A Picture is Worth a Thousand Gray Hairs

Recently (yesterday) I hosted a semi-annual Funtastic Flag Day Party. Why a Flag Day party? Well, why not. A few years ago me and my friends (Or is it "My friends and I?" Ehhh... who cares.) were searching for a holiday to celebrate in June - OK, searching for an excuse to get together, drink, grill out, drink, play games and drink - and realized smack dab in the middle of the month was a perfect excuse to do just that. Flag Day. Plus it's not like there's competition. Nobody else will be hosting a Flag Day party. So I've claimed it as my own.

Good times, good times...

Or so I thought. Until I downloaded the photos from my camera. *ugh*

Let me preface the following whiny little tirade by saying in just a little over a month I'm turning... 40. There. I said it. And the fact is I may not be handling it all that well. To the point I'm not even having a 40th Birthday party... I'm having a 20/20 Birthday party.

(insert "river in Egypt" comment here)

"Age is just a number" is something people will often say. Usually people in their 20s. Or even more commonly those annoyingly "inspirational" octogenarians who insist on spending their 85th birthday skydiving or competing in a triathlon or going on a week-long cross-state bike ride. Yes, your age is just a number. An increasingly larger number.

But back to the *ugh*-inducing pictures. Now I've gotten used to the whole "Holy crap I'm tubby!" reaction to seeing pictures of myself. Mostly. What struck me about the latest batch of pictures was how OLD I look in all of them, due almost entirely to my mostly gray hair. Makes it look like the big 5-Oh is the birthday that's just around the corner, not the 4-Oh.

The gray hair isn't anything new either. It's not something that's happened recently. I started going pre-maturely gray way back in high school. (Thanks heredity! You're the best!) So I should be used to it. But I'm no longer pre-maturely gray... now I'm just maturely gray. And I get that it's not like I was just diagnosed with leukemia or something. But the gray hair thing coupled with the impending 40th are combining to freak me out right about now.

Although "freaking out" isn't really the right term. It's more that I feel this massive crushing weight sitting on my shoulders. The feeling you get when there's some upcoming event you wish you could avoid but know you can't. Like going to the dentist. The dentist in hell.

But perhaps the worst part about getting so worked up over my hair is it makes me feel like a GIRL. A big FAT girl. A big fat WHINY girl. A big fat whiny OLD girl. Heck, I'm even planning to go and get my hair colored. What's next, a mani/pedi? Maybe a bikin wax? Might as well go all out, huh?

I have to admit it's not really just about the gray hair, but what the gray hair represents. See, it's a symbol. A symbol for aging.

For mortality.

For death.

Typical middle-aged getting-older cliched crap isn't it? What's next - a shiny new phallic-shaped sports car? Which I'll of course need to cruise around picking up hotter-than-they-are-smart 22-year-olds.

Until then I'm going to spend the afternoon Photoshopping my hair a darker color.

Puppy Chronicles: Pee Watch/Morning Edition

Yes, I'm writing more about pee. As I stated last night, since getting a puppy this past weekend, my entire life now revolves around pee. So really it's all I have to talk about at this time.

The morning typically starts by taking Darwin out of his kennel and immediately out to the yard. (After I put on pants of course - the neighbors...) I've already learned not to let the pup's feet even touch the floor before we're outside, because first thing in the morning he isn't going to wait. Of course, what's the first thing most of us do in the morning, right? He thinks he's people!

Out to "the spot" (as in "the spot" in my yard you do NOT want to walk if you ever stop over) and he goes almost instantly. "Good boy!"-praise-treat. Trying to make that association in his little puppy brain that peeing outside = good/treat, peeing inside = bad/no treat. Do we then head back inside for breakfast? Oh no. I've already learned that Darwin is going to go again within a few minutes.

Only after leak #2 (and maybe a #2 too, depending) it's back inside we go. Fill up the water bowl, measure out his food and then... watch. Constant vigilance. Some may think "Hey, we've just come back inside after the pup peed twice, so I should be safe for awhile. I can let my guard down ever so slightly and have some coffee. Maybe some waffles" Not so! On more than one occasion Darwin has let lose on the floor less than 5 minutes after coming back inside. That's why I've learned to wait when outside. (Which brings up the question: who's training who here? And where's MY treat?)

The important thing is to establish a routine. Or so the book says. Take the puppy outside at regular intervals to avoid inside accidents. It suggests every two hours. It is wrong. By the time two hours has passed, Darwin would have peed on the floor several times. Can't blame him really - after I've had several cups of coffee there's no way I'm waiting two hours.

