Hey Moe!

Slap Shot 25th Anniversary Edition is being delivered from Netflix tomorrow. It had better deliver, pal, or I'll send Imaginary Flashlight Man over to help molest your signage.

Flashlight Man

I have two teenagers with pretty active social lives. I also participate in a few evening activities on my own. From these two facts, it is pretty easy to see that I would frequently be coming and going from my house at all hours of the evening.

So, a few weeks ago I was in the car with my 12 year old preparing to take him to soccer or flashlight freezetag or whatever. I was hooking my iPod up to my radio, idling, just sitting there, when a man carrying a big lantern style flashlight walked up along side my car. He was an older fellow, maybe early fifties or so, hard to say for sure.

"Your taillights are out," he said to me.

"Huh?" I cleverly responded. It wasn't that I misunderstood him as much as I thought that what he had said couldn't possibly be true on a car that was not even a year old. It made absolutely no sense at all. And I sure wasn't expecting some strange person to speak to me out of the blue like that.

"Your taillights are out," he repeated.

And I just sat there with a dumb look on my face. Until I realized what was going on and reached over and turned my headlights on. See, he saw my daytime running lights but didn't realize that they weren't the headlights. Daytime running lights don't turn on your taillights.

"Ah," he said, noting that my taillights were working now, and then walked on.

Since that night, it seems that every time I am leaving my house, or arriving at my house, I see the same man out walking our street, carrying that flashlight. He's always dressed the same - shorts, T-shirt, hiking boots - and I am always wondering what the heck he's doing.

Is he a self-appointed neighborhood night watchman? Or is he just someone with too much energy who needs to walk for a few miles before he is able to settle down at night? In a way, he reminds me of an old Saturday Night Live character created by Adam Sandler, a mentally challenged man who is still in the cub scouts that they referred to simply as Canteen Boy. Is flashlight man an older version of canteen boy?

I don't know.

About eight years ago, I used to go out for a run late at night after the kids were finally in bed. At first, I was only able to do the 1.5 mile loop, but soon stretched that out to a 3 mile loop. And before long, I was running it twice, along with the shorter 1.5 mile loop once before finishing up. I wonder how many people saw me out running along their street everytime they left their house to deliver or pickup a kid, how many of them wondered why I was always out running between 9:00 and 10:30 at night.

Last night, I decided to ask him what he's doing when I saw him. But for the first time in a long time, he wasn't out walking when I was delivering and picking up kids.

And now I'm wondering if he was real at all or if I was merely imagining him.

Pet Peeve Series #4: Presumption

He walks into my office and sees me looking at ... something, anything, doesn't matter ... online.

Without asking me what it is I'm trying to do, he says "You know what? Here's what you want to do..." and he then launches into a lengthy explanation of what HE would do if he were in my position. With no understanding or apparent knowledge that HE is not ME. He might actually have some experience I can benefit from, but any such value is tossed out by the fact that I am no longer listening to him.
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She calls to say that she's bringing me lunch from the deli. But she doesn't ask what I'm in the mood for. Instead, she brings what I can only assume that she THINKS that I'm in the mood for, or that she's in the mood for. I honestly don't know for sure. And although I appreciate the gesture, frequently enough (1 time out of 5?) she brings something that I'm definitely not in the mood for.
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He emails me to ask me if I have that email that I sent him three weeks ago. So I can resend it. Because he didn't read it then, but wants to now. And it is just naturally presumed that Posolxstvo the First holds onto everything.
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I am trying to distance myself from the Board of Directors I have been on for 6 years. I am tired of their ineffectiveness. I am tired of dealing with the in-fighting. I am tired of the lack of vision and the lack of action. And I am not sure I even believe in the organization any more.

I am explaining this to my fellow Board members as tactfully as possible, trying to explain why I have opted not to run for re-election.

Across the table, she looks at me and says fervently - "But you LOVE this place!"

