Tag Archives: personal

Does One Guy Need Ten Plaid Shirts?

8 Mar

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As 2013 arrived my closet held ten long sleeve, buttoned shirts, including a yellow one I bought in Kohl’s over three years ago. It’s certainly the only yellow shirt I’ve ever purchased and probably the last. It was not a smart buy because I wore it, like, three times.

I held onto it longer than I wanted because of what I paid for it, which was probably over $20. That’s not a lot of money for a shirt unless you’re someone like me who prefers to shop in thrift shops. So instead of pleasing me, the stupid thing produced guilt–just a tiny bit–when I saw it hanging there day after day begging me to slip into it.

Yellow Shirt: Hey Mike, why don’t you wear me today?

Me: Oh. Um, well, I was thinking about wearing my gray sweater today.

Yellow Shirt: You never wear me. Why’d you even buy me? You must be shitty with money.

Me: Well, for one reason, you fit like a medium, but your tag says “small.”

Yellow Shirt: So why don’t you give me to someone who’ll wear and appreciate me?

Me: Fine, I’ll donate you to Goodwill.

It’s so much easier when your stuff asks to be donated. So that shirt’s now gone, along with seven others who also asked to leave. I’m left with two such shirts, pictured above. Love is too strong a word (for me) to use referring to clothing, so–I really like these two shirts.

When I’m on auto-pilot, I don’t see a closet full of waste. I see a collection that needs to be added to. It’s this whole process of mindfully evaluating each item that kicked me in the nuts and made me see that I didn’t need so many freaking plaid shirts. I know, it’s weird, but that moment of realization gave me a thrill, as did yanking the eight shirts from their hangers and throwing them onto the “outgoing” pile of fluff.

And now those eight discarded shirts are available to fellow thrifters at Goodwill for a couple of bucks apiece. Who knows, that yellow shirt might become someone’s favorite shirt this week.

Also pictured above is sort of a rain coat for my head–a cap that sheds water instead of absorbing it. It’s for warm weather jogs in the rain. But now that I sit here thinking about it (auto-pilot=off), I realize I rarely wear the stupid thing and will probably get rid of it. Forget I brought it up, okay?

(Can I somehow recover the dough I’ve spent on things I didn’t need?)

But one can hardly live without at least one belt, right? I have one brown and one black. Jennifer bought them at Goodwill in late 2012.

(If you’re new here and wondering what the hell the following numbers are for, go here or check out the minimalism category.)

32. Shirt (bright blue, long sleeve, buttons)

33. Shirt (dull blue, long sleeve, buttons)

34. Belt (brown)

35. Belt (black)

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It’s distressing for me to have a complete suit hanging in my closet, but people tend to marry and die, forcing me to yank it out and slip it on from time to time. I have two neckties and they’re both in the photo, but I’m donating the maroon one you can barely see.

36. Shirt (dress, gray striped)

37. Suit jacket

38. Necktie (purple)

39. Pants (suit pants)

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Why I Don’t Play Video Games

23 Feb

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Jennifer’s been playing this game in bed on her tablet. She slides her finger around, mumbles, and becomes agitated and more vocal as a timer nears zero. One night I asked what she was playing.

Dropwords.

I’ve had my tablet for two months and I’ve yet to download any games. We’ve had a Playstation 3 for years and I don’t think I’ve played video games on it for more than a couple of hours . . . total.

I think I’m scared of becoming addicted. I played the hell out of Atari as a child. I played the hell out of Nintendo as a teenager. I played the hell out of a baseball simulator in my twenties. I don’t have time to become addicted to a video game in my forties. 

Last night in bed as I sipped on hot Sleepytime Herbal tea and read a New York Times op-ed, she urged me to try a game of Dropwords as we waited for the girls to finish a movie downstairs, so we could watch one of our own. It looked kind of fun and I noticed a bunch of good words she was overlooking, so I downloaded it onto my own tablet to quickly blow up her high score. I wedged my mug of tea between my legs.

I leaned over to see her high score was 1950.

I scored 175 on my first try.

“What the hell!”

I played again and again and again, scoring 350, 205, 250.

“Goddamit!”

