i’ll staple more often

I just used the giant stapler by the fax machine for the first time (I’ve been here for about two years).

Turns out, we don’t have some ordinary, run of the mill stapler. We have a stapler that would make Milton Waddams burn down our building to get it back.

And not because it staples really well. I don’t even know if it does.

What I do know is that I will never ever get sick from our stapler. Because it’s antimicrobial.

Imagine my relief that if I get sick from something in my office crawling with microbes (like, say, the bathroom door handle. Or the bathroom sink. Or the bathroom anything. Or my phone. Or my computer. Or my pen. Or my . . . ), it absolutely won’t be the big communal stapler.

I guess I’ll staple stuff more often.

i blame my mother

Do you like apples? How do you like them apples?

See, the truth is, I DON’T like apples.

Oh, I WANT to like apples. How awesome would it be if I loved apples? My weight problems would be over. I just failed in my attempt to crack the deuce barrier, and so I figure I’ll try to get back down into the manageable, even ideal weight zone.

So I’m sitting here staring at the apple I brought for lunch. And I’m not excited.

Here’s my beef with apples:

1. Biting into them gives me the willies. I don’t mean I’m scared, I mean I get a shiver when I bite an apple. I don’t know why. This does not happen with other fruit. Or other food, even. Not even squid.

2.  When I bite into a firm apple (really, the only kind you want to eat), the skin pushes past my teeth and gouges my gums. Admittedly, I am old, and my gums ain’t what they used to be. But still, I would expect the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil to treat me better than this.

3. The skin of an apple is ready-made for wedging in between teeth. Tightly. Not the kind of wedging that casual picking will remove–you need floss. Or, in my case here at work, a straightened paper clip. Which presents its own problems.

Apples give a satisfying crunch when you bite them (good apples do–bad apples slither, they don’t crunch. Slithering is almost never good.) Apples are good for you. Apples are pretty cheap. And very portable.

What’s the key here? Volume? Do I just eat apples until I love them, or will that drive me farther into my apple antipathy? It’s a dilemma, a word which here means hunger.

And while we’re here, I feel similarly about carrots. I blame my mother.

cold butter must go

So I have a question.

Why do restaurants serve cold butter? What is cold butter good for? Other than flinging onto the ceiling?

Okay, I guess that’s three questions, technically.

I mean, I can see that getting warm butter out of those little butter packets would be a little slimier. But isn’t working with slimy butter better than trying to smear cold butter onto a roll? And let’s say we’re talking fancy restaurant here, where they would never give you butter in a little packet–why are those little butter balls cold? I don’t have time to wait for the butter to thaw. My REAL food is coming soon, and I need to get these rolls eaten NOW.

I’m telling you. No cold butter. Cold butter must go.

put in some more

We followed that most ancient of American customs for Thanksgiving, which is to go to the movies.

I don’t know why I keep going TO the movies instead of just investing in the new American tradition, namely the home theater room. I guess I just like the theater. I like the big screen, the big room, the big sound, I like seeing movies in a giant room full of people.

But. But what I’d really like is for all of the people within maybe 10 feet of me to be mannequins. And not the talking kind.

This time I’m pretty sure I was being tested, like I was on the Truman Show, and everybody but me was in on it. The entire row behind us was definitely in on it. Full theater, nowhere to run, second to last row. Trapped.

And then the Dr. Moreau style testing began.

One couple with a baby in a baby carrier. And a family behind me that might have had an outpatient pass for the day. Seriously. After the movie I actually waited for the lights to come on and I turned around to see if they were either wearing lab coats or being escorted by people IN lab coats.

The guy directly behind me had a bottomless bag of Red Vines. That’s an affront on two, well, fronts. First, Red Vines are gross. They  had to have known that I’m a Twizzler man and were just trying to get my goat. And second, the bag was BOTTOMLESS. About an hour into the movie, after the guy had dug his hand around in the loudest candy bag I had ever heard for the thousandth time, I leaned over to Kim and said “Either he’s got TEN bags, or that bag is just magic.”

