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.