Noetic Revalations

I feel crampy.

Brain cramps to be specific.

Like the kind you feel right after you've crammed for an exam, but then realize you memorized a pile of useless facts, only to be given a multiple choice basic math quiz. Only I don't feel like doing any math.

Why all crampy, you ask? 2009 and 2010 (to date) has been a crampy year all around for many reasons:

• Way too much travel. Hitting Air Canada's Elite Gold Status in under 3 months sounds fun until your body has to actually do it (and all in coach)... I did a quick calculation and I have travelled over 100,000 miles in the past 8 months. That is 4x around the world. India, Indonesia, France, Nashville, Toronto, Montreal...




• Too much renovations. I am still working on the inside finish work of this enternal renovation and yes, the darned deck. Railings? Who needs railings?!? Apparently I do. And a cement stone path as well.




• Not enough riding. I picked up a new Trek Madone in the summer and have well under 200km on it. Why? See my "Too much" list.




• Not near enough writing: 21 blog posts in 2009. What was up with that? Yes I had probably 200+ Facebook or Twitter updates, but that doesn't count.

So here's what I tried:

• I tried replacing the crampy feeling with high quality scotch, but the hangover was a wicked 2 days of blurriness.




• I tried replacing the crampy feeling with Facebook status updates. All I got was a bunch of Farmville requests in return.




• I tried reading all of Reddit, but did it all and then saw the repeats on Digg the next day.




• I tried increasing my noetic stimulation by broadening my Twitter feeds, but realized all I received in return was a plethora of data which required manual extrapolation into meaningful informaiton .

So I have to bump my wring again. My notebook is out, and in the past few month many scribbles have been taken but none crafted into prose.

A prime example of some note-pad scribbles from this past year:

Toronto:
everyone wears a scarf - fashion over coldness.
couldn't understand why I wore shorts
women are better looking. What? Well, better dressed. I think Little Italy had something to do with it.
Bikers - crazier, no helmets. I aspire.
Less panhandelers more hot-dog stands. Standing at Bloor & Younge gave me 4 choices within 100 feet. Nice

For inspiration I have stocked up my bookshelf with some 2009 Giller Prize nominees:

• Kim Echlin for her novel THE DISAPPEARED
• Annabel Lyon for her novel THE GOLDEN MEAN
• Anne Michaels for her novel THE WINTER VAULT

So the table is set and I will read with veracity...and hopefully let the cramps be gone!

The digital domain is not coveal with prose...

John Threlfall was right. Archived text files and blogs will never be the same as reading your words in print.

New Year, Logical Philosopher Style

Logical Philosoph-ette and I were discussing plans for the 2008 new year and here's what we came up with:

Hang out and camp on our own private piece of West Coast paradise.

Have no family deaths, or unexpected pregnancies (sorry no link, she wouldn't let me blog about it!)

Do some cool schizzle at work.

As long as I spend a significant portion of time on the first or third point, the year will be considered a success.

What's your plans? I will be looking for some guest posters, so let me know if that is in your plans for the year. I would be happy to accomidate.

Remember, remember the fifth of November

Great Movie, and today I have an excuse to watch it again.

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The gunpowder, treason and plot,
I know of no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

How to get 12 oz of free Starbucks

“May I have a cup of coffee?”

“Certainly!” the barista said with her espresso induced smile. “What size would you like?” She was perky. Too perky. I suspected it was because working at Starbucks and mainlining espresso had made her a morning person, and afternoon person and an evening person - all in the same day.

“Just a cup, I am baking and need a cup for a recipe.”

“Oh, so is that Tall, Grande or Venti? ”

“Which one is a cup? ”

“They all are, which size do you need? ”

“I need a cup, you know like a measurement of a cup” I patiently explained. I was making chocolate chip espresso ice-cream, and was in need of a measured cup of coffee to mix in with the milk.