And she's wrong. It is particularly irksome, since she is one of the people I am most trying to distance myself from.
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I know that much of this is my own personal control issues, but the fact is a clear message is sent by the presumptuousness of some people. That being, their time, their agenda, their needs trump mine.

"You don't mind if I ...?" Actually, maybe I do. Why would you assume that I don't?

Imagine if this were worded as "Would it be okay if I ...?" It might not seem like much of a distinction to you, but to me, it is all the difference in the world.

Single

Mrs. P's away. She was called out of town suddenly to be with her family. Her 86 year old grandfather, who had been on chemo for years, stopped eating and drinking. And finally gave up on Monday.

He was a great guy, a regular father figure to Mrs. P, but having seen him last year, I expect that no matter what you believe about an afterlife, this life had become an unbearable burden for him. So I expect that he is a happier camper now.

Vaya con Dios, Rufus.

Mrs. P doesn't like to travel. She likes BEING in other places, but hates the whole "getting there" part, so it is sort of amazing that this year alone, she has racked up thousands and thousands of travel miles -- France, Tennessee, North Carolina, and now Louisiana (by way of Cincinnatti and Memphis).

The kids and I stayed behind, with our complete compliment of existing apointements and committments... Physical appointments, roller hockey practices and games, social events... Oh, and this pesky thing I like to call a "job". I don't know how single parents do it. I suppose you get used to it eventually.

Yesterday at the 8 year old's roller hockey practice - right after work and right before the 12 year old's roller hockey practice -- his coach came up to me and asked me if it wouldn't be too much trouble to feed him dinner before practice. And my response was "Of course it's too much trouble. I'm a single parent this week!" My sister, who really is a single parent stood a few paces away.

"Hey!" she said. "I'm a single parent, and my kids were fed."

Smartass.

When your spouse is away, you find out who your real friends are. They're the ones who take your kids to appointments you can't make, take your kids to the pool when you can't, call you to ask if there's anything they can do, and when you can't think of anything, do something that you needed but didn't know you needed anyway.

I Know I've Been Through Worse, But I Can't Think of When

It's 2:57. I have a 3 PM conference call scheduled.

And the wings and Doritos I had for dinner last night are coming back for a return engagement.

The call has already been delayed three times. It was supposed to be at 11:30. Then 12:30. Then 2:00. Now 3:00. Not my fault, but I don't think I have the lattitude to change it again now that it is finally happening.

And I don't think I'm going to make it.

The call starts just as the cramps begin. I twist and turn in my seat, trying to sound on the call as though I'm not in a cold sweat, sitting sideways, clutching my gut.

Every question they ask is one more minute this conversation continues, one more minute I have to wait for dear and blessed relief. I am their account executive. I must not sound as though I want to rush them off the line, but oh how dearly I do want to rush them off the line right now. How badly I want this call to end.

I get up and start pacing. It helps a little. For a while. But soon my body realizes what I am doing and switches tactics. "What is wrong with you?" it seems to ask. "Why are you not dashing quickly to alleviate this poisonous burden I am bearing?"

And still the client asks more questions.

Flinch

It's a game of chicken. One that we've played since the early days of our marriage.

The rules are simple.

And it can only be played when we're both exhausted. Utterly and completely weary to the bone, and then even deeper, into the marrow, and then even deeper than that, but to know where that is you need a map of the 4th dimensional human body, and I don't.

The playing field -- our bed. Game duration -- as long as it takes.

When an external stimulus stirs us both out of our slumber, playing the game means we both lie there, stock still, feigning deep sleep. Figuring the other one will eventually respond to the stimulus. Hoping.

The stimulus may be an inconsolably colicky child that has been crying non-stop for days and nights and then more days and nights and who only just fell sound asleep what feels like minutes ago. It may be the telephone ringing after a late late night, though not usually, because the machine tends to pick that up, and let's face it, if someone is calling at 3 am, it usually means it's something pretty serious and tends to surprise more than other stimuli.