So I cut it down to every hour/hour-and-fifteen-minutes after he's had some water. Again, establish a routine. After all, Supernanny is always going on about that when dealing with unruly children terrorizing suburban homes. Not that I'd ever watch Supernanny. Or think Jo is kind of hot. I haven't. And I don't.

The going out every hour or so thing worked relatively well for a couple days. (While constantly watching him in between those trips of course.) So this morning I thought "Let's stretch it to an hour and a half today." Seemed reasonable. Like the first step towards pee freedom.

For those of you wondering how that went, well... Darwin will wait for an hour and 28 minutes after coming inside before he decides to go again.

So close!

Puppy Chronicles: 11:25PM June 3

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Four days ago, I did something I’ve always wanted to do. I got myself a dog. His name is Darwin, and he’s a 10 week-old Australian Shepherd. And he’s way cuter than your dog. Or even your baby.

Although I’ve always wanted a dog, until I bought my house last summer I was an apartment dweller, and generally I don’t think it’s fair to get a dog in an apartment. Unless you get one of those small types, and I don't even consider those to be "dogs." If it isn't a good deal bigger than a large cat, what you've got there isn’t a dog but instead is essentially a glorified guinea pig. Most likely a yippy annoying guinea pig.

So I did my research. Prepared by reading a puppy training book or two, checking info on the web, dog-sitting a friend’s pooch while he was out of the country on business. I wanted to be ready, or as ready as I could be, so me plus dog wouldn’t equal disaster.

But there’s one thing all the books and websites leave out about getting a puppy: when you get your new pup home, suddenly, from that point on and for the foreseeable future, your entire life, almost every waking moment, revolves around… pee.

Yes, all the info you read gives you the guidelines for housebreaking a new pup. They stress the importance of doing it properly, how to go about doing it, an expected timeframe for progress etc etc etc. What they don’t stress is how much pee is going to completely consume your life. It’s almost all I’ve thought about for the past 4 days.

Any time Darwin is out of sight, even for a moment, I think “Is he peeing on the floor?” When he runs across the room and stops I think “Oh crap he’s about to pee.” Even when I try to sneak away for a moment to pee myself, the whole time I’m thinking “I bet he’s out there peeing on the floor right now.”

The constant vigilance is exhausting. Having to watch him every moment, ready to run him outside if he is about to take a leak. But there's the problem - the books and online info says to look for certain behaviors indicating your pup is about to let loose on the floor - pacing, sniffing the ground, etc. Darwin doesn't waste time with that. He stops whatever else he is doing and, unceremoniously, just goes. So I've got to clap, get him to stop, get him outside to his spot, let him finish, "good boy" pet and treat him. Then back inside we go... to constantly watch him.

Even Batman gets to kick back and relax once and awhile if the Bat Signal isn't lighting the night sky over Gotham.

I'm just glad that I have hard wood floors because I have to admit there have been a few occasions when he started to go the floor and I just let him. Why? Because sometimes after a long day of constant pee-vigilance it's easier to clean up after him than to pick him up and take him outside and let him finish then come back inside. I also did that once because it was raining heavily out to avoid any possible wet dog smell. OK... to avoid getting wet myself.

It’s almost as if… wait a second. Where’s Darwin? Oh crap, I bet he’s peeing under the dining room table… I’ve got to go.

I'm Not A Doctor But I Play One Online (aka WebMD Is Trying To Kill Me!!!)

For most of the past week I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather. Nothing major. Fever. Headache. Mild nausea. I figured I had a cold, or a touch of some kind of flu. Maybe a minor sinus infection. Wasn’t too concerned about it. Figured I’d be fine in another few days.

Was told by some coworkers I should go see a doctor. I’m one of those people that reacts to suggestions like that with a “pfffffffft… what’s a DOCTOR going to do for me?” I don’t even have a doctor. Going to avoid getting one because I’m getting to that age where, as a male, I’ll need regular prostate exams. And I think we all know what THAT entails and I’m really not looking forward to that experience. Even if the doc was to buy me dinner first.

So Instead of actually seeking competent medical help I instead did something that nobody who is slightly ill should EVER do: I went to the Symptom Checker on WebMD for a little self-diagnosis. Now I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.

It seemed harmless at the time. Go to the web site. Type in my symptoms. WebMD tells me what I already know: I’ve got a head cold. Or some sort of minor flu. (Preferably one named after an animal - like Monkey Flu. That would be cool.) Maybe a minor sinus infection. Nothing that requires a doctor. Nothing that won’t take care of itself in a few days.

