This Daddy Business is Getting Interesting

So I thought that yesterday's blog post would be a fun look at an isolated and unique event that happened twice and would by no means ever be repeated again, especially not later in the day yesterday or today.

How naive of me. Emily proceeded to test the limits of her internal plumbing even further, uncorking two more diaper-filling toots yesterday. And then today, she just kept going! This isn't supposed to happen, is it?!?! For the first few days, diaper changes were not something I approached in fear of what I would uncover. A pee-kissed diaper is a joy to change. A poop-smothered diaper is another story.

So when Emily was lying on my chest this morning, and I felt the jacuzzi jets being turned on and heard the F-18 jet engines rumbling, I knew what awaited me at the ceremonial changing table. I would perform the ritualistic rites of removing the only barrier between me and a delayed backfiring.

Emily has been tipping her hand so to speak lately. She will occasionally put both of her hands together and rub them as if plotting some sinister plan. She started doing that shortly before the first of her monster poops yesterday, and she did it earlier this morning too, so as you might imagine, my mental guard was up. Too bad that doesn't actually protect me from anything...

So I set her on the changing table, still fully clothed. I looked her in the eye, and tried to read her. And what did she do? She gave me the old squinty eye, and then rubbed her hands together.

"Oh crap," I think, literally.

I began to weigh my options. I could let her lie there for a couple minutes and see how long she could hold in her bluff, or just charge in and get it over with as soon as possible. I chose to stare at her for a couple of minutes - something Erica and I have turned into a legitimate hobby. Eventually, my wife gently coaxed me into changing her diaper ("hurry up and do it or I'll rub your nose in it"). I was fortunate in hindsight, because Emily didn't have any ammo with which to reload, so I was able to change her safely without being treated to any additional impressions of Kermit the Frog with bad indigestion, or a duck trying to gargle salt water.

As I finish writing this, one week ago at this time, Erica was just going into serious labor. I can't believe time has passed this quickly. It's funny how I'm doing practically nothing by my usual standards - just sitting around the house, eating, sleeping, etc... - and normally this would make me feel unproductive and antsy, like I'm wasting my time. But now I just watch my baby girl sleep, or kiss her cheek, or hold her and let her head rest on my shoulder, and I feel like I've made the most of my time that I possibly could. There isn't anything more important or productive or beneficial that I could be doing.

It's amazing how things change.

Being stared at...


Snoozin' with Emily


The turtles just make it that much cuter

Little Emily Ruth Is Here!

Five days old, and already she's bested her dad in cuteness, sociability, and sheer farting prowess, with many more categories to follow, I'm sure.

Her birth was amazing. All three of us couldn't have prayed for a better one. Erica went into serious labor (contractions 1 minute apart) at 10:20 pm Saturday night. Her water broke at 12:30 am Sunday morning. Intense labor followed - I'll leave it up to the imagination save for the fact that it's very hard for a husband to see his wife go through that kind of pain. Fortunately Cybil our doula was instrumental in helping us both through the labor.

She labored at home until 6:10 am, when we went to get in the car. Erica practically ran down the stairs, she couldn't wait to get to the tub. We arrived at the birth center; she was 10 cm and ready to push, so she hopped in the tub and started pushing at 6:35 am. Two hours later, I helped catch our little girl's body as she left mommy's womb and placed her in her mommy's waiting arms. Everyone was healthy, happy, and alert for our first moment as a family together.

Later, I cut the cord - after being reassured that this wouldn't hurt her at all. They gave me this tiny area to cut, right between two clamps. I felt a little like a mayor at the grand opening of a supermarket.

Emily weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces, measured 20.5 inches, and looked like a doll. Yes, she was cute too, but a few times she was lying down and I came in from another room and saw her, and it took me a moment to realize I was looking at my daughter and not a plastic doll. Man, are they tiny!

Fast forward five days, and here we are now. We've been adjusting to her schedule of sleeping, eating, crying, and being utterly fascinated with the world. And yes, she just started to make some big girl poops today. The first one took us by surprise at the diaper change. Until this point, her poops had been very proper - runny yet well contained within her diaper, and appearing as a mild yellowish-brown color. In fact, most of the time we couldn't tell the difference between her pee and her poops save for the location inside the diaper.

However, we smelled something malodorous this morning, and mentally prepared ourselves to receive our daughter's first generous gift for us upon opening her diaper. It looked like ground beef that had been finely whipped into a paste form, something you might get if Cheez-Whiz was in the can-dispensed beefery business. Several baby wipes later, we laid a new diaper down for her, and started to put it on her, only to have her show us first hand that all facets of her plumbing did indeed work.

Another wipe and dry diaper later, and she was all fixed up. A few hours later, all three of us were in the living room. Emily was lying on Erica's lap on one couch, and I was on the other couch. Suddenly, we heard the 2 o' clock train toot its horn, announcing its arrival in town. It took me a second to realize, however, that the nearest train tracks were miles away. I looked at what could have been the only possible source for that caliber of noise. Of course, she denied it and blamed it on the baby, but I still had my doubts, not knowing whether a five day old body could be capable of such violent flatulence.

