had a time machine that I could step into. I’d zip back to January 1st and sit down with that kinda-depressed guy for a little one-on-one chat, paradigms be damned. And I would say to him,

“Wipe that scowl off your face and quit acting pathetic already! You are about to embark upon an amazing journey, one that will take you to places old and new, far and near. It’s not going to be a perfect year – unemployment will continue to dog you, your tire will suffer a blowout on the freeway, and you’ll spend six nights in the hospital, emerging with one less internal organ – but it’s some testament that, despite these setbacks, you’re still going to look back fondly on this year by the time the last few seconds tick away and bleed into 2012. What’s that? Yes, I’m serious! (And thank you for saying I don’t look any older). Some pretty wonderful events are going to take place in 2011. Like what, you ask? Where’s the joy in being surprised? OK, fine. I’ll tell you, you impatient bastard.

For starters, you’ll take an incredible two-week solo road trip across the United States. You’ve always wanted to revisit some of the places from your childhood, right? Well, buckle up, because you’re going to see them this summer! Fourteen states. You’ll stop by your old high school in South Dakota, and march right up to the front door of the house you lived in during the 1970s in Ohio. You’ll eat your first White Castle slider and tour a museum dedicated entirely to SPAM – no, I’m not making that up! – and you’ll stand in the soybean field where Buddy Holly’s plane crashed 52 years earlier. You’ll see fireflies and thunderstorms and Bob Evans restaurants and you’ll meet up with a long-distance friend and catch fireworks from a parking lot in Boise, Idaho. Yes, I know you’ve never been to Idaho…but you’ll be able to cross that off your list soon! And a few other places, too.

Don't worry, 2011 is going to rock!

You’re also going to self-publish your novel. That’s right – your name will be in print! And you’re going to overcome that e-book bias of yours and offer it on the Kindle and Nook, too. Your friends and family will buy copies, and even some of your blog readers, too. Oh, and guess what? That book is going to receive some very positive reviews! No, not just people being nice to you because you’re related…strangers you don’t even know are going to say things like, ‘Petruska’s future as an author looks bright, indeed.’ Where did that come from? San Francisco Book Review, December 2011. Page 19, to be exact. You’re not going to storm up the bestseller charts or be able to pay off your mortgage, but you will be fulfilling a lifelong dream. Who knows, maybe it’ll be the start of your career as an author!

Sounds like a pretty good year coming up, huh? But it gets even better, my friend…err, myself.

There’s this girl you’ve known for a long time. You haven’t met her in person yet, but you will. And she will knock your proverbial socks off. Your long friendship is going to serve as the framework for a beautiful relationship. She’s going to meet your kids and parents, and you’ll meet her friends and family, and everybody will get along wonderfully. She’ll take you four-wheeling and teach you how to shoot a gun. No, I am not ’making this shit up!’ You’ll try geoduck together and rock out front stage to Built To Spill and her kisses will send shivers down your spine and just thinking about her will make your heart beat faster. In fact, this New Year’s Eve you won’t be sitting home gnawing on a slice of Freschetta while watching the ball drop. You’ll be with her instead, bar hopping in Ely, Nevada. By the way, it’s pronounced E-Lee, not E-Lie – don’t embarrass yourself the first time you say it out loud, kid. A few minutes before the year ends a post is going to appear on your blog talking about all this stuff. No, it’s not magic, dummy – there’s a schedule feature on WordPress you’ll learn about. You won’t be thinking about your blog, though, because you’ll be having the time of your life with the woman you love, and when the clock strikes midnight you’ll usher in the next New Year with an amazing kiss and an indescribable excitement for the next year ahead.

So…feeling better now? Yeah, I thought so. Quit your bitching then, and embrace the future. You’ve got an awful lot to look forward to!

Oh, and by the way…happy new year!!”

