How Much Blog Could a Blog Post Post if a Blog Post Could Post Blog?

What's that sound? It's the sound of a million bloggers posting their satisfaction at the election of Senator Obama. This is one of those posts.

In federal facilities it is customary to display the image of the president. I've always found it an odd practice until tonight. Tonight I would gladly display a photo of our new president elect. Tonight I am encouraged by the decision the country has made. Tonight, for once, I am inclined to believe in hope.

Finally Sinking In

In case you haven't heard, October was a doosey. Since my last post, five weeks ago on this wonder of cyberspace called Blogger, I've gotten married, travelled to Japan, quit my current job of fourteen years, and accepted a new job that requires a 2000 plus mile move west to Seattle leaving my new wife behind to sell the condo.

Since returning home from Japan, I've been a scheduling fool. If you are in this state, you've probably heard from me about getting togehter 'One last time.' While a small handful of friends couldn't be squeezed in, I did manage to work up a hectic schedule that saw me attending eleven lunches, twelve dinners, one family going away party, and a breakfast in two weeks. This left me little time to fix up the place for sale or consider what to pack.

Sounds like I'm complaining or that I prefer house work over friends. With the staggering amount of good news in October, I'm just trying to keep a level head and see the potential good alongside the potential bad (as part of my Velvet Murphy approach to life.) So when a friend talks about how awesome the new gig will be, I mention the political quality surrounding the creation of this position. When someone tells me Seattle is awesome, I mention that I'm leaving thirty-seven years of relationships and experiences behind.

Johnny D. is the kind of man guys aspire to be; Easy going, intelligent, funny, and willing to accept a man crush from me. He credits me with saving his kid from certain parking lot death even though I was simply part of the search team, not the hero. John is also part of my poker crew made up of current and ex music industry fellas. We've met at my place a dozen times in the last couple years to experience a constant ebb and flow of nickels and dimes while chatting away like school girls.

At the last poker night ever, this last Friday, John exercised one of his other admirable qualities: Honesty. During our extended goodbyes in the parking lot around one am, there was a lull. John said "Moving is something you're supposed to do when you're twenty. I figured, at our age, we're all here. We're settled. And we'd be growing old and playing poker together." While I'm most certainly paraphrasing, the gist of that statement resonates with me. It struck to the core of my hesitation.

I'm not dying and I'll be back as much as humanly / financially possible. But there is no kidding myself. Relationships will fizzle, become awkward, and perhaps die. I've thrown myself into this situation not fully comprehending the full extent of the consequences. The thought of a single relationship perishing has me second guessing this entire thing.

Like a child who won't look at you when you leave, as if gone unseen you've never left, I'm finding it hard to finish typing this post. If I wrap it up, and make my final poignant point I may crumble teary eyed on the bed. So let's just say, to all of you that I'm troubling with a two-thousand mile gap, you will be missed and the rumored fizzly, awkward, death of our friendship has been greatly exaggerated.

Too Swamped to Post Again

... Busy flying out for last minute interview.

Theraputic Coffee

The lady is in Minneapolis because I was supposed to play poker last night. I use the word poker loosely; We also play baseball, screw your neighbor, and have even played war for money. I also use the word money loosely. Last time I ended the night up over twenty dollars which, considering we play for nickels and dimes, means I had a stellar night. It's hard to get my six music industry guy friends on the same to organize a game, so when I had four on board I wrote the date in my calendar. Mere hours before I was to steal their money with my mad skills, I received three cancellations.

The lady sits in her room whenever I host poker night and is generally a good sport about not disrupting the guy talk with frequent visits. Needless to say it's boring for her so I always let her know as soon as we've settled on a date. This way she can make plans of her own. Hence the trip to Minny. Sometimes we all need time alone. While chilling with my lady has all the appropriate ingredients to provide a pleasant evening, the scarce "me" time is always a welcome occurrence. With no poker, I was going to get all the "me" time I needed.

For numerous reasons these last few weeks have been a mentally dizzying affair and the anxious, agitated state my brain resides reeks of nervous break down. It's brought on from too much and (strangely) too little going on. The list is long: Wedding plans, honeymoon plans, too much to do at work, no word on Seattle, family deaths, and now a financial blunder of sorts: Due to the poor responses for our wedding (Over forty percent of those invited have sent regrets) we are faced with coming in shy of our contractually defined food and beverage minimum to the tune of over two grand. While we were going to spend this money either way, this two grand is now just going to be handed over to the hotel in return for nothing. This hurts my frugal planning heart. My response to pressure varies. I'll rise to the occasion normally but this weekend I crumbled under the weight of it all. Crumbled as in sat in front of the TV, ate too much, and moped around sans lady. Needing a pick me up, I went to breakfast.

One of my greatest pleasures is this first meal of the day. The delicious food is partly the reason but it's also because breakfast is usually a mellow, un-rushed occurrence where I can regroup and unwind. For this reason even having breakfast alone is a pleasure. Parking at the counter, reading, and sipping coffee for an hour or two settles my soul. The dish washing station was directly in front of me. When my waitress would clean a few plates, the German gentleman next to me would exclaim "Herr Kaffee!" and answer any English to German translations asked of him. A chatty, coffee guzzling lady was to my left. Without my book, I would have suffered accounts of her grandchildren and perhaps worse.

I loose track of how much coffee I've consumed when the refills / top offs occur constantly. Even so, I'm positive I was working on a fifth cup when I gazed into the rising steam for what seemed like minutes. An answer to my anxious melancholy rose with the steam from the coffee and I broke this beverage stare down with a vision of the lady's smiling face.

Death Had a Busy Summer

I'm so swamped I'm mentally tired. Few loose ends remain with the wedding but there are those few. The honeymoon is slightly planned; Loose clippings are strewn about our living room begging to be scoured and edited down to a casual itinerary. 4th quarter releases have kept the large format printers at work buzzing, my interns busy, and my blogging hat ignored. I've applied for the job four weeks ago now, with only one response from HR and no interviews scheduled. Add to the mix a dead aunt and cousin, and it's not hard to imagine my clouded psyche.

My younger cousin Elizabeth lost her battle with health issues derived from years of anorexia and heroin abuse. She was an energetic, always polite girl who possessed stunning beauty even if she never thought so. Anorexia brought on by body-image induced teenage confusion provided me with an awkward moment where I introduced myself as if a stranger. I knew she was coming to lunch. In fact she was the reason for the lunch. But as I said hello to the various relatives numbering in the double digits, I saved her for last, extended my hand and said "Hi, I'm Tom." Eventually she rebounded, filled out, but still looked to the magazine covers for who she should be and what she should look like. This led to breast implants at eighteen, submissions to Playboy, and five year heroin habit that riddled her with health problems such as seizures, the likes of such ultimately ended her time on Earth.

Sue never forgot to tell me about the time I came to her house, was asked how dinner was, and responded "This beef tastes like rubber." I'm sure it did, she wasn't known for her cooking. Her husband Ken is a despicable sort that never missed an opportunity to belittle even a budding teenage psyche. It's unfortunately a popular club, but I belong to (along with many of my relatives) the "I Don't Really Care for Ken Club." He's a self made millionaire from peddling copy machines coupled with a victorious lawsuit against Xerox that netted him some ungodly amount of dough. His offspring was not invited to the wedding as they are a cackling, self-absorbed duo. Heather, the oldest, shares a profession with yours truly. On the rare occasion she visits you'll be subjected to hour long stories about her trials as a design genius and yet not once has she even acknowledged we share a similar traits. Somehow, amidst all this ugly, Sue was a good egg. Maybe not a bright, shiny light of good egg, but certainly one of the good ones.

Sue had smoked almost her entire life. Watching her mom and dad perish from cigarette induced cancer wasn't enough incentive to quit. For two years now she has been bed ridden and required to sit up in bed so her lungs wouldn't fill with liquid. I haven't spoken to her in quite a while, and it was no surprise to receive a regret to our wedding invite. I sent seventy-five dollars of white daisies and yellow roses to her memorial and can't shake the image of her face or the fact that I never said goodbye.