The girls came upstairs, brushed their teeth, went to bed. I played again (275). And again (300). I adjusted the pillows, leaned back, and got more comfortable. The cat climbed onto my crotch and curled into a ball as she so often does. I barely noticed.

I scored under 300 again . . . and again.

“How are you getting such high scores!” I roared.

]Then I learned the value of using the darkened tiles that score more points and awards extra time. My scores began to improve. She stopped playing and mentioned the movie. 

“One more!”

“Are you ready to go downstairs?”

“One more!”

“Movie?”

“One more!”

In the middle of my best game, I noticed wetness under my butt.

“Why I am feeling a wet spot; did I just pee my pants?” I asked.

Yes, for a second I thought I had become so engrossed in Dropwords that I had unknowingly urinated in my pants.

But I kept going because–like I said–I was in the middle of a game. “Did Kitty pee on me . . . what’s going on down there?”

Jennifer sat up to investigate and–ha, ha, ha, it’s so funny!–started laughing as she picked up the now-empty mug that I had forgotten about. My game ended. I had scored over a thousand points, which is the important thing, but by then the girls had been called into the room to laugh at me and my giant wet spot, the mark that anyone would recognize as someone who had just peed in their pants. (A circular wet pattern emanating from the “crotchal” area, visible from the front and back.)

And that’s why I don’t play video games. 

Not me, I swear.

Not me, I swear.

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The Death of Clifford + More Crap

22 Feb

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This Clifford bowl has been around for at least ten years, but yesterday I found a giant, fatal crack on the bottom. I thought it was the kind of bowl (hard plastic) that would last forever, surviving multiple drops. I showed it to each of the girls, took a picture of it and then tossed it.

I took the photo because I’m interested in the constant flow of things into and out of our lives. The bowl left us, but the blurry earrings in the photo came into our lives along with a yellow sweater, a ring, two over-sized pencils, and a coloring book.

We also spent $41 at Goodwill on a decorative mirror, a shirt for Jennifer, and a stack of shirts for Chloe, who has inexplicably grown out of everything in her closet except for the Snuggie Grandma bought at a garage sale two years ago.

I used”we” in the sentence above about the decorative mirror, but, of course, Jennifer was responsible for that acquisition. She told me it matched the curtains in the family room and asked what I thought about buying it for nine bucks. I shrugged and tried to recall the living room curtains. Obviously, that’s her department.

But to coincide with this inflow of stuff, Jennifer filled a box with clothes to get rid off, so overall we ditched more than we added.

Now, more of MY crap. I photographed six pair of shorts, but I have since ditched the plain light gray pair second from the front. You can barely see the black pair on the bottom. In the warm months I live in these for comfort, exercise, sleep, and biking.

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19. Running shorts (Lululemon – gray with black and purple)

20. Shorts (Target – royal blue, white stripes)

21. Shorts (Nike from Kohls years ago – gray and navy blue)

21. Shorts (Champion - maroon)

23. Shorts (Target – black)

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24. Second pair of eyeglasses – I keep these in my bag. I’m wearing them now. They’re my “main floor” glasses at home.

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25. Laptop

26. Mouse

27. Adjustable, folding table

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28. Timbuktu Messenger Bag

29. Backpack (small – blue & gray)

30. Swiss Gear backpack (large – blue & gray)

31. Duffel Bag (camo – not pictured)

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Don’t Judge my Boxers Until You’ve Walked a Mile in them

5 Feb

If you haven’t been following along (shame on you), I’m thinning the stuff in my life and publishing embarrassing photos of myself and my junk. I listed the first five items the other day. One of the reasons for this nonsense might be that the well of writing topics has completely dried up. How else can I explain why I’m photographing and inventorying MY UNDERWEAR. You’d think I’d have something to say about immigration reform or gun control . . . anything.

Hey, screw it, I’m gonna roll with this.

I guess I’m writing about it because I’m fascinated by what other people keep. When we were looking to move to Edwardsville, we walked through dozens of homes. Jennifer looked at the overall layout, the size of the rooms and all that practical stuff; I was peering into closets and mentally calculating the cubic tons of junk that was stored in basements and garages.

Jennifer: So, what’d you think about that tiny kitchen?

Me: Did you see how much shit they had in their basement?