 

How To Write a Farcical Holiday Letter

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Since Christmas is the season for garish Santa ties and getting hammered off eggnog sharing, I am turning my blog over to Lisa Nowak today. Lisa is both a fellow Portlander and writer who specializes in Young Adult fiction. I had the pleasure of meeting her in person at the Wordstock Festival in October, where we were both hobnobbing with our fellow literati. If you hurry over to Amazon, Lisa’s book Running Wide Open is on sale for 99 cents. If I owned a Kindle, I’d probably have three copies by now! Her latest release, Getting Sideways – Book 2 in her Full Throttle series - is available, as well. Lisa is a talented writer and an all around cool person, so pay her a visit! And without further ado, I’ll let her talk about a topic near and dear to her heart this time of year: holiday letters.

How to write a farcical holiday letter

Last year I heard a lot of talk about holiday letters—mostly how tired everyone was of the bragging involved. Devious person that I am, I set out to write one that was so funny and outrageous people would clamor to read it. What my husband and I came up with was a hit, which made me think I should share my thoughts on how to create such a masterpiece. You know, so I could have an excuse to drag ours out again this year in the name of educating the masses.

Courtesy of highlinetimes.com.

The following is my basic formula for a hit holiday letter, with examples provided:

  1. The achievements depicted should contain enough truth, and enough of an individualized flair, that they’ll make your friends and family groan. (In the letter below, Bob is a mechanic who’s not exactly the epitome of physical fitness, and I’m a cat-lover who’s far too “Type A” to ever achieve enlightenment.)
  2. While you should use a personal touch, the ideas and traits should also be universal enough to be funny to a complete stranger. (Hence the men-and-toilet-seats joke and the reference to swimwear for cats.)
  3. If you don’t have a lot of people in your family, include your pets. (All four of our cats got billing in our letter.) If you don’t have pets, consider an inanimate object. For example, a car that’s notorious for being a clunker might have achieved immortality by securing a place in Carhenge.
  4. Use photos to liven it up. If you can pose or Photoshop them to make them ridiculous, that will add to the laughs.
  5. If you’re having trouble coming up with ideas, let the family get involved. (My husband provided a lot of the stuff in our letter.)
  6. Make it outrageous enough that no one can possibly mistake it for fact. If you have any doubts about the gullibility of your friends and relations, include a humorous disclaimer.
  7. Keep it to one page. Really, you’re not THAT funny.

Dear Friends and Family,

Holiday greetings! We have had a truly wondrous year and would like to share news of our good fortune with you.

This summer, Bob hiked the entire length of the Pacific Crest Trail in his Birkenstocks while carrying three Haitian orphans on his back. In September, he invented a fuel injection system that will allow cars to get 500 miles per gallon. But most impressive of all, after years of intensive training, he finally learned how to put down the toilet seat.

Lisa started the year by designing an entire line of swimwear for cats. In March she achieved enlightenment and went to Tibet to have a beer with the Dalai Lama.  In October, movie studios went into a bidding frenzy for the rights to her best-selling, coming-of-age/mystery/fantasy/thriller tome, “Larry Otter: Prisoner Of The Marshy Mallows.”

Margaret received national recognition for watching every program broadcast by the Hallmark Channel in 2010. In addition, she single-handedly saved Barnes and Noble from financial ruin with her online purchases.

As for the cats, Keelan and Loki achieved fame by e‘rat’icating all the vermin from the state of Oregon and chasing them back to California. A special award will be presented by Governor Kitzhaber in January.

Dakota was called to Washington D.C. to spearhead a campaign entitled, “A Mouse in Every Pot And A Cat On Every Lap.” Despite an embarrassing altercation with the First Dog, she received bipartisan support.

Laptop was a bit less ambitious, but none-the-less discovered a cure for depression. She is currently in negotiations with Pfizer. 

In closing, we’d just like to say, if anything in this letter strikes you as the least bit plausible, please go out and stock up on hay. Santa’s bringing you a pony.*

Best wishes,

Bob & Lisa

*(Okay, maybe the part about Laptop was true.)

*********

Lisa Nowak, a certified professional smartass, thinks humor is a plus in almost any circumstance and sprinkles it liberally throughout her books. The first one, Running Wide Open, was published in June. For those of you who might be wondering, she is not, and has never been, a diaper-wearing astronaut. She lives in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband, four feline companions, and two giant sequoias.

