My day:
1. Wake up to alarm clock which claims it's 6:30. Subtract 21 minutes to calculate true time, as I intentionally set it differently at least once a week to throw myself off. Hope I didn't set it backward by accident. Hit snooze.
2. Wake up at 6:39 (a.k.a. 6:18). Hit snooze alarm and spent next four minutes debating whether to get out of bed. The nice, cozy, warm bed. Next to my beautiful wife. In favor of a cold room and getting ready for work? Not a difficult debate.
3. Fall asleep at 6:47. Get pissed at my clock for waking me up one minute later. Hit snooze alarm, decide it's best to arrive on time to work. Turn off clock. Remove CPAP. Remove heavy blanket. Shiver. Silently grumble.
4. Start shower water. Start sink water to soak CPAP mask. Make water. Flush.
5. Take shower. Figure out what day of the week it is, and whether I shampooed yesterday. Shave. Shampoo. Soap. Rinse. No repeat. Count to ten to force myself to turn off the water.
6. Dry off. Aggravate wife by turning on closet light. Internally question if she gets more annoyed by me turning on light or wearing navy shirts with black pants. Get dressed.
7. Brush hair. Brush teeth. Brush deodorant. No, that's not right. Smear deodorant. Better.
8. Pour cereal for boys. Pour one kind of milk in Justin's cup, but not in his bowl; pour different milk in Shu's bowl and cup. Decide to earn brownie points by restocking inside fridge with milk from garage fridge, so Les won't have to go into the garage barefoot. Wish I put my socks on. Realize I never get brownie points for stupid stuff like this. Reevaluate concept of brownie points.
9. Carry Justin to kitchen and deposit him in his chair. Giggle at Shu's bedhead. Hugs and kisses for both. Sparkling smiles in response. Beam with pride at fathering good boys.
10. Startle from Scooter banging on his bedroom door. Open it, pour him cereal and milk.
11. Gently kiss my gorgeous wife to inform her I'm leaving.
12. Drive to work. Fidget with sketchy radio, listen to bad pop songs for fear of losing all reception should I change the station.
13. Park in stadium lot. Walk 1.3 miles across lot and pedestrian bridge in sub-freezing temperature and blustery winds. Compile mental checklist of potential accomplishments. Forget most of them by the time I reach the office.
14. Oatmeal. No danish. No hot cocoa. No soda. Trying to eat healthy. Disbelieving my ability to make it through a single day.
15. Read comics. Laugh. Surf internet (whiskerino.org, 700level.com, wcdgc.com, avclub.com). Procrastinate. Handle small work jobs.
16. Glimpse sun. Feel warmth that doesn't compare to warmth I had in bed. Rue.
17. Finish stupid blog entry to attempt real writing for the day. It's now 9:15. I could probably split up my day into over 100 entries like these, but I'd rather have #18 as "finish Abe," the short story I've agonized over for months.
I could really use a danish. Or eight.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Boobs
I used to joke that I thanked God every day that I wasn't born a woman. I wasn't completely joking, as I can't imagine how poor a job I'd do without my Y chromosome.
I can't imagine living with boobs. It may be difficult on observers' eyes watching my belly bounce while I sprint across a field or down a court, but I don't feel the bouncing. Nor do I wear any girdle to keep my gut from smacking me elsewhere. While I'd probably get used to working a clasp behind my back, the last thing I'd want is to match colors so the straps don't show through my shirts (blouses?). I make no attempt to color-coordinate my underwear now - clean is good enough for me. (Of course, if I don't alter my diet over the next few years, I'll most likely develop moobs. Meh.)
I'd have to go sans makeup, even for formal occasions. There've been only a handful of times when I thought women looked more attractive wearing facepaint. Maybe more women apply it better and I simply don't recognize the facial art they've done. What of base and cover-up? Screw it. I wouldn't pay for the products, I sure as hell wouldn't use them, and if that meant I could never drive a Mary Kay pink Cadillac, so be it.
I hate shaving enough as is when it's only my face. The idea of a razor nick in my armpit gives me the willies. I guess I could live in Europe? (Do Brits shave their legs?)
Many authors have written about the joys of giving birth. Thanks. Pass. I've been carrying this excess weight around my midsection for far longer than nine months, and while a sudden purge would be nice, it's not worth the agony. Plus, there's menstruation, hormones, society-imposed body-image issues....
Put all of it together, and the detriments vastly outweigh the benefits of having boobs. God bless you, women everywhere. I don't know how you do it. And I don't want to.
I can't imagine living with boobs. It may be difficult on observers' eyes watching my belly bounce while I sprint across a field or down a court, but I don't feel the bouncing. Nor do I wear any girdle to keep my gut from smacking me elsewhere. While I'd probably get used to working a clasp behind my back, the last thing I'd want is to match colors so the straps don't show through my shirts (blouses?). I make no attempt to color-coordinate my underwear now - clean is good enough for me. (Of course, if I don't alter my diet over the next few years, I'll most likely develop moobs. Meh.)