I've had second thoughts about moving away. While I haven't been offered the job, I still consider it wise to mentally prepare and accept such a huge change as a possibility. If I move away it might not be forever but what's going to bring me back? The need to be around my loved ones, or my attendance at their funeral?

Off the Meat

My friend Greg makes the best chili I've ever had. His graduation from culinary school provided him with a bag of tricks, but he also has a discerning tongue. Food is more than a meal with Greg. When dining together we often talk about the subtleties of a certain plate, and are generally on the same page. Somehow eating with him reminds me to slow down and taste my food. I mean really taste it, savor it.

Sadly Greg doesn't own a restaurant I can frequent. Not sure if his dreams involve such an idea, but I'd design his logo and menu for free. Receiving an invitation to a meal at his house is a welcome treat. Besides having a kick-ass wife, an adorable string bean daughter, and a remarkably verdant back yard, the seemingly effortlessly prepared meal always satisfies. And there isn't a scrap of meat in his house.

For a long time now, I've been contemplating going veggie. The reasons are obvious and somewhat endless. At the core of the reasons are that I don't enjoy the idea of killing something and then benefiting from it. I'm not a spiritual man but I subscribe to the idea that everything affects everything. A calf restricted from sitting or turning in their cage that also can't avoid standing in their own fecal matter doesn't scream yummy to me. Or humane. The rancher that deals with this sort of thing has to become desensitized to it or suffer mentally. In their desensitization they bury simple / basic traits of kindness which eventually will be expressed to other humans on or off the ranch. And so on.

There is no way I'm swearing off fish however. Which makes me a Pescetarian. How was this line determined? Not sure, but with Tokyo around the corner, I'd be foolish to go hardcore. I've had dreams about Japanese sushi. I will be skipping the chicken and horse shashimi.

It's only been a week and I can't say I'll never have meat again. I feel better, am sleeping better, and haven't really missed it all that much. Next thing you know I'll be protesting naked outside a fur store. Don't worry, I won't share photos of that.

Velvet Murphy

I've had only a few moments of self enlightenment in life. One was inspired by a Velvet Underground song in my teens. "And everything was all right" might seem like a throw away lyric spewed forth by a hippie laying in the middle of a field, but taken to heart and applied generously, you'd be surprised at how comforting those five words are. Everything is all right turned into everything will go on. Letting one small thing ruin your day is setting you up for a big tumble when something big actually happens. How you react to life's daily trials affects your mood, the moods of those you encounter, and can / should ultimately set a mellow, relaxed pace for your entire life.

Murphy's Law provided me with the other moment. In it's original dismal verse, it paints a picture of an unlucky soul that the world is set on destroying. Take from that the basic message, with none of the depressed self loathing, and you get: Anything that can happen will. A phrase that, in it's preparatory sense, allows someone to consider every possible outcome in any situation. Coupled with the Velvet lyrics, I'm provided caution and comfort simultaneously.

Driving down the highway I am both worried about getting cut off and all right with it. When a loved one passes, I'm never surprised because sometimes people die. When they're gone, Lou's words level me out and push fond memories of the deceased into consciousness. I'm often one of the few at a funeral with a smile.

A few days ago the job was posted. I've waitied over two months for the post and have been trying to get to Seattle for nearly six. I've always known that things might not go my way. In prep, I've attempted to think of every possibility so, if confronted by bad news, I would be only mildly depressed as opposed to homicidal. For all the attention and thought I've given this job quest, I neglected considering one possibility.

The Seattle company had lay-offs just prior to the job being posted. Instead of walking papers, open positions were offered to the newly jobless. I hadn't considered this as a possibility, which is fine because I can't think of everything. But had the position been handed to someone with one foot out the door, my fragile kitten self would have been sent spiraling. Or maybe I would have been happy for them to get the position. After all, I still have a job. Even if I hate it.

Too Swamped to Post ...

... Busy applying for job.

Gift Guilt

Our third wedding shower was this weekend, which is good because we desperately needed a new ice cream scooper. Some of our household items are comprised of a mismatched, hand me down mess. Not wanting my divorce to linger, I succumbed to material requests in an attempt to get the ex out of my hair quickly. Mom provided me with spare cookware and plates that met my low maintenance needs for nearly a decade. Getting new stuff, especially since I asked for new stuff from some of you the first time, upsets what little etiquette I have. No matter, because all of this if for the lady.

At first the lady wanted to elope. The idea of a fairytale wedding never appealed to her. As preliminary plans were laid for our secret nuptials, the lady decided she wanted her sisters there. Once they were added, she couldn't get married without having a few of her close friends there. Inviting a few friends and sisters would upset the uninvited mom, and if mom was coming dad would surely be upset if not asked.

Even though our invite list expanded to include close to two-hundred people, remnants of that initial plan remained. Making our wedding bigger, we had only one rule we never comprised: Make sure everyone had a good time. Beyond that, every tradition we could break has been tossed aside. We will not be lighting a unity candle, I won't be fishing out a garter with my teeth, and having desert and wedding cake seemed redundant, so we opted for a cheese cake ending to your meal.

Both the Minneapolis and Chicago showers were well attended, featured our favorite drinks / snacks, and were lovingly planned by our friends and family. Thinking about this planning, we are overwhelmed. When thanked for all this attention, our families and friends respond similarly with earnest sincerity about how much they love both of us. Friends have said that an evening dealing with my ex was not offset by the pleasure of my company, resulting in sparse invitations to social engagements. In contrast, everyone likes the lady. So much so that everyone, no matter how much they like us on an individual basis, like the combination of us even better.

I'm at a loss as to why the lady went thirty-two years without getting hitched. I'd like to take this moment to thank all those less than perfect practice dudes for leaving her alone. I've never been happier. I've never been more myself, with no filters, and I've never smiled as much as when I see her face after a long day. The gifts you give are an expression of how you feel about the lady and I. They are given freely because you are happy for us. Every time I guiltily think about getting gifts from you, I'm reminded of the lady's smile; The only gift I really want.

My Life On Hold

Summer is typically a tough time to make plans. Mostly because so many plans hit the table, without enough empty slots to accommodate them. While most of these plans are social and welcome, it's the downtime that gives pause for my mind to wander and obsess about the Seattle gig. I've been lying to myself. Tricking myself to believe this is not taking so long. Once I realized the self inflicted denial, I started to feel exhausted from the anxious, excited feelings. There's nothing I think about more.

You should see my closets. Considering a possible move, I've been boxing up non-essentials for months. I love organizing, so even if I don't get the gig, I'll be happy to have things tidy. Five garbage bags later, I can see the back of several cabinets, have consolidated plastic tubs, and have separated myself from so many "One day" items. Cleaning and organizing is a welcome side effect to having anxious feelings.

I should be painting the molding, fixing the closet door, putting some wood putty where the dog chewed the cabinet, and caulking the tub. These were the first chores I considered when first applying for the job, since selling the place would go smoother after tended to. When was that first interview? April? Let me check ... March 18th was my first phone interview. That's over four months ago. Or eighteen weeks, or one-hundred-twenty-six days, or three-thousand-twenty-four hours, or one-hundred-eighty-one-thousand-four-hundred-forty minutes, or ten-million-eight-hundred-eighty-six-thousand-four-hundred seconds.

Considering this, it's excusable that I've found premature preparatory chores to keep my brain busy. Especially since I haven't even applied for the job yet.

You're Not Helping

We sent your wedding invite this week. The lady and I had a nice moment taking turns throwing clumps of invites into that big blue box before going out to breakfast. I'll never be able to forget the smile on the lady's face as the last of the marital mailing slipped from her fingers.

We're both in our mid thirties and have some money saved for the wedding. Having it completely paid for by the parents is tempting, but it makes us feel icky. The parents are helping and it's understood any money received is our wedding gift as well to help pay for it all; Whatever we need it for: Wedding bills, honeymoon, or a new iPhone, it's our gift. Grandma's friend Karen, visiting from Germany this October, wants to know what special German flavored gift we'd like for our wedding. A fancy, German born gift is not going to mollify our planning hearts into forgetting that Grandma invited a woman we've never met without asking.

