Tofu Wedding

Attending my sisters wedding reception, I found these little white finger squares and thought they were either cheesecake or tofu. Using my paranormal powers of deduction, abilities honed from hours at restaurant tables doing those little puzzles on the kids menu while waiting for our food to arrive, I was determined to quickly solve the quandary. The easy 3 step process below is exactly how I did it- for those of you who may want to replicate:

1. Looked over the surroundings and asked myself; where am I at right now? A wedding.
2. Added a follow-up question; how many vegetarians are likely to be at this wedding? Aside from that sideburn-less fellow nibbling on his cuticles, very few.
3. Asked a concluding question; considering these answers, what is Lindsay more likely to serve at her wedding reception, finger cheesecake squares or tofu cubes? Cheesecake, although she does have a “this will learn 'em” streak…no it’s gotta be cheesecake.

I then energetically reached down, plucked a square and confidently threw it down. Then happily grinned to myself as I looked around, cheeks swelling with creamy bliss, and watched everyone around me tinkering with the same morsels. Their uncertainty over the ambiguous snacks almost paralyzing them in place, I’m sure.

Thank you IHOP.

it's not just fraud...it's fraud with UPS

You know that UPS commercial with the guy drawing on the white erase board, brown marker in hand. What’s up with that? Is he actually drawing it? If so, he’s got a pretty steady Bob Ross-like hand. Personally, I think they use deceitful CGI graphics. If they are just bending my brain with George Lucas-esque special effects I will get mad and never use UPS again. Neither of us wants that to happen. Looks like a job for Sergeant Wikipedia!

Back…guess it is real. But the drawing guy’s hair is not. Thought my eye detected unnatural waiving movement and volume.

congrats mom!

I've been asked to post the video I showed. I hosted in on YouTube, so it's pretty choppy and low quality. Be sure to pause my blog music at the bottom of the page, before watching.

Thanks for all the great times, mom & dad. I'm crazy about you guys...

…as a three dollar bill

Clark and I are sitting at “Todd’s Barbershop”, an old fashioned hair cut place in Riverton that only gives haircuts to men. Surrounded by seven or eight old men, actually what looks like a platoon of bonafide war veterans, out of the blue Clark looks up and tells me loudly;

“Hey daddy, I love boys.”

“Umm. You mean action figures guys, right?”

“No, I just like boys.”

Then he looks back down at his coloring book, without a thought, and continues on with his artistic work. Leaving me to try and find a way to nonchalantly explain. So, flipping through a magazine, I utter to myself, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Ha ha, little tike says the craziest things. Gotta love that phase when they hate everything about girls…”

I peered up, hoping they were laughing. Nope. Just that old timer look you always get, with a subtle head shake, when someone from the “Greatest Generation” thinks you’re raising a “Mary”.

So I just mumbled something about "them being the ones going to an all male barbershop"...but I don't think they heard me.

Little footed bathroom man

Let me lay out the scene. It was my first day with my new client, Morgan Stanley, and I’m at the office trying to build relationships, trust, impress everyone I meet, saying things I don’t mean, like, “How’s it going? My name is Todd, what’s your name? What department are you in?” Or some other nonsensical questions whose answers I have absolutely no interest in hearing.

Anyway, about half through the day I make a pit stop in the “mens” room. First thing I notice is how clean it is, leaving me with a really good first impression about the entire facility. In fact, as Ann will confirm, I always judge any restaurant we go to, not by the food, but by how clean the restroom is. It’s kinda like looking at a girl’s ankles when you’re dating. It tells you a lot about what the future holds. But again, I’m going down a proverbial rabbit trail, pulling me away from my story.

So, I’m impressed with the cleanliness, and even the smell of the bathroom. I’m thinking, “Man, this is a first class company, the bathrooms are like spring time, like the sunshine on my shoulders that John Denver is always going on and on about, I wonder if he works here…”

Then a noise! Scattering my thoughts, like little kittens scattering puffballs of…nevermind, that got away from me a bit. Outside of the everglade scented stall, I hear the pattering of little feet on the tile floor,

“pit pat pit pat pit pat”

I say to myself, in an Irish accent, of course, “Wow, self, he must be a wee little fellow, wearing wee little booties, ‘cause he sounds like an elf wearing ladies high heeeeeee…..oh, NO!”