And next to him someone had what must have been a big box of Sugar Babies. I don’t think I need to describe the double whammy that presents. Well, okay, I will. Number one, knowing someone by me is eating Sugar Babies makes me throw up in my mouth a little. And number two, there’s nothing that says “Shhh, the movie is starting” like shaking a box of Subar Babies like they’re maracas. Except in this case, they never stopped playing the maracas.

Next, a giant tub of popcorn. Nobody can polish off the mega barrel of popcorn, because it’s impossible, but this guy came as close as I’ve seen. And he was still hungry enough to rattle around in the kernels, shaking the barrel to get the good stuff to float to the top. And eventually he started EATING the kernels. Just to crunch them in my ear. It’s a good thing I don’t have a concealed weapons permit.

To finish off the cacophony of food, when the giant Pepsi (had to be Pepsi) was gone, you guessed it, the ice chips lasted another hour. Shaking. Crunching. Shaking. Crunching.

And, finally, all of them were guffawers. Not laughers–full on belly guffaws.

Not to be outdone, the baby family kicked in about halftime. And by kicked in, I mean the baby started slowly chirping until the happy couple noticed, and then, well, the baby started sucking. Too dark to know if it was natural or bottle sucking, but it was loud enough for the characters on screen to hear.

Satiated, the baby let all of us know how happy he was by spending the next 10 minutes belching and farting.

And yet. I passed the test. I breathed deeply. I relaxed. I enjoyed the movie.

I don’t know what Kim put in my drink, and I don’t think I care. Put in some more.

blow this up

I don’t think I need to establish my movie cred. Cuz for every Doomsday I keep as a guilty pleasure, I also love a Tarkovsky or a Bergman. On the other hand, I would watch any James Bond film again, even Never Say Never, and I loved Hudson Hawk. Don’t hold that against me, I could also watch Virgin Spring and Solaris again. I’m all over the map.

And I like a good End of the World movie as much as the next guy. While I thought Armageddon sucked, I liked Deep Impact, and I even liked, kind of, The Day After Tomorrow.

So when a guy like Roger Ebert calls a movie “The mother of all disaster movies (and the father, and the extended family)” I pay attention.

On the other hand, Ebert also hated Raising Arizona. So maybe I should have been on my guard.

I tried to get the kids to go. Do you think when your 11 year old and 14 year old boys say “I dunno Dad, it looks kind of dumb” that maybe you should listen?

But the San Francisco Chronicle said “There’s something to be said for a formula picture done almost to perfection. In 2012, Emmerich gives you everything you expect, but gives it to you bigger.”

I wanted to see stuff get blowed up. Real good.

So I got the brothers in law together, and we fired up a late show guys night.

When we finally left the theater, I found myself apologizing over and over, to guys, about the movie.

I shouldn’t have to do that. What would be a better guys movie than 2012? It’s the literal end of the world. It stars John Cusack. Everybody except my brother loves John Cusack. The master of disaster, Roland Emmerich, directed it.

In the words of William Hurt’s Richie Cusack, “How Could You F@#& that up?”

And yet. Roland found a way to make the end of the world boring.

We would have been better off seeing New Moon. Twice. I am not even kidding.

when in rome

Kim and I met up with Sunderlages and Gaoirans (crazy as it sounds, those are actual names–I think they’re Comanche Indian) for some pizza Saturday night in Orem.

Pizzeria Seven Twelve sits right in the middle of a strange, unfinished, mostly unoccupied business condo development right off State Street in Orem. In fact, driving into the parking lot felt a bit like entering the set of Blade Runner, except it wasn’t raining and we weren’t being pursued by freakily realistic androids. As far as I know. I would know, right?

The restaurant itself was awesome.

The pizza was also awesome–I hear the chef is of Sundance stock, ex or current I didn’t find out.

I like when restaurants have cool wall art. This one left me a bit puzzled, however:

I’ll let you decide what kind of jokes we made for about ten solid minutes.