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Watermelon Sucks and 9 More Tidbits

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A while ago, I was tagged by Jess Witkins to come up with 10 Random Facts about myself. Variations of this game have existed for years; in 2009 it was all the rage on Facebook. That being the case, you’d think I’d have this down pat. I even pulled up my FB list to see what I’d written then (there were 25 to choose from), but I’ve either already blogged about a lot of those things or they’re no longer relevant. This is why it’s taken me so long to respond to Jess’s challenge: I’ve actually had to think about this post! Sometimes, thinking is overrated. Luckily, I was able to come up with some hopefully-interesting (and definitely random) tidbits to write about. Without further ado, here are ten random facts about me, in no particular order other than descending.

10. I once predicted an earthquake. I was living in San Jose at the time, and one afternoon I had a strong feeling there would be a pretty decent-sized earthquake somewhere in northern California within the next twenty-four hours. I felt shaky, nervous, and lightheaded; the feeling was so intense that I actually announced this prediction to my coworkers. That night, there was a magnitude 6.5 quake off the California coast that caused minor damage in some of the northern coastal communities. Believe me when I say, that freaked me out. The next day at work, I had a room full of very impressed people who looked at me a little differently. Because of that experience…

9. I suspect I have borderline psychic abilities. I just don’t know how to channel or develop them. When I make a concerted effort to concentrate and focus on something – like, say, what somebody I’m talking to on the phone is wearing – I usually miss completely; it’s only when I let my mind go “blank” that I can snatch something out of thin air that turns out to be true. That happens a lot. I used to work with a woman whom I was highly in tune with. I would ask her, for instance, how badly the cut on her finger was because I’d “envisioned” she cut it the evening before while chopping vegetables, and she would stare at me in amazement, wondering how I knew that. Excellent question. Maybe it’s all just coincidence…but in my heart, I don’t believe that.

8. I can’t drink soda out of a can, and I despise plastic. I’m all about glass, baby! And it’s not just because of the environment: I think beverages taste funny when they’re served in aluminum cans or plastic bottles. When I first started dating my ex-wife, her dad always bought Coke and Sprite in glass bottles, and I thought that was the coolest thing ever. Too bad they’re hard to find these days. I always pour my drinks into a glass first, unless I’m out hiking or driving and it’s just not feasible. Dear wine industry: if you ever convert to plastic bottles, I’m switching to beer.

7. I voted for George Bush Sr. in 1988. You might be thinking “so what?”, but trust me – this is something I’m embarrassed to admit. I’m a pretty liberal guy and a staunch Democrat, so why I voted Republican in the first Presidential election in which I was old enough to participate is beyond me. I guess my political ideologies were still taking shape at the age of 19. That, and Dukakis didn’t inspire me. To his credit, the elder Bush wasn’t a terrible President, and is in fact a fairly likable guy. To my credit, I’ve voted Democrat in every election since.

6. I kissed a girl for the first time when I was 6 years old. And I liked it. Her name was Julie Love (perfect, huh?) and she lived two houses down. We went up to her bedroom and made out. Kinda young, huh? I wonder how either of us knew what we were doing (but, umm, we did). A few days later, we got “married” in a pretend ceremony outdoors (though the reception was sparsely attended). I remember having crushes on girls as early as Kindergarten. I’ve just always been very attracted to the opposite sex, I guess. Even when I still played with Legos.

It looks like it's smiling at me. Taunting me, even...

5. I hate watermelon. People always think I’m kidding when I say this, but it’s true. I’ve just never developed a taste for it. It’s not for lack of trying; I pick up a slice nearly every summer, thinking this will be the year that I like it! But I never do. Maybe it’s a melon aversion – I can’t stand cantaloupe, either. I find both fruits cloyingly sweet. Oddly enough, I love Jolly Rancher watermelon flavored hard candies. Go figure. On a similar note, I hate boxing but love boxing movies. Consider that a bonus random fact.

