Eight Things Out

Somebody who, if there was such a thing as too much fabulous, would be way too fabulous, but instead, since there isn’t such a thing, has just the right amount of fabulousity, tagged me for a meme I’ll call “Eight Things.”

Here are the rules:

1. Post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of the blog post, choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.

I’m sorry, Bre, but I’ll be ignoring the tagging. If any of you want to play a long, leave a comment to that effect.

1. I have never tasted even a single drop of light beer. Nor even lite beer.
2. There is a beautiful old olive tree, about 75 years old, right outside my office window.
3. I much prefer a watch with a dial and regular numbers to a digital watch or one with Roman numerals.
4. I had toast today and did not drop either piece on the floor. I almost dropped the butter, though.
5. When I was about 4 years old, I used to stare directly into the sun without blinking. I thought it was a cool thing to do. I still have nearly perfect vision.
6. One of my favorite Xbox games is Burnout 3.
7. Books are among my most treasured possessions.
8. I think that if I tag people for a meme, they will be annoyed with me, even though I am usually rather flattered.

I think that covers it, don’t you?

Welcome to the Really Big Shoe

I feel terrible.

Most of the other blogs on my 25-Man Roster reveal something about the true identities of their authors. We know what Love Monkey's cats look like (old, ratty scarves), that Sizzle has had more hairstyles than Madonna, and that G-Man likes to wear clothes with American flags prominently displayed.

And Lefty? All you know is I look like the Tapatio guy without the moustache and hat


Today, it all changes. My anonymity will be shattered once and for all.

Of course, I can't give it all to you at once or the white hot awesomeness that is Lefty would burn you to a crisp or melt your face like the guy from the first Indiana Jones movie. I have instead decided to give you bits and pieces of Lefty, and you can collect them like baseball cards until you know exactly what I look like.

Here's the first...my left foot (or, rather, shoe):


This may take a while.

Just Give Potter a Chance

I have made many enemies lately by suggesting that Saint Rowling and the Harry Potty series may not be the best things since beer hats.

Not this kind of beer hat. (Note: This is not Lefty.)

Nor this type of beer hat. (Note: Not Mrs. Lefty.)

That's the ticket. (Note: Again, not Lefty. Though in reflection, I’m not sure why I didn’t get more action in college. That beer hat is smokin’ hot!)

Anyway, back to the Pottyphiles. Some of you folks get damn uppity at the mere mention that J.K. might not be able to raise the dead, or that Ron and Hermione were a mistake from the beginning because she’s such a Type A and he’s so passive, or that the books of the series will have a more powerful influence on human history than the Torah, the New Testament and the Koran put together.

I finally decided there must be one of two reasons Harry and his adventures inspire such passion. Either Harry Potty fans are totally out of their minds, or else there is actually something to this phenomenon.

Mrs. Lefty is a part of the Great Muggle Awakening, and I decided to watch her more closely. Since she arrived home at about 1:00am on Saturday morning with two copies of the book, she has been reading every chance she gets. Normally, we watch baseball games together on television, but instead she curled up at the end of the couch with the book. Without warning, she exclaimed, “WHOA!” Apparently, about 80% of the way through the book, something interesting happened. Harry probably revealed he’s actually Snape’s lover or something like that.

And then later, we’re having sex, and Mrs. Lefty is still reading. (Don’t get me wrong, she normally reads while we’re having sex, but it’s usually just a magazine.) This woman won’t quit. She has been working a lot, so she reads during breaks. She’s probably even been reading while she was driving.

As she was finishing the last pages, I decided the peer pressure was too much. I had better read at least one Harry Potty book, or just like those years from Kindergarten through High School, I’ll be the uncool kid again. So here’s my vow: I will read the Potty books. At some point before summer is out, I’ll pick up the first book (Harry Potty and the Grocery List, I believe) and read it, beginning to end. Then, if my brain is not fried by the inanity of it all, I’ll read the next one.

But I also promise this: I’ll continue to make fun of Harry every chance I get!

P.S. If you haven't yet seen "Harry Potter and the Unnecessary Knob," check it out.

You Say Tomato; I Say Cucumber

I started seeds for my vegetable garden inside and then transplanted them out in the garden after they sprouted.

I had a number of trays, and I was smart enough to label each set of seeds so I'd know what I had. For example, for the cucumbers, I put a big black "C" on the tray. And for the canteloupe, I put a big black "C" on the tray. So maybe there was a slight weakness in my system.

I thought I had them figured out, though, and I put the cucumbers beneath a trellis and the canteloupes in a spot with room to spread out. As you will have guessed, however, I mixed up the two.

I wondered why I couldn't get the plants beneath the trellis to climb.