We took her into the changing room, and sure enough, the bomb had been dropped. I tell you, Japan had it easy. The effect was reminiscent of placing a can of brown paint into a cannon, placing the cannon inches away from a wall, and firing. Of course, with that example, you lose the clarity of texture and consistency, but hopefully you get the picture.

Yeah, she's an amazing baby. I'm sure many parents wonder if their kids will follow in their footsteps. Five days old, and mine already has. And I couldn't be prouder.

Watching closely, taking her notes...


Who, me?


Go ahead, make a crack, I'll clobber ya'


Here's the happy family

Clearing the Tumbleweeds

I want to start writing on a less regular basis, seeing as how my regular habit has been to not write at all. So I want to break that bad habit, especially with our little one coming in two weeks. I'm going to revitalize this blog; maybe give it a bloglift, a blogicure, some blogoplasty - an all-around major invasive blogery. I'll probably change the template and maybe add a few features to help modernize things a bit since the inception of Random Humor over 5 years ago. Hopefully you'll like the changes, and if I'm lucky I won't mess anything up too horribly, but something definitely needs to be done - besides blogging, of course.

Speaking of blogging...

I went to Wells Fargo to evict a couple of mischievous checks and some noisy cash that happened to be renting some space in my wallet. I just wanted to do a straight deposit, so I went to the drive-thru ATM. I rolled down my window, looking for the envelope box, but didn't see it. I pulled up to the ATM, and tried to open what looked to be a likely envelope-holding drawer, but to no avail. It didn't even open - it was one of those trick drawers that serves no purpose save for the ATM designers to snicker and point when someone tries in vain to open it.

So here I was with checks and cash to deposit, and there be not an envelope in sight. Wonderful. Then my eye fell upon a sign on the face of the ATM, stating that this was an envelope-free ATM. My first thought was, "Oh great, how am I supposed to make a deposit without an envelope?" Then a less retarded part of my brain woke up from its coma and shouted, "Hey stupid! That means there's some newfangled technology in that there ATM that makes envelopes obsolete. You probably just stick your checks into the machine and it takes care of the rest."

The obstinate part of me quickly retorted, "Bugger that, give me my old-fashioned envelope-operated ATM. I don't trust this lack of enveloping one bit."

And that was that. I drove through the drive-thru, made my way around to the front, parked my car, and walked up to the ATMs in the bank's front wall. As I approached an open one, I realized I forgot to bring a pen to write down my deposit amount ($2.53) on the envelope. I was about to stop my progress and go back to my car to get a pen when what do I see but more envelope-free ATMs! Seeing that there was no escape from my familiar ways, this time I gave one of them a closer look to see how it worked.

Apparently, all you have to do is stick your checks and/or cash into the ATM's mouth and it scans the checks and identifies the value of the bills in seconds. It even shows you the scanned electronic version of each check. And that's all it took to convert me. I went from stubborn curmudgeon to drooling technophile with one check.

It's a liberating feeling, really. Knowing that I no longer have to bring a pen with me to make a deposit at an ATM. Knowing that I don't even have to count up my bills and checks - I can just rely on a machine to do all the math for me, and I don't even need to think! Now if only I had a machine I could use to think of a good ending for this blog.

Oh well.

Beestraught

I posted this on Facebook, figuring more people would read it there than here, but for those of you who haven't been sucked into the social hurricane, here's a little blurb I wrote after an experience I had a week ago...


On my lunch today I went out to my car, opened the door, tossed my keys and wallet and jacket inside, and was about to go in and sit down to read when a bee casually flies in the open door and lands on the back of my car seat.

It was actually kind of hilarious how it happened – I was taking my sweet time getting in the car, and the bee just makes a beeline (excuse the pun) past me and into the car…as if it had a right to be there.

“Excuse me, pardon me, seat inspector here. Hmm, this seat seems nice, I’ll take it.”

And as it flies in (bees in?), I’m just watching it, thinking “did that bee really just fly into my car?” followed by “Oh great, now what? Give the bee a harsh warning, and then count to three?” followed by “I should have done something instead of standing idly by…like hit it…no, like swat at it…no, like stand like an idiot and watch it manhandle (beehandle?) its way into my car while I stand back in a manly and unstung fashion, which could loosely be described as hopping up and down from foot to foot and yelling “ooooh! OOOH!! THERE’S A BEEEEE IN MY CARRR! A bee a bee a bee a bee bee bee bee bee”

Meanwhile the seat inspector starts to crawl around to the back of the seat…and in my normal coherently brave thinking, I think “Should I hit it? Hmm, but then it might get pissed and sting me. Better give it what it wants.”

And so it proceeds around the back of the seat, and disappears. So I do what any man in this situation would do – cautiously stick my head inside to see if the passenger door handle is covered in bees, unlock it, open it, and run away screaming like a little girl.