And it may (more recently) be the dog howling at ... umm, actually we still don't know what he's howling at. He's just howling. Sometimes it seems to mean "I hafta pee," sometimes "Anyone up for a game of Scrabble?" and sometimes it seems to mean "You shoulda seen the bug I just saw!"

The first one to flinch loses, and must give up the pretense of sleep and deal with the situation, whatever it might be.

Woe to the player with the full bladder, or an itchy ankle, or what have you. Because that player must wait till the other has responded before scratching that itch, or getting up to go to the bathroom, for either of these would constitute a full-fledged flinch. Game, set, match. The fat lady is belting out her favorite tune. Thank you for playing.

I don't know what our won-loss ratio is, or what the league rankings are. But my guess is that we're pretty even over the last 16 or so years.

What I do know is that right now, I am up, and she is still asleep. :)

Pet Peeve Series #3: Imprecise Questions / Statements

I have learned over the years that people hate having to ask me what they consider to be a simple "Yes or No" type question.

Let me give you a real life example that illustrates the problem.

Person X and I are travelling south from north Jersey back to Philadelphia. We see a sign in the distance that says something like "US-1 South, Philadelphia."

Person X is driving. He turns to me and asks "Is this the exit I want to take?"

A simple "yes or no" question, with a pretty obvious answer, right?

Wrong.

Here's why. Person X is notorious for taking scenic detours, stopping off and grabbing coffee along the way, what have you. Also, there is an alternative route down the road a few miles that would work just as well.

So, what I don't know, that I need to know to answer this question:

• Are you jonesing for caffeine or food?
• Are you intending to head straight home?
• Do you prefer US-1 to I-95?

My answer to his questions was "If you want to head straight back to Philly via US-1, then yes, this is the right exit."

He just stared at me. "Are you capable of just giving a straight up 'Yes or No' answer," he finally asked, palpable exasperation in his voice.

"Of course," I reply. "As long as your question is worded correctly."

The problem is some people are unable to realize that A. I don't read minds and B. there are frequently several interpretations for something they say that they only have a single meaning for.

An example of this that just happened minutes ago...

A co-worker stopped by my office minutes ago to hand me a tweaked project plan. The tweaks were made by a third person, and I disagree with several of the tweaks, so I was following the co-worker back to the other side of the office. A quick reminder - my old office flooded and now I am one of two inhabitants of the nearly finished new space.

As we walked back to the old space she said to me "I can't wait for this all to be done." In this case, "this all" could have been referring to one of several things that I could think of... the project plan, the actual project itself, the planning of a company outing, upcoming surgery, or something else not on my radar.

"Can't wait for what to be done?" I asked.

"This office space, of course," she replied.

That would not have made my top ten list of things she might have been referring to.

My favorite question that comes up in my line of work. "I was talking to my brother in law the other night and he says there's some software that will do some of what I want to do. Do I want to buy this software?" Or, "About how much do you think it would cost for me to do something like this on my site?" They never give me enough information to answer them properly.

One client who was especially bad about this, who happened to be a lawyer, awarded me an honorary law degree, because I refused to give him any answers without also delivering a truckload of caveats.

More Things That Make You Go "Hmmmm"

A few months ago, in preparation for our trip to France, Mrs. P and I agreed to get a Credit Card, in case Something Bad happened and we needed to do something desperate. This is significant, because a few years ago, in a fit of desperation, I cut up all of our credit cards. We have since righted this ship, more or less, and so, for just this emergency purpose, I was feeling strong enough to handle credit again.

Since I got it, I have used it four times. I bought a GPS with it, and then paid that off in full the first moment the bill arrived. Then, in France, I used it to pick up the tab at a dinner, and bought a book in the airport with it. Upon arriving home, I paid the tab at the Newark parking facility with it. I did this knowing where the money to pay for it all was.

And when that bill arrived, I paid it off in full.

Total charges since I got the card: around $600. Total intent to use in the next 12 months: $0.

Mrs. P has it with her in North Carolina in case Something Bad happens while she is on the road, but she is not going to use it for any day to day expenses.