4. I was editor of my high school newspaper…for one issue. My favorite class in 11th grade was Journalism, and I loved working for the school newspaper. I was one of the few people who took it seriously; I came up with an anti-censorship expose on Tipper Gore’s PMRC-related campaign to slap warning labels on records while other students were writing about the new vending machine on campus or Mrs. Brown’s knitting hobby. For the last issue of The Minuteman, the teacher booted the student who had been editor all year and gave me the position. I loved that. Proudest moment of my high school experience!

This was me in high school...minus the cigarette and booze. OK, minus the cigarette. (Courtesy of fanpix.net)

3. I used to dress like Sonny Crockett in high school. Yeah. White pants and everything. What can I say? I loved Miami Vice. It was my favorite 80s television show, hands down. Sadly, it took me awhile to realize that dressing like Don Johnson didn’t make me Don Johnson. Least proud moment of my high school experience!

2. I’m sort of afraid I’m going to be eaten by a bear one of these days. I love to hike. I usually hike alone. The forests around these parts are home to numerous bears. Add all of that up, and you can see why I have this fear of ending up in the digestive tract of a large and furry Ursus Americanus one of these days. I was out picking huckleberries in a remote forest a couple of years ago, and it was getting late, and I saw what I perceived to be bear tracks on the trail, and I freaked out a little. Inside, anyway. Didn’t breathe easily until I was safely back in my car. The odds are pretty good that I’ll at least spot a bear in the distance one of these days, a fact that makes me want to pick up a can of bear spray…or a gun. I’ll never stop hiking, though. I love the wilderness far too much to let the possibility of a bear attack sway me from hitting the great outdoors.

1. I’m a surprisingly optimistic person. Other than my conviction that I’m going to get eaten by a bear someday, I am a very upbeat and positive person, the quintessential glass-is-half-full personality. This surprises me. By all accounts I should be the most jaded and cynical dude on the planet. I’ve been through the wringer with my exes, have twice lost jobs through corporate downsizing, and am terribly upside down in my mortgage. Despite all this I’ve never been happier, and always believe that each new day brings a fresh start and a wealth of possibilities. More than anything, I feel that I will be happy and successful in life…mark my words. Studies show that optimistic people live longer, healthier lives. I might just make it to 100 after all.

There you have it! If you’re up to the challenge, go for it! I’d love to hear random facts about you…even if you just leave me one in a comment.

$913.26

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After recently downloading a song on iTunes and seeing the bill pop up in my In Box a few days later – $1.06 – I decided, on a whim, to click on my Purchase History. This took me to a handy little spreadsheet that listed every single song, video, TV episode, podcast, and app I have downloaded since signing up for an iTunes account on April 6, 2005. Busting out the calculator, I quickly added up my total purchases, and was quite astonished to learn that, over the course of a little over six years, I have paid $913.26 to Apple for all my downloads.

Two thoughts:

  1. Holy crap.
  2. You’re welcome, Steve Jobs.

The vast majority of those purchases were for music, and I’ve got quite a library to show for it. There were a bunch of episodes of both Heroes and Lost that I bought while catching up on both series, and never even kept. Regardless, it’s an eye-opening number. That’s a budget of $150 a year, just for music. Hard for this unemployed guy to fathom.

Damn, that's a lot of mu$ic!

Oh, well. I don’t download items with the same frequency as I did early on, at least.

I’m trying out the new “aside” post format. Think of it as a 30-second commercial rather than a 22-minute sitcom. Maybe I’ll post shorter, more frequent entries. Or, you know…maybe not.

I drop the kids off at their mom’s house in a little over an hour, then I’m settling in for the three-hour season finale of Survivor. Even though he’s controlled the game from the start, it’s going to be tough for Boston Rob to go all the way and convince the jury he’s worthy of $1 million. Still, I hope he pulls it off.

Purple Haze All In My Brain

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I’ve got a secret to share, and since I promised to write about more personal things, today seems as good as any to spill the beans. I debated for a long time about sharing this, but I simply can’t keep it bottled inside any longer.

I like purple.