I'd have to go sans makeup, even for formal occasions. There've been only a handful of times when I thought women looked more attractive wearing facepaint. Maybe more women apply it better and I simply don't recognize the facial art they've done. What of base and cover-up? Screw it. I wouldn't pay for the products, I sure as hell wouldn't use them, and if that meant I could never drive a Mary Kay pink Cadillac, so be it.
I hate shaving enough as is when it's only my face. The idea of a razor nick in my armpit gives me the willies. I guess I could live in Europe? (Do Brits shave their legs?)
Many authors have written about the joys of giving birth. Thanks. Pass. I've been carrying this excess weight around my midsection for far longer than nine months, and while a sudden purge would be nice, it's not worth the agony. Plus, there's menstruation, hormones, society-imposed body-image issues....
Put all of it together, and the detriments vastly outweigh the benefits of having boobs. God bless you, women everywhere. I don't know how you do it. And I don't want to.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Book Club
There's a sketch about a book club where some guy in full eskimo gear beats the crap out of some hardback with a photo of a baby seal on it. Actually, there's not a skit and the more I think about it, the less I think it'd be worth making one. Just as well.
A friend I've not seen in years has now authored three books. Catching up with him was great, and he refused to let me leave without a copy of his latest, The Sacredness of Questioning Everything. (Douglas Adams may have used the same title for an entirely different work.) It's heavy reading, which is to say I have to read one page, reread it, and sometimes try a third run before digesting its meaning. I tend to be a fast reader, so thick text like this frustrates me. Even so, I intend to make a genuine effort to read the booger. (Probably the only time Dave's book will be referred to as "the booger".) Another friend informed me he has the audio version of the book, so I'm hoping I can get my hands on it and listen to it repeatedly. No clue if it'll sink in any better that way. I'm more of an experential learner. Which is to say I know very little.
Besides Dave's book, I'm also reading a few others:
Every Man's Marriage, which is kind of a sequel to Every Man's Struggle. I'm 130 pages into the 275-pager, and Les and I would both be happier if I completed it and put the plans of action into less plans and more actions. EMM somewhat inspired me to write Decade Old Diary, though I've lacked the inspiration to pick EMM up since then. Hmm.
Max Lucado's Cure for the Common Life (on page 37 of 210). Would I consider my life common? Will the recent sickness in my house, was I more attracted by the word "Cure?" Should Robert Smith have written the forward? This is more the quick-n-easy coffee table spiritual theology read I'm comfortable with, and it's possibly the one I'll finish first. Once I finally, y'know, devote any time to reading.
And Here's the Kicker, a collection of interviews with comedy writers by Mike Sacks (page 149 of 335). Similar to The First Time I Got Paid for It, a collection of essays by established Hollywood scriptwriters, I find these somehow motivating. And mostly frustrating.
I feel like I'm reading fiction somewhere as well, but I can't remember where or what. Ah well. There's always the comics.
A friend I've not seen in years has now authored three books. Catching up with him was great, and he refused to let me leave without a copy of his latest, The Sacredness of Questioning Everything. (Douglas Adams may have used the same title for an entirely different work.) It's heavy reading, which is to say I have to read one page, reread it, and sometimes try a third run before digesting its meaning. I tend to be a fast reader, so thick text like this frustrates me. Even so, I intend to make a genuine effort to read the booger. (Probably the only time Dave's book will be referred to as "the booger".) Another friend informed me he has the audio version of the book, so I'm hoping I can get my hands on it and listen to it repeatedly. No clue if it'll sink in any better that way. I'm more of an experential learner. Which is to say I know very little.
Besides Dave's book, I'm also reading a few others:
Every Man's Marriage, which is kind of a sequel to Every Man's Struggle. I'm 130 pages into the 275-pager, and Les and I would both be happier if I completed it and put the plans of action into less plans and more actions. EMM somewhat inspired me to write Decade Old Diary, though I've lacked the inspiration to pick EMM up since then. Hmm.
Max Lucado's Cure for the Common Life (on page 37 of 210). Would I consider my life common? Will the recent sickness in my house, was I more attracted by the word "Cure?" Should Robert Smith have written the forward? This is more the quick-n-easy coffee table spiritual theology read I'm comfortable with, and it's possibly the one I'll finish first. Once I finally, y'know, devote any time to reading.
And Here's the Kicker, a collection of interviews with comedy writers by Mike Sacks (page 149 of 335). Similar to The First Time I Got Paid for It, a collection of essays by established Hollywood scriptwriters, I find these somehow motivating. And mostly frustrating.