So, today, imagine my amusement when I received an email from my Card Issuer congratulating me on my recent credit line increase.

Tell you what, these credit card companies infuriate me. Their intentions are so transparent, it makes me crazy. I know, I don't have to USE the extra credit line, and I am confident that I won't, but I am no longer infuriated on my own behalf. Because so many Americans wait for just such an email so that they can go out and buy more stuff that they can't afford, simply because "Hey, I work hard. I deserve it."

I think as soon as Mrs. P gets back all safe and sound-like, I'll be making a call and cancelling that account. They don't deserve my business.

Smiles, Sabres, and Hot Dogs

After my parents split up, and I was living with my mother and three sisters, I was suddenly offered opportunities no one had ever bothered to offer before. I don't know if it was out of pity, or some sense of duty, or if my mother was actively recruiting adults to swoop in and "big brother" me.

Frankly, I don't really care. Whatever the intent, the result was the same.

The first such encounter that I can remember was when we were still living in Massachusetts. A young newlywed future minister type (Wendell) who went to the same church as us offered to take me to a professional hockey game. The Boston Bruins, for those of you who don't know such things.

I knew who they were, but I honestly knew next to nothing about hockey. Still, the idea of going to a game was appealing, so I agreed.

To this day, I remember NOTHING about the game. I think that the Bruins lost to the Montreal Canadiens, but I could be dysmembering. What I do remember was that Wendell kept buying me food. I must have had 5 hot dogs and who knows what else. I was stuffed when we finally left, which we did before the game was over, and took the subway back to Wendell's apartment.

While on the subway, we started chatting with an attractive woman sitting across from us, probably in her mid twenties, who was also coming back from the game. She had curly auburn hair, a friendly smile, and bright sparkly eyes that smiled wider than her mouth. She told us that she was a hockey fan, but not really a Bruins or Canadiens fan, as her grandfather (or uncle, or some other close male relative) had been the Organist for the Buffalo Sabres for years, and she could never truly cheer for another team, other than the Sabres.

When we got back to Wendell's apartment, he switched on the TV to the 11 o'clock news to see who ultimately won the game. Again, I don't remember the outcome of the game, but I do remember that in the sportscaster's report on the game, the camera focused on a single pretty face in the crowd. Cheering wildly for the Bruins.

It was our friend from the subway... This was my first brush (of many) with fleeting fame.

Potpourri

Yesterday, when I got to work, I was met by the site of a gaggle of co-workers swarming my office. They were hauling my piles out and stacking them out in the area outside my office.

To someone who relies on the "pile system" of organization, this is profoundly distressing. But what made it even more distressing was the reason they were swarming. About a year ago, the landlords came in and installed a backflow prevention valve in one of the walls of my office. Then a couple of weeks ago, unbeknownst to me, they installed some sort of update to it. And this update had failed.

Water was flowing in a small stream into my office.

My carpet was soaked through. And my piles had been converted to pulp.

Normally I would have been pretty embarrassed about this, mostly because I know how my boss feels about my pile system. Then I noticed that the flurry of activity was spreading to the storage closet next to my office, where my boss had been piling up stacks and stacks of boxes of company records. Cardboard boxes. Sitting on the carpet.

I guess he only dislikes piles that he can't hide in a storage closet.

I was scheduled to move to a new office in less than a month, so I just moved early. My old office smells like a swamp now.

When I was a teenager, my bedroom was in the basement of our house. Whenever it would rain, the sump pump would try to keep up with it, but the drainage trench around the basement floor was blocked in too many spots. Consequently, my room was frequently flooded. Like three inches deep flooded.

In the aftermath of these mini-diluviations, I would battle fungal growths. And now, when I wander back to my old office to grab something off one of the shelves that I left behind, I am whisked by the odor back to those years of my life. And I flee like the devil's on my tail.
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This morning, Mrs. P took the kids, packed them up in our van, and left me. Went off to North Carolina to be with relatives and friends.