No big deal, you say? Try being a guy and admitting that. Unless you’re, say, Prince – or the Minnesota Vikings – you can’t really get away with it. I’ve had girlfriends smirk at me and make the inevitable “who’s wearing the pants in this relationship?” comment when learning of my passion for purple. (The answer? Nobody, if it’s a good relationship! Who’s got time for pants?!). But, I say, hold on a second. This is hardly an obsession. It’s not like I’ve got Barney throw pillows on my couch or a refrigerator stocked to the brim with eggplant. I just find the color visually appealing, and not just any old purple. It’s a very particular shade that I like – deep and dark. Purple is a combination of red and blue, and I definitely like mine with a heavy emphasis on the blue portion. I think it might be called royal? I’d check with Prince William, but he’s too busy preparing for all the critical duties of a future king to worry over the plight of a commoner like me.

I’m sorry it’s not considered a “manly” color, like black (what am I supposed to do, walk around all the time pretending I’m in mourning??) or pink. Labels are ridiculous, unless they tell you not to mix bleach and ammonia or don’t operate heavy equipment after ingesting such-and-such medication. I think purple is cool, baby. Dig it. I’ve heard that Robert Downey Jr. is a fan, and let’s face it, Tony Stark/Iron Man is pretty badass. Plus, the Joker wasn’t somebody to mess around with, either.

I actually blame genetics. I’ve got an aunt and uncle back east who love purple so much that they’ve painted their house that color. Don’t worry, I would never go that far.

Mostly because my homeowner’s association would never let me.

I kid, I kid! I just don’t see the big deal in admitting to the fact that I like the color purple. It’s the color of aristocracy and nobility. Kings in medieval Europe wore the color. Here are some additional interesting facts about purple:

  • Purple needlegrass is the state grass of California. Funny, I thought the state grass was grass. Not grass grass but, you know, grass. What with all the easy-to-score marijuana and let’s-legalize-it initiatives.
  • In billiards, purple is the color of the 4-solid and 12-striped balls. And also the color of your face when you realize you’ve just been hustled by a pool shark.
  • In Japan and other portions of East Asia, the color purple is associated with death. Great. I’m 42 and I like purple. I may not survive this year, after all.
  • Purple figures prominently in Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven. The narrator’s curtains are purple and the cushions have a “velvet violet lining.”
  • In Star Trek, the Klingons have purple blood. And I’m sure Captain Kirk bedded a purple alien chick or two in his day.
  • Porphyrophobia is fear of the color purple. Deepporphyrophobia is fear of the band Deep Purple.
  • In U.S. politics, a “purple state” is one evenly divided between Republicans (represented by the color red) and Democrats (the color blue). In other words, it is a myth.
  • The only words that rhyme with purple are “curple” (the small of the waist before the flare of the hips) and “hurple” (Scottish for an impediment similar to a limp). Take that, orange!
  • People with purple auras are said to have a love of ritual and ceremony. They’d also better keep an eye out for Sheb Wooley, who extolled the virtues of dining on them in his 1958 hit song Purple People Eater.
  • A purple room can boost a child’s imagination or an artist’s creativity. It also does a swell job of hiding grape juice stains.

So, there you go. If it’s good enough for Jimi Hendrix, then it’s good enough for me!

Jimi approves, and so do I. (Courtesy of allposters.com)

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In Which I Envy Arizona

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Being the naturally rebellious type, I had no desire to “spring forward” today. Why should I? I thought. Simply because they are telling me to? And who are “they,” anyway? I got myself so worked up over the matter that I seriously debated boycotting it. Set my clocks forward an hour? You can’t make me! I envisioned this grand plan in which I would keep all my clocks set at Pacific Standard Time, year-round. I would become the Arizona of the Pacific Northwest. The Grand Canyon State doesn’t observe Daylight Savings Time and their civilization has yet to collapse. Phoenix may endure blisteringly hot summers and cloyingly stringent immigration laws (ooh – four-word political rant!), but I envy their independent spirit.