The real puzzler, though (of course) was in the bathroom. On the one hand, the bathroom was quite nice:

On the other hand, please riddle me the reasoning behind this:

I mean, really. Is that the waiting area? And I thought Redbox and Southwest meant pressure.

But, you know, when in Rome . . .

go team

Team Edward, Team Jake, Team Edward, Team Jake.

Seriously? Forget all that. I don’t get it. Well, really, I don’t get ANY of it. None.

Except . . .

Go Team ALICE.

you lose, or you lose

Remember how I couldn’t stand the heat in the RedBox kitchen? I dithered and dawdled, and ended up renting Twilight or something.

Flying Southwest Airlines takes that pressure and doubles it.

First, you have to try to get some kind of fancy early check in, so you can stand next to one of the low-numbered shiny posts at the gate. But that’s just for starters. When they call your number RANGE, you head for the jetway and the real jockeying begins. Some business traveler with an earpiece elbowed me to get to the cabin door first. And I don’t mean “elbowed me” in some kind of figurative, he got the hole-shot sense.

No. I mean he ELBOWED me. I looked incredulously at the woman just behind me, in that brothers-in-arms way where I’m hoping she’ll have my back. She shrugged and smiled, as if to say “What? First time on Southwest? Cowboy up Nancy!”

So then you have to pick a seat. Sure, that sounds easy. But what if you’re like the 20th person getting on? How do you choose? Some of the people ahead of you studiously avoid looking up, like they’re hostages trying not to get noticed when the crazy man wants to send a statement to the FBI negotiators.

And others look up almost hopefully, like they are hoping for company. There’s not as much of that.

A few look up with a totally hostile glare, just daring you to sit by them. My sharp-elbowed friend was one of these.

I wanted a lifeline, to call Kim, or a co-worker, to get advice. “Do I take the aisle on the row with the old lady? What if she talks to me the whole time?” It’s a no-win situation. If you sit by a guy, so you don’t seem creepy, well, THAT could be creepy. But if you sit by a woman, what statement are you making? “Don’t mind me, I’m just trying not to be creepy.”

In the end, I moved past the occupied rows and took an aisle seat in an empty row. But that brings its own potential disaster. At least if you sit with someone, YOU get to choose your row-mate.

Or, in my case, when you choose an empty row, you could end up with John Candy.

I got up and let him past to the window seat. His first order of business? Asking for “one of them extender seatbelt thingies.” Then he fell asleep and snored for two and a half hours.

At least he didn’t offer me a tic tac.

flattered or insulted?

I recently met a woman who looked exactly like Kate Winslet. Rather than go to the banister, spread my arms and shout “I’m king of the world!” I just waited until late in the conversation and said “I’m sure you get this all the time, but you look exactly like Kate Winslet.”

Sure, that doesn’t exactly make me a great conversationalist, or even mean you’re interested right this second.

But here’s my point–at what point does telling someone they resemble someone famous stop being a compliment and start being simply interesting? And by interesting I probably mean insulting. You know. Like I probably wouldn’t tell you your baby looks like Telly Savalas.

On the other hand, yesterday in church I sat behind a family with a baby, probably ten months old, who looks EXACTLY  like Stewie, from the Family Guy. The resemblance was so striking I half expected this baby to start berating me with an English accent.

So, do I tell them “Hey–your baby is the spitting image of Stewie. You know, Stewie? From the Family Guy?”

I mean, if someone told me that my baby looked like Stewie, I’d think that was cool. But I’m not sure Kim would think it was cool.

But it IS cool. Isn’t it?

my new maf filter

Cars are like a big black box to me. I’ve had cars where I need to add oil pretty much every time I fill the tank with gas, and, well, I can do that. Once, with a friend’s help, I even changed the spark plugs in my 1980 Mazda RX7. But mostly my answer to car trouble is “I’ve got people for that.”

Recently our 1988 Toyota Landcruiser (180k miles) started sounding like it was working a little too hard going up Suncrest. And since I really really want this car to go to 300k, I decided to get all pro-active. Like, take it in before it throws a rod (RIP 1994 Landcruiser).