No, we're not having marital strife; she just had an opportunity to take a vacation and I wasn't able to get the time off.

I'll miss her and the kids, but I am looking forward to getting some writing and riding done.
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Dave has expressed jealousy that I have a Queue of topics to write about. Says he wants a queue as well. I don't know what to tell you. I just know that every now and then I have a thought occur to me, or I see something ridiculous, and I make a note of it for later.

Not everything on the list turns into a fully formed pebble. Sometimes they stay little annoying grains of sand. Sometimes they lose their luster after a few moments of clarity. And there are a few that I would love to flesh out, but I think might not be right for the little audience that I have somehow carved out. I never used to worry about that, and would just write whatever weird twisted and sick thoughts that occurred to me. But that was before I knew anyone was reading. And before I knew anyone who was reading.

So now my pebbles about bodily functions or about more negative topics or what have you, which could be very amusing, must stay hidden away, or published elsewhere...

Yes, there is an elsewhere. I don't use it much, but there is an elsewhere.

I Give Up

You know how hard it is to write about your own family when you're making a concerted effort to be nice?

Cliff's Notes version...

"Okay, word problem time again.

There are twenty-one people (twelve adults and nine kids) staying in one house in Tennessee on a weekend when the typical midday temperature is approximately 95 degrees Fahrenheit. These people travelled an average of 600 miles to be together on this weekend. Out of these twenty one people, approximately eight do not (knowingly) suffer from one or more of these conditions:

* Mental Disability
* Aspberger's Syndrome
* Autism
* Anxiety Disorder
* Sensory Integration Dysfunction

You do the math."

Blocked

I have something to write about, but every time I start, it comes out all rambly and wrong. Sorry for my recent silence. I am actually having trouble working up the gumption to tackle any of the other topics in my queue till this bad boy is out there.

But if it goes on much longer, I will have to backburner that topic and move on.

Thanks for your patience during this frustrating and trying time.

(Oh, yeah, and I rode 40.3 miles over the weekend. And I feel great!)

Fast Food Nation: A One Word Movie Review

Preachy.

The Pet Peeve Series #2: Snarky Self Negating Statements

People are just terrified of being seen as overly critical. And yet, we still criticize our fellow homo sapienses. With glee. And with incredible frequency. So to ameliorate the impact of saying something nasty and mean, we have learned a whole set of vocabularies that absolve us of any responsibility for what comes out of our mouths...

"Far be it from me to criticize, but ..."

But what? You're going to rip into me. And you are readily admitting that you live in a glass house yourself, you ****ing stone thrower.

"No offense, but ..." (Variant - "Not to call you {adjective} or anything, but ...")

Okay, so no matter what comes out of your mouth in a matter of seconds, I am supposed to just let it slide, because you don't MEAN to offend. Right? Great. So now you're allowed to say the meanest, nastiest thing that comes to mind, but you don't mean any offense.

Yeah. Thanks.

No offense taken, you ********.

"... Not that there's anything wrong with that."

If there really was nothing wrong with what you were just saying, then this caveat wouldn't be necessary. Either that or you just said something that someone is super hypersensitive about and you just stepped in it. If that's the case, you shouldn't have to say this either, since their oversensitivity would be seen and known by all.

The thing is, people use this phrase when deep inside, their inner prejudice is poking out, but they don't want to be seen as prejudiced.

Sorry, dude, but you're not fooling anyone.

Contest Winners Announced

After being prodded today by either the Dilf or Moe Wanchuck (and yes, it was as uncomfortable as it sounds) I have been reminded that I owe you good readers a couple of things...

First of all, I need to announce WHAT the nasty looking globule is.



Actually, as of today, it IS nothing. It has ceased to exist. At least, not in the assembled form it was in when that photo was taken.

That, my friends, is/was a severely chewed up golf ball that has apparently been rolled in shedded dog hair.

That's right. That's my dog's chewed up hairy ball.