“Oh, I’m not sure we have that size, just let me check. ” she said, as she leaned around the corner and called out to her co-worker. “Hey Page, this customer needs a cup of coffee for a recipe, which size is that? ”

Her co-worker came out of the back and, after looking thoughtful, turned and asked me “What size of cup did the recipe call for? A Tall, Grande or Venti? ”

What size of cup? I thought, there is only 1 size of cup, and it is a cup! That’s like asking me what weight of one pound did I want the bulk food in.

“Err, excuse me? ” I said, shaking my head. “Ahh, a cup is a cup. You know, a measurement of a cup. ”

Sensing the need for solidarity the first barista chimed in. “Yeah, you can’t just ask for a cup without knowing the size! ”

Now to be fair, I wasn’t sure the size of a cup, in ounces, it was either 8 or 12, I just couldn’t recall at that exact moment. However, I did know enough to realize that things in this world are actually measured in imperial and metric, and not as what the Starbucks branding manual says they are. For all that they knew, I could have been asking for 3840 minims of coffee. That would have really thrown them. The probably would have started to make 3840 cups (the Grande kind).

I stood there, looking at them with a blank expression, wondering how the future of our society was going to start to measure things in relation to brands. I could just envision filling up my car 20 years from now. Excuse me, can you put 5 Big-Gulps of gas in my car for me?

Finally, one barista broke the silence. “How about we just give you a Venti for the price of a Tall. That way if you have too much it won’t matter!”

Arriving home I proceeded to mix up my batch of ice-cream. With copious amounts of coffee left over I looked up the size of my volumes. For the record a Venti = 20 ounces, and 1 cup = 8 ounces. That means in Starbucks terms, a cup of coffee is a Short cup of coffee, and I got a free 12 ounces!

From this experience I think I discovered
the secret Starbucks Training Motto:
If you don't know what the customer wants, throw the offer of free coffee at them.

Mental note: next time I make chocolate chip espresso ice-cream, don’t snack on chocolate covered coffee beans, then have a bowl of the ice-cream at 10 o’clock at night. I was up until 3am with my body shaking from the caffeine intake. At least it gave me time to write this post...

I need a blogging intern

It's not the lack of stories - just being around people and experiencing any waking moment gives me ample blogging fodder. And that happens even without using any artistic licence to decontextualize things! As proof in the past week I have had 3 or 4 blogging stories ready to go:

• My recap of the Toronto trip - the city of high on customer service and low on the homeless
• How a child's broken leg will influence customer service, both from professionals and casual observers
• The Accession of Knowledge (the unwritten part II) has also been rumbling around and is looking to get out for blogging review
• The drunk bus passenger, who apparently was on his way to school for an exam

But nothing seems to have been written. I have been working on another writing project, which has sucked all of my blogging time up. With these stories already outlined in my head I couldn't help but think it would be nice to just have some blogging intern that I can give the verbal point form outlines to and have them crafted into true prose for the readership. Think guest posts with a crib sheet!

Even though I hadn't posted this week, somehow the interns haven't magically come calling. Maybe I'm not famous after all...

I guess it's back to the literary trenches myself. At least I can take solace that as a one man show, I don't have anyone to boss me around and I don't have to do performance reviews for my underlings. There is always a bright side to things when you look really really hard.

Nice Coccyx

Did you ever have one of those moments you never thought would happen to you, until it happened? And then you agonized if you should tell anyone? Well, this was one of those moments and thank goodness I have the anonymity of a blog to share the story...

"So how does it feel?" I inquired to my physiotherapist as he probed my lower back around my painful areas. Pings of pain, feelings of strain and inability to bike too far - all in a days feeling for me.

Ever since I lived to experience the Difference of a Second, I've been working with my Physiotherapist to get back into Ironman worthy shape. I still have a long way to go...