I’m not sure if the bee is still in my car or if it flew out of its own accord (if the dang bee has a car already, why is it bothering me?). It’s supposed to rain tonight, so I think I might take the chance and drive home with all my windows rolled down just in case it's still in there. Better soaked than trapped in a bee-infested car I always say.

My Meal at Mastro’s, or “Hoi Polloi, Oi!”

Thanks to the gentle prodding (ouch! You sharpen your tuning forks?) of Yumi, I am making myself finish this blog entry about my first experience dining at Mastro's Steakhouse and Inferiority Complexery, where the dining experience alone has more personality than I do - not to mention more money, class, and pleasant odors. It is a fine establishment where just mentioning the word "ambiance" adds an extra $15 to your bill. Where the waiter will spend 10 minutes dutifully explaining every single item on the menu, including where it was caught (next time you are there, ask about the artichokes...funny story, that), what type of $300 wine goes best with it, and how high of a credit score it requires to order.

"Why, yes sir, this particular lobster was hand fed filet mignon and given regular deep exoskeleton massages (my, your shell is so hard! Have you been feeling crabby lately?) for the ultimate experience in tenderness. A bottle or three of the 1963 Riche Aristocrate would go splendidly with your meal, assuming of course you have a credit score of 2200 plus 25% gratuity."

In other words, it is one of those a la carte fancy pantzy steakhouses where the waiters have the little combs to brush off your table when you are done eating. Also included in the decor are artsy miniature lamps with soul-black shades on each table with actual candles inside that, due to the tint of the shades, give off absolutely no light.

Our table happened to be in the middle of a lifelike recreation of the Arctic Circle, or so the frigidity of the air conditioning suggested. But, knowing how well-catered-to one is at a restaurant like this, I wouldn't be surprised if they had a special waiter kept around with a hammer and an ice pick to break off the nosecicles as they form.

When we were ushered to our table, already sitting on the table were some neatly placed white cloth napkins. When we sat down, the usher seating us asked us both individually if we would like a black napkin. We both said yes, and they proceeded to artfully place a folded black napkin on our laps, and removed the white napkin from the table, presumably to be taken outside and beaten for not being good enough.

At one point, our waiter came up to our table, frowned at our lamp, which had gone out, and went to re-light it. We hadn't noticed that it had gone out because it didn't change the lighting of our table one bit. He re-lit it, and I still couldn't notice a difference. It went out later - again, unnoticed. So the waiter came up, took it away, replaced it with a lamp from another table, and lit the new lamp. This one stayed lit as far as I could tell, and by that I mean the waiter didn’t come back again to re-light it, so I assume it was lit. It was, you guessed it - still as dark as ever.

I almost felt a little guilty when the waiter would come up to re-light our lamp, as if he got paid in direct correlation to how many lamps were lit. Similar to the busboys at less-elegant restaurants like Soup Plantation who seem to be paid on a per-plate-cleared basis.

"May I take your plate, sir?"

"No, I'm not quite finished ye--Hey! Give my plate back!"

*running away* "23 plates! My children are gonna eat tonight!"


Part of me suspected that our waiter thought we had blown the lamp out. It probably takes all the restraint that those waiters have to refrain from shaking their heads while giving you a snide look of disdain and saying “Look what you’ve done.” And you know if you let out the slightest snicker they’ll bust you right in the chops.

“What’s so funny? Huh? My family's been table sweepers for five generations, way back to my great great great grandpa Bissel Hoover, who could sweep a table four times this size in just three strokes, with half of a broken comb! Oh, and then there was my father, Sweepy McGee, who swept his last table with just one stroke. I’d imagine all the shaking and his eventual collapse and death on the table itself did away with most of the crumbs.”

Of course, the best part of the evening was when the food came. And on 7000 degree plates, nonetheless. Our waiter warned us several times not to touch the plates, so naturally I had to touch mine. It actually wasn't as hot as I thought it would be, and the flames that spontaneously erupted on my finger were easily extinguished in my glass of a more modest choice of wine, the Frugale Farte.

I got the 28 oz. Prime Rib, Medium Rare, Dripping and Wiggling. I ended up eating about 20 ozs of it before my stomach threw the white flag, which was quite bloodied by this time. Strangely enough, my steak wasn't super warm, so I ended up pressing most bites against the nuclear plate to warm them up a bit.

When we left, we couldn't just get in our car and drive away. No no no, that would be too easy! Mastro's only offers valet parking (slogan: "As if you weren't paying enough already"). We had to wait for the valet manager to put in a call to whichever guy was currently joyriding around in our car and tell him to bring it back within the hour. Funny how our culture has convinced us that spending money to have someone else park our car for us and then waiting several minutes for it when we are ready to leave is better than parking our car for free and leaving immediately. Oh well, I guess they have to pay those busboys somehow.

Of course, I wouldn't have been able to go if it weren't for Erica budgeting for it and generously offering to take me there for my 24th birthday. Thanks 'Ca. :-)




Are you looking for more? I bet you're still wondering how the artichoke was caught.


Why, by a firm grip around its neck, of course.

My Awesome Godson

Pascha '08 - Simeon, Erica, and myself. What a cute kid!

