No Stupid Small-Talking Week

I saw a story online and was inspired to adapt the text to something that I feel strongly about. The omissions from the original text have been striked out and my additions are in bold.

LOS ANGELES ANYWHERE NEAR TYLER—Pay no attention to that eerie silence in near the nation's most populous county  unpopular person this week; it will simply be the sound of 10 million people not cussing participating in useless small talking.

At least that's the result McKay Hatch Tyler is hoping for once his campaign to clear the air is recognized by the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors all four people reading this.

On Tuesday, the board Tyler is scheduled to issue a proclamation by Supervisor Michael Antonovich himself making the first week in March No Cussing Week No Stupid Small Talking Week.

That would mean no blue language from the Mojave desert, where it gets hot as $&# in the summer, to the Pacific Ocean, where on a winter's day it can get colder and nastier than %$#! useless small talk between people that don't know what else to say so instead they waste oxygen with useless exchanges like this:

Small Talker #1: How are you?
Small Talker #2: Good. Thanks. How are you?
Small Talker #1: Good. Thanks.
(What is the point of this unless there is more discussion that follows?)

Small Talker #1: How are you?
Small Talker #2: It's Monday. (insert faked laughter)
Small Talker #1: Yeah. (insert more fake laughter)
(Change Monday to Friday, add more enthusiasm, and you have more wasted oxygen but at the other end of the week).

Small Talker #1: Still snowing out there?
Small Talker #2: Nope.
(Change Nope to Yep and add useless chatter about how you can't wait for Spring to come).

Small Talker #1: How are you?
Small Talker #2 (with fake look of seriousness on face): Busy. Really Busy.
Small Talker #1: But busy is good, right?
Small Talker #2: Yes, your right, your right. Busy is good.
(You are both busy talking about nothing).

Small Talker #1: Nice to meet you. How are you?
Small Talker #2 Good, but surprised that you are shaking my hand when I have this horrible skin condition.

Not that 15-year-old Hatch 36-year old Tyler expects complete compliance. When his No Cussing Club No Stupid Small Talking meets at South Pasadena High School in a cluttered storage closet at a local Denny's "Restaurant" on Wednesdays it's not unusual for a nonmember to throw open the door and fire off a torrent of four-letter words. He's also been the target of organized harassment by pro-cussers pro-small-talkers.

And Antonovich's county Tyler's motion carries no penalties.

"But it's a good reminder for all of us, not just young people but everybody, to be respectful to one another and watch the words we use," said the supervisor's spokesman, Tony Bell Mr. Paid to Not Stupid Small Talking.

The county isn't the first entity to try to put the lid on swearing . Hatch's hometown of South Pasadena Denny's declared itself a cuss-free stupid small talk-free zone for a week last March, and two years ago a high school in Canada threatened to suspend repeat cussers stupid small talkers.

Hatch Tyler has lofty goals.

"Next year I want to try to get California to have a cuss-free stupid small talk-free week. And then, who knows, maybe worldwide," said the 10th grader middle aged dude, who believes if people treat each other with more civility they can better work together to solve bigger problems.

He said his campaign began to form about the time he hit seventh grade when he noticed his friends beginning to swear wasting their childhoods participating in stupid small talking, something his family didn't allow.

He formed the No Cussing No Stupid Small Talking Club and invited others to join. Soon the group had a Web site, bright orange T-shirts, a hip hop theme song and inquiries from all over from people interested in joining. He estimates 20,000 people have formed similar clubs.

"It's not about forcing anyone to stop, just to bring awareness," he says of the movement. "If you can do a week without cussing stupid small talking, maybe you can do two weeks. And then maybe a month."

Why Not Invent Nintendo Wii for Cats?

At brunch with friends this morning, the conversation turned to pets.  I have written about my old cat Hoolie once before and I again found myself with fond and humorous memories of her.

Hoolie was part Maine Coon.  To be honest, I can't remember if this was an estimation once made by a veterinarian or if it was fiction that I created to explain her large size.  The reality is that Hoolie was big-boned and extremely hairy, but she also had an enormous gut. Years later, it was determined by my wife that she was an emotional eater; eating when she was happy, sad, or mad, all of which were emotions relating to me and our relationship.  Had this been explained to me years earlier, my social life would have taken a nose dive if I had told anyone this.  But instead, my prospects for great social prosperity suffered for reasons explained below.

When I moved to Boston, I made an appointment at a nearby veterinarian's office to have Hoolie checked out for the first time in a few years.  After discussing some of her dental issues (the cat's not the vet's) and some circular arguments about whether or not cats should have canine teeth, the vet suddenly got very serious.  He showed me a diagram showing the spectrum of feline weight categories and with an accusatory finger pointed the leading edge of the red zone of cat fatness.  My cat was overweight and it was dangerous for her health.  

