The Brave Little Toaster

My family has had a long, illustrious, and somewhat infamous history with toasters. Yes, toasters. Not toaster ovens, for those are far too complicated for us to handle with any kind of competency and, though we may not know much, we at least know our place. Besides, if we can't handle "adjust the setting, push the button," I doubt we're ready for such an upgrade.

But our other problem is that, for some reason, we have historically never purchased toasters new. Rather, we have inherited them "gently" used from other locales. Our current toaster, for instance, was once my grandmother's, and after she passed away four years ago, we took it to replace the one we had, which was (unsurprisingly) on the fritz. For four years, it has served us admirably well.

It does, however, have one interesting quirk: if you adjust the setting mid-toast, it does not take kindly, and will erratically elongate or shorten the toasting cycle at its own mechanical discretion. And since I do not like my Eggos to resemble hockey pucks, I am forced to watch my waffles diligently and pop the button whenever I feel they are at the peak of their warm fluffiness.

This morning, however, in an act of appeasement, I let the first two waffles toast to the end of the cycle. Sure, they were a little crisp, but at least I had the prospect of my third waffle to satiate me. As I ate, I placed the third waffle into the slot, depressed the button, and went to enjoy my pucks.

No more than ten seconds later, the button popped my waffle up. Alarmed at how quickly it finished, I went and felt the waffle thoroughly. (I'm sure you're giggling right now. Trust me, I am too.) Sure enough, warm at the edges, but cold in the middle. Back in for more, I declared! Once more, I depressed the button.

I didn't even sit back down again when the button popped once more. Only this time, my insolence had clearly angered the toasting gods.

For my waffle was not sitting in its slot, awaiting my approbation. No, it had been flung completely free of the toaster, and was sitting a foot and a half to the left of the enraged appliance.

So naturally, I just sat back down with the waffle and ate it quietly and contentedly. Was it perfect? No.

But holy shit, I do not want to piss that toaster off again...

Merging FAIL

I have defended New Jersey drivers for quite some time. I'm not about to risk my credibility by saying we're the best drivers in the country, but a) we're a hell of a lot better than Maryland drivers (who suck...A LOT), and b) we drive crappily, but we drive crappily better than any other crappy drivers out there.

Despite this, New Jerseyans do have an issue with one particular driving maneuver, and I've never understood why.

Merging, contrary to popular belief in the Garden State, is not that fucking hard. Really now. It's like a zipper--one at a time, just like they taught us in elementary school--and the farther behind the merge that you begin to "zip up," the less of a bottleneck the merge itself becomes.

Today, while driving east on I-80 coming home from State College, I experienced one of the most abysmal merges of all time. The highway already had a solid white line between the left and middle lane, and most traffic was in the right two lanes. One mile before, a large orange sign indicated that three lines would be reduced to one. Thinking ahead, I switched into the right lane. My job was done.

But since most of the driving public isn't as smart as me, they took the impending merge as an opportunity to spread out further, from two lanes into all three. So now, when the first lane merged over, where it had earlier been empty, it was now a disaster in and of itself. Awesome.

The second part of the merge was even better, though, because with two lanes of impatient motherfuckers trying to get one inch ahead, I should have expected the worst. But I didn't. So when I saw cars shifting quickly into the shoulder just ahead of me, I was alarmed.

Then I noticed why. Someone had rear-ended another person. But it wasn't someone merging in who got hit. It was two people who were in the same lane the whole time. Someone merged in, the car in front stopped, the car behind didn't.

Now, for a little deductive reasoning. If we examine the rules of merging above, we have to conclude that the person who failed was either a) the one who merged in when they shouldn't, or b) the guy who wouldn't let someone else merge in appropriately. So who's the only innocent one? The guy who got rear-ended. There's no justice.

Sure, I got a road-raging laugh out of it, but it's kinda sad too. It's not really that hard, folks. Just remember: it's like a zipper.

I'm Proud of My Lower Abs

I know what you're thinking. He's fucking with us. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell he's got body-image issues. He doesn't really mean this, does he?

I hate to break it to you, but I do mean it. But not because of their amazing definition (which is nonexistent). No, I'm proud of their resilience.

As part of my summer of self-improvement, I've taken to long walks on a (mostly) daily basis, and I've been trying to work some kind of muscle-building exercises in as well so that I can build lean muscle--which will, presumably, also make me less fat.

Two weeks ago, I decided to start with some abdominal work. I had a relatively simple routine that I'd read about a while ago, and I decided to kick it into gear and see how I felt. I started with the upper abs, then the obliques, the middle abs, and the lower abs. On the first set, I got through 50 reps, so I figured 50 across the board would be no sweat.

BIG mistake.

Because after 200 crunches, which were relatively straightforward, I got to the lower abs. Muscles that, I'm almost positive, I've never used before in my life. So color me surprised when the first 10 hurt more than the other 200 combined. But I persisted. No pain, no gain, right?

Well, I sure as hell hope I gained enormously because by the time I was done, I was in a lot of fucking pain. Oh, sweet merciful heavens. I could barely move. I was sore for days.

