A fun thing about spite snoozebarring is how you're perfectly justified in doing it. To be clear here, there's a regular old smacking of the snooze to make the noise stop. And then there's the completely rage filled crushing of the button as though it was personally and solely responsible for killing Santa Claus and raping the Easter Bunny.
It's not easy to get to this point. Or at least it shouldn't be. If you're doing the rage crush every morning, it may be time to look into anger management or paxil. Every now and again something goes wrong in the night, something beyond your control. You're up and down and after you get about three minutes of crap sleep the alarm goes off, and when it does it hits you. The alarm personally insults you with its audacity to do its job.
I had a room at the Sheraton while in Detroit last week. It was a pretty standard, decent room. The first of my two nights I stayed up late working and watching some adult swim on comedy central. I had a bunch of crazy dreams and, oddly, popped out of bed at 6:30 fresh as a daisy. After a psychotic day of running from meeting to meeting, I had a good Mexican dinner with Margarita's and enchiladas with a coworker and the collapsed into the hotel room for several more hours of work. At around 2:00 I called it a day, bleary-eyed and crashed into the bed. Because it was so late and I was getting up early I had the presence of mind to set both the room alarm clock and my cell phone alarm clock for the relatively early 6:30 AM. Then sleep fell upon me, dark and heavy.
After what felt like only a few minutes, I woke to a very faint beeping sound. Bleary, I looked at the clock. It showed 4:25. I checked to see if the alarm was going off. The beeping was so faint that tracking the source was damn near impossible. I stood holding the alarm clock to my ear, like I'm in a Run DMC video and it's my boom box, trying to hear if sound is coming from one of the sides. After rotating the box over and over about a dozen times, I decide the beeping must be coming from somewhere else. Then, it stops. I look around, not sure at what and then I collapse back into bed.
About 15 minutes later it happens again. The beeping had been happening for a while, but it had become too obvious and too invasive to my consciousness to sleep through. I stood. I looked at the alarm clock, but decided it's alibi already checked out. I start wandering the room trying to figure the source of the noise. At one point I kicked the baseboard of one of the double beds and swore. Walking around, though, failed to reveal the source of the noise. I formed a cobweb-brained theory that there must be a cell phone somewhere, probably one dropped by the maid. When I couldn't find this phantom phone under the beds, I actually started lifting up box-springs and mattresses to search beneath. Just as I was wrapping this mad mission, the beeping stopped.
I collapsed into bed realizing that I'm a jackass. The noise sounded so faint because it was coming through the wall. Some masochistic bastard one room over had set the alarm for four AM. With the mystery over, I was free to go to sleep. I did hear it one more time, but it failed to bother me after I figured out where it was coming from.
Then, after what seemed like about two more minutes of sleep, the alarm clock did let out a piercing buzz. I have no idea if that alarm clock still works or not because I whaled on that thing until it stopped. How could it make that awful racket after the night I had, of which it played no small part. Where was it's mercy?
There's a time and a place for time spite snoozebarring. I can be terribly satistfying. Give it a try.
11.27.2010
Previews
A fun thing about previews is that they can often serve as a warning sign.
You've been there, I'm sure. You put in the DVD and you're settling in to the couch. As you're putting your beer on table next to you and pulling up your ice cream, a preview rolls across the screen. It oozes estrogen, and from the three minute trailer you already know exactly how it's going to end and which guy the girl will end up with just before the credits roll. Maybe it's starring Amy Adams or Julia Roberts. If you're like me a wave of panic rolls down your spin. Oh shit, you think. What the hell movie did I get myself into? What the hell is this that the wife rented? You know that whoever puts the DVDs together tries to match trailers to the movies you're about to see. Now you're in for it.
It's not just the case with saccharine-laden romantic comedies. Sometimes you think you've rented a good action movie, but each of the three trailers pushes a slasher film directed by Rob Zombie. Crap. It's not going to be a period action movie about witch hunts, it's going to be an hour and a half of watching creepy old witches abduct, torture and then vivisect pretty village girls.
While it's only the preview, not the movie, sometimes it's good to take in the warning and make the wise decision to shut it off.