I wasn't upset about this, for I knew that she had a weight problem and that her health was at risk.  After a long-winded explanation of the potential health outcomes for my cat, the doctor gave us a prescription that I didn't expect: 20 minutes of daily exercise.

I suddenly had a vision of me walking my cat down the streets of Boston with a hot pink leash and cubic-zirconium studded-collar.  She would need good walking shoes and some spandex, too.

I don't remember the exact words, but the conversation that followed went something like this:

While imagining my self-respect and social life bursting into flames, I asked "How exactly do I exercise my cat for 20 minutes a day?"

"With an interactive toy," replied the well-trained doctor.

"An interactive toy?" I asked now curious about what irresistible device will have my cat sweating with heart racing while I'm at work.

"Yes, a toy that will require involvement from both of you."

"Huh? Like what?" I mumbled now imagining the smell of smoking ashes that were once my social life and potential to ever date again.

"Oh. Like a feather toy.  You know, the kind that you wave around and tease your cat with."

"Yes, I do know about the feather toys but I have yet to catch the prerequisite bird.  Besides, I can barely find 20 minutes of exercise for myself.  How will I find time to exercise my cat?"

Without a clear answer to my last question, I stopped at the pet store on the way home and invested in a feather toy for my cat and I.  It was days later, while waving the feather around and watching Hoolie swing and miss in the same manner I usually do with a tetherball, that I realized that I was saving my cat's life in spite of my own.  That's love.

After moving out of the area for a couple years before moving back, we took Hoolie to the same vet for another checkup.  Only this time, we brought our newborn baby with us.  With the family in the waiting room, I experienced deja vu in the examining room with Hoolie and the vet.  While listening to the lecture from the vet about weight, I couldn't help but think that it was getting late and almost time for my son's nap.  

The vet didn't dare propose exercise again, but instead prescribed a restricted and low-fat diet. Knowing that my cat would cry through the night, I told him that it would be an impossible transition.  At this point, my son was screaming his head off in the waiting room, most likely because he was tired and hungry.  I told the doctor that I had to go, but he insisted that I commit to reducing my cat's intake by what I later calculated to be about 50%.  

I now had a vision of my son finally sleeping through the night while I was still sleep-deprived because my cat was hungry.  It's not that the love was gone, but Hoolie was enjoying her life and the disappearing food proposal was going to ruin the entire household's path towards peaceful nights.

I couldn't make the commitment requested by the doctor and we left to take my fat cat and sleepy baby home.

In the end, Hoolie did pass away from congestive heart failure.  I still believe that changing her diet would have done very little to impact her overall weight so late in life.  Instead, I prefer to remember days past when I would tease her with a feather toy and she would run and jump while barely leaving the ground.  

So, now I can't help but wonder how wonderful it would be if someone would buy an interactive toy and wave it in front of me.  I'm not nearly as overweight as my cat and I'm part Maine Coon by the way, but I still think that I could use a little incentive like this to get in shape.  I don't know...it could be something I really wanted like an Iphone.  It would only take 20 minutes a day and it would improve my overall health.  However I should warn you that I would eventually find the IPhone when nobody was looking and surf the Internet like crazy until I was found with it while curled up next to a radiator and purring happily.

The IPhone version of the feather toy will be the best option, because I will draw the line if anyone tries to restrict my diet by 50% and limit it to low-fat foods.  I would probably cry all night.  

I'm Being Stalked By A Robot

One day last week, I was in Boston for a job fair where I was representing my employer and hoping to find good candidates for our team.  I don't go to the city very often, but when I do I'm reminded of days past when the city was the epicenter of my social life and the backdrop for many late night and early morning alcohol-inspired outings.

While looking for a parking space, I was stopped at a traffic light I know very well.  On that particular corner stands a watering hole at which I spent many Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights for a few years in my early to mid 20s.  There were several of us in my core circle of friends who knew, without speaking, that we would end up there on those nights for as long as we were alive and not still recovering from the previous night.

I should mention here that there was a time during this era in which I started to get tired of the same old routine.  I wasn't the type to just start chatting away with strangers, so my conversations were limited to the friends I went there with.  Although I enjoyed these relationships, by Sunday night we had exhausted every possible topic.  The "So.... what have you been up to since I last saw you at 2am this morning?" discussion lasted about 10 minutes.   This was often the extent of our discussions anyways, because the music was too loud to truly hear what others were saying.  I had my own version of Cheers, except that nobody knew my name because they couldn't hear me.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that I was known by some as Tile, Tire, and Filer.

Feeling more and more disconnected from my own friends, I once proposed a "night in". 