"No, not another left jab!"

Is-is that...a steak?

Monkey Torture!!!

You're my WHAT?!?!?

Look at those irises!

All that meat and cheese, and he's content with those.

Attack of the killer tie!!!! ARRGGHH!!!

I want to see less of this camera and more of my mommy!!

I wuv my Godmother!

Maybe I should have offered him some salt.

Garfield minus Garfield

I've been a big fan of the Garfield comic strip since I was a small child, i.e. less than six feet tall. Recently, David B. (for the sake of his privacy, I will refrain from mentioning his last name) (well, how many David's do I know really?) (I mean anyone who knows me could easily guess which David I'm talking about) (I know, I'll refer to him - nay, him/her as D. Braun) (brilliant) told me about a variation on the classic Jim Davis creation.

It's called Garfield minus Garfield. The premise of it is basically to show that Jon (the pathetic owner of Garfield) is not only pathetic, but without the leading role of Garfield's thought bubbles, actions, and expressions, he turns into a bipolar, schizophrenic loser. There have been better, more thought out descriptions of his behavior, but if you're like me, you'll just enjoy looking and laughing at the comics.

Who Will You Please?

I started writing what was turning out to be a long blog just to try to get out one thought that came to me in the car on the way to church tonight, and I ended up erasing all of it and summarizing it as succinctly as possible. Hopefully it makes some sense now.


When making a decision, don't just focus on asking yourself if you will be pleasing the right people on Earth - your parents, your friends, your husband or wife, your boss, but rather ask yourself who you will be pleasing by acting on this decision - God or the devil?

You can't please everyone with all of your decisions, so make sure you choose wisely.

How to win me over...

In response to Erica's latest blog with the same name, here's what she wrote. I suggest you read her blog first if you haven't already to get the background required to understand why we did this.

But in short, this is a cheat sheet of sorts that is meant to be given to someone that has the intention of trying to impress me, like on a first date. However, the trick is that all of the things listed are completely false. So here is how to win me over, by Erica Olson.

...


Oh, so you want to go out with Sean Reagan, huh? Well, you've come to the right place. I will help you win him over.

- First of all, make sure to wear lots of makeup, especially lipstick and lipgloss. He loves it.
- Ask him to watch Pride and Prejudice (any version) with you. Make sure that he stays awake the entire time. He doesn't want to miss a moment, it's his favorite movie.
- He really doesn't like sports, make sure to tell him that you have absolutely no interest in ever playing or watching any sort of sports game.
- He finds forgetfulness endearing.
- He really doesn't like joking around. It may seem like he's telling a joke, but he is completely serious. Make sure not to laugh.
- Do not bring up children, Sean does not want any.
- Suggest to go to a country music concert on your first date or, even better, a punk group.
- Bring him black licorice as a gift.
- Don't worry if you interrupt him or finish his sentences, he doesn't really mind.
- He loves to spend money for fun. Suggest activities that take money.
- He likes deep shoulder rubs. When rubbing his back go as hard as you can.
- His least favorite sport is basketball.
- One of his favorite shows is Desperate Housewives.
- He doesn't like talking about his day.

Baby's First Basketball Game

I was fortunate enough to receive two tickets from my work for the opening night of the Lakers vs. Rockets game on Tuesday. Having never been to a basketball game, this was an amazing experience to see the game I love to play being played just 11 rows away from me by players I root for all the time.

Snape Kissed Dumbledore!

I’m sure many of you have either heard about or read one of the many articles concerning J.K. Rowling’s publicity stunt where she “came out” and proclaimed in all of her authorial splendor that Headmaster Dumbledore, a fictional character in her incredibly popular Harry Potter series, is actually a flaming homosexual. I bet Fawkes was his secret lover.

It’s too bad there’s one small problem with this revelation: there is no direct literary proof. I don’t care who the author is – you cannot dictate anything about your characters that isn’t somehow alluded to in the book. Rowling does cite an obscure reference to Dumbledore’s childhood which she claims to be circumstantial proof that Dumbledore is gay, when in fact the rest of Dumbledore’s literary behavior and character devolpment is completely heterosexual and normal. The way I read it, Dumbledore is written as a heterosexual father figure who is the last person ever to be suspected as gay, and if it weren’t for the advances of the gay movement to infiltrate every aspect of society with their lies and filthy lifestyle and have the audacity to pass it off as normal, there wouldn’t even be a discussion about this.

Rowling cannot interpret the story she wrote for her readers. That is what is dynamic and engaging about fictional literature: it can be interpreted in many different ways by many different people, and in the end, there may be several different correct ways to interpret any given story, as long as the interpretation is built on the solid foundation of literary proof. But you cannot make up an interpretation without sufficient literary proof. And as an author, you cannot tell your readers how to interpret your book if there is more than one way to interpret it.