Symptom Checker starts with a 3D image of a rather creepy looking bald guy. You click on the guy where it hurts. I tried not to be too distracted by the figure’s Ken-doll-esque “smooth area” but it was difficult not to be. It made me flash back briefly to watching Beowulf a few weeks ago. For some reason, Beowulf had to fight the monster Grendel in the nude. I’m sure the reasoning behind this was explained but it hardly matters. Dane’s Gone Wild perhaps? But instead of being anatomically correct, Beowulf sported a similar “smooth area” during the fight. Completely distracted me (which was ok since the movie sucked). I’m not saying I wanted to see the Beowang flopping around during the fight, but WebMD is a medical site, right? We can be anatomically correct on our pictures can’t we? I mean what if I was having a problem… you know… “down there?”

Luckily (for this visit anyway) my problems were not “down there” related. I clicked the appropriate areas, clicked on my symptoms. Answered a few questions (had to decide if my headache was stabbing, throbbing or achy) and in moments I had my list of possible ailments. And on the list, just as I expected, were a couple flu viruses and sinus infections. The list also contained a few less likely possibilities.

Tick bite? Right, from all the time I’ve spent outdoors hiking and camping in the woods lately. My idea of the outdoors is the space between my apartment door and my car. Constipation? Without giving too many details, trust when I say everything in that milleu is fine. Just fine. Botulinum toxin (Botox injection)? Not likely since I’m perfectly happy with the current supple poutiness of my lips. Or is that collagen? Whichever, haven’t had any toxins injected into any part of my body for cosmetic reasons. Muscle strain? Doing what - lifting the TiVo remote?

Chronic kidney disease? Well that’s a bit more concerning. Cervical (neck) spondylosis? What the hell is THAT?! I didn’t even want to click on it and find out. Sounds horrible. Sounds DEADLY. Crap, what if that’s what I’ve got? Can you get that handling raw chicken if you don’t wash your hands well enough afterwards? THIS is why you should always eat out, to reduce the risk of contracting a deadly case of sponderloosis from handling raw chicken.

Brain aneurysm? Are you kidding me? I’m guessing this isn’t along the Eli Stone kind where you have cool visions of the future and your brain plays live musical numbers to keep you entertained. No, this is most likely more along the lines of “Is that toast I smell?” and *BANG* you’re dead. It isn’t fair - why does this have to happen to me?!?!

WebMD saved the best for last. Aseptic Meningitis. MENINGITIS! “Approximately 20% of the time, even with treatment, meningitis can be fatal.” That’s it. I’m doomed. Here I thought I had a slight case of the flu and instead, thanks to the internet, I know I’ve only got a short time left on this earth.

I’m still not going to go see a doctor. What’s a DOCTOR going to do for me? It’s already too late…

Dear Steve Spielberg: Please Don't Sodomize My Childhood

Dear Mr. Spielberg:

Let me start by saying what a huge fan I am of your work. I’ve enjoyed watching your movies immensely over the years and many of your films are among my all time favorites. Your movies are always highly entertaining and nearly impossible not to enjoy.

Well, ok, Jurassic Park 2: Lost World was a serious misstep. Who knew dinosaurs could be so lifeless and boring? AI was a complete snooze-fest. And really, War of the Worlds, while being visually fantastic, was pretty much a load of crap. But we can go ahead and blame Tom Cruise for that one, mainly because I’ve never been much of a fan of his. And Dakota Fanning… that little girl seriously creeps me out. She’s got a real Village of the Damned vibe going.

But I’m getting off track here. The purpose of my letter is to talk to you about the upcoming release of the newest Indiana Jones movie. I have to say that when I was growing up, Raiders of the Lost Ark was (and is) one of my favorite movies EVER. My brother and I must have seen Temple of Doom two dozens times in the theater the summer it came out. I still recall my mother shrieking out loud in a crowded theater when that guy’s heart got ripped out of his chest. Thanks for one of the funniest memories from my childhood!

So you would think I’d be looking forward to the next Indiana Jones movie. And I am, but not as much as I probably should be. I’m cautiously excited about Indy’s return to the big screen. “Why cautiously?” you might be asking yourself.

Cautiously because I was once really looking forward to the continuation of a beloved childhood movie series. Once waited overnight in line to see the movie on opening night. Once sat in a movie theater on that opening night and watched in abject horror as some of my most cherished movie memories were raped and destroyed. I’m of course speaking of Star Wars: The Phantom Menace, aka Episode 1.

Now I know you and George Lucas are close friends, but I have to say that he really made a mess of things with the Prequels. All three of them were horrible and for the most part entirely unwatchable. Even if you take out Jar Jar Binks.

Some will say Episode 3/Revenge of the Sith was at least “better than Episodes 1 and 2.” True. But that’s like saying “getting punched in the stomach is better than getting kicked in balls.” While that’s technically accurate, nobody enjoys a punch to the stomach. Or even thinks to themselves (while doubled over in pain trying not to throw up) “I’m sure glad it was a punch to the stomach and not a kick in the balls.”