I feel like I'm reading fiction somewhere as well, but I can't remember where or what. Ah well. There's always the comics.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Stretch-n-Retch
Yoga kicked my ass yesterday.
Technically, it wasn't yoga - it was some Pilates/Yoga/aerobic merger whose sole intent is to exhaust energy, cause pain and remind me to "keep breathing." Because, y'know, if you're not breathing properly, all of your exercise will be for naught. I would've loved to breathe. But the best way to make sure I was breathing properly was to stop the activity. While my body is bent in half and contorted sideways, it's hard to collect oxygen in my compromised lungs. Frankly, there were multiple occasions/positions where I'd've been perfectly happy if I stopped breathing and passed out.
As I struggled to lift my arms after the workout, it dawned on me how I play so many sports and yet my arms never get tired doing those. Which means these drills are forcing me to use muscles I don't use otherwise. What's the point? Will these help me chuck a disc golf drive farther? I don't need to launch basketball bricks harder than I do; touch is far more important. So why am I strengthening these areas if the only thing they do is hurt after I strengthen them? I'm missing the point. And it's not like I had much motivation to begin with.
I've also determined that my core is weak. At the middle of this Tootsie Pop is not a chocolate center; it's more like a rice cake. Brittle and fragile. One option is to increase the regularity of workouts to build my core into some rock-hard foundation of my being. Methinks I'll chose the alternative: layer on the insulation, so my core never gets exposed. My core should get stronger simply from carrying around the excess blubber, no? There's a workout _and_ a diet regimen I could support!
One thing all workout videos should include is a countdown clock. Don't tell me "Three more, two more, one more," then proceed directly into the next motion. That's crap. Put a digital timer in a corner of the screen, so I know I've got 11:42 before I can turn off the television and collapse (not necessarily in that order). I don't care where I'm at - I want to know how far away the finish line is. Someone get on that.
Lastly, I tried to determine what makes an exercise video watchable. Sure, well-structured women in spandex is a good start. (For those of you who'd call me sexist, consider the alternative - fat dudes in sweats?) Add some surreal techno crap music with beats for lunges, crunches, and downward dogs. But how do they decide the leader? Is it the one person who can talk through it without huffing? Are there B-movie caliber workout tapes? What makes one more inspiring to complete than another? Celebrity? Skin? Both? How many physical therapist/actresses are there who aspire to someday be the next workout video queen? Is that something young girls want? "When I grow up, I want to be a princess/ballerina/Denise Austin."
Technically, it wasn't yoga - it was some Pilates/Yoga/aerobic merger whose sole intent is to exhaust energy, cause pain and remind me to "keep breathing." Because, y'know, if you're not breathing properly, all of your exercise will be for naught. I would've loved to breathe. But the best way to make sure I was breathing properly was to stop the activity. While my body is bent in half and contorted sideways, it's hard to collect oxygen in my compromised lungs. Frankly, there were multiple occasions/positions where I'd've been perfectly happy if I stopped breathing and passed out.
As I struggled to lift my arms after the workout, it dawned on me how I play so many sports and yet my arms never get tired doing those. Which means these drills are forcing me to use muscles I don't use otherwise. What's the point? Will these help me chuck a disc golf drive farther? I don't need to launch basketball bricks harder than I do; touch is far more important. So why am I strengthening these areas if the only thing they do is hurt after I strengthen them? I'm missing the point. And it's not like I had much motivation to begin with.
I've also determined that my core is weak. At the middle of this Tootsie Pop is not a chocolate center; it's more like a rice cake. Brittle and fragile. One option is to increase the regularity of workouts to build my core into some rock-hard foundation of my being. Methinks I'll chose the alternative: layer on the insulation, so my core never gets exposed. My core should get stronger simply from carrying around the excess blubber, no? There's a workout _and_ a diet regimen I could support!
One thing all workout videos should include is a countdown clock. Don't tell me "Three more, two more, one more," then proceed directly into the next motion. That's crap. Put a digital timer in a corner of the screen, so I know I've got 11:42 before I can turn off the television and collapse (not necessarily in that order). I don't care where I'm at - I want to know how far away the finish line is. Someone get on that.
Lastly, I tried to determine what makes an exercise video watchable. Sure, well-structured women in spandex is a good start. (For those of you who'd call me sexist, consider the alternative - fat dudes in sweats?) Add some surreal techno crap music with beats for lunges, crunches, and downward dogs. But how do they decide the leader? Is it the one person who can talk through it without huffing? Are there B-movie caliber workout tapes? What makes one more inspiring to complete than another? Celebrity? Skin? Both? How many physical therapist/actresses are there who aspire to someday be the next workout video queen? Is that something young girls want? "When I grow up, I want to be a princess/ballerina/Denise Austin."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Miffed Riff
About one block away, at the intersection of 2nd and Broadway, a cop redirects traffic because the city is doing some sort of construction. As that's not quite close enough to distract me, they're also doing construction on the walking bridge directly below my window. I already possess sufficient distractions to hinder my concentration, but the flourescent vests, bucket-trucks, and power tools make it next to impossible to write. So I'm here, instead of finishing an overdue old idea that I desperately want to complete before a new venture.