Seeing as Rowling’s evidence for accusing Dumbledore of being gay is overshadowed by the complete lack of homosexuality in the rest of his character development throughout the seven-book series, coupled with the fact that sexuality as a whole is completely absent from the series due to the fact that Harry Potter was written as a children’s book, I see no other conclusion than this is just another fictional interpretation of a character, and a weakly supported one at that. If she were a literary critic making this remark, (in a sane world, mind you) she would be laughed at for making such a preposterously unsubstantiated claim. So in no way does Rowling have the right as author to tell us that her interpretation is right when it was clearly not in the story.

Barbara Kay, a woman who has written articles about this authorial overstepping of bounds, has a great quote that sums up what is wrong with Rowling’s statement. She said “Once the books are written, the gates of the fictional characters’ lives and their world clang shut. Any post-publication pronouncements she makes about her characters are superfluous and inadmissible, except as a personal self-indulgence on her part, and likely a bid to appear tolerant and liberal.”

She goes on to say that “whatever Rowling is as a person, and whatever her sympathies are for gays in the real world, they are irrelevant to Hogwarts, since she failed to include that component in the stories as written. She is an author of fiction, not a social worker. In a literary work, the characters must be true to the parameters of the fictional landscape in which they find themselves, and in Hogwarts there is – or was - no adult sexuality.”

So what can we learn from this? Well, the fact that Rowling is a sellout to the gay rights movement is overwhelming. It also seems evident to those who know the facts about this story that she has lost her respectability as an author with most people who wish to keep their loved ones away from the destructive and morally degrading homosexual lifestyle which is currently trying to be passed off as societally normal, when in fact it is largely both a cover for attacking Christians and those with strong traditional values and morals as well as an attempt to legitimize and normalize any sort of promiscuity or obscene fetish while at the same time making heterosexual monogamy and the traditional Christian family out to be obsolete and intolerant.

Okay, I know I’ve been pretty hard with the facts so far, so I want to return to the sort of jocular banter I started with in the first paragraph of this blog. I’d like to offer some literary examples that for some reason J.K. Rowling chose not to use during her press conference to back up her defamation of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, or “The Top Four Reasons Why Dumbledore Was Gay!”.

4. He kept his Pensieve out in plain view in his office in the hopes that Harry would fulfill his fantasy by accidentally snooping in the wrong memory, like that one lonely night at “Wizarding Whizbangs and other Magical Erotica”.

3. Maybe someone cast the lesser known Fourth Unforgivable Curse, “Homo Inexplicus” on him.

2. Why else was he called the Headmaster?

1. No wonder he kept Snape around for so long.

Religious Operation

I thought I'd share a tidbit of conversation I heard at work a few weeks ago. A guy (whom I will refer to as "Chuck") and a girl (whom I will refer to as "Ginger") who sit in adjacent cubicles to me and who typically jabber back and forth to the point where my ears actually fold in on themselves and retract back into my head through a process I don't even want to understand - were shooting the bullet-ridden breeze.

I was busy working, minding my boss' business, when my curious ears must have crept out in their own accord (lousy ears drive a better car than I do) because they caught a few words that made them floor the pedal in haste to reach the headcliff of attentiveness.

Basically, the conversation went like this:

Ginger: "I found a new church."

Chuck: "Oh yeah? What is it?"

Ginger: "It's called the eppis coh pull* church."

*pronounced eppis (like epic with a "s" instead of a "c"), coh (like "co" from the word "code"), pull (like "pull" from the word "pull")

Chuck: "You mean Episcopal?"

Ginger: "Is that how you say it?"

Chuck: (laughs) "You're going there and you don't even know how to pronounce it?"

Ginger: "Well, I don't know. I guess eppis coh pull sounds like a doctor term...like 'Nurse, please pass the eppis coh pull."


Later...


Chuck: "Why'd you leave your old church?"

Ginger: "Well, I feel like I have to put on make-up to go to church when I don't normally wear make-up - it just seemed too 'OC'. That's why I started going to the 'Episcopal' church."


I don't think any further comment is needed, except...

God Bless the Orthodox Church!

Tagged

Thanks to Aaron, I have something to write about. But I'll be darned if I'm gonna go and play blogtag with other people. Especially if there are tagbacks. Besides, I'm sure between Aaron, Grace, and Erica, most of the people I know have already been tagged.

-Post eight random facts/habits about yourself.


1. I have 47 icons in my room (not including crosses, pins, the church calendar, and pictures of Patmos...diptychs and triptychs count as one).


2. I am currently reading two books (The Color of Magic by Terry Pratchett, and On the Divine Liturgy by St. Germanus of Constantinople), and I have 7 books waiting on my dresser to be read (6 Terry Pratchett books and 1 Dean Koontz book). Can you tell I'm in a reading mood this summer?


3. I often fall asleep on top of my covers, with at least one light on in my room. I get a special bonus prize from my mom if I leave the TV on (and blaring at volume 20+, mind you). She loves it!

...this particular prize appears to be a boney fist n' jaw sandwich.

I think my all-time conk-out record is three lights, the TV, and a book open on the bed, all while still fully clothed.