Jennifer: Yeah, but what about the kitchen?

Me: Yeah, I noticed the pantry was loaded with pudding and jello.

And the hoarding shows on TV . . . oh my god, I can’t watch a single episode without craving 100 more. So I don’t watch at all.

A minimalist is the opposite of a hoarder. I’m waiting for a show about minimalists. Do you know why that’ll never happen? Because you won’t find seven decomposing cats in the layers of trash in the garage.

* * *

Here’s an article about a scientific study about the stuff people keep. Watch the video and check out the book.

* * *

Today, the fifth day of February, is, officially, across the nation, Count Your Underwear Day. My new favorite holiday.

First, I want you to know that I could totally live without underwear. 

“I’m out there, Jerry, and I’m LOVIN’ EVERY MINUTE OF IT.” 

Okay, let’s get this over with.

Boxers

6. Boxer Shorts (yellow with black bikes)

7. Boxer Shorts (black with white skulls)

8. Boxer Shorts (gray with baseball players)

9. Boxer Shorts (black with Tiki Gods)

10. Boxer Shorts (white with thin black lines)

Four were purchased on clearance from either Target or Old Navy; the fifth was a Christmas gift.

Next time we might count and inventory my socks, so make sure you sign up for e-mail alerts. It would be a crime if I were to write about my socks without you knowing.

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Irrelevant Pre-Christmas Update with No Photos, Three Links, Four Colons and Three Ellipses

11 Dec

I thought I’d get something posted today to prove I wasn’t killed in a natural gas explosion or something.

It’s not that I’ve stopped writing; I’ve just switched to fiction–thousands and thousands of words of . . . fiction. Plus, I  haven’t fallen down the steps or anything funny since summer, which is good in a way, but that stuff’s always fun to write about.

(I also went through a period of deep, dark, redonkulous depression thinking douche-bag Romney had a shot at winning the White House. Phew! I actually voted for Jill Stein, not Obama. Go Green!)

This is some news: we traded in our 2010 (I think) Sonota and our 2009 (I think) Prius for a space-age 2011 Prius. I know it’s bizarre for a two parent family to “get by” with only one car, but I’m committed to driving as little as possible for various reasons. I’ve written about all that before–my “war” on automobiles.

So, yeah, I’m super-pumped about that and the one car is cool-as-hell. Example: pretend the car is locked and the “keys” are in my pocket, or, if I’m naked, they’re lodged between my butt cheeks. I can unlock the door with a swipe of a finger (any finger) on the door handle, start the car, drive a half mile without using a drop of gas, stop, get out, and lock the door, all without touching the keys. The car has no ignition or key holes! It’s almost like putting a small comb and toothbrush in my pocket and having my hair styled and my teeth cleaned without having to do anything. Okay, not quite like that, but . . . sort of.

Other news: we’re remodeling the back of our house–the “family” room. There’s nothing funny about it; it’s a mess right now, but in a couple of weeks come over and experience the magic of new hardwood floors and fresh paint and light fixtures and . . . all that. It’s not nearly as exciting to me as it is to Jennifer.

The kids have the sniffles, the dogs and I need haircuts, the cats are on a new, expensive “limited ingredient” diet, and I’m–as I type!–listening to 80s music on Pandora. It’s a clear, chilly, beautiful day in my world.

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My Wife Stole my Salad and Wants me Dead

3 Oct

Crime is a huge problem in the United States. I just didn’t think it was a big deal in my own home. The following story proves I live with a thug who wants me to swallow glass and die.

* * *

First, some background on my salads. Erase from your mind what you think a salad is. My daily epic salads are created from a long list of ever-changing fruits and vegetables that I won’t bore you with. A “mega-salad” takes up to 30 minutes to make and contains up to 75% of my daily food intake. Once in awhile I can’t eat it all in one day.

This morning I opened the fridge to grab the leftovers of yesterday’s mega-salad. I instinctively reached for the spot where I last saw it. My hand stopped short and hung in the air for a beat, before I began shifting glass containers around and peering frantically behind pasta and salsa jars. It was gone. Gone, baby, gone. Jennifer, my own wife, who vowed on the day of our marriage to never steal salad from me, had placed her hand (probably her right) on a salad she knew would be missed, pulled it out, packed it in her lunch bag, and then drove it to Clayton, Missouri.