Apparently my 1998 Landcruiser with over 180,000 miles was still on its original set of spark plugs. Which may not say much for ME, but it says a LOT for those plucky little plugs.

And I’m told my MAF sensor needed servicing. I said “so service it. Whatever the hell the MAF sensor does, I don’t want it going unserviced.”

Anyway. When I picked up the car after it got its day of love at the shop, I went inside, where he showed me the list of stuff they did, I paid, he handed me the key, I went outside, fired it up, and drove off.

That’s when I thought, huh, I just paid him and drove away. He didn’t take me out to the car and show me the new plugs, or how happy the MAF filter was now that it had been serviced. In fact, nobody has ever taken me out to the shop and shown me how great my new transmission is.

This happens all the time. My dentist doesn’t show me the old fillings, or even the new crown. Maddy got 4 screws in her shoulder, and we saw an x-ray of them, but I guess that x-ray could just be computer generated. When the guy came to clean the ducts, I never went and looked inside the ducts after he left.

On the other hand, my Toyota guy did something no other mechanic I’ve visited has ever done before. He called the next day and asked how the car was doing. “I bet that MAF filter is running great NOW” he said.

I’ve had companies call with customer satisfaction surveys. I’ve had chiropractors call and ask how the neck feels. But a car mechanic? “How’s the car, running better?”

I’ll write him blank checks anytime.

fat boy pour

It wasn’t enough that I finally got on the scale last week and realized that I had gained 10 lbs since September. This for a guy (me) who hasn’t varied more than 5 lbs in like 10 years, up or down. When I’m skinny, I’m closer to 180 than 185. When I’m fat I’m closer to 190 than 185.

Getting on the scale and seeing that my personal housing bubble had finally burst did not deter me.

But I think I’ve found the cure. Just now, I’m sitting in my office, staring dejectedly at my laptop screen. I’ve had the munchies all afternoon, following a delicious Pho lunch. I’ve resisted going into the break room, helped by a sign on the door that said “Do Not Disturb, You Are Fat.” Okay, it didn’t say that, but it did say “Meeting in Progress.”

So I didn’t buy a butterfinger. Instead, I rummaged through all the desk drawers in my double wide cubicle. And found a bag of Sun Chips that was almost gone. I tilted the bag over my head and opened my mouth. And took a pile of chip debris all over my face.

Just in time for a co-worker to walk in. He shook his head sadly and said “Dude. Not the Fat-Boy-Pour.”

Elden, if you’re out there, I need your full series dvd set of 24–I’ve got some spin-bikin to do.

fall moab (fruita edition)

Fall Moab isn’t always just about the riding.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s ALL about the riding.

But not always.

For example, sometimes it’s about the accommodations:

And sometimes it’s about the food:

Sometimes it’s about the bikes:

Sometimes it’s about the accommodations, but not in a good way:

But then again, it’s all about the riding. The riding in Fruita is good. Maybe the best. Maybe.

it’s pat

I’m here in lovely Washington D.C. for a conference (like Ethan Hunt, I’m only pretending to be a software marketing guy–really I’m a spy). Today, sitting in a panel discussion with three colleagues, I couldn’t help but notice that one of the panel members, a lawyer for a very (very) prominent communications company, was of, well, indeterminate gender.

He/she had super short black hair, but finely groomed eyebrows. An angular face. A very slight build. Large eyes.

But he/she was wearing a black man’s suit  [okay, to be clear, which I admit I wasn't, he/she didn't steal it from a black man, but rather the suit is black, and seemed cut/made for a man, black or white. Or whatever.] with a red tie.

“Absolutely a woman” I said to the colleague on my left. “I’ll bet you a dollar.”

“A dollar it is” he said.

As I watched him/her move about the room, and then ascend the stairs to the panel desk, I only grew more confident that I was about to be four quarters richer.