"C'mon guys... let's watch a movie, take it easy and catch up over a pizza?"  

By the reaction I got, you would have thought I was proposing we all move to a dark cave in the Andes and eat fire roasted mutton while we play Pictionary with wild boar dung.  I eventually gave up on my efforts to redirect my friends towards less expensive and more audible discussions.  

Therefore while sitting at the traffic light in front of this once favorite bar of mine, I couldn't help but reflect on how much my social life has changed since then.  I smiled as I looked over my shoulder at the two car seats and Elmo books between them.  Here I was, driving to a job fair where I was now the hiring manager going to interview many young college grads who were probably getting ready to go (or had just come from) a local pub to yell over the music at each other.  I have bought a couple houses and been a landlord as opposed to being a renter with insurmountable debt.  

I also started to think about another major change; one that prompted me to write this anecdote.  

In the mid-90s, I did not have a cell phone or text messaging.  If someone wanted to reach me, they would email me (if they could even do that) or call my answering machine at home.  My social life and dating would have greatly benefited from a cell phone and (better yet) text messaging.  I even wonder if my wife and I would have texted each other after we first met, rather than let six years pass before we met again in person to plan our first date.  It would have been wonderful to have a "nice 2 meet u" text while driving home, especially given that she was on a date with someone else when we first met. Now that technology has advanced, we rely on it heavily to communicate to each other throughout the day.  

My Friday nights look very different than years ago.  I no longer eat mac and cheese on a beat up couch, nap for a couple hours in the early evening, go to a bar until 2am, and go to bed at 3am.  Instead, I get home from work in time to give my kids mac and cheese, put them to bed, do some laundry/dishes/ice cream eating/blogging/work/television watching, and go to bed earlier than a younger version of me would have awakened from a pre-drinking nap.

But thanks again to technology, I now get unexpected late night text messages.  Are these from my wife upstairs with a sweet message such as "Don't forget to lock the doors before you come up"?  Are they from my friends asking "Are you coming over to watch a movie? We're going to catch up over a pizza"?  

No. Instead, I get text messages from robots at work.  That's correct. Robots at work. When the robots we use nearly 24/7 to process biological samples encounter any problems, they send an email which is converted into a text message to my phone.  (A couple of the robots actually have their own Facebook pages, but that's a story for another day).  

I can't help but wonder if the robots are lonely and text me and my colleagues because of their desire for attention.  Whenever my phone beeps with a text message from the robots, my brain translates this to "Hey. HEY! What are you doing? It's me. One of the robots. I NEED you to come and see me.  Please. I need you now to come NOW."  I'm often tempted to text back: "No. I can't right now. I'm busy. Stop texting me. I'll come see you later..." 

Therefore, I can't help but think that this is the most dysfunctional variation of a man-robot relationship ever.  

On some level, I need the robots too.  They text me on Friday nights.  And they never ask me to go to loud bars where we'll never be able to truly catch up on the day's events.  Besides, from me it would be about the daily grind and from the robot it would be a recount of some very repetitious behavior.  On the other hand, I'm worried about the day when they drink too much WD-40 and text me with photos of themselves with their exterior hardware removed.  

Partially Retracted

Please see my updated post from yesterday.  I made an addendum.

I Exchanged Two Blog Posts for Store Credit

By the way, I had to delete two of my recent posts related to popular quizzes and advertisements on a popular social networking site (FB) because of the large volume of random people landing on my blog while Googling said quizzes and advertisements.  I don't mind new readers (I love them!), but only when they're Google search key words are "awesome funny humor blog."

I've Been Writing So Much My Deltoids Hurt

Dear Readers,

As much as I enjoy posting every day, I need to relieve some of the pressure that I'm putting on myself.  I also think that I have drifted too far from my desire to use this as an outlet for creative writing.  I still want to share the humor that I find in everyday life, but I also want to improve the quality (versus quantity) of my writing.

I may occasionally post short posts intended to evoke at least a smile, but I intend to concentrate more on my writing style and delivery.  You might not know this about me, but I aspire to submit some more polished pieces for publication someday.  The publication might be obscure, but it is still a goal of mine.  I also aspire to improve my writing skills enough to perhaps write a book, if even self-published.  

I also need to use some of my evenings to catch up on many other things, including sleep.  In trying to write every night, I've been ignoring this last detail.

Therefore, I will still be writing a lot....just not everyday.  My biggest fear while considering this is that my readers will stop visiting.  Comments will taper off and non-commenting lurkers will lurk elsewhere.  So with this proposed change in my routine comes a request to stay tuned and continue to read and give feedback on the content and the writing itself.  I'm really enjoying it.

Now go back to whatever you were doing.  If you weren't doing anything, please read some of my old posts.  You'll smile at the least. I promise. 