I’m not always salad-stingy. When I make public salads, I make it known: “Hey girls, come and have some of this salad!” This salad was a private meal, saved for a Wednesday breakfast.

With the fridge door still open, I shook my fist at the ceiling and yelled “Damn you to hell, wife!” (Not really)

So I went to work building a new salad that ended up weighing 20% more than a typical one. Here’s what I put in it (yes, I decided to go ahead and bore you): spinach, cucumber, grapes, apple, quinoa, wild rice, chickpeas, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, sweet peppers, green pepper, red onion, lemon juice, apple cider vinegar, Bragg’s Liquid Aminos, black pepper, garlic powder, unsweetened, finely shredded coconut, slivered almonds, and, finally, raw unsalted pumpkin seeds.

Not my glass of seeds.

When returning the pumpkin seeds to the cabinet, I banged the bottom of the jar against the shelf and the glass broke immediately (sabatoge?). The whole bottom of the jar plopped into my salad. The rest of the jar remained in my hand.

The sounds of this food disaster consisted of the initial crack of the glass and then small objects hitting the floor and counter all around me. But what did I hear? Glass? Seeds? Both? I lifted the glass from my bowl and then carefully inspected my salad for shiny slivers of glass. I walked over to stand directly under the overhead light and peered into the wild mix of foods. No visible glass.

I put the bowl down and fit the two pieces of jar together to see what kind of glass shards were missing from this transparent puzzle. They fit together damn good, but some glass was definitely missing. Damn.

My options: 1) Trash the salad  2) Eat the salad.

It should’ve been an easy choice, but remember how large and complicated this salad was?

I took a few tentative bites and told myself I could just eat it slow and maybe everything would be just fine. When I say “just fine” I mean no blood or ER visits.

I ate some more. And then some more.

I ate about 15% of it and I’ll be carefully eating the remaining 85% throughout the day.

If I die this week, this blog post will  be the only record of what REALLY happened.

If I die this week, my wife should be arrested and convicted of involuntary manslaughter. Else, justice does not exist.

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Murder! A Drill to the Head! (or my daughter’s first cavity)

21 Sep

I took the girls to the dentist on Tuesday. Usually, it’s “Oh your teeth look great. What flavor of polish would you like. See you in six months.” Not this time. Dr. English told me a remnant of a bite ramp in Chloe’s braces had caused a pinhole cavity. He lost me at “bike ramp,” which is what I thought he said. What the hell’s a bite ramp? He told me but I still don’t know.

Shit. Her first cavity. I thought of the drill, the horrifying sound of that goddamn drill. And the smell. And–Jesus!–the shot to the gums.

“Oh, you can fill the cavity today? You mean right now?”

I stood behind Ainsley as she dug through a box of toys rewarded for surviving another checkup and cleaning. In the hall I could turn right and sit in the lounge with a magazine, or I could turn left and sit in on Chloe’s drill’n'fill. A moral dilemma.

I thought I should least check on her. I left Ainsley at the box because she couldn’t decide on what to take. (After ten minutes she settled on an eraser.) I searched Chloe for signs of anxiety, but found nothing as she sat calmly watching TV, waiting on Dr. English. I decided to sit in the empty chair in the corner. I mean, what kind of father would I be to abandon my oldest daughter during her first major surgery?

I was especially worried about the numbing shot that might be in store for her. That was sure to bring tears. Holy shit, I can’t handle that, I thought. I looked at the five-foot-tall black and white poster of some guy’s head and his humongous, freaky-white bright teeth. Why do dentists hang these god-awful prints? I don’t need to see a model’s brilliant four-inch tall teeth to know I drink too much coffee and tea and could use a bleaching. At least it was taking my mind off of Chloe’s impending torture.

The next thing I know there’s the dentist and his drill. No shot! Yes! But then the drilling commenced. A cloud of tooth detritus exploded from Chloe’s mouth. Her legs tensed. Oh my god I have to get out of here! My toes twisted and scrunched in my shoes. I crossed my legs and rubbed my chicken-skinned arms. I watched her face knowing pain would be visiting her any second. Oh my god he drilled too deep! And no anesthesia! I’m going to kill this monster who calls himself English! He’s probably not a real dentist anyway! The quack orthodontist caused a cavity and now the maniac dentist is trying to kill my daughter. I admit: some irrational thoughts were bombarding me, but then–just like that– it was all over. The room was quiet. Chloe was alive and seemingly uninjured.