We've been forced to make a few tough decisions about who to invite. There are a few friends we would love to invite, but space does not allow. The capacity of the room is so tight that a single person over one-hundred-sixty will require tables to spill onto the dance floor in a connecting room. That awkward moment when the bus boys come to take your table really makes you feel wanted.

Asked if Karen from Germany could attend, room might have been made but we've decided to put our foot down in an attempt to squash any further discourteous maneuvers from grandma. With my backing and assurances, the lady made an awkward, uncharacteristic, and lengthy phone call to a woman who has manipulated, lied, and belittled her for thirty-seven years. Not going to say the lady and I feel good about buttin' heads with grandma, but it is an accomplishment of sorts for the lady.

The lady and I have wedding plans under control. The invites we lovingly dumped into the mail box had been stamped and ready for months. Almost everything is done and the level of stress is minimal. Sure a move across the country might escalate the stress, but my money is on grandma being responsible for at least some of the escalation.

My Four-Hundred Dollar Haircut

Keeping my water glass full will warrant more than a twenty percent tip. Cutting me off at a singular glass, while not provoking me to leave nothing, will certainly affect the girth of your food service wallet. I've always wanted to be a waiter. The lady's sister thinks I'd be good at it because I'm chatty. Engaging in conversations with strangers is easy, I go out for gossip riddled dinners with girlfriends regularly, and look forward to chatting with my hairdresser Sarah.

Years ago, I had my locks lifted at Marshal Field's hair salon by a girl named Vita. Vita is a fortyish, stick thin, Italian girl with impeccable morals, and questionable taste in men. Not wanting to leave me high and dry after she quit, she offered to trim my doo out of her home. Washing my hair in the laundry room utility sink was tolerable. Sitting in a dank, decaying basement in front of a television that always seemed to have Soul Train on was tolerable. Being joined by her father or sister, who also lived there, taking calls while working on me, and having random visitors stop by and conversing with her while she was tending to my mop was tolerable. When she started forgetting how to cut my hair...

I have my grandfather's hair. A thick wavy, cowlicky mop that's hard to tame. Beyond sharing hair attributes, all the Dietz men share a similar helmet like cut. Considering my potential follicle fate, I make every effort to avoid it. Changing hair dressers is tough. The quest to secure a replacement is never a straight path. Thinking I might have been paying too much for my haircuts, I went to a five dollar Quick Cuts and was provided with a horrible mess that made me look like I was five, so I called Heidi's in the mall.

I had been to Heidi's before, seeing a punk skateboarding kid named Charlie. While I enjoyed his company and cut, his prices had originally sent me to Vita. The manager told me Charlie had moved on but that he could squeeze me in that same night. I don't recall his name, but I do remember his Cavaricci pants and the helmet cut I received that day.

Wandering aimlessly around the mall I stumbled upon Regis Hair Salon where I randomly selected Sarah as my new mop muse. Sarah is a cute, bubbly sort, who is guarded and sassy without losing site of her manners. She worked quick, cut hair well, and I got out the door for a reasonable price. It had taken four months to find a suitable replacement for pre-laundry basin Vita, but the wait was worth it; Six years later Sarah is still tending to my mop. In fact, Sarah is such a good cut that I found myself reconsidering how I tip.

Gratuity should not be a standard, set percentage for every service. Everyone knows what to tip at a restaurant, but what should you tip for take-out, valet, buffet, or hair cuts? After careful consideration I've come up with my own tipping scale:

Valet and bag handling: Two or three dollars
Take-out: Five to ten percent (on a semi regular basis and only if it's a place I frequent)
Buffet: Ten percent
Wait staff: Ten to twenty percent
Hair stylists: Thirty percent

Sarah spends nearly an hour on my hair, talking with me the whole time and deserves more than a server. Since my haircuts with Sarah are thirty dollars, she gets a ten dollar tip, which means I surrender over four-hundred dollars to her every year. Maybe I should just shave my head from now on and put that four-hundred toward an iPhone.

If I move I'll have to find a new Sarah. This would also mean that I wouldn't have her capable hands cutting my hair for the big day. If you see me at the wedding with a shaggy, soppy doo, please be kind.

Delusional or Hopeful

I find myself daydreaming often; I'm offered the Seattle gig over a cup of coffee while being praised for how well I interviewed.

Getting my current music industry job was simple. I knew a girl, who knew a guy, and I got an interview. Before the interview I was told "You pretty much have the job, we just have to go through the motions." Thirteen years later, I wonder how much effort, if any, I put into acquiring this job. For the Seattle job I've done test images, written notes on index cards for multiple phone interviews, and been very patient.

There is a fine line between being hopeful and delusional. For this reason my posts are confident relaying facts sprinkled with hopeful wishes, all the while knowing that things may not go my way. Here is what we know:

1) The job has been approved by the subsidiary.
2) The creation of the position is in the parent-company's hands, not so much so they can veto or approve it, but more so they can assign whatever parent-company attributes they need to assign, aka: Red tape.
3) I'm the only person that has been interviewed for the position so far. This privilege being mine before the position posted and any insider could raise their hand.
4) I've been told I made a tremendous impression on the creative group with the test images I created.
5) These test images helped solidified the case to create this position.
6) If and when the job finally surfaces from the red tape, I'm one-hundred percent positive that I will get an interview.
7) The position, while not necessarily being created for me exclusively, has been created around my particular skill set.

String these facts together and you have a bottomless bowl of hopeful soup. Originally I was told I'd be in Seattle for an interview by now. Notoriously slow, this process no longer brings out the anxious. I've found a sweet spot. A crumb of hope, born of facts, that compels me to remain excitedly patient. Not getting the job would be devastating. But as I've said before, I've been reminded how good hope feels. Even if it flirts with delusion.

8) The position has been approved. Mr. Web Editor will be posting the job in the next week or two, and looks forward to talking with me soon.

Six Reasons to Stop Jogging

I've gained six pounds since I started jogging. Then I lost three pounds. Then I lost four pounds. All in a matter of a few hours. My scale either hates me or is broken. Maybe both.

Progress needs to be measured somehow. I feel better being more active and I know eventually I'll look better. I haven't been keeping the dieting part of this plan completely in check; I've had a few late night snacks and some disastrous meals. Nipping all my fatty habits in a single stroke was a dream.

I skipped jogging the day my traitorous scale revealed itself. Getting on a working scale doesn't appeal to me at this point, but I know I must since my pre-jogging weight (determined by the broken scale) is probably wrong. Then I became ill and fell off the exercise wagon. Nothing sounds worse than running a mile when your nose produces non-stop snot, your lungs are wheezy, and you get dizzy spells. It's not like I needed a big excuse to stop jogging. Any little excuse would do. Apparently what I need is an excuse to jog.

List of possible excuses to jog:
1) Jogging will save on gas
2) If I fall while jogging, I'll probably break my hip and can stay home from work
3) Those shirts aren't going to get sweaty all by themselves
4) If the Earth can make a daily rotation, I should at least be able to jog up the block every day

The lady finds excuses to exercise much easier than I do. She's been doing some cardio aerobic thing daily, just joined a gym, and gets to the treadmill when she can. Although I wasn't bed ridden the entire time being sick, it's taken about two full weeks to return to one-hundred percent. Now the hard part: Getting back outdoors and running 'round town.

Bets are being placed on which me you'll see at the wedding. Betting on tubby me is easy money, but the big money is on the long shot.

Little Lao Lady

I thought we were friendly with our neighbors across the hall. She brought us sweets from her favorite bakery (which weren't very good,) after visiting her sister in Germany she would return with chocolates, and was always courteous to a fault running into her on laundry day. When she moved without telling us, our feelings got hurted.