(2/28/09 UPDATE : It's been almost 24 hours since I wrote this and I was feeling conflicted all day!  I may not be quite ready to taper off so quickly.  Therefore, I hereby state my good intentions to continue writing every day possible.  This is still a helpful distinction for me, because it takes the pressure off a lot.  Thanks again for reading...)

Thanks,

TJ

Where No Coins Have Gone Before

If you are looking for some quick cash, here's a tip.  There's a trade-in Subaru Outback at a nearby dealership with an estimated $40-$50 in coins in the car.  The car is currently destined for an auction, where it will most likely be bought by a third world country to move drugs, weapons, and Bin Laden through the mountains (nobody will ever suspect an Outback with Boston tags).  Therefore, it's probably unlocked.

The coins will be between the seats, under the floor mats, in the trunk, in the side pockets, in the slot where the cup holder once was, in the glove box, and in the ashtray.  There's a lot of other objects remaining, but none with much value.  Old stickers, crackers, straws, rotting grapes, muffin bits, clipped nails, beach sand, rock salt, and used bandaids are also available.

I would have recovered these coins, but while removing all of my valuable junk from the vehicle (Tadh's last wish) I noticed that they were covered with dried coffee, cheerio bits, and other biohazardous materials.  Therefore, the cash is all yours.  But, you'll have to be quick.  I got such a good deal on my new car that the sales guy might have had to hunt down his commission. And dinner.

Bad Hair Day

As many of my readers know from a previous post or from personal interaction, I am follicly challenged.  For this reason, it is ridiculous that I actually had to go back to the barber yesterday and complain about a bad haircut.

I don't have much hair and I like to keep what I have very short.  This gives me the distinguished look that a comb-over wouldn't.  I keep it buzzed short almost always.  After a few weeks, it gets unwieldy and practically extends beyond my hairline. The horror.  So, 'long' for me is actually about 1/4 to 1/3 inch.  

Cutting my hair is normally very easy.  Every four weeks, I ask the barber or hairdresser (ridiculous to think I could ever be in the same room as one) to use the buzzers with a one and a half setting.  This is a global setting on buzzers everywhere, which makes it easy for me to get a no hassles haircut.  Although, just to know what it feels like, I have been tempted to take in a picture cut from a magazine to show them exactly how I want it.

There are a few other things.  One barber explained to me that buzzing the neck was half the haircut for guys like me.  Thanks.  I also keep short sideburns as opposed to straight across and over the ear.  

Finally, and most importantly, I ask every barber to go over my hair a few times in a few different directions.  Why?  

Because my hair is curly.

(Okay. I'll wait while you stop laughing......ok, ready to move on?)

Yes, my hair is naturally curly and pictures of me as a child would show you that I had curly golden locks of hair.  Even through high school, my hair had a wave.  You know, as in a wave goodbye to most of the hair up there.

Therefore, even now there are always a few stranded soldiers that aren't reached by the buzzers were the barber to run over it once.  Those suckers just lay down into all's clear at which point they stand straight up and taunt passers-by.

So yesterday, I went and asked for my typical haircut.  Not expecting that it would be anything but the usual results, I went home.  My wife immediately pointed out that I didn't just have a few stranded soldiers, but rather that there was an entire army standing at attention on the top of my head.  Not only that, but the barber had in one place dug a trench for the platoon.  In other words, there was a whoops spot where she shaved me straight to the scalp.  

I drove straight back to the barber shop.  As a nearly-bald guy, I felt a bit silly asking for them to fix it.  In so many words I essentially said, "Hi. I realize that I'm bald, but you need to fix my hair."  I explained what was wrong and the buzzers were out again.  She mowed down most of the long ones and even got out the scissors (hadn't seen those in ages!) and ambushed some of the undercover agents.

As I drove home, I realized that the redo made a huge difference.  I'm also pretty sure that nobody, besides my wife and I, would even notice.  But I decided that I didn't care.  If I'm going to be nearly-bald, I want to look good doing it.

Baby Monkey Doll Is My Really Crazy Obsession

Hi,

Welcome to my blog.  You have landed here because you typed one of the following statements into Google:

a) "baby monkey doll is my really crazy obsession"

b) "my life is not worth living. i can only go on if they were to start making baby monkey dolls"

c) "i'm a mentally ill woman with octuplets and six other children looking to expand family with lifelike primate dolls"

In reality, this is what you are looking for:

In case you can't read the fine print, it says: 

"This baby orangutan is not a toy; she is a fine collectible to be enjoyed by adult collectors."

Therefore, I am posting this with the hopes that you will answer a few questions that I truly want to know the answers to.