Toast, Marijuana and Narcolepsy

Taken from the headlines of my life:

DO-GOODER ARRESTED IN STING
Main Street--Like the civic-minded dork that I am, I pick up trash when I’m walking around town. Even if 50 dopes will simply dump more for every single piece I pick up, I feel like I’m doing something positive for this city.

A few days ago, I picked up a small plastic sandwich bag. Inside were the remains of some fellow citizen’s marijuana. You’ll be pleased to know that I was not arrested for possession. I did, however, have visions of being locked up for carrying around one-ten thousandth of an ounce of pot.

WIFE STRIKES BLOGGER HUSBAND
Bedroom--Last night, Mrs. Lefty awoke and sat up in bed with her feet on the floor. The movement caused me to awaken, and I opened my eyes. Then, inexplicably, she immediately dropped over. She didn’t slump or slouch or plop back on her pillow. She dropped as if dead, and banged her head on my shin. She lay motionless on the bed.

Fortunately, nothing was wrong. Her body simply had not been able to wake up properly, and she dropped (literally) off to sleep while sitting up. But if she had made it to a standing position before the great fall, it could have been bad. Needless to say, Mrs. Lefty takes several kinds of medication right before bed. I might have to start tying her down at bedtime. (Now that could be fun!)

MAN EARNS VICTORY OVER WHOLE WHEAT
Kitchen--I am making progress in the toast wars. About twice a week, I take toast with me on my way out the door in the morning. Approximately half of the time, I drop one or more pieces of toast on the kitchen floor, and according to the laws of physics, the buttered or jellied side lands face down. Today, however, I dropped my toast before I buttered it. Soon, I’ll be able to conquer the world!

Have fun tonight Harry Potty suckers...er, fans.

Remembering the Old Stomping Grounds

Long Relief has been silent for several days because Mrs. Lefty and I took a mini vacation. She had a couple days off, so we drove to my hometown (somewhere west of the Rockies, and north of Mexico but south of Canada) to relax for a couple of days.

I am always glad to return to my old home. The visits remind me that I am a hick at heart. The drive takes only about 5 hours from where we live now, but the journey takes you a hundred years into the past, to a place where names like “Jawbone Canyon,” “Fossil Falls” and “No Name” are still in style, where you can’t find a Starbucks, and where the opening days of the fishing and deer hunting seasons are more important than Christmas.

I take pride in being a backwater hick. It gives me an opportunity to look down my nose at people whose scrambled eggs always came from the grocery store rather than the chicken house out back, or who simply hook up to the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant for their winter heat rather than cutting and hauling wood for the stove. Of course, I can’t be too critical of people who live the soft city life, because that’s my life now.

But it is always nice to get back to the hometown and remember those times that--in my memory, at least--seemed so much more simple and pure. On the other hand, there was a lot more animal shit to clean up.

Finding Lefty

Since I am clearly a slave to the latest fad and fashion, you may wonder why I have not yet done a piece on the wild and crazy search engine terms that bring people to my site. Wonder no more. Today is the day I unveil my first ever "Wacky Search Engine Terms" (cue the peppy jingle) blog entry.

Those who find me through a search engine are largely a group of people with bad hair. They want to know how they can fix bad haircuts. This obviously stems from my personal run-in with a reverse mullet. This is a group that needs a good stylist and some psychological help.

Some of the notables: "my hair looks like a mullet help!"; "haircuts long layered mullets"; "shoulder length mullet hairstyle"; "crooked bangs hair." Actually, I'm not sure that last one has anything to do with haircuts.

Predictably, after the "invisible boobs" piece, the searches became a bit pornier. In fact, "good boobs" is the number one search term. It beat out "invisible boobs" by a mile. You all have one-track minds. Even Frankenstein's monster logged in with "boobs good." Somebody, who wanted to be absolutely sure he (and frankly, it had to be a "he") didn't get substandard boobs, put in "good good boobs."

Here are some other search engine terms with bonus comments free of charge:

"asshole sharp pains"
"harry potter tapatio" (what the hell?)
"mom held me while I peed" (somebody's gonna need therapy)
"how to make pants yourself"
"my wife thinks I am ugly"
"life coach" (you've come to the right place)
"jobless unemployed and suicidal" (don't forget "ugly")
"why american league sucks" (isn't it obvious?)
"my computer monitor smells bad feces" (don't think that's your monitor, buddy)
"gooey cat poop"
"please lick my monkey" (no, please lick MY monkey)
"i'm in love with a sociopath" (so is Mrs. Lefty!)
"he is just phoning it in" (that says it all)

Note to Self

Tim McCarver has no idea what he's talking about.

I think you know what I mean.

P.S. I'm still out of the office with this damn back pain. Regular posts will resume soon.

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, an Invalid's Life for Me

It is time for me to admit it. I'm getting old.

First I noticed a stray gray hair or two around my temples. Then, there was the slight leaning forward when I looked across the room to read something. And the others simply assuming I'd be on the "old guys" team when we played a basketball game of old guys vs. young guys.