"Hmm, just a second," he replied as he moved down and started to adjust my tailbone with the palms of his hands. It's a funny feeling, having ones tailbone adjusted that is. Usually there are creaks and pops as he pokes and pushes down on my butt with the palms of his hands. From a pure observers view I'm sure it looks like one guy massaging another guys ass. However, when medical necessity is involved, I would hope more latitude is given... at least that's what I'll tell myself if anyone walks in on us. I could just see all the Brokeback Physiotherapist comments coming out of that.

"Ahhhhh, ok" I heard him exhale as he finished and moved his hands slightly outwards to check the rest of my muscle reflexes on my buttocks and hips. "You know, all considering you're feeling pretty good to me." At that exact moment he had his hands on my ass. Not just on my ass, but rubbing my ass.

Mental note: Must see a sexy lady physiotherapist for next time I feel the need to ask that question.

What is my lesson for the post? Never say never, because when medical visits are involved, never really means it will happen - probably when you least expect it.

Symbols of our age

Like a tide slowly rising to wash away the sand castles, there are distinct signs that time marches on. Even as a kid at heart, things happen in our surroundings that force us to reevaluate where we should be doing our castle building.

Time and tide wait for no man

Getting older is a true journey, so they say, and like any journey on a forest path there exists markers to remind you of the distance traveled. Last week one such marker hit me square in the face - thwap - unexpected and out of the blue my age became apparent.

For your reading enjoyment some markers in the past I have reluctantly embraced or avoided include:

Marker: Owning a toolbelt.
Status: Passed. Yes, during house renovations one year I needed one desperately but to me they symbolized my dad working on the house with me as a young boy. I just didn't want to admit that I had gotten to that age but for fathers day one year my kids got me a new belt...now I wear it while the kids play with their plastic tools in the sawdust around me.

Marker: Racing Ironman in the 30-35 age group.
Status: I'm in but competition is fierce and I will never podium again. Although racing as in the clydesdale category does cut the competition down some; at least that's my excuse to drink excess amounts of coke slurpees while training. Got to keep the weight up to podium!

Marker: Owning a Minivan
Status: Not Reached! I will resist to the last mile - towing the kids in a red wagon if I need to. And no, I don't count my Subaru Outback as a Minivan.

Marker: Yelling at the partying kids on the block to turn the music down.
Status: Not yet...and only because my neighbor does it before I do (he's much older).

And what new Marker did I reach this month? Here's how the conversation went as I was interviewing for a daycare job for our youngest:

"So you're in 2nd year university?" I asked, after looking at her resume. I don't remember female students looking that young when I was in 2nd year, but then I was in engineering and there were no female students, so I really didn't have a reference point.

"Yep, I'm in education and doing daycare for the summer our of our apartment."

"How much room is there in your apartment?" I inquired, looking around and seeing technical books strewn about on top of the kids toys.

"Well, my boyfriend is an engineering student taking summer classes so he's always away, meaning we have the whole place for the kids."

"Ahhhhh, I remember doing that - I did engineering and graduated in 1997."

"Wow...1997. I was only in grade..." she started before I cut her off holding up my hand in mid sentence.

"I don't want to know what grade you were in...I think you just made me feel old." I said, feeling the stinging thwap of an invisible age marker on my head. Check another milestone off my list of getting older - I was just dated with the mortal phrase "I was only in grade X when you did that."

But whatever happens I still won't give into the Minivan.

Scam Warning

Generally, I hate the warnings that get sent around, but I have to admit that this one is important. Please protect everyone you know by sending this posting to your entire email or blogging list.

If a man comes to your door and says he is conducting a survey and asks you to show him your bum, do NOT show him your bum.

This is a scam - he only wants to see your bum.

I wish I'd got this yesterday. I feel so stupid and cheap.

Nice Lawn

I'm not really fond of my neighbors anymore. This week confirmed these thoughts even more.

Act 1:

The other day I was digging a hole in the front yard for a fence post that needs replaced. Construction supplies surrounded me - a hammer, nails, wood braces, levels and a shovel. Anyone with intelligence could see I was actually working. But what do my neighbors do? Open their door and push out their 2 year old to play - then close the door leaving her outside with just me. No supervision needed, they must have thought, because LP is out there.