1.  Did you read the above statement and not realize that it says she instead of it?  Why not?
2.  Did you read the above statement and feel all warm and gooey inside when you saw the word enjoyed? Why and have you talked to any professionals about this?
3.  Why is this a collectible and not a toy?  Let's do the official meltdown test by telling my kids the same thing and see what happens. k?
4.  Do you really think that your family will preserve your "collectibles" when you are gone? Before you answer, let's recap: It's a monkey doll.  
5.  Honestly, did you really spend time trying to find one of these things online?  If your answer is yes, call your internet service provider and ask for your money back.  If your answer is no, how in the world did you end up here anyway?
6.  What is this really a replacement for?  Missing someone, are we?
7.  Have you hugged a baby monkey doll lately? Of course you haven't. That's why you're here.

I look forward to your answers.  Thanks for visiting.

Waking Up In A Womb

Every morning, I wake up in a womb.  Or at least it sounds like it.

Like many parents, we experienced the typical long nights associated with babies as prescribed by the parenting handbooks.  However, our son took much longer to sleep more over time as prescribed by the infant handbooks.  He was quite fussy and was eventually diagnosed with silent reflux.  When he was first diagnosed with silent reflux, I thought this referred to the type of reflux the doctor was silent about the first dozen times we talked to him about it.  In the end, the silent refers to the absence vomiting which is typically not silent.

But, by the time he was diagnosed we were all in a pattern that seemed impossible to break. For awhile, we bounced his mattress with our hand while shushing.  The shush went something like this: "Shhhhh-sh-sh-sh-sh-Shhhhhh.  Shhhhh-sh-sh-sh-sh-Shhhhhh...."  This worked great except that the transition from shush to no shush had to be done with great skill perfected over many nights.  

After talking to other sleep-deprived parents and former sleep-deprived parents, we learned that white noise calms babies.  One friend (an Inner Humorist reader) suggested that a hair dryer might work.  In that moment, we got a hair dryer and proved this theory correct.  Unfortunately, we couldn't leave a hairdryer on all night.  So, naturally I went online to find a CD of hair dryer noise.  And I found one.  

When the CD arrived, we couldn't wait for the non-sleeping hours to come.  That evening, we put the CD in and it worked like a charm.  That is, it worked like a charm until it faded out.  Even on replay, the fade out and back in was enough to wake my son up.  The silence in those 10 seconds must have been horrible for him given the way he cried.  For a couple weeks, we would run into his room and try to skip the fade out ending so as to reduce the quiet time (if you can imagine that).  Eventually, we learned to let him "cry it out" and he eventually got over it.  The hairdryer CD has since been replaced with a humidifier with a loud fan.

But, the CD only helped for awhile and we needed a new strategy.  Therefore, we incorporated a sound machine (a gift from another Inner Humorist reader) and after seagulls, wind, and clanging buoys, we discovered that the sound of the womb was my son's favorite song.  He's now 3.5 years old and the womb is still an integral part of his nighttime ritual.  We continue to use monitors in their rooms, so the sound of the womb can be heard in our room also.

The sound of the womb puts me to sleep each night and wakes me up each morning.  Although I don't know what it's like to be in a womb, despite my nine months residency in one before I was evicted, I sometimes imagine that I'm waking up in one.  I think that if I could locate that old hairdryer CD, my experience will be complete.  Except that I won't cry all night.

A Twisted Love Triangle. Sans Love.

I thought I was going to get my new car today.  When I called the credit union to see if they had received all the paperwork, the answer was negative.  The representative informed me that she had the Purchase and Sale Agreement and the RMV application, but not the insurance binder.  

I called the insurance company, who informed me that the car dealership told them that they cannot fax to them the P&S until the car has been paid for.  

The insurance company can't produce a binder until they have the P&S.

So, let's recap.  The insurance company cannot give me a loan until they have the insurance binder which the insurance company won't issue until the car dealership faxes them the P&S which can't be done until the car has been purchased with the money from the loan from the bank who has everything except the freaking binder from the damn insurance company who is waiting on the stupid car dealership to fax those forms to anyone that can produce an insurance policy on a car that I want to buy or even a car I don't want to car as long as something called a binder makes it's way to the customer "care" representative at the credit (of which she gets a little for being so patient) union so that she can issue a loan check that I can take to the dealership while flipping off the insurance company as I drive by in my old car that has a binder (and was recently paid off. twice.)  A twisted love triangle is what it is.  Except without the love.

Oh, and here's real time reporting at it's best.  I just learned that the car dealership will fax the paperwork to the insurance company, except that they don't have a required document.  They're missing the certificate of origin, which is like a birth certificate for cars except without the weight and given name (which my wife might want to change).  Now the dealership is waiting for the birth certificate from another dealer before they can fax the deets (short for details) to the insurance company who will fax back a binder to then be faxed to the bank who will give me a big check to buy the car.