Next time, this father is staying up front with a magazine and ear plugs.

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Small Dog Buries Large Bread

20 Sep

This morning I was walking Dexter Dog when he disappeared under a large evergreen and emerged with a large hunk of bread. I thought back to when he found a biscuit and buried it in some mulch in front of an apartment building. I was kinda pumped to watch him perform his magic again. It makes me think the little guy is smart. Who cares that he eats crayons and his own vomit.

Normally, he races from tree to pole to tree whizzing and sniffing about, but with this hunk of bread, I could tell he was conflicted. He walked, looking all unsure. I could tell he wanted to stash it. From his actions, I also learned that urinating while holding bread in your mouth is just silly and out of the question.

Inexplicably, he tried to squeeze under a blue Volkswagon Beetle. It didn’t work. I stood there wondering what he would’ve done under the car. Bury the bread? You can’t dig if you can’t get up from your belly, you silly dog.  He ventured on down the side of the car and peeked underneath again before giving up on that stupid idea. He walked up to the nearest house apparently looking for some more mulch or soft soil, but found large rocks. He turned around and walked back out to the sidewalk, dejected.

We turned the corner onto our street. I wondered if he had decided to carry the bread all the way home. Would I even let him eat it if he did?Probably not. Finally, he found some loose dirt next to the sidewalk and went to work digging a hole. He spent ten seconds digging the hole and three times as long burying it. I told him he was overdoing it. I said the damn bread is buried and to come on.

So now we have a bona fide trend; I look forward to sharing with you the next time Dexter buries found food.

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A Dive into Dysthymia and the State of my Earlobes

18 Sep

dys·thy·mi·a

noun /disˈTHīmēə/

  1. Persistent mild depression

Last week suuucked. It was a no-good rotten bad week. Most of it anyway.

Not tragedy bad. No cancer diagnoses. No pet deaths. I didn’t crush my head on the corner of an open kitchen cabinet door after knocking around underneath for some obscure, dusty baking pan. (Jennifer and I are keeping score on how many times this happens to us. Lately, she’s winning, cracking her noggin at least two times since the last time I have.) Yeah, last week I just felt icky and tired and worthless.

I often lose my grasp on what life’s all about. Should I be something more? Something better? I often forget that raising two girls is a tremendous feat in itself. I’m there for them when they climb onto the school bus and I’m there for them when they climb off. That counts for a lot, but I usually shrug that off and ask myself why I’m not a doctor or a lawyer. I have an easy, non-stressful, part-time, online business that inexplicably brings me no pride or sense of accomplishment. I look at my bachelor’s degree and wonder why I don’t have a master’s. (But then when I consider grad school, I tell myself I shouldn’t be spending money on my education when Chloe will be a college freshman in six years.) More than half of Americans are overweight. Yet, I look at my own slender body and wonder why my abs aren’t more defined. I jog three miles and curse at how long it took me.

Forgive the incongruity, but I also noticed this week how much my earlobes have aged. If the rest of my body looked like my earlobes you’d think I was ready for the grave. My left earlobe , pierced 21 years ago, is especially sad. I’m touching it now. Here in Starbucks, I’ll probably look at it later in the restroom. Just call me “sad ears.” Just kidding, please don’t. Seriously, I’ll punch you.

Look at your own place in life and be thankful if you’re consistently comfortable with what you find. It’s all too common in this ultra-competitive, individualistic country to feel like you’re falling behind.

The simple act of writing it down helps. It helps me see how I ignore the positive and dwell on perceived negatives. It’s helpful to notice my mind at work destroying myself. When I’m not aware of this self-destruction I believe what I’m thinking. Don’t believe everything you think! So I draw wide-open eyeballs on my left hand with words like “watch,” “notice” or “breathe.”