4. I can juggle. And make weird snapping noises with my ears and fingers.


5. I got a new job as an accounting assistant at an advertising business that is about one minute's driving distance from my house, give or take 5 seconds.


6. I wore one black sock and one white sock yesterday.


7. One of my favorite snacks is a bowl full of various berries (straw, blue, rasp, black, etc...) and grape tomatoes. Also, if there are cherries in the house, I will turn into a veritable semi-automatic seed rifle.


8. I think Harry Potter is going to die in the 7th book.

CtrlAltDelete

This was one of the last poems I wrote for my Poetry 406 class last semester. It has gone through one edit so far, but I'm sure it could use another. Any suggestions, comments, or questions are welcome.

CtrlAltDelete

I will die a gruesome death, on a Monday
or maybe a Wednesday, whichever is
convenient.

My fingernails will be peeled backwards
with a stylus, and my eyes burned with a laser
mouse.

I will be stoned by writing blocks, pummeled
by keystrokes, and backspacing my way out,
I will avoid paying my tab.

I will be beaten in paragraph form, double spaced.
I will be berated by punctuation, the colon
of their jokes:

What did the semi-colon say to the colon?
Mine’s longer than yours.

My head will undergo rigorous testing
to determine the impact durability of keyboards.
iwhneg weewf!

I will bring new meaning to the saying
“This homework will be the death of me”
Poemicide.

It’s Times New Roman like these that
Perpetuates the feeling of Impact there can be
on Poor Richard’s creativity.

There’s nothing quite like being stuffed
inside a 17” monitor and left to die.
Alone, with your blocks.

Kawhy?

Before you read on, be warned that this blog is a shameless attempt at discerning whether or not I am still capable of writing now that I have graduated from college. It will most likely lack direction, be overly wordy and comprised largely of sarcasm, and will exploit the English language for the purpose of humor (or a vain facimile thereof). So if your face hasn't dropped with boredom like a pigeon hit by a history textbook, read on. After all, it can't get worse, right?

As readers of Erica’s blog know by now, we recently got back from a trip to Kaua’i, in Hawaii. This was all made possible by Erica’s grandma, who paid for the plane tickets for 27 other family members, including a fiancé (Ivan) and a boyfriend (me). (THANK YOU AGAIN ELLIE!!) The families were split up into several different condos, and fortunately, Ivan and I had one all to ourselves.

Fortunately, that is, until we opened the door.

Sure, the condo itself was posh enough with its stained sofa cushions, slanted balcony (so the water from the occasional and non-fatal torrential storms can run off), flushing toilet, and two unmarked VHS tapes underneath the TV which the prospect of watching was more frightening than the freakishly huge brown spider hiding in the closet which Ivan broke a broom clean in half while trying to kill – that’s right, our condo was the height of luxury.

That is, it would have been, had Ivan and I not been two firmly straight men with significant others. In other words, the sight which made the greatest impression on us as we walked in the door for the first time, and which we had been afraid of for days before the trip, was the single queen-size bed which welcomed us with open sheets.

Needless to say, I spent a nice relaxing week sleeping on the luxurious pull-out sofa bed - which made loud clanging sounds as if it were stuffed with rusty cans, when any delicate amount of weight was placed on it. Like my spine. Though oddly enough, it was quite comfortable. Plus, I don't think I'll ever need to go to a chiropractor for a readjustment again.

However, the view outside on the balcony – spectacular. I’ve never seen such a beautiful adjacent condo before in my life. And the obstructively dense trees which prevented any sight past fifty feet – gorgeous. And the forsaken roosters who woke me up at five in the morning every day – vastly underappreciated without a gun nearby.

Perhaps a loosely accurate dialogue which Erica recommended I share would help to understand this better...

Erica says to Ivan (seriously): So I hear you have a nice view?
Ivan: A view of what?
Erica: Well, don't you have a pretty view from your balcony?
Ivan: Well, yeah - we have a very pretty view of a bush.


Speaking of fun, many of us went on a Zodiac tour along the western shore of the island. In order to kill two birds with one stone (splat…splat), allow me to show a picture of a Zodiac raft to both inform anyone who doesn’t know what a Zodiac is as well as to illustrate what it was like to ride one.





Please find it in your heart to forgive my elementary Paint skills. But that picture basically sums it up. Most of the younger-aged people in the family went on the Zodiac raft tour, which really is a lot of fun if you aren’t planning on using any part of your back for the next week.

Basically, the Zodiac involves sitting on the side of the raft and holding onto two sturdily attached (ha ha ha) pieces of rope. One of them sits underneath your thighs and you have to grab onto it between your legs, and one of them lies behind you and you have to twist your arm and most of your body around to grab it. There is also an extra rope to drape over your feet so that you won't be automatically plunged into the depths in case the other two ropes spontaneously break. This way you'll just be hanging humiliatingly halfway out of the boat - your face lovingly embracing the waves as they give a new and painful meaning to the term "Ocean Spray".

Provided you manage to avoid falling out and being devoured alive by flesh-eating sea turtles, you end up sitting in this semi-pretzeled position for about three hours, wondering which of your limbs is going to snap in half first.