But after I was able to move again, I got back on the horse. Knocked the reps down from 50 to 30 (baby steps, after all), but I've been at it for well over a week now, and whenever I do those lower ab reps, they don't hurt nearly as badly. I can get off the floor on my own! I'm capable of hopping right back in two days later! Amazing! Boys, I'm really proud of you!

Now, if we could just work on the spare tire, the love handles, and the man boobs, we might be getting somewhere...

An Exchange for the Ages

Me (1:20): and i will say this right now
Me (1:20): i will be in Canada tomorrow night
Me (1:21): and if i can't find Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final in Canada...
Me (1:21): i will lose ALL FAITH IN HUMANITY
Me (1:21): TV DON'T FAIL ME
Karen (1:21): yeah... that just wouldn't be right
Me (1:21): i may go over the Falls in a bucket on Saturday morning if that happens
Me (1:21): just warning you
Karen (1:22): please don't
Karen (1:22): the snakes at the bottom will kill you if the fall doesn't
Karen (1:22): but the fall will
Karen (1:22): so the snakes will just attack your dead body
Me (1:22): but will they skip across the water to reach my bloody carcass?
Me (1:23): thereby creating...wait for it...
Me (1:23): ...snakes on a hydroplane?
Karen (1:23): Jesus H. Christ, you went there.

(What's really sad is that almost anyone who actually reads this blog knows I was working on SOME kind of Snakes on a Plane pun from the moment that second message hit my screen at 1:22. And it didn't take very long, did it?)

My Man-Up Moment of the Day

No one ever likes admitting that they're wrong. It doesn't matter if it's a minor detail or a substantial, life-changing matter, changing one's mind too often is made to feel like a sign of weakness--we often judge ourselves by our stringent adherence to that which we believe.

But today, I had a revelatory moment. One that was so earth-shaking, that so devastatingly impacted me to my core, that I can't ignore that I've been changed forever. And I need to share this with all of you, so that I can get it out in the open and begin to move on.

Here goes...

...I don't hate Kohl's anymore.

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.

I know! I was shocked too! But there's an explanation. See, I've been tagging along on errands the past two weeks for lack of much else better to do, and I find that tagging along usually entails some kind of personal benefit.

In the past, I've been reluctant to go to Kohl's because, as a fat dude, I've found trying clothes on is like Chinese water torture. I submit because clothes are, you know, a pretty important part of daily life--as I noted to my mother during this very trip, "It's socially unacceptable to walk around naked, and it's personally unacceptable to walk around unfashionable"--but it never feels good trying to squeeze into something that slips on effortlessly at home but feels more like a sausage casing in the store. (And the worst of all is shopping for pants. Self-esteem FAIL.)

But I'm a bit more svelte than I've been in recent years (I used that word loosely, mind you), and while comfort has always driven my clothing choices, I do like looking good. And since Gap, Old Navy, Chaps, and other such preppyish brands are the ones I like most, I've discovered that Kohl's is actually a haven for things that look good and, shockingly, look good on me.

It helps, of course, that three of the five things I purchased were orange. (And before you all have coronaries, the other two have black in them, so at least I was consistent.)

But after buying five articles, and being pretty darn excited about them, I had to confess that I don't actually hate the store anymore. In fact, there was nothing unpleasant about the experience at all. Son of a bitch, I'm changing! How empowering! How exhilirating!

...well, at least until I try to the clothes on. Fingers crossed--I may still hate this place yet.

------------------------

P.S. Happy birthday, Dad!

Shameless Promotion

You may or may not know who the artist responsible for this song is, but that's not really important. There's a story behind the song, which I imagine is pretty darn important, but I don't know it so I can't retell it.

He has a very well-thought-out blog, which you can read here, and it features a whole bunch of links to his other work. He's a rather talented writer, a brilliant thinker, and a not-half-bad photographer.

But if you poke around there at all, you'll figure out one thing really quickly: Adam is one hell of a musician.

And it is with that in mind that I use my little corner of the Internet to second the plea he has Tweeted and Instant Messaged today: "If you have nothing to do for seven and a half minutes, you should go listen to my new recording... Pretty please?"

Click here to listen. It's really quite beautiful, and it might just be the best seven and a half minutes of your day.

Enjoy!

Survivor: Unemployment

I've been home for a week now, and I'm pretty much already sick of having nothing to do.

It seems like I should be living the dream, right? Living at home with very few responsibilities, staying with parents who understand how shitty the economy is and how badly it's crippling my job search, and having lots of free time to work on reading, TV watching, and creative projects. How is that not the life, you may ask?

The answer is that, as I've learned the hard way, when you're used to have some sort of structure for a very long time, it's hard to get accustomed to not having any. No one's making me read or watch or write, so I do it on my own time--which means that, if I'm not feeling it, I'm not doing it. And if I'm not doing that, I'm not doing much else. Thus, boredom sets in right quick.

On the upside, with Mom and I both home without jobs, we have some opportunities to do some fun stuff. (This weekend, we're going to Toronto to see a Blue Jays game--#14 on my list of stadiums attended!) But there's only so far I'll be able to go before I start feeling the monetary pinch, and I wonder what'll happen when I have to hedge my desire to start a fulfilling career with my desperation to make some cash and eventually move the hell out.