So there I stand - holding up an 8 foot 4x4 post with one hand while trying to hammer in a support post that will keep it level while the concrete sets. Before I know it the neighbor's kid is grabbing my nails and trying to eat them, then using my level as a sword against the post I'm trying to put up.

After a few minutes of trying to get the kid to fetch the rocks I keep throwing into the other neighbor's yard - the one with the dog - I finally got the post up. After cleaning up, with her following me into my house, I politely went next door and knocked on their door. When somebody finally opened it (after 4 rings) I motioned to my work area and say I'm done so I'm going inside now. The mom gave me a dirty look like I interrupted her nap to bring her kid back. I glared back with the I'm not a frickin' babysitter look.

Solution to Act 1: Maybe I should put a row of fence posts up with a good 10 foot fence.

Act 2:

My neighbors lawn looks like somebody threw up weeds all over it. For color there is a mix of tiny yellow buttercups, white clover and burnt greenish crabgrass. I would be excited if I were a bee keeper, having all that pollen nearby, but that is not the case here. Since my children like playing outside I am trying to get our lawn to that lush, weed free sod you see at old, retired people's houses. This means I need to cut the lawn every 5 days or so. Through trial and error I have determined that they only cut their lawn AFTER I cut mine. I guess I shame them into trying to keep the weeds under 2" high.

Today I heard my neighbor getting ready to go to work so I decided to startup my lawn mower and do some cutting. As he pulled out of the driveway I saw him hesitate slightly and give me a dirty look because he knew he'd have to cut when he got home.

I felt much better after that.

Solution to Act 2: After putting up the 10 foot fence, I will make sure the bottom 3 feet has lattice so they can see my lawn and be shamed into mowing it.

déjà vu

Dearest regular readers:

I had 2 postings written out this week, but yet have to find time to type them in. The nice weather has drawn me outside more, and has also given me reason to walk more places instead of take the bus. Most of you regulars will recognize the bus as a great source of my posting material. Mind you the crazy homeless guy on the path yelling at me to "duck and cover" did give me some inspiration, but I digress from today's topic...

So where does that leave me today: déjà vu.

Every so often I find myself stopping dead in my path, taking a snapshot of exactly where I am and what I am doing. It is all familiar - the sights, the smells, the emotions and, most interestingly, where I am in my life. It is almost as if time stops for a brief moment for me to uncover and compare it to some deep, repressed dream I had many years ago. I don't experience it often, but when I do that makes it more of a vivid and noteworthy occurrence for me.

Déjà vu happened to me again today, and it gave me the chills. Warm chills. Content chills. Sweet chills. It was surreal, and I was digging it.

I'm sure psychologists could give me indepth meanings to these experiences but I am sure knowing the neurological basis of déjà vu would ruin it for me. For me it gives some sort of validation that where I am in my life - my surroundings and the choices that have lead me to them - have been the right ones. In some strange way it makes me content, hence all the chills.

Now you know I déjà vu. Do vu?

Little pink houses

Pink - a whole mountain of it... with me in the middle ... and without a map.

Pink - had I come this far, or just gone far away to some distant land? I stopped and pondered the signifiance of this situation. Did you ever have one of those moments where you stop and realize you are doing something at a point in your life you never thought possible? And no, I'm not talking about that realization after you've had several drinks. "Party 'till she's cute" doesn't apply in this context.

I do my fair share of work around the house (in my opinion of course). Dirty dishes. Soiled laundry. Fouled floors. Bring it on! I'm an equal opportunity spouse, as long as she does her share of construction and renovation duties.