But the trip is definitely worth it – because the final destination of the tour is a gigantic reef (a lesser known archaic translation of reef is “ocean hangout for hungry fish with a hankering for pasty-white tourists”). Amongst this reef, we all went snorkeling, which was one of my favorite parts of the trip because you get to float over schools of fish that look like they were left alone in a room with a three-year old and a box of phosphorescent crayons.

All humor aside for a moment, one of the more memorable moments of the trip was when we got to see a full rainbow from end to end, and actually got to see it touch the sandy beach outside of our car. However, I didn’t see any leprechauns, pots o’ gold, or Lucky Charms. Lousy false advertising.



And of course, arguably my favorite part of the trip was seeing the sea turtles. Just ask Erica – she’ll tell you I took about 67,362 pictures of them. We saw tons of them throughout the trip, and we got anywhere from just over a few feet away above the surface of the water in the Zodiac to standing on some lava rocks where waves were breaking and we were able to overlook them swimming in the current right next to the face of the rock.







Here is a picture of one of them giving me the turtle equivalent of the finger.


“Whatcha lookin’ at, punk?”

Here's a picture I have to include because I caught it just at the right time, as this gecko was strutting its stuff, doing pushups on a palm tree just outside the girls' balcony.



We also went on a long and rainy hike that most of the group disliked, probably because it turned more into a muddy Slip n’ Slide than an ascent. Actually, let me clarify that. Most of the GIRLS disliked it. For us guys, we had fun reverting back to the carefree and coincidentally dirtier days of childhood, mucking and sliding our way along. Plus, it gave me an excuse to throw away an old pair of sneakers.


Left Shoe


Right Shoe


The great thing about this trip was that no matter how much fun I make of such insignificant details as the bedding situation or the Zodiac trip (which was worth it just for the turtles alone) or the killer spider that proved firemen don't necessarily have to be fearless about everything (just kidding Ivan), it doesn't change how much fun Hawaii was. It was a total blast. Just ask this happy looking couple:

I actually learned something at school!

My technical writing teacher told me this during one of his tangents, and I did some research on it myself - even though I should have been doing my homework...but anyway...


The Tooth About Mouthwash

When originally invented, mouthwash had no alcohol in it, and therefore, did not burn the inside of your mouth when used.

It was unpopular, because people didn't feel anything happening, therefore, they were convinced that it must not be working. Due to this, it didn't sell.

So someone came up with the brilliant idea to add an extra inactive ingredient that would cause some sort of reaction and fool people into thinking the product was working.

Enter alcohol. Many mouthwash brands have 20-25%+ alcohol, while most vodka has 40%. Once mouthwash had this extra kick added in, it caught on and became a hot seller. People believed it was working because they could feel their mouths burning as they used it - even though the addition of alcohol was completely unnecessary and added no benefit to the effectiveness of the product.

Contrary to what many people think, alcohol in mouthwash doesn't kill germs better, nor does it make your breath fresher. It actually causes more germs and makes your breath worse!

Alcohol dries out your mouth, causing bad breath. The germs that cause bad breath are anaerobic, meaning "without oxygen". They thrive where there is no oxygen, and saliva naturally contains oxygen, so a drier mouth means less oxygen, which means more germs, which means bad breath.

So the brilliant addition of alcohol to a mouth-germ killer actually makes it less effective than it was before, back when people were convinced it didn't work - when it actually worked better than it does today.

Now, since some people don't like setting their mouth on fire, many brands have began to offer "Better tasting" and "Mild on sensitive teeth and gums" types of mouthwash. Guess what? They have less alcohol in them.

A normal bottle of Listerine has 26.9% alcohol. The Natural Citrus flavor that was advertised as being "Less Intense" has 21.6% alcohol in it, as well as SUGAR, another bad breath mongol.

Some companies even offer a breakthrough in mouthwash technology. "Alcohol-free Mouthwash". Amazingly, they have managed to maintain the same germ-killing power of regular mouthwash, without the nasty alcohol burn. They must be geniuses! I bet somebody made a lot of money off of that patent. And I bet those same companies charge more for this "New and Advanced Formula", because people these days are actually ignorant enough to fall for it.

Funny. First, people were ignorant by not believing that it worked, because they couldn't feel it work. Now, we've become accustomed to the burn, been indoctrinated to believe that alcohol is one of the active ingredients, valiantly slaying all bad breath in its path, and that the pain experienced is "burning away the bad breath". These same types of companies that had the novel idea to add a counterproductive ingredient into their product are now profiting from their deceitful marketing technique by being able to charge a couple extra bucks per bottle for this "kid-friendly", "burn-free" formula. And yes, once again, we are ignorant enough to fall for it.

Heck, I'll admit it. I thought the same thing. When I've used mouthwash, I thought the burning was killing the germs, like the commercials want you to believe. "You can handle it, just a little longer, your mouth will thank you once you're done, okay, you're done - BLECH! Whew!" These types of deceptive advertisements fooled me - that's why this made such an impression on me when my teacher told me - I just had to research it myself and pass the info along.