This could work for me, too. I would simply have to adjust my way of thinking. If Survivor comes on at 8:00, well, I’ll just know that means 7:00. Likewise, if I have a job interview or a dinner engagement or a pedicure appointment (what?!), I’ll just remember that it’s an hour earlier for me. I may not be a math whiz, but subtracting one is something I can handle easily enough. I was really warming up to the idea, too. Gone would be the obscenely late summer sunsets, where the sky is still light at bedtime. Restaurants would be less crowded since I’d be eating “later” than most people. This might actually work! I told myself last night, and it had nothing to do with the wine I was consuming.

Only, it won’t work, because I have custody of the kids every other week. Synchronizing our schedules would be a real chore. By the time I rolled out of bed in the morning, they’d already be late for school unless I set my alarm an hour earlier – which, of course, defeats the whole purpose. Rats…foiled again. If I were childless and self-employed, though? My noon would so be your 1 PM, suckas.

Not quite ready to surrender just yet, I quickly formulated a Plan B. Instead of setting my clocks forward, I would turn them back, thereby gaining an hour instead of losing one. Yes! This was perfect! I’d take advantage the evening before, ending up with a longer Saturday night and an extra hour of sleep, and then I would simply move the clocks ahead two hours during some unobtrusive part of today. I might turn 3:00 PM into 5:00 PM in one fell swoop, but who cares by then? The best part of Sunday is already history. Plus, I’m suddenly that much closer to watching The Amazing Race. Win-win, right? I thought this was a particularly inspiring plan, and it contained but a single drawback.

I didn’t think of it until today.

Daylight Savings Time

Is YOUR hoe ready?? (Courtesy of adafruit.com)

 

After I’d capitulated and obeyed Congress and gotten with the program and set my clocks ahead. I entertained one final anarchic thought, shortly after 1 PM; I would reset my clocks back two hours to give myself another hour of morning (my favorite time of day), and then set them ahead again by three hours after a couple of hours had passed, but the logistics involved in this were too great and I was starting to get a headache, so I took a Tylenol and gave up the idea. There’s always next year.

It’s all Benjamin Franklin’s fault. OK, he had a few good ideas in his time – the whole “discovery of electricity” thing was pretty newsworthy, and we’ll give him kudos for bifocals – but he also suggested taxing candles and shutters and firing cannons at sunrise to force people out of bed earlier. He may not have invented daylight savings time, but he planted the seed. Boo on you, Ben! I’ll never look at the $100 bill the same way again!

Not that I ever actually get to see many hundred-dollar bills…

The concept just doesn’t make much sense to me, and is full of contradictions. We’re supposed to save on energy costs by using less electricity (fewer lights) in the evening – but isn’t our energy use just shifted to the morning hours instead? And with more evening sunlight, aren’t we running our air conditioners for longer periods of time, thereby using more energy? If I were a politician, here’s what I would propose: next year, we set our clocks forward 1/2 hour – and leave them that way! No more tinkering around with the concept of time. This way we’re reaching a compromise: we still get some extra daylight, but not too much to inconvenience anybody, and we never have to fuss with our clocks again. Critics might argue that this would throw off time zones worldwide, but there are some countries that already choose half-hour increments for their local times, and they are shining examples of prosperity and democracy. Places like Iran and Afghanistan and Burma.

Err. Well. I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me…


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Beating The Bell Ringers

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Man, the holidays are stressful. It’s all because of the Salvation Army bell ringers. You know who I’m talking about – those folks waiting in ambush outside stores this time of year, the ones with the big red kettles who wear aprons and ring bells and wish you a “Merry Christmas” when you’re coming and going. Let me make something clear: I want to help them out. Most years, I contribute spare change, or maybe a dollar or two, whenever I pass by. It’s for a great cause, and besides, charity is good for the soul. But being unemployed, money is tight this year, so I can’t afford to give every time. I feel guilty passing by them without dropping something into the pot, though. Fortunately, after much thought, I hit upon the perfect solution to this little holiday dilemma: I’d simply sneak by undetected.

Ho-ho-hope you don't catch me sneaking by! (Image courtesy of seattleweekly.com).