Did I mention it has a sunroof?  Freaking birth certificate is keeping us apart.

Have You Been Knawing On My Garbage Can?

Dear Sirs:

You 

a) come to my house looking for garbage.

b) smell like my neighbors' garbage.

c) throw my garbage cans and hence treating them like the garbage they contain.

d) probably drive over the cans and their lids, forward and in reverse.

e) don't smile enough.

Granted, you are a garbage collector but are you rabid?  Because, we have recently noticed that one of our cans is deteriorating by unnatural causes.  In fact, it is clear that you have been knawing on the lid handle and edges.  Does that taste good?  Settles the stomach a little after that sausage and egg bomb you probably ate for breakfast? Cleanses the palette, eh?

Well, then how dare you further disgrace our garbage can with a bright yellow warning sticker indicating that the barrel is not in good condition and thereby violating some trash collection standards.  And do I hereby run the risk of inadvertently offending you by calling that an oxy moron?

Please reconsider your accusations the next time you are can tossing at my house.  I'll also imply that perhaps it's your strategic placement of our cans in the middle of the street that has resulted in some of the damage as unsuspecting commuters drive over them.  But to suggest, as my wife did, that the partially digested green plastic lid pieces in my driveway are probably from a squirrel is absurd.  So the next time you come to our house (and you are so predictable, by the way), please just take my trash and leave peacefully.  I'm watching you.

Regards,

Tyler James

Kraft Macaroni Popsicles

Often, when feeling pressed for time, I put the kids' macaroni and cheese in the freezer to accelerate it's transition from scolding hot to toddler-safe warm.  However, sometimes the kids and I both forget that it's in there until many hours later.

I'm Sorry, But My Car Ate My Key

As you might know already from a previous post, I'm purchasing a new car.  One of the things that prompted this decision was the rapid deterioration of my Subaru.  It's fixable, but we decided to put the money into a new car instead of sinking it into the old one.  

I mentioned the deterioration, which can be binned into three categories listed below in order of severity (highest to lowest).

1) Broken cupholder.  First of all, Subaru once had the brilliant idea to put the cupholder precariously positioned in front of the temperature control buttons and air ducts and over the radio.  Surprisingly, the radio has survived however the climate control has taken a java beating.  The buttons stick and I once had cold air conditioning blowing on my feet during my whole ride into work one December morning.  As if this wasn't bad enough, the whole cupholder unit would come out of the dashboard if it wasn't handled carefully.  Eventually, I took the whole thing out and found more creative ways to prop up my morning coffee.  I did learn quickly that one's winter hat is a great thing to use in a makeshift coffee holder device. Until there's spillage.

2) Something about oil leaking from unreachable parts of the bottom of the car.

3) A noise from the front left axle that has evolved over the last few months.  It started quietly and innocently, like a brush on canvas.  It has since become a sound that my wife describes as "an airplane landing on top of the car."  This noise is pretty bad and I'm convinced that it's dangerous.  I haven't seen flames yet, but I occasionally smell burning metal.

It is this last issue that has me most concerned about using the car as a trade-in for my new one.  How can I get the most value for the car, yet leave the dealership before they drive the car?  Even prior to that, how do I get the car onto the lot without a salesperson hearing me land.  Do I confess or play dumb?  Regardless, it's been on my mind a lot lately.  Which is why I couldn't help but laugh this morning.

Today, I got a call that my car will arrive tomorrow.  Just as I finished listening to my voicemail from the dealership, I pulled into the parking garage at work.  Because my life can never be easy, the key got stuck in the ignition.  I couldn't get it out, no matter how hard I tried.

Just my luck.  I envisioned driving the car to the car dealership with the key stuck in the ignition.  How in the world would I make my quick getaway without mentioning the fact that the key is stuck in the car?

This evening when I got in my car, the key came loose.  It's still not clear what the issue was this morning.  I think it was a cruel trick by the used car gods.

The car only has to make it one more day.  I hope I can get out of the driveway tomorrow morning.

I've Never Seen the Children's Movie, Candyland

I've never seen the children's movie, Candyland. But, 'Gramma Nut' has to be one of the funniest character names ever.  Is this a reference to her current dementia or is it foreshadowing?  Does she walk with a candy cane and have a (peanut) brittle hip?  I don't know. I'm asking because I've never seen the flick.  And don't even get me started on 'Princess Lolly'...

Seafood Dinner for Your Sole Mate

Again, I am disappointed that I did not have a camera with me when humor presented itself to me.  Our digital camera is relatively bulky, so I must buy a smaller camera or just take the two minutes it will require to purchase online the appropriate USB cable to download pictures from my phone.  In the meantime, I will rely on words alone.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store while the kids were napping in the early afternoon.  The front of the store was abuzz with happy love-struck shoppers buying flowers and candy at a display setup by the store designed and strategically placed so as to lure customers and their wallets straight into the vortex of Valentine's Day.