You've been there, I'm sure. You put in the DVD and you're settling in to the couch. As you're putting your beer on table next to you and pulling up your ice cream, a preview rolls across the screen. It oozes estrogen, and from the three minute trailer you already know exactly how it's going to end and which guy the girl will end up with just before the credits roll. Maybe it's starring Amy Adams or Julia Roberts. If you're like me a wave of panic rolls down your spin. Oh shit, you think. What the hell movie did I get myself into? What the hell is this that the wife rented? You know that whoever puts the DVDs together tries to match trailers to the movies you're about to see. Now you're in for it.
It's not just the case with saccharine-laden romantic comedies. Sometimes you think you've rented a good action movie, but each of the three trailers pushes a slasher film directed by Rob Zombie. Crap. It's not going to be a period action movie about witch hunts, it's going to be an hour and a half of watching creepy old witches abduct, torture and then vivisect pretty village girls.
While it's only the preview, not the movie, sometimes it's good to take in the warning and make the wise decision to shut it off.
11.14.2010
Getting Old
A fun thing about getting old is that you think you're right about certain things. No I'm not going into a long-winded thing about how at 34 I know everything and everyone younger than me is an idiot. Much as I'd like to.
No, this piece is about how you get to a certain age and you think you know how to do things. And then you find out that the way you do it is wrong. For me this starting revelation came after a shower. I did my standard shower schtick, finished and went to dry off. I grabbed the towel and successfully dried my hair. That done I moved Southward and found that I had one normal armpit, clean and wet and the other full of unrinsed soap.
It happens once and you shrug it off. You think, well, I must've space out and skipped it. This happened to me twice this week. Perhaps I should've shrugged it off the second time, but instead I start thinking. How often does this happen? Do I always leave my right armpit unrinsed?
Then, because I like to overthink things, I start to wonder, what else have I been doing wrong all these years? My wife criticized the way I drink from a glass. "What are you going to make out with that thing? You open your mouth too wide. No wonder you take in so much air and end up belching." Naturally, I look at her and tell her that I'm a grown man and I'll drink any damn way I want, but it made me wonder.
The last example I'll mention is a bit grosser, but this really happened. I had a run to the bathroom mid-afternoon at work, definitely outside of my normal #2 schedule. Taco Bell may have been responsible for this little stopover. Anyway, after I destroyed the room and went through about half a roll of the industrial grade paper we use, I go to wash my hands. Now, here's the gross part, and before you judge I will underscore the point that I was going to wash my hands. I turn on the tap and pump some soap, with my non-wiping hand, naturally, and I look down to wash. I see a small spot of brown on my white hand. I wash my hands twice and get on with my life. But it makes me think: is there something wrong with my technique. Do I need to rethink the way I have wiped my backside for the past many years?
People try to pinpoint the instant once you've gotten old. Maybe that point is when you say, "I don't care if I get crap on my hands, I've been wiping my ass this long, I'll keep doing it my way.
No, this piece is about how you get to a certain age and you think you know how to do things. And then you find out that the way you do it is wrong. For me this starting revelation came after a shower. I did my standard shower schtick, finished and went to dry off. I grabbed the towel and successfully dried my hair. That done I moved Southward and found that I had one normal armpit, clean and wet and the other full of unrinsed soap.
It happens once and you shrug it off. You think, well, I must've space out and skipped it. This happened to me twice this week. Perhaps I should've shrugged it off the second time, but instead I start thinking. How often does this happen? Do I always leave my right armpit unrinsed?
Then, because I like to overthink things, I start to wonder, what else have I been doing wrong all these years? My wife criticized the way I drink from a glass. "What are you going to make out with that thing? You open your mouth too wide. No wonder you take in so much air and end up belching." Naturally, I look at her and tell her that I'm a grown man and I'll drink any damn way I want, but it made me wonder.
The last example I'll mention is a bit grosser, but this really happened. I had a run to the bathroom mid-afternoon at work, definitely outside of my normal #2 schedule. Taco Bell may have been responsible for this little stopover. Anyway, after I destroyed the room and went through about half a roll of the industrial grade paper we use, I go to wash my hands. Now, here's the gross part, and before you judge I will underscore the point that I was going to wash my hands. I turn on the tap and pump some soap, with my non-wiping hand, naturally, and I look down to wash. I see a small spot of brown on my white hand. I wash my hands twice and get on with my life. But it makes me think: is there something wrong with my technique. Do I need to rethink the way I have wiped my backside for the past many years?