This week I was doing a large load of laundry. I sorted into lights, darks, towels and colored. As usual it wasn't that simple as I had too much for a single load of colored. Undeterred from the task I opted split that into two sub-groups - colored and pink. There seemed, after all, a large amount of pink. But enough to warrat a separate load? Why yes! I not only had enough not just for a small pink load, but an entirely full tub of pink. I recall the start of our marriage when there was one or two pink things - mostly not in need of frequent washing because they didn't stay on long enough to get dirty. Now, between my wife of 8 years and 18 month old daughter I had enough for an entire pink load - pink socks, pink pj's, pink shirts - and I was doing it.

I'm still trying to decide if I have come far, or just gone far. A subtle difference in language but enormous distance apart. I'll send you a postcard when I figure out where I'm at.

It will be a pink postcard.

Facades

My vantage point was envious. I rode on top of the double decker bus home earlier this week, in the front row no less, which gave me yet another different perspective from the usual ride. I was able to see over the neatly trimmed hedges which, from the top view, gave way to scattered tools, discarded lawn toys, semi-abandoned car parts and other unkempt furniture.

It made me wonder: What do we hide behind our trendy URL's, slick business cards and fancy blogger templates? Scattered thoughts, discarded ideas, semi-abandoned dreams and other unkempt html code... and that's just from my perspective.

I recently was with a group of individuals on the road back to recovery after a traumatic accident, most of them from MVA's. Apart they all seemed 'normal', whatever our societal norms define that as; well kept, good jobs, eloquent speech. Together it was a different story. With a relative understanding of each others injuries they were all in a unique place to filter through each others facades and see what really was behind the hedge - even at their first time meeting each other... and everybody was cool with that. All that time and energy wasted putting up a front was would have been just that in any other setting - wasted time.

After some thought I came to an understanding why. The real tipping point between this and other interactions was the commonality and awareness of each other from primal base of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. The end result was refreshing - discussions were vibrant, fuelled by real interest without the regular distortions or worrying about image. "How are you?" was asked, and meant. It did, unfortunately, make for some long winded responses...

So fellow bloggers, it made me wonder - what's hiding behind your template? Or is it all hanging out there for us to see? How many of our long rooted societal theories will need a third dimension added for digital facades? With our digital personality easily googled where would Maslow say it all fits?

I'm not sure but I suspect blogging is the in-between of publishing things you tell your co-workers and thoughts you wouldn't even tell your best friend. With pseudo anonymity we can craft text and expose inner feelings and thoughts, all while doing it under the pretext of building a digital community we know we will never have to meet if we don't want to.

Maybe blogging is as good as it gets? is the random thought that keeps coming back to me.

I say that as I, ironically, write aononmously. I guess that makes me a social experiment in the making.

So, now I formally ask: What is behind your template?

Scratch me a single malt please

This week was an exciting one - some cool smell tests at the hospital. Smelly hospitals... Oh yeah baby. My blogging notebook came with me and I did not leave disappointed.

"Why the tests?" you ask. I've been smelling weird things, such as:

• Freshly laundered clothes --> smells like burnt coffee
• Dirty dishes --> smells like burnt coffee
• Coffee --> smells like burnt garbage

I'd go on but I'm sure you get the burning picture.

This causes great problems during cooking at times: "Hey LP, how come you didn't smell the dinner burning?" my family says as they run to the stove and turn off the burner, smoke billowing out of the kitchen. "Sorry," I lamely reply. "I thought it was just, well, that normal fresh smell."

The Smell Identification Test I took was incomparable to anything else I had done for any medical test before. I had to scratch and sniff on 40 pads, with strict instructions to "pull a huge whiff of each as I scratched", then matching them to one of four options given. It brought me back to my childhood, only no pictures of strawberry shortcake to go with the sultry smells of artificial strawberry, mints and other citrus fruits.

Scratch...sniff...dill pickle. Scratch...sniff...banana. After a few minutes of scratching the room was awash with luscious fragrances of fake lavender, grape, bubble gum and cracked pepper. Yes, one of the options was cracked pepper. Then it got weird.

I started scratching ones with choices like:
a) bacon; b) natural gas; c) bleach; d) cheese.

