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.

Not Required Reading

Often a tale I'm weaving is met with knowing glances. That's what happens when you write the most popular blog this side of the Mississippi. Or at least this side of Route 53, in Rolling Meadows, zip code 60008, Kirchoff Rd., Brookwood Condos.

I edit my posts heavily. There are so many facts and digressions trimmed from the the first draft that I am capable of telling a story you've read seem fresh. But I still feel odd when I knowingly cover familiar ground. My memory is so poor that I constantly write myself notes. Little yellow reminders, crowding my desk, have been replaced by notes crowding my in-box. My electro calendar automatically emails me important dates and social plans. Otherwise I would have forgotten about my haircut tonight. Considering this, it's not hard to imagine I may spin a tale twice.

It's like encountering someone with breath that stinks of death, with a poppyseed in their teeth, or Charmin stuck to their sneaker. You can either tell them, saving them hours of reflective embarrassment, or confess your secret keeping delight at the end of the day accented with a giggle. I'll stop a story if I realize you've already heard it, but please don't hesitate to tell me if you're experiencing deja vu.

Writing here keeps me honest. Sometimes honest about not being honest. While I'm making no excuses for my sometimes sketchy morals, I still regard this as a social barometer of sorts and a moral check system. That and I enjoy knowing some people look forward to new posts and getting a comment or two makes my day. That said, some friends apologize for not reading my blog. It's not required reading.

Let's make a deal: Stop reading this blog. Or continue to read this blog and don't talk to me in person ever again. In return, I'll tell you about that piece of cilantro stuck in your teeth since April.

Somebody Needs to Take Basic Math Again

"Twenty-four hours," "check your email," and "Remember the time change from Seattle" made me hopeful I'd have heard something by now. But a week has passed with no communication. Am I surprised? No, not at all.

My hopes were intentionally subdued and faded in the last two months waiting expectantly for news. Now, a week after the "twenty-four hour" message, I find myself preparing not only for another long wait, but also a summer of being overworked at my current job.

The trick is remaining polite with a general air of happy casualness when I communicate with Seattle HR. My first instinct is to whine. Being a whiner would not look good on my resume, I refrain.

Don't hold your breath. I'm not holding mine. You'll know when I do.

Tell Me What You CAN Eat

There isn't a moment that I don't want to spend with the lady. That doesn't mean I won't enjoy a solitary day apart. Or, in the case of this long holiday weekend, three. Does it make me a bad boyfriend opting out of a home-sick, Minneapolis bound adventure? Sending my wife-to-be on her own? There must have been some reason or a commitment I felt obliged to honor.

Our lives have been non stop lately. Weekends and weeknights are packed with social engagements, concerts, or babysitting. We are taking Ju-Jitsu, learning Japanese, planning a wedding, and our honeymoon. Simply, the schedule is overloaded and about to burst. In the last two weeks I've had this anxious, spinning out of control, nervous break down feeling. I went to the doctor, and he told me to stay home this weekend, plan nothing, and eat pizza.

For you, the average dairy and wheat tolerant community, pizza is not such a rare, anxiously anticipated moment. While the lady and I concoct a suitable pizza substitute from alternative materials, the commonly used pizza ingredients: 1) Wheat and 2) Cheese, are poison to the lady's belly.

She'll never make a fuss like a child turning their nose up a brussel sprouts or meatloaf. That's why so many people make a fuss for her; My family always has glutten-free desert handy, to top off any meal. Visited friends always purchase items to satiate her wheat-free cravings. If her allergies are forgotten or unknown, the lady will dine within her diet, without the slightest deflated or fussy peep.

That said, the pizza never tastes as good as a day spent with her.

Second Verse, Same as the First

I'll write about bad news in this blog. But there hasn't been word one about the Seattle gig to report. Until this week.

It's been almost two months since my phone interview and three weeks since my last note from Stacy in HR. Two days ago, I received an email informing me the two positions I had applied for are being put on hold. Stacy enthusiastically tipped me that the job descriptions are being revised, new posting will appear shortly, and that she would be talking to me soon. That's a good sign. But not as good of a sign as the next email I received.

I have a friend on the inside at this dream job. He called me in a huff, needing my resume and some design samples. When asked what the position was, he responded "Things are happening" and could give no more details. I'm not sure what is "happening," but, shortly after his call, I received another note from Stacy; I should expect contact from the head of the web development team in the next twenty-four hours.

Considering two months have passed, with barely a word from anyone but Stacy, twenty-four hours seems unlikely. I've had to subdue my enthusiasm for obtaining this dream job. When I got the "Things are happening" call from my friend, it hit me again; I could be moving soon. I needed to readjust, allow myself to get excited again, and most importantly, mentally prepare for a move across the country.

I'm confident twenty-four hours will come and go without contact. Along with all the other dream job qualities of this company, all employees enjoy year-round half day Fridays. Good for them, bad for me. Maybe I'll hear more on Monday.

Random Technical Charity

My computer is broken. An upgrade would be nice, but it was either a new computer or the honeymoon. Saying I need a new machine is stretch. Only the CD/DVD burner is malfunctioning. Strangely, the optical drive burns CDs just fine, but insert a DVD and it's promptly spit out, like a vending machine disagreeing with a crumpled bill.