I was absolutely amazed that he managed to get through the outer layer and into the core. But a few days after this picture was taken, the core was disassembled, and the cover was completely gone. Shredded, like an Enron expense account form.

So, it is now landfill fodder somewhere.

Who wins? I'd like to be all "Free to Be You and Me" and just say that everyone wins. But I can't 'cause I hate that touchy feely crap. Entries were judged on the following criteria: accuracy, creativity, and humor.

No one nailed it on the head, accuracy-wise, but Dave was closest. The big trouble was his choice of adjectives. He said Tennis Ball. It was not a Tennis Ball. Still, Dave, you get the accuracy award.

clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap

(Hey, who let Hedy in here?)

And speaking of Hedy, her entry, the Pos Oatmeal Orb, was by far the most creative one. Sure, "cat hurl" and "something you find in a sewer line" are clever, but not really creative. Sorry Moe and S-I-L.

So, the Creativity Award goes to Hedy.

And, while we're at it, the Oatmeal Orb made me laugh out loud. In a crowded movie theater.

I loved all the responses -- the mother in law meal, the morning after hurl, etc. But once again, Hedy takes the cake for humor.

clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap

(Stop that, you suck up! People are going to think this was rigged!)

So, Dave and Hedy win. Congrats. Wear your Mangled Golf Ball Identification Contest winner hat proudly, and send me your phone number along with the code I need to reprogram your answering machine to posolxstvo at gmail.com. Don't worry, I won't make it too embarrassing.

Prologue: Tennessee

Over this past weekend, I packed up my family and hauled them down to Gatlinburg / Pigeon Forge, Tennessee -- not far from Knoxville. Right around the base of the Smoky Mountains. It took about ten hours of driving each way. We left on Friday and returned on Monday.

What's that you say? Sounds like an awfully long way to go for a weekend trip?

Yeah, well, when your youngest sibling gets married, you make concessions you might not normally make.

Gatlinburg / Pigeon Forge is a tourist trap wasteland. Like Vegas and Disneyworld got together and had an illegitimate love child that needed to be hidden away, off in the mountains. As a point of reference, this part of the world is where one would find Dollywood - Dolly Parton's personal theme park.

No. I did not go. But my little brother (also known as the "Groom") did. He did not go on very many rides, so he was unable to confirm or deny whether there were any roller coasters that went up one very large hill, down into a very deep valley, back up a parallel very steep hill, before descending to a halt on the far side of that hill. (Yes. I know. It was puerile. I don't care. It amused me.)

We did ride go karts and went miniature golfing. And ate lunch at a national chain restaurant. We stayed in a "cabin" that overlooked the Smoky Mountains and which was more nicely appointed than any house I have ever lived in. We had Bar-B-Q and drank Cheerwine Soda and went shopping at Kroger and bought Pioneer biscuit mix and Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning. And a souvenir shot glass and a souvenir coffee mug.

Overall, it was a good time, and I am glad I went, and everyone in my family had a great time. But, still, there were a few downsides, and in a few upcoming articles I will talk about a few of them. And for what it's worth, the heat wasn't one of them.

* Upcoming Topic #1: If I ever mention that I plan to take a vacation with my whole extended family, please redirect me to this little reminder.

* Upcoming Topic #2: Don't Take Your Kids to the Bluff Mountain Inn. Unless you hate them.

The Sauna and the Mushroom Cloud

I never go to the pool, yet there I was - walking through the front gate, towel wrapped around my neck. And for reasons that defy all logic, I made a beeline for the sauna. I guess it wasn't all that hot out that day after all.

In the sauna, Al and Mike were standing side by side, staring at a TV screen. I looked over their shoulders. On the screen, an aerial shot of the ground, somewhere, was displayed. A brief flash appeared in the very center. A shockwave emanated out from the center point, knocking down everything in its path.

"What the hell was that?" I asked.

Al looked at me, surprised.

"You didn't hear?" he asked, incredulous. "We're at war, man. They're dropping bombs all over the place."

