You're Really Gonna Read THAT?

So, my wife and I were discussing my completely indiscriminate reading habits yesterday, and that, coupled with the memory of having watched Happy New Year, Charlie Brown a week or so ago, caused an inkling of a thought to spring from my scattered mind.

Hmm...there's a lot in that first paragraph, so maybe I should break it down a little.

First, my indiscriminate reading habits. Put simply, I will read anything. While I tend to enjoy things like horror, true crime, and mysteries more than other genres, I have also been known to read history books, literary fiction, children's books, teen fiction, Christian living books, Westerns, comic strip collections, books about donkeys – you name it! And, surprisingly enough, I enjoy almost all of them. Every now and then, I will start reading something that I simply can't get into, and will ultimately abandon without finishing it. But that's rare.

Secondly, the Happy New Year, Charlie Brown special that I watched. The plot is basically that Charlie Brown has been assigned the monumental task of reading War And Peace, a 1,000-plus page mega-novel, over the Christmas holidays and must give a book report on it upon returning to school. Charlie Brown, not unlike myself, is a slow reader, and he struggles with this densely written tome (a great word to describe massive novels like this one, by the way). Charlie sees his friends enjoying their Christmas break, attending a New Year's Eve party, and etc. while he sits on the sidelines reading his book.

[Aside:  I've never figured out why Charlie Brown is the only one of all his friends – several of whom attend the same school he does – who has to read this book over the holidays. Maybe the clarinet-speaking teacher just hates Charlie Brown. Or maybe they've all been assigned the book, and none of them cares enough to actually complete the assignment (being the husband of a teacher myself, I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case). Or maybe the others all read the Cliff's Notes version and have already prepared their book reports. But I digress...]

Anyway, putting two and two together has got me thinking that maybe I should attempt – again – to read War And Peace myself. Why? Here are a few reasons (Disclaimer: I didn't say they were good reasons):

1)  To be able to say that I read it.  Sort of an avid reader's Purple Heart, if you will.

2)  To finish what I started over 20 years ago.  I first attempted to read this behemoth of a book when I was 12 years old. I got about 100 pages into it and gave up. I didn't half understand it anyway, and I had better things to do. Hey, I was 12! (Incidentally, this wasn't the only stupid monumental task I attempted during that time period. I also tried to read the dictionary from cover to cover, but I only got through the B's. I won't be restarting that one!)

3)  I've always wanted to read something by Tolstoy.  Yes, I am quite aware that Tolstoy wrote other, much shorter works, including a few novellas. There are lots easier Tolstoy works that I could start with that wouldn't cause me as much grief as this one is likely to, but...

4)  I like a challenge.  'Nuff said.

So, here are the ground rules, and I'm telling you, so I can hold myself accountable. I can read the book from a physical copy (which I'll have to go out and buy, or rent from the library), or on the computer, or on my Kindle (public domain books are free – wahoo!), but I can't cheat and listen to the audiobook version of it. Not only will it be harder to quantify my page count (which I intend to update here as often as I read it), but it will also go much too quickly to be considered a real challenge.

Can I do it? I have no idea. But I'm game to try it.

Hey, I'll read anything, right? Here goes nothing!

When Writing Becomes Exercise

I'm finding this blog-post-a-day-for-a-whole-year thing to be a real challenge. Especially on the weekends.

You'd think I'd have more time to think of things to write about, and actually write even more on the weekends. But so far they've been the hardest.

Maybe I'm just more inspired to write about things that interest me when I'm supposed to be writing about shirts and pants and jackets and hats (i.e. things that don't really interest me) when I'm at work.

Maybe I just need to plan ahead a little.

Either way, there has been and will be very little of substance to this post, and for that I apologize.

Oh well...there's always tomorrow.

Fixing What's Broken

The past few days of this New Year have been less than happy. At the very least, they haven't borne the best of news for us.

This past Wednesday, we found out we have a major leak somewhere beneath either our patio or our living room, either of which will have to be dug up in the coming days to fix the problem. Insurance will pay for a portion of the cost to repair it, but not nearly enough after they've taken their huge cut of the check so we meet our deductible.

So, needless to say, we're about to be a lot lighter in the wallet. Yeah, didn't really need that.

The skylight in our finished third floor bonus room has been leaking pretty good for months, and it's the homeowners' association's responsibility to take care of that for us. We told them about it in May. They finally fixed it yesterday. We think. The repair was done while we were at work, and it's honestly pretty difficult to tell – at least from the ground – if the flashing looks any different, i.e. less leaky. I'll follow up next week.