Next I had choices like:
a) dill pickle; b) pain thinner; c) chocolate; d) whisky.

Yes - you read it right, a scratch-and-sniff whisky.

The tester looked over as I kept sniffing the whisky pad. "What are you doing?" she inquired, peering over her clipboard.

"Just following the instructions...you know, scratching and sniffing" I said, burying my nose in the pad deeper with each word.

"You've been on that one for a few minutes. You're only supposed to scratch it once!"

"But it smells good!" I exclaimed. I'm here in the hospital getting tested, can't I have any fun? I thought.

She shot me an evil glare as I took another deep breath of the artificial Jonnie Walker. "mmmmm, Whisky" I said in my best Homer Simpson voice. "Do you have any samples I can take home?"

"No," she deadpanned. "Now pass it over, you're obviously done." Her voice and body language had the 'all business no pleasure' look, yet I decided to press on.

"I could hand them out to the wino's on the street! I'd make an absolute fortune marketing these to binge drinking college students! My slogan would be something like Scratch and sniff in class to take the edge off! I'd be rich!"

She snatched the booklet away and tilting her head she flatly stated: "You're done I take it?"

"Yeah, just getting my last hit before I head back home. Cheaper than the bar you know."

Whew, good thing I ended up taking the bus home. I would not have wanted to explain that one to the police. I could just envision the headline: Local intellect busted for Sniffing and Driving!

I'd never live that one down.

Random thoughts for today

Random thought #1:
When the guy on the bus next to you pulls out a guitar and starts to play, it is a good idea to move...because when the bus comes to an abrupt stop somewhere, a guitar to the rib really really hurts.

Random thought #2:
If I am crossing the street because the cars have stopped due to traffic congestion, what is the purpose of gunning it and trying to hit me when you just have to stop 20 feet down the road anyhow? Maybe he was related to the guy on the bus with the guitar who didn't like it when I shoved his guitar back at him. Apparently a guitar to the chin hurts "like crazy hell buddy!"

Random thought #3:
When you're on the top of a double decker bus and look down at the passengers waiting at the stop, cleavage can look much bigger than it really is. But for every one of those, there are ten really scary things you will see. That makes it bad odds, meaning I probably won't look down next time.

Random thought #4:
When you are at the library typing a post about random thoughts, if the space key is sticky and you have to slam it with your fist every time you need a space, it won't be long before the librarian comes over and tells you to leave. Come to think about it I think she was the one driving the car in random thought #2.

Gotta go, security is on their way...

Costco Scam

The following scam warning was emailed to me this week. Although I don't shop at Costco frequently I found it useful to know about, 'just in case'.

I don't know how many of you shop at Costco, but this may be useful to know. I have become a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. This happened to me and it could happen to you.

Here's how the scam works: Two seriously good-looking 18-year-old girls come over to your car as you are packing your shopping in the trunk. They both start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their breasts almost falling outof their skimpy t-shirts. It is impossible not to look. When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say 'No' and instead ask you for a ride to another Costco. You agree and they get in the back seat. On the way,they start having sex with each other. Then one of them climbs over into the front seat and performs oral sex on you, while the other one steals your wallet. I had my wallet stolen last Tuesday, Wednesday, twice on Thursday, again on Saturday, and also yesterday.

Man, next time I go to Costco I'm going to pack my wallet with Monopoly money so it looks like a bigger target!

I'm fine, thank you very much

The music is different,
The people are different,
The vibrations are different,
Something different radiates...

I have always felt that along with my family, my work and school also defined who I was. It shaped and fueled my passions; connected me to parts of the community I would otherwise not; gave me something to talk about when I met a distant work associate out of the office. I still feel that way, but with my recent time off work, now something seems...different. "It" is, without a doubt, slowly shifting with the sands of time.

Opinionistias was right in her Defining post: People are labeled by 'what they do', and when that is removed, things can get boring at parties unless you start saying things like "I'm the girl in the giant banana suit passing out smoothie coupons on 51st and Lex." I need to come up with some good lines...but I digress.