I didn't know who "they" were. But that was sort of irrelevant.

I exited the sauna and immediately looked to the horizon. In the distance I saw a fiery pillar billowing up, starting to form a mushroom cloud at the top. My twelve year old was standing right next to me. "Do you see that?" I asked him. "Do you know what that is?"

"No. What is it?" he asked.

And that's about when I realized that I was too close to the epicenter. That if I didn't do something, me and my family were going to perish. I grabbed the eight year old and started to run him and the twelve year old out to my car, in a panic, not wanting to die, not wanting them to die, wondering where Mrs. P and my 15 year old were. Wondering if I was going to be able to get far enough away that I wouldn't suffer from radiation poisoning.

...

Interpret how you like.

The Pet Peeve Series: Willfull Ignorance

I am starting a new series here -- hopefully once a week you will be treated to a mini rant about one of my many pet peeves. I just figure I have so much to offer everyone, it would be criminal to keep it to myself. So without further ado, here's number one!

Willful Ignorance

I can't believe he said what I thought he said. I asked for clarification.

"Did you just say 'irregardless?'"

He blushed. "I know. I know. It's not a word, but I don't care. I like it."

And that's when my ****ing head explodes. Fragments of skull embed in the wall, all because he knows it's wrong, but he likes it.

This isn't about that one word. It's about anytime someone ignores the rules, not out of irony, or to make a point, or even out of something as innocent as honestly not knowing better. But because they just don't care to do it right.

Yeah, yeah. I know. English is a living language. Let it evolve. Live and let live.

If this was out of truly not knowing better, I'd have a lot more sympathy. But this? This is not so innocuous. This is wrong, and willfully so. This is thwarting what's right with what's wrong.

Am I getting too worked up? Maybe, but bite me. This is my blog and these are my peeves.

How would it sound if the exchange above went like this instead:

"Did you just say you drowned your puppy?"

He blushed. "I know. I know. It's cruel and wrong, but I don't care. I like it."

See? Willful. And easily correctable.

Boring Businessmen

My 8 year old just asked me why boring businessmen like sports like golf.

His words. Not mine.

I told him "I don't know. I'll have to find a boring businessman who likes golf and ask him."

Any volunteers?

Indy for President

I think that despite our current candidate crop, I would like to nominate Indiana Jones for President of the United States. Sure he has no experience. Sure his diplomatic skills suck.

But, hey, he knows how to pronounce "nucyular" like all great presidents.

What am I talking about?

Well, without giving anything away, at one point in the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, Harrison Ford, as Indiana Jones says "nucyular," rather than "nuclear."

Most idiots know how to pronounce "nuclear." Our past few presidents were not among those.

Ergo, Indiana Jones is qualified to be US President.

QED

My O.C.D.

I don't care if the fringe on the carpet is arrayed just right. If the knick knacks in the cupboard aren't aligned, I can live with it.

No, my O.C.D. is much more infuriating than that, because the only rules it adheres to exist only in my head. For example:

• The CDs have to be in alphabetical order by artist, and then within a single artist, in chronological order.


• When popping Sudafeds out of the blister pack, you must form a pattern as you go through. It is unacceptable to simply randomly select a pill from anywhere in the pack... And don't even think of starting a new blister pack if the current one hasn't been completed yet.


• When making fried eggs, the only acceptable method is to preheat the pan for a few minutes, lay in a pat of butter, wait for that all to heat up, and then crack in your eggs. If you put the butter in a cold pan, you may as well not make eggs at all!


• When I have started my iPod on a playlist that is on random shuffle, it is greatly distressing to me when someone backs out of that playlist -- resetting my position in that playlist -- until I am ready to do that myself.

What do all of these have in common? I am a controlling freak. And I am irrational.

Obviously.

Luckily, I know this about myself, and I have learned to bite my tongue when I see someone making eggs the "wrong" way, no matter how much distress it causes me. I really wish that I could learn to not care about it, but so far, all I have been able to do is fake not caring.