Oh yeah, and our washing machine has been on the fritz for quite some time now. We knew the problem was most likely that the lid switch was worn out. We even bought the parts to fix it a week and a half ago. But with all this other craziness going on, we had neither the time nor the energy to try to deal with that too. So we'd wash our clothes in the broken machine, and whenever it would shut off prematurely, we'd put a kettle bell, or a bucket of litter, or anything else heavy we could find at just the right spot on the lid and bang on it repeatedly till it restarted. And thus the cycle (literally and figuratively) would continue ad nauseam  (also literally and figuratively).

Today, we decided that enough (broken stuff) was enough, and we went on the offensive. In other words, we fixed the washing machine ourselves. The smug repairman guy in the YouTube tutorial video we watched (numerous times!) to teach ourselves how to do it said it was "an easy fix". After two hours of fighting with the blasted machine, we were inclined to disagree. The actual part replacement was relatively easy, but getting to it and putting it all back together in the end was positively a nightmare!

But we did it. Together. Did we scream at the machine, at each other, at the madness of it all? Yep, a little. Maybe a lot.

But it's done. And it works again. It's washing our clothes even as I type these words.

So there are still things that are broken. But we have clean clothes. And that's something at least.

For Some Reason, The Subject Is Chickens...

Okay, so I decided to take a day off from actually writing a blog post to compile a few videos I found on the Internet. Today's topic: CHICKENS. Why? Well, why not?


1)  Mike The Headless Chicken:

Okay, this is kinda horrible, but you can't  say it's not interesting...

From Wikipedia.org:

 "In Fruita, Colorado, on September 10, 1945, farmer Lloyd Olsen was sent out to kill a chicken for dinner. His mother-in-law loved to eat the neck, so Mr. Olsen tried to chop off as little of the neck as possible. With a swing of his axe, off came the head. The chicken – now known as "Mike The Headless Chicken" – started to run around as chickens do, but never stopped.

Mike The Headless Chicken became famous and began doing tours. Mr. Olsen charged 25¢.

Mike was fed a mixture of water and milk with an eyedropper, and occasionally he was fed corn.

Mike finally died in 1947, after living for 18 months. He started choking in the middle of the night, and since the Olsens left the syringes they used to clear his esophagus at the sideshow, they could not save him."

(Source: thelongestlistofthelongeststuffatthelongestdomainnameatlonglast.com)

2)  The Great Gonzo And His Chickens Perform "The Blue Danube Waltz":

Now, if this doesn't get into your head for the next few hours, you may have short-term memory loss! And if you don't at least smile once or twice, you might want to get your sense of humor checked the next time you're at the doctor's.

(Source: youtube.com) 


3)  "Flickin' Chicken" Rubber Chicken-Tossing Game:

I actually had to write a product description for this game a while back, since it's something our company sells online. Believe it or not, it's a real game. And believe it or not, I would never ever play it. (Unless it was given to me as a gift, in which case it would be an insult to refuse.)

(Source: youtube.com)



4) Gene Burnett -- "The Free Range Chicken Song"

So...this may be even weirder and more disturbing than "Mike The Headless Chicken". I would say "Enjoy!", but I don't really think you will. So I'll just say: Here it is...

(Source: youtube.com)

If I Fell Off A Cliff

Because I like to keep my (faithful? occasional? nonexistent?) readers on their toes, today I offer an original poem for your perusal...written five minutes ago.


"If I Fell Off A Cliff"

What would you do
If I fell off a cliff?
Would you offer a hand?
Would you give me a lift?

Would you call 911
Tell them something's amiss
With this guy that you know
Slouching in an abyss?

Would you tell me, "Don't worry!
It could be so much worse.
You could currently be
In the back of a hearse.

"You could be in a jail cell
In some Third World nation
Wasting away in
Appalling starvation!"

What would you do
Should you one day discover
Me, mangled and bleeding –
Would you ever recover?

Or would you pass by
And pretend not to notice?
Or further conceal me
With orchids and lotus?

Another good question
Might be: What would I do
If I saw you there, would I
Help you or hide you?

Like a good neighbor
Would I be right there?
Or walk away quickly
And pretend I don't care?

The latter response
Is apparent insanity
Yet sadly is typical
Of modern humanity...

Mood Swings

I have never bought into the idea that one gender is moodier than the other. The general "theory" is that women tend to be more temperamental than men, and more prone to wild mood swings. I think that's garbage. I think it depends on each individual's circumstances, history, nature, etc.

Why do I even bring this up? Because I am a relentlessly moody somebody. Especially here lately. I can go from deliriously happy to positively gloomy (somewhat of an oxymoron, I know) at the drop of a hat.

For most of yesterday, I was fine. I was actually having a good day. At my desk, in my office, with the door closed, I was playing some new music I'd bought with Christmas money. I had my earbuds in – which were also new, and worked really well (maybe too well).