As far as condo complexes go, this one could use a face lift. Our interior space is calming after a long day but the hallways with their brown burber, tan/yellow walls, and forest green accents hurt my designing, gay from the waist up soul. The worst aspect of recent remodeling efforts is the dungeon like elevator with fake stone linoleum floor tiles. We don't take the elevator.

Most of the tenants, from the seventy-two units, add to my general distaste.

Irv introduced himself by yelling at me from across the parking lot. My dog was on the lawn, which is a no-go according to the bylaws. I'm all for rules, even ones as lame as this one, but how about walking over to inform me like a civilized human?

One door down live the Kristovis. English is a second language, so conversing with them is ... well, awkward. When we congratulated them on the birth of their daughter, they assumed we were complaining about the crying and could not be convinced otherwise. The crying wasn't bad at all, especially since the child lives half of every year in Bolivia with Grandma because it's cheaper.

There is a couple we enjoy from 102 named Ken and Barb (guess what they substituted for a wedding cake topper.) Sharing a common age with Ken and Barb goes a long way for small talk, but no urges for social endeavors have arisen. Ken talks a lot, smokes a lot, and talks a lot. They work downtown Chicago and want to move West, increasing their round-trip commute to sixty miles a day.

When the movers arrived to move little Lao lady, we were confused. Nothing had ever been mentioned. That day in passing, we were told about the move by little Lao lady and how she would occupy the unit for a while longer since she still needed to sell it. A week later to the day someone else moved in.

While little Lao lady lied, we've already had pleasant encounters with our new neighbor. Her English accent is mildly mesmerizing, her daughter shy but polite, and when I found her car keys near the mail boxes she was overcome with joy. I hope her bakery doesn't suck.

Chuggin' Along

Unlike past interviewers, Mr. Web Editor is keeping in touch. While he had no real news to relay, his update was detailed, heartfelt and appreciated. He explained that this company is a subsidiary of a bigger company and the job has been green-lit by the subsidiary but not yet by the parent company. Once it is (if it is) I'll be flying out for an interview.

Originally, for the first two positions I applied for, I would have been responsible for flying myself out for an interview and any moving expenses. Not a problem for a job that makes me salivate. This new position not only produces salivation but also finds me emitting enthusiastic monkey noises. It's been hinted that I might not have to pony up for the plane ticket this time around. If you've looked into traveling lately, you'll know why this is exciting. No matter, I'd pay for that ticket. I consider it an investment in my future. Both mine and the lady's future.

Hating Your Kids

Every second Thursday of every month, for the last four years, I've meet Jill for lunch at Christie's. No confirmations needed, we just show up. Being farther away from the resturaunt, I'm usually late. Stalled by the semis in the industrial area, stuck at work designing garage sale signs for my boss, or getting a seventy-five dollar speeding ticket have been among my excuses. Today I was early. Which really means I was on time. Most importantly, I arrived before her.

Our friendship started over twenty years ago. I used to steal cassette tapes from her at Musicland. Somehow she didn't know, or didn't care. Once, I special ordered a Damned CD from her and was given guff for not buying it at a real record store. I'm surprised I didn't steal that when it arrived. Not sure how we went from casual mall encounters to late night coffee binges, but you'd often find us at Baker's Square, at midnight, spewing dramatic, useless teenage philosophy. When I say I'm not sure how, what I really mean is I can't remember. It's has been over twenty years.

Jill and I have never kissed. Which is strange because I kissed most of the girls I befriended during my teen years. It's probably one of the reasons we are still friends. Being one of my oldest friends, I'm excited for her to attend my wedding. She might not come now since her four year old isn't invited.

The Millennium Hotel is a remodeled Holiday Inn. It's been redone in a Frank Lloyd Wright fashion, with a bit more trendy club feel. As if FLW's cocaine abusing step son might have designed it. Originally we were looking at a large basement room to accommodate our guest list, but then we saw the fourteenth floor. It's the very top floor consisting of one long room on each the west and east side of the building. The all window wall of the west room provides a stunning northward view of downtown Minneapolis only one upped by the Dome room (connecting the east and west rooms) which provides a 360 degree bubble view of the city. One problem, the reception area accommodates only one-hundred and sixty guests.

We've reduced the guest list from two-twenty to one-eighty in an attempt to accommodate the capacity restrictions. To do this we've had to draw a line; Some single invites will be sent out, cousins have been cut, and invites restricting the attendance of kids.

Telling Jill her son can't attend wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't already told her the opposite and I have one more friend who is under the same impression. Not only am I not looking forward to that conversation, restrictions such as these are counter to my easy going overall attitude. I feel like a jerk. Will you still love me in the morning?

No Lonley Holidays

The lady and I don't have a balcony in our condo. When a friend invites us over for a BBQ we're there. Typically the forth is a no brainer; There will a BBQ to attend. This year a last minute invite saved us from spending this grilling holiday in-doors. In return, we are naming our first born after our hosts: Micheith.

Christmas is going to be weird if I end up in Seattle. Sure I'll come back, but my return will have a reunion quality instead of the familiar, warm, and welcome habit like feeling visits convey now. If I thought it was hard to see my friends now, wait till I move. Will my return warrant a group outing? Or will I struggle to catch ten minutes each with friends as I travel across the city in an attempt to see everybody separately?

I'm not taking the possibility of a move lightly. Actually, I barely comprehend what havoc a move like this will wreak on my friendships. In the end I know everything will balance out; Some friendships will remain the same, some will fade, and others will actually become stronger. I'm getting ahead of myself. There hasn't even been an interview. Well, besides that "casual one" two weeks ago.

I've done some premature Seattle house hunting. I'll most likely be taking a pay cut with this job and, similar to our circumstances in Chicago, we would like to live below our means. We'll probably be looking for another condo, this time in the city of Seattle. New or old doesn't matter. We do however have three rules: Top floor, washing machine and dryer in unit, and a balcony.

Our current place is a self contained cell with no breeze to speak of, even with all the windows gaping. For this reason, comfort demands the use of air conditioning if the outside temp reaches a blistering seventy degrees. Maybe a balcony wouldn't cool our place down any better but at least we could lounge enjoying the weather. Or maybe even have a BBQ of our own.

Till then we'll have to rely on our friends to scratch that outdoor itch. The forth of July invite did just that. The lush yard was soothing under my bare feet, the promising smell from the grill appeased, and the friends ... well, the friends are going to be missed.

Thrifty Contruction Workers

My boss Wayne didn't receive the nickname Wayniac because of an affiliation with Warner Brothers. He walks faster than anyone, talks faster, and even eats faster. Once at a twelve person business dinner, he woofed down his fillet mignon in four bites before the last person was served.

I've worked for Wayne for six years? Eight? It's been a while. In the beginning he wasn't an ideal boss. Decision making wasn't his strong point, but through a relentless on task approach, brought on by fail-proof organization skills, he has become one of the better bosses I've had. That said, we've never encountered conflict because he lacks a pair. I won't say I get away with a lot, because I do my job well. But the fact that I come in anywhere from fifteen to forty-five minutes late each day for the last five years without a peep, speaks volumes. Perhaps my seniority affords me perpetual artistic-type tardiness.

As co-workers become aware of the possibilities of the graphics department as it pertains to their job, they inevitably become aware of personal applications. On the clock I've made children's party decorations, birthday party invites, Christmas cards, and printed photos from hedonism. Yesterday, for the first time ever, Wayne asked me to make him a sign.

Wayne makes more money than me. He should, he's my boss. With this money he's purchased a house, out in the suburbs, closer to Canada than Chicago. Being new construction, every detail was obsessed over. Certain details weren't perfect so he's had the builder fix them over and over. With another round of fixes due, he's worried about the workers getting his perfect carpet dirty.

Keeping financial secrets is the fashion. I'm wary of sharing too much lest you perform some backward math and figure what I'm worth. While I'm not a millionaire, talking money is ugly. When the real estate bubble burst, Wayne's home lost ten percent of it's worth. In the same conversation he told me he lost forty-thousand. One simple math problem later, I know how much he paid and lost. He's potentially going to lose more if the builder sells cheaper houses in the hard to sell empty lots. That's why Wayne is hosting a community meeting concerning the class action law-suit in his back yard and again is worried about his carpet.