Makes you wonder what else we're falling for by blindly absorbing such ads.

My Personality (No Shocker Here)

You Are An ISTJ

The Duty Fulfiller You are responsible, reliable, and hardworking - you get the job done. You prefer productive hobbies, like woodworking or knittings. Quiet and serious, you are well prepared for whatever life hands you. Conservative and down-to-earth, you hardly ever do anything crazy. You would make a great business executive, accountant, or lawyer.

What's Your Personality Type?

How they managed to pinpoint my secret love of woodworking and knittings I'll never know.

One of the FUNNIEST videos I've ever seen

Seriously.

I've watched it 8 or 9 times in a row, and I laugh harder each time. I even woke my mom up. She loved that!


It's 24 seconds long, rated sub-G, and you owe it to yourself to watch it at least once to give yourself a well-earned laugh.


Funny Video on YouTube

Need Money? Quit Your Job!

That's right! Not only am I saying something that you're probably scoffing at right now, I'm also boldly back on the blogging scene! I missed all you bloggers and blurkers so much that I just couldn't bear to be away any longer. Plus, I don't have anything better to do.

So about my absurd statement...I just quit my job at Home Depot this last Sunday. Today, I went to sign the last batch of paperwork and "cash out" for the ~10 hours of work from the previous week which I hadn't been paid for yet. As the manager was preparing the paperwork, I noticed an envelope on the table with my name on it, and a number written on the top right corner that was a lot bigger than 10 hours would warrant. I immediately figured my eyes were playing tricks on me and that the decimal point was just mocking me, but deep within myself the hopeful eyes inside my heart sproinged out of their sockets.

You know what they did?

They paid me for ALL of my unused sick/personal and vacation time. They gave me an official "cash voucher" that explained exactly what I was getting. I received payment for 9.5 hours of regular work, 30.01 hours of vacation time, and 8 hours of sick time. In other words, they paid me for 38 hours that I never even had to work. You know, there are a lot of things that I didn't like about working for Home Depot, but the benefits were never one of them. In fact, just one week ago, I finally got my tuition reimbursement that I had been waiting over a month for. I had been waiting eagerly for it to come, because I had told myself that once it came, I would quit. And I did.

But of course I wouldn't just quit my job for no good reason. In fact, for the last four weeks, I've been working at Oakley doing data entry as a pricing specialist in the sales department. My main duties include creating and maintaining pricing for all sorts of Oakley product for their consumers around the world. So far, the job is great. I work three days a week for a total of about 25 hours, they are completely flexible with my school and church schedules, and I have weekends off! What this all means is I now make more money at Oakley while working fewer hours, 2 less days, better hours, and in a nicer environment than Home Depot.

I can't say I'll miss Home Depot really, but it's only fitting to offer a final farewell to what has been my job for the last 15 months. So I guess I'll just have to throw in my favorite as well as my last Home Depot story, ever.


A few months back, while working at Returns, an Asian gentleman strolls in. He brings in a full box of 12 high theft tubes of building adhesive, which sell for over $25 each. I am immediately suspicious, but I still greet him like everyone else, though he does not return my greeting. I ask if he has a receipt, and he says "no, no receipt." I wasn't surprised. Most stores don't issue receipts for stolen goods.

Anyway, I enter in the items into the computer as having no receipt, therefore making them eligible for a store credit return only, as is the policy without a receipt. After that, I ask him for his ID, as we cannot issue store credit without a valid driver's license.

He hands me a Korean passport, complete with his name and picture on it, which does not qualify as a valid ID, because the driver's license number is actually the required piece of information on the ID - as it is used to track a customer's returns with no receipt.

While I am holding the Korean passport, he takes out a yellow piece of paper from his jacket, unfolds it, and hands it to me.

It is a Court Summons for a DUI, as well as an official revokal of his driver's license. It has his license number as well as his name on it, and he stands there, pointing expectantly, trying to get me to compare the name and face on his passport with his own face, and then compare the name on the DUI papers with the passport and use the suspended license number to issue his refund of over $300.

Shya. Right. So I tell him I'll be right back, and I go call the manager on duty: Dave. I tell him the story real quick over the phone, and he responds with "I've got warm fuzzy feelings about his guy already!" and comes over. Dave asks Mr. DUI where his ID is and where he originally bought the items he is trying to return, and suddenly he is unable to speak English. He stammers for a few seconds, looks around desperately, laughs nervously while trying to speak, while Dave is asking him a second and third time where he bought the merchandise. The man utters a few unintelligible words in English, and Dave responds by logging his return attempt into the computer, and tells the man that he will not be able to return these items at any Home Depot.

Good riddance to a stupid criminal.

What?

Tonight, as we were in the car coming to my house, Erica and I were about to pick up where we left off in a book for Orthodox Christian couples that we've been reading together. I was driving, and Erica opened the book to where she had marked our spot.


Erica: "Well, we finished the chapter on communication."

Sean: "What?"

Erica: "What?"


We're working on it.