Adjacent to this pit stop of love, was a sign advertising meal ideas for the perfect Valentine's dinner.  When I upload the picture, you will see how well it was written and organized.  For now, I will share with you the exact text in no particular order.

Visit our Meat + Seafood

for great buys for the perfect

VALENTINE dinner

Surf + Turf

Porterhouse + T-bone steak

$4.99/ lb

Jumbo EZ Peel Shrimp

$6.99 / lb

Crab Classics

Imitation Crabmeat

But 1, Get 1

FREE!

Van de Kamp's

Frozen Seafood

Buy 1, Get 1

Free!

Would anyone else have found this funny, or does my mind truly work in unique ways?  I literally stopped in my tracks and started laughing to myself when I realized the humor in this sign.  Dear reader, does this happen to you as often as it happens to me?  It's ok if the answer is 'no', because I am here to hopefully evoke a smile or laugh in the otherwise mundane things in everyday life.  If your answer is 'yes', perhaps we could start a support group. 

Ok, I'll admit that the sign as it's written is not funny at all. 

However, I couldn't help but read this and imagine the unwritten message in this advertisement.  If I were to rewrite this poster, it would involve a lot of rewording to instead make the following statements which are otherwise read between the lines (at least by this inner humorist). I couldn't help but add one item to the menu as well.

Planning the perfect

VALENTINE'S dinner?

Here are a few dinner ideas

designed to send the right message

to your dinner date.

Find these items on sale

in the meat and seafood departments.

Is your relationship WELL DONE?

Then put a fork in it.

Porterhouse  + T-bone Steak

Is your lady NOT WORTH the real stuff?

Or do you think she's been faking it?

Crab Classics

Imitation Crabmeat

Want your girl to know she's COLD?

Van de Kamp's

Frozen Seafood

Want to get LUCKY tonight?

Try something suggestive.

Jumbo EZ Peel Shrimp

Found your perfect MATE?

New England Sole.

Your Love is Better Than A Paper Basketball

Clearly, it's a Valentine's Day Card.

No? Not obvious? Let me try again. 

What's wrong? Is this what you wanted?

I am very grateful that my wife took the time to buy Valentine's Day cards for our son's (3.5 years) preschool class.  Who knows what I would have come back with.  

When she returned with these, I was pretty excited and knew we had to try one out.  Two engineering degrees and fifteen minutes later, I was still trying to assemble the basket when my wife announced that she had finished making the "ball".  

Go ahead, look at the pictures again. Do not let the picture of the visual instructions fool you. It's a trap and you should know that a one-sided piece of paper only has two dimensions. Scaring up that third dimension was not easy.  

Soon after the ball was completed, the "net" was ready. L trapped the ball against the counter with her pointer finger and flicked it in a way that was reminiscent of shooting triangular paper wads through our friends' finger-made field goals as a kid.  We watched as the ball (which looked like something out of Mad Max's Thunderdome were Max a mad crafter instead) scooted across the kitchen island. (Insert nervous laughter here).

I convinced my wife that despite what amazing Valentine's cards they were, it would be too difficult for a preschooler and the teacher to try and assemble these things in class.  She got new ones with tattoos which were a big hit and didn't require a user manual or tech support hotline.

We now have quite a number of these would-be paper sporting events.  If I thought it were appropriate, I would take them to work and continue my effort to keep things light amongst the robots.  We'll see.  In the meantime, I've been spending my spare time constructing next year's Valentine's Day cards.

My Cars: The Dolt, The Freshcort, Tadh, and ???

Last month, we paid off a car loan. The Subaru Outback was the third car I ever owned.

The first car was a Dodge Colt given to me by my father while I was still in college.  He always called it "The Dolt", a word whose meaning eluded me until someone gave me the same name and I had to find a dictionary.  The Dolt was a great car that got me through a Syracuse winter and carried me and my belongings to Boston soon after graduation.  It lasted until the week before Thanksgiving of that year when it died forever.  Fortunately, it expelled it's last exhaust for eternity when I pulled into the work parking lot one morning.  Even more fortunate, is that my place of employment was uphill from a nearby junkyard.  With the help of a coworker, I got the car rolling and steered right into it's final resting place. RIP The Dolt.