Being such a community leader comes with responsibilities. So when talk of a neighborhood garage sale came up, Wayne knew who could make the signs.

If I leave this job, in the manner and time frame I hope to, I will submit my resignation directly to Wayne. Since I probably won't be replaced, due to the record industry taking a hard nose dive into the shitter, it gives me no pleasure to think how this will strand Wayne without resources to get his job done. The pleasure I am afforded comes from a change of scenery, replacing one dream job with another, and not dying in this box of a condo. Still, I giggle slightly as I imagine a cold sweat on Wayne's departure pondering brow.

I Want My Dad Back

Olof is a Swede. He was a good friend in high school, a bad driver, and his dad is dead. Somewhere around senior year we drifted apart but I'm not sure why. The best I can come up with is that I found new friends. Friends that ran in the same circles as girls. Friends that introduced me to my ex. I should have stuck with Olof.

I met Olof during freshman registration. We instantly clicked, talked and joked during the entire process, and succumbed to the wrestling team recruiter before leaving registration. We wrestled on the team for three years together, rode our bikes for hours on long summer days, drove to school together, and played cassette tape loading games on his Commodore 64. Olof's sister was also one of the first girls I ever kissed, which made sleep-overs doubly fun. Until her mom caught on. Senior year might have marked the end of Olof and I, but our parents remained friendly. On a regular basis our fathers went to awful movies together. If you ever wondered about the caliber of any particular flick, knowing that these two planned to attend was an indication that it would most certainly suck.

My father helped my uncle move to Virginia last week. My uncle is taking his mentally disabled sixteen year old, and leaving Chicago behind in search of a fresh start away from their massage parlor (non-therapeutic/happy ending) employed ex / mother. During the five day move, Olof's dad succumbed to a slew of organ failures, went into the hospital, and died. Not being able to say goodbye, was hard for my dad. Having suffered a loss of a similarly aged friend weeks earlier was also hard on him. Knowing his father also passed at sixty-two, harder still. Sharing an age with this triangle of death is giving him pause.

One day I will know exactly what to say to someone who has lost a loved one. That day will regrettably come when I've experienced a surplus of death and am practiced at how to approach the grieving. Until then I'm comfortable ... nay, happy that my brain and tongue are at a loss for words in such situations. Consoling Olof's newly widowed mother, I had a clear sight of the casket as I struggled with small talk. All I wanted to say was I'm sorry and cry, but the small talk continued to trickle out. Running into Olof's sister after twenty years was pleasant. Mostly because with her small talk would not do. She wasn't devoid of social grace, but she was true to her feelings when she proclaimed, through a endless supply of tears, that she wanted her father back.

Never Trust a Hippie to Teach You How To Punch

Jujut-su class isn't going so well. Last week I had to yell at a kid because he was hitting me too hard. I'm old.

This is the exact Dojo I attended six years ago. I had done my homework to find it. Breaking cinder blocks with my noggin' was not my goal. I wanted something I could use. Something that, if necessary, could get me out of a situation.

I've been in a few physical fights in my life. Most have been during my early teens, when maturity prevents the words from surfacing. One time Chuck, a "good friend", punched me in the mouth after school. He was an alpha type and, looking back, never really a good friend. When I went over to his house, he would toss Chinese stars dangerously in my direction. While his intention was to scare, I'm not sure he would have been too upset if one caught flesh. Previous to the punch in the mouth, Chuck had knocked my school books out of my hands. Friendly teasing I thought and decided to return the favor. Later that day, as we walked toward our homeward bound bus, I saw my chance for retaliation and spilled his books accented with a giggle. Word spread quickly on the bus ride home that he was not pleased and that I was in for a beating. Moments after getting off the bus, I saw his determined knotted face getting closer. I set my books down, put my fists up, and was promptly caught in the jaw by his right hook. Teeth from my lower jaw pierced my cheek resulting in an arterial like spray across the side of my head and I went down.

Miya-Maru Ju-jutsu originated in Japan, but took off in the Bronx. New York is a tough place. The cops need an edge when encountering street fighting men, and this Dojo gave it to them. All the maneuvers are self defensive with an emphasis on controlling the situation there after. This control may involve breaking wrists, arms, and other bones to stop a fight. It was also good exercise.

Sensei Don was an ex FBI agent. He stood approx five foot four inches and was one bad mother-fucker. He wasn't unpleasant, you just knew not to f with him. Everyone had respect for Don. At the beginning of class you bowed with sincerity, and listened when he talked because every verbal morsel was important and interesting. Returning to the Dojo six years later, Don was gone. Only his business partner John remained.

The lady and I had the Dojo to ourselves as no other beginners attened. Having the run of the place came with the dedicated attention of Sensei John. Since John was a talker, this wasn't always a desirable scenario. As if talking to his kids, John would reiterate points in different ways and multiple times until he was sure the knowledge had sunken in. He told us to smile when we practiced falling, blocking punches, and throwing punches because ... well, no one expects you to smile doing those things. He continued making sure we knew that smiling was easier than frowning, it was relaxing, and that when facing an opponent a smile would send strange signals that would perhaps allow you to avoid a physical conflict. Whatever hippie.

John's babbling and unobstructed attention gave birth to an almost complete lack of respect. It is only one of the reasons we decided to take a break from class. The other being the lady doesn't enjoy or know how to punch. I like that in a person.

Double X Chromosome Electronic Goodness

Back before the iPod, I lugged CDs to work everyday. At the end of the week, I'd end up with thirty or so littering my work area. Sometimes I'd be in the mood for those rarely enjoyed nostalgic Metal albums, other times it was the glam rock, and still others I would get in touch with my feminine side. Mirroring that selective what-I'm-in-the-mood-for method of weekly selection, every Sunday I load up the pod with music for the work week. When the iPod capacity is reached, I empty the whole thing and start over. Last night I decided to go with a theme: Just the chicks.

A female singer (sweet or rough) will scratch my musical itch every time. Do I enjoy the music more if they are cute? Or does making good music make them cute? Really, it's all about the music but I am guilty of occasionally listening to something, really wanting to like it, because I find the vocalist attractive.

Being gay from the waist up, I'm blessed with a sensitive side that allows me to cry at movies, decorate with confidence, and cook with an eye on presentation. Thankfully for the lady, I'm straight from the waist down. Still, three-thousand-seven-hundred-eighty-one tracks of nothing but the ladies might eventually put me on the same cycle as the misses. If that happens, I hope Minnesota green lights same sex marriages soon.

Weddings are Easy

Two months ago I completed the invite design for our October wedding. Last night I sealed and stamped the very last invite. It's not just the invites, I have your thank you note printed, ready to have a personal note scribed onto the bare card before being placed into the already prepared stamped envelope. That's assuming you are invited.

Bridesmaids and groomsmen aren't for us. In place of these tuxedo clad, ugly dress wearing unfortunates, we have requested our families accompany us during the ceremony and at the head table. We don't have any wedding colors, and there will not be any flowers.

We may be skimping on some of the trappings, but not on the good-time-party-fun-stuffs. You'll have your choice of meal served to you along with a salad, sides, and desert. The view of downtown from the fourteenth floor is remarkable. We'll be hosting an open bar all night, something that is uncommon for a Minnesota wedding. I can't ask one hundred plus people to travel from Chicago and make them pay for a drink.

I have a few things to do over the next three and a half months: Rent a tux, make table assignments (along with corresponding place cards,) finish the design for our wedding photo sharing web site, and make the center pieces.

My plan is do very little, if anything, in the month proceeding our wedding. I have little tolerance for chaos. We are arriving in Minneapolis for the wedding two nights before festivities commence. I imagine those days spent relaxing. Preparing for what is most certainly going to be a wonderful event. With you in attendance, even better.