For a few years I've had what I call this minor back thing. It's MINOR, I tell you. Just a tad bit of soreness now and again. Okay, sure, so the minor soreness occasionally made it nearly impossible to get out of bed. But it's nothing, really.

Now I'm ready to give. "Uncle," I cry.

I have to work today, and since I played basketball Thursday night and hauled a garage-full load of beer bottles to the recycling place yesterday, I have some minor back soreness. I've been walking around the place doing my very best to pretend my body is acting normally. I'm walking as upright as possible, just hoping no one will notice I'm bent forward because I can't straighten my back all the way. I mask the grimace on my face due to a sudden jolt of pain by pretending it's a broad smile. I turn the groan of pain into an impromptu sea shanty: "Aaaargh ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me."

But it's time to give up. Life, you win. I'm getting old.

I'm also going to the drug store at the first opportunity to get some medicine for back pain.

Hiding Behind the Keyboard

Earlier this week, Tink linked to a blog entry about the time her boyfriend, the irrepressible Hoop, first learned about her blog, Pickled Beef. If I understand the story correctly, Tink began writing her blog, but decided not to tell Hoop about it. I'm sure she had a good reason. Perhaps Hoop's brother was killed by a rabid blog or something.

I mention this because Mrs. Lefty doesn't know about this blog. It isn't, as you can see, because there is anything objectionable about the content. Sure, she might box my ears for sharing less flattering bits about her even though I write anonymously. I've even changed her name to protect her. Her name isn't really "Mrs. Lefty."

I don't tell her, though, because she'd be upset. Mrs. Lefty has had some really terrible things happen to her--terrible, awful things that I wouldn't wish on an enemy. As a result, her perception of the world is often skewed. She sees threats everywhere. When she is particularly anxious, she imagines threats that aren't there.

The amazing thing about Mrs. Lefty is that despite her fears, despite the trauma of her past, she is a genuinely loving, caring, generous woman. She is always the first to offer help or a shoulder to cry on. She hasn't let her past stomp on her spirit.

Yet, this blog would be a threat to her. It is a part of my life that would feel separate from her, and she would feel that she is being set up to be hurt. She would wonder about the people who read this and imagine the ways they could hurt her. And after a while, that fear of potentially being hurt would be indistinguishable from the real thing. She would actually believe that she was being wounded.

That's why Mrs. Lefty does not know about this blog. There is nothing here that she couldn't read. Yet the very fact of its existence would cause her to panic.

And that's why I feel a certain measure of guilt. Am I being selfish and inconsiderate? Or am I simply doing something that is as harmless as keeping a diary (with feedback)?

I don't feel as if I am doing anything wrong, but I feel that Mrs. Lefty would be hurt by it. How can that be?

One More Story for Good Measure

I didn't tell you everything yesterday. I forgot the best (though hair-raising) story.

We took my mother-in-law to dinner Saturday night. A woman I know from work walked by our table. I said, "hello." She leaned down to give me a one-armed hug.

I turned my head to look at Mrs. Lefty as she said "hello," too. With the arm that was semi-trapped in the one-arm hug, I reached out to pat this woman's arm. It was my way of returning her hug while seated.

Except when I turned around, I discovered I wasn't patting her arm.

Yes, it was her breast.

The Blog Slug Rides Again

I know I've been something of a blog slug. Work has kept me busy, so I'll use that as my excuse for the dearth of posts lately.

So what's been happening?

I dropped a cake. I was trying to move most of a half-sheet cake from a chair to the counter, but instead I flipped the thing frosting-first onto the floor. My son laughed until he couldn't stand it.

My wife is trying to starve me. It's no secret that she and I have different ideas about how long leftovers can remain edible. Mrs. Lefty thinks leftovers should be thrown out while I'm still at the dinner table. I figure that as long as I can determine that the stuff in that bowl was at one time a food item, it's still good. (Be careful, though. We have mice in the freezer. Don't eat those. They're for the snake.)

Anyway, we had about a foot-long section of one of those giant submarine sandwiches. It had been in the fridge for only about four days. I had been having some every day for lunch. One day last week, I came home, stomach growling, so very eager to get me a piece of that sandwich. Mrs. Lefty had tossed it.

Then, I had some leftovers from dinner at a restaurant. All through the next day I was carefully planning just the right moment to savor them. Guess who took them to work with her and ate them? She's trying to starve me to death, I tell you.

Had a short visit from my mother-in-law. She's doing better after her stroke, thank you.

Had an even shorter visit from my parents. They didn't bring any beer, the cretins. My dad did help me cut down a tree in the back yard, though.

The girls travel back East to visit their biological father for two weeks. My son will go to his mother's for a bit tomorrow. That means NO KIDS!

And that's it. You're caught up. Absolutely nothing else has been happening in my life.