For years I've received horrible, uninformed, sloppy, and rude technical support (Reports of Dell's India based tech service have sent stock holders running.) Then I switched to a Mac. While the performance of the competing platforms is an argument for another day, I have never heard of or been victim to bad customer service while technically trouble-shooting.

Navigating through the Mac computer assisted directory requires three to four button depressions before reaching a live, polite, and patient human who is not reading from a script and is informed as to the inner workings of their products. When I called about my drive, I was told in a gruff, dismissive manner that my warranty had expired a month earlier, and there was nothing that could be done for me.

I'm more frugal than cheap, so I talked to a friend who knows a guy, who knows a guy about looking at my machine. Pablo was very helpful; Suggesting that I perform system updates and try different types of DVD media because ... blah, blah, etc, etc. Sadly, his advice was more a recipe to find out what wasn't wrong. In the end, everything he suggested, didn't come close to a fix.

My father is a computer wiz. Or at least he was in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. Growing up he provided early model, terrific personal computing gadgets for my budding brain. I used basic-language programs to design a choose your own adventure game, drew directly into the the computer via a drawing tablet, and programed simple animations, my hands typing away for countless hours on my Atari 800XL. Graduating to my first desktop was exciting; I could take that thing apart, change out drives, reformat whatever, and make it faster so rotating a graphic file ten degrees clockwise might take four hours instead of six. I considered replacing the failing optical drive myself, but over the last decade, I've become less of an inside the box kind of guy.

I was warned that Pablo might take his time with my machine, since it's a side job. Just the idea of not having my machine, for even a week, nearly sent my techy, internet dependent heart into withdrawal. While it might be the most expensive option, it would also probably be the fastest; I needed to bring my machine into an Apple retail store.

Every Apple store has a technical support department, lovingly dubbed the Genius Bar. Einstein would be overqualified, but it is staffed by bright, helpful individuals. I only waited ten minutes before getting the opportunity to convey the situation to my curiously named genius: Oleg. DVD drive not working, CDs writing fine, and out of warranty. Having been told, over the phone, I would need to shell out fifty dollars for a diagnosis, I inquired how I would be billed up front. The words "We don't charge to look at your computer" caress my frugal heart. When I informed Oleg my warranty expired in March he said "Two months is close enough."

Groomzilla I Ain't

Wedding plans are coming along swimmingly. I've typed numerous detailed itineraries, corresponding to the equally numerous annotated reception hall maps, in an attempt to bring clarity to my ... I mean our wedding plan. The hotel knows what to serve and when to serve it. The DJ knows what to play and when. The reverend has a detailed script with notations on how to address the crowd. I've even prepared an itinerary and map for our families. I've booked the shuttle for brunch, our 4 night stay at the hotel suite, written out the entire text for the invite, and made a shot list for the photographer. It's amazing how much you can get done when your boss is traveling on business.

NARM is a music convention. It stands for something, something, whatever. Who cares as long as all my bosses are required to attend and it's not in Chicago, like it was last year. I'm responsible for creating all sorts of merchandising materials for the main NARM suite, separate music label suites, and coordinating the arrival of these materials which, for some reason, is harder than it sounds. It took me a solid week and a half to design, print, produce and ship everything. Barely a minute spent on anything else.

Currently, I'm looking at a pile of about two dozen work requests while more arrive via email constantly. Especially since everybody is back from NARM. While I printed some of simpler requests, I haven't even attempted or pretended to look at the others.

There are three things you can do at work: 1) Perform the task you are paid to do, 2) Waste time, 3) Be productive personally. The later is an accurate description of the week I just concluded. I definitely needed a break. Did I deserve a relaxed, personally constructive week because I worked late and skipped lunches while in NARM hell? Maybe, but I wasn't waiting around for anyone to give me a push. Instead widdling away the hours by following a Youtube link into infinity, I choose to firm up some wedding plans.

Jill from the hotel, along with Britney who's handling our brunch, are either amazed at my detailed planning or scared they are witnessing just the tip of my micro-managing, OCD planning prowess. They don't have to worry. I heart the idea of not doing a single thing in September for the wedding. That's why I'm doing so much now. During work. On the clock.

Should I File Frozen Vegetables Under "F" or "V"?

Julia Ward Howe is the mother of all mothers. The author of the Mother's Day Proclamation (Something I didn't know until today,) she was a passive feminist who wrote the proclamation in 1870 as a reaction to the carnage of the American Civil War. It was a call for all women to get candy, perfume, and diamonds one day a year ... Um, no. The proclamation called for women of all nationalities, to protest glorification of war. My mom's kinda cool too.

Whenever I think about my mommy, I think about her encouraging me to draw from instructional books when I was five, telling me to use a condom as a teenager, and cupping her hands to catch my vomit at Toys R Us.

She is the easiest person to tease, and the best at taking such jabs in good spirits. She microwaves all her vegetables, keeps a bicycle tire patch in her spiral bound phone book under "P", is in possession of tupperware older than me, and can clean a T-bone better than any ravenous animal I've ever seen on the Discovery Channel.

We didn't grow up rich or poor, but rather right in the middle. My parents have never had fancy cars or trendy clothes, but I was all but laughed at when I applied for financial aid at college. Money doesn't make being a mom easier. She is the reason I value manners and the thoughtful consideration of others. She worked hard to make me who I am. Thanks ma.