Until the moderator, sitting in the center of the four panelists, introduced him/her as “Ed” and described HIS illustrious career.

Chagrined, I pulled out my dollar and handed it over.

And, I swear, at that moment I saw three other dollar bills change hands around the room. At least I wasn’t the only one.

i object

You know, I don’t want to get off on one of those “things that must go” rants. That’s not my way.

And yet.

Something icky has happened three times in the last week. I can’t contain myself any longer.

Remember in Eddie Murphy’s classic (well, okay, not classic. Not great. But fun?) The Golden Child? He’s sitting there, talking to the crazy old Buddhist warrior guy who is the father of the woman he loves? Mid conversation, the old guy picks his nose, and Eddie says out loud what we’re all thinking–”You’re just gonna pick that? And . . . now you’re wiping it on your jacket.”

Well, I’ll be talking to someone, just, you know, in the middle of a conversation. Could be about anything. Work. Baseball. Healthcare. Bad Halloween treats. Whatever.

And suddenly (really) the guy (in fact, not always a guy) will, usually without pausing his train of thought, usually mid-sentence, dig a finger into his ear, root around for a second, pull said finger out, examine anything stuck to it, flick any encountered debris to the wind, and continue speaking as if nothing happened.

Ack.

Or, in an even more egregious act of social faux pax-itude, he will scratch at something directly on his face with the same results.

These are not social retards I’m talking about here. Not people who, if they suddenly picked their noses in a board meeting you would just shrug and say “Well, that’s Benji–he may be a social retard, but jeez you should see him write code.” I’m talking about people who are otherwise socially and professionally successful ladder climbers. Actual people.

Look, I’m all for personal grooming. Yes, keep your earways clear. Remove distracting and itchy acne or boils from your skin, especially your face.

But really? While you’re talking to me? Right in front of me? In mid sentence with me?

I object.

average

At what age do kids learn about averages in school? While we were watching game 4 of the World Series last night, Holden was having a hell of a time getting his arms around the idea that someone could get a hit 2.5 times for every 10 at bats. “Wait. How can you get a HALF a hit?”

I think it took me about a half hour before I had successfully explained how this worked. I finally got the idea across when I stopped using “for every ten at bats” as my scale and went to 100 and 1,000. Then it clicked.

Which really doesn’t say much for me, I guess, does it? I’m kind of stuck in a box. All of me, not just that one part of me.

why am i talking this way?

Did I go to Meet the Candidates Night” at Draper city hall last night? Yes I did.

How did I like it? I spent much of the evening texting my daughter, who was sitting about 20 feet away, funny things about the candidates and their pompous attitudes (and their funny hair).

Do I love when people talk in questions? How could you not love that? Who DOESN’T love that? Can you imagine me NOT loving that?

Do the candidates LOVE Draper? Are they DESPERATE to serve Draper? Do they think every single candidate except them is a a crazy Tax and Spend twit? Yes Yes Yes.

Are most of the candidates for Draper City Council bloviating knuckleheads who think they are the smartest guys in any given room? Um, duh. ARE they the smartest guys in the room? Have you ever been to a city council meeting?. Do I think the city will manage to run itself no matter which of these “politicians” (the 14 year old (I swear, he can’t be older than that) running for city council actually referred to himself as a politician, even though he’s never held elected office, and is running for DRAPER city council) wins the election to our little city council? Natch.

Why am I talking this way? I can’t stop. Did the candidates do every pompous thing short of refer to themselves in the third person? Wait, they did that too? They did that WHILE they tried to be self-deprecating? How awesome is that?

If all politics are local, we are in big trouble.

bad boo II: this time it’s personal

As the Godfather once told the undertaker down the street, “Bonasera, Bonasera, what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?”

I got Boo’d last night. Well, that’s not exactly true. I got poo-poo platter’d last night.

Think of the children!

Remember Boo’ing? You make some yummy treats, you leave them on someone’s doorstep along with a Boo Sheet the recipient can put in the window so people don’t Boo them again, and then the receiver Boo’s two other people.