People try to pinpoint the instant once you've gotten old. Maybe that point is when you say, "I don't care if I get crap on my hands, I've been wiping my ass this long, I'll keep doing it my way.
10.22.2010
My Dog
A fun thing about my dog is that you can totally see what's going on in his head. He doesn't point and he's not one of those dogs, like a Jack Russel, that have a different bark for every occasion to help get his point across. But you look at him and it's so obvious what he's thinking.
The other day I let him out to do his business and he walked down the walkway. Another dog was barking a few houses down. My boy stood at the end of the walk and looked to the other house with the barking dog. I could see what was going through his mind, something like "I like to bark too. I should go and see you and we can bark together." He looked around, like he knew he was trying to be sneaky. He started to sidle, insofar as a dog can, off of the walk, an inch at a time. Then I could tell he was thinking, "I'm not supposed to do this, but maybe I can get away with it." But then he had misgivings, like "Maybe I'm not supposed to" and he looked back to the house and saw me at the door. I gave him the scowl and told him, "Don't do it." He snorted and came into the house.
I watch him try to casually insinuate himself between guests and food. I watch as he looks around to see if anyone's looking when one of the especially fluffy, and to his palate tasty, baby toys are left on the floor.
Maybe I've spent too much time with my pal Doolin. Or maybe we speak some kind of cross-species man code. Or maybe he's really wishing that I should get a life and stop staring at him.
The other day I let him out to do his business and he walked down the walkway. Another dog was barking a few houses down. My boy stood at the end of the walk and looked to the other house with the barking dog. I could see what was going through his mind, something like "I like to bark too. I should go and see you and we can bark together." He looked around, like he knew he was trying to be sneaky. He started to sidle, insofar as a dog can, off of the walk, an inch at a time. Then I could tell he was thinking, "I'm not supposed to do this, but maybe I can get away with it." But then he had misgivings, like "Maybe I'm not supposed to" and he looked back to the house and saw me at the door. I gave him the scowl and told him, "Don't do it." He snorted and came into the house.
I watch him try to casually insinuate himself between guests and food. I watch as he looks around to see if anyone's looking when one of the especially fluffy, and to his palate tasty, baby toys are left on the floor.
Maybe I've spent too much time with my pal Doolin. Or maybe we speak some kind of cross-species man code. Or maybe he's really wishing that I should get a life and stop staring at him.
10.20.2010
Laziness
A fun thing about laziness is that there are no rules. There are tons of ways to be lazy, and while many of them are entirely common, there are sometimes surprising new ways.
Before I begin, I'd like to state that I'm not generally considered lazy. I put in ridiculously long hours of grueling tedious work, but sometimes stopping before the job is done can be so satisfying.
I'm not talking about standard lazy like quitting the leaf raking halfway through to have a beer and watch the football game. That's easy. I'm talking lazy the average person would even dream of doing. The other day I was at the gas pump tanking up. I drive a little car, which only takes ten gallons of gas. I filled about four gallons and I had a strong impulse to quit it. It wasn't cold out. Money wasn't the issue. I didn't have anywhere else to be. I just wanted to get in the car and go. I would've save maybe ninety seconds of my life. To me that's advanced lazy. Lazy for the sake of lazy.
I usually take a vitamin in the morning. It's intended to help with the terribly unbalanced diet I eat. Some days I look at the pill bottle and just say, 'No. I don't think so.' Why? I'm not really sure. I'm right there, pill bottle almost in hand. And how much time does it take to swallow a pill? I have water in my other hand. I wouldn't even have to get it. Again, a small thing, but that's what makes it advanced lazy.
So I challenge you out there. Think about the most senseless act of lazy you can. Not skipping flossing. That's basic lazy. Something pointless, like not adding cream to your coffee, even though that's how you like it, because you just don't feel like stirring. Think about it and then do it, or don't. There's freedom in lazy.
Before I begin, I'd like to state that I'm not generally considered lazy. I put in ridiculously long hours of grueling tedious work, but sometimes stopping before the job is done can be so satisfying.