I was at work last week during the day to pickup some documents. I hadn't been to the office during the day in 3 or 4 months. Usually it's just a stealth mission, undertaken in the glow of the computer screens and flickering status indicators: in, pickup paperwork, out. I am covert... But not this time as it was daytime. Although I had a premetiated clandestine insertion plan, it was hard to duck for cover in my office when I discovered my office had been boxed up and packed away into several random cubicles. Crap. So there I stood, deciding what to do as the new tenant, oblivious to my presence, toiled away under my still hanging Lance Armstrong poster. At least they left that up...Maybe they will unpack it for my return, or maybe they just felt they didn't need to add to my worries. As I said last month in my Epiphany of the S-factor, this was small in the scope of life so I moved on to find a free office.

I headed down the hall, in search of an empty office to blitzkrieg for the next hour, when one work associate called out to me "Hey Geoff, good to see you!". Nice, but my name is not Geoff, not even close actually.

Someone else saw me and stopped me, "Hey LP [note real name used accurately here], been looking for you. Do you have the X flies in your office?" She had her usual clipped tone of "I'm going somewhere and you are my critical path, so get on with it so I can be important elsewhere."

"Don't know, why don't you ask M? He is taking care of that in my absence."

There was a slight pause before she continued, unsure of what that actually meant. "What absence?" she slowly responded. I saw some small 'potential danger' lights flickering in the back of her head, but I decided to use my energy elsewhere...although in hindsight it would have been much more fun to string her along with something like "Didn't you hear? I got promoted to a VP and I'm away for training to take over your job!"

I opted for the nice route: "Don't worry about it, just talk to M."

"Ok, thanks" she cheerily replied (fake cheer at this point), heading off oblivious only as senior management can be. I'd been gone for 7 months... guess she missed the memo.

It's funny how when you work in a place for seven years,
people can be so superficial, desensitized to the real meaning of their words.

Where "How are you?" is a greeting, not a query.

Where "Fine thanks." is expected, else upsetting the flow of the conversation.

Yes, this visit something different radiated. Maybe I am treated differently now due to my absence; or maybe I have too much time to think about it; mabye my re-reading of Thoreau is really starting to sink in this time; or maybe I have slowed down enough to see things for what they really are.

I always say "so tell me how you are today" to my Acupuncturist. With weekly visits over the past several months we've gotten to know each other much better. He says the phrase is different and it stands out, mostly because he knows I'm asking because I want to know, not just to be nice before he sticks some needles in me.

I'm looking forward to getting back to work to ask people "Tell me how you are today." I wonder if anyone will notice. Probably not.

If not, their loss, not mine...
because sometimes realizing what the "different thing" is,

so you can really appreciate all that is happening around you,

can be a good change.

Big Brother took my kids away.

Out of the blue, with no warning she matter of factly asked me: "Do you want more kids?"

Isn't that the type of question that you usually warm your spouse up to? No Wasn't little Jonny cute today in the bath? No Look at the adorable curls on little Sally.

With not so much as a drop of verbal foreplay, I was totally thrown off guard. Like a tidal wave, hundreds of images invaded my thoughts all at once. My kids first walk, first laugh and first time they said "da", asking for me. Restlessly sleeping on a cold hospital floor in pediatrics ICU for a week, teaching them how to make snow angels in the winter, helping them master all the animal sounds from Baby Einstein. Would I do it again? Grow the family? How could I answer this question so quickly?

My thoughts were shattered instantly as she continued on "Because Big Brothers is coming by tomorrow for household donations and I put out all my maternity clothes."

What? Flooding thoughts give way to the eye of the storm...calm and collected, but unsure what I was really in the middle of.

"And that means...?" I said, now really confused as to where this was going, and where it came from.

"...so that means no more, because I will have nothing to wear."

"Well," I slowly answered. "I guess that's it for us then."