Only, you know what? That’s damn near impossible to do. Those guys (and gals) don’t miss a beat. I’ve tried every trick in the book – using the door farthest from wherever they are standing; timing my entrance or exit to coincide with a crowd of folks coming or going; pretending to be with somebody who has just dropped change in the bucket; telling them “I’ll give on the way out” when I’m coming in and “I gave on the way in” when I’m coming out; even – I’m ashamed to admit – conjuring up a fake conversation on my cell phone, preferably one in which I am receiving really bad news. The more dramatic my reaction, the better. I’ll be like, “She what?! How horrible! Is she going to be okay?” I have no idea who the phony “she” is. Probably an aunt – not that it matters. If I’m feeling especially creative I’ll add something like “What time are visiting hours?” or “Will it be a closed-casket service?” Nobody wants to hit up some poor fellow wallowing in grief for money, right?

They always catch me, though. To make matters worse, they’re super cheerful about the fact that I continually stiff them. Almost like they’re riding a sugar plum high or something. (As an aside…what on earth are sugar plums, anyway? All my life I’ve heard them associated with Christmas, and yet, I’ve never seen one for sale anywhere, and certainly haven’t ever tasted one. Are they fruit? Candy? Candied fruit? I suppose I could Google the answer easily enough, but I’m feeling lazy at the moment. So lazy I haven’t even clicked on the link above). Even when I’m practically dashing out the door because they turned in the other direction for a second, they’ll spot me just before I reach safety outside and assail me with a “Merry Christmas!”  And then, of course, I have to return the sentiment, which makes me feel about a hundred times worse since they nabbed me trying to leave without a word and pretty much called me out on the fact that I’m a cheapskate. Those guys are good. If I could, I would run out the door and into the parking lot as fast as I could. I might elude them that way, but then I’d probably end up tackled to the ground by security. Let’s face it, if you’re sprinting outside a store like there’s a tiger on your tail, it looks just a tad suspicious.

There is one final move you can make that, if executed properly, makes you look good without breaking the bank. I call it the Three Penny Fake-Out. It’s dangerous and not for the faint of heart – kind of like stepping into the lion’s den with raw meat shoved down your pants. One false step, and you’ll be eaten alive. Kids, don’t try this at home.

To pull off the Three Penny Fake-Out, you’ve got to have steady nerves and a poker face. The trick is to keep those pennies hidden in the palm of your hand by curling your fingers into a fist. Smile, make eye contact, but do not linger. The goal is to get in and out of there quickly. Wish the bell ringer happy holidays and, in one swift motion, let the pennies drop into the kettle palm down. Only the most skilled experts, those who have been practicing for years, can pull off the far trickier palm up maneuver. You’ll want to use three pennies because they sound like a lot of change falling into the bucket. Three pennies could be seven silver dollars, for all the bell ringer knows. It’s best to utilize this scheme when you’ve got somebody with change in their hands leaving the store right behind you. That way, should the bell ringer happen to empty the kettle in the next sixty seconds and discover that he’s been faked out with pennies, you can always blame the guy who followed you out.

I’m not a Grinch, I swear. I just play one on this blog.

Seriously, though, if when my novel is published and I’m a big-shot author, those three pennies in my hand really will be seven silver dollars. I promise.

Kids Are Like Pets

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I was watching something on TV last night, and there was a segment in which the host had his really smart dog fetch him a drink. “Get me a beer,” he said while lounging on the couch, immersed in a football game. His faithful companion immediately jumped down from the sofa and trotted into the kitchen, where he yanked on a hand towel that was conveniently wrapped around the refrigerator door to get it open. He then grabbed a can of beer from the bottom shelf in his mouth, and carried it back to his master, depositing it in his lap. “Good boy,” the guy cooed, and damn if the dog didn’t look happy performing grunt work for little more than a token scratch behind the ears. At this point, I glanced down at the cat on my lap, the one gracing me with her presence.

“Any chance you want to fetch me a drink, Sydney?” I asked.

There's rum and Coke in that glass! My cat, the lush.