So I make this plea to you Mr. Spielberg. On behalf of myself and everyone else of my generation that grew up thrilling to the adventures of Indiana Jones. Who begged (BEGGED!) their parents to buy them a bull whip. (And had their parents refuse even though you promised never to use the bull whip on your little brother. How is that fair?!?!) Who have enjoyed watching Raiders, Temple of Doom and Last Crusade over and over. Who now want to enjoy the next Indy movie with their own children.

So I implore you Mr. Spielberg. On behalf of all of us. Please, please, PLEASE… don’t sodomize my childhood.

Sincerely,

Mike

How I Learned to Stop Living In Fear and Start Shredding My Junk Mail

America is a Culture of Fear. The role of the government, of the media, of society seems to be to make us afraid of something. Of Anything. Of EVERYTHING.

We’re afraid of terrorism. We’re afraid of global warming. We’re afraid of a recession, of getting cancer, of going sterile because we always keep our cell phone in our pocket. We’re afraid that a casual sexual encounter while in Atlanta may result in our penis falling off.

We’re afraid of eating a cheeseburger from McDonald’s because of the cholesterol and fat. Fear of Heart Disease, Fear of Obesity, Fear of Diabetes all lead to a whole litany of food fears. Fear of Beef. Fear of Cinnabon. Fear of Real Sour Cream. Fear of Eating a Box of 18 Donut Holes for Breakfast.

We’re afraid of drugs, both illegal and prescription. Fear of Becoming Addicted. Fear of Certain Sexual Side Effects. Fear of Erections Lasting More Than Four Hours.

We’re afraid of the weather because we see StormWatch on the local news (and I’m sure it’s the same on every news program in every market). Even if we don’t watch the news, StormWatch will break into regular programming to let us know a storm is coming and we’re ALL GOING TO DIE! So we end up thinking that every raindrop or every snowflake is falling with a taste for human blood, hell bent on killing us all. “Up to 3 inches by morning people! HIDE THE CHILDREN!!!”

But I don’t need to be afraid any more. Because I’ve purchased a junk mail shredder. No more Fear of Identity Theft for me, a fear brought to light by that leather bustier Citi commercial a few years ago.

I used to be safe from identity theft, because mine was not an identity worth stealing. But over the years, my defaulted student loans have faded to obscurity and my FICO score has steadily risen. My debt to income ratio has never looked better and the credit limit on my cards has climbed. And being an improved credit risk has led, more than anything, to a drastic increase in the junk mail I receive.

Usually I would throw my junk mail in the Giant Useless (Not Food Safe For Decorative Purposes ONLY) Bowl that sat on my dining table. My thinking was this gave the Giant Useless (Not Food Safe For Decorative Purposes ONLY) Bowl a use. When if was full to overflowing after a couple/few weeks, I’d gather up the junk mail, sit down on the couch, and start going through it. I’d tear the credit card statements and offers, the convenience checks from my existing accounts into a few pieces in a surely ineffectual attempt to destroy the pages. Truth be told I was a little uneasy of this.

Dig through my trash, retrieve these torn pages, apply a few pieces of scotch tape and there you have it, my bank statement complete with account number! My idea of securely disposing of these items was to put it in the same trash bag as rotting fruits and vegetables. My logic being that one whiff upon opening the bag sitting in the dumpster and the would be identity thief would move on to the next victim. One with better smelling garbage.

But now, all I have to do is jam that potentially dangerous piece of mail into my shredder. Unopened! Then the shredder makes the most satisfying grinding noise as it “maximum security confetti cuts” that unopened junk mail into tiny little pieces than no amount of scotch tape is going to put back together again.

The thing is heavy too. Which makes it seem even more dangerous. Like a weapon. If I’m reading the symbols on the top of the shredder correctly, little encircled pictograms with a line through them, the shredder could potentially kill me. I shouldn’t wear a tie while operating the shredder. Or use it if I have long hair. And it’s not for use to properly dispose of a baby. Or that symbol could mean that babies shouldn’t use the shredder. Which seems like a silly warning. After all, how many credit card offers do you think the average baby gets in the mail? Not many.

Anyway, with my new junk mail shredder I can finally feel safe. Feel like I’ve done something to take control of my life. Feel, for the first time in a long time, be unafraid.

There’s only one big problem…

Now I have no idea what I should do with my Giant Useless (Not Food Safe For Decorative Purposes ONLY) Bowl on the dining table. I don’t want to put food in it… because if I put food in the bowl and then I eat it, I might ingest some chemical used to glaze the bowl that I shouldn’t have ingested and I’m afraid that chemical might give me cancer.