I rush out of the stall, staring at me are the frightened eyes of a little Asian lady.

“Um, I think you’re in the wrong bathroom, sir.”

I couldn’t think of anything to stay, so I just stared stupidly at her, finally letting the words bumble out of my mouth,

“It’s my first day…my first day. I thought it looked funny in…ha ha. In the last place, this is where the men’s room was. Well, it wasn’t here, obviously their restroom couldn’t be here, but what I mean is it was on the left side of the hall, so I just assumed that…what department are you in? It’s my first…”

Then I tore off like a dejected Napoleon Dynamite.

Ever since that day, the memory still fresh with infamy, I’ve tried not to make eye contact with that lady. Thing is, I see her every single day as I walk out of the building. I imagine her telling everyone around her, after I leave for the day, about the “New perv guy” followed by a half snark sound that I can’t spell.

I’m looking for an opportunity to speak with her and beat down the palpable awkwardness, glaring off me like Bush at a State of the Union Address. I want to say something clever to cut through the weirdness, something like;

“Remember when you walked in and I was in the girl’s bathroom? Boy, did I ever think you were a funny, short, stubby legged man with wee little feet. Or a hoofed half man half goat, fawn type of creature, pit-pattering along. Remember that? Ha ha, good times…”

With just the right Irish brogue, I think it might help out, just a bit…or maybe I’ll just let it go.

Today's word is...

To many this may seem like a "Report from Obviousville"…but I’ve never noticed.

Clay Aiken…Looks a lot like Paul Reubens (Pee Wee Herman).

Creepy.

33 is the hit of the summer!

You know how you read online reviews about movies, electronics, cars or pretty much anything else under the sun. Well, closing in on 33, I decided to manage my expectations a little bit by reading some online reviews about the 33rd year of life.

Come to find out, people rave about being 33. Here are a few samples I found.

“I give the 33rd year a 9 out of 10, the only thing from making it a 10 is the fact that I realize all my cartilage is still growing…aside from that, no complaints yet!”

“4 stars! Now that I realize I’m thoroughly into my 30’s, instead of being teased by lingering memories from my 20’s, I’ve grown complacent about my age and life in general. I’ve found life really starts being lived with this frame of mind. But that’s just me.”

“Runs... like a dream."

“Thirty-three IS all it’s cracked up to be. I’m six months in and I still feel a dapper 32, minus the ‘awkwardness’ usually associated with the early 30’s. You know what I mean.”

“Man, 33 is really something else. By something else I don’t mean it’s a diminutive bum dwelling trouser flea. No, it’s not that…it’s something else.”

“Middle age here I come! Bring it on. I’ve lost much of my hair, motivation, and physical prowess, what else can the years take…as I see it, it can only get better, Flowmax prescription notwithstanding”

“It instantly upgraded me from a 34” waist to 36” waist! I wasn’t even expecting it; it just came with the package. Better than advertised!”

“If I’d known that being 33 got me this many chicks, I‘d have lied about my age years ago…”

So, the next year looks pretty good! However, according to my online research, that’s only the 33rd year that gets these types of reviews. The 34th year gets pretty bad and 35, apparently, is a fate worse than death. Things clear up a bit after that, as many claim they get their “second wind” as they break into their early 40’s. That’s when I promptly shut down my computer, because I don’t want to know anything about any middle-aged man breaking wind…of any sort. But if you’re into that, be my guest. Different strokes for different folks.

Half the man

So, you know all the funny things you hear in testimony meetings, a meeting format that allows anyone to say anything they want in front of the entire congregation, on the first Sunday of each month (just little explanation there for my non-Mormon friends- see this is a progressive, all accepting blog post, open and sensitive to every gentile, regardless of their lame, barbaric beliefs). But I digress…

Among other amusing things I hear, is this little furtive, often unintentional, self promoting nugget;

“I want to say thanks to my wife. I wouldn’t be half the man I am without her.”