Most of the songs on the CD's were new to me, but there were a few songs I've heard on the radio and knew reasonably well, so I started singing along. Unbeknownst to me, I was singing kinda loud. Loud enough that the lady in the office next to mine – separated by a couple of layers of drywall – sent me a "friendly" e-mail asking me to please stop singing. In fact, the terse missive read exactly as follows, and I quote: "Singing – Please Stop."

Now, this is not an unreasonable request. I was in a place of business, presumably (and in actuality) doing work that I was paid to do. I was not being paid to sing, nor did she, or anyone else, ask me to sing for them at that particular time.

But, for some reason, I took it personally. And my generally cheerful mood quickly took a nosedive. To the point where I actually typed up a draft of an e-mail to my coworker, giving her permission to "thrust a pair of scissors through my throat" and/or "staple my feet to the floor" the next time I did anything to bother her, like singing or tapping my feet (for which I have also been previously "reprimanded" by said coworker).

Fortunately, before I hit "Send", I was able to talk myself out of it, realizing that such a self-deprecating response would do nothing to enhance my interpersonal office acquaintance with my coworker. Not to mention the fact that it was actually a rather stupid note to begin with (and yet I'm telling the Internet about it – go figure!).

The rest of the day, I sulked to myself, mired in melancholy. This has continued through to today. I'm once again listening to my music, not singing aloud, but I can't find much joy in it.

I know what you're probably thinking: "Get a grip, man! You're being too sensitive!" Or, "If you can't take the heat, then get out of the office!" Or at the very least, "I know this doctor who might be able to help you..."

You're probably right in all three cases. I don't know how to not respond to circumstances other than the way I respond. It's not healthy, I'm sure. But it's who I am.

I read an article this morning about something called "Irritable Men Syndrome"* or "Irritable Male Syndrome" (IMS, either way), a term which is used to describe mood swings in men. Behaviors characteristic of men with IMS include (with my personal reflections in parentheses):

* Angry  (In Short Bursts, Yes – Especially In Traffic)
* Sarcastic  (Ya Think?)
* Tense  (Occasionally)
* Argumentative  (At Times)
* Frustrated  (Frequently)
* Demanding  (Rarely)
* Sad  (Intermittently)
* Impatient  (Constantly – Especially In Traffic)
* Anxious  (Sometimes)
* Hostile  (In Traffic, Definitely)
* Unloving  (Don't Think So...I Hope Not!)
* Withdrawn  (Very Frequently)
* Defensive  (Nearly Always)
* Dissatisfied  (Not Too Often)


Yep, here I go Self-Diagnosing again. But it sounds like I may have hit the nail on the head. Apparently, IMS is some kind of a hormonal imbalance, and can be treated. Maybe I should look into that...

Until then, I'll try to salvage this day as best I can. And not sing aloud.


(Insert plastered-on grin here.)






*(Source: www.bodylogicmd.com)

I Don't Know Your Kid's Name

Maybe it's because I'm not yet a father. Maybe I'm subconsciously lamenting the fact that I'm not yet a father, and a part of me simply doesn't care (as harsh as that sounds). But I am terrible at remembering the names of other people's kids.

Granted, I don't have much reason to know most of these kids' names (unless they have been or currently desire to be in one of the dramas at church), but it is rather embarrassing when I repeatedly have to ask one of my closest friends in the world – who has two young boys – "Now which one is he again?"

Don't get me wrong. I like kids a lot. I'd love to have some of my own, but – for reasons I won't go into in detail right now – it hasn't been possible as yet.

However, I still feel as though I should be more aware, or perhaps care more about the progeny of my acquaintances, friends, and family.

Yes, I said family. I have several first cousins to whom I was quite close growing up, and now they are married with a gaggle of kids each, and I couldn't for the life of me tell you any two of their kids' names in total.

Speaking of the folks with multiple kids... God bless you, I don't know how you do it, but you seem to manage parenthood very well indeed. I have a hard time trying to feed and clean up after three cats – and other than food, water, and litter boxes, they are pretty much self-sufficient.

But while we're on the subject, y'all with the bigger families are the hardest of all for moniker-challenged dopes like me. I can't remember one of your kids' names, much less all of them.

Especially – and this is not meant to offend anyone out there who does this – when most, if not all of their names, start with the same letter. My brain doesn't do well with that. It sees "Tall One," "Not As Tall One", "Short One", and "The One In The Stroller".

Could you maybe color-code your young'uns and give me a cheat sheet?

I can't count how many times, when recruiting for the Easter or fall dramas at church, I have had to call up our Music Minister or Youth Pastor and ask, "Do you know this kid who signed up? Who's their mama? What do they look like? Should I know them from somewhere?"

I'm not kidding. I'm horrible at this.