Next week I’ll probably be dancing in front of the mirror singing “I’m sexy and I know it.” I’ll notice the tiny strength gains and the fifteen seconds shaved from my 5k time. I’ll realize my current education is adequate and that I can still go back to school at any age if I want. That’s how I roll, like a roller coaster: up one week, down the next.

And my earlobes–not so bad, really. I can’t expect to look at my reflection and see the earlobes of a 12-year-old. Right? I have 40-year-old earlobes. They’ve done a lot of hanging around there on the sides of my face, doing nothing at all. How many people put sunscreen on their earlobes? Actually, I do now. Maybe when I’m 75, I’ll have sexy, young-looking earlobes. “Oh my God, did you see that old man’s sexy earlobes?”

* * *

Update: I wrote all of the above over the weekend, Saturday or Sunday. Monday morning I thought I was prepared for an awesome week, but as soon as the second child walked into her school and I was left alone, I felt empty and overwhelmed. I had so much to do, but couldn’t do anything. It all seemed meaningless anyway. Why work on the business? Money doesn’t make me happy. Why write? It doesn’t contribute to the bank account. Why exercise? It’s hard, boring and probably fruitless. Why clean? Everything gets filthy again. Why read the newspaper? Will knowledge of current events improve my life? Who knows. So I took a nap. For an hour and a half I didn’t have to face these questions.

I know the solution though. It’s to face the questions and do the work anyway. Push through it. Usually everything magically feels better once I get started on … anything. So that’s what I’m going to do today–push through it. Good luck to me.

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Skunk Bustling in My Hedgerow

8 Sep

Today I got up at 4:30. It’s the best time of the day for me to write, run, bike, or any other type of exercise, including yoga. But this morning I was reminded of one downside of being outdoors so early: furry little creatures with sharp fangs and claws are still crawling around the neighborhood.

As I pedaled to the end of the driveway and paused for an approaching car, I saw something walking away from me, into the street. I thought it was either Timon from The Lion King or a primordial drawf because it seemed to be walking on its hind legs. But as the car came closer, the headlights showed me a fluffy white and black tail pointing to the sky. Skunk. It was probably chillin’ under our car as I rolled right past it. It could have reached out and shredded my ankles.

I don’t know much about skunks. I’m clueless about whether they always prance around with their tails up or if they only raise them when they’re pissed off at early birds like me. Do they squirt from under their tales or do they face their enemy, stand up on their hind legs, pull down their little skunk pants and squirt like a deranged man whizzing on a tree in a public park?

I can write with confidence that a skunk shower would have ruined my day. This afternoon I’ll be in St. Louis cheering on the New York Mets (The Mets did, in fact, beat the Cardinals). A severe beating would be in store if I showed up smelling of skunk wearing a Cubs hat hurling caustic insults at Matt Holliday (He didn’t even play). People around here already think Cubs fans are a little “off.” Some would even tell you–don’t believe them–we’re a bit smelly in general.

During early morning outings I’ve encountered foxes, cats, skunks, opossums, squirrels, moles, deer, and critters I couldn’t identify. And I live in DOWNTOWN Edwardsville, not out in the sticks. It would be different if it was like: “Oh look at that cute fox thirty yards away.” Instead, they sprint from nearby bushes, drop from trees in front of me, or are standing so still and inconspicuous that I almost run right up their ass.

This happened with a deer early this summer. I was jogging, not paying attention, just kind of watching the ground in front of me, when I suddenly noticed I was standing next to an unfazed deer. I could have ridden him home. Finally he looked at me and smiled–I swear it looked like it!–and bounded away and disappeared between a baseball diamond and the Children’s Museum.

And I forgot to mention the skunk-sized crows that get pissy when I’m outside early. They caw caw caw at me and pretend they’re itching to peck my face off. They sit low in trees I jog past and raise a big stink about my presence with their flapping and cawing before they fly off, leaving me with a dangerously elevated heart rate.

 * * *

Note: The above is all mock complaining. I even love skunks. I would even kiss a skunk if I knew I wouldn’t be sprayed. But not on the lips. Probably on the top of the head. So, yeah, it’s humans that are continuously encroaching on animals. So boo on us!

“They paved paradise to put up a parking lot”

- lyric from Joni Mitchell’s 1970 song “Big Yellow Taxi” recorded in 1970.

 

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