Now think about this statement, or one of its many variations, for a moment. They are basically saying that they wouldn’t have ascended to their high and noble position in society, and obviously in the minds of everyone listening, without the stalwart efforts of their wife working behind the scenes. The great display of personality and achievement standing before us would never be “basked in” without the “little people” tirelessly, selflessly, laboring to chisel and hone the one speaking into the final product displayed before our eyes. Much like the condescending starlet accepting a gold statue for her acting prowess, humbly bumbling through a list all those that made her into the wonderful talent she has become. This false, or just slightly lame, modesty is in essence telling us all that behind every great man, there stands a woman. His wife is that woman. While, he (eyes unassumingly look downward) is that great man.

Unintentional, I'm sure... amusing nonetheless.

As for me, I like the more precise approach, saying:

“I wouldn’t be half the specimen I am today, without my wife’s efforts. And my kids, they make me probably 25% better than that even. That’s for each one, so once the whole family is considered, including the 18 months we had a pet, I’m a good 160% or so greater than I could have ever imagined before I started this whole family gig…”

Compulsory fun

So, we signed Clark up for t-ball.

You know- endless summer frivolity and enjoyment. Memorable moments with one's offspring, creating lifelong bonds while participating in the classic sport of the ages. Relationship foundations forged that will span generations, with bat in hand and a father's advice in the ear- "Keep your eye on the ball, son...", "Crouch down with your mit on the ground", "Rub a little pine tar on your hands" and other secrets, never recorded, but passed on only through the most noble of grapevines, from father-to-son. Gamboling through the infield chasing down grounders, frolicing for hours, savoring the last moments of summer light before the sun retires behind the western horizon. These are the sweet expectations of every father going into his first year of t-ball. What I actually got?

A nursery child with weapons...

That's right- I feel as if I've been given the calling of watching a wildly vociferous hooligan that is supplied with pain inflicting toys. Although packaged in cute hat and t-shirts, that hangs past his knees, restricing any real athletic movement, Clark has become a strange combination of Denise the Menace, Chuck Norris and "Stevie" the feral child. Not a good combo, I might add! Between pushing other kids off their bases, eating grass and hitting me across the shins with a bat, Clark has turned a quintessential game of baseball into an all consuming hour of parenting horror. Endlessly, I beg for cooperation with pleads ranging from , "Clark, please run. Don't twirl." to, "Okay, take the bat handle out of your mouth." and, "Yes, that is a nice pile of grass and leaves, and if you stand by second base I'll give you a snack...a new bike...a freakin' pony, now go stand by second base!".

Through it all, I've found that Clark is more interested in BEING a baseball player than actually PLAYING baseball. He wants the glove, shirt, cool white- fast as lighting shoes, the corn syrup served following every game, and the accolades from all, far and wide. He's just not into actually throwing, catching and hitting a baseball. But hey, expectations now thoroughly adjusted, if baseball is about Clark having fun, playing and enjoying the outside..it's still the best time either of us could ever have. ;)

"Now, take your underwear off your head and run to first base..or so help me...!"

Spring is a Tergiversator

I've had it with the weather. So, I'm boycotting it. That's right, from this moment I will be boycotting it and everything that goes with it. No more saying "it's okay, we need the moisture", or "the skiers must be happy" or even, "hey, there goes a squirrel...funny time to see a squirrel this time of year". None of it. I'm officially bitter at the weather. A 100% hater of everything windy, rainy, white and cold.

In fact, as part of my boycott, I'm going to pretend that it's summer already. No jacket, sweatshirt, nothing! It's shorts and t-shirts from now on. I may take the top off my jeep, who knows? If I get really crazy, I may send my wife and kids to run through the sprinklers in our backyard. They have no choice in the matter- they are joining the revolution!

Join us! Let's unite and give mother nature the collective bird!

Or, we'll just have pneumonia and be rancorously acrimonious. Either way...