On Thanksgiving break, my father (who sold cars at the time) helped me purchase a new car.  After a holiday visit with my family, I drove my new Ford Escort back to Boston.  "The Freshcort" was a great little car that took me to work, the bars, and recreational sporting events.   It was always good to me, but I worry that I did not reciprocate.  One particular incident has left me feeling especially guilty.  After a minor road rage incident, I parked the Freshcort and went into a restaurant for dinner.  Upon returning to my beloved compact car, I discovered that it's completely functional and sporty spoiler had been taken. Removed from the car.  The car could only get so fancy, so I decided to have the spoiler replaced instead of having the holes patched.

Eventually, the Freshcort lived long past it's warranty and we needed a bigger car to accommodate our growing family.  We bought a 1999 Subaru Outback.  It wasn't used, but rather pre-owned.  Apparently, there's a difference.  I was glad that my car wasn't used, but knowing that it had been owned previously did not compensate for the daily reminder that it had 45K miles on it when we bought it.  

My wife enjoys naming inanimate objects and decided that her car Margot needed to know more about the hunk (of Forest Green metal) that was parked next to her all night.  Therefore, "The 'Ru" was renamed "Tadh".  Unfortunately I cannot explain the origin of this particular name, but I can confirm that the 'h' is not silent and is rather emphasized.  In other words, the name of the car is to be pronounced like TAD-HUH.

December was the last month of a six year loan.  We received the last bill for Tadh and paid it in full.  In January, we received a new bill for $0.55.  It must have cost more than that to send us the bill, not to mention what we spent to send them the check.  The postage alone, between the bill and the check, is $0.84.  In fact, someone at the loan servicing company should have simply placed a couple stamps right on the bill and rerouted it internally to the appropriate people.  Or even better, someone could have run out to their car during a smoke break and looked under their floor mats for some coins.  

I was going to call and dispute the bill, but decided that my time was worth more than $0.55 (truly a new revelation).  So, we wrote the check for the bill for $0.55 that came a month after we paid off our large six-year car loan.

What made me laugh even harder was the note about loan consolidation on the bill.  

Let's review.  'Overboard' is sending someone a bill for 11 nickels.  And although we have a number of loans, we only have trouble keeping track of the ones we've already paid off but for which we continue to receive bills.  I was tempted. I was very tempted to call them before I mailed the check to ask them to consolidate this loan with the one I will take out to pay some dead rich African guy's assistant to ensure timely execution of my recently discovered inheritance.  And when I receive the bill for this new loan, I would pay it back with coupons for diapers.  They'll need them given that they're full of.... well, let's just leave it at that.

Coincidentally, I'm buying a new car this week.  What in the world should I name it?

2009 Tyler Stimulus Plan

Today, I would prefer to talk about something much more serious.  The state of the economy is a huge concern for all of us.  Thankfully, the Economic Stimulus plan was finally approved by the Senate.  Besides some of the concessions made by both parties, there was one particular amendment to the original proposal that provided the justification to send this to the House of Representatives.  I realize that the stimulus plan will have an impact on all of us, but I would like to take the opportunity to share my own personal victory illustrated in the recent update to the proposal's table of contents.  Changes are reflected in bold blue font below. 

SEC. 2. TABLE OF CONTENTS.
1
The table of contents for this Act is as follows:
2
DIVISION A—APPROPRIATION PROVISIONS
TITLE I—GENERAL PROVISIONS
TITLE II—AGRICULTURE, NUTRITION, AND RURAL DEVELOPMENT
TITLE III—COMMERCE, JUSTICE, AND SCIENCE
TITLE IV—DEFENSE
TITLE V—ENERGY AND WATER
TITLE VI—FINANCIAL SERVICES AND GENERAL GOVERNMENT
TITLE VII—HOMELAND SECURITY
TITLE VIII—INTERIOR AND ENVIRONMENT
TITLE IX—LABOR, HEALTH AND HUMAN SERVICES, AND EDU-
CATION
TITLE X—MILITARY CONSTRUCTION AND VETERANS AFFAIRS
TITLE XI—DEPARTMENT OF STATE
TITLE XII—TRANSPORTATION, AND HOUSING AND URBAN DEVEL-
OPMENT
TITLE XIII—STATE FISCAL STABILIZATION FUND
DIVISION B—OTHER PROVISIONS
TITLE I—TAX PROVISIONS
TITLE II—ASSISTANCE FOR UNEMPLOYED WORKERS AND STRUG-
GLING FAMILIES
TITLE III—HEALTH INSURANCE ASSISTANCE FOR THE UNEM-
PLOYED
TITLE IV—HEALTH INFORMATION TECHNOLOGY
TITLE V—MEDICAID PROVISIONS
TITLE VI—BROADBAND COMMUNICATIONS
TITLE VII—ENERGY
TITLE VIII - iPHONE 3G FOR TYLER JAMES IN FRAMINGHAM, MA

What Have I Done With My Life?

Oh, there it is.