I'm not talking about standard lazy like quitting the leaf raking halfway through to have a beer and watch the football game. That's easy. I'm talking lazy the average person would even dream of doing. The other day I was at the gas pump tanking up. I drive a little car, which only takes ten gallons of gas. I filled about four gallons and I had a strong impulse to quit it. It wasn't cold out. Money wasn't the issue. I didn't have anywhere else to be. I just wanted to get in the car and go. I would've save maybe ninety seconds of my life. To me that's advanced lazy. Lazy for the sake of lazy.
I usually take a vitamin in the morning. It's intended to help with the terribly unbalanced diet I eat. Some days I look at the pill bottle and just say, 'No. I don't think so.' Why? I'm not really sure. I'm right there, pill bottle almost in hand. And how much time does it take to swallow a pill? I have water in my other hand. I wouldn't even have to get it. Again, a small thing, but that's what makes it advanced lazy.
So I challenge you out there. Think about the most senseless act of lazy you can. Not skipping flossing. That's basic lazy. Something pointless, like not adding cream to your coffee, even though that's how you like it, because you just don't feel like stirring. Think about it and then do it, or don't. There's freedom in lazy.
9.11.2010
My Wife
A fun thing about my wife is that almost everything revolves around food. And drink, truth be told. We think about what we want to do on a weekend day like today and all of our plans center around the places of consumption. "We can go to the Sterling Fair, which has lots of food, or we can go to Hyland Orchards to pick apples and have some of their beer, or we can stay home and grill something." This is a real excerpt. Pretty much. Or at least how I remember it.
Will we have heart attacks in 5 years? Maybe. Do we both weigh more than we should? Indeed. But we are happy.
The other day we had a 'butter red alert,' because we were down to just one stick in the house. So I had to run to the supermarket and get some more.
But while it may seem that all we do is sit around and eat sticks of butter and drink beer, and while that kind of existence might be a good one until the MI strikes, it's not so. She likes to make foods that make me happy.
She can make brownies from what I call 'trace elements.' In fifteen minutes she can have a pan of brownies in the oven from only sugar, butter (can't make emergency brownies without butter, hence the butter red alerts), flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, and maybe something else I don't see because she's too fast. Trace elements, though, no Betty Crocker boxes here. The brownies are fabulous, by the way.
While we need to dial this back or become hosts to tapeworms to keep from needing belly-bands, it's tough not to appreciate her good (taste-wise, if not health-wise) intentions, and her skill.
When I was on the fence about proprosing to my now wife, a crazy guy once told me something. He said, "Guys only want two things, to be fed and f'd. I'm assuming everything's OK in the bedroom and I she the things she cooks for you, so what's the problem?" Not eloquent, but honestly, his comments were probably what pushed me over the line and got me to go buy a ring.
America's full of people who are inactive and consumed by shoveling food into their faces. We don't want to be statistics. We want to be healthy and active to keep up with you baby girl as she grows up, and we want to keep her from joining the ranks of the obese. While we're working on it, I'll just make sure we have at least two sticks of butter and cocoa powder in the house.
The other day we had a 'butter red alert,' because we were down to just one stick in the house. So I had to run to the supermarket and get some more.
But while it may seem that all we do is sit around and eat sticks of butter and drink beer, and while that kind of existence might be a good one until the MI strikes, it's not so. She likes to make foods that make me happy.
She can make brownies from what I call 'trace elements.' In fifteen minutes she can have a pan of brownies in the oven from only sugar, butter (can't make emergency brownies without butter, hence the butter red alerts), flour, cocoa, baking powder, baking soda, and maybe something else I don't see because she's too fast. Trace elements, though, no Betty Crocker boxes here. The brownies are fabulous, by the way.
While we need to dial this back or become hosts to tapeworms to keep from needing belly-bands, it's tough not to appreciate her good (taste-wise, if not health-wise) intentions, and her skill.
When I was on the fence about proprosing to my now wife, a crazy guy once told me something. He said, "Guys only want two things, to be fed and f'd. I'm assuming everything's OK in the bedroom and I she the things she cooks for you, so what's the problem?" Not eloquent, but honestly, his comments were probably what pushed me over the line and got me to go buy a ring.
America's full of people who are inactive and consumed by shoveling food into their faces. We don't want to be statistics. We want to be healthy and active to keep up with you baby girl as she grows up, and we want to keep her from joining the ranks of the obese. While we're working on it, I'll just make sure we have at least two sticks of butter and cocoa powder in the house.
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