Now my wife on the other hand, she's a teacher. She teaches Science to the entire 7th grade at her school. That's six different sets of kids each day, about 130 or so students in all. And she remembers all of them by face AND by name. And let me tell you – and any teachers out there reading this can testify that it's true – some people give their kids the craziest, most unpronounceable names imaginable. And yet she remembers them all.

Maybe teachers are a different animal altogether – they have to be, to be able to deal with all they have to on a daily basis. But this guy – who gets paid to write words in some semblance of order – can't seem to grasp names quite so well.

So, if I see you at a family get-together, and refer to your kids as "Little Guy" or "Pretty Girl", don't be offended. If I see you at church and speak to you without speaking to your kids, it's not because I don't like them. I just don't know who they are. Not by name, at least. Forgive me...

Self-Diagnosing

Do you ever self-diagnose your problems? I do, often.

For one thing, there's a wealth of information out there with which to educate myself about any particular ailment, or whatever else may be bothering me.

For another thing, doctors' visits are expensive, especially when you (like I do) have to meet a fairly high deductible out of pocket before your insurance will start to pitch in and help any at all.

So I self-diagnose.

Right now, I'm suffering from costochondritis...I think. It could be simply a pulled or strained muscle. Either way, I have a good deal of pain at my right ribcage that intensifies with every deep breath I take. It wakes me up at night. Last night only once, but the night before it was three times.

Interestingly enough, costochondritis often presents itself in many of the same ways as a heart attack, and should therefore be taken quite seriously. So I hit the internet and "solved" my problem.

This condition, its cause unknown and its treatment merely pain management, often affects women more often than men, and generally causes discomfort in the left side more often than the right. Leave it to me to be the exception. But it's the diagnosis that fits the best, if you take WebMD.com and the MayoCliniic.com sites with more than a grain of salt (and I do).

So, I take my NSAIDS and rest while waiting for this inflammation of the tissue connecting the ribcage to the sternum to subside.

Call it foolish if you will. Call it being a cheapskate. It doesn't matter to me either way. I'm not dying, just hurting. And I'm a heckuva lot better off financially for not going in to get who-knows-how-many tests done, only to find out what I think I already know (ruling out everything else first is how costochondritis is most often ultimately diagnosed).

There may be a touch of the hypochondriac in my nature, as I am often suspicious that I may have such-and-such an ailment at times. Like obsessive compulsive disorder, antisocial personality tendencies, and a "funny neck" (this is not the proper medical term, but there really isn't a word to describe a neck that can't ever quite fully relax in any position).

But it is what it is, and so am I. Lord help me!

A Post A Day For A Whole Year???

Well, that's the goal. One goal among many others. Many insignificant, a few more substantial.

Call it some kind of wonky public diary.

Swim in my stream of consciousness if you dare.

I can't promise every day will be golden, but I'll try to make each one interesting. (Key words: I'll try.)

So, if you don't think I can do it, check back each day to see if I do.

If you get anything out of it, great.

If not, and no one ever reads it, at the very least it's a good writing exercise for me.

Either way, I'm gonna give it my best shot. Here goes nothing...

Holly Jolly Melancholy

It's the most wonderful time of the year. Or so the song says. But I'm not feeling it.

Matter of fact, I'm feeling quite the opposite. Call it the Christmas blues, or holly jolly melancholy, or whatever you choose. I'm just not into the holiday spirit this year – at least not yet.

I don't know why, but I can't even seem to crack a smile. It just seems that nothing's all that funny. Or mirthful. Or amusing even. I've lost whatever degree of quirky charm I once possessed (if ever there was any).

Instead, I just feel grumpy. I spend my time thinking not about what I'm going to get so-and-so for Christmas, but when it's all going to be over and done with.

I've never been like this before.

I usually love Christmas – it's by far one of my favorite holidays. Besides the fact that the reason for the season is only equaled by the reason for the Easter season, I can't find a whole lot to be joyful about. And that makes me sad. Which makes me sink even deeper into the funk I'm already in.

We're planning on decorating the house this weekend, getting a tree, trimming it, setting out lights and other odds and ends, and altogether making merry. I hope that helps.

Because playing my favorite Christmas songs, new and old, hasn't worked so far. Sure, I sing along to "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" and "Silent Night" and all the old standards, but I do it grudgingly, with furrowed brow and pouty lips.

This is so out of character for me.

I want to enjoy the season, and all that comes with it, but I'm having a hard time even putting forth the effort to try.

Maybe this is just some wonky phase I'm passing through. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow with the words to "We Three Kings" on my lips and sing it like I mean it. Maybe not.

But until I break out of this mirthless malaise, this languorous lethargy, this yuletide yuckiness, it may be best to steer clear of me. I might be contagious...



(The preceding paragraph was brought to you by Thesaurus.com, your one-stop shop for free synonyms.)