[Long pause]

"And you better not blog about this!" Good thing she doesn't read it too often... but even if she does and I don't get any because of it, that won't matter because we're not having anymore kids anyways...

Thanks Bob

Today I stopped at a local 7-11 for a chilled beverage. The cashier was quite patient with me as I counted out my change to pay for it. His nametag said “Bob, Senior Sales Associate.” That made me perk up because Bob was a little on the older side…well, a lot on the older side. How old you ask? I think I saw him greeting at Wal-Mart last week. That old.

Anyhow, I sat there wondering of Bob was a “Senior” Sales associate, as in Senior Citizen? Or “Senior” as higher rank than a “Junior” Associate.

As I finished counting I thought he must be the latter but really wasn’t 100% sure. However, all thoughts were quickly halted when he pointed to the line that had haphazardly accumulated behind me and said “Move to the left! Move to the left! Please form a line to the left! There’s too many of you to keep track of who’s next.”

There were only two people behind me.

Make that "Bob, Senior Elderly Sales Associate."

Thanks Bob, and have a nice day.

Coke is (still) it

I’ve had a headache and anxiety, both entrenched within a terrible case of general bitchiness for an entire week now…you know, that sweaty, anxious feeling you get when you’re in the middle of watching a great porn flick and the 78 year old Chinese neighbor abruptly shuts the blinds thereby ending the free show? Yeah, that kind. Those who have visited my house late at night know exactly what I am talking about.

“So how long has it been?” she asked. I think she had seen my shakes and the bleary eyes, along with the desperate look I gave as I glanced at the brown bottle from across the room.

“Monday….last Monday at 1:32 pm,” I flatly responded. No trace of emotion… I just didn’t have the energy. Although indoors, I still had my sunglasses on to block out the lights. From a distance I could have passed as Bono, but up close things were different … it wasn’t the cool factor, but rather the survival factor. They were just too bright to handle. Many things were just too hard to handle.

She continued on: “It’s probably good for you….all that sugar and caffeine. The doctor said it’s the caffeine, right?”

“Yeah…caffeine. But you know , there is a distinct difference between knowing it’s good for me and actually being on board with the realization.” Yes I launched the boat, but I am not really on board with this evening sail.

One of my friends knows I’m not supposed to be having caffeine now so when he opens a Coke he makes sure he’s next to me so I can hear the pfffft sound. The really cruel part is he now attempts to waft the smell of the sweet, caffeinated scent of the bottle towards me. Pure Evil. There is no other words.

As for the reduced caloric intake, I’m just waiting to pull a Hurley moment from Lost: “And for the record, I'm down a notch on my belt. I'm a big guy. It's going to be a while before you're gonna wanna give me a piggyback ride, okay?"

If I don’t go down a notch soon, I’m heading straight back to 7-11 for a large coke slurpee. Damn the caffeine! If weight loss isn’t a side effect of this experiment, then I’m outta here and back on the Coke wagon.

Just one day at a time, but between you and me, I have a feeling by the end of the week my wife will find me bell-up on a couch at 3am, eyes wide open and my pupils fully dilated. I will be surreptitiously surrounded by empty Coke bottles and thinking about just staying up for the rest of the night. Will it be worth it if when I get busted? Without a doubt.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, or the start of Lent. Since I don’t observe Lent I normally don’t worry about it however, it does happen to neatly coincide with my caffeine intake being abruptly cut off.

This brings me to the point of my post. What have I learned from my Coke reducing diet so far about:

1. I’m glad I don’t observe Lent any other time. Going without, on purpose, really does suck.
2. I wish I would have observed Lent for this. Why? Because I’d get my caffeine back in about 40 days, but with no questions asked by the end of it.
3. I never could have been a Mormon. Sorry…I’m just a caffeinated kind of guy. Now I know what Dooce was rebelling from.

And now that I’ve taken one for the team and provided these insightful lessons, I’m going to find some caffeine in the form of liquid coke or copious amounts of chocolate.

Wish me luck.