So if anyone has suggestions for how to make the most out a day where you have zero plans and expectations, I would love to hear from you. I'll be here waiting--not like I've got much else to do anyway.

Since We're On the Topic of Terrible Ideas...

...who the hell thinks it's a good idea for me to have a BlackBerry?

Apparently, my parents.

See, when I got my Master's, I didn't really want to make a big deal out of it. Sure, it's a great accomplishment, but I didn't want anyone to think I was just having another celebration because I wanted some gifts or recognition out of it. That just ain't me. But my parents wanted to do something nice for me, and far be it from I to stop them.

Originally, the plan involved making sure the repairs to my car were completely covered without me having to put out any money out of pocket. But since my body guy rules and Progressive is a fine, upstanding, easy-to-deal-with company, that isn't likely to be an issue either.

Then the cell phone bill came into town. Fortunately, I was in Princeton at Reunions when it arrived--otherwise, my dad would have called and ripped me a new asshole for running a $113+ text messaging bill. Ouch. So as soon as I got home, heard the news, and got the odor of smelling salts out of my nose, I decided the best course of action was to head to the AT&T Store post haste and upgrade my plan to unlimited texting. Because let's face it: $120 a year beats $120 a month any day of the year.

Upon arrival, Dad immediately started ogling the BlackBerries. I had to laugh a little because, if you know my dad, you know he adores technology, but I just couldn't see what he would actually need a BlackBerry for. (Except, of course, because it's cool.) But we looked, we compared, we discussed--man shopping. And just as we were about to go up to the counter to change the plan, he asked me The Question:

"So...do you want one?"

Far be it from I to stop him.

So tonight we went back and got it. And it's the coolest fucking thing EVER. I can't wait for my first experience blogging from my cellular telephone. Or the first time I Tweet from my cellular telephone. Or any more of the amazing things I can now do with my cellular telephone with an unlimited text, picture message, video message, and data plan.

WIN.

I Have Seen the Face of Death

Actually, I've seen it twice. In the span of five minutes.

First, I read my friend Liz's blog, in which she recently posted the final picture ever taken by a very famous Japanese nature photographer. Before he was mauled to death. By a bear. This picture is exactly what you think it is, but it still doesn't make it any more horrifying.

Darrell and I looked at this before heading to Emily's place for a Memorial Day barbecue, the centerpiece of which was Karen's grill, lovingly delivered from Toftrees for Emily's future enjoyment. Today was the christening, which entailed re-hooking everything up and making sure it all was working right so that we could grill all the deliciousness we've planned to.

And who was in charge of lighting this grill? Of course, it was me, Mr. I Guess The Handyman Genes Never Quite Made It To Me From Dad's Seed.

After a few failures, I did what my father would never do: called for help. So I got Karen on the phone, solicited her advice, and hung up. I did what she said, clicked the ignition button a few times, failed, tried a few more times, and was about a second away from giving up when--

HOLY FUCK!

--which is Manspeak for, "I'm staring down the maw of a giant fireball that came inches away from singeing off all of my facial hair!"

But hey, at least the grill's lit now.

Once my breathing was restored to normalcy--and after I called Karen back to assure her that all went well and I had not, despite my best efforts, burned my face off--I decided that two near-death experiences (even if one was only vicarious) was still too many for one day. So I grabbed another beer, took a long swig, and told Emily, "Hey, there's a picture on the Internet I need to show you..."

Then, as I'm attempting to show Emily the aforementioned picture, she replies, "Make it quick. I need you to cut the melons with a really, really big knife."

Who the hell thinks this is a good idea?

Farewell, Dear Friend

Even though graduation has happened and the diploma is mine, for real and for true, I find myself sitting in my office. Not because of any nostalgic longing to hold on to my academic responsibilities--oh, fuck no. I'm here because it's the only place around that seems to have consistent Internet access.

Ironically, I'm here to avoid the very thing about which I am posting. Once Emily and Darrell decided to bail on hanging out this evening, I needed to go someplace where I didn't feel I'd slip into the trap of sitting on my couch watching TV. It's not that I don't love TV--I've professed often that my cable bill pays for itself by virtue of ESPN HD--but I feel like being slightly more out and about, more in touch with things.

But tomorrow, the journey ends. Tomorrow, I have to pack up my glorious cable box, the spiderwebs of component cables, and the universal remote that has been oh so good to me. In order that I don't get billed for another month's worth of service, it must be dispensed with before the end of the business day.

In less than 24 hours, my beautiful TV will be relegated once more to the indignity that is--[gulp]--basic cable. And so, I offer this humble elegy for my LCD love.

It's been a great ride, my friend. I can't wait to see where the future takes us. I know it will be hard at first, but I promise you this: my Wii will still have component cables plugged in. My DVD player will still upconvert. It will still make use of the highest quality HDMI audio and video. I will not let you simply waste away. We will get through this, I promise. Just stay strong.

...aww hell, I promised myself I wouldn't cry...excuse me...