She glanced up at me with half-lidded eyes and promptly fell back asleep, leaving me to ponder my choice of pets. It’s not that Sydney isn’t without her own charms – as far as cats go, she’s very friendly and pretty well-behaved – but let’s face it, the closest she ever got to bringing me a cold drink was, well, dunking her head in my cold drink. And slurping. The first time this happened, there was an unattended glass of milk on the table next to my recliner. I’d left the room for less than a minute, and when I returned, there she was, lapping it up as if she always drank from people glasses. An internal debate raged in my head for fifteen seconds or so. Toss it or drink it? Toss it or drink it?

Well, I ended up drinking it. I figured, cats probably have fewer germs than kids, anyway! It was only later that I realized cats are fastidiously clean and they lick themselves in places that kids probably can’t even reach, unless they’re really limber and flexible (in which case they should be Olympic gymnasts rather than Wii controller-toting enthusiasts). Whatever. I didn’t get sick, so the point was moot.

Somehow, this whole chain of events got me to thinking about how kids are like pets.

Seriously. Consider my argument, if you will…

Trust me, the baby is not amused. (Image courtesy of bhg.com).

  1. Kids, like pets, need to be fed on a regular basis. Often – especially when they’re younger – their food comes out of a can (hello, Chef Boyardee! Nice to meet ya, Campbells condensed soup!). Sometimes, they’ll even come running when they hear the electric can opener. What’s for dinner? What’s for dinner? And they love treats. So much that they’ll probably beg for more. Don’t forget to give ‘em water, either.
  2. Kids, like pets, require exercise. I often take mine for walks, or we’ll play catch with balls or Frisbees. A sedentary lifestyle isn’t good for Fido OR junior.
  3. Kids, like pets, need constant grooming. This includes baths, regular haircuts, and making sure their nails are trimmed so they don’t scratch the furniture and claw it to shreds grow too long.
  4. Kids, like pets, sometimes get dressed up in silly little outfits around the holidays for our amusement. This is why you see a plethora of baby pea pods and pumpkins and bunnies with floppy ears at the tail end of October. Or garish sweaters and scarves when the weather turns cold.
  5. Kids, like pets, need to come in out of the cold. When the weather outside is frightful, we don’t delegate Rover to the doghouse overnight – that’s just cruel! Same with our less-furry offspring. If we did, Child Protective Services would be knocking down our doors in a heartbeat.
  6. Kids, like pets, must be given regular examinations and checkups by licensed people wearing white coats. They both dread these visits, too. Especially when needles and/or yucky medicine is involved.
  7. Kids, like pets, are often spoiled with toys. Said toys often squeak or make other noises that annoy the bejesus out of the very people who gifted them in the first place. Kids, like pets, also quickly lose interest in those toys and probably have more fun with the wrapping paper and boxes they came in.
  8. Kids, like pets, leave behind messes that must be cleaned up. One cat’s hairball is another kid’s upset-stomach-after-binging-on-too-many-sweets. Plus: whether you’re scooping a litter box, depositing dog poo in a plastic bag, or changing a diaper, chances are you’re breathing through your mouth and not having the slightest bit of fun. Let’s face it, they’re all crappy jobs. Literally.
  9. Kids, like pets, sometimes make too much noise and annoy the neighbors. Especially when they’re hopped up on chocolate or soda.
  10. Kids, like pets, are sometimes tied to leashes when walking in public. Particularly when they’re younger, and in crowded places like shopping malls. Fortunately (or unfortunately?), it’s not an acceptable practice to implant them with microchips. Yet.
  11. Kids, like pets, sometimes bite or scratch. Or even hiss. Particularly if they are feeling angry or threatened.
  12. Kids, like pets, shed. “…their dirty clothes on the floor without picking them up and putting them in the hamper where they belong” rather than “fur,” but the overall principle is the same.

There you have it! Next time you find that perfect apartment to rent, but the manager turns you down because you’ve got a schnauzer or a Siamese and they have a strict “no pets” policy, scope the place out. Are there kids running around the complex? If so, look that guy straight in the eye and call him a “hypocrite,” because that’s what he is.

Kids. Pets. They’re practically interchangeable.