Avoiding Cracks to Save Your Mother's Fat

On a regular basis, you can find a handful of nourishment minded employees in the kitchen. Lunch provides an hour to spend talking, forgetting about work, and perhaps playing a game of Uno. Today the lunchketeers, consisting of several OCD riddled co-workers, shared all.

Being one of the OCD stricken, I actually found comfort in not sharing as the office manager talked about unplugging curling irons and obsessive cleaning habits. She was one-upped by tales of multiple return trips home to make sure the garage door had properly shut. Then a spread-sheet happy clothes whore one upped that.

I wear the same clothes a lot and find only a single week is needed to cycle through my "outfits." Partially because I only have a few things that fit tubby me, and partially because I have better things to do with my money, like squirrel it away so I can buy nice clothes when I'm sixty-five.

Not only did this OCD participant have too much to wear, but his clothes made a full rotation before being revisited. Two months weere needed to cycle through his closet. To encourage his plan, he kept records of what was worn, in what combination, and on what date. As tedious as that is, it produces a desirable outcome for the fashionable.

The one upping continued when the next OCD participant shared her fears of becoming fat. To remain slim she eats well balanced meals, exercises daily, and avoids stepping into shadows; If she ever finds herself engulfed in an overweight shadow she quickly side steps, exhales, and holds her breath to prevent a transfer of fat to her body. Perhaps everyone found comfort in sharing, knowing they weren't alone, but this last eccentricity raised the bar so high that no one spoke of peculiar habits for the remainder of the lunch.

I've been jogging for two weeks now. I've increased the length of my sweaty morning jogs to two miles. I've stopped eating late night snacks, and my meal portions are under control. While all of this hard work will eventually result in a thinner version of me, I'm considering an all together new routine that involves casting my shadow on co-workers.

Not a Hickey

I've counted twenty-three mosquito bites on my right arm alone. Risking Malaria is acceptable if I'm able to shoot my friend in the head during a game of paint-ball.

I was an hour late. The week has been so busy my planning suffered. Almost to the park, and ahead of the group, I realized my oh-so-baggy jeans had no belt. Knowing it would be hard to run with my jeans around my ankles and not wanting the mystery of boxers or briefs to be dispelled, I went looking for a trouser support system. I was sent back tracking for forty minutes to the nearest Target where I purchased a belt that was too big, and helped only a little. As I drove back, in communication with the bachelor, I worried about being "That guy."

I'm not the most athletic guy. Frolicking military style in the woods with twenty-three others, shooting paint balls for over six hours took it's toll. Most of these guys were ten or more years younger, and almost half were ex-gymnasts (who are generally an athletic bunch.) This didn't bother me or my paint ball tactics; I always hid and guarded the flag.

I was chicken for most the day and, by the time I had the guts, I lacked the energy. I briefly thought about hiding in my car sitting the last round out, but it was too much damn fun, so I recklessly forged ahead. I had become braver, so I set out along the creek and dove into the brush crawling through the mud on all fours. Not being a stealthy thirty-seven year old, a youngin' got the drop on me and provided me with a welt on my neck that resembles a love bite. If only I would have stuck with my plan, I wouldn't have to wear a turtle neck.

Skipping Lunch Makes Me Giddy

I had a fifteen minute interview last Friday. Sixty-five minutes into the interview, I feel pretty good about my chances. That and I was really hungry at dinner time. Scott (Mr. Editor in Chief) did most of the talking which left all my prepared questions answered. The interview went so well, I'm having trouble remaining subdued.

Being the only graphics guy at my current job, I've become a jack of all trades. Being told the job description, it occurred to me: The job being created calls on all of my abilities. As if ... nah, it couldn't be. But it was. Every time my inside guy informed Scott of another one of my abilities, the possibilities were considered, tasks realized as they pertained to the position, and then added to the job description. This position has been created around my exact skill set.

The impression I made with the images from a week ago was immense. Not only were the images received well and heavily complimented by Scott, they also validated his case for creating this job, resulting in management green-lighting the job's creation. "Very impressed with you as a candidate and individual" and "You'd make a good fit" were just a few of the positive comments relayed. Scott hypothetically went into details about when I could start, if I had to move a family, sell a home, what the salary might be, and that, if all went well with the position, I'd be up for a promotion and raise in under a year. Making sure along the way that I realized nothing was promised.

Through posts, I've shared every detail about my job hunt adventure. My parents however have been kept completely in the dark on purpose. I didn't want to make waves until things looked serious. Until I was flying out for an interview. They are smart people though. Considering they know my friend works there, I suspect they won't be too surprised when I tell them. Chances are, I'll be having that talk soon.

Even Steven Wasn't This Even

Luckily the lady finds my need for order cute. The wedding invites are stamped and ready four months ahead of schedule, I know exactly where all nine remotes I own are, and I could send a Christmas card to your parents in Iowa if I wanted to. Order for me is the fresh breath of comfort that I constantly strive to accomplish, but it's not always for my satisfaction.

In the beginning, I cut the lady a break. She was just starting off in Chicago, so I couldn't see making her spring for half the bills. Getting her financial feet planted firmly on the ground, her share of the bills increased. Currently, we are even steven. If I pick up a bag of spinach, she owes me two dollars. She doesn't pay for my onions, and I don't pay for her glutten-free bread.

I'm the fairest person you'll ever meet. I might be annoying while being fair, but you'll never accuse me of cheating you. That rice-crispie treat was not only cut with precision, but you'll get pick of the halves. When large groups dining out are involved, I don't mind being in charge of the bill because, unlike some, I can accurately add tax and tip to a bill. If you underpay, I have no qualms telling you. That said, I occasionally get stuck throwing in a few extra bucks, but I sleep better knowing the tip was adequate.

Being this down the middle only applies to tangible, monetary situations. I don't mind cooking nearly every meal the lady and I eat and, if I don't feel like cooking, we'll order out. However, you'll then have to worry about the asian ladies getting their paws on me, as well as paying for exactly half of the take out.

Art to be Proud of

What I do at work can hardly be called artistic. For the majority of the time, I print out large scale versions of album covers and adhere them to foam core. Well, the interns do a lot of the adhering. Occasionally, I am presented with a challenging project that actually requires thought and time to accomplish. Most of the time, this is still not art.

A few years ago I applied for a design position at a music label in New York and the need for a portfolio presented itself. Being a designer for lots-o-years, along with a anal organizer, I've been religiously collecting my design work with the eventual goal of creating a portfolio.

Looking through hundreds of past designs, I started to notice a theme; Most of work really sucked. There were glimpses of brilliance, but no maturity or subtleness. I suppose designing merchandising materials, always trying to get someone's attention as they stroll past, my designs tend to scream rather than soothe. Still, I managed to scrape together a collection of examples that I wouldn't be ashamed to share.

Nothing ever came of that job, but I did acquire a set of applicable standards for my design projects; If I don't want to see it in my portfolio, it's not going out the door. This rule requires more time spent conceptualizing (resulting in some missed deadlines,) the welcome side-effect of an ever evolving design maturity, and gave birth to a set design related goals to consider whenever faced with a challenge.

Last March, my L.A. counter-part Dan was laid off. That left two of us to supply the entire country with merchandising materials. With the inclusion of L.A., my work load has easily doubled. I'm unable to adhere to the self imposed portfolio-worthy rule and have been designing nothing but sub par crap. I'm also recycling designs from years past, literally just changing details / album covers to satisfy new requests. With no end in site to the busy work load, I'm in dire need of a day off to calm my design hungry heart. That or a change of scenery.

Greener Than Me

Today I received a Philp K. Dick book shipped in a recycled El Paso taco shell box. I smiled at the novelty of it, and was reminded that I'm just not that green.

That fact that our building doesn't recycle would be a good excuse to refrain, but it doesn't stop us. The lady and I sort all of our cans, bottles, and taco shell containers for the trip to the local recyclery. Driving there of course.