Kind of like a multi-level Halloween network. But in a good way.

Except when you get Boo’d with the Poo Poo Platter. Someone’s trying to get a rise out of me. Kim insists I shouldn’t write this post, that I’m being mean. I say ME? I’M being mean? I’m not the one passing out the $1.79 crap sandwich. Someone is trying to get me in their Boo’ing downline. Well, I will NOT go gently into your stupid downline.

Here’s the Boo paper (slightly modified):

A blown Boo on so many levels.

My initial reaction:

But then I decided on a more fitting fate for these frosted pumpkins:

And that’s where they’ll stay all Winter. Unless I get peckish in the night. Which has been known to happen.

would that count as a poke?

Floss is weird. First, it’s just a string you wrap around your fingers, and rub between your teeth.

But my floss is made out of Gore Tex. Just like my ski jacket. Am I the only one who finds this weird? I was struck by the weirdness this morning, because I was flossing in the shower, as is my wont, and while tugging the super slippery, and (I assume) waterproof Gore Tex floss down between an old tooth and my shiny new crown, the floss snapped.

Apparently Gore Tex is water resistant and slippery, but not super strong.

Anyway, it got me thinking about the weirdness of floss. Which got me remembering the weirdest floss story I’ve ever heard.

A couple years back, I was talking with my friend Ben about a guy in the neighborhood, about whom I’d heard something weird. I said to Ben “Do you know what’s weird about [let's call him] Barney?”

And before I could jump in with my funny story about Barney, Ben said “That he’s used the same piece of floss for over a year?”

Picture me doing a comical double take, times four. I started to respond as if I hadn’t heard him: “So I heard he called the cops and . . . Wait. WHAT?” I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out.

“Yeah. He told me. He re-uses the same piece of floss over and over again. For like a year.”

“Wait. My floss breaks like 25% of the time. I would be down to an inch of floss in a week.”

“Yeah, I dunno. It’s what he told me.”

So, I have floss made out of Gore Tex. Barney must have floss made out of a single stretchy molecule not yet released to the general public..

And I’m not sure which is the bigger deal–that the floss never breaks, or the idea of accumulated gunk on the floss. How does he wash the floss? Simple rinse most days with a vigorous soaping on Saturdays? And where does he keep the floss? And does the floss fray? And WHY does he do this? Floss is not expensive.

I cannot wrap my head around this. And now Barney has moved away, so I can’t ask him. I feel like I need to get on the Facebooks and track him down and ask him. Would that count as a Poke?

how bad? real bad

On a scale of 1-10, ten being the most wigged out, how wigged out are you when you put your money in the machine and get the wrong soda/candy bar?

Does it depend on how wrong the candy bar is?

Like, how bout if you put seventy five cents in the machine, push A6 for a Butterfinger, and you end up with a Snickers? Notwithstanding that Snickers is somehow marketed as a newfangled kind of energy bar, that’s a solid SEVEN on the disappointment meter for me.

But when I put sixty five cents in the machine, push the Diet Coke button, and out comes a root beer? Well, that one goes to eleven.

maybe it’s not

I’m in a desperate place here, on the bubble, trying to decide if I’m a good person or a bad person.

The scales of justice in this case? The tip jar at a restaurant with no table service. Call me a sucker–I generally drop in a dollar. Or write a dollar on the tip line. I don’t know why. I realize they’re not coming out to my table. In fact, at Cold Stone ice cream, where they say they’ll sing a song if you tip, I drop a dollar in if they promise not to sing.

Am I just shallow, vying for favor from people I will never see again? Am I generous? I don’t know. What’s the next step, everybody asking for and giving dollars? That sounds like my relationship with my kids (sans the getting-a-dollar-from-them part).

But Kim has the most compelling argument–”Hey! Don’t give them that dollar. Give ME that dollar! I’ll go buy a diet coke.”

I guess to me it feels like giving a dollar to the guy at the stop light with the “veteran out of work” sign.

But, um, maybe it’s not?