Seeking some analogy here, I'll say the construction they're doing is completing old, unfinished work so they can dig up and blow up other areas in Nashville. Except the ratio between started projects and finished projects is somewhere in the neighborhood of 4:1. Hardly inspiring. Perhaps I should join a union.
Add to my fragile mind the annoyance of a tender pimple on my left shoulder. It's deep enough under the skin that I can't pop it and relieve the agony without jabbing my arm with a letter opener. Which probably is a pound of cure for an ounce of problem. Which some kind of forethought could've prevented. Which I didn't have. Dammit.
So I can continue this blog entry to satisfy my requisite writing for the day, except this is pseudo-writing and I don't count it toward anything. It won't be of any value until after I'm famous and/or dead, and someone digs through my old computer files and realizes I was a genius even at the enviable age of 38. Except entries like this one hardly promote my genius. So I should either create something brilliant or quit now. I bet you can guess whi
Seeking some analogy here, I'll say the construction they're doing is completing old, unfinished work so they can dig up and blow up other areas in Nashville. Except the ratio between started projects and finished projects is somewhere in the neighborhood of 4:1. Hardly inspiring. Perhaps I should join a union.
Add to my fragile mind the annoyance of a tender pimple on my left shoulder. It's deep enough under the skin that I can't pop it and relieve the agony without jabbing my arm with a letter opener. Which probably is a pound of cure for an ounce of problem. Which some kind of forethought could've prevented. Which I didn't have. Dammit.
So I can continue this blog entry to satisfy my requisite writing for the day, except this is pseudo-writing and I don't count it toward anything. It won't be of any value until after I'm famous and/or dead, and someone digs through my old computer files and realizes I was a genius even at the enviable age of 38. Except entries like this one hardly promote my genius. So I should either create something brilliant or quit now. I bet you can guess whi
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
On Again, On Again
On Blogger, I have followers. On Facebook, I have friends. On StoryMash, I have disciples. On my feet, I have wet socks. On top of spaghetti, I have cheese. On Sunday, I have church. On Dasher, I have reindeer reins. On TV, I have PBS. On tap, I have filtered water. On my tab, I have another Shirley Temple. On my nerves, I have stupid people. On the alternate pin placement at Crockett Park's #7, I have a forehand roller with an Eagle. On my desk, I have too much crap. On my schedule, I have too many obligations. On my mind, I have you - always. On the NCAA men's basketball bubble, I have no interest until March. On my Geo Prizm, I have 162,000+ miles. On the radio, I have Nickel Creek. On my face, I have scruff. On to more important things, I have plenty.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Haircut? One bit.
Writing about writing is like a barbershop mirror, where you can see your ears getting lowered for infinity. I'll assume women's hairdressers don't use the same cliches and poor jokes as most barbers, but I don't know if they substitute them with anything better than gossip. I have enough difficulty staying awake through a haircut. It isn't that the chair is comfortable. Nor is the hot buzz of clippers near my jugular vein encouraging. It could be some primal response - when I unknowingly fear something to that extent, my body shuts down and craves slumber? Dunno.
This is probably why I let my wife cut my hair now. Because there's nothing like giving a woman who has to endure me every day of our lives - FOREVER - a sharp pair of scissors and carte blanche with my head. My trims are a good opportunity for the two of us to catch up on the events of the day, what's on our minds and hearts, how we can better encourage one another, etc. I force myself to filter my words, but there are opportunities for bad jokes everywhere, and I can't keep all of them subsided. They rarely make her laugh; more importantly, she's been able to contain her anger better than I've been able to contain my snark. Thankfully, I've not been shaved bald. Yet.
As might be expected, when it was time for a different kind of snip, I shut up and let the vasectomy doctor do his job. Better drugs.
This is probably why I let my wife cut my hair now. Because there's nothing like giving a woman who has to endure me every day of our lives - FOREVER - a sharp pair of scissors and carte blanche with my head. My trims are a good opportunity for the two of us to catch up on the events of the day, what's on our minds and hearts, how we can better encourage one another, etc. I force myself to filter my words, but there are opportunities for bad jokes everywhere, and I can't keep all of them subsided. They rarely make her laugh; more importantly, she's been able to contain her anger better than I've been able to contain my snark. Thankfully, I've not been shaved bald. Yet.
As might be expected, when it was time for a different kind of snip, I shut up and let the vasectomy doctor do his job. Better drugs.
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