I still subscribe to half a dozen magazines that I barely read and the amount of foam core I've encouraged into the world at work, should keep me up at night.

A light in my car has come on and off regularly for years. I found out it was the emmison when I checked the manual. When I receive the postcard for my annual required emission test, I make sure I go on a day the light is off.

Mitsuaw is a Japanese grocery store that has freshly made Nigiri and various rolls for a reasonable price. Last weekend it sounded good. Checking out, I declined the bag for our grub, but didn't think to carry the four pieces of Nigiri without the aid of a take-home, over-sized, styrofoam container.

In the seventies and eighties, recycling wasn't as popular. The effects of container waste and lack of renewable resources wasn't terribly obvious to our parents. I do remember bringing in soda bottles for the deposit, but that was only because I desired the cash.

Today's kids, while reminding me I'm getting old, also remind me how prevalent recycling is. It's refreshing to receive scornful looks from nieces and nephews if I slip and toss a recyclable item into the trash. It's of no comfort to know that they'll be able to point a finger at me when the world implodes.

Commuters Hate Joggers

I did not get hit by a car. But the bored, seemingly taunting stares make me self-conscious. Am I holding my hands funny like a stroke victim? Does my head, in this particular shade of red worry them? Does my jiggle make them crave Jello?

Calling myself a jogger after hardly a week, seems presumptuous. I'm jogging, but at what point do I become a jogger? When I have to tape my nipples down like a marathon runner? For all they know, I've been running for years and I prefer being tubby.

Six years ago, when I was actually a jogger, I remember passing a SUV with the driver laughing and pointing in my direction. Remembering that vividly years later seems silly. I didn't ask for this brain, and I'm just most certainly stuck with it.

Angie was a rail thin, Jagger lipped, sixth grader with hair seemingly made to be feathered. She flipped me the bird from a passing school bus, demanded I move my "Big head" so she could see the projector screen in science class, and once in speech class crassly spread her legs while shooting me a defiant wink. Gathering these incidents together like this, perhaps Angie fancied me. Regardless, these are merely a few of the biting memories destined to embarrass me till my last breath.

There is a sunny side to this defective "This is your life" nightmare parade of embarrassing moments; I have similarly stuck memories that make me smile. Visions of smiling faces, smells that make me dizzy, and nostalgic childish teenage antics.

So when you pass someone, anyone on the side of the road, don't point, poke fun, or flip them the bird. Because it might be me, and then I'll go to my death bed unable to clear my noggin' of your mean, mean face.

Sometimes You Get What You Ask For ...

... Even if you weren't serious when you asked for it.

It's not the best cartoon, but I'm kinda out of element here. Oh, and after I uploaded the image, I realized the request was for a chicken. Gandhi and poultry will have to do.

Like, Totally Forgetting

Forgetting is one thing, but losing your thoughts from one second to the next is another. Having an idea for a post, I opened blogger, clicked "Create", and instantly forgot what I was going to type. Not only the body of the post, but the entire idea.

Making a post out this memory deficient incident seems like a waste because you've all read about my memory inadequacies and attempts to compensate through a constant dribble of self addressed notes. You haven't heard about the fears born from my poor memory. At thirty-six my brain is sharp and extraordinary forgetful, which produces a flushed panicked feeling. Essentially, I fear becoming that old man whom nobody talks to because of his inability to communicate intelligently, sitting in the corner slowly dying from mental atrophy.

At the core of the problem is that I remember only what is important. It's important that I love and adore the lady, but not important to remember her work schedule. When I complete a work order, the details are dismissed. If asked about the completed the job, I can only recall that it's finished and nothing more. It's not important to remember and forgetting is done on purpose.

It's the same with forgetting what I was going to post about. I had the idea, stepped up to the computer, opened Blogger, and forgot. The most important part of this process is having the idea in the first place. Writing it down is really secondary.

Change = Monkey

Now all that's left to do is beat that old guy.

Click on image to see original.

Burning Lungs and Sweaty T-Shirts

Today is the first time since the fall that I ran a mile. Getting up early lately has provided me time to think about exercising. Being wrapped snuggly in my bed sheets has provided me with the excuse not to.

Tired of being fatty, I decided one hot summer day six years ago to start jogging. Having no running shoes, not even something that resembled gym shoes, I purchased a pair on the way home from work. It was hot. Hot even for July. That didn't stop me from running a mile that night.

I had no stride, no breathing technique, didn't know how to plant my feet or launch, and I didn't know how to pace myself. Stopping three times during that mile showed me just how out of shape I was. I ran the next day and the next.

December was cold for running outdoors. Running almost every day since I started had provided me with a weight loss induced svelte look, increased daily energy, and the ability to run five miles daily with only the clock preventing a further journey. Hurting my hamstring wasn't on the menu.

The hamstring isn't a single muscle or tendon. It's a mass of intertwining muscles and tendons that make up most of the upper leg, from the knee to your hip. Addressing torn, distressed, or other wise under the weather hamstring muscles is a difficult task, even for professionals. As is evidenced by the noticeably taught feeling I've sustained in my right leg for the last 6 years.

Physical therapy barely helped, but moving two friends did more harm than anything else. I can finally sleep comfortably, without waking from a hamstring induced pain referrals to other muscles. But the tension is still higher than my left leg. Still requires attention. Still worries me.

Stretching this morning while tired was the worst. Nothing feels right in the AM, muscles don't stretch as far as you'd like, and I was looking for things to do that weren't exercising. Getting past that hump this morning was tough.

I'm planning on jogging tomorrow as well. Wish fatty luck.

Not the Outdoor Type

I've let down my eight year old nephew. But not as much as his dead-beat dad, so I feel all right. A month ago my nephew sheepishly asked me if I would go on a father-son camping trip. The idea of being outside, with no computer was startling. I remembered camping; Sleeping in caves with bats, cooking bad scrambled eggs in a crappy little steel pan, while being wet and un-showered the entire weekend. I might have had fun at the time, being eight or nine at the oldest, but I've grown up now and detest the idea of camping.

To attend the Friday night camping trip, I had to sell tickets to see Willie Nelson at Ravinia, a wonderful outdoor park with surprisingly good sound, and no restrictions preventing patrons from bringing in food or alcohol. Willie hasn't graced Chicago with a visit in a while, but I sold those tickets (at a loss) without thinking twice. I felt honored by my nephew's request.

There is a pecking order of father figures for my recently divorce burdened nephew:
1) Grandpa
2) & 3) My brother and I
4) The husband of a close girlfriend to my sister
5) His dad

Sad as that is, my nephew is better off. No secret that hangin' out with dead-beat pops would lead to the development of less than desirable traits.

For the entire month I asked my sister for details about the outing. Would I have to take a day off? Where was it? Was anyone else I knew going? What do I need to bring? What do I need to buy? Finally, late last week, my sister secured the info and informed me the camping trip was scheduled for two nights, not one. While the thought of two nights made me miserable, I was mostly upset because, having been told the trip was only Friday, I had purchased tickets for another concert that conflicted with the second night.

Falling in and out of grace with me is my sister's favorite past-time. Luckily my level-headed mom, not wanting to be in the middle, suggested we talk on the phone, instead of duking it out on email. After apologizing and being apologized to, I asked to speak with my nephew. I told him I wasn't going make it on the camping trip, but that my tied in the rankings brother would. Unaware of the behind the scenes turmoil, he said "Oh, OK" and that was it. With a little guilt, I purchased another pair of tickets to see Willie.

Secret Sessions and No Promises

I've been lying to you through my silence. I heard back from Seattle. I'm sure you've expected to hear one of two things: 1) That interviews were proceeding or 2) They were taking a pass on me. You wouldn't be alone, since that is exactly what I expected.

Waiting in my mailbox last Thursday was a detailed, lengthy note from the Editor in Chief of the web site. He asked me to create some images as a sort of test. But not really a test. Lemme explain. The Editor in Chief has a hand in determining the responsibilities for the job I'm in the running for. On a daily basis, he needs a designer to produce photoshop enhanced / altered images of a humorous nature using artwork from the company's product line to accompany newly posted web articles. I was provided past articles from their website and challenged to create three such images. The images I create will be used to argue his case, for the inclusion of this responsibility to the job, at meetings in the following weeks. Wait a second ... what's that smell? Oh, it's the reek of dream job.

Receiving the note I was ... well, why look for that five dollar word. I was excited. I took my lunch break to create the first one and nailed it. I've heard from my inside source, that the image has been passed around this rather large company inducing giggles, loud laughter and humorous tears. Thursday night I made the second one. Not laugh out loud funny, but humorous and a fine example of my Photoshop prowess. Sunday I created the last one which is on par with the first, in the humor department.

No promises have been made. Actually, there have been paragraphs exchanged making extra sure I know no promises have been made. Through participating in this project I have gained a leg up on others who may be interested in the job, a handful of people who credit me with making them laugh now know my name, and the Editor in Chief is in my corner. Not too bad for three and a half hours of work.

The Editor-in-Chief-Web-Guy has warned that it might take a while. To that I say it's already taken a while. But I can wait some more. I've had lots of practice being patient lately.

Childhood Dreams of Androgyny

Babysitting is fun. Especially when the baby likes me. If I ever run into a baby that doesn't, I just leave. Luckily for her, the baby I watched this week was fond of me.

Rosalyne is a one year old, fair skinned, four toothed sweet heart. She enjoys long walks around the couch, penguins, and playing with baked potatoes that her mom plans to eat. She doesn't however, enjoy being put down to bed.

Similar to a lot of my baby blessed friends, there is little fuss over night-time rituals with Rosalyne's parents. Her diaper is checked and she is put into her crib completely sans fuss. Apparently we are more fun than mommy and daddy because, when the lady and I put her down for the night, she cried for over a half an hour.

Even the first time I babysat a child, I knew not respond to their crocodile tears with a visit. That said, there is almost nothing worse than listening to a baby cry. Thirty minutes is a long time. Maybe a varmint had crawled into her bed.

No varmint could be found and a check of the diaper did not curl my nose hairs. After the poop check, I placed her back in her crib and decided to nonchalantly sit next to the crib, with intentions of sneaking away a moment later. Her little eyes poured through the bars of the crib, watching me as I pretended not to notice her.

My singing voice is .... well, it's OK. You won't find me auditioning for American Idol or indulging in karaoke, but I enjoy struggling with a tune in the car. When I decided to sing Rosalyne to sleep, the words to all the worlds nursery rhymes simultaneously escaped me. So I sang her Bowie.

While "Jamming good with weird and gilly" might seemingly take cues from any number of Dr. Seuss classics, the rest of the tune dredged up images of ego, deceit, and revenge perpetrated by and towards the greatest rocker in the world: Ziggy. In other words, a lovely, well rounded bed-time fairytale.

Having run through the song a few times, I decided to put a cork in it. The path to the door was clear and the book I remembered to bring wasn't going to read itself. Standing, I saw those eyes poking at me again. Her anger was apparent before I left the room, and continued as I watched her on the baby monitor downstairs.

Lesson learned; Not even Bowie is perfect.

It Moved

I'm positive she didn't intend to, but when my massage therapist Jordan was relieving tension in my shoulder using her elbow, her fingertips brushed delicately across the tips of my hairline, and it moved.

My lady has been a massage therapist for a decade. Occasionally I walk in the door, after a long day at work, to find her massage table set up in the living room. This is about the only time I don't feel guilty asking her for therapeutic attention. I know how tiresome work days can sometimes be and I'm usually sitting at a computer. My lady however is on her feet, exerting her muscles in a strenuous manner daily. The last thing I want is for her to reach a threshold over my minor aches and pains.

When I received the text yesterday that she was treating me to a massage, from her favorite massage therapist at X-Sports this weekend, I had mixed feelings. Was she treating me because she hadn't worked on me for a while? Or was it just because she was nice? Going with the later, I joyfully accepted and insisted on paying the tips.

Luckily I was positioned on my stomach, when the incident occurred, but that didn't prevent a panicked feeling from taking hold. Imagined scenarios of her getting an eye full and leaving the session in a huff perpetuated my most certainly flushed face. Men have little control in a situation such as this. For no reason at all, on a daily basis, I find myself happy. Unlike all those times, I was in my birthday suit, and had no means of concealment.

Left to control the situation using my mental faculties, I set my mind to think of something that would surely deflate the situation. The first thing that came to mind was "Dead Grandma." Slightly shocked by the idea, I was elated that I could not conjure imagery to match. I was still in panic mode and without another idea, so I went with it.

Are There Interns in Seattle?

Work was extremely busy this week. So busy I had little time to post. It may seem ridiculous to complain, having recently posted about slacking for a week while working on wedding stuffs, but I wasn't a total slack. Even if I wasn't operating on all cylinders, I had loyal interns working diligently to keep the output level high. Interns that I no longer have, now that the semester has come to an end.

If it wasn't for interns, my professional world would collapse. My job would not be possible, slacking or no. It turns out interns are also good friend material; I see four former interns socially on a regular basis, and have invited six to my wedding. That's what happens when you're cooped up with me, two times a week for eight hours a day. You start to like me.

I interviewed five interns for the summer session, but three of them turned it down. So I'm left with my number two pick, and my number five pick. With some hesitation, the need for two able bodies compelled me to hire pick number five.

With any luck, I'll be moving in the next month or two, and I'll no longer need to worry about hiring interns as cheap help. But then who will I make friends with?

Reluctantly Yours, Tubby

Not surprising, but my belly hurts from all the pizza I ate this weekend. Getting the large seems like a good idea fiscally, but if I cared about myself, the small would have sufficed. The single pizza, I purchased for lunch on Saturday, fed me for five meals. Yes I had pizza for breakfast and yes I ate it all. Partly because leftover pizza is almost always better than freshly delivered, and partly because I wanted to erase the existence of this pie from the fridge.

There were two goals this weekend. One I accomplished by downing a lot of pizza. The other conflicted with the eating, so my goal to exercise didn't gain lift-off. The lady and I started a Ju-Jutsu class a few weeks back. Meeting once a week, it's not the type of exercise that will induce weight loss. I'm filled with a surge of energy after a class, reminding me how I used to feel when in shape. So the idea to shape up is rolling 'round my tubby noggin', waiting for the perfect moment to be realized. Trouble is, there is no perfect moment.

I had a fat dream last night. My ex and I were shopping at the mall. Not only could I not find anything that fit, but I had three pairs of jeans with me and continually changed from pair to pair, trying to decide which fit best. Upon making a decision, I'd toss the other two, only to retrieve them moments later from the trash and start the whole cycle over. There was no end to the dream, unless you count me waking up feeling fat an ending.

My tubby twenties were a result of getting married and being lazy. Sadly, it took the drive and pain of a divorce to start exercising. I hurt my hamstring jogging about a year after starting, stopped exercising, met the lady, and proceeded to pack on the pizza pounds. Last year I got back into a routine, lost some weight, but ultimately lost the battle when our treadmill started to malfunction. It was the electrical that would sputter out, giving less than ample juice to the machine, resulting in sudden drops in speed. Not very conducive to a safe, stationary work-out. Those are just excuses, not the reasons.

I eat late night snacks all the time. If snacks aren't available, I improvise by nibbling on whatever resembles food, sans preparation. I wake up in the early morning after a late night binge, and sleep pleasantly when I refrain. Strangely, this knowledge doesn't stop me from snacking. Plus, I've always been part of the clean plate club. Growing up, we were made to finish everything before we could leave the table. Sometimes hours would pass as I struggled with frigid green beans and rubbery steak. I also eat fast, which is why I don't feel full until it's too late. Actually, sometimes that bloated feeling doesn't stop me from cleaning my plate.

Not for the wedding, but by the wedding, I should try and get a grip on it. Maybe if all of you referred to me as fatty